(Part 1: Era Errors, Part 2: To Parchment or Not To Parchment)
I'll get right to it this week. Little Miss Muse is pacing and huffing at me to get fiction words onto the manuscript that we hope to hand to my proofreader by the end of the month. If you've missed a few weeks, check the links above to get the background on why I'm in my kitchen so much and why I've risked my house and our guts (Hint: It's likely much safer than a motorcycle). And if you're brand new here, check out "Never Again, Betty," and you'll see why this is a big deal.
So, here we go on Betty Crocker's Petite Sponge Cake Kit from the exclusive Bridgerton series.
The front of the box says "Simply Add" water, oil, egg, and milk. I don't believe for a second it will be simple, but the ingredients are in the house.
The front also says it does not include powdered sugar. The photo shows a dainty little cake with a filling and dusted with powdered sugar, and Betty even gives you the foil baking cups, but she chinced out on the sweet dusty stuff. I don't expect a fresh strawberry or purple wisteria to be down in this box for a post-baking photo shoot, but the sugar seems like an ingredient that should be handled.
No worries, though. I know I have an unopened bag in the cabinet. I do not know why or remember what I needed this for, but I know I've got some.
Step 1: Heat oven to 350. (And other words that I did not see because I knew I could totally nail the preheating thing.)
Nailed it. Like I knew I could.
This feels like opening a document for a new story. Open file. Name it. Save it. Nailed it. It's the next bit that's rough…
Step 2: Stir cake mix, water, oil, and egg in medium bowl about 2 minutes or until well blended. Divide batter among foil cups (about 1/3 cup each).
Okay, here's where things begin to fall apart, my anxiety creeps up into eye-twitching mode (the right one), and I question the sanity of trying to find sanity by baking sweets. Perhaps I should just visit a bakery where the baking has been done and sweets can be consumed post-haste.
It's here where things in the writing office get rough, too. My anxiety creeps into eye-twitching mode when the characters won't do as they're told, I question the sanity of being an author. Perhaps I should visit the library where the writing has been done and the words can be consumed post-haste.
Anyway, back to the baking: I do not—I mean, I do not—do well with vague directions. Especially with kitchen directions. That's why that preheating step is so great. It tells me what to do—heat. What to heat—the oven. And how hot—350. There is no questioning this step.
But here, in Step 2, we have "Medium,” "about two minutes,” "Well blended," and "about 1/3 cup."
First off, I believe I have what constitutes one medium bowl. I know it's medium because it came in a set with a smaller one and a larger one. But, last night, I put popcorn in that medium bowl and it's dirty. I wish to put all of my concentration on the directions on the back of Betty's box, and I do not need the distraction Dawn's dish bubbles can bring, especially when one of the teeny bubbles escapes the sink and goes floating and then the cats and I chase—see?
Distractions.
I choose the large bowl. What Betty doesn't know can't hurt her. I get out the oil, egg, milk, water, and the unopened bag of powdered sugar that was waaaaay back in the cabinet and lay them all out on the counter.
By this time, I've opened two drawers and one cabinet door above my head. I have not closed these. I do not know why. I know I'll hit my forehead and my kneecap on these opened elements, but alas…
I get ready to measure the oil, and as I twist off the cap, I catch the expiration date. It's three years past. I've been using this oil for other things and well, the Hubs is just finding out I've fed him food made with expired oil for, well, months.
No. Strike that.
Years. Years… (Shows you how much I cook.)
No worries, though. I bought a fresh bottle a few weeks ago. So, this treat will have fresh oil.
Measure the oil, water, crack the egg, and add the mix. My mixer was buried in the bottom drawer where we keep our roll of trash bags (and I leave this drawer open, too). I do not have a countertop mixer like most of you probably own, because what would I do with that? I think I secure the beaters into the machine.
I attempt to put the beaters down into the mess to start mixing, but… the bowl's too big for my little mixer. The beaters don't reach the batter if I keep the motor above the bowl's rim. So, I tip it, and now I have to perform acrobatics with the spatula, angles, splashing, and opened cabinet doors and try not to slop batter onto the walls.
I slop batter onto the wall.
And then the beaters fall out of the mixer.
Try this all over again with nearly the same outcome, but I think I've hit "Almost two minutes" and I've no idea if it's "well" blended, but it is all in semi-liquid form. There is so little batter in this giant bowl that I wonder if there'll be enough to fill the foil cups or if I should reduce the cooking time based on how much batter ended up on the wall and my left shoulder sleeve.
My eye twitches. The left one. At least they're taking turns.
Now I must divide "about" the same amount of batter into four cups, doing the same contortion with the spatula, cabinets, and this gooey left sweater sleeve.
When I fill the last foil cup, I remember the other times I've baked cakes; I always greased the pan. I wonder why these don't need to be—wait.
Back to Step One.
The words I missed because I got so psyched that I could preheat an oven: Grease foil cups.
Oops.
Too late. At this point, I picture them sticking so badly that I'll have to make sponge cake cobbler. We shall see…
Step 3: Bake 15 to 18 minutes. Cool 10 minutes and remove from foil cup. Cool completely.
Timer on the oven. Timer on my phone. I don't leave the kitchen or do dishes or chase bubbles or try to write or anything. Don't even close cabinets. I'm aiming for not burnt and not raw. Even if they're stuck-in-the-foil cobbler.
Step 4: Beat whipped filling mix and milk in medium bowl on low speed 30 seconds. And then on medium speed one to two minutes.
Look, Betty. I got timers on the oven and timers on my phone so as not to burn the cakes and to let the cakes cool just so. I'm out of things that keep time. I can't keep the beaters in my mixer which is not the right size for my smallest mixing bowl (because I can't do the dishes or I'll screw something up).
And Betty? You should tell someone when something will expand.
I beat this stuff and it grew and grew and grew. Now I have ten times the amount of whipped filling than I do sponge cake.
Step 5: Cut cakes in half. Spread bottom half with strawberry jam. Spread top half with whipped filling (about three tablespoons each). Put the top half on the bottom half.
Lady Crocker's Tip: Sprinkle with powdered sugar.
Miracle of miracles, I took a knife around the edges and the cakes did come out of the foil in one piece. This makes me question whether I ever needed to grease any cake pan. Who knows.
I let them cool. I cut them in half and did the jam thing on the bottoms.
But those three tablespoons? I have like 100 tablespoons of whipped stuff, 13 of which ended up on my left sweater sleeve. These were mile-high sponge cakes once I got the tops onto the bottoms.
Now, for the fun part. Sprinkling with powdered sugar. I cut the tip off the bag and start the sprinkling. Some went onto the cakes. Some into an open drawer below. A little on that one pitiful sleeve, and… I catch the expiration date and crack my knee on an open drawer.
Four years. It's four years past expired.
The Hubs is just now finding this out. I didn't have the heart to tell him, especially since that was his favorite part of this desert.
We both lived, my sweater and the walls came clean, I closed all the cabinets, shut the drawers, and got my dishes done. My medium bowl is ready for the third and final Bridgerton mix—unless I have popcorn the night before.
