A cook's version of Play-Doh

I decided to tackle for my final publicized attempt. I wanted to have a standard item like this in my repertoire because it can be personalized so easily once I get into the habit of experimenting.

I was impressed that like the cake, the meatloaf was a one-bowl process. I should have seen it coming since the raw version looks pretty similar to the finished product, but I had guessed it was going to be a bit more complicated.

This is the first time I’ve baked food. By that I mean I’ve used my oven a handful of times, only for failed desserts and one recently made cake. I was nervous. I didn’t have a but I’ll pick one up soon because it will help with my impatient behavior.

Usually I would have constantly checked on it – peeked through the oven and ultimately thrown the temperature by opening and closing the door so often. But I made the effort to leave it be; after all it had to bake for an hour.

I had a weird feeling when I finally took it out of the oven and sliced into it to make sure it was done. It was fully cooked, but the craziest thing was that it actually looked good. I wasn’t used to that.

Come to think of it, everything I’ve made after the garlic and onion sauté snafu has turned out. And not just my version of turned out either (read: questionably edible) – it legitimately turned out.

I’m not sure whether it was because I faced my biggest challenge head on (Eggs Benedict) or because I had someone to cook for (an audience) but I need to maintain this momentum.

No longer will I eat because I want macaroni and cheese. I won’t panic when someone invites me to a potluck and default to buying chips and dip (a tried and true move of mine).

I won’t settle for eating meals that I wouldn’t dream of serving to someone else. That means nothing burnt, nothing raw, and nothing that looks more like the digested version rather than the picture in the recipe.

By no means have I mastered the art of cooking or the science of baking. But I did manage to have a string of successes that will motivate me to keep learning.

I can’t wait to tell people that I used to be a total klutz in the kitchen.

A raised fork in silent celebration

Today wasn’t the best day. On top of the usual Sunday blues, I had a big paper due and I still wasn’t feeling 100% (I’ve had a cold for what feels like forever).

So in hopes of cheering myself up I decided to bake a cake. I hear that baking lifts the spirits, and if not baking then definitely .

This was going to be a challenge; , and I’m not the most attentive scientist. As if baking weren’t enough of a risk for me, I decided to start baking this cake when my second wind picked up around 10:15 pm.

I knew that a nice piece of chocolate cake and a glass of milk would be a great bedtime snack if anything else. My mom always used to make so I looked it up and was pleasantly surprised.

It’s a one-pan process; you just mix everything up and pop it in the oven. It was fairly easy, which was a welcome break after Eggs Benedict and especially since it was already nighttime. I say fairly because it would be inaccurate for me to say really easy – nothing cooking/baking related is really easy for me.

Since I took a pretty tame approach to the cake, I wanted to spice up the icing. But not literally – I’m not the biggest fan of spice. Carling’s impersonation of me goes something like this: “Wow, what’s in this salsa, an onion?!”

My great-grandma used to make a coffee icing which I remember being really tasty. This probably has something to do with my current addiction to coffee (note: I’m still empty-handed at right now).

Late-night baking compromises.

I was excited to make icing from scratch and as I was pouring the icing sugar into the bowl something hit me: my roommate had already gone to bed. I wasn’t about to assault her sleep with the hand mixer when she had to be at work at 7:30 am. Her room is off of the kitchen; no matter how you slice it, it’s not the nicest thing to do.

I did what I will call resourceful, you may call it what you like. I brought the bowl and the hand mixer into the bathroom and made the icing. Yeah, I wish I hadn’t told you either but this blog is based on honesty and my bathroom is cleaner than the average bathroom.

In the end it was a bit past my usual bedtime, particularly lately because I’m sick, but it was worth the wait.

The cake looked great and the icing worked out well. It was a bit thin which made the cake show in spots but it was edible so I’m chalking that up as a victory.

Work station mid-way through the ordeal. Note the cookbook in the background. A gift from my grandma.

My palms were sweaty. My hand was shaking. My heart was in my throat.

I’ll come out and admit it: I was nervous. Poaching an egg? Double boil? What was I thinking?!

