Last night I decided to conquer one of my culinary fears - Puff Pastry. I am not sure where this irrational fear of pastries that puffed came from, but it's there. Maybe it's the slightly delicate nature of the pastry, one can not be sure...
So I sat down after eating my masterpiece of a dinner entree - prepared from scratch - hot dogs and bagged salad - yum - and began the tedious task of peeling four large apples with a very sharp knife. I sat there, tongue in teeth, concentration forming beads of sweat on my brow as I attempted to make an apple-skinned curlie-q.
But I did get in there and cut each slice of apple paper-thin as my directions entailed.
I piled the appley-goodness into a pan, tossed in some flour, cinnamon, brown sugar, and, for the heck of it, a handful of walnuts.
After awhile - the syrup had thickened and I read the next step.
Add sour cream.
Take my staple burrito topping and slather on this pretty mess of sugar and apples?
It's just wrong!
But, like the novice chef/baker that I am - I cringed and then slowly folded in the white gooey mess.
It looked like the bottom of someone's shoe after a particularly icky day at the vet's office with a sick poodle.
And it was in my pan.
But, shunning my natural reaction, which, by the way, was to grab the gooey mess and run screaming through the neighborhood like a pooh-toting carney - I plopped the whole she-bang into the pie-plate (which I sooo didn't even know I had) and then sat down at my sticky kitchen table (result of freak syrup incident in the A.M. - and nooo it wasn't like that - I was alone - hey - you - you are a sicko!:) ).
I knew it was going to be gross.
It was going to be worse than that time that I had made White Chocolate Fondue.
Now THAT was downright icky - it tasted like old, stale marshmallows. And butter substitute.
Twenty-five minutes later it comes out looking beautiful and golden brown.
The little hearts that I had painstakingly cut out in various sizes were sitting pretty on top of a wonderful smelling pie.
It smelled good, looked good, but would it taste good?
I wasn't so sure...
I emptied half a tub of Cool Whip on top for safe passage to my picky pallate.
If I don't like it, I thought to myself, I'll just give it to Dad - he'll eat it!
I tetatively took a bite (mostly whipped cream with a tad of the pie) and grimaced in preparation.
So - chalk one up to me and my excellent baking skills!
Do I dare?
Yup - I think I'm going to make my own pasta!