Three!

As a student, I was always taught to do things in threes or say things in threes, as that would make the most impact. For example, if making a speech or presenting, it would help to have THREE power statements or points:

1) ONE …
2) TWO…
3) THREE.

Bam, convince them.

I’ve tried that a couple of times, I don’t know, I guess it’s one way of doing it but I’m not entirely convinced. The only “THREE” rule that I’ve come to honor is coincidently one that was derived from my slightly less-favored sport of all time. Three strikes and you’re out! One fuck up, two fuck ups … the third one and you’re out, or in deep shit or you just quit. I’m not talking specifically about the legal sense of the term (the whole “Three Strikes” equals an automatic life sentence) … Nah, I’m talking about baking a cake.

Before unleashing, I’d like to first mention that I (believe) that I am a great cook. In general, I can hook up a mean marinade; make a great breakfast, lunch or dinner. However, I’ve been trying to bake this forsaken cake for about 6 months, maybe a year. I don’t know why exactly, but I woke up one day with that goal in mind. Each time has been a bigger disaster than it’s predecessor.


One:
The first time, I actually followed a recipe. I did EVERYTHING, exactly to the tee, measured perfectly, timed perfectly, I just basically did EXACTLY as I was told. When I opened the oven, I found that the cake had never risen. I was left with a flat, hard piece of whatever-the-fuck.

The instructions stressed the point to NOT open the oven until at least 30 minutes have passed. I did exactly that. They also mentioned to poke it with a fork and see if it comes out ‘clean’. It looked clean to me. So … 50 minutes later, WHY WAS MY CAKE still RAW? The outside looked ‘golden crisp’ just as they had described, but I cut that shit open and it was a mess. It basically looked like a big fat omelet.

I did what any person who doesn’t like throwing food out would do. I took it into work. I cut it up into square pieces, put it in the kitchen and wrote ‘EAT ME!’ on an anonymous (and somewhat cowardly) post-it note. In all fairness to my co-workers, I did try the raw cake and nothing happened to me, so I figured I would give them the equal opportunity.

Eventually the laughable word got out about the ‘RAW’ cake in the kitchen. When I was busted (which wasn’t long) I was reduced to begging people to “TRY MY CAKE”. The only reason this worked was because I was able to hustle across the building, as well as downstairs faster than “the word” can travel through the corporate grapevine. I still have every obscene email I received that day saved in a folder named ‘CAKE DISASTER.’

TWO:
After recomposing what little ego I had left, I decided to go at it again.

In most things I fail the first time around, my second attempt is usually sufficient. I followed the same exact recipe but this time, DOUBLED the baking powder and DOUBLED the Vanilla extract. The first one didn’t rise and smelled like Eggs, so this was surely a logical progression. Oh, I also lowered the temperature a little bit, so that I can avoid the over-cooked outside, raw inside dilemma.

This one never went anywhere either? It rose a little bit (granted I did double the baking powder) but it was still the same disaster. To my credit, it tasted the exact same ‘BAD’ as the first one did … so should I decide to ever market and sell my “Terrible Cake”, I know exactly how to get there.

This time around, I didn’t take it into work (for a serious fear of straight up getting fired, or getting my work area booby-trapped). I cut it up into the same size squares as I did the first one, and put it in the fridge. I guess I eventually ate it all, very slowly, one excruciating bite at a time over a 2-month period. I kept convincing myself it was SPLENDA flavored quiche … and somehow that was totally cool.

THREE:
Ah yes, this was my time for redemption. All or nothing. This was IT. This was my moment of truth. The third little piglet had a huff-puff proof brick house.

Going into this, I had ZERO confidence and refused to follow a recipe. I just decided I was doing whatever the hell I felt like and made sense. There was no way it could ever come-out worse. Well … I was terribly wrong and after yesterday, I gave up on baking anything ever again.

My genius decided that the baking powder is fucking with me. My first retaliation was that I decided that I should add THE ENTIRE can of Baking Powder, what’s the worst that can happen? I’ll get an extra-puffy cake. I then refused to add the Baking Powder to the ‘dry’ ingredients and decided that I would switch it up and mix the baking powder into the ‘wet’ ingredients. I put the BP (after today, we can either call IT ‘BP’ or ‘That Which We Do Not Speak Of Anymore’) in with the Eggs, Butter, Milk and Splenda. If you know anything about baking you would smack me right now? Right? I found out the hard way that that-which-we-do-not-speak-of-anymore LOVES sugar, and heat (the molten butter was still sort of warm).

After realizing that there was no hope in controlling the “slight” over-flow of wet ingredients + BP … I acted quickly and added the flour in hopes that it would indeed quell this disastrous uprising. At this point, I was already dejected and didn’t want to even bother putting it in the oven. But what the hell, I came this far.

Need I even mention the outcome? No, because that would only make me even more crabby and pissed, irritable and unpleasant -- It’s only Wednesday, and it feels like a Friday and that can’t be a good thing.

Though I will mention that the salvaged ‘piece’ of cake I managed to gather up from that WRECKAGE tasted a lot better than any of my previous two. Take that Aunt Jemima.

Note: By the way, I went through the entire movie "CRASH" thinking that Dorri, the persian girl was indeed Jamie Lynn DiScala (Meadow, from the Sopranos). I remember thinking that she did a bang-up job and had me 100% convinced she was actually persian. I was wrong, the part was played by the VERY persian, Bahar Soomekh.