Good news

I conquered my fear of turning the oven on after almost a week of not using it. I would have been fine going a little longer without turning it on, but my family was getting tired of eating soup and quesadillas.

And I'm happy to report that the old gal works just fine.

She's a bit beat up from me hastily throwing her through the cleaning cycle last week. I'll let the scars remind me to never make hasty decisions again. Or to never clean again.

Anyway. Just happy to have baked food back in our meal repertoire. And more happy that my oven didn't blow up.

Bundt in the oven: the tale of a birthday cake, from conception to death

Between sobs and sniffles on the phone with my mom yesterday, she suggested I write this story down, so I could look back at it some day and laugh. Turns out it only took a day for me to get over it. Hahahaha...I sure am laughing now!

Kenta's birthday always sneaks up on me. It's six short weeks after Christmas and is on the same day as Valentine's Day - not really a holiday that I paid a lot of attention to growing up, but now that we have a birthday to celebrate, I've stepped up my game on February 14th.

I kind of have a history of ruining Kenta's birthday, so this year I decided I was going to make up for it. I had been searching for YEARS for THE chocolate cake to bake for him. Thanks to some rave reviews from a friend (Thanks, Shana!), it was recommended to me that I bake this bad boy for Kenta's b-day:

5 lbs. of chocolate cake? Mmmmm. Drizzled with a "silky smooth" ganache? Sold.

I made my preparations well in advance: borrowed a bundt pan from a friend (thanks, Darby!), gave my kids to a friend for a few hours so I could be alone in the kitchen (thanks, Becca!) and consulted the Bundt Baker Extraordinaire one more time, just to make sure I had what it took to make this cake turn out perfectly (thanks again, Shana!). I turned up the Sports Animal full volume and got to work.

I've never been one to read directions super carefully, but this was a special cake and I did NOT want to mess up. So I read the directions, line by line. Then I read them again. Then I read them one more time, just for good measure.

Grease the bundt and dust with cocoa powder

"Hmmm...I've never dusted with cocoa powder before, but it sounds like fun. Whatever you say!"

Over a sheet of parchment, sift together the flour, baking soda and salt. Set aside.

"What? I don't have parchment paper. Can I just do it in a bowl....?" (I did - I don't think it messed anything up).

...Increase the speed to medium and continue beating until the mixture is light and fluffy, about 5 minutes, stopping the mixer occasionally to scrape down the sides of the bowl.

Beat. Stop. Scrape. Repeat. Fluffiness achieved. NEXT:

...add the eggs a little at a time, beating until incorporated before adding more...

"Egg #1, incorporated. Egg #2...aaaaalmost there....incorporated! Egg #3...."

...reduce the speed to low and add the flour mixture in three additions, alternating with the sour cream and beginning and ending with the flour, beating just until blended and no lumps of flour remain.

"Start with flour. Then add sour cream. A little more flour. A little more sour cream. The last of the flour...I ended with the flour!! BAAAAAAHHHHH!! I actually ended with the flour!! I'VE GOT THIS!!!"

...slowly pour in the chocolate-cocoa mixture and beat until no white streaks are visible...

"All I see is chocolate..no more white streaks...YES!!! It's almost done!!"

All that was left was folding in the chocolate chips (I have never folded in chocolate chips with such care). Then it was time to pour.

This is when things started to get a little sketchy for me. I started to pour and thought, "This is a lot of cake batter...hmmmm...." So I consulted the recipe, where I found this comment:

"it was filled to the tippy top with batter"

"Tippy top? Whatever you say! To the tippy top we go!"

I should point out at this moment that the above comment about filling to the "tippy top" was followed by this comment:

"Just to be sure it didn't overflow, I reserved some of the batter and made a few cupcakes"

Pssshhh. After filling to the top, there was not enough batter for cupcakes. I threw caution to the wind, enjoyed the generous amount of batter that was left on the spoon, and carefully placed my bundt in the oven. I had one last, "Gee...that looks mighty full...." moment, before I dismissed it with "well, it probably cooks up like a muffin does and you just saw the excess off (there was a step in the recipe that talked about cutting off excess cake that extended over the edge of the pan - I'm not making this up). Feeling pretty awesome with myself, I set about the work of cleaning my kitchen and getting dinner started.

20 minutes later...

The burning smell started. I cautiously opened the oven and with an "Oh, crap!" I yanked out the bundt and set it on a cookie sheet before I put it back in. There was definitely some batter on the bottom of my oven and my smoke alarm gave a little cautionary "beep" before I opened up some windows and the doors to air my house out.

40 minutes later...

The cake should have been done around 60-65 minutes. I didn't even have to pull the rack out to tell that it was JIG.GL.EY. Nowhere near being done. I stuck it back in, patted myself on the back for giving myself a good hour of "just in case" time (I was also needing to get come chicken parmesan made for dinner before we went to our friend's house at 6:00).

some time later...

I had to send Kenta to get the kids from Becca's because I couldn't leave burning batter alone in the house, the cake was STILL COOKING, and I was in full panic mode. The chicken was getting slapped together as quickly as I could slap it. It didn't really matter because that dumb bundt was STILL IN MY OVEN, so I couldn't put the chicken in anyway.

Kenta came home with the kids. I opened the oven. Smoke came out. The alarms went off. The kids went berserk. Kenta took them upstairs. The alarms went off again. And again. And again. (I lost count at six times). Every time I opened the oven to stick a toothpick in the bundt, the alarms went off. Finally, FINALLY, the toothpick came out satisfactorily clean, so out came the bundt - perhaps a bit too prematurely, but we'll get to that in a bit - and in went the chicken. I had 15 minutes to let the cake rest before The Verdict (i.e. cake removal from pan) would be in, so I tried to shake off the stress of the last three hours and soak up some happy birthday vibes from the universe.

There were not enough happy birthday or happy Valentine's Day vibes in our universe or all the universes surrounding our universe COMBINED that were going to save me from what happened next.

Oh. Did I mention that I had only gotten four hours of sleep the night before? This might be a good point to throw that in. Sleep-allergic babies and last minute birthday present-making will do that to you. I digress...

With the chicken safely in the oven, the noodles boiling away in the water, it was time for me to extract the cake. I put the sheet over the bundt...inverted it...said a little prayer...shimmied the pan off....aaaaaaand....

Only half of the cake came out. The other half was sitting in the pan - still a gooey, globby uncooked mess. After occupying my oven for TWO FULL HOURS - TWICE the time it should have taken. I looked at the clock. It was 6:00. We were supposed to be at our friends house for birthday dinner at that very minute. I looked at the noodles: the only thing that was almost done. The chicken, which would have been done if my oven hadn't been housing a bundt for TWO HOURS. I looked at that cake. That beautiful cake that I had been dreaming of making for Kenta. The hours I took reading over every step and following every direction. The child-free hours that I could have spent doing a myriad of things for Kenta on his birthday, instead of wasting it on this failure of a cake. And that cake just sat there. An ugly, half-cooked mess.

Then it happened.

I snapped.

I took the cake that had come out of the pan and angrily shoved it back in with my hands. There was a box of dried spaghetti sitting on the counter next to me. In my anger, I grabbed that box and beat the snot out of that cake with it, yelling at the cake each time I smashed it with the noodles (I later found out that I was just saying, "stupid! stupid! stupid!" over and over again). Imagine Ralphie beating Scut Farkus in A Christmas Story. It was like that. Then I threw the box on the ground and watched spaghetti noodles and cake bits scatter all over my kitchen floor. Kenta and the kids were downstairs at this point and I must have looked like a maniac with cake splattered all over my shoes, standing in a sea of broken angel hair pasta.

I stepped over the noodles like nothing happened, washed my hands off and announced that I would not be going to dinner. I was going to send the chicken, noodles, and sauce with Kenta (oh! I forgot about the sauce! That actually ended up being really tasty) and they were just going to carry on without me. I had a kitchen to clean up. I was a crying mess. I was really in no mood for celebrating.

Kenta, bless his heart, is well-versed in the ways of unstable women (he has been married to me for almost 6 years now...plus he has three sisters and a mom who probably all have acted a little crazy at times). He swept the noodles into a pile, called our birthday dinner hosts to explain our cake debacle and resulting tardiness. We were assured that the absence of cake would not be a problem and that we could come whenever we were ready. So I changed clothes and off we went. And I'm glad I went. After five hours on my feet in that kitchen, I needed to get out. And dinner was lovely (thanks, Jenn!). I was feeling terribly bad for causing everything to be late, but I just accepted Jenn's graciousness and tried to enjoy myself.

There was a massive mess to clean up when we gt home, but it was nice to be able to come back after a few hours to cool off. I had some time to think about some lessons I have learned from this.

Lesson #1 - Getting less than 5 hours of sleep is a really bad idea. It does not lead to stable places.

Lesson #2 - it feels really good to destroy something every once in awhile. Just make sure the destroyable candidate is a) not alive b) not usable (the cake) or c) inexpensive (the pasta). Also, be prepared to spend at least 200x the amount of time it takes you to destroy to clean up the destruction.

Lesson #3 - unless you want your kids to repeat it, don't say it. Thomas (thankfully!) thought I was saying "stop it! stop it! stop it!". He has enjoyed telling me the story of mommy going crazy in the kitchen saying "stop it!!!!". I know "stupid" is not a terrible word...it's just something I'd rather my 3 yr. old not go around saying. And I know there are much worse things I could have said. I like to keep my language G rated. Sometimes I slip into PG territory. Like when I am smashing a cake to death.

Lesson #4 - Unless it really is the end of the world, you will get over it. And you will laugh about it.

Lesson #5 - All bundts are NOT created equal. Some are apparently larger than the one I had used. Those larger ones can be filled to the "tippy top" without spewing cake batter all over your oven floor.

Lesson #6 - Kenta is an amazing husband. I always knew this, but his reaction to me going postal in the kitchen yesterday was further evidence that he is really an amazing person.

So there you have it. I am sometimes really crazy. What you would have given to be a fly on the wall in my kitchen yesterday, right? And if ever you have a cooking blunder or throw something (as long as you are not throwing it with the intent to hurt someone) or say something you shouldn't, know that you are in good company. I won't judge you for it. And when you get to the place where you can laugh about it, call me up. We'll laugh together. And I know you want to see the pictures. Kenta swept the spaghetti into a pile before I could snap a shot, but here's what was left of the carnage:

Miss Kendall,

In the kitchen,

with a box of spaghetti noodles

And please enjoy my blood-splattered cake battered cabinets

It was all over my fridge, too.

And since I spent most of yesterday creating and destroying a cake, I completely forgot about another birthday present I had for Kenta. So today is bonus birthday day. Yay!

So, other than the fading stench of burnt-ness in my house, yesterday's episode is becoming a distant memory.

Well...it would be a little more distant if part of my oven door hadn't melted during the cleaning cycle last night, but that's a different post for a different day. No more baking for me until we get that cleaned up. Hooray!

But I'm not hanging up my apron and oven mitts forever. My mom told me that I had to "get back on the horse". You bet I'll be making this bundt again - WITH some cupcakes next time.

On "Whose world is realer?"

The other day, my amazing friend, Cassandra, posted a link to a blog on her Facebook page from an LDS blogger who had a pretty fired-up response to a letter he had read from a columnist in the NY Times. The blog entry, entitled "Whose world is 'realer'?" was a very well written piece, refuting the NY Times columnist's claim that "In many cases, Mormons see the world, but they don't get it". Reading this blogger's experiences as a missionary in East Germany and as a church member living in Columbus, I paused to examine my own life experiences as a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

Far too often when I talk about my mission in Peru, I downplay it and throw in some disclaimer about the mission not being "real life". And in many ways, a mission is not like living a normal day-to-day life (I don't have to wear a skirt every day, I can email whenever I want to, watch TV, have a husband and family, etc.). But that doesn't mean that my mission wasn't real. I served a mission. I lived in Peru for 18 months - most of it in Lima, but also about 4 months in the Peruvian jungle in Iquitos. It does sometimes seem like a dream because life in Peru was so different than anything I have lived before or since. But I was there. The people I met are real. The experiences I had are real. And reading this blogger's missionary experiences stirred something up inside of me. I posted a link to his blog post on my facebook, along with something I wrote myself:

(please excuse the gigantic paragraph...)

"As a missionary in Peru, I cried with a grandmother after her 15 yr. old granddaughter had been kidnapped by her mother, taken to another location, was raped and impregnated by a grown man, then returned to her grandmother's custody. I mourned with a family whose young son had died from what should have been a low-risk, routine vaccination. I listened to a woman quietly tell me her plans to escape her abusive husband. I heard stories of people whose family members were carried into the Peruvian jungle by the Shining Path, and were never heard from again. I counseled a teenage boy who hit rock bottom with drugs and alcohol and was looking for a better path in life. I watched a young, single mother (the victim of a date rape) overcome her fears and learn to trust others again. I helped a destitute mother with sick children clean her home - and ended up contracting her children's illness ("rasca rasca" - apparently something that is only associated with "poor, dirty" children) myself. I sat in homes with no electricity, no running water, no roofs and watched rats run across the floor. I saw grown men weep because they could find no steady employment to feed their children. I helped an illiterate woman learn to read. I befriended a young man with a severe physical disability who had been all but forgotten by everyone around him. I cried with an alcoholic who had finally come clean, only to relapse again. And for this, complete strangers on the street would yell obscenities or cat calls at me. Because I was white. Because I was American. Because I was a woman. Or because I believe in God. I've been told that I've lived a sheltered life because I am Mormon. Nothing could be further from the truth."

I had a lot of people comment on it, saying things like "Yeah!", "Go, Kendall!" - stuff like that. Getting praise for going through those experiences was certainly not my intent of posting them. Rather, like the blogger who inspired me to examine my life and the unique experiences I have had because I am Mormon, I wanted to help others do the same. I daresay every return missionary has had similar experiences as I had on my mission. But it's not just limited to return missionaries, or even members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Any person who is a true disciple of Jesus Christ, anyone who seeks out the down-trodden and broken-hearted and wishes to "lift up the hands that hang down, and strengthen the feeble knees"- anyone who has done these things is someone who has seen the world enough to "get" it. At least, the world that our Savior knew. Probably not the same "world" that the NY Times columnist was referring to. And this is why I shun the idea that I have lived a "sheltered life". I owe my exposure to the "messier" side of humanity to the fact that I am a member of Christ's church and that my desire to serve Him requires that I serve my fellow beings - many of which are suffering from the pains and injustices of living in a fallen world. I sing a song to Thomas, to help him understand (and to remind myself) who we should be serving:

If you don’t walk as most people do,
Some people walk away from you,
But I won’t! I won’t!
If you don’t talk as most people do,
Some people talk and laugh at you,
But I won’t! I won’t!
I’ll walk with you. I’ll talk with you.
That’s how I’ll show my love for you.
Jesus walked away from none.
He gave his love to ev’ryone.
So I will! I will!
Jesus blessed all he could see,
Then turned and said, “Come, follow me.”
And I will! I will!
I will! I will!
I’ll walk with you. I’ll talk with you.
That’s how I’ll show my love for you.

Life would be a lot more comfortable if I stayed inside that bubble that so many people think I live in - the bubble where no drinking, swearing, or rated R movies are allowed. But Christ beckons us to follow him, and I have accepted the invitation to do so. It doesn't mean that I will be trekking around the slums of Lima, seeking out lost souls like I did as a missionary. Rather, I try each day to be aware of those around me who are in need of my help, whatever their circumstance may be. That might take me to the "slummier" side of my town, and if so - so be it. Like the song says, "Jesus walked away from none, he gave his love to everyone, so I will! I will!"

Becoming obsolete

Thomas has gained some new independence this week.

Some day he will hate me for posting this picture
He no longer needs me to help him get his drawers up and down when he needs to use the potty. He also insists on aiming himself and scooting himself on and off the potty, when needed. If I try to help him, this is what I get:

a door slammed in my face.

I just wish this burst of independence would have included an ability to wipe himself. So I guess I'm not completely obsolete. Yet.