Crimes against confectionery

Crimes against confectionery
19 June 2014

Man, oh man!  I’ve seen some horrendous crimes against confectionary.  Though to be truthful, mostly by my own hand.

However, am I alone?  There’s a family story, of my mom, aged about fifteen, dying to impress her boyfriend, my dad.  He was invited for a meal, and my mom wanted to make a sweet treat for dessert.  I imagine in the hopes of showing off her culinary skills, and winning him over.  And in her teenage wisdom, she elected to make a Roly Poly pudding.  Now I have heard this story from various sources.  My mom, my Dad, my gran as well as some of the other survivors.  By all accounts it had a similar density and weight loading strength capacity as hardened, steel reinforced concrete.  My dad used to fondly liken it to a brick.  Similar weight, shape and colour.  Aaahhh, fond memories, I believe it was.

In great optimism, I once decided to attempt baking Luke a birthday cake.  Yes, it was rather foolish.  Because I did not only attempt a normal square or round cake.  I tried to make a Ninja Turtle cake.  A friend’s mom had a mould, Luke was having a karate type party, and it seemed perfect.  But as his party was a few days after his actual birthday, I thought I’d bake it twice.  Once for his birthday, and once for the party.  And what a good call that was.

Reason being, that on the birthday, I baked the cake, and all actually went well.  However, when it came to icing the cake, I simply make a dark chocolate icing and liberally dolloped and smeared it all over the cake.  The term, “unpalatable” rather accurately describes it.  If brave enough to overcome, the terrible visual picture it made, the actual cake tasted fine.  One just had to cross the visually unpleasing bridge.  I quickly realised, that I would have to find proper coloured icing instead, and do it the correct way, for the party.  And in the end, it didn’t look half bad.

Cake is a wonderful, marvellous, joyful, happy thing.  It brings delight and pleasure.  But every so often, things go a bit pear shaped.  And you’re left with something ever so slightly undesirable.  Most likely not the end product you were shooting for.  Lots of times, the main mistake is the writing on the cake.  Things often get lost in translation.  Probably when verbal instructions are given over the phone.  For Luke’s 5^th birthday, having learnt from my foolish ways, I decided to outsource.  He needed a cake, shaped like the number five.  Pretty simply really.  Just a plain chocolate cake, with little army men and soldier stuff dotted around.  It was an army party after all.  I spoke to the baker.  Made eye contact.  Explained my requirements.  In simple, concise, easy to understand words.  Yet about two hours before the party, when my husband went to fetch the cake, it said, “Luck”.  As opposed to “Luke”.  Interesting indeed.  We just went with it of course.  Soldiers need luck all the time…

And then, quite unexpectedly, just the other day, I spotted a truly awful cake, and it gave me the idea.  Are there any other awful cakes out there?  What am I missing out on?

I did a quick search.  And found out, that there was nothing “quick” about it at all.  There were pages, and pages, and pages dedicated to catastrophic cakes.  Entire blogs in honour of bad cakes.  Virtual visual encyclopaedias immortalising the horrors.

It was a most enlightening experience.  And in hindsight, my cake was bloody marvellous.  I wouldn’t have made this list at all.  The problem being, that once I started looking at the pics, I quite simply couldn’t stop.  There were just too many of them.  And most of them truly good.  In a really bad way.

It also made me realise something else, when I was looking at some of the best terrible cake photos on the internet - clearly I’m not alone.  There are many similarly afflicted individuals out there.  And what they’ve done is a heinous and mostly unforgiveable sin.  They’ve committed crimes against confectionary.

I wouldn’t put a mouth, to most of these “wonders”.  And just look at them!  Is it really any wonder???  I don’t think you would either.

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Few things, say, "I love you son", like an 18th Birthday cake, endorsing weed. What swell parents!

 

Now is it just me, or does Tink need to lay off the carbs and protein a bit? There's a hell of a lot of thigh action happening. And looking at the size of her wings, I don't think she's still flying. The wing-to-weight ratio seems a bit off.

I find this disturbing, on so many levels. It's creepy and smacks of cannibalism. Eeeuuu!

 

This little piggy went to the oven... I don't think anyone will buy him at the market

 

Messed up, is what this is!!!

 

Nice one! That's telling Ryan exactly how you feel. Sure he's strived all of his life to win your approval. NOT!

