Existentialism about baking, and yesterday's QotD
I got up early(ish) and came downstairs to do some baking.
My baking binder was missing--the binder that has all the recipes for the things I make regularly, as well as things I make irregularly and things I haven't made yet but want to.
About 20 minutes of quiet panic ensued as I tried to figure out where it might have gone, what I was going to do about the thing I needed to make for today, and what this would mean long-term.
A lot of those recipes came from online sources, so I could find them again if I needed to. And a number of them wouldn't be difficult to re-create one way or another, and a few of them I more or less have in my head (that is, I know the ingredients, amounts, and steps in context).
But even so, that thing contains the original recipe card from my mother for the chocolate-chip meringues, and the basic recipes for the spice and sugar cookie doughs (along with various ideas of things to do for them) that came out of an issue of Woman's Day 20 years ago and have become old friends; there are also a bunch of paper recipes clipped out of issues of Gourmet that might or might not be on their site, but certainly don't exist in that specific paper form anymore. And the thought of losing all those things was really upsetting.
After the 20 minutes of quiet panic, I found my resourcefulness again and looked down the sides of the refrigerator (all the cookbooks and such are stored on top of the fridge). Yep, there it was. I had to move the fridge some distance to be able to reach the binder, but I did get it out, and got my magdalenas safely mixed and into the oven. Crisis averted.
Even so, this was instructive. I wouldn't have realized that losing the specific hard copies of those things would have meant so much to me. And if it ever happens for real, there wouldn't be much I could do about it. I should definitely put the recipes I don't have in electronic form into that state so that I have a backup of the information. But I can't ever entirely guarantee that the existing hard copies will always be with me.
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In unrelated matters: We went to dinner at a Szechuan place last night (for the locals, Seven Stars Peppers). Nothing fancy.
I was wearing this outfit, without the hat or gloves, and with a beaded ivory headband and a 3/4 sleeve black jersey fitted cardigan. Why was I wearing that? Because I felt like it and because the busy-ness of my schedule lately (and the need to wear khaki work clothes one day a week now) had been making me feel schlumpy.
I am nearly always overdressed for Seattle, so I am used to drawing attention for that. But as our server wrapped up taking our order, she looked at me bashfully, and then blurted out: "You look like a princess!" And not in a sneery, you're-so-above-yourself way, but in an admiring, slightly awed way. It was adorable, and very flattering.
My baking binder was missing--the binder that has all the recipes for the things I make regularly, as well as things I make irregularly and things I haven't made yet but want to.
About 20 minutes of quiet panic ensued as I tried to figure out where it might have gone, what I was going to do about the thing I needed to make for today, and what this would mean long-term.
A lot of those recipes came from online sources, so I could find them again if I needed to. And a number of them wouldn't be difficult to re-create one way or another, and a few of them I more or less have in my head (that is, I know the ingredients, amounts, and steps in context).
But even so, that thing contains the original recipe card from my mother for the chocolate-chip meringues, and the basic recipes for the spice and sugar cookie doughs (along with various ideas of things to do for them) that came out of an issue of Woman's Day 20 years ago and have become old friends; there are also a bunch of paper recipes clipped out of issues of Gourmet that might or might not be on their site, but certainly don't exist in that specific paper form anymore. And the thought of losing all those things was really upsetting.
After the 20 minutes of quiet panic, I found my resourcefulness again and looked down the sides of the refrigerator (all the cookbooks and such are stored on top of the fridge). Yep, there it was. I had to move the fridge some distance to be able to reach the binder, but I did get it out, and got my magdalenas safely mixed and into the oven. Crisis averted.
Even so, this was instructive. I wouldn't have realized that losing the specific hard copies of those things would have meant so much to me. And if it ever happens for real, there wouldn't be much I could do about it. I should definitely put the recipes I don't have in electronic form into that state so that I have a backup of the information. But I can't ever entirely guarantee that the existing hard copies will always be with me.
===============================
In unrelated matters: We went to dinner at a Szechuan place last night (for the locals, Seven Stars Peppers). Nothing fancy.
I was wearing this outfit, without the hat or gloves, and with a beaded ivory headband and a 3/4 sleeve black jersey fitted cardigan. Why was I wearing that? Because I felt like it and because the busy-ness of my schedule lately (and the need to wear khaki work clothes one day a week now) had been making me feel schlumpy.
I am nearly always overdressed for Seattle, so I am used to drawing attention for that. But as our server wrapped up taking our order, she looked at me bashfully, and then blurted out: "You look like a princess!" And not in a sneery, you're-so-above-yourself way, but in an admiring, slightly awed way. It was adorable, and very flattering.