Sugar and Spice

The cupboard to the left of my stove is a tribute to the indomitability of the human spirit. The triumph of hope over experience. It is the cupboard I set aside for my baking supplies. I am not a baker. I do not like to bake. I once stayed up half the night baking Christmas cookies, because that’s what I thought good mothers did, but they were not very good. I can manage an occasional batch of peanut butter or oatmeal cookies, but that’s it. But I get enthused by words like ganache, and stock up with six kinds of sugar.

Today I cleaned out my cupboard, because Kate, full of optimism and short on memory, has made me Vice President in charge of Desserts for Thanksgiving. I unearthed (and discarded) packets of yeast that became inactive during the Clinton administration, and a couple of packages of Belgian chocolate dessert cups from Trader Joe. Filled with chocolate mousse, they would have made a good dessert, but although they have no sell-by date, the instructions urge storage at or below 70°, and I suspect they have weathered at least two summers with temperatures in the nineties. I also found about six packages of baking soda, a reminder of my trip to the grocery store last Christmas when I unpacked and realized that the cashier had given me a sack of groceries that was not mine. Some poor shopper was minus her baking soda and honey and quite a few other ingredients for her Christmas cooking. I called the store, but no one had yet reported the missing items. I left my phone number, but never heard anything. I felt really bad about that.

Well, I suppose the choice of pumpkin pie is a no-brainer. Homemade pate brisee or store bought pastry? I’ll wait to see how indomitable I feel tomorrow.