lukka

refreshingbeveragezilla:

So me cooking in the house is becoming more and more regularly nowadays seeing my current situation at the moment, coupled with the potential risk of having to cook for myself in a short space of time (when I’m out in uni, for example. The housemate will help, but my odds are on the high school jock so I better start the Martha Stewart program). I’ll start off right now. I don’t know the first thing about cooking. Or didn’t. Whatever. Point is, I didn’t know my toast from my toaster. Or my forks from my butter.

Gee. That could end badly.

But I’m cooking. Which is awesome. First thing I cooked. Vegetarian spag bol. Worked like a charm. Was beautiful, tasted beautiful, looked beautiful. Someone upstairs didn’t like this. Not. One. Bit. So a little bit of divine/karmatic intervention and now my cooking is on a slow downhill slide. On a toaster. Which makes for a nice sled, now that I think about it. If a tad too small. I should try that sometime.

Sidetracking. The second time I had spag bol, there was an issue with the jar of sauce. No problem. Ran that thing under water. Open? Nope. I got NASA’s best men on it and they couldn’t open it. I tactical nuked it from the closest pacific island and it still wouldn’t open. So I naturally adopted the Gordon Freeman method. If all else fails, crowbar that bitch.

Which worked. Sorta. I had spag bol, with a slight dash of broken glass. Hmm. Pointy.

So my career as a dinner chef didn’t exactly go to plan, and I don’t trust myself to be cooking anything in the morning except my face without a good dose of adrenaline beforehand. Lunches are down pat, so I thought of the only alternative. Elevensies. Until, of course, I realised I don’t speak Hobbit and gave it up as a lost cause, going for dessert.

Now, for everyone’s reference, the recipe for the microwave cake thing? Phenominal. Absolutely fantastic. If, and only if, you follow the recipe to the little dot on the top of the i. If you don’t, you can pretty much kiss your sweet tooth goodbye. It will never forgive you for thet ravesty you have provided it. Granted, I did switch the self-raising flour for regular flour and a touch of baking powder, and I scraped away with it. But of course, you can’t spell fluke without FUK.

If only fluke had a silent c.

Because, I thought I could take on anything. I was the Juggernaut, the Panama Canal, baby. I was the King of the Kitchen, the Lord of the Ladles, the Phoenician of Vanilla Essence. Etcetera. Point is, I thought I was a god amongst mere mortals. But it proved that this cake was much too powerful. Oh yes, it had even me in the palm of its hand like a piece of play-doh, waiting to squeeze me out in strips between its sweet, tender fingers.

Aside from the touch of the dramatic Dr. Frankenstein moment, I decided to split the recipe in two. Which worked. Sorta (can you see where this is going?). Cooked them, one of them didn’t rise. That’s okay, the second one was fine. I take it out of the microwave, burn my hands and watch in slow motion as the cup tauntingly smashes my hopes, dreams and dessert all over the counter.

How I wept. I would’ve eaten it too. Just think. Chocolate Pudding with porcelian sprinkles. Delicious.

So I had one half-assed chocolate pudding. And where did it go? To my good friend. Just proving I’m a gracious host, if not a clumsy one. The bad news is he said it was freaking delicious, which pretty much took the ashes of my chocolate dessert and pissed on them. The good news was he brought cupcakes, which means now I’m eating away my sorrows.

Don’t look at me. I’m disgusting. Om nom nom nom.

Poace oot, y’oll. *gromnomnom*

PS. COOK THIS SUCKER. The vanilla essence makes a huge difference, and I had white chocolate chunks to mine. Cause that

should have asked for some cooking lessons before you vamooshed, i would have gladly helped out