Admit it. Sometimes you think I make things up, especially about cooking disasters. Hence, I created the label you see at the top of this post which records actual data when I mess up incredibly weirdly and report it to you. It's like my own private Ripley's collection.
But I am considering a new label: "Epic Culinary Failures." And today I created what would be a first entry into that new label.
As a treat for my father who was just released from the hospital last night, I decided to bake a fruit cocktail bread. I must tell you that my dad is one in ten million people on this earth and maybe a few on another planet who like fruitcake. That's a badly written sentence, but you know what I mean. Actually, that was a poorly written sentence. Oh well.
So I put it all together and baked it. And baked it. And baked it. I could never be quite sure it was done. So I baked it more. And more. Finally, when the outside looked like fossilized amber, I took it out, slid the knife around the edges, tipped it onto a plate, and watched the juices flow.
FLOW? Bread isn't supposed to flow.
So I scooped up the caramelized parts and some of the inadvertent compote parts and plopped them back into the loaf pan and stuck it back in.
And here's what came out:
So Jorge, hair rising on the back of his neck in anticipation of my explosion, swiftly offered a deflection: "Hey! You made a cobbler!"
No, I concocted a puddle of molten flour and corn syrup with some bald grapes thrown in for fun.
I didn't think so.
I also made a batch of gluten-free brownies for my mom which I think turned out OK except I'm not sure why it folded over on itself.
And now the rest of the story regarding Dad, which actually has a twist worthy of a TV drama.
Saturday night: ER with chest pains, tests. I went home at 1:00 AM.
Sunday: Observation and interpretation of tests. All looked good. Lots of time at the hospital where my brother pestered me.
Monday: Observation and two more tests. Brother continued pestering. Test results showed small "blip" on lower portion of heart. Ordered to stay another night to be seen by a cardiologist Tuesday morning.
Segue: My mother told me on the phone that he had to be seen by a specialist, and she couldn't remember what kind (she's 83) so she said, "It sounds like Ollie-ologist." So I said, "Oncologist?" And she said, "Yes," and I said, hesitantly, "That is a cancer doctor." I fully expected the pieces to fall into place for her and that she would break down, but she just said, "Yes."
So I get to the hospital and through the conversation of two nurses figure out that the specialist is a cardiologist, not oncologist. (Duh. But I just didn't think differently after Mom confirmed oncologist because there was a spot on his heart. Cancer seemed plausible to me.) Later Mom told me she thought she said it sounded like "oncologist" but that that wasn't it. However, she did not complete the thought with me. That explains why she was so emotionless at the threat of cancer, from my perspective.
Then--get this--last night about 9, a doc came in and told Dad that his record had been switched at the hospital with someone else's and that he was free to go home-just like that!
Can you believe it? Oh, it was good news, all right, but I felt so sorry for the person at home who would get the call with bad news!
Anyway, thanks for asking and caring. I haven't talked to him yet today, so I'm going to call him now. I wonder if he's feeling up to a fruit cocktail volcanic compote created by a chef called "Lid?"