We've all had things happen in the kitchen - those DOH! experiences that leave us helpless with frustrated rage and a gawdawful mess to clean up. I thought it was very brave of Julie Powell in her_Julie/Julia Project_ to admit that she had allowed her kitchen to get so filthy that she was breeding houseflies under her dish drainer. These are usually things that you tell no one about, and try to forget they ever happened.
Sometimes, though, disasters can be rescued, and transformed into something completely different and actually edible. I had one of the latter today, although goodness knows I've had plenty of the former--like the time the waxed carton of chicken stock leaked all over the inside of my pantry and spoiled. Pyew. Or the time I didn't read the Dionne Lucas recipe for boneless leg of lamb stuffed with sausage critically enough, and ended up with company at the table, and medium rare lamb with uncooked pork sausage in the center. Or the time a juice glass slipped down into the garbage disposal, or the glass carafe of olive oil smashed all over the floor...
This time, though, I had bought some pretty-looking, small blush-tinged local apricots at Wegman's that turned out to be some new form of vegetable-based flannel. My favorite solution for fruit that isn't fit to eat raw is to make compote, since cooking fruit with sugar often transforms it into something quite a bit tastier. I pitted and cut up the apricots, added sugar, peach liqueur, some brandy, a little water and some orange peel, covered the pot and put it on a low flame. Then I went off to do something else in the back of the house...and completely forgot about the compote. By the time I smelled it and remembered what I had left on the stove, the liquid had all evaporated and the sugar had caramelized and started to burn. Instead of bright orange apricots, I had dark brown sludge. But, miracle of miracles, it didn't taste totally bitter or scorched. I added some more peach liqueur and a bit of water. And started to think about what I could do with caramelized apricot sludge. I ended up making flan--poured the apricot caramel on the bottom of a casserole and a custard mix (eggs, sweetened condensed milk, milk, creme fraiche, vanilla and orange zest) on top. I baked it in a water bath at 300 for 40 minutes and at 325 for another ten when it hadn't set. And it not only was edible, it was actually delicious. The custard was light and silky-- the mild, vanilla custard and intense dark caramelized fruit were a chiaroscuro of flavors. Wow. The apricot compote I originally had in mind was going to go on some vanilla ice cream, maybe. What I ended up doing was risky, a lot of work and valuable ingredients that would have been wasted if it hadn't worked out--nothing I would ever have thought to do if I hadn't had a barely averted disaster to contend with. And it worked. Whew. I did have to work on the All-Clad pot with some Bartender's Friend to get the burndy stuff off the bottom, though.
Okay, all you kitchenistas out there. Your turn--fess up!
Full Version: Kitchen Disasters, Goofs And Flubs
Coincidental post. I picked up the following book at the library tonight:
“Don’t Try This At Home, Culinary Catastrophes from the World’s Greatest Chefs”
Edited by Kimberly Witherspoon and Andrew Friedman
Haven’t started reading yet, but will report back on how interesting/entertaining/educational it is…
“Don’t Try This At Home, Culinary Catastrophes from the World’s Greatest Chefs”
Edited by Kimberly Witherspoon and Andrew Friedman
Haven’t started reading yet, but will report back on how interesting/entertaining/educational it is…
Home-made soda can be a race between consumption and undesired fermentation. I'm not exactly a stranger to the process, but the fact is that even good sanitary procedure is unlikely to wholly eliminate wild yeasts from finding your soda. Leave it long enough at room temperature, and it will ferment. This is why you sure as heck don't want to put your soda into glass bottles. I happen to use steel soda kegs for my soda, and they can hold a LOT of pressure.
I'd left a partially consumed keg of ginger ale in the basement, unrefrigerated, for a month or so. I knew that it had almost certainly fermented. It was time to get rid of the spoiled soda. The pressure in the keg prevented me from just opening the top. I hauled the keg to my kitchen and next to the sliding glass patio door. I opened the door, but instead of taking the darned thing outside, I attached a tap hose inside, intending to spray the soda out onto the patio.
This was a mistake. The pressure snaked the tap out of my hand and began spraying ginger ale around the kitchen. It hit the ceiling. I managed to toss it outside pretty quickly, but the ginger ale stains on the ceiling proved impervious to any cleaning attempts.
That's not why we sold the house, but I do wonder if the new owners found brown spots seeping through the fresh coat of ceiling paint.
Oh, and yeah, when I make soda now, I make certain to hunt down one of the keg tops that has a pressure-relief valve.
I'd left a partially consumed keg of ginger ale in the basement, unrefrigerated, for a month or so. I knew that it had almost certainly fermented. It was time to get rid of the spoiled soda. The pressure in the keg prevented me from just opening the top. I hauled the keg to my kitchen and next to the sliding glass patio door. I opened the door, but instead of taking the darned thing outside, I attached a tap hose inside, intending to spray the soda out onto the patio.
This was a mistake. The pressure snaked the tap out of my hand and began spraying ginger ale around the kitchen. It hit the ceiling. I managed to toss it outside pretty quickly, but the ginger ale stains on the ceiling proved impervious to any cleaning attempts.
That's not why we sold the house, but I do wonder if the new owners found brown spots seeping through the fresh coat of ceiling paint.
Oh, and yeah, when I make soda now, I make certain to hunt down one of the keg tops that has a pressure-relief valve.
Zora -
Your story reminds me of the one and only time - a couple of years ago - that I tried to make peach jam. Instead, I ended up with one burnt All Clad pot and twelve jars of "smokey" peach chutney.
Your story reminds me of the one and only time - a couple of years ago - that I tried to make peach jam. Instead, I ended up with one burnt All Clad pot and twelve jars of "smokey" peach chutney.
A dozen wooden kitchen matches knocked into a beautiful pork roast.
When served ( not noticing the matches until the table) the matches were
motoring around the sauce like little boats.
When served ( not noticing the matches until the table) the matches were
motoring around the sauce like little boats.
QUOTE (zoramargolis @ Aug 7 2006, 10:40 PM) 
or the glass carafe of olive oil smashed all over the floor...
Just did that last week 
I once was very excited about the prospect of making Cuban sandwiches for my +1 and me from some leftover Cuban Spiced Pork Tenderloin. Well, me being ol' butterfingers [see above] dropped the jar containing one of the key ingredients - dill pickle chips
. I couldn't bear to make the sandwiches without the pickles, so...I salvaged them as best I could and when asked by the +1 "these aren't from the jar that broke, are they??" Well, I wasn't totally honest, but my little ruse only lasted until the first crunchy bite... (how embarassing - I can't believe I just admitted this
)
We were visiting relatives in Vermont earlier this summer. They were in a rented cottage with a rudimentary kitchen. I volunteered to make dinner, and decided to make my never-fail flourless chocolate cake for dessert. I bought butter, good dark chocolate, cocoa and eggs at the co-op, made the recipe that I know by heart and popped it in the oven. What hadn't occured to me, was that the oven temperature gauge might not be an accurate reflection of the actual temperature inside the oven. So I didn't check the progress early enough. The baking time that would yield a perfectly moist fudgy cake in my home oven turned out a 10" circle of compacted chocolate dust. We crumbled some and mixed it into some vanilla ice cream and threw the rest away. 
I decided to make a chicken following a recipe from a roasting cookbook. It called for roasting at 500 degrees.
About 10 minutes into the cooking, the grease was flying off the bird, splatting all over the oven. The thing was smoking like crazy and when I opened the oven door to check on it, the house filled with smoke.
Then we had to run around waving towels under all of our smoke detectors all the while trying to dodge our freaking out dogs.
Lastly, we opened our windows , doors and garage to air the place out.
In January.
About 10 minutes into the cooking, the grease was flying off the bird, splatting all over the oven. The thing was smoking like crazy and when I opened the oven door to check on it, the house filled with smoke.
Then we had to run around waving towels under all of our smoke detectors all the while trying to dodge our freaking out dogs.
Lastly, we opened our windows , doors and garage to air the place out.
In January.
I always have some complete cooking disaster during the holidays. The latest was the terrible overcooked Christmas pork rib roast. Looked gorgeous, tasted disgusting. It's tempting to just bag it and go to a relative's house, but most of my family can't cook, or worse, is always trying "low fat" holiday recipes from magazines.
Our worst food accident was the Thanksgiving that my stepmother brought her "fancy" mashed potatoes. Scott slipped on the way into the dining room. We had mashed potatoes and broken china everywhere, even the ceiling.
