A case in point is last Sunday’s baked alaska-like effort. It was no more than a ginger-nut biscuit base plus frozen berries plus vanilla ice cream plus meringue, but (a) it revealed that my meringue technique needs work and (b) as a whole, it was just awfully sweet (and I mean awful in the tragic sense). It was only salvaged by the addition of lots of plain yoghurt and lots more frozen berries. Ho hum.

Baked Alaska, kinda

In the spectrum of possible kitchen disasters, however, it was by no means the worst and, as Jenni has commented elsewhere, it’s our less-than-successes that can be most instructive. And then, as I read Susan’s post over on Wild Yeast about her dismal daring bakers episode, I got to thinking about what might separate a minor case of bad kitchen luck from an epic, no-holds barred, culinary disaster. And so, I herewith present (with tongue firmly in cheek) a handy guide to identifying the crème de la not-so-crème of make-or-bake failures.

After all of that, Sunday’s dessert episode only clocks up a measly 15 points – 10 for being edible after a salvage operation and 5 for having a family witness. I know I can do worse (or better, as the case may be). What about you?

While I might not have wholly appreciated it as a child, though, I certainly know now where my mother was coming from. We were a large family (try 10 kids for size) and my parents both worked hard to put that food on the table for everyone. They also both came from large families themselves and, having been young adults during WW2 (or “The Emergency” as it was known in Ireland), knew all about privation and having to be economical with rations (though, somehow, being reminded of this never made that smoked haddock seem any more appetising…)

The sayings (and the substance behind them) have, however, left a lasting impression. I still clear my plate at dinner (though, admittedly, it’s easier when there’s no smoked haddock to contend with) and I have a deep-seated abhorrence of food waste, which I see far too often for my liking. It also means that I always feel obliged to eat my food experiments, even the ones that turn out to be less than stellar.

Last weekend, for example, saw my first attempt to make gluten-free bread. I’ll freely admit that I was winging it, as my cupboard, bulging though it was with flours, couldn’t precisely match any of the flour mix recipes I’d found. So I took a selection of flours and starches, added some xanthan gum and yeast, kneaded and waited for the bread rolls to react in the usual yeasty way, but they didn’t rise one little bit. I cooked them anyway and what came out of the oven had crusts of steel.

Crusty The Cornbread

The maize flour used in the mix meant that these solid little babies qualified as cornbread, if, er, rather more rigid on the outside than is usual for same. Having managed to break into one of the rolls, I did find that there was a lovely cornbread aroma and really quite a pleasant taste once you got past the serious crust chewing involved. I was still a bit daunted by the fact that I was going to have to chisel my way through the entire batch as resident sis, after the first sample or two, was steering well clear. In this round of Kitchen Idol, she was voting them off (and with good reason) while I, well, I simply couldn’t bring myself to throw them out..

It was then that it came to me, almost jedi-like: “Use the force microwave”. Normally bread and microwave should not cross paths for any more than a few seconds, unless you want to end up with a soggy mess. In this case, however, 40 seconds on a microwave high turned the bulletproof cornbread shield into a pleasantly chewy crust. This allowed me to (a) split the rolls without having to resort to a pickaxe and (b) relax in the knowledge that I would neither waste the cornbread nor want for something to accompany my bowls of chili for quite some time to come.

It was all in the name of a recipe for apple jellies, which caught my eye as it passed through my inbox the other day via TasteSpotting: homemade sweeties that would apparently keep for up to a year but looked like they’d only last for about as long as it would take to open the tin. I was sold. As soon as I could get myself to my mothers apple tree, I was out (in spite of the dark, cold, uninviting nature of the evening) gathering some of the few remaining fruit still hanging about on the branches. It was going to take 2 days, more or less, to get to the final jellied stage (as the recipe involved overnight stints of cooling and drying) so, really, there was no time to waste.

Unfortunately, after the initial flurry of torchlit harvesting, followed by much stewing and reducing, the outcome has been somewhat less gelatinous than I’d like. The puree of apple, sugar and lemon was simmered ’til it was good and thick but apparently not reduced enough. A long sojourn in the oven to dry things out got the mixture closer to something solid but still with liquid tendencies. Things were not looking good, but…

…that didn’t mean that they weren’t tasting good. Quite the contrary. All through the process (and having tasted an early sample), big sis #1 kept remarking that the thick, pulpy apple mixture would be lovely spread on bread or toast (and I really couldn’t argue with her on that one). Ma said it was like a fruit butter. The Da – an apple fiend if ever there was one – just kept asking when it would be ready to eat.

So right now we’re having toast slathered with what, in a masterstroke of marketing, I have rebranded as apple butter, and I’m having absolutely no regrets about the jellies that weren’t…

Wannabe Jellies on Toast

I would like to apologise for what I put you through the other night. To tell you the truth, I am only just about recovering from the experience myself.

Let me start by saying that you have been a faithful kitchen servant for many years. I need only think of the speed at which you have allowed me to cook a myriad pulses: kidney beans for that tex-mex chili and the Nigerian stew with the peanut sauce; black turtle beans for Mexican “charros”; black-eyed beans to be eaten with sweetcorn and a cider vinegar dressing; butter beans later slow-baked with carrots, tomatoes and oregano; soy beans for homemade tofu (though that was only the once); and chickpeas a zillion ways.

You were never, alas, meant to be used for jam-making.

The other night, as I commenced the rhubarb and ginger jam experiment, it seemed like your pot was just about the right size for the amount of jam mixture involved. Oh how wrong I was. For jam, the pot should be deep enough so that the bubbling liquid does not splash beyond the bounds of the pot or run the risk of boiling over. It wasn’t your fault but, in this case, you lacked the depth required to succeed and I put you under pressure of a kind very different to the one you’re used to…

Once the jam reached its rolling boil, everything within about a one metre radius became a superheated splash zone. It looked like Mt. Rhubarb was erupting on the hob. Approaching in order to test the jam required lightening speed, nerves of steel and and a considerable amount of luck in order to avoid contact with the surprisingly far-reaching arcs of molten sugar.

Nor was this the only problem. I had probably added too much liquid to the rhubarb to begin with. The jam was runny and stubbornly refused to set. I found myself trapped in a cycle of boiling, adding lemon juice, and boiling some more, in the vain hope that this would coax it towards a setting point but, in the process, the mixture was becoming lemon jam with a hint of rhubarb and a distinct taste of burnt sugar. As for the ginger, well, its flavour had long since departed. And still the jam boiled on.

Eventually, long after I should have, I accepted the fact that the jam was past its setting point and just bottled the result. The awful discovery that followed, however, was that my jam-making efforts had left you encrusted with a thick black layer of carbonised sugar and I suspected that I might have done some irreparable damage. Hours of soaking with vinegar, followed by alternative therapies, such as oven cleaner and bread soda, were doing little to break down the carbon deposits. I feared the worst.

In the end it was you yourself who provided the solution, doing what it is you do best. With a little bit of water, I pressure cooked the carbon for a few minutes and, lo, it started to yield. A few further applications and the traces of the jam fiasco were all but faded. A future filled with speedily cooked pulses was coming back into view, a lesson was well learned and all was right with the kitchen once again.

There's light at the bottom of the pressure cooker once again