Adventures in Cooking: The Cake of Shame

You may have noticed by now that this blog is going to be full of "adventures," of my own variety that is. This is going to be my first installment under the "Adventures in Cooking" category. I would like to start my telling you that I fancy myself to be a pretty decent cook/baker. I come from a large, Italian family full of amazing cooks and bakers, and though I may not yet be up to their grand standards, cooking and baking are in my blood. So is eating. It's a problem. Anyway, the point is, I am a fairly capable person when it comes to food-related matters.

On the other hand, everybody is allowed certain weaknesses. Mine happens to be cake. Not weakness in the sense that I can't resist eating a piece of cake, because I can (most of the time), but weakness in the sense that I cannot bake a cake to save my life. Cake is my achilles heel. This brings me to January 1, 2013: New Year's day. Also, coincidentally, my mother's birthday, and the conception of 'the cake of shame.'

The morning of New Year's day, my mother set off to run a few errands. As she turned the key in the ignition, she discovered the car to be unresponsive. The problem: dead battery. Frustratedly, my mother announced this discovery to my father, who is quite adept at fixing cars, and requested from me the temporary use of my car. I, of course, being the best daughter there is, relinquished my keys to my mother, and she went on her way. About twenty minutes later, our home phone rang. My dad answered it, made some frustrated grumbles, hung up, and immediately exited the house. I didn't think much of it at the time, until, that is, both of my parents returned home and informed me that my car too was now refusing to start (I know what you're thinking: What does this have to do with cake? Trust me, I'm getting there). 

Now, with both cars being dead and my mother still having errands to run, my father found himself suddenly quite occupied. He called me downstairs and we had the following conversation (this is the abridged version; my memory ain't what it used to be):

Dad: So, your car is dead, and mom's car is dead...

Me: (suspiciously) Uh huh...?

Dad: I still have to make mom a birthday cake...

Me: (still suspicious) Uh huh...?

Dad: I can't do both.

Me: ...okay...

Dad: I'm going to need you to make the cake

Me: (thinking, "yeah, I can do this. Box mix all the way!") Oh, sure thing!

Dad: I need you to make an Italian sponge cake (there is no box mix for this, and it is probably the most    disgustingly complicated cake ever involving the sifting of flour, grating of lemons, and whipping of eggs).

Me: (panicking slightly, knowing I suck at cake-making) Uh...okay...yeah, I mean, sure. No problem. Do we have a recipe for that?

Dad: We must someplace. 

Me: Okey dokey, noooo problem (said with much more conviction and enthusiasm than I felt)

So, with that, I set off to find the recipe for Italian sponge cake. I should have mentioned before, my dad is pretty much a professional baker. He used to work in a restaurant in New Jersey, and he still works in a food-related industry. This being said, my dad does not often use recipes. I think that secretly, Italians aren't allowed to because it somehow means they fail at life. The recipes that he DOES have are written in restaurant-code. The measurements for everything are in pounds and handfulls, not cups and teaspoons. And there are no directions for how to proceed once you've gathered your ingredients. Realizing that I was not going to be able to follow my father's recipe, I looked to the internet for guidance. 

I soon found a simple-looking recipe after searching for probably longer than I should have. I gathered my ingredients, and set off to work. Luckily, since the recipe was on my laptop, I had some handy-dandy entertainment while I baked. I would definitely need this, as the instructions informed me that I would need to beat 6 eggs with a hand-held electric mixer for 20 minutes straight, until they formed stiff peaks. Guys, I beg of you, never attempt to beat the egg yolks AND whites together if you want stiff peaks, It's not possible. Seriously. If you want peaks, get rid of the yolks. I did not know this, of course, so I proceeded to beat the crap out of those eggs for 30 whole minutes (Yes, the directions only said 20, but they obviously lied because I was not getting peaks) at the absolute highest setting, until I got very, very loose peaks, and I was almost positive my hand was about to break off. Even though the mixture only sort of doubled in size (as opposed to quadrupling, as the recipe stated it would) and did not, in fact, form any kind of peaks, I decided to go with it, because hey, what was the worst that could happen (plus, I could no longer feel my arm).

My father had told me to separate the batter into two 9-inch round pans, which, I don not feel should have been the case seeing as how there was barely enough batter to do this, but I forgot to compensate for the fact that I separated the batter when I set the oven timer. Consequently, the "cake" (I'm using quotes now because I cannot justifiably call this monstrosity a cake) spent a bit too much time in the oven. When I pulled it out, I knew it was looking a bit browner than it probably should have, but I thought it would be fine. After all, it smelled decent and looked at least a trifle edible. And if all else failed, we could just add a lot of frosting!

I was wrong.