Our worst food accident was the Thanksgiving that my stepmother brought her "fancy" mashed potatoes. Scott slipped on the way into the dining room. We had mashed potatoes and broken china everywhere, even the ceiling.
QUOTE (Heather @ Aug 8 2006, 07:06 PM)
I always have some complete cooking disaster during the holidays. The latest was the terrible overcooked Christmas pork rib roast. Looked gorgeous, tasted disgusting. It's tempting to just bag it and go to a relative's house, but most of my family can't cook, or worse, is always trying "low fat" holiday recipes from magazines.
Our worst food accident was the Thanksgiving that my stepmother brought her "fancy" mashed potatoes. Scott slipped on the way into the dining room. We had mashed potatoes and broken china everywhere, even the ceiling.
Our worst food accident was the Thanksgiving that my stepmother brought her "fancy" mashed potatoes. Scott slipped on the way into the dining room. We had mashed potatoes and broken china everywhere, even the ceiling.
Reminds me of one Passover when my parents were visiting DC from NYC-I was preparing the traditional potato latkes by grating raw potatoes by hand (the only method then permitted by Jewish Law) on a coffee table in front of the TV when my cat spooked me and the gallon of raw potatoes went flying all over the carpet in a rainbow spew right in front of my parents. It left a huge brown stain on the beige carpet about seven feet long, and to this day, my mother still thinks I was a nudnick on drugs.
3 June 2006, 10:30 p.m.
Finish hour-long simmering of bacon/onion mixture needed to make Lithuanian Bacon Buns for Spring DR.com Picnic. Dough complete through 1st rise and awaiting portioning and stuffing with bacon/onion mixture. Scrape bacon/onion mixture into food processor to "finely chop" as directed by recipe. Whir-whir-whir. Scrape finely-chopped bacon/onion mixture into mixing bowl. Taste for salt. Add more salt, pick up wooden spoon to stir in salt and notice 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon is missing. Pray to higher power that 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon came off while scraping finely-chopped bacon/onion mixture out of food processor bowl. Look in processor bowl. Empty. Wash hands. Feel around in finely-ground bacon/onion mixture for 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon. Feel nothing but finely-chopped mixture. Closely examine finely-chopped mixture. Look at ready and waiting, perfectly-risen dough. Oh-so-briefly consider nutritional and health aspects of consuming finely-chopped 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon. Sigh deeply. Toss finely-chopped bacon/onion/wooden spoon mixture into garbage. Put dough into refrigerator. Sigh deeply. Go to bed.
Finish hour-long simmering of bacon/onion mixture needed to make Lithuanian Bacon Buns for Spring DR.com Picnic. Dough complete through 1st rise and awaiting portioning and stuffing with bacon/onion mixture. Scrape bacon/onion mixture into food processor to "finely chop" as directed by recipe. Whir-whir-whir. Scrape finely-chopped bacon/onion mixture into mixing bowl. Taste for salt. Add more salt, pick up wooden spoon to stir in salt and notice 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon is missing. Pray to higher power that 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon came off while scraping finely-chopped bacon/onion mixture out of food processor bowl. Look in processor bowl. Empty. Wash hands. Feel around in finely-ground bacon/onion mixture for 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon. Feel nothing but finely-chopped mixture. Closely examine finely-chopped mixture. Look at ready and waiting, perfectly-risen dough. Oh-so-briefly consider nutritional and health aspects of consuming finely-chopped 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon. Sigh deeply. Toss finely-chopped bacon/onion/wooden spoon mixture into garbage. Put dough into refrigerator. Sigh deeply. Go to bed.
QUOTE (mktye @ Aug 8 2006, 10:30 PM)
3 June 2006, 10:30 p.m.
Finish hour-long simmering of bacon/onion mixture needed to make Lithuanian Bacon Buns for Spring DR.com Picnic. Dough complete through 1st rise and awaiting portioning and stuffing with bacon/onion mixture. Scrape bacon/onion mixture into food processor to "finely chop" as directed by recipe. Whir-whir-whir. Scrape finely-chopped bacon/onion mixture into mixing bowl. Taste for salt. Add more salt, pick up wooden spoon to stir in salt and notice 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon is missing. Pray to higher power that 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon came off while scraping finely-chopped bacon/onion mixture out of food processor bowl. Look in processor bowl. Empty. Wash hands. Feel around in finely-ground bacon/onion mixture for 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon. Feel nothing but finely-chopped mixture. Closely examine finely-chopped mixture. Look at ready and waiting, perfectly-risen dough. Oh-so-briefly consider nutritional and health aspects of consuming finely-chopped 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon. Sigh deeply. Toss finely-chopped bacon/onion/wooden spoon mixture into garbage. Put dough into refrigerator. Sigh deeply. Go to bed.
This reminds me of the time I made tiramisu for a gathering of not-too-friendly family members. I had let my nails grow out a little too long . . . at some point I noticed that I was missing most of the top of a fingernail. No idea when or where. Sliced and plated the tiramisu. Then I chomped down on something crunchy which was *AHEM* out of place, so to speak. You guessed it: my fingernail. Can you IMAGINE how relieved I was that I got the prize? I break out in a cold sweat every time I think of this and how very badly this could have gone.
Finish hour-long simmering of bacon/onion mixture needed to make Lithuanian Bacon Buns for Spring DR.com Picnic. Dough complete through 1st rise and awaiting portioning and stuffing with bacon/onion mixture. Scrape bacon/onion mixture into food processor to "finely chop" as directed by recipe. Whir-whir-whir. Scrape finely-chopped bacon/onion mixture into mixing bowl. Taste for salt. Add more salt, pick up wooden spoon to stir in salt and notice 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon is missing. Pray to higher power that 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon came off while scraping finely-chopped bacon/onion mixture out of food processor bowl. Look in processor bowl. Empty. Wash hands. Feel around in finely-ground bacon/onion mixture for 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon. Feel nothing but finely-chopped mixture. Closely examine finely-chopped mixture. Look at ready and waiting, perfectly-risen dough. Oh-so-briefly consider nutritional and health aspects of consuming finely-chopped 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon. Sigh deeply. Toss finely-chopped bacon/onion/wooden spoon mixture into garbage. Put dough into refrigerator. Sigh deeply. Go to bed.
QUOTE (monavano @ Aug 8 2006, 07:01 PM)
The thing was smoking like crazy and when I opened the oven door to check on it, the house filled with smoke.
Then we had to run around waving towels under all of our smoke detectors all the while trying to dodge our freaking out dogs.
Lastly, we opened our windows , doors and garage to air the place out.
In January.
I've done this with sausages. The Akita dog was terribly confused by the open windows (though I think he liked the blast of cold air in the house) and the low-hanging ceiling of smoke.Then we had to run around waving towels under all of our smoke detectors all the while trying to dodge our freaking out dogs.
Lastly, we opened our windows , doors and garage to air the place out.
In January.
My favorite disaster story involves my first attempt to make Italian meringue. I realized after a goodly amount of time that my sugar syrup had gone beyond where it needed to be, and went to toss it down the drain and start over when I was seized with the thought that somehow, dumping hot sugar syrup down the drain was a bad idea. So I ran cold water over the stream of syrup, solidifying it into a lovely candy wave rising from the saucepan.
QUOTE (mktye @ Aug 8 2006, 10:30 PM)
3 June 2006, 10:30 p.m.
Finish hour-long simmering of bacon/onion mixture needed to make Lithuanian Bacon Buns for Spring DR.com Picnic. Dough complete through 1st rise and awaiting portioning and stuffing with bacon/onion mixture. Scrape bacon/onion mixture into food processor to "finely chop" as directed by recipe. Whir-whir-whir. Scrape finely-chopped bacon/onion mixture into mixing bowl. Taste for salt. Add more salt, pick up wooden spoon to stir in salt and notice 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon is missing. Pray to higher power that 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon came off while scraping finely-chopped bacon/onion mixture out of food processor bowl. Look in processor bowl. Empty. Wash hands. Feel around in finely-ground bacon/onion mixture for 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon. Feel nothing but finely-chopped mixture. Closely examine finely-chopped mixture. Look at ready and waiting, perfectly-risen dough. Oh-so-briefly consider nutritional and health aspects of consuming finely-chopped 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon. Sigh deeply. Toss finely-chopped bacon/onion/wooden spoon mixture into garbage. Put dough into refrigerator. Sigh deeply. Go to bed.
