Over the weekend we went out for dinner for the first time with friends...(not the first time we went out for dinner, but the first time we met these particular friends for dinner and no, we did not eat them). Under these circumstances I'm usually a bit nervous, wondering how the conversation will flow or if we'll run out of things to say within three minutes of sitting at the table. Except when it's Thai food, as such was the case, and then all I'm worried about is how much red curry I'll be able to inhale before someone escorts me from the restaurant and my husband checks our marriage contract to see if there's a loophole for gluttony. There's NOT! But in the end my fears were unfounded, as they usually are--the conversation was scintillating and I gave myself a facial with the pad thai when no one was looking.
In other news, I made lemon bars for a birthday party on Saturday. And I so wanted them to be lovely, but there's a small hitch, otherwise known as a recipe, and I keep stumbling over it every time. I don't know what it is with me and recipes. Did they somehow offend me? Did they steal my boyfriend? Sometimes I think if I actually forced myself to follow one, the electrical surge in my brain would be so great it would not only blow my head off but also sizzle the power grid for the western United States.
This just reminded me of an email my mom sent me in November, two months before she passed away. I had called her asking about caramel recipes and she responded by sending me three different versions, encouraging me with these words:
I would suggest you try all three recipes and determine the exact temperature that produces the consistency you want. Write down the exact temperature and then always follow it. I would also suggest that these are recipes which must be followed EXACTLY, even if it makes your creative juices boil.
I wince for every time she used the word "exact". If you want to torture me, just put me in a room of people and have them crowd around me, chanting that word. I'll tell you anything you want to know.
Mom, I love you (in case you're allowed to read blogs in heaven).
There's this girl, the fabulous Alicia, who sometimes writes about her cooking adventures. She even documents the process in pictures so you can witness the masterpiece as it unfolds--everything mixed, measured, and baked according to plan. When this happens, I press my nose up against the computer screen like a hermit coming out of the woods, hoping to be welcomed at her table and stare wildly when she attempts to engage me in conversation, as I only speak wolf.
Since I couldn't bear to expose you to the madness of my methods, I will simply leave you with a picture of the failed bars. They're pretty enough, I suppose, but if I threw one across the room right now it would put your eye out. Apparently, when four eggs sound good, five will not make it better. Nor will extra lemons, mystery amounts of sugar, or overriding the suggestion to bake at 350 degrees for 25 minutes. When I was born, did someone wrap me in a bundle, knock on the door of this universe, and take off running?
