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.
Showing posts with label not a domestic goddess. Show all posts
Showing posts with label not a domestic goddess. Show all posts
Friday, April 16, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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."
And then I let the dogs out for a romp.
Apparently I do not learn from my mistakes.
We never got seconds.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
My dirty little secrets.
I have many friends. Friends who cook lovely things for their families. Friends who design cards and jewellery. Friends who paint and decorate and convert junk into lovely pieces of art. Friends who bake.
And, believe it or not (because mostly I don't believe it!) they actually LIKE IT. And I envy.
My grandmothers both were women who baked and cooked. My mother's mother baked goodies that are intrinsically intertwined with my childhood memories. We each had a cookie named after us. Our favorites were always pulled from the freezer and set out the instant we walked in her front door. The front door of her spotless house I should point out.
The domestic gene died out two generations ago. The baking gene missed my mother and my childhood memories of baking at home are horror filled occasions of chopping sticky, glompy, awful dates for my mother's sticky, glompy, awful date loaf. Decorating? We went years in a gorgeous 4500 sq foot home with no paint on the walls because no one could be bothered. We were clean, but it was not an act of enjoyment for anyone.
The baking gene is completely absent in me. I have a housekeeping gene, but usually it is left down at the rink or hidden under the piles of laundry 4 active boys generate.
But what is it about the Christmas Season that pulls out that desperate need in all of us to prove our worth as Domestic Goddesses? And so I threw a weekend away trying to generate memories with my sons.
Greg asked to bake with me. So we baked. Actually, we burnt. Batch after batch of ruined cookies. Never Fail Ginger Snaps that failed. Apple pie with crust like cardboard. Brownies that stick in the pan. Cinnamon bread without enough cinnamon. Sugar cookies that will never get iced because the recipe has baffled me.
I can tie skates, tell a slap shot from a backhand, run a time clock and keep a score sheet. I can drive in the snow and wake up at 5 to bring a son to hockey practice. I can cook a dinner with a three step recipe and provide plenty of fruit and vegetables as long as you like them raw.
I cannot convert black feathers into artistic Christmas decorations. I cannot make perfectly creative jewellery. I will not fashion menu cards for Thanksgiving Dinner. I will not coordinate my living room furniture with the lights on my Christmas Tree. My towels only match on laundry day. My floors look like I live in a house with 4 boys and a dog. My kitchen is more often dirty than clean.
Take it or leave it, that's me. And I'd take a picture of my kitchen looking like a bakery exploded if I could find the camera. But I can't. I think its hidden under the laundry.
PS. For Christmas each year since I have had children my long suffering and very patient mother in law sends a box of Christmas baking to my family. A LARGE box of Christmas baking that allows me to pretend that I actually know what I am doing during the entertaining season. Did I mention she has a triple dose of the Domestic Goddess gene and her son, my husband got the shock of his life when he married me and realized it was not universal? Ah yeah, the adjustment of married life.
And, believe it or not (because mostly I don't believe it!) they actually LIKE IT. And I envy.
My grandmothers both were women who baked and cooked. My mother's mother baked goodies that are intrinsically intertwined with my childhood memories. We each had a cookie named after us. Our favorites were always pulled from the freezer and set out the instant we walked in her front door. The front door of her spotless house I should point out.
The domestic gene died out two generations ago. The baking gene missed my mother and my childhood memories of baking at home are horror filled occasions of chopping sticky, glompy, awful dates for my mother's sticky, glompy, awful date loaf. Decorating? We went years in a gorgeous 4500 sq foot home with no paint on the walls because no one could be bothered. We were clean, but it was not an act of enjoyment for anyone.
The baking gene is completely absent in me. I have a housekeeping gene, but usually it is left down at the rink or hidden under the piles of laundry 4 active boys generate.
But what is it about the Christmas Season that pulls out that desperate need in all of us to prove our worth as Domestic Goddesses? And so I threw a weekend away trying to generate memories with my sons.
Greg asked to bake with me. So we baked. Actually, we burnt. Batch after batch of ruined cookies. Never Fail Ginger Snaps that failed. Apple pie with crust like cardboard. Brownies that stick in the pan. Cinnamon bread without enough cinnamon. Sugar cookies that will never get iced because the recipe has baffled me.
I can tie skates, tell a slap shot from a backhand, run a time clock and keep a score sheet. I can drive in the snow and wake up at 5 to bring a son to hockey practice. I can cook a dinner with a three step recipe and provide plenty of fruit and vegetables as long as you like them raw.
I cannot convert black feathers into artistic Christmas decorations. I cannot make perfectly creative jewellery. I will not fashion menu cards for Thanksgiving Dinner. I will not coordinate my living room furniture with the lights on my Christmas Tree. My towels only match on laundry day. My floors look like I live in a house with 4 boys and a dog. My kitchen is more often dirty than clean.
Take it or leave it, that's me. And I'd take a picture of my kitchen looking like a bakery exploded if I could find the camera. But I can't. I think its hidden under the laundry.
PS. For Christmas each year since I have had children my long suffering and very patient mother in law sends a box of Christmas baking to my family. A LARGE box of Christmas baking that allows me to pretend that I actually know what I am doing during the entertaining season. Did I mention she has a triple dose of the Domestic Goddess gene and her son, my husband got the shock of his life when he married me and realized it was not universal? Ah yeah, the adjustment of married life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)