Yesterday I got a very serious call. A work emergency. No, no one died, there were no shifts to cover, no press releases to pen. Even more grave. Recipes must be tested. The whole staff at Foodista needed to band together in baking and cooking our way through fourteen deliriously delicious recipes that are being considered for the soon-to-be published cookbook. When do they need to be completed? The week’s end. What day is it, again? Oh right, Friday.
What I heard: “Umm, Andrea…Willy Wonka’s sick today and he’s going to be needing you to head over to the Chocolate Factory and taste test all of the candy. Oh, and we’ll be paying you for it.” So we classify licking bowls of chocolate custard, stirring pots of bubbling caramel, and nibbles of puff pastry, work?
I’m not one to buckle under pressure. After all, I’ve been through my fair share of life emergencies. Pouring an overflowing bowl of cereal only to realize there’s only about two tablespoons of milk left in the jug. Getting dressed and discovering my favorite jeans are in the washing machine. A pimple on the day of prom. Working on a film set where the director threatens to quit because the craft service table wasn’t stocked with his favorite Trident gum. All very pressing matters.
I signed myself up for four recipes. Within seven minutes, I was suited in my finest sweats, armed with a double-sided grocery list, and on my way to the market. If I was already rather business-like at the market, yesterday I was the Spencer Pratt of Safeway, desperate and offensive.
Once home, $65 worth of baking ingredients in tow, I got busy on the desserts.
Yes, that’s bacon. I didn’t say I was baking your typical American sweets. Operation overload my senses with sugar in full swing. First up? Make the creamy ricotta filling for flaky berry danishes.
Next on the agenda: prepare the rye bread crumble for an utterly unique Russian trifle.
And then I was busy rolling out homemade pastry dough and shaping it into miniature pies.
Excuse me, what’s that you’ve got inside your crescent belly?
Uncle Jessie: “Have mercyyyy”
Eight hours later, bowls toppling out of my sink, flour in my hair, and a seemingly permanent chocolate mustache later, I found myself with one last emergency: What the hell am I going to do with six danishes, four servings of trifle, and 12 hand pies? And when does the overpowering aroma of warm pie stop wafting through my apartment? Because I think that’s when the perpetual hunger will subside.
No time to waste. I’ve got bacon caramels bubbling on the stove. And a boyfriend who may or may not love the World Cup more than me.