I tend to romanticize the work I do in the kitchen. As I am making a chocolate dessert (all too rare these days) or concocting a new fruit crisp, I imagine myself a virtuoso.
“Mimi, this is fabulous!” my friends and family will exclaim. “You should have your own bakery.”
I smirk and smile and say something inane and usually that is what brings me down to earth.
I am no virtuoso. I’ve probably had as many disasters as real successes:
The bran muffins I once made that turned to stone. The vegetable broth than inexplicably turned black.
More recently there was an onion tarte from a fancy-schmancy cookbook. Yuck.
When the December issue of Saveur magazine arrived, I immediately turned to a recipe for Provençal bread made with olive oil. The round loaf in the photo was golden and smooth.
Mine was golden and rough. The dough never became as elastic as it should, although I thought I followed kneading directions.
It was enough to make me turn to the no-knead bread it seemed every big-league blogger was making, with various levels of success, I might add.
Everyone has culinary disasters, right?
Obviously I had another such disaster at some point, because I have no idea what the following photo represents. It was in my photo library, so I know it’s mine.
Bread pudding? Apple cake? What the heck? Where was my mind? Where has it been since?
Surely you’ve had similar kitchen disasters. Care to share?