Whether it's in parenting, cooking or just trying to find sanity in an insane home with my 3 bears, this blog is all about sorting through the "too hot's" and the "too lumpy's" to finding our "just right."
So, I have this friend. She is definitely not a white glove friend, maybe more like a blue, polka-dotted gloved one. The white gloves are the ones that you race around the house dusting every crevice, removing caked-on dirt and febreezing the heck out of your dogs in fear of offending the white gloves precious opinion. I don’t tend to have too many white gloves but there are one or two. I tend to collect the blue, polka-dotted gloves. She’s the type that you sort of, kind of clean the house for but then make sure to warn that if they put their child down on the floor, they might not be able to find him again.
Well today, I woke up and decided to make one of my favorite coffee cakes.
K-bear is still asleep so I try to be extra quiet (which of course means I drop everything). I look at the recipe…crap…it calls for “beating” ingredients. Beating means noise. Well gosh dern it! I decide to instead use my hands since of course, that’s the same thing, right? When that proves to be a big old “not even close,” I decide to use my whisk because that’s definitely the same thing. Um. No. And what happens? The whisk breaks off in two.
So, there I am whisking this cake batter with a whisk without a handle and then I remember the recipe calls for cutting butter. I will stand up and say I hate cutting butter. I’m terrible at it and at any given moment a knife goes flying out of my hands and lands within inches of either a dog lying on my feet or a cub. So, again, I use my hands. Do you think it works? Um, well, no.
Fine, so I get this monstrosity all ready and I notice a smell. A really, bad, burning, yucky smell. Immediately I check a now-awake Ava bear’s diaper but she’s clean as a whistle. My upturned nose starts sniffing through the house until the scent brings me right back to the oven. If my nose didn’t, the smoke would have. I opened it up and oh joy…a pork chop from last night.
Needless to say T minus 60 minutes and my house reeks like burned poop with a side order of something-that-could’ve-smelled-nice.
This is why I only hang out with blue, polka-dotted, gloved people.