Clean-up on Aisle 10
For the rest of time, we'll be trying to figure out what went wrong. All we know is this. An attempt at carmelizing led to burnt buttery offerings that somehow wound up stuck to the bamboo floor. A trash can melted, too. I'm not sure how that happened. I'm not sure how any of this happened. I only know this. At 2 o'clock in the afternoon, the newlyweds suddenly decided to make a tarte tatin, thanks to a French baking show they've been watching, obsessively. "It's going to be great," the eldest promised, as he searched in vain for items the SJG doesn't possess. I'm not from the bakers. By now, he should know this about me. The only thing I do from scratch is kvetch. Missing from the kitchen: A rolling pin. A pie pan. And I can't remember what else, because, as I may have mentioned, I'm not from the bakers.
My eldest son, the dough-maker
I kept a safe distance on the sofa, pre-gaming for the Tony Awards, and saying useful things like, "The tarte tatin has taken a tar-tar-turn." And, "It's a tar-tar-tastrophe." Of course, had the newlyweds decided to make their first kugel, I would've been all over it. But instead, dough was happening, and apples were getting peeled by longtime hubby, who just couldn't help himself. Give the man a tool, kitchen or otherwise, and he's going to get busy.
My wonderful D.I.L. re-carmelizes, as one does, post-disaster.
The result: Just between us, it's tarte tatin-adjacent.
And delicious. Did it convince me to start baking?
Like me think about that. No. Bon appétit!
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