Sep 30, 2014
Let’s say the world ends. Right now.
That means no phones, no fancy tablets to pull up your precious Epicurious.com on. You can’t retreat to the tattered (a word which apparently only applies to books and magazines, instead of, say, puppets, like I think it should) pages of a Food & Wine issue from 2009. But you have some flour, butter, sugar, maybe rice, water, spices (if you're lucky), other assorted odds and ends that survived in your pantry.
We do it for the love…right?
That’s why we wake up at odd hours of the morning to start marinating something delicious and dead, or stay up late to get those damned little silvery ball things to look just right on top of your red velvet cupcakes (spoiler: they’ll never look right, because it’s 2014 and red velvet cupcakes are tired as hell). We do it because we love cooking, because we’ve had it in our blood since grandma’s grandma’s grandma made soup for some poor saps in the Crimean War, because one day we dream of owning a cupcake shop that famous people talk about on twitter or instagram or whatever the hell famous people use to talk about cupcakes.
Ah, the pound cake: the paradigmatic example of Americans taking something functional and screwing it up.
For those of you unfortunate souls who don’t know, the reason why a pound cake is called a pound cake is because the total weight of the combined ingredients is a pound, not because it vaguely resembles a brick you could hurl at your neighbor’s lawn/neighbor.
Butter will be the death of us, folks.
See, people have this idea that baking is an art. That artisan (that’s real artisans, not the word some marketing suits at Panera decided to put in front of every item on the menu) people passed down croissant-making techniques for decades and guarded them with their lives like they were the secret formula to Pepsi or something. I’m not gonna dispute that those people know what they’re doing, because they very clearly do. The chances that one of them can make a palmier better than me are infinitely high; that much is obvious.