So, I made the Pavlovas. And they came out beautifully. As it turned out, I had nothing to worry about.
Meringues might not seem like that big of a deal, and now that I've made them, they really weren't that scary. But the fact is that baking with eggs has never been my favourite thing to do. Chucking a couple in a cake - no problem. When a dish showcases the eggs, however, like an omelette, a custard, or a pavlova... that's when I get tense. The egg curse has hit me one too many times. I've considered calling myself ovo-intolerant and just not using them, but the little buggers are just too useful.
So, with trepidation, I made my pavlovas and everything was going well, until I got to the beating till stiff stage. The meringue was shiny, pristinely white and firming up, when I smelt burning rubber. Smoke wisped from the side of my beaters, at the part where the cord runs into the body. The beaters sputtered, sighed and whipped their last.
Oh, I know it wasn't the fault of the eggs. But, damn it, something happens to me every time I cook with them. I have a new set of kitchen beaters that I bought for this eventuality. My old ones belonged to my great grandmother and I don't use them that often, because I knew they were close to going to the great kitchen in the sky, but I suppose I thought there was something special about making my first meringues with my Grandma Myrtle's beaters. And in the end, there was. If the beaters were going to die, this was the way to go.
I gently coiled the ruined cord around the body and tucked Great Grandma's beaters away. Then I finished the pavs with my new shiny, speedy, smug and soulless beaters. And as I said, they came out beautifully. A blend of traditional and modern, gentle-paced and speedy, my past and my future.
Meringues might not seem like that big of a deal, and now that I've made them, they really weren't that scary. But the fact is that baking with eggs has never been my favourite thing to do. Chucking a couple in a cake - no problem. When a dish showcases the eggs, however, like an omelette, a custard, or a pavlova... that's when I get tense. The egg curse has hit me one too many times. I've considered calling myself ovo-intolerant and just not using them, but the little buggers are just too useful.
So, with trepidation, I made my pavlovas and everything was going well, until I got to the beating till stiff stage. The meringue was shiny, pristinely white and firming up, when I smelt burning rubber. Smoke wisped from the side of my beaters, at the part where the cord runs into the body. The beaters sputtered, sighed and whipped their last.
Oh, I know it wasn't the fault of the eggs. But, damn it, something happens to me every time I cook with them. I have a new set of kitchen beaters that I bought for this eventuality. My old ones belonged to my great grandmother and I don't use them that often, because I knew they were close to going to the great kitchen in the sky, but I suppose I thought there was something special about making my first meringues with my Grandma Myrtle's beaters. And in the end, there was. If the beaters were going to die, this was the way to go.
I gently coiled the ruined cord around the body and tucked Great Grandma's beaters away. Then I finished the pavs with my new shiny, speedy, smug and soulless beaters. And as I said, they came out beautifully. A blend of traditional and modern, gentle-paced and speedy, my past and my future.
My mixer, sighing its last words:
No comments:
Post a Comment