When my mother got home, she found the cake of shame cooling on top of the oven. I explained to her my earlier mishaps, but expressed my beliefs that all would be well in the end. My mother, not believing me for a second, walked over to the oven and lifted the cakes out of their pans. Upon flipping them over, we saw that the bottoms of both cakes were completely black. Oh, and they were rock solid.  Mmm, delish. I thought maybe the cakes could still be salvaged (I was desperate at this point), and suggested cutting off the bottoms (even though the cakes were each approximately one inch thick to begin with). My mom, calmly, but with laughter in her eyes, broke the news to me that their would be no saving these cakes. They would have to be baked over again. Guys, this was at least 4 hours of my life down the drain. Naturally, not wanting to admit total failure, I enthusiastically announced, "well, I bet they still taste good!" I cut off a small chunk of "cake," took a bite, and started chewing...and chewing...and chewing. Yet no matter how much I masticated, the cake was still there, not getting any weaker. Well, at least I had managed to make exactly what the directions said it would be: a sponge! Must have forgotten the cake part. My mom, amused by my endless chewing, decided to try it out herself. She took a bite and chewed...and chewed...and chewed...We both began laughing at this point. My mom asked, "does it ever go away?" I don't know the answer to this for sure, but my educated guess is no. 

After determining the cake to be inedible, we found a new recipe, and I stood back and handed my mother ingredients as she prepared her own birthday cake. I watched with rapt attention as my mother tried to instruct me on how to properly prepare cake. I simply turned to her and said, "Mom, trust me, I am not going to attempt this ever again in my life. There's no point wasting your breath."

Later that afternoon, cake #2 (the edible one) was finished, and ready for decorating (which we both left for my father to complete). I walked over to "cake" #1 with one last hope that something could still be done, but at this point, it had cooled enough to erase any illusion that it would ever have been edible. You could pick the whole thing up with two fingers without it even bending in half or denting under the pressure of your fingertips. It was practically unbreakable as well, stretching only if puled forcefully apart at each end. Fortunately for my mother, cake #2 turned out well enough to actually be passable as a decent dessert (especially after my father layered it with fresh whipped cream and lemon curd), so all was not lost. 

And guys, I have got to tell you, my dog and my brother's bird both LOVED my "cake."

 

("cake" #1 on the left, cake #2- the edible one, on the right)

~Felicia

Adventures in Food; Chapter 1: Vietnamese

Recently, my good friend Becca and I have decided that we need to expand our palette and embark on new, food-related cultural experiences. Our first adventure began when I received a Facebook message from Becca, imploring me to try the Vietnamese dish, pho. Pho, pronounced "fuhh"(which I still cannot bring myself to say without feeling racist-don't ask me why) is a type of soup traditionally prepared with a beef broth, beef chunks (personally, I don't eat beef, but I was assured that there would be other meat choices), rice noodles, cilantro, and lime,  among other ingredients. I thought it an odd coincidence that she should suddenly be so interested in trying pho, because I too had recently been hearing friends of mine singing its praises. Taking all of this into consideration, I readily agreed to join her in this endeavor, and with that, our adventures in food began.

It was a few weeks (or months...) before we actually made good on our plans to go out for a pho dinner. We had inquired amongst all of our pho-eating friends regarding which restaurant would give us the tastiest, most authentic pho experience, and the common denominator in most of these conversations was a local restaurant called Pho Vietnam. Simple and straight to the point. We were sold. We set out to the restaurant, which, from my house, was only about 10 minutes away. Our directions led us into a fairly sketchy (as sketchy as suburbia really gets I suppose) shopping complex containing mostly discount stores. We weren't sure we were in the right place, until we saw the unmistakable "Pho Vietnam" sign nestled into one corner of the complex.

Upon entering, Becca and I stood awkwardly in the doorway for a minute or so before a waitress, from across the room, yelled "TWO?" at us. Becca, taken aback a little bit responded, "uh, yes, two." "Follow me!" commanded the waitress. The two of us exchanged glances, but quickly moved to follow the waitress to a booth in the back of the small restaurant. As we sat down, the waitress placed a menu in front of each of us, and then walked away. We both glanced at each other once again, and then bent to study our menus. It was then we realized we were completely out of our element. I looked around to find that we were the only non-Vietnamese patrons in the restaurant. The menu itself was about 75% Vietnamese, with a short description in English below each menu item. The menu was also 98% beef. As I struggled to find a menu item with no cow byproducts, Becca perused the beefy list. Each menu item listed the same kind of meat (it was beef, in case you hadn't already figured it out), yet each type of pho contained meat from a different section of the animal. I kid you not when I say that there were at least 20 different choices. Luckily for us, I happen to have a smartphone, so for the next 5 or so minutes, we tried to locate a diagram of a cow on my phone, so that Becca could choose her meal accordingly. After locating said diagram, we agreed that the brisket sounded like the safest choice, so Becca ordered the pho with brisket, and I went for the vegetarian option (as it was the only one on the menu not containing beef). After the waitress took our orders, we studied the items on table in front of us. There was a fork for each of us, which we couldn't really tell if it had been used by the previous occupants of our booth or was actually for us (which would be odd, considering we ordered soup), so we decided to leave the forks alone. There was also one dispenser full of soup spoons and one for chop sticks. We decided that these would be our weapons of choice for this meal, so we armed ourselves and prepared to go to battle. A few minutes after we ordered, the waitress brought this dish to our table (see picture below):

