Bakin Ain't Easy

A sad fact of civilization is that we have very little photographic evidence of the birth of genius. Just think how cool it'd be if someone had been there to document the first time Mozart tickled the ivories, or Bruce Vilanch said something sassy. I've made it my personal mission to correct this. When I was a wee lad, I decided that I would exhaustively chronicle any field I made a foray into, just in case I happened to be really good at it. My first attempt at competitive baking was no exception. Now that the competition is over, how did I do? Well, to determine that, you'll just have to read on a journey through bake-off heartbreak and exultation.

When the Bake Off was mentioned at work, I knew that it was my destiny to enter. That wasn't enough, though; I had to do whatever it took to win. Whether that was through legitimate means or the ruthless crushing of my foes, it didn't really matter to me. However, I figured that for appearances only, I may as well enter something for judging. This posed a problem, as I know as much about baking as I do about Latvian zoning laws. I was going to need some help.

As I do when anything gets difficult, I immediately sent my mom an email. Luckily, she is well aware of my incompetency when it comes to pretty much everything, and so she sent me the best-tasting, easiest-to-make dessert recipe in the Powell library. Note the name of submitter for this recipe; dessert is in my blood!

After I received the recipe, I chose to ruminate on it for several days, until the night before the Bake Off. Then, like a tiger who just woke up from his nap, I sprung into action. First step, buying ingredients.

In a development that should shock no one who's ever been in my kitchen, I had none of the ingredients. I made a flying trip up to Albertson's, loaded up on all of the crap, and took it to the cashier. Then the following transpired.

Cashier: Woah.

Me: What?

Cashier: This little box of pecans is $7.99.

Me: Sweet Jesus, the pecan cartel is at it again! I need it for my recipe though, so I guess I'll buy it.

Redneck dude behind me buying a 6-pack of Icehouse: You don't got a pecan problem, buddy, you got a man problem!

Me: Boy howdy, do I...

I still have no idea how to interpret that guy's comment. In any event, I bought the stuff and took it home. Here's a blurry picture of the receipt, showing the pecan price, that I had to touch up due to blurriness.

Okay, the igredients are purchased. Step 1: mix some stuff together, coat the bottom of the pan with it. The mixing went well, but when it came time for spreading, I ran out. This did not bode well. See the shortage for yourself.

At that point, I made the executive decision to triple everything in the recipe and see what happened. I mixed up a lot more of the crust stuff and shoved it in the oven.

Step 2 involved me adding another layer onto what I had begun to call Mystery Pie. At this point, it was looking so good, I had serious problems with not eating it all then.

Step 3: another layer. I did not think it was possible for Mystery Pie to look less appetizing, but somehow, I found a way. I present to you Mystery Pie with intermittent white clumps. I put it in the oven anyway.

Somehow, through a judicious use of chocolate pudding cups, I managed to pull this project from totally disgusting to vaguely disturbing. Huzzah! The finished product.

Today at work, I brought up the Mystery Pie. I made it very clear to all of my coworkers that my food, while interesting to look at, may not be safe for consumption. Then I looked at the Bake Off ballot. In the category for pies, which was the nearest approximation for what Mystery Pie resembled, there were only 3 entries. "Hmm, I've already got the bronze," I thought to myself. I began to scheme of ways to move my way into second, or perhaps even first.

When the time of the Bake Off arrived, I was at my most vocal, saying things like, "Ohh, what a delicious mystery!" My other coworkers in the software division were used to my idiocy, and brushed my commentary aside. Nevertheless, I thought that maybe I could influence some of the people from marketing who rarely encountered Cody Wayne Maxwell Powell, and probably never came face to face with his Mystery Pie. It got a lot of stares, a few whispers, and surprisingly, lots of samples. I was hopeful of one legitimate vote for it, aside from all of the people I had commanded to vote for Mystery Pie.

An hour after the bake off, when all the votes had been tabulated, I was called to the awards ceremony. I hovered near the other entrants of the Pie Category and smelled the stench of fear. I was beginning to think today may just be Mystery Pie's day in the sun. And then, the head poo-bah announced it: First place in the pie category, Cody for Momma P's Mystery Pie (I decided to give my mom some props in the dessert title). I hadn't just won, I had dominated, with 70% of the first place votes. My prize? A certificate, a big wooden spoon, and something to be carved onto my tombstone.

Immediately after the convocation and my subsequent speech, I made the drastic decision to retire from competitive baking while my record was still unblemished. Having been at the pinnacle of the field, I could not now endure the depths. The recipe has been shredded, the wooden spoon has been packed up. The remains of the Mystery Pie, however, will linger in my fridge, to serve as a memento, and also because I'm not really sure whether it will go down my garbage disposal.

Posted by Cody at July 1, 2004 06:05 PM