According to most people I have fed in the recent past, I am a fairly capable cook. Nothing prize-winning, by any means, but I can whisk, baste and broil my way around the average kitchen with ease, and the results are usually fairly appetizing (especially the Easter ham with family recipe mustard sauce). The majority of this talent I owe to my mom: she is a brilliantly talented cook who has mastered the sometimes near-impossible art of making belly- and soul-warming dishes that are equally as healthy as they are delicious. I am a good distance, of course, from matching her prowess, but I'd like to think I'm good enough to make toothsome meals (which must now be both boy- and girl-friendly. ...this is easier said than done).
Now, due to an unfortunate league switch, I am now an ex athlete (a pox on the NCAA! Bah!), but the competitive fire has yet to be fully extinguished -- thus, having (arguably) mastered the culinary basics, I am driven more and more frequently to experiment, modify and explore. My recent accomplishments include: a Thai red fish curry with lemongrass and kaffir lime; a self-carved and red-wine-and-paprika-marinated plate of beef tenderloin steaks; and a feta-and-roasted-red-pepper-stuffed and Greek-oregano-and-lemon-marinated chicken breast (which, truth be told, I made up myself on a desperate scrounge through minimal groceries). I am continually searching for more, and I scour both cookbooks and the internet on a close-to-daily basis. I modify, too: I switch butter for applesauce in coffee cake, add vanilla, almond and lemon extracts to winter berry pie, and refuse to accept garlic and onion limits (the smell of the two sautéing together is something beyond divine).
This experimentation, however, while usually fruitful, has not always panned out. Rarely, I mix the recipe up entirely (for example, marinating steaks for 3 hours instead of 30 minutes in red wine vinegar and accidentally pickling them to a frisbee-like toughness), but more often than not when an attempt goes awry I blame the dish itself: it is too bland, too oily, too salty, too sharp, too sweet, too plain, or too mealy (and that's just my taste -- try dealing with a picky boyfriend). In these cases, the finished product is nearly identical to the image in the cookbook, it just happens to be a lemon (no pun intended... actually, wait, yes, I did mean that) of a project. These usually end up down the garborator, keeping both our plumbing and our local sushi joint in good running order (nothing covers dejection like spicy tuna sashimi). It is always disappointing when this happens, no matter how much I try to pretend it is not, and I am heartbroken each time it does. It usually goes something like this:
The most recent instance of this happening was just a couple weeks ago, when I was asked to bake for a birthday. Since my boyfriend and I live within a ten minute drive of his parents, we are over on a (usually) weekly basis, and again if it is a holiday, a weekend, or someone's birthday dinner. His mother, while quite the artist of the stovetop herself, has never really taken to baking, and so I am often enlisted to whip up a cake, and this instance was no different: it was my boyfriend's brother's 22nd so I was asked to provide dessert (which I quickly and happily obliged).
Now, you would think, especially given my mother's detailed teaching, that this would be an easy task -- four discerning palates, however (not even including my own), would, loudly and without restraint, beg emphatically to differ.
Now, you would think, especially given my mother's detailed teaching, that this would be an easy task -- four discerning palates, however (not even including my own), would, loudly and without restraint, beg emphatically to differ.
My boyfriend's mother is the easiest to please: she, like myself, loves fruit, chocolate and vanilla alike, although she's particularly inclined to lemon and/or cinnamon. His father, however, is not: apple, pumpkin, or berry pie (I repeat: apple), and plain vanilla cake or an equivalent with fruit and/or fruit-flavoured sauces only. Boyfriend himself likes "light" desserts like sponge cake, hates heavy things, refuses to go near cream cheese (ergo no cheesecake), and has been known to ask "Ew... what did you put in this?" in response to chocolate shavings mixed into vanilla bean bundt. His brother, though, is worst of all: a self-proclaimed anti-dessert-ist, 95% of the time he won't eat anything vaguely resembling a sweet, sometimes even refusing a piece of his own birthday cake (though he will almost always indulge me and blow out the candles -- albeit begrudingly).
That was why, when earlier this month boyfriend's brother's birthday bounced benignly onto my baking ballot, I was convinced that this would finally be the time that I would make something he found palatable. Cake was out, pie was out, torte, flan and crumble were all moot. The only thing I could think of was to careen wildly outside the box and hope for a shot in the dark -- and so, I decided to try something completely different: a fruit-and-whipped-cream-filled log of sweet deliciousness and delectability called a Pavlova roll.
Now, I'd made Pavlova before -- an Australian dessert much like a giant topping-covered meringue -- but my previous effort was a round, puffy disc with a texture not unlike stiff cotton candy, a texture that certainly didn't well lend itself to being rolled into a cinnamon-bun-like log. I googled furiously to find a recipe with a roll-able consistency, and finally settled on one with generous reviews and a pineapple-and-passionfruit-cream filling (which, I ventured, would please all tastes involved).
The pavlova was about a dozen egg whites' worth mixed with a cup or so of berry sugar, plus vanilla and baking powder for leavening. It was spread in a large, thick sheet across a cookie tray and emerged from the oven lightly golden and wafting sweet heat, like a mattress pad made of powdered sugar. I laid it out to cool and, as per the recipe's directions, blended a heaping cup of pineapple and passionfruit pulp into a fluffy mound of sweetened cream. Finally, I spread the mixture generously across the (now-cooled) pavlova and carefully rolled it up.