Finish hour-long simmering of bacon/onion mixture needed to make Lithuanian Bacon Buns for Spring DR.com Picnic. Dough complete through 1st rise and awaiting portioning and stuffing with bacon/onion mixture. Scrape bacon/onion mixture into food processor to "finely chop" as directed by recipe. Whir-whir-whir. Scrape finely-chopped bacon/onion mixture into mixing bowl. Taste for salt. Add more salt, pick up wooden spoon to stir in salt and notice 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon is missing. Pray to higher power that 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon came off while scraping finely-chopped bacon/onion mixture out of food processor bowl. Look in processor bowl. Empty. Wash hands. Feel around in finely-ground bacon/onion mixture for 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon. Feel nothing but finely-chopped mixture. Closely examine finely-chopped mixture. Look at ready and waiting, perfectly-risen dough. Oh-so-briefly consider nutritional and health aspects of consuming finely-chopped 1/3" x 1/2" chunk from tip of wooden spoon. Sigh deeply. Toss finely-chopped bacon/onion/wooden spoon mixture into garbage. Put dough into refrigerator. Sigh deeply. Go to bed.
Too bad you threw it away! What do you think they use in "low carb-high fiber" bread to give it substance without carbs? Cellulose. That's a high-falutin' word for sawdust. I've eaten many a finely ground wooden spoon tip, especially in the blender years before the wide availability of food processors, when you'd have to scrape down thick mixtures in the blender jar while the motor was spinning.
I was making a roast from the Sheila Lukens Good Times cookbook and explaining to my husband how one adds brandy to the dish on the stove-top and ignites it to get a great tasting crust on the roast, and a nice sauce. What I did not anticipate was that the cooking process had led to some unseen grease spatters on my clothing and when I ignited the brandy, flames quickly rolled off the roast, followed the spatters across the stove and up my 8-month pregnant belly, finally ending with my singed eyebrows and hair. Fortunately I was not hurt, but stunned speechless is putting our reaction mildly.
My 2 all time classics as detailed in the similar eG thread
1)Making cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving. Simmer cranberries on stove. Transfer to blender. Put hand over top. As cranberries explode through the top burning hand and face, they also made a nice splatter pattern on white kitchen walls and ceiling. Duck head and manage to turn off blender before all is whirled out.
2)Monkfish wrapped in prosciutto. Brown on stove and place in oven. Use towel to remove from oven and place on stove. Turn around to do something else and put down towel. Turn to move pan without picking up towel again. Eat dinner with hand in jug of cool water and go to emergency room to treat second degree burns. Come to understand why Percoset is so effing addictive. Ask me some time about the amusing conversation I had with Kaiser before I went to the emergency room.
1)Making cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving. Simmer cranberries on stove. Transfer to blender. Put hand over top. As cranberries explode through the top burning hand and face, they also made a nice splatter pattern on white kitchen walls and ceiling. Duck head and manage to turn off blender before all is whirled out.
2)Monkfish wrapped in prosciutto. Brown on stove and place in oven. Use towel to remove from oven and place on stove. Turn around to do something else and put down towel. Turn to move pan without picking up towel again. Eat dinner with hand in jug of cool water and go to emergency room to treat second degree burns. Come to understand why Percoset is so effing addictive. Ask me some time about the amusing conversation I had with Kaiser before I went to the emergency room.
QUOTE (Miami Danny @ Aug 8 2006, 10:25 PM)
I was preparing the traditional potato latkes by grating raw potatoes by hand (the only method then permitted by Jewish Law)
I was courius about this. Is this a passover rule?
Before realizing I needed to master the whole cornmeal/paddle thing to get pizza dough onto the grill, we would place the dough on one of those flimsy plastic cutting boards and rapidly (and often spastically) flip the whole thing, hoping the dough round would transfer to the grill in a somewhat round shape.
Four people for dinner, four 8-inch rounds of dough, and because they stuck to the board, two ended up crumpled into the corner of the grill as we tried in vain to stretch them back out as they similtaneously cooked and puffed. The funny (ok disgusting) part came when someone commented that the crumpled dough looked like a face - peeled off by Hannibal Lechter. Mmmm. Face pie.
We ate the dough anyway - made a nice bread for dipping in oil.
Four people for dinner, four 8-inch rounds of dough, and because they stuck to the board, two ended up crumpled into the corner of the grill as we tried in vain to stretch them back out as they similtaneously cooked and puffed. The funny (ok disgusting) part came when someone commented that the crumpled dough looked like a face - peeled off by Hannibal Lechter. Mmmm. Face pie.
We ate the dough anyway - made a nice bread for dipping in oil.
As the family story goes, a great aunt was making the beef broth for the traditional Christmas Eve dinner, capelletti en brodo. She put a strainer in the sink, then poured the contents of the stock pot into it. What she didn't do was put a bowl under the strainer!
QUOTE (porcupine @ Aug 9 2006, 03:30 PM)
As the family story goes, a great aunt was making the beef broth for the traditional Christmas Eve dinner, capelletti en brodo. She put a strainer in the sink, then poured the contents of the stock pot into it. What she didn't do was put a bowl under the strainer!
Knowing all of the time, effort and ingredients involved in making meat broth/stock, this one resonated. I had a large stockpot full of veal stock bubbling away. I turned it off and set the glass lid on the pot with a bit too much energy, and the glass lid shattered into the pot.
QUOTE (zoramargolis @ Aug 9 2006, 12:02 PM)
Too bad you threw it away! What do you think they use in "low carb-high fiber" bread to give it substance without carbs? Cellulose. That's a high-falutin' word for sawdust. I've eaten many a finely ground wooden spoon tip, especially in the blender years before the wide availability of food processors, when you'd have to scrape down thick mixtures in the blender jar while the motor was spinning.
I have no problems with a little extra fiber in my diet, but I could not shake the visual of a DR.com member taking a bite of a bun and then start hacking like a cat with a hairball.While growing up, I must have consumed at least one spatula worth of rubber from my mother's blendering.
QUOTE (porcupine @ Aug 9 2006, 03:30 PM)
As the family story goes, a great aunt was making the beef broth for the traditional Christmas Eve dinner, capelletti en brodo. She put a strainer in the sink, then poured the contents of the stock pot into it. What she didn't do was put a bowl under the strainer!
I have done this. But only once. 
QUOTE (mktye @ Aug 9 2006, 04:32 PM)
I have done this. But only once.
Luckily I have not, but probably because the story made such an impression on me.
I have, however, thrown out entire cake layers because they didn't meet my quality standards. It's just sickening to remove a cake from the pan and find dozens of deep channels in the bottom.
Oh, here's another one: one day Mom had made a big pot of tomato sauce and was making noodles to go with it (she was great with pasta). Nibbling on a few while they were still fresh and moist, I commented on the lemony flavor.
Seems she had left some dishwashing detergent on the noodle board [Mom had a ginormous wooden cutting board that was used for pasta and pasta only]. The whole batch -probably a dozen eggs' worth - went into the trash. [When making pasta, her only measure was the eggs, as in "how many noodles did you make, Ma?" "I made a dozen eggs' worth."]
The following stories are 100% true. I would like to state for the record that I was a newbie cook for the first two stories and an absent-minded cook for the third one. I am posting this with the full understanding that any credibility that I may have had (or imagined that I had) on this board will be lost and can never be recovered.
Shortly after college my roommates and I were hosting a New Year’s Eve party. I made my “trusty” baked ziti (boil ziti, add sauce, add cheese, bake), but wanted to make something else. I saw a recipe for black bean dip that sounded interesting. The recipe called for 2 cloves of garlic. However, given my limited kitchen skills, I did not know that:
A. 1 clove of garlic is not the same as 1 head of garlic.
B. Taking off the outer paper from the head of garlic is not the same as pealing the garlic.
I put all of the ingredients into the “Rocket Chef” (yes, I was the one person that bought that contraption) and gave it a whirl. The end result (which I served, but never actually tasted) was a chunky unpeeled garlic dip with black beans. Not surprisingly, it was not exactly the hit of the party.
Around the same general time as the black bean dip disaster above, I decided to make a pineapple fritter-type dessert. This was my first experience deep-frying anything. I bought a bunch of vegetable oil, heated it to the correct temperature, prepared the pineapple per the recipe, dropped them into the oil, retrieved them, and drained them. Everything was going well up to this point. I wanted to clean up the kitchen fairly quickly; however, the oil was too hot to handle. I figured that I could drop some ice cubes into the oil to cool it down. BIG MISTAKE! Next thing I know, it is like the 4th of July in the kitchen. Oil is shooting out of the pot all over the kitchen. I grab the lid, shield my face with a towel, bravely make my way over to the pot, and slam the lid onto it. 8 years later, I can still see the oil stains in the kitchen when I visit my friends who still live there.