Each of us had a momentary panic when neither could figure out what we were supposed to do with these things. Each plate contained one lime wedge, one diced jalepeno pepper, sprouts, and a sprig of what we assumed to be basil. Our thought process went something like this: "Is it...is it some type of salad? Are we supposed to eat this as like, an appetizer?" Becca decided that we needed to consult our friend Iris, who, as Becca assured me, is a pho expert, and would definitely know how to proceed with the consumption of this plate. After the photo was taken and sent to Iris with a caption that read something to the effect of, "WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS!?!?" the waitress brought our giant bowls of pho to the table. We had no time to deal with our mystery salad/appetizer plate situation before we were expected to dive into the main course. We quickly found that the pho could not be consumed with a spoon until and only until all of the noodles had been eaten. As we went to work attacking the slippery rice noodles with our chop sticks, our text message to Iris was answered. "Uhh, guys, it's a garnish. You're supposed to add it to your soup..." OHHHHH! We totally got this. After squeezing the lime wedge, and adding the peppers (and for me, a generous dollop of Sriracha), we deciding that the sprouts were questionable at best, so we decided to leave them out and proceeded to eat our soup. We also didn't add the basil, but I think that was just because we didn't know for sure what it was at the time. After finishing all the noodles (the best part) and sipping as much broth as we could handle (that was too much liquid for any one person), we decided to call it a day. We sat there for about 10 minutes waiting for a waitress to come by and give us the check. No waitress appeared. We figured that A) either the restaurant had really bad service, or B) you had to pay at the register. Not really knowing how to proceed from here, we decided that observing another table before exiting our own would be the wisest decisions. We each picked a nearby table and creepily watched them eat their meals with the hopes that someone would soon finish and we could glean the information we needed regarding how to go about paying for our meals. As the table next to us finished eating, I made some guttural noises to get Becca's attention and made purposeful eye contact with her, before darting my eyes to the table next to us, and then back to her again. She caught my drift. We then knew what we had to do: pay at the register. Now, I know what you're thinking. Why couldn't one of us just go and ask a waitress while the other manned the table? Psh, silly you. That's much too simple and not nearly as covert. After paying for our dinners, we bid Pho Vietnam adieu, and went on our merry way, sloshing happily back to the car full of Pho and stories. 

Now guys, I have to tell you, despite our shaky start, this evening, in my opinion turned out to be a rousing success. The pho was indeed delicious, and we have since been back a second time because we simply couldn't stay away (although Becca did decide to opt for vegetarian the second time around as the beef was also questionable-told you). The frozen yogurt afterwards didn't hurt either...yes, we are THAT white. 

Thanks for joining me for this week's adventure, and I hope you will check out the next installment in the series: Indian food.

~Felicia

Hello People of the Internet

Why hello there! I assume you have either stumbled onto this page completely by accident, or because I begged you to check it out, but before you click off, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Felicia, and this is a blog dedicated to the strange things that happen in my life "When Boredom Meets Curiosity." For me, being bored is a dangerous thing, and it happens just about every weekend. Before you go judging me, let me to elaborate on what I mean by the word "bored."

Bored: (adj.) 1. A feeling of disinterest in just about everything around you. 2. Wanting to do things like watch TV or waste away the day on the internet, but being discouraged from doing so by an internal voice telling you to be productive. 3. Having nothing "productive" to do besides things you earnestly do not want to do (like cleaning and homework). 4. Easily resolved by getting out of the house, but as this would involve showering, getting dressed, putting on makeup, and, oh, actually leaving the house, this is not of interest to you. 5. After establishing that A.) You do not wish to do anything productive, and B.) Your conscience is hindering you from doing anything that is NOT productive, you sit and stare into space for the remainder of the day, thinking about what you could potentially do, until it is time for bed.

This is pretty much how I spend my weekends...Sad, I know, but hey, I'll take it while I still can. Working off of this definition, I find it hard to come up with things to do that are not exactly productive, yet still make me FEEL as though I'm being productive, like, say, oh, I don't know, starting a blog maybe? That, my friends (and random people of the internet) is how we all find ourselves here, today, right now.

Now that I have established the origins of this blog (although I think the blog title is pretty self-explanatory), Let me clue you in on what you can expect out of me in the not-so-distant future. For the most part, I just want to share with you random stories and events from my life with the hopes of 1) informing you a little bit about myself and the things that I find fun and interesting, 2) Improving my writing/storytelling abilities, and 3) making you laugh a little, because everyone needs a light-hearted distraction from the hassles of everyday life now and again.

All of this being said, I hope that you will read and enjoy my completely random, sometimes ranting tales of family, friends, food (mostly food), and adventure (think small-scale) soon to come on my new blog, "When Boredom Meets Curiosity."

~Felicia