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| My precious... |
It was perfect -- like the picture, only better. I mounded even more whipped cream on top and layered it with fresh strawberries, slices of pineapple and a generous sprinkle of icing sugar. It looked like something out of a Betty Crocker publication, and it wobbled slightly with the childlike glee-inducing viscosity of jello. I put it in the fridge to cool down even more and then curled up on the sofa to wait, excitedly debating chocolate shavings and lemon zest for more garnish.
I left it in the fridge for an hour or so, just to make sure everything had set. According to the website, it would solidify in the cool temperatures to an icing-and-foam-like texture that would be delectable to both gaze and palate. The various testers had commented excitedly:
"My church group loved it!"
"It was like eating a cloud!"
"Ten stars! ...out of five!"
"I want this as my wedding cake!"
Since, step by step, my product had mirrored the pictures as well, I expected comparable results. With zealous glee, I leapt from the sofa to check on my new concoction.
This is what greeted me:
Something had gone horribly, terribly wrong.
My poor pavlova was dying.
Its once-round form had collapsed and melted in upon itself to something vaguely resembling a blobfish or a goblin shark. It was sitting in a pool of its own secretions and large, weeping cracks had appeared on both sides. The whipped cream mixture was coagulating like bad milk and, far from sweet, it was now beginning to smell like a day-old pile of Eggs Benedict.
I took a bite and cringed. Not good. But maybe, just maybe, I was wrong? Maybe I was too critical? I convinced my boyfriend to come over and have a taste as well.
He put the forkful in his mouth, gummed it around a bit, and swallowed. I searched his face pleadingly.
"Not good?" I asked.
"Um..."
"What? Tell me?"
His face was scrunched up in a strange sort of expression, like he'd put a live 9 volt to his tongue and wasn't quite sure how to react.
"Come on, you have to tell me. I know. It's bad, right?"
He hesitated, then nodded. My heart sunk. "Yeah... I'm sorry, sweetie... it's... it's not good."
"Like really bad, or it can be fixed?"
He didn't answer.
I took a deep breath, and looked him full in the face. My lower lip began to quiver. I steeled myself, clenched my fists, and mumbled pathetically.
"It tastes like a wet omelette, doesn't it?"
He waited just a moment, then reached out and wrapped me up in his arms."C'mere, sweetie. Come have a hug. Everything will be okay."
We showed up to the birthday party with a store-bought tuxedo cake, garnished with white and dark chocolate shavings and topped with whipping cream and strawberries. Mother liked it, father didn't mind it, boyfriend was indifferent. I was crushed, and pushed it around on my plate for a good five minutes before giving up.
Brother didn't even have a bite (but I did get a hug for my efforts).
And the moral is: I will never make that recipe (or probably a pavlova roll) ever again.
And that fact bothers me: not one little bit.
"My church group loved it!"
"It was like eating a cloud!"
"Ten stars! ...out of five!"
"I want this as my wedding cake!"
Since, step by step, my product had mirrored the pictures as well, I expected comparable results. With zealous glee, I leapt from the sofa to check on my new concoction.
This is what greeted me:
Something had gone horribly, terribly wrong.
My poor pavlova was dying.
Its once-round form had collapsed and melted in upon itself to something vaguely resembling a blobfish or a goblin shark. It was sitting in a pool of its own secretions and large, weeping cracks had appeared on both sides. The whipped cream mixture was coagulating like bad milk and, far from sweet, it was now beginning to smell like a day-old pile of Eggs Benedict.
I took a bite and cringed. Not good. But maybe, just maybe, I was wrong? Maybe I was too critical? I convinced my boyfriend to come over and have a taste as well.
He put the forkful in his mouth, gummed it around a bit, and swallowed. I searched his face pleadingly.
"Not good?" I asked.
"Um..."
"What? Tell me?"
His face was scrunched up in a strange sort of expression, like he'd put a live 9 volt to his tongue and wasn't quite sure how to react.
"Come on, you have to tell me. I know. It's bad, right?"
He hesitated, then nodded. My heart sunk. "Yeah... I'm sorry, sweetie... it's... it's not good."
"Like really bad, or it can be fixed?"
He didn't answer.
I took a deep breath, and looked him full in the face. My lower lip began to quiver. I steeled myself, clenched my fists, and mumbled pathetically.
"It tastes like a wet omelette, doesn't it?"
He waited just a moment, then reached out and wrapped me up in his arms."C'mere, sweetie. Come have a hug. Everything will be okay."
We showed up to the birthday party with a store-bought tuxedo cake, garnished with white and dark chocolate shavings and topped with whipping cream and strawberries. Mother liked it, father didn't mind it, boyfriend was indifferent. I was crushed, and pushed it around on my plate for a good five minutes before giving up.
Brother didn't even have a bite (but I did get a hug for my efforts).
And the moral is: I will never make that recipe (or probably a pavlova roll) ever again.
And that fact bothers me: not one little bit.