I was fairly disaster-free for several years until about 6 months ago (although Paula may feel differently), when I decided to make BBQ sauce. All the ingredients were simmering away in the pot when I went to watch TV. I forgot to set the timer, and 2 hours later I go back into the kitchen to discover a cloud of smoke and a ruined pot filled with BBQ cement.
I will now go sit in the corner and suck my thumb.
Shortly after college my roommates and I were hosting a New Year’s Eve party. I made my “trusty” baked ziti (boil ziti, add sauce, add cheese, bake), but wanted to make something else. I saw a recipe for black bean dip that sounded interesting. The recipe called for 2 cloves of garlic. However, given my limited kitchen skills, I did not know that:
A. 1 clove of garlic is not the same as 1 head of garlic.
B. Taking off the outer paper from the head of garlic is not the same as pealing the garlic.
I put all of the ingredients into the “Rocket Chef” (yes, I was the one person that bought that contraption) and gave it a whirl. The end result (which I served, but never actually tasted) was a chunky unpeeled garlic dip with black beans. Not surprisingly, it was not exactly the hit of the party.
Around the same general time as the black bean dip disaster above, I decided to make a pineapple fritter-type dessert. This was my first experience deep-frying anything. I bought a bunch of vegetable oil, heated it to the correct temperature, prepared the pineapple per the recipe, dropped them into the oil, retrieved them, and drained them. Everything was going well up to this point. I wanted to clean up the kitchen fairly quickly; however, the oil was too hot to handle. I figured that I could drop some ice cubes into the oil to cool it down. BIG MISTAKE! Next thing I know, it is like the 4th of July in the kitchen. Oil is shooting out of the pot all over the kitchen. I grab the lid, shield my face with a towel, bravely make my way over to the pot, and slam the lid onto it. 8 years later, I can still see the oil stains in the kitchen when I visit my friends who still live there.
I was fairly disaster-free for several years until about 6 months ago (although Paula may feel differently), when I decided to make BBQ sauce. All the ingredients were simmering away in the pot when I went to watch TV. I forgot to set the timer, and 2 hours later I go back into the kitchen to discover a cloud of smoke and a ruined pot filled with BBQ cement.
I will now go sit in the corner and suck my thumb.
My mother is an absolutely incredible cook. So it's amazing that she only has a couple of kitchen tragedy stories after so many years of cooking. But, to her misfortune, the two stories she does have are so funny I tell them over and over.
1. Mom makes black walnut cake. Recipe calls for cup of apple schnapps. Mom reaches for liquor bottle of what she mistakenly believes is apple schnapps... and ruins the batter by mixing in a full cup of Everclear. (Dad's fault, really.)
2. Mom makes huge double batch of Barefoot Contessa brownies, which I believe includes more than a pound of melted chocolate. Brownie batter is smoothed out into pan left on counter. Wineglass is sitting next to brownie pan. Mom reaches for cookbook in cupboard... book slips, hits, shatters wineglass. Mom doesn't think glass fell in brownie batter, but isn't sure. Goes ahead and bakes brownies. Goes to bed. Tosses. Turns. Gets up in the morning and asks Dad to pitch entire double-batch pan of brownies into trash, because she doesn't have the heart.
1. Mom makes black walnut cake. Recipe calls for cup of apple schnapps. Mom reaches for liquor bottle of what she mistakenly believes is apple schnapps... and ruins the batter by mixing in a full cup of Everclear. (Dad's fault, really.)
2. Mom makes huge double batch of Barefoot Contessa brownies, which I believe includes more than a pound of melted chocolate. Brownie batter is smoothed out into pan left on counter. Wineglass is sitting next to brownie pan. Mom reaches for cookbook in cupboard... book slips, hits, shatters wineglass. Mom doesn't think glass fell in brownie batter, but isn't sure. Goes ahead and bakes brownies. Goes to bed. Tosses. Turns. Gets up in the morning and asks Dad to pitch entire double-batch pan of brownies into trash, because she doesn't have the heart.
I can't tell you how many times I've left the lid off the popcorn pot! No idea why. Usually I notice when I hear the popcorn shooting out all over the kitchen, but not always!
Then there was the time I started a batch of simple syrup, when one son said he needed a ride someplace not too far away, so I thought it was safe to leave for a few minutes, then realized I was almost out of gas on the way home.
Luckily for me DH came home before it burst into flames, but it was deeply charred and the pot completely ruined.
I am just forgetful! And dangerous!
Then there was the time I started a batch of simple syrup, when one son said he needed a ride someplace not too far away, so I thought it was safe to leave for a few minutes, then realized I was almost out of gas on the way home.
Luckily for me DH came home before it burst into flames, but it was deeply charred and the pot completely ruined.
I am just forgetful! And dangerous!
QUOTE (porcupine @ Aug 9 2006, 04:44 PM)
I have, however, thrown out entire cake layers because they didn't meet my quality standards. It's just sickening to remove a cake from the pan and find dozens of deep channels in the bottom.
One word: trifle. 
Jet-lagged and feeling silly after 3 hours of sleep and dropping Nora at camp in S. Md on Sunday we picked up 18 jumbo jimmies by the side of the road near her camp ($35 and to be honest half were jumbo and half were regular but all were fiesty) and made our way back to Washington.
I was half-heartedly attempting to do some catch up work when I heard the "whoa shit" from the kitchen followed by the science-fiction like clatter of many little crab appendages tap-dancing on my kitchen floor. The paper bag failed and the guys were making a break for it. I was pleased to be on the side of the kitchen with the BBQ size tongs and that the kittens decided to sleep through this part of the fun at the Mrs. B/Waitman household. I'm sorry that I was barefoot and couldn't reach my camera to record the ensuing hilarity. I kind of felt a pang of remorse crab picking the next day. Dang fine {fried} crab-cakes. Sweet, sweet meat. I don't think we saved any money this way but the flavor and the home-made satisfaction (with or without the crab grab) made it worthwhile. Let me know if you want us to pick up some next week-end to let loose in your kitchen.
I was half-heartedly attempting to do some catch up work when I heard the "whoa shit" from the kitchen followed by the science-fiction like clatter of many little crab appendages tap-dancing on my kitchen floor. The paper bag failed and the guys were making a break for it. I was pleased to be on the side of the kitchen with the BBQ size tongs and that the kittens decided to sleep through this part of the fun at the Mrs. B/Waitman household. I'm sorry that I was barefoot and couldn't reach my camera to record the ensuing hilarity. I kind of felt a pang of remorse crab picking the next day. Dang fine {fried} crab-cakes. Sweet, sweet meat. I don't think we saved any money this way but the flavor and the home-made satisfaction (with or without the crab grab) made it worthwhile. Let me know if you want us to pick up some next week-end to let loose in your kitchen.
B)-->
QUOTE(Mrs. B @ Aug 9 2006, 07:34 PM)
Jet-lagged and feeling silly after 3 hours of sleep and dropping Nora at camp in S. Md on Sunday we picked up 18 jumbo jimmies by the side of the road near her camp ($35 and to be honest half were jumbo and half were regular but all were fiesty) and made our way back to Washington.
I was half-heartedly attempting to do some catch up work when I heard the "whoa shit" from the kitchen followed by the science-fiction like clatter of many little crab appendages tap-dancing on my kitchen floor. The paper bag failed and the guys were making a break for it. I was pleased to be on the side of the kitchen with the BBQ size tongs and that the kittens decided to sleep through this part of the fun at the Mrs. B/Waitman household. I'm sorry that I was barefoot and couldn't reach my camera to record the ensuing hilarity. I kind of felt a pang of remorse crab picking the next day. Dang fine {fried} crab-cakes. Sweet, sweet meat. I don't think we saved any money this way but the flavor and the home-made satisfaction (with or without the crab grab) made it worthwhile. Let me know if you want us to pick up some next week-end to let loose in your kitchen. B) [/quote] Didn't this scene happen in a Woody Allen movie, perhaps Annie Hall, only lobsters instead of crabs.
I was half-heartedly attempting to do some catch up work when I heard the "whoa shit" from the kitchen followed by the science-fiction like clatter of many little crab appendages tap-dancing on my kitchen floor. The paper bag failed and the guys were making a break for it. I was pleased to be on the side of the kitchen with the BBQ size tongs and that the kittens decided to sleep through this part of the fun at the Mrs. B/Waitman household. I'm sorry that I was barefoot and couldn't reach my camera to record the ensuing hilarity. I kind of felt a pang of remorse crab picking the next day. Dang fine {fried} crab-cakes. Sweet, sweet meat. I don't think we saved any money this way but the flavor and the home-made satisfaction (with or without the crab grab) made it worthwhile. Let me know if you want us to pick up some next week-end to let loose in your kitchen. B) [/quote] Didn't this scene happen in a Woody Allen movie, perhaps Annie Hall, only lobsters instead of crabs.
Whilst pursuing knowledge and further experimentation with drugs and alcohol, this then sophomore Student at the prestigious State University of New York at Buffalo made a half-baked (parboiled, more appropriately) decision to microwave a whole white1 raw egg of Gallus domesticus in a novelty “I used to be schizophrenic but now we’re better” coffee mug for twelve overzealous minutes.1 (N.b.: Microwaves were contraband in the dormitories, and for good reason, as you might soon conclude.) Sloth, appetite, curiosity, and hasty failed genius conspired to prompt me to use said contraband microwave rather than ascend or descend to the university-approved electric ranges on the floors above and below to cook said egg and satiate said appetite. And it goes without saying that I had heard many an urban legend concerning the dangerous intersection of organic matter and microwaves, e.g.:
* The resourceful elderly woman who dried her unfortunate and soon to be exploded poodle in the microwave;
* the impatient French pastry chef who removed the bothersome, yet protective window and door and essentially nuked his hand, which would later require amputation;
* the hurried bride-to-be who rushed a faux tan at the salon and cooked herself.
* the world-wide accepted axiom that microwaving an egg in its shell will cause it to explode violently.
Heeding the likelihood of the latter, I cleverly punched a small hole at the bottom of the egg—the area between the two shell membranes known as the air cell. Believing that ten whole minutes were generally necessary to fully cook an egg, I allotted an extra two minutes “just to be damn sure.” After the third and final beep signaling the end of the cooking process, ever the eager beaver, I anxiously approached the microwave. With non-union iron foundry caution and a poorly insulated stein oven mitt, I delicately carried, with arms extended, the mug, egg, and scalding-hot water to an adjacent bathroom, navigating through the corner with a single and frightened2, squinted eye. After cooling the egg under running water and assuring myself that the egg “probably” wouldn’t explode, I proceeded to unpeel the shell with Hollywood bomb-squad coolness. Not surprisingly, the egg’s integrity had strengthened spectacularly during those twelve minutes it’d spent in the microwave, to the effect of a oval-shaped racquetball3. I, the culinary daredevil, sprinkled the egg with salt foraged from the bottom of a pretzel bag, greedily opened wide and . . . POUF!! Searing hot4, overcooked yolk5 shot up my sniffer and across my cheeks. The sulfuric explosion was startling. The burning sucked. The incident, totally humiliating. I cursed Jesus, Moses, chickens, nerds, eggs, then cursed some more.
Oh, the shame. The yolk, without hyperbole, was on me, literally. Brushing away the errant yolk, I noticed that a considerable amount of skin was peeling back rapidly from my nostrils, and from where I would have grown a mustache if I’d attended an Ivy League school and been Greek, or gay. Any movement of my mouth or nose caused shocks of excruciating pain to shoot throughout my visage. Only a liberal application of burn ointment and a Third Reich inspired mustache bandage provided any comfort. The prior week’s psychology lesson of Pavlov and his trusty canine made indelible sense upon learning that I could neither smile, eat, nor pronounce certain vowels, because it would painfully compromise the proper scaring of the wound.
Thereupon, I sequestered myself in my dark6 dormitory with my not so congenial Nazi-style ligature for three straight days and read not but sober textbooks, watched little more than drab Canadian programming, and played no more exciting games than low-level Tetris, all on a regimen of blue cheese dressing, sleep, and the inability to shave my awkward reddish mustache for ten awful days and nights serving as a regretful reminder.
EPILOGUE. I eventually graduated with a marginal bachelor’s degree in art history, and haven’t operated a microwave since forgetting to take a Pop-Tart™ out of the foil wrapper during the summer of 1994. I dropped out of culinary school two years later and have since battled hunger and sobriety wherever it’s found (lately in D.C.).
1. It turns out that a mere one and a half minutes is sufficient. A shorter time per egg is advised when cooking several eggs at once. (For a thorough explanation, see the “Dealing with Multiples” chapter of Definitive Microwave Cookery II, by Carol Dodson (a.k.a. America’s #1 microwave expert).)
2. Alektorophobia: the irrational fear of chickens.
3. Chickens will lay larger and stronger eggs if you adjust the lighting in such a way as to make the day seem four hours longer.
4. A chicken’s internal temperature is roughly 107̊ Fahrenheit.
5. The mother hen’s diet most likely consisted of barley or wheat, since the yolk wasn’t as deep yellow as, say, it would’ve been had it eaten lots of alfalfa. (By the way, the greatest number of yolks ever found in one chicken egg is nine.)
6. The waste produced by one chicken in its lifetime can supply enough electricity to power a single 100 watt bulb for five hours! Staggering!!!
* The resourceful elderly woman who dried her unfortunate and soon to be exploded poodle in the microwave;
* the impatient French pastry chef who removed the bothersome, yet protective window and door and essentially nuked his hand, which would later require amputation;
* the hurried bride-to-be who rushed a faux tan at the salon and cooked herself.
* the world-wide accepted axiom that microwaving an egg in its shell will cause it to explode violently.
Heeding the likelihood of the latter, I cleverly punched a small hole at the bottom of the egg—the area between the two shell membranes known as the air cell. Believing that ten whole minutes were generally necessary to fully cook an egg, I allotted an extra two minutes “just to be damn sure.” After the third and final beep signaling the end of the cooking process, ever the eager beaver, I anxiously approached the microwave. With non-union iron foundry caution and a poorly insulated stein oven mitt, I delicately carried, with arms extended, the mug, egg, and scalding-hot water to an adjacent bathroom, navigating through the corner with a single and frightened2, squinted eye. After cooling the egg under running water and assuring myself that the egg “probably” wouldn’t explode, I proceeded to unpeel the shell with Hollywood bomb-squad coolness. Not surprisingly, the egg’s integrity had strengthened spectacularly during those twelve minutes it’d spent in the microwave, to the effect of a oval-shaped racquetball3. I, the culinary daredevil, sprinkled the egg with salt foraged from the bottom of a pretzel bag, greedily opened wide and . . . POUF!! Searing hot4, overcooked yolk5 shot up my sniffer and across my cheeks. The sulfuric explosion was startling. The burning sucked. The incident, totally humiliating. I cursed Jesus, Moses, chickens, nerds, eggs, then cursed some more.
Oh, the shame. The yolk, without hyperbole, was on me, literally. Brushing away the errant yolk, I noticed that a considerable amount of skin was peeling back rapidly from my nostrils, and from where I would have grown a mustache if I’d attended an Ivy League school and been Greek, or gay. Any movement of my mouth or nose caused shocks of excruciating pain to shoot throughout my visage. Only a liberal application of burn ointment and a Third Reich inspired mustache bandage provided any comfort. The prior week’s psychology lesson of Pavlov and his trusty canine made indelible sense upon learning that I could neither smile, eat, nor pronounce certain vowels, because it would painfully compromise the proper scaring of the wound.
Thereupon, I sequestered myself in my dark6 dormitory with my not so congenial Nazi-style ligature for three straight days and read not but sober textbooks, watched little more than drab Canadian programming, and played no more exciting games than low-level Tetris, all on a regimen of blue cheese dressing, sleep, and the inability to shave my awkward reddish mustache for ten awful days and nights serving as a regretful reminder.
EPILOGUE. I eventually graduated with a marginal bachelor’s degree in art history, and haven’t operated a microwave since forgetting to take a Pop-Tart™ out of the foil wrapper during the summer of 1994. I dropped out of culinary school two years later and have since battled hunger and sobriety wherever it’s found (lately in D.C.).
1. It turns out that a mere one and a half minutes is sufficient. A shorter time per egg is advised when cooking several eggs at once. (For a thorough explanation, see the “Dealing with Multiples” chapter of Definitive Microwave Cookery II, by Carol Dodson (a.k.a. America’s #1 microwave expert).)
2. Alektorophobia: the irrational fear of chickens.
3. Chickens will lay larger and stronger eggs if you adjust the lighting in such a way as to make the day seem four hours longer.
4. A chicken’s internal temperature is roughly 107̊ Fahrenheit.
5. The mother hen’s diet most likely consisted of barley or wheat, since the yolk wasn’t as deep yellow as, say, it would’ve been had it eaten lots of alfalfa. (By the way, the greatest number of yolks ever found in one chicken egg is nine.)
6. The waste produced by one chicken in its lifetime can supply enough electricity to power a single 100 watt bulb for five hours! Staggering!!!
We were having some friends join us for dinner on a Saturday & I planned to make creme brulee for dessert. In order to allow time for the custard to chill in the fridge, I decided that the best plan was to bake the custards Friday evening. After a long day of work, dinner, and clean up, I didn't get started on the creme brulee until late in the evening.
Everything was going according to plan -- I cooked the custard, ladeled it into ramekins, preheated the oven to 250 degrees, and prepared the water bath. My wife went to bed early and I said, "I'll just finish up the creme brulee and then I'll hit the sack." Everything went into the oven around 10PM and I set the timer for 50 minutes (or something like that). I then plopped down on the couch to watch TV until the custards were finished baking. The rest of the story is fuzzy...
At some point, I fell asleep on the couch. When I eventually woke up, I clumsily turned off the TV, turned off the lights, and staggered back to bed. The next thing I remember is suddenly waking up at around 7:30 AM, upon hearing the sounds of dishes being washed.
"OH FUCK -- THE CREME BRULEE!!!"
As I cautiously entered the kitchen, my wife had just finished cleaning up the last of the hard, black, custard hockey pucks that I had made... IIRC, no actual words were exchanged at first. Instead, we both just burst into laughter until we could hardly breathe.
I will never live that down.
Everything was going according to plan -- I cooked the custard, ladeled it into ramekins, preheated the oven to 250 degrees, and prepared the water bath. My wife went to bed early and I said, "I'll just finish up the creme brulee and then I'll hit the sack." Everything went into the oven around 10PM and I set the timer for 50 minutes (or something like that). I then plopped down on the couch to watch TV until the custards were finished baking. The rest of the story is fuzzy...
At some point, I fell asleep on the couch. When I eventually woke up, I clumsily turned off the TV, turned off the lights, and staggered back to bed. The next thing I remember is suddenly waking up at around 7:30 AM, upon hearing the sounds of dishes being washed.
"OH FUCK -- THE CREME BRULEE!!!"
As I cautiously entered the kitchen, my wife had just finished cleaning up the last of the hard, black, custard hockey pucks that I had made... IIRC, no actual words were exchanged at first. Instead, we both just burst into laughter until we could hardly breathe.
I will never live that down.
QUOTE (Ilaine @ Aug 9 2006, 06:08 PM)
Luckily for me DH came home before it burst into flames, but it was deeply charred and the pot completely ruined.
I did something similar - put a pan of water on to boil to make tea, then left the house. To go to the opera of all things. Not exactly a quick trip. I came home to (thankfully not a fire) but an AllClad pot that looked like it had burned all sorts of fun shades upon re-entry into the atmosphere.
QUOTE (lizzie @ Aug 9 2006, 01:04 PM)
I was making a roast from the Sheila Lukens Good Times cookbook and explaining to my husband how one adds brandy to the dish on the stove-top and ignites it to get a great tasting crust on the roast, and a nice sauce. What I did not anticipate was that the cooking process had led to some unseen grease spatters on my clothing and when I ignited the brandy, flames quickly rolled off the roast, followed the spatters across the stove and up my 8-month pregnant belly, finally ending with my singed eyebrows and hair. Fortunately I was not hurt, but stunned speechless is putting our reaction mildly.
We tried making stove-top bananas foster in Breckenridge, CO. We don't know if it had something to do with the altitude (11,000 feet does some strange things to cooking) or if we just added way too much rum, but when we struck the match we had flames about 3 feet wide by 5 feet tall licking up the back of the stove and up around the wood cabinets to the ceiling. Thankfully, it died down pretty quickly, but we did all have visions of starting a massive forest fire thanks to all the propane tanks in the neighborhood!
QUOTE
At some point, I fell asleep on the couch. When I eventually woke up, I clumsily turned off the TV, turned off the lights, and staggered back to bed. The next thing I remember is suddenly waking up at around 7:30 AM, upon hearing the sounds of dishes being washed.
"OH FUCK -- THE CREME BRULEE!!!"
"OH FUCK -- THE CREME BRULEE!!!"
Had a similar experience with frozen french fries after an evening at the bar with friends. Woke up the next morning to the lovely smell of oven gas and burnt fries.
Other kitchen disasters from my family include my sister not knowing that you're supposed to remove the frozen pizza from the cardboard disk before placing the pizza in the oven. And my all-time favorite: my mom used to make tuna noodle casserole. One night she starts making the casserole and realizes halfway through that she is out of the cream of mushroom soup she usually adds to it. She decides that tomato soup would be an appropriate substitute. I'm surprised she didn't throw anything when my brother and I pointed out the similarity in smell and taste to vomit. Seriously bad.
My kitchen disasters usually revolve around burning rice. I refuse to buy a rice cooker, but if something will go wrong while cooking, chances are, I've forgotten to take the rice off the hot burner. Though there was one year that I dropped my jug of vegetable oil while baking. Cleaning a couple of cups of veg oil off the kitchen floor and cabinets was a nightmare.
My favorite story involves my roommate a couple of years ago. It was around the holidays and she was making several batches of chocolate, vanilla and peanut butter fudge to give as gifts. It's my aunt's recipe and is damn good fudge. On Day Two of fudge-making, I walk into the kitchen to see my roommate measuring soy sauce into a spoon measure. I yelled for her not to move and got the soy sauce away from the fudge only to find out that several batches had already been made. (The soy sauce bottle was similar in size and color to the vanilla.)
The funny thing is, we tasted the soy fudge and it wasn't bad. A little salty and lacking vanilla flavor, but totally agreeable. We even added a bit of salt to the old fudge recipe as a result!
My favorite story involves my roommate a couple of years ago. It was around the holidays and she was making several batches of chocolate, vanilla and peanut butter fudge to give as gifts. It's my aunt's recipe and is damn good fudge. On Day Two of fudge-making, I walk into the kitchen to see my roommate measuring soy sauce into a spoon measure. I yelled for her not to move and got the soy sauce away from the fudge only to find out that several batches had already been made. (The soy sauce bottle was similar in size and color to the vanilla.)
The funny thing is, we tasted the soy fudge and it wasn't bad. A little salty and lacking vanilla flavor, but totally agreeable. We even added a bit of salt to the old fudge recipe as a result!
QUOTE (DCJono @ Aug 11 2006, 03:49 PM)
My kitchen disasters usually revolve around burning rice. I refuse to buy a rice cooker, but if something will go wrong while cooking, chances are, I've forgotten to take the rice off the hot burner.
Put the pot in the oven around 350F, much less chance of burning it.
Poivrot Farci
Too funny!
I vote that you win the prize. Whatever it is.
Too funny!
I vote that you win the prize. Whatever it is.
So, armed with more confidence than experience after taking a pastry class at L'Academie de Cuisine last fall, I decided to make napoleons for two friends' new year's eve party.
I have an old rule: never make something for another person's party that you can't pull off perfectly. Yes, there's ego at stake. This replaces the old rule of "never serve anything that isn't perfect to your friends", mostly because I have very cool friends who are willing guinea pigs. So yesterday I subjected six particularly tolerant friends to my first attempt at a classic French pastry.
They still like me, or so they say, but the result was... well, let's put it this way: if ever you walk into a pastry shop and find a genuine napoleon (they are hard to find), don't balk at paying a high price for that small slice of pastry perfection. It's about the labor.
First step: make puff pastry. Good thing I started Friday night, because as soon as the nascent dough hit the counter I knew something was wrong, and tried again. The next morning, after two single and two double turns, with appropriate rest periods, the dough was lookin' good.
So I rolled half of it out, docked the living hell out of it as instructed by mesdames Child and Beck, and proceeded to make the pastry cream, using the recipe provided by chef in the class I took, while the puff pastry rested again.
Well. It came out fine when I made it in class, but the noxious substance that formed in the saucepan yesterday looked more like something expelled through the nostrils of a sinus-infected camel. It didn't smell or taste much better. Seriously: it was thick, gluey, greenish, and distinctly eggy, and more like one cup in volume than the expected three cups. What happened?
Dear Mr P turned to Google to look for answers while I measured ingredients for the next attempt. His best guess, based on various discussions on other food boards, was that I whisked it too much and cooked it too long. (But chef said pastry cream can't be overcooked...? It's in my notes.)
The second time I brought it to a boil quickly despite fears of scorching it (damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead and all that - I was on a deadline), and stirred it with a whisk, as opposed to whisking it, for just a few minutes. The result was lovely, smooth, thick, and delicious.
Behind schedule but on a roll, I popped the puff into a very hot oven, covered by another baking sheet, and immediately rolled out the other half of the dough in sugar, for palmiers. Again, following the instructions of the immortal ladies, I took the top sheet off after five minutes, only to find that it had not puffed. At all.
Now granted, I had made quick puff, as opposed to classic, which is the choice when flakiness but little rise is desired. But still - no puff? At all?! Back in the oven it went, where it did puff a bit and finished baking nicely, or so I thought. And I formed and cut the palmiers and let them rest and chill, and this ended up being the only smart decision I made all afternoon.
Despite doubts, I continued while the not-so-puffy puff cooled. Strained and cooked apricot jam with sugar, melted chocolate with coffee, got the tub of fondant out and prepared to heat it with Cointreau (no kirsch in the house) - wait a minute. What's this on the container about kneading and rolling? Uh oh.
I've never worked with fondant before. It's already time to start cooking dinner and I'm still fussing with dessert. What to do? Play with the fondant, knead it, roll it, research it, or just trust Mastering the Art of French Cooking, vol. II (1970) and heat it with liquor as directed?
So while the fondant heated, I cut the not-so-puff pastry, glazed it with apricot, assembled it with the yummy pastry cream, and then tried to spread the fondant on. Oh, how I tried. Let's skip all the sorry details and just say that I need to hone my fondant working skills. I did finally get the stuff on, but it was about four times too thick. It was the best I could do. And it set up so fast that by the time I finished piping the chocolate on, I couldn't drag a knife through to form the classic pattern.
Mr P was an incredibly good sport about the whole thing, because by the time I finally finished, every counter in the kitchen was covered with floury, sugary, sticky pots and pans and baking sheets. With hardly a sigh he cleaned the whole mess up, while I frantically scurried about getting dinner started.
After dinner, I decided to hedge my bets and serve the emergency backup dessert (the palmiers) first. They were wonderful - light, flakey, nicely caramelized but not too dark. I guess that (and several bottles of wine) helped prime my friends, because no one laughed when I brought out this:
Click to view attachment
In the end, it was edible. The pastry was tough, though, which I can't figure out since the palmiers (same dough) were so good. Did I dock it too much? I used too much apricot - not thinned enough, perhaps? And the fondant was almost tooth-breakingly thick, and too uneven to let me pipe straight lines of chocolate.
You know how when you make a dish that isn't pretty, everyone says "oh, that's okay, it'll taste good anyway"? Bull shit. How it looks influences how it tastes, whether we want it to or not, and especially when it comes to pastry, because let's face it, pastry isn't about nutrition, it's about fantasy.
My friends are getting palmiers on new year's eve. And maybe cream puffs, because now I can make real pastry cream, and I happen to have a stash of choux buns in the freezer.
But the napoleons? They'll have to wait.
I have an old rule: never make something for another person's party that you can't pull off perfectly. Yes, there's ego at stake. This replaces the old rule of "never serve anything that isn't perfect to your friends", mostly because I have very cool friends who are willing guinea pigs. So yesterday I subjected six particularly tolerant friends to my first attempt at a classic French pastry.
They still like me, or so they say, but the result was... well, let's put it this way: if ever you walk into a pastry shop and find a genuine napoleon (they are hard to find), don't balk at paying a high price for that small slice of pastry perfection. It's about the labor.
First step: make puff pastry. Good thing I started Friday night, because as soon as the nascent dough hit the counter I knew something was wrong, and tried again. The next morning, after two single and two double turns, with appropriate rest periods, the dough was lookin' good.
So I rolled half of it out, docked the living hell out of it as instructed by mesdames Child and Beck, and proceeded to make the pastry cream, using the recipe provided by chef in the class I took, while the puff pastry rested again.
Well. It came out fine when I made it in class, but the noxious substance that formed in the saucepan yesterday looked more like something expelled through the nostrils of a sinus-infected camel. It didn't smell or taste much better. Seriously: it was thick, gluey, greenish, and distinctly eggy, and more like one cup in volume than the expected three cups. What happened?
Dear Mr P turned to Google to look for answers while I measured ingredients for the next attempt. His best guess, based on various discussions on other food boards, was that I whisked it too much and cooked it too long. (But chef said pastry cream can't be overcooked...? It's in my notes.)
The second time I brought it to a boil quickly despite fears of scorching it (damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead and all that - I was on a deadline), and stirred it with a whisk, as opposed to whisking it, for just a few minutes. The result was lovely, smooth, thick, and delicious.
Behind schedule but on a roll, I popped the puff into a very hot oven, covered by another baking sheet, and immediately rolled out the other half of the dough in sugar, for palmiers. Again, following the instructions of the immortal ladies, I took the top sheet off after five minutes, only to find that it had not puffed. At all.
Now granted, I had made quick puff, as opposed to classic, which is the choice when flakiness but little rise is desired. But still - no puff? At all?! Back in the oven it went, where it did puff a bit and finished baking nicely, or so I thought. And I formed and cut the palmiers and let them rest and chill, and this ended up being the only smart decision I made all afternoon.
Despite doubts, I continued while the not-so-puffy puff cooled. Strained and cooked apricot jam with sugar, melted chocolate with coffee, got the tub of fondant out and prepared to heat it with Cointreau (no kirsch in the house) - wait a minute. What's this on the container about kneading and rolling? Uh oh.
I've never worked with fondant before. It's already time to start cooking dinner and I'm still fussing with dessert. What to do? Play with the fondant, knead it, roll it, research it, or just trust Mastering the Art of French Cooking, vol. II (1970) and heat it with liquor as directed?
So while the fondant heated, I cut the not-so-puff pastry, glazed it with apricot, assembled it with the yummy pastry cream, and then tried to spread the fondant on. Oh, how I tried. Let's skip all the sorry details and just say that I need to hone my fondant working skills. I did finally get the stuff on, but it was about four times too thick. It was the best I could do. And it set up so fast that by the time I finished piping the chocolate on, I couldn't drag a knife through to form the classic pattern.
Mr P was an incredibly good sport about the whole thing, because by the time I finally finished, every counter in the kitchen was covered with floury, sugary, sticky pots and pans and baking sheets. With hardly a sigh he cleaned the whole mess up, while I frantically scurried about getting dinner started.
After dinner, I decided to hedge my bets and serve the emergency backup dessert (the palmiers) first. They were wonderful - light, flakey, nicely caramelized but not too dark. I guess that (and several bottles of wine) helped prime my friends, because no one laughed when I brought out this:
Click to view attachment
In the end, it was edible. The pastry was tough, though, which I can't figure out since the palmiers (same dough) were so good. Did I dock it too much? I used too much apricot - not thinned enough, perhaps? And the fondant was almost tooth-breakingly thick, and too uneven to let me pipe straight lines of chocolate.
You know how when you make a dish that isn't pretty, everyone says "oh, that's okay, it'll taste good anyway"? Bull shit. How it looks influences how it tastes, whether we want it to or not, and especially when it comes to pastry, because let's face it, pastry isn't about nutrition, it's about fantasy.
My friends are getting palmiers on new year's eve. And maybe cream puffs, because now I can make real pastry cream, and I happen to have a stash of choux buns in the freezer.
But the napoleons? They'll have to wait.
QUOTE (porcupine @ Dec 30 2007, 07:15 PM)
My friends are getting palmiers on new year's eve. And maybe cream puffs, because now I can make real pastry cream, and I happen to have a stash of choux buns in the freezer.
What an experience! It brought to mind a gateau St. Honoré that I made from scratch after taking a pastry class--many years ago. An experience I have never repeated--if I want another one of those, I'll buy it from Patisserie Poupon. A circle of puff pastry as the base, lined around the perimeter with a double layer of choux puffs filled with pastry cream, stuck on with caramel, and the center filled with pastry cream, vanilla whipped cream and raspberries.
But in regards to the choux puffs in your freezer--I was at a party in a tony house on Chevy Chase last night, and on the dessert buffet was a tall and very impressive croquembouche, which is pastry cream-filled choux puffs stuck together with caramelized sugar in the shape of a tower. It's a spectacular thing, and would undoubtedly impress the hell out of your friends.
The napoleon looks great! I admire your initiative in making puff pastry. One thought is did they use the same kind of fondant in class that you were using? When you mentioned tub of fondant and rolling and kneading, what came to mind is that you have a tub of rolled fondant (it's like play doh, the kind you roll out and use for cake decorating) as opposed to poured fondant. Description here.
QUOTE (zoramargolis @ Dec 30 2007, 11:19 PM)
But in regards to the choux puffs in your freezer--I was at a party in a tony house on Chevy Chase last night, and on the dessert buffet was a tall and very impressive croquembouche, which is pastry cream-filled choux puffs stuck together with caramelized sugar in the shape of a tower. It's a spectacular thing, and would undoubtedly impress the hell out of your friends.
Right. A napoleon is too much work, so I should try croquembouche?
QUOTE (cheezepowder @ Dec 30 2007, 11:46 PM)
The napoleon looks great! I admire your initiative in making puff pastry. One thought is did they use the same kind of fondant in class that you were using? When you mentioned tub of fondant and rolling and kneading, what came to mind is that you have a tub of rolled fondant (it's like play doh, the kind you roll out and use for cake decorating) as opposed to poured fondant. Description here.
We didn't work with fondant in class. We learned puff pastry and pastry cream on two different nights and used them in things other than napoleons. Thanks for the link - I'm sure you're right. I never knew there were different types. d'oh.
A napoleon is too much work, so I should try croquembouche?
Hells yeah. Choux pastry is dead easy. Waay easier than puff.
(Thanksgiving this year. Making a chicken, rather than a turkey, since we are but 2. Roasting it in pyrex. Pull it out of the oven to turn and baste about half way through. Must've been a spot of cold water on the countertop -- my pyrex pretty much *explodes*, broken glass is everywhere. Happily, the chicken was in some foil and was rescued.)
Hells yeah. Choux pastry is dead easy. Waay easier than puff.
(Thanksgiving this year. Making a chicken, rather than a turkey, since we are but 2. Roasting it in pyrex. Pull it out of the oven to turn and baste about half way through. Must've been a spot of cold water on the countertop -- my pyrex pretty much *explodes*, broken glass is everywhere. Happily, the chicken was in some foil and was rescued.)
QUOTE (Anna Phor @ Dec 31 2007, 02:00 PM)
(Thanksgiving this year. Making a chicken, rather than a turkey, since we are but 2. Roasting it in pyrex. Pull it out of the oven to turn and baste about half way through. Must've been a spot of cold water on the countertop -- my pyrex pretty much *explodes*, broken glass is everywhere. Happily, the chicken was in some foil and was rescued.)
Ouch! We exploded a pecan pie once. My God that was an awful cleanup.
QUOTE (Heather @ Dec 31 2007, 02:01 PM)
Ouch! We exploded a pecan pie once. My God that was an awful cleanup.
When my daughter was an infant, I used to lay on my back on the hardwood floors in the kitchen, put her on my chest and push my body off the walls or cabinets with my feet to slide us across the room (imagine a u-turning swimmer pushing off the walls of the pool). We both thought it was a blast and shared many laughs until...
Dumbass Dad didn't realize one time that he was pushing not off a wall but rather the glass oven door.
It exploded into literally thousands and thousands of tiny pieces of glass. My wife and I did as thorough a cleaning job that one would do knowing their infant would be crawling through that room often, yet we still found teeny, tiny pieces months later! What a nightmare.
QUOTE (shaggy @ Jan 2 2008, 03:53 AM)
It exploded into literally thousands and thousands of tiny pieces of glass.
This evening, in my case, the explosion was just into dozens of chunks and hundreds of shards, but the strangest of things.I made something that takes forever, and since I absolutely loathe washing dishes, I took a break while several pots were simmering away.
POP!
Bang!!!
(tinkle) (tinkle) [How do comic book writers do it?]
Ran back into the kitchen. Couldn't figure out what had happened. It sounded like something had crashed, but...
Just opened the cupboard above the (sigh) sink to empty the dish drainer and fill it again. Glass all over the place.
QUOTE (Anna Blume @ Jan 8 2008, 10:43 PM)
On the top shelf, I kept two casserole dishes weighing a total of 3 lbs. on top of an inverted Pyrex lid that fits the Corning Ware supporting all three. Was it the heat building inside the closed doors in addition to the weight? The thing cracked, causing the two casseroles above to crash, sending little sparkly fragments all over the place. Bizarre.
Pyrex and Corning Ware do shatter unexpectedly. I posted an anecdote in one of the kitchen mishaps threads about having nested Pyrex measuring cups shatter when I lifted them off a shelf. The amount that they could have banged against each other was negligible, but if there is any kind of hairline crack anywhere, it doesn't take much to make them explode. Those shards are very hard to clean up.My most recent kitchen disaster was an exploding overhead light. The whole thing just blew out and all over everywhere. After cleaning the floor and counters carefully in the whole area, I was still finding tiny shards in odd places a couple of days later. Fortunately, I had no open food out at the time, or I would have had to throw it out. I once had a Corning piece fragment all over and had to throw out pork I had been simmering a long time, since I couldn't be sure no glass got into it
.
Well no disaster can be worse than what happened to this poor soul, I am still trying to figure out a) how did he burn himself while holding a knife (not one of the utensils that I use while at the stove), and B ) how was he holding it that would allow him to plunge it into his chest.
QUOTE (Sthitch @ Mar 19 2008, 12:13 PM)
Well no disaster can be worse than what happened to this poor soul, I am still trying to figure out a) how did he burn himself while holding a knife (not one of the utensils that I use while at the stove), and B ) how was he holding it that would allow him to plunge it into his chest.
Years ago, an eight-year-old boy who was standing on a chair to wash dishes with his sister slipped and impaled himself on a kitchen knife which had been left point up in the drainer. He also died. I've remembered this as a tragic reminder to be careful with sharp objects.
This is a pre-Passover Public Service Message.
Should you choose to make fresh grated horseradish in your blender, do not open the blender lid and look inside to see how fine the dice has gotten. Take the blender outside, remove the lid, and run away. Only after the fumes have dispersed can you safely look inside.
The first time I made horseradish sauce, I looked inside the blender. I knew not to inhale. As best I remember it, one moment I was peeking into the blender, and the next, I had teleported about 5 feet and made a 180 degree turn to find myself on my knees, hanging onto a large trash can, and gasping.
These days we trim the root and have people microplane fresh gratings at the table.
Should you choose to make fresh grated horseradish in your blender, do not open the blender lid and look inside to see how fine the dice has gotten. Take the blender outside, remove the lid, and run away. Only after the fumes have dispersed can you safely look inside.
The first time I made horseradish sauce, I looked inside the blender. I knew not to inhale. As best I remember it, one moment I was peeking into the blender, and the next, I had teleported about 5 feet and made a 180 degree turn to find myself on my knees, hanging onto a large trash can, and gasping.
These days we trim the root and have people microplane fresh gratings at the table.
QUOTE (PollyG @ Mar 25 2008, 10:36 AM)
This is a pre-Passover Public Service Message.
Should you choose to make fresh grated horseradish in your blender, do not open the blender lid and look inside to see how fine the dice has gotten. Take the blender outside, remove the lid, and run away. Only after the fumes have dispersed can you safely look inside.
The first time I made horseradish sauce, I looked inside the blender. I knew not to inhale. As best I remember it, one moment I was peeking into the blender, and the next, I had teleported about 5 feet and made a 180 degree turn to find myself on my knees, hanging onto a large trash can, and gasping.
These days we trim the root and have people microplane fresh gratings at the table.
Should you choose to make fresh grated horseradish in your blender, do not open the blender lid and look inside to see how fine the dice has gotten. Take the blender outside, remove the lid, and run away. Only after the fumes have dispersed can you safely look inside.
The first time I made horseradish sauce, I looked inside the blender. I knew not to inhale. As best I remember it, one moment I was peeking into the blender, and the next, I had teleported about 5 feet and made a 180 degree turn to find myself on my knees, hanging onto a large trash can, and gasping.
These days we trim the root and have people microplane fresh gratings at the table.
We learned this lesson in making a batch of horseradish to complement our homemade smoked kielbasa. We cut the horseradish root with beets sometimes, and still do all the grinding on the porch - prefereably with a stiff breeze going. It gets a tad heady.
You know your rice-bran pickle bed has gone off when your most recent batch of daikon pickles tastes remarkably like spoiled milk.
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