(Note: I must concede that this is not my handiwork: far too tempted by the scent of the potato delights, I forgot to capture them.)
It was a productive morning: I also made fire-cookies that were so tough that to eat them would be classed as self harm.
It never fails to light a flame of sorrow in my reibekuchen-filled tummy that as much as I have a sweet-tooth, I cannot bake sweet things for toffee (See? I’m on fire…).
To wit: last week my flatmate made cookies – round, creamy-coloured and dotted with pointy-cornered bits of chocolate, they were crisp on the outside and squishy within.
In other words, perfect.
Mine however, emerged straight from Hell’s kitchen.
Melted and merged into a vulgar hoop, the burnished tops crackled and bubbled malevolently.
The welcome scent of baking was tinged with charcoal, while the jelly-diamonds had reduced to a seething central-vat of burning molten candy.
In a bid to render the cookies normal (in appearance at least), I set about breaking the belligerent hoop into ‘natural’ circles.
In addition to firing sugar-shrapnel into my hair and face, the remainder resolutely retained its jagged edges and are now square.
And my cupcakes are faring worse each time I make them.
They taste good, sure – but in terms of appearance, it is very Rosemary’s Baby when the cake-tin lid pulls back.
“You know, maybe later? I’m still full/dieting/scared.”
I blame the butter-cream icing: invariably it resembles a play-doh cake made by a child who has just discovered Santa Claus is not real.
Accordingly, I stick to the savouries and ponder this cruel twist of culinary fate.