losing my virginity to the blueberry muffin

There’s this person in my kitchen. She looks a little like me, a tornado of a midget whizzing around, pouring, clanking, mixing, wiping ~ generally making an atomic-flour-bomb of a mess. I think she’s baking, which is simply a bizarre concept for me to grasp because she looks like me, but I don’t bake. I just do not bake.

And there are  good reasons why I don’t bake, the main one being that I have trouble with measurements. I don’t own a measuring cup, measuring spoons, kitchen scales or any other tool of a self-respecting baker (including the obligatory cake tin, muffin tray and mixing bowl). My attitude towards measurements is nonchalant at best and I’m a true believer that a ‘pinch’, a ‘dab’ and a ‘splash’ are completely acceptable measurements for the perfect amount of spice/sauce/anything.  

So while she looks curiously like my doppelgänger, I’m still sure she isn’t me because damn if I’m ever going to be caught using measuring spoons.

But whoooopsy-daisy, I lied.

“Hi. My name is Cat, and last week I bought measuring spoons, an electric mixer and a muffin tray.”

Holy mother of a-triple-layered-honey-soaked-hummingbird-cake-loving god! Do you see where this is heading? Pure and simple disaster.

Flicking through a cookbook last week, I happened upon a blueberry muffin recipe that looked scrumptiously fluffy, and so delectable that I couldn’t help but dream lofty daydreams about me, bakerella extraordinaire, frilly-aproned and hair in a coif, churning out perfectly exquisite blueberry muffins without so much as a sheen on my normally glistening you-can-fry-an-egg-on-it forehead. And it’s low fat! 

Needless to say, it didn’t quite turn out that way.

For starters, I managed to coat myself in flour in the supermarket, and thank god there’s something else from the movies that just isn’t real ~ there was no cute guy, just minding his own business, walking down my aisle. There was however, a frumpy old lady, looking at me like I was a complete retard, which actually, I am, so really the worst I can say about her is F-rum-py.  And ol-de.

So I prepared myself for the Big Baking Expedition by painting my toenails, because nothing boosts your confidence instantly quite like perfectly pedicured baby toes. I then prepared my space by laying out mixing bowls x 2, wooden spoon, whisk, electric mixer, muffin pan, baking paper, and the various ingredients. And I fired up Robbie Williams’ Greatest Hits. Then I looked at the instructions and realised I was completely phucked (god knows I need some Love Supreme to get through this).

It says, “Beat the egg.” And to all you seasoned bakers out there, I know what you’re thinking. You’re like, huh? What, does she not know what an effin’ egg is? We’re in for one hell of a ride! Well, I do know what an egg is (though you’re right, this is not to be assumed), but what is “beat”? With a whisk? With a fork? With my leopard print Karen Millen heels?  Anyway, whatever. So I decided to use a whisk, which seemed an appropriate choice between using a fork (lumpy egg mush) and an electric mixer (a bit mean for just one defenseless little egg).

It took me almost 15 minutes to traverse step 1, and what do they do? They fling another doozy right at me!

So this one says, “Mix together all of the ingredients, except the berries.” Mix?? What is mix? Again with the vagueness! With a spoon? With an electric mixer? With the Steig Larsson book that I didn’t think was so crash hot in the end? FFS (read: for phucks sake). So I decided to use the electric mixer, because apparently we’re trying to get to a doughy state, and my weeny arms get tired easy.

That step accomplished, we were on the home run. It’s an absolutely miracle I knew what “Fold in the berries” meant because sheesh, can you imagine if I didn’t? I would have spent hours scoring the poor little blueberries so that I could fold them in perfect halves before adding them to the mix.

Aren’t they super cute uncooked and all that?

25 minutes in the muffin tanning bed and…

Now I’m just going to tuck into my very very own blueberry muffins while I unravel myself from a mild case of schizophrenia. It’s been a long and confusing day, and despite the unexpected lesson in the ambiguity of the English language, I thoroughly enjoyed my very first baking experience. I’m pretty sure I will bake again, but first I need to figure out the eternally unanswered question of humanity (no, not the meaning of life, that one’s easy), “who am I?”

Will the real slim shady catty please stand up, please stand up?

I already am standing up! I can’t help if I’m only two and a half feet tall!