 

There simply are no words. Those princesses seem happy. Sorry - I just had to.

 

Bambi looks like she got hit by a car

 

Interesting take on a bee cake. Lots of effort? Not so much!

This is the stuff of nightmares - the dog is melting. Fancy a slice?

 

Stoppit! This is creepy, nasty and just plain wrong.

 

What kind of sick and twisted mind wants a cat litter box cake? I would not want to be stuck on a deserted island with this individual.

 

This is in terribly poo(r) taste - wouldn't want a bite

This is wrong. Very, very wrong.

Okay, all of the baby cakes are really freaking me out. Big time!

I am quite simply speechless. Not sure if this is a wedding cake or a divorce cake. Either which way it is nasty!

This is what is known as an epic fail. A funny one. But a fail none the less.

Alrighty then! Do dictation often?

 

Why would anyone want a spaghetti and meatballs cake? People are strange.

 

And then they get more strange. Yummy...

 

Apparently a divorce cake. Charming!

 

What can I say? I'm a huge fan of irony.

My only thought here is Halloween?

Shoot me now!!! So gross!

"Never gonna make you cry. Never gonna say goodbye."

 

Aaahhh! Precious! Momma's giving birth to Casper. And by the looks of things, she's going to breastfeed.

 

Why??? Why??? Who does this???

I just don't get it

 

I'm guessing this took about 5 minutes to put together. No wait - maybe only three and a half.

Very Lion King. And odd.

Yay! It's about the small things in life.

 

Gotta admit - this did give me a laugh. Creepily accurate "entry" point.

Uncalled for. There were even more accurate depictions, but I couldn't bring myself to share them.

Okay, these baby ones, are making me lose the plot. In addition, this baby is not looking healthy. Far too blue. She needs oxygen dammit! Not a cake knife.

 

I'm assuming this is in honour of Thanksgiving?

 

 

I do apologise. It hurts my eyes to look at it. I merely share to show you how incredibly strange people are. This is pretty twisted.

 

 

My son, "Luck". Sadly at five he could spell his name, so he picked up on the error. Dutifully explained to him that soldiers need luck (and weapons, and good training, and bullet proof vests, and 3 square meals a day, and really short haircuts), to get them through combat.

 

 

Luke and Amber with the brown Ninja Turtle Blob. Can't even recognise the shape. Quickly realised that proper coloured icing it would have to be.

 

 

In hindsight, the end result was not too shabby. More than a decade later, I still have the violent icing colouring powder. Best I turf it.

 

If my husband has a live-in chef, why don't I?

If my husband has a live-in chef, why don't I?
19 August 2013

I am all for marital equality.  And both partners in a marriage have equal rights and privileges.  Forging a proper partnership, in which both husband and wife have the same say.  The same veto and voting rights.  Fair is fair.

Yet somehow, I think I’ve been done in.  The bargain I struck was perhaps not all that good?

How come my husband got a live-in chef when we got married?  And in return I got none?

This smacks of blatant favouritism.  It’s true!  And his supreme privileges do not seem to end there.  His chef even does the shopping for ingredients for the meals she prepares.  And most of the clean-up thereafter too.

Imagine the bleeding luxury of coming home after a day at work, knowing you don’t have to worry about grocery shopping and cooking something yummy for dinner.  The thought doesn’t even enter your head.  Because with ultimate confidence you know, that your chef would have prepared something delectable in anticipation of your culinary needs.

I think it is time for a revolt.  For a change in the status quo.

I simply have to insist on having my own chef too.  Perhaps a lovely little French number.  I can call him André.  Funny enough, he’ll have a remarkable resemblance to Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp too.  He’ll wear a little black beret and the prerequisite stripy black and white shirt under his chef’s coat.  And for extra good measure?  A charming bandana around his neck – in red of course. 

On his breaks between slaving away in my kitchen, he’ll retreat to my courtyard garden (the one I don’t have).  He’ll sit in the dappled sunlight under my great giant big oak tree (the one I don’t have).  He’ll draw deeply from his Gauloises Plain cigarettes (he’ll have to bring his own), and sip on some rare vintage red wine from my cellar (the one I don’t have).  He’ll have floppy hair, that is slightly over long.  And he’ll speak in the most charming accent.  He’ll call me “Ma Cherie” and tell funny little jokes.  And talk about life in gay Paris.  Walking along the Seine and having picnics along the Rhine – baguettes and cheese platters, fresh seasonal fruit, preserves, crackers and the lot.  He’ll say “oui-oui” a lot, with no reference meant to his bladder at all.

