There’s only a quarter inch of space left at the top. I read the recipe over and over to make sure I measured correctly and I do what I have to do—slide the pans into the oven and hope for the best. I set the timer.
The ganache part of the instructions for the Double Layer Chocolate Buttermilk Decadence with Chocolate Caramel Ganache and Toffee Accessories is six paragraphs long. I stir sugar, water, and a cinnamon stick in a saucepan on medium-low heat until the sugar
dissolves. (As a chemistry princess I have mastered the dissolving of a solid into liquid.) Now I increase the heat, and boil, without stirring. The mixture bubbles out of control. I poise my spatula over it. Lift the pan, observe the color. I’m supposed to cook it until it turns a deep amber color. What is the color, exactly, of deep amber, I wonder? More boiling bubbles. And more again. I consult my recipe. It’s supposed to take from five to seven minutes. I don’t know how many minutes it’s been and I think maybe I should have adjusted all the cooking times for a higher altitude. The bubbles are definitely brown though so I move on to the next step: adding cold cream to hot sugar.
I am caught in the crossfire. The mixture bubbles, scalding cream splatters violently, the dark sugar seizes into a ball of goo. “This is not the moment to panic.” I try to channel Nigella. “Baking chemistry requires trust on the part of the baker.”
I whisk and heat and whisk more. Finally the thick gooey stuff looks mostly like caramel sauce. I pour it over the bowl of twelve ounces of chocolate I have set aside. I stir, the chocolate melts, and, eventually, smoothes to a glassy lake of loveliness. I think I’ve survived baking disaster, but then, the timer beeps and I look through the oven door.
My cake batter has overflowed the pans and pools of cake smoke on the oven floor. The cakes themselves are domed but collapse into a well of boggy batter.
This is what happens when you break the rules, my conscience speaks to me in a small squeaky voice that’s a mash up of my mother and Jiminy Cricket. I ignore it. I tell myself any independent choice will result in an infraction of some sort. And for every misstep a solution exists. I babysat Jillian’s six little brothers and I survived. Heck. I did better than survival—I was an optimized thinker. This cake baking dilemma is another opportunity to prove myself. And after cake baking, maybe on to Jillian and our knotted-up friendship.
I consult my recipe, Google my problem. I turn to Nigella’s Web site and on a forum I discover a solution. Though my cake will not be as pretty, it will still be edible, the writer assures me.
I test the center of the cakes for doneness every two minutes, until, twelve minutes later, I pull them from the oven, the edges dried and nearly burned. Failure has never looked this bad. I feel my eyes sting and I recite the elements of the periodic table, starting with hydrogen, the element with the lowest atomic number and, arguably, the greatest potential for everyday explosions.
Jillian
Call Waiting .
S he could have called. She, of course, is my mother, but I’m not calling her my mother right now because that would suggest respect.
I had to tell Parker I was sick. He said he understood, but I felt the pause. The pause that says what you really want to say before you say what you think you should say. Pause= How could you let me down?
I called the physics group and told them Chantal wasn’t going to the party and neither was I. I didn’t have to tell them not to go. Without us they wouldn’t feel comfortable. And honestly, I was having nightmares about them all together in the same room with Parker. Chantal might have enjoyed having them around, but I know I’d have been on high-alert to stop Gavin’s Darth Vader impression or Brenan’s plot analysis of Simpsons ’ episodes or Callie’s insistence on Dance, Dance Revolution. All party killers. Maybe even boyfriend
The ganache part of the instructions for the Double Layer Chocolate Buttermilk Decadence with Chocolate Caramel Ganache and Toffee Accessories is six paragraphs long. I stir sugar, water, and a cinnamon stick in a saucepan on medium-low heat until the sugar
dissolves. (As a chemistry princess I have mastered the dissolving of a solid into liquid.) Now I increase the heat, and boil, without stirring. The mixture bubbles out of control. I poise my spatula over it. Lift the pan, observe the color. I’m supposed to cook it until it turns a deep amber color. What is the color, exactly, of deep amber, I wonder? More boiling bubbles. And more again. I consult my recipe. It’s supposed to take from five to seven minutes. I don’t know how many minutes it’s been and I think maybe I should have adjusted all the cooking times for a higher altitude. The bubbles are definitely brown though so I move on to the next step: adding cold cream to hot sugar.
I am caught in the crossfire. The mixture bubbles, scalding cream splatters violently, the dark sugar seizes into a ball of goo. “This is not the moment to panic.” I try to channel Nigella. “Baking chemistry requires trust on the part of the baker.”
I whisk and heat and whisk more. Finally the thick gooey stuff looks mostly like caramel sauce. I pour it over the bowl of twelve ounces of chocolate I have set aside. I stir, the chocolate melts, and, eventually, smoothes to a glassy lake of loveliness. I think I’ve survived baking disaster, but then, the timer beeps and I look through the oven door.
My cake batter has overflowed the pans and pools of cake smoke on the oven floor. The cakes themselves are domed but collapse into a well of boggy batter.
This is what happens when you break the rules, my conscience speaks to me in a small squeaky voice that’s a mash up of my mother and Jiminy Cricket. I ignore it. I tell myself any independent choice will result in an infraction of some sort. And for every misstep a solution exists. I babysat Jillian’s six little brothers and I survived. Heck. I did better than survival—I was an optimized thinker. This cake baking dilemma is another opportunity to prove myself. And after cake baking, maybe on to Jillian and our knotted-up friendship.
I consult my recipe, Google my problem. I turn to Nigella’s Web site and on a forum I discover a solution. Though my cake will not be as pretty, it will still be edible, the writer assures me.
I test the center of the cakes for doneness every two minutes, until, twelve minutes later, I pull them from the oven, the edges dried and nearly burned. Failure has never looked this bad. I feel my eyes sting and I recite the elements of the periodic table, starting with hydrogen, the element with the lowest atomic number and, arguably, the greatest potential for everyday explosions.
Jillian
Call Waiting .
S he could have called. She, of course, is my mother, but I’m not calling her my mother right now because that would suggest respect.
I had to tell Parker I was sick. He said he understood, but I felt the pause. The pause that says what you really want to say before you say what you think you should say. Pause= How could you let me down?
I called the physics group and told them Chantal wasn’t going to the party and neither was I. I didn’t have to tell them not to go. Without us they wouldn’t feel comfortable. And honestly, I was having nightmares about them all together in the same room with Parker. Chantal might have enjoyed having them around, but I know I’d have been on high-alert to stop Gavin’s Darth Vader impression or Brenan’s plot analysis of Simpsons ’ episodes or Callie’s insistence on Dance, Dance Revolution. All party killers. Maybe even boyfriend
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