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Baking Challenge Lady returned today:

Her: Is this a carrot cake?
Me: No.  It’s a fudge cake.
Her: Oh, so it’s a carrot cake.
Me: No.  It’s a fudge cake.
Her: A fudge cake.  Interesting.
Me: By the way, I never caught your name.
Her: <her name>, what’s yours? (Despite that she sought me by name on our first meeting)
Me: Terry.
Her: Oh, I’ve wanted to meet you.
Me: You did, last week, when you asked for me by name.
Her: It is you! (What?)
Me: Anyway, your palms feel rough, would you like some skin cream? *Present bottle of our firm’s skin cream*
Her: Thank you.  *Takes dollop and rubs it onto the back of her hand* So you made this from scratch?
Me: I do with most of my stuff, except for pie doughs, I suck at pie doughs.  And you?
Her: Usually, but I take shortcuts like using cake mix and buying the frosting in those little cans.

Ah… Mind you, if I were really a purist I would steep the vanilla beans myself and squeeze the egg out of the chicken but I’m confident in saying buying cake mix and frosting is not considered baking from scratch.  I am now not only fighting for myself, my department, or my sex, but for every person who’s ever f*ed up recipe but gotten away with it because it was made with grandma’s recipe which included things like rounded 1/4 tablespoons, sweet milk (from a time when buttermilk was common) and considered instant yeast the devil’s powder.  I will win, and it will be glorious.

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Butter Cream is the result of great serendipity or genius like the Bessemer process, ePTFE (Teflon) or the chocolate chip cookie.  Somehow, someone said to themselves “Scrambled eggs: within you I see the potential for a cake topping”.  Then, with grim determination, this scion of flavor learned to think like an egg protein and deigned to find a way to prevent protein cross-linkage.  The breakthrough was slow heat and rotary forearm ferocity normally reserved for pubescent teenagers.   I’ve attempted to make butter cream twice before, in the first case I created sweet scrambled eggs, in the second I created a stunt double for the The Blob that resulted in me losing a saucier.  This time, I took a moment to center myself, made a double boiler of metal bowl and 2 qt chef’s pan and set to overcome the legion failures I’d made in the Organic Chemistry lab.  The temperature approached 160°F which is normally the magical temperature that cross-linking begins but a little known fact is that egg foams can smell fear.   Alternatively, the pheromones emitted during my roar of determination at 159°F disrupted the electron cloud of the involved sulfur and my butter cream was victorious.

I had to cut the butter cream with some confectioner’s sugar to edge out the saltiness of the sweet cream I was forced to use being otherwise out of unsalted butter but otherwise it served as a capable topping to the “fudge cake” that was neither fudgy nor cake-like but this failing was devoured by sheer metaphysical delight of having a cake topped largely with butter.

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Sometimes I embellish dialog to make a narrative clear. Today, I have no need.
Woman: Are you, Terry?
Me: I am.
Woman: And are these where the muffins are?
Me: Were, they’re gone.
Woman: So you do bake. So do I, I’m here to challenge you.
Me: Oh, ok.
Woman: I brought in brownies Friday, and they’re still here. (That’s a display of prowess?)
Me: And you’re challenging me to?
Woman: Bake.
Me: I do, we just talked about muffins.
Woman: I am the queen of baking, and it I will remain. I’m not going to lose my crown to an upstart.
Me: Persuant to my statement of sex in HR, I am fine with you being the queen of baking. (Also, I’ve been here longer)
Woman: *Scowl* One day, I will challenge you.
Me: Ok.
Somehow, this has been spreading around and I’ve randomly stopped in the hall-

Coworker #1: Don’t worry, Terry. She makes a fine cupcake, but she couldn’t match you in muffins.
Coworker #2: I have a faith in you. I have tasted your bacon cookies, and I became a better person.
Coworker #2: Don’t fucking worry, she fucking burns every fucking thing she’s ever fucked *awkward moment* up making.

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I’m incapable of down-scaling a recipe.  I can make a double, triple or quadruple batch but not a 1/2 sized one.  So, when I made a cake that produced two rounds instead of my normal 3 I had to get create in icing.  After dismissing the idea of frosting the bottom, I started cutting divets to create holes across layers that became cream cheese frosting veins to connect the strata of sugared cheese and butter.  I was unsure if it’d turn out too rich and my answer came from a comment from a coworker:  “Terry, the frosting with cake in it was wonderful.”

Further confirmation came from the guy who kept coming in with fake questions so he’d have an excuse to coyishly have more cake.

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The brownie as a tool of office diplomacy has long been in my arsenal.  I missed two days of work without appropriately notifying my bosses and the last hints of angst were dismissed over a week-old brownie created during the Great Guest Exodus of New Years Eve.  But the brownie can be used for a more sinister purpose, intimidation.

Me: Would you like a piece?
Coworker: Sure, I’ll take a piece.
Me: Oh, that’s it.  I thought you’d said you’d take a piece. Not a crumb.
Coworker: Hey, I just had lunch.
Me: And you need a quality confection to top it off.  The portion you took is like a shot of beer, insulting to the drinker and the bartender.
Coworker:  Ok…. I’ll be back later to get the rest.
Me: No! You’ll be back now to get the rest.  Get in there, and take a slice.

