Even though I consider myself a decent cook, I’m less confident in my baking skills. I have uttered the phrase “I’m no Betty Crocker!” so many times, it might as well be my tagline.
That doesn’t even make sense. Betty Crocker is a brand name and a fictional character. I’d be better off saying I was no Pierre Hermé or Buddy Valastro or Duff Goldman or Paul Hollywood (apparently; I have no idea who any of these folks are, but a Google search for “best known bakers” brings up these names, so they must be bigwigs in the pastry world).
The point is, I have very little confidence in my baking skills. Even after making a peach pie and red currant crumb bars and spritz cookies from scratch, I still shrugged my shoulders every time and tossed out a self-deprecating “beginner’s luck!” immediately followed by the Betty Crocker comparison.
But after my latest endeavor – a rum Bundt cake – I might finally be willing to concede that perhaps, just maybe, I’m not the world’s worst baker. ‘Cause that shit was good. Even Tara, who is way closer to being a Betty Crocker…err, a Dora Schwebel (thanks again, Googs!) than me…was impressed with the rum cake.
The recipe came from a former coworker of Tara’s in Rapid City named Deanna. One time, we had a get-together for Tara’s newly married boss – a big shindig in our backyard in which Tara’s coworkers contributed food. Deanna brought a rum cake that was so moist and flavorful, I practically inhaled the whole thing in one sitting. Seriously, I gushed over it so much, Deanna made it for a bank potluck one time just so Tara could bring me a couple of slices. Aww, how sweet! And then, right before we moved, she gave Tara a copy of the recipe.
“Keep this safe,” I told my wife, treating that piece of paper like it was the Holy Grail. “Protect it with your life.”
Protect it she did but make it she didn’t. I finally decided to grab the bull by the horns (or the rum by the bottle, if you will) and do it myself, never mind the fact that I’m no Betty Crocker. Or that we didn’t own a Bundt pan. A trip to our local Goodwill fixed that; we found a heavy-duty like-new Bundt pan for $5 and a still-sealed Crazy Heart DVD for $1.99. Double score!
I made it on a Friday when Tara was in the office without telling her of my plan, figuring if it didn’t turn out, I’d toss the whole thing in the trash and she would be none the wiser. But it was excellent, and four days later, we’d finished the whole thing.
Guess I have no excuse not to make those pineapple buns that I foolishly boasted to AutumnAshbough would be “a breeze.” Gauntlets were thrown down and everything.
Hope I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew.
Last night, we wrapped up Cobra Kai, the fantastic Netflix sequel series to The Karate Kid movies. Rarely has a television show so successfully expanded upon the legacy of a popular film, but Cobra Kai was consistently good. Was it cheesy at times? A little over-the-top? Definitely. But it also had heart, and was the perfect blend of drama, humor, and nostalgia. It’s amazing how many cameos and call-backs they were able to incorporate. I’m sure some of the actors hadn’t worked in Hollywood since the 1980s.
They wrapped up the series brilliantly, and I have to say, it wasn’t nearly as predictable as I’d assumed it would be. Nearly everyone had a redemption arc, none more so than Johnny Lawrence. But we should have expected that all along based on the name of the series. The finale wasn’t just satisfying, it was perfect.
Bravo to the creators – Josh Heald, Jon Hurwitz, and Hayden Schlossberg – who really nailed the spirit of the franchise.
You’re the best around.
It’s been brutally cold here the past week. Tuesday morning was especially bad: -13°. My parents, who had been vacationing in Florida, texted at one point to inform me it was 82 degrees warmer where they were.
Gee, thanks for letting me know, folks.
And because we had a bunch of snow last week, people at CheeseGov were finding creative ways to park their vehicles.
It’s finally going to warm up above freezing this weekend, and well into the 40s next week. I’ll be ready to bust out the shorts and flip-flops.
This morning, the chimney sweep showed up for his rescheduled appointment. Sadly, neither he nor his assistant even remotely resembled Dick Van Dyke. No cap and scarf, no broom even, just a Shop-Vac, which to me feels a little like cheating. I might have forgiven them if they’d at least broken into a little song and dance, but nope.
So disappointing.
Funny story, though: as soon as he arrived, the chimney sweep said, “I’ve been here many times. This used to be Dick’s house.”
We get that all the time. Like I’ve said, ol’ Dick is a legend ’round these parts. I only hope that someday, a future homeowner will have the wood stove cleaned, and the chimney sweep will say, “I’ve been here many times. This used to be Mark’s house. Hell of a baker, that guy. He was a real Betty Crocker.”
Mark My Words 
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