Attempted Murder. Can I plead incompetence?

We have been over this before.

There was the time I got invited to make quiche with Tanner's classmates and forgot to add the flour and quadrupled the milk.  And the guests were arriving for the dinner they HAD PAID FOR in 20 minutes and what I had to serve them was some floating grated cheese in soggy pie shells. 

There are the various Christmas baking fiascos and knowing that what doesn't burn the dogs will eat.

But I am sure - or at least ALMOST absolutely positive, that I have never before almost killed someone with my baking.

My intentions were pure and good.  I was trying to be nice.  Sort of.

Mostly I was trying to be domestic.  I was trying to IMPRESS. 

I really, really am a slow learner aren't I?

A blog reader, a recent adoptive parent, a friend of a friend was coming by to meet me and my gloriously well behaved children in my beautiful home.

Ok, not really, but that is how I imagined things.

What she got was a slightly frazzled me, 2 miserable babies, 1 adventurous toddler, a 9 year old that was hiding in the tree fort crying because his brother teased him, a pretty friendly 12 year old, a grouchy argumentative 14 year old and a silent 15 year old.  

I tried to buffer that reality by whipping up a batch of home made cookies.  FROM SCRATCH.  Not even the "from scratch" I tell the boys is home made - really, really from scratch and no boxes involved home made!

And they turned out.  No burning, no fires, no mixer accidents and no spilled ingredients.

Gooey, glorious, perfect peanut butter chocolate chip cookes to feed her EIGHT children.

It's now that I mention that her son has a serious, life threatening, potentially fatal allergy to peanuts. Even the air born peanut oils that occur when you bake with peanut butter.

I tried to kill a blog reader's child. 

Sorry Justine.  I promise to never, ever bake again.
At least for you.
 

A Dog Day Disaster

Caden has been planning this birthday for 2 years.

Last March we were in the midst of trauma and drama and planning a birthday party for a newly minted 8 year old fell off the to-do list.  I carry the mother guilt of his disappointment over his never got around to actually doing 8th birthday party so promise after promise over the last 12 months focused on this his 9th.

He had it planned to the most minute detail.

A Pinata.  Mostly because he has never had one before.

A Treasure Hunt.  Because he is a 9 year old boy.

A Mystery Meal of Gross and Disgusting Foods.  See above.

A Train Cake made and decorated by mom.  Because that is the first birthday cake he remembers having, and he loved it and he wanted it again. 

No matter WHAT happened this birthday had to go off without a hitch because there is nothing quite so poignant as the hopes and dreams of your baby boy. 

And so I shopped and planned and bought and invited. 

And Baked.  Yes BAKED. 

Now we have covered this before.  We all know that baking and cooking aren't exactly my best qualities.  HOWEVER, I have pulled of a couple supremely awesome birthday cakes in years past and Caden's expectations were high, based mostly on his recollections of his 3rd birthday and how much he loved his train cake that year.  We all know that impressing a 3 year old is much easier than impressing a 9 year old.  And more importantly, impressing his friends.   Also, his memory is fuzzy.

The day before party, while babies slept, I began the process.  The cake would be 5 feet long and placed on a long 2X4 with a KitKat bar track.  Each section of train would have a different candy cargo and would alternative with chocolate and vanilla cake.  It was cool. 

I iced and cut, molded and planned.  I was happy. 

I didn't bother taking pictures because I was going to wait until Caden could see the cake at his party.

THAT was a mistake. 

I took the nearly finished cake and placed it outside on our screened in porch.  I placed it about 5 feet off the ground balanced on top of box that was placed on top of the table.

THAT was a mistake.

Then I put the dogs outside for a romp. 

THAT was a mistake. 

The rest of the day was a blur of planning and RSVPs and making dinner and changing diapers and I never went to check back on the cake.

THAT was a mistake. 

The morning of the party dawned bright and clear.  Or maybe that was ominous.  Caden was vibrating from excitement.  Guests were due to arrive shortly after lunch and I was running around hanging banners and doing last minute clean ups. 

I went outside to bring in the cake.  You know that Train Cake that my son had been planning on for TWO YEARS?

The engine piece was icing free.  The chocolate "log transport" piece was completely gone.  There were bite marks on the pieces that were left. 

At the moment of discovery my 12 year old came out of his bedroom and said "The stupid dog puked all over my bed during the night mom".

I would hereby like it to be known that the fact my dogs are still alive is a testament to my self control.  The fact that I didn't swear and throw things is a testament to the fact my mother had dropped by. 

I sat dumbfounded.  I facebooked.  I honestly did not know what to do. 

What I did not do is kill the dogs. 

THAT was a mistake.  (I am pretty sure anyways)

Shel raced to the store and bought the least girlie slab cake they had.  I scrounged candy that I had at home and fancied it up. 

I hugged my son and told him I was so very sorry. 

We had a party.  9 year old boys do not care about the amount of time it takes to decorate a cake.  What they care about is that the pieces of cake are BIG.