Me: Would you like a piece?
Coworker: Yes, I’d love some, thank you.  I really like brownies.
Me: Oh, so that’s how you show your love?  With what appears to be a portion the size of mice leavings?
Coworker: I just started a new diet.
Me:  The first three letters tell you all you need to know “DIE”.  Are you trying to kill your tastebuds?
Coworker: I’ll try more.
Me:  Try?  Do or do not.  There is no try.
Coworker: Ok…. *cuts larger slice*
Me: I’m going to check back with you later to see if you finished it.

Who new baked goods could be such precise tools of demasculation?  Next week: Decimating self image with coffee crumb lemon bars.

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The brownie as a tool of office diplomacy has long been in my arsenal.  I missed two days of work without appropriately notifying my bosses and the last hints of angst were dismissed over a week-old brownie created during the Great Guest Exodus of New Years Eve.  But the brownie can be used for a more sinister purpose, intimidation.

Me: Would you like a piece?
Coworker: Sure, I’ll take a piece.
Me: Oh, that’s it.  I thought you’d said you’d take a piece. Not a crumb.
Coworker: Hey, I just had lunch.
Me: And you need a quality confection to top it off.  The portion you took is like a shot of beer, insulting to the drinker and the bartender.
Coworker:  Ok…. I’ll be back later to get the rest.
Me: No! You’ll be back now to get the rest.  Get in there, and take a slice.

Me: Would you like a piece?
Coworker: Yes, I’d love some, thank you.  I really like brownies.
Me: Oh, so that’s how you show your love?  With what appears to be a portion the size of mice leavings?
Coworker: I just started a new diet.
Me:  The first three letters tell you all you need to know “DIE”.  Are you trying to kill your tastebuds?
Coworker: I’ll try more.
Me:  Try?  Do or do not.  There is no try.
Coworker: Ok…. *cuts larger slice*
Me: I’m going to check back with you later to see if you finished it.

Who new baked goods could be such precise tools of demasculation?  Next week: Decimating self image with coffee crumb lemon bars.

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On the drive into work, I sneezed so hard I had a nose bleed and while I was pretty quick with the paper towel cork some of sanguine nasal fire hose got on my shirt.  I fully zipped up my winter coat despite it being a balmy 42°F and wore a lab coat for no reason until I’d have a chance to tackle it at lunch.

Through the whole morning no one said anything about the red trail down my shirt even through two rather lengthy conversations.  At lunch, I unbuttoned my shirt and began applying and wiping off hydrogen peroxide to lift the stains and over the course of 30 minutes or so with people walking in and out no one said a thing except for “hello” or “thanks for the brownies” (which I had brought in).

I always assumed blood on clothing was rather identifiable as it keeps a distinct red until it turns rusty brown. Had I traded brownies for my coworkers ignoring ominous blood stains?  Did they think that imposing would have stemmed the tide of pastries?  If I accidentally kill someone it’s good to know I could cover for it by hosting an omlette bar or a really nice cake.

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Normally I prepare enough icing for my carrot cakes such that I can make one cut, ice two layers and have enough that my dad, brother, dog, cat, and brother’s girlfriend can each take a massive fingerful of the whipped cream cheese icing.

I prepared a cake tonight for work as I’d never bake a proper “congradulations, you shot out a baby” cake for coworker’s now six-month old (I was busy) but at 2 AM there’s few beaterlickers about.  There’s a ridiculous amount of icing on the cake.  I could have easily iced a 3rd layer or possibly another cake.  There’s a spot where it’s an inch deep.  It’s more like someone made an icing cake and dumped a carrot cake on it.  I did some work to try and make it less obvious so there’s a slight shelf where the icing extends beyond the cake forming either an icing overhang or an icing hat, depending on your vantage.  I left the cake out, homing my cat would go to town on it, no dice.  With a pound of cream cheese, 2/3 pound of sugar and a fresh stick of butter I may be responsible for either killing, or inducing diabetes in several of my coworkers.

Bonus Story:  My cake recipe involves about 200 grams of whole vanilla yogurt which I thought I had.  Well, having what is vanilla yogurt and having what was vanilla yogurt and is now an affront to both a just and loving God and baking soda is another.  I went to Wawa to get some yogurt and they had no whole or low fat vanilla yogurt, just non-fat which uses artificial sweeteners that taste like burning tires post-baking.  I grabbed a 230 g container of peach fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt and proceded to checkout, where the checkout agent put it in a bag.  I was so dumbfounded that my single serving of yogurt received a bag, I didn’t object like I normally do.

I go home, and start spooning out the yogurt and hit the peach part with only 180 grams of usable yogurt.  I’m not going back to Wawa to purchase another single serving of yogurt so I look around for a yogurt substitute.  I wondering if any of my coworkers will identify the 20 grams of mayonnaise in the carrot cake.

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During my newly discovered free time, I started baking again.  I needed to work my way back in slowly so I started with a chocolate chip cake mix and entered a paroxysmal rage upon seeing the stupidly specific ingredients recommended.

Organic Eggs:  Normal eggs will cause you to become pregnant if you consume them when mixed with whole wheat flour and sugar sprinkles.
Hershey’s Chocolate: If you don’t make these cookies with our chocolate the cookies will die a horrible death and the Hershey people will mug your sister.

I’d much prefer they did the exact opposite and replaced “3 medium sized eggs” with “375 grams of unfertilized avian ovum” and 1 cup refined sugar with “400 grams of various disaccharides”.