Cause here’s the thing.  The main reason I have a kitchen, is because it came with the house.  Yes I do cook rather nice food on occasion, but I don’t really have a passion for it.  I do it in order to feed my family and myself.  To service a need.

But the thought of having a live-in chef like my husband does, fills me with great joy.

And I’m wondering why he was the only one who struck this lucky deal when we got married? 

Now, it can be said, that his chef, looks nothing at all like my beloved André.  In fact, I have a suspicion that he wishes his chef looked a bit like Angelina Jolie.

In which case, he really bummed out.  Because instead he got me.

Anyway, off to the shops I go.  Ingredients needed for home-made chicken schnitzels.  I’ll do a to-die-for cheese sauce too.  Home-made chips.  Veggies as well.

And on my breaks between slaving away in my kitchen, I’ll retreat to my courtyard garden (the one I don’t have).  I’ll sit in the dappled sunlight under my great giant big oak tree (the one I don’t have).  I’ll draw deeply from the fresh and crisp winter air, and sip on some freshly squeezed orange juice (sadly not made from oranges picked from my orchard – the one I don’t have).  I’ll be having a bad-hair-day.  And I’ll speak in the most charming accent.  I’ll call myself “Ma Chef” and tell funny little jokes to no one at all.  And talk about life in sunny South Africa.  Walking along the Lourens River and having picnics in the Nature Reserve and all along the coast – soft rolls with delectable delights, fresh seasonal fruit, crackers and the lot.  I’ll say “wee-wee” a lot, with every reference meant to my bladder.

If only….. André would be a much nicer option.

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Poor Gordon Ramsay's wife

Poor Gordon Ramsay's wife
29 July 2013

Can you just imagine being Gordon Ramsay’s wife?   

The poor dear!  Though, I suppose being married to old Gordie, she’d have to be pretty hard core.  And is more than likely as tough as old boots.  And let's nothing much faze her.  Least of all his temper.

 

Just picture the stress involved in making him a simple brekkie in the mornings?

“What do you call these #&$@* eggs???  My father can make better eggs and he’s been dead for 16 years!!!  That yolk is so hard, it could double as a footie ball!  And the white is so ^%$#*& rubbery, they could use it as a slingshot to catapult astronauts to the  ^%#$@*& moon!!!”.

I which case, I hope she tells him to sod off and cook his own bloody eggs.  Alternatively she could either boot him out of her kitchen, or enslave him in there for life, forcing him to cook for her.  It actually sounds like a rather clever plan to me.  Maybe she can critique him instead?

Though possibly he’s a real pussycat at home.  And reserves his classic Type A competitive behaviour for his work endeavours only?

Traditionally a women’s kitchen is her castle.  Her own personal domain where she rules the roost.  Sometimes the one spot in the house, where she is the supreme leader of all.  And her authority is unquestionable and above reproof.

Personally kitchen’s don’t really do it for me.  Oh, I like them and the wonderful food that they are able to yield.  And I want to rule.  But just not kitchens.

I envisage minions.  Stretches of fertile land.  Rolling hills.  Mansions.  And no bills within sight.

In fact it sounds heavenly.

As for myself, I always enjoy Gordon Ramsay’s shows.  I wonder what that says about me?  I like the results he gets.  His absolute passion.  His enjoyment in mastering his craft.  His aim of perfection.  His ability to get the very best out of his people.  His knack for spotting potential and his gift for moulding it into greatness.

And just perhaps Tana Ramsay doesn’t deserve or need my sympathy.  She’s clearly a pretty dynamic woman herself.  She has authored a few cooking books of her own, and is currently hard at work raising FOUR kids, including a set of twins.  Yes, four kids.  One of them a son, showing a remarkable resemblance to Gordon.  And I'm left to wonder if he inherited more than just his father's looks and got the vile temper too? 

 

Yip, Tana Ramsay's probably pretty much unflappable.  And a tiger too.

Chances are, old Gordie is pretty harmless in comparison to that.

And potentially she taught him all of his very best swear words.

In which case, I really dig her a lot!

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