Why I Am Not