Nonetheless I have to step out of my comfort zone if any real miracles are going to happen. So, here is the epic tale of eggs Benedict.

I organized everything last night. I like to know what I’m doing in advance. Far in advance. That’s how stressful I find cooking. Ironic, isn’t it? I hate it when I am checking to see what’s next in the recipe (the ultimate authority) and turn around to see a ruined ingredient on the stove.

I had been told – thanks to j-school foodie Mike – that pace was the key to mastering Hollandaise sauce. Everything had to be slow and steady: the heat, the whisk, the pouring of the butter, etc.

This is not my cooking style though. I usually smash around at lightening speed trying to stay on top of everything. So this proved to be a steep challenge.

I couldn’t stop watching the sauce in my makeshift double boiler. I had no idea what a double boiler was, so I looked it up in my illustrated cookbook. Yes, I said illustrated. I figured I was doomed when the yolk started to congeal but then I remembered I could add a little cold water. That singlehandedly saved the morning.

Now that the runny yet familiar-looking sauce was done I moved on the next hurdle, the poached egg. I would like to stress that eggs and I go way back, and we don’t have a friendly history.

I managed to keep it together, both literally and figuratively, and pulled it off. I was so relieved when it was over. Getting it out of the pot was tricky but I did it with the help of my trusty holey spoon. I believe in the culinary world they’re referred to as slotted spoons.

In the end, I am really proud of myself for mastering the Hollandaise sauce. If I have discovered anything about cooking through this recipe is that patience really does get you far. You can fix things if they go wrong, to an extent, like the sauce.

I’m also excited that I can start serving legitimate breakfasts at home. I finally have closure over the loss of the best breakfast joint in town. RIP Slickity Jim’s, I hope I find you again somewhere soon.

I consider myself a late bloomer when it comes to cooking.

I am 22 and I can’t cook. But it’s not entirely my fault – really. I would like to offer a few key points for some context:

First,

1. My mother is a fantastic cook yet simultaneously a very loving control freak.
2. A simple cooking assignment went awry when I was in 9^th grade and a microwave caught fire. We had to exit the school. The assignment was pudding.
3. I attended Bishop’s University where I survived on spaghetti and Tim Horton’s.
4. Eggs are my nemesis. As a result, I received a frying pan and a spatula as a Christmas gift this past year.
5. I use my oven for making cookies (often a failure) and pizza (store bought). I fry everything else.

I want to stress that my Achilles heel is not the result of a lack of effort. I am obsessed with the Food Network (Iron Chef America is amazing). I am persistent despite my amazing ability to burn food. Sometimes it’s not enough heat that’s my problem, or a combination of the two.

I believe that my flaw – and some would call it a serious one – stems from the fact that I’m missing the foundations of cooking. Others suggest that I should use a trial and error approach. This is an extremely depressing way to learn. I can’t count how many times I have thrown out an attempted meal or dejectedly sat and choked down a charred dinner.

This journey will be a lifelong struggle unless I begin to face my fear of the kitchen. I can’t expect to only eat via the microwave forever or leech off my friends like Laura that try to teach me and/or are willing to cook for me. That was the entirety of my last year at Bishop’s in a nutshell; my best friend and roommate Carling fed me justifying it’s always more fun to cook for two.

I housed another friend recently and he was eager to show me some tips during his stay. There he was, sautéing garlic and making stuffed pasta from scratch. He put me in charge of dicing, which I admit I can handle. I neglected to mention up until this point that my parents owned a restaurant for almost 10 years. I now realize how empathetic they were in letting me work there.

So after saying goodbye to my houseguest I decided to use the rest of all the cooking treasures he’d left behind. I decided to make a garden salad with grilled chicken for dinner.

I diced up some garlic and onion and sautéed them. I felt like a professional already. I suppose in retrospect I put them on too high a heat.

In the end my meal was edible but I can confidently say that I won’t be following the ‘fake it ‘til you make it’ mantra.

Next I will combine my love of breakfast with my frustration with eggs. I will attempt to make Eggs Benedict.

Stay tuned. It wouldn’t hurt to cross your fingers either.