I can't cook. There. I admitted it. While most Italians are born with a wooden spoon in their hand (doubling as a convenient tool for discipline on misbehaving children), screaming "MANGIA" and making meatballs, this gene appears to have skipped me completely.
I don't understand the concept of time management and multitasking, two skills apparently imperative to cooking prowess. This has resulted in many things being burnt, overcooked, undercooked, dropped and my ego therefore = damaged.
There was one incident even when I set my stove-top on fire, and then had a pan explode in the sink. Apparently hot oil and hot water don't mix.. who knew?
The extent of my cooking ability ranges from toast to soft boiled eggs, even both at the same time on a good day. Also recently, much to my families joy, I learnt how to whip cream. However, these abilities do not extend to apple muffins, which were tried and failed recently.
Determined to prove to myself that I am NOT kitchenly impaired, apple muffins seemed the perfect snack to accompany a night of Jersey Shore watching with my friend..who likes to amuse himself with the idea of how incredibly retarted I am at necessary life activities.
Yeah. So awkwardly enough, he might be right.
All seemed well and good initally and I proudly put my muffins into the oven with a smug smile, picturing everyone raving about how good they are, with my sister revoking her claim to being the best dessert chef in the whole wide world.
Apparently cooking time is meant to be adhered to, and 12 - 15 minutes means just that, not 20 - 25 minutes because you get distracted reading Vogue. Real chefs don't get distracted. So I'm told.
I come up with the brilliant plan to disguise the somewhat burnt but still edible muffins with icing sugar, Hello Masterchef, not all is lost.
My sister, who mind you - is possibly one of the best cooks I know, was eager to taste my toils, probably envisaging a day where she doesnt kick me out of the kitchen asking if I am "frigging retarted" after an incident that saw me not arranging sprinkles to her satisfaction.
It was she who poked her head in the bathroom while I was still basking in culinary glory, asking if I had time to make another batch before I left. Hello, confusion! Had she loved them so much that she wanted to eat them all, and share them with her friends and rave about how her sister might knock her off her dessert mantle?
Apparently not.
Did anyone else know that baking powder and baking soda aren't the same thing? I didn't. I do now.
My sister informed me that they were so awful that she had to spit it into the bin, and then forced me to take a giant bite out of my own mishap. I may aswell have dived into a large vat of salt with my mouth open after consuming an apple. The insides of one was even red. Not even my dad wanted to eat them. My dad once ate a baby turtle in Japan so not to offend his hosts. He said, and I quote "I wanted to die. They just got worse with each bite." Culinary prowess - shattered.
My mother, who was so proud that her youngest daughter might grow up to do something better than present her future grandchildren with soft-boiled eggs everyday of their life, soothed my shattered ego, reassuring me that I would never make the same mistake again, if I ever ventured into the world of apple muffins for more humiliation.
I probably won't.
It's probably safer for everyone.
julia.
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