I’m the first to admit that I’m not a baker. My husband is a close second. When he hears muffin tins clanging or sees a dust cloud of flour fumigating the kitchen, he says things like “baking is a science” and “you are following a recipe, right?” (Italics are totally his.)
I try. I honestly try to follow a recipe. But the world plots against me. Take the other morning.
I am making green lemon cupcakes for St. Patrick’s Day and follow The Recipe to the letter. Well, except for omitting the lemon curd filling and butter cream icing because they are each sub-recipes and therefore omittable. Let them eat plain cake.
First cream the sugar and butter. Measure and mix the dry ingredients. Allow four eggs to come to room temperature. I stumble a bit on the “room temperature” part. How will I know? But that’s silly. I’m not a Coors Light drinking idiot unable to discern temperature by touch alone, relying instead on color-changing technology. I’m a big girl. With hands.
Focus. I grate the peels of three lemons. And squeeze them. Confident that I’ve obviously turned a corner, I read the end of The Recipe which, granted, should have happened earlier. But who’s that organized? I’m spontaneous. A common excuse for the unorganized. The recipe taunts me from my computer screen. “1 cup buttermilk.” Buttermilk? Who in the hell has buttermilk? I sure don’t.