My temper struck again over the weekend and its unwitting victim was a loaf of pumpkin bread. I don’t know what it is about baking that gets me so fired up, but virtually the only times I swear anymore are in the kitchen.
This particular bout of hot tempered malevolence was inspired by a new recipe for “Double Decker Pumpkin Bread” that involves pumpkin bread, cream cheese filling, and yum. I followed the instructions as best I could (though I suspect I may have beat the bread mixture too much) and was at the final step wherein the loaves were to be assembled in two loaf pans.
Woe was me because my pumpkin batter would not cooperate! It was thick and heavy, and when I tried to layer it over the cream cheese filling it was so heavy it just sank to the bottom, pushing the cream cheese up. What kind of double decker pumpkin bread has the cream cheese layer laying on the top like a dead duck, I ask you!
So, muttering about uncooperative recipes, I manhandled the cream cheese below the pumpkin layer and ran into another problem: my pans were bountifully and precariously filled. This recipe, supposedly enough for two loaf pans, would have been vastly better suited to three loaf pans. It was too late to turn back, though, so I pressed on. I put a sheet under the pans in the oven (to catch the inevitably drips when the loaves rose and spilled out from their pans) and set the timer.
The timer went off. I tested the bread, still gooey, so set it for ten more minutes.
The timer went off again. Still gooey, another ten minutes.
The time goes off yet again. Tested again, still gooey, am now certain loaves are out to freaking get me. Set timer for another twenty minutes.
Timer goes off. VICTORY! Take the world’s ugliest pumpkin bread loaves out of the oven and leave to cool on the counter. Eat them later, they are delicious but ugly.
Wes may have attempted to talk me out of my stormcloudy mood by assuring me that the loaves would be tasty even if they were maybe a bit homely. I’m afraid my look of doom assured him that he would be the one who was tasty and homely if he didn’t stop bright siding me.
Wes knows many things, but there’s one thing that marriage has taught him that will haunt him til the end: There are only two outcomes if Erika’s in the kitchen. There will be shouts of glee and triumph if a recipe turns out well. If the recipe turns out to be a pain, however, it’s likely that there will be many a pox cast on it and any of its ilk, and there will be much gnashing of teeth and hurling of dishtowels.
This explains why, whenever I’m the kitchen, Wes can be found safely holed away in his studio, well out of the reach of my grand mal dishtowels. Who knew cooking could be considered a contact sport?