Kayteamai and the failed pastry cream.

I certainly do NOT have a job but if I did, this is how a day in the life might go -

I look gross. Actually gross might be an understatement. I probably look somethin like what I imagine a modern witch would look like. A mix between ms theron's charcter in 'monster' and well a literal monster. A drunk monster. I for one am not drunk but having been up since 4am, hair (still at 1 pm) looking like I lost a fight with the 80's and in an oversized burgundy flannel shirt, were lookin prrrettttty scary.

I would be staring at the recipe for pastry cream. Understanding it but just so. Not. In. The. Mood.
To all my loving non- food savy friends, pastry cream is a cream used in (hold your breath) -pastry ( tadah!) things like the insides of eclairs or réligieuse and some cakes. Well the basic premise would be to make a boiling cream mixture on the stove, temper some egg yolks in, make the whole batch adjusted, smooth it , cool it onto a sheet pan, scrap it into bowls for later use and voila. Pastry cream.

In theory that is.
If I had a job I might have theoretically gotten frustrated with the one of the Mexican compadres of mine that I definitely don't work with, when I asked him where the large strainer was that he was just using and he would respond with that confused old man look and continue to insesively whistle what sounded like Olivia Newton-John's hit song 'physical' ...
I would have frustratedly scuffled over to the sugar bin and borrowed the one from there as a meager replacement.

Having grossly over-estimated the amount the recipe made, I would likely curse silently to myself while I watched the giant pot struggle to keep up with the gallon + of milk inside if it.
The strainer would have hard time dealing with a half pot of noodles.
Fig newtons this is gonna suck.

Awkwardly I would try and hold the baby strainer as I would pour the eggs and yolks and jazz into the pot to be tempered. ( in retrospect, maybe adding hot cream to the eggs then RE adding them would prove better, faster and less horrible outcomes... I digress)
Only having two hands and a virtually useless baby strainer that I cannot balance on the pot, I would have poured as much eggy mixture into the cream as I dare before violently flinging them aside and whisking like a loon at the bubbling mass infront of me. Worried and anxious as to how the end results would look, I emptied the contents of the eggys into the big belly pot.
I would have whisked and whisked and whisked some more while sweating, fretting and furthering my reputation as a witch as I muttered to my bubbling cauldron of goo.
Though pleased with it's increasing thickness, I would have been doubly discouraged by it's... Um ... Chunkiness...
Friends, what happens when eggs are added to Anything hot and shaken up? Yes scrambles eggs.
I know. *sigh* good thing this story is hypothetical...
With a heavy heart I would empty the contents of my cauldron onto two sheet trays mark them with hearts and let them cool. Though useable, absolutely unsatisfactory. If I had a job anyways.

Gardeners must be Sadists.

Everytime it gets warm out, I always want to become some magical gardener. In my old house downtown, I had avocado plants growing over my balcony, organic lemon seeds, apple seeds, you name it an I wanted to plant it. This time is no different. After a successful experiment where boyfriend brought home a mysterious electric green pepper that he 'got from some guy at work', he picked up a little cayenne pepper plant that is currently exploding with peppers ( about 22 in all stages of growth). I was given a small pepper from a friend at school and once she shriveled up, I popped her into a planter box and there she is still sitting... Making me wait anxiously to see her sprout.( the pepper not the girl)
So last week while at school when I found the mother of all jalapinos just sitting abandoned on the spice rack in class and wilting quickly, I asked if it belonged to anyone and they all replied 'no...' like they wanted to say ' no Wierdo that mostly shriveled up dead pepper is not mine. And why your gazing at it like it's your first born confuses and amuses me.'
I digress.
So yesterday was the day. I set forth to germinate my treasure. I set up a germination station in the kitchen with ziplock bags and moist paper towel, and sliced into my baby.
That sounds wierd. Anyhoo. It wasn't until I was delirious with joy over the completion of my experiment that I remembered that I had a lemon in the trunk of my car :D ( don't ask) so with haste and joy I bolted to my car, grabbed the lemon and hurried back inside to free the seeds from there fleshy cells. It wasn't until ten second later that things started to go wrong... Horribly wrong. While squeezing the lemon halves to get at the seeds, a comically large spurt if lemon juice lept from the lemon, fueled by my sqeeZing, and was heading straight for my face. Befor I could even register what was happening, I was in the midst if a full frontal assault. With lemon juice in my eyes my first instinct was... To rub my eyes. With what prey tell? ... My jalapino hands.

Let's let that thought marinate for a second...

Yeah. So at this juncture I am in tremendous amount of pain, my right eye ball is burning in a citrus Jalapino hell! As I bounce around trying to think of anything that can help that didn't envolve me touching my face, I slammed my hand on the counter. The rush of pain to my fingers prompted me to, yes stick them
In my mouth. Good lord right now I am just a hot mess. Burn and sore and freaking out I sat there helplessly crying with make up streaming out of one eye and waited for the storm to pass.
Stupid burning fire lemon storm. As soon as I could stand and function without looking like a drunk zombie, I thoroughly washes my hands.
I walked outside with my experiments and places them in the sun light. I stood there stairing at them, shooting love beams from my eyes into their bags and then realized what a disaster I was looking like... I was so happy and they are so so cute, I hope the germination works... I this how all gardeners are? Ai carumba