Misadventures in Baking
I don’t bake.
I should qualify this. It’s not so much that I can’t bake, as much as I choose not to. I don’t enjoy it, and will usually avoid the exercise. I enjoy cooking, and flatter myself that I’m pretty good at it. I excel at identifying ingredients and have good instincts for pairings and combinations. I am constantly adjusting dishes, tasting and smelling and figuring out ways to improve the results.
That’s not how baking works.
With baking, there’s a recipe, and you follow the instructions. You may possibly be able to make small modifications, like switching vanilla for mint extract, say, but the overall formula and proportions need to remain the same, or woe betide you. At least, woe betides me, anyways.
“So just follow the instructions,” you say. And that would be great advice, hypothetical reader. The thing is, I always start out doing just that, but then things happen. Good intentions go awry, Chaos or Fate intervene, or circumstances prevent. Which is why,
I don’t bake.
Which is the reason that when my daughter’s Sparks leader told all the parents about the upcoming Afternoon Tea, and how we were all expected to provide a sweet treat, I was waiting with eager anticipation for her to continue with “. . . or a roll of sandwiches.” Yeah. That never came. She was done speaking. Apparently this was a desserts only tea. Sigh.
All right. No problem. In the interest of community involvement, I can roll up my sleeves, don an apron and make a pan of squares if I must. Or must I? What if . . .? What if I don’t need to? What if I can make something easier than squares? Maybe butter tarts would be easier than squares! Everyone likes butter tarts. I can get store-bought tart crusts, so I don’t need to mix that part from scratch, and then the filling—how hard can it be? A quick look at the recipe in my trusty Eleanor Hayes cookbook reveals the simplest of pantry staple ingredients. I believe I have them all, already. Yes! Ha! I even remember I have some frozen mini tart shells in the freezer, left over from the Christmas plans I never executed, because—
I don’t bake.
Ok. before I start, let’s think. The recipe is for twelve regular tarts, but I have eighteen mini tart shells. Hm. That should work out. (Yes, I know that mathematically, the combined areas of the mini tarts are smaller than the regular tarts, but maybe I can just fill the mini tarts a bit more thoroughly? I’ve never liked seeing tarts under-filled.) Then, the recipe calls for “raisins or currants.” I have yellow raisins in my pantry, but currants, being smaller, might be a better size for the mini tarts. Also, since the filling is sort of pale brown, the dark currants will show up better. I’ll go and get some currants after dropping the kids off at daycare and school. (The school bus is cancelled, because of snow. Again.) Look at me, being all organized, hypothetical reader—may I call you H.R.?—Almost as if it wasn’t true that
I don’t bake!
So. it turns out that there aren’t any dried currants at either Food Basics or Giant Tiger. I picked up some sultana raisins, they’ll do better than the yellow ones, even if they are bigger. Oh well.
Back home. Let’s do this! Start thawing the mini tart shells, then the recipe. First step:
Cream butter and brown sugar together . . .
Have I ever mentioned what a great idea it was to put quantity measurements on the butter wrapper? Bless whoever came up with that! Now to get out the brown sugar ... Where is that jar? I really need to re-organize my baking shelf. I suppose it would be a higher priority if I ever baked, heh. Oh here it is—what!? Empty? You can’t be serious. I always have brown sugar. Of course, I can’t remember the last thing I made with it . . .
Well, heck. I guess I’ll have to go out and get some more. Hmph.
Aha! If I have to go out again anyway, I can pick up some currants after all, getting them both at the bulk foods store! H.R., don’t bother telling me that I should have physically verified the availability of brown sugar before I started. I know. I’ve now checked ALL the other ingredients, and I actually have them.
OK. Back from the shops, and starting again. Mix all the ingredients, spoon into the shells. Ooh wait! Better get that oven preheating before I put the filling in the shells. Now, what temperature did it say?
Cook at 400°F for 8 minutes, then turn the oven down to 350°F, and continue baking for 10 – 15 minutes more.
Huh. I thought most baking was at only 350°. Oh well. The women who contributed to this cookbook know infinitely more than I do about baking. After all,
I don’t bake.
So, turns out the recipe makes more filling than the 18 mini-shells can hold. Well, I think I have some regular tart shells in the freezer too. Yes! OK, fill those up too. That looks a little funny, having the two sizes. Better phone my mom for some advice. Set the tarts in the oven, then call her.
Ding! Time to turn the oven down. I’m still talking to Mum, but I can do this one handed. She confirms that eighteen tarts is not really an acceptable amount to take to the do. Dang. I’ll see how they turn out, and maybe the bigger ones won’t look that strange, in the mix . . .
I’ll just take a quick peek in there . . . crap. The tarts are bubbling over, with filling running all over the cookie sheet. Sigh. I guess that’s why people don’t fill them so much. Mum agrees that it’s best if I get off the phone and try to fix this mess. They’ll still have a couple of minutes at the lower temperature . . . Wait. Did I forget to turn on the timer the second time? Ugh. Of course I did. You see, H.R.? This is exactly why,
I don’t bake!
After peering anxiously through the oven window until the tart shells look brown enough, but not burned, I take them out to cool. Sure enough, they look terrible. The filling, instead of being a nice even, smooth consistency, has kind of crystallized over the tops, and left little empty craters between the currants where it bubbled the most violently. About half the stuff has boiled right out of the tarts and is congealing on the cookie sheet. Yuck. Better scrape that up before it hardens, or else it will be impossible to clean. I take a little taste off the spatula, out of curiosity. Hm. Not bad. It seems that the higher temperature has caramelized the brown sugar and butter, making a kind of toffee. It’s actually pretty good, with a nice little crunch ... oh no. It sticks solidly in my molars. Nope! Not doing any more of that!
To heck with this. I’m going to need to start over. Which is a real shame, because (cue refrain!)
I don’t bake.
My husband and daughter come into the kitchen at this point, drawn by the smell of warm sweetness, and possibly the sounds of muttered irritation. My husband looks over the results with a certain amount of amusement. He knows this isn’t my thing. Still, he reasons, they smell a lot better than they look. May as well taste one, to see if the batch is edible, if not presentable. The verdict?
“This is the best butter tart I’ve ever eaten.”
This is all very well and good, H.R. It meant that the recipe was sound, and the next batch (made with 36 mini-tart shells) did work out beautifully. I was not disgraced by my submission to the Tea. But what, I ask you, does this do for my self-proclaimed reputation as a non-baker? Because, as you know very well by now,
I don’t bake.