My sweet, sensitive, loving Caden crawled into my lap after the party and said "This was the BEST DAY OF MY LIFE Mommy.  I love you."

I smiled.   Then I put the leftover slab cake out on my porch, on top of a box, on top of the table.

And then I let the dogs out for a romp. 

Apparently I do not learn from my mistakes. 

We never got seconds.

My Mother in Law I am not!

Some of my older readers may have remembered my last forays into cooking and baking. For new readers, I simply say that the domestic gene is absent in this family. Don't get me wrong, I can take 3 babies under a year and a half to walmart and buy 200 dollars worth of groceries when its minus twenty degrees outside. I can do laundry, vacuum and feed 11 supper without breaking a sweat. I can make sure my kids go to school in clean clothes, make a pony tail and sign a planner simultaneously. I AM competent. At least that is what I keep telling myself.

But what it is about this time of year that brings out the crazy desire to pretend I CAN bake? Needless to say, my success rate has not improved this year. Let me share so you can enjoy the embarrassment that is my cooking reality.


That there is the pinnacle of my seasonal baking. And yes, it came in a box completely pre baked, and we just had to assemble it. And we proudly left it out as the center piece of our Christmas Display on the kitchen table.

And then we left the house.

Trippy and Annie would like you to know it was very delicious.

I have fond memories of Nanaimo Bars from my childhood. My grandmother would bake them throughout the year and it was always a special, rich treat. I am smart enough to realize that I probably should not attempt the recipe from scratch, but I saw this box in the grocery store and realized that even I should be able to follow a recipe on a BOX! So I bought it and my kids were VERY excited to "bake" with mom.

I would like to point out, that to them, opening a box and pouring ingredients into a bowl IS baking, and please do not tell them any different.

Anyways, back to my Nanaimo Bar Baking Disaster. I really, REALLY think they should make the letters bigger on those bags of ingredients. It is NOT my fault that I could not tell the difference between bag "A" and bag "B". It is NOT my fault that I added Walnuts to the filling instead of the base and misread the two tablespoons of butter to be ONE CUP of butter.

Yes. One cup of melted butter. My version of Nanaimo Bars are very, very creamy.

Then we moved on to cookies.

A dear friend who knows me well sent up these packages of cookie mixes in with a Christmas parcel for the boys. Apparently my reputation precedes me. I think I got the ingredients right. I really, really do. And at 400 degrees, who would think that an extra two minutes in the oven would make THAT much of a difference? Not me, apparently.

I was wrong. Did you know that over cooked Snickerdoodles make great hockey pucks? I do.

And then, once again, Salvation came in the form of a box from Canada Post.

Our Christmas present from my in-laws is a box (a BIG box) of Christmas Baking. My mother in law is a saint and let me tell you the arrival of that box MAKES our Christmas. Plus, now when company comes over I can offer them Christmas Baking they will actually eat, AND I can take credit for having that domestic gene I crave.

Peanut butter balls, short bread, loaves of all sorts. Did I mention I love her very, very much?

Life is a Piece of Hamburger Cake (a guestpost by Auntie Jess)

Okay, seriously, I really should just call myself Jessica, but heck, my kids even resort to calling me auntie Jess at times. Well Jenn has been on my case for a long time to write a guest post, so she might be surprised to find this here today. I hope she wont be too mad that I remember her password from many months back.


When Jenn first told me Eric wanted a hamburger cake for his right of passage birthday celebration, my first thought was, how gross! I envisioned a pile of ground beef with onion icing, yuck! Jenn shocked me yesterday when she sent me a photo of Eric's hamburger cake. I tried to tell her it was well worth bragging about, but not sure that she agreed. So I will brag on her behalf, here is my sister's creation, I think it is amazing!

Not a speck of ground beef or onion! Perhaps she has been hiding her culinery prowess from us all this time?

Life is like a piece of hamburger cake, it has many layers and it's not quite what you were expecting, but you can get through it if you have enough people around you. Jenn, we are here for you and thank God for your giving heart. Pass the fork please!

Addition by Jen: Thanks Jess ... The problem is this is a ONE TIME OCCURANCE. Because as I have said HERE and HERE I really have bad, bad luck in the kitchen. What I haven't admitted to anyone else is that this is the Hamburger Cake Part Three ... first one ended up half raw, Part Two ended up upside down in on the kitchen floor. Eventually I got it almost right. PS. Jess has the "power of blog" will also be responsible for updates during my hospital convalescence, which I recently found out will be a bit longer than I anticipated.

Re-Addition by Jess: Thanks for the heads-up about the "power of blog", I had no idea. LOL. Also, you have made my whole point here, that dispite everything going on in your life right now, you are a giver. You have created this for your son, even though you can't eat it yourself and you ended up sweeping up the first couple of cakes. You stood at the front of the line to give a part of yourself away and have saved yourself by doing so. How can I say thank-you for that?

Re-Addition-Addition by Jen: My sister made me cry. Thanks Jessica. I love you and all you are to me. We couldn't get through life right now without each other. You're my sister by fate and my best friend by choice.

At this rate, starvation is imminent

I promise you, usually things aren't this bad. Maybe it's how busy I am? Maybe it's the fact lots is weighing heavily on my mind. Too much Christmas cheer? Not enough? Distracted by children? I figure its probably a safe bet to blame my mother. Or possibly YOUR mother? Either way its NOT MY FAULT.

No matter the reason, no matter my excuse it is now apparent there is a definite need for emergency intervention.

Tonight as I carried the meatloaf to our set kitchen table, already laden with side dishes (ok reheated scalloped potatoes I made from a box yesterday) I turned back to grab a forgotten serving spoon and dropped the ENTIRE THING into a sink full of soapy water.

Yes, you read that right. I FREAKING DROPPED THE MEATLOAF INTO THE FULL KITCHEN SINK.

Our dinner. Wet. I considered shaking it out and at least serving it to the children (at this rate they would probably think I had a new recipe to ruin) but I was laughing so hard it attracted their attention. You see, they ARE used to loud sounds coming from the kitchen, laughter usually isn't one of them. There was no way to explain why the meatloaf was floating merrily in a sea of bubbles.

Again, I would have taken a picture but, well that camera is still under the laundry somewhere.

We ate at McDonald's.

Send help.

Aiming for vindication, I fail miserably

Sometimes life is rather ironic. Last night was such a night.

Tanner, my dear, sweet and completely clueless 11 year old "forgot" to tell me that I was
supposed to help his school class cook for a fundraising dinner they were hosting last night. So at ten after five we were racing down to the high school to cook. Yes, you heard that right, apparently I had been volunteered to cook. For other people. Who were arriving to eat at 7.

Inside I snickered. Vindication. After liberally using exaggeration about my lack of baking skills in my previous blog posts, here was my chance to prove to myself, my son and the BLOG WORLD that I am in fact a Domestic Goddess.

And then they handed me the recipe. A recipe for quiche. At least I think it was for quiche, because it was COMPLETELY IN FRENCH. Yes, the entire recipe was in french. ANOTHER LANGUAGE. You understand that following a recipe for me is hard enough as it is, but in FRENCH?

"Ok", I think, "this is a class of french immersion students, surely someone can help me out". I am assigned four 10 and 11 year old boys as my cooking partners. You can see where this is going now can't you? Me, for all intents and purposes appearing to be a competent mother of four, assigned 4 young children to cook with. Did I mention none of them could follow a recipe either?

We chop and saute. Things smell good. Very good. I have HOPE.

I bake the pie shells (pre-made THANK THE LORD!). We mix and stir. Something looks wrong. I check the recipe. I re-check the recipe. Seriously what the heck is a Centi-Litre and why on earth do french recipes use that measurement? Tanner and I do some quick conversions again. We think we have done it right. We HOPE we have done it right.

The filling is looking awfully creamy to me. But what do I know, at this point my cooking confidence is so low I am going to follow the recipe (as much of it as I can!) and trust that it will work out.

My pride, my hopes at vindication, are tied up in this turning out.

We bake. And then bake some more. And some more. We raise the heat. We lower the heat. The pie crusts are now awfully brown and dried out looking. But the quiche filling? Liquid. No setting. No firming. Bacon, mushrooms, onions floating in egg and cream.

I pull out the recipe. I bet you didn't know that "farine tout-usuage" is FLOUR? Neither did I. Apparently I was supposed to add 100 grams of flour. Just how much is that anyways? Those four nasty little boys forgot to add FLOUR to the sauce. So, technically I was in charge and never noticed either, but let me tell you I blamed them loudly.

We pulled out the quiche. I dumped every scrap of sauted vegetables I could find to fill up the shells. I grated and re-grated more cheese. They looked ok, but none of us were volunteering to taste them.

I made a new sign. Crossed out "Quiche" and wrote "Tarte De La Creme". It sounded good to me.

And those 4 french immersion students didn't protest too much either.

And then Tanner and I? We (in his words) "booked it out of there" at 7:05 just after the quiche (minus the flour) were served, but before anyone had tasted them.

IT'S NOT MY FAULT.

Rejected

Strangely, after yesterday's post about my lack of baking prowess I found my named scratched off the Christmas baking exchange at work.

The organizer, who actually OWNS a craft show she is so crafty, slyly suggested I post links to my blog and hope for some sympathy cookies to come my way and then THANKED ME for not participating this year.

Phooey on her. Burnt cookies, cardboard pie and crumbly brownies are part of my kids' holiday memories and why should those be ruined with GOOD baking? I'll just call my sister for sympathy who is trying to think of how to pass off grocery store cookies tonight as her own seeing as her EASY-NEVER FAIL FUDGE failed to set. I tell you, its genetic and NOT OUR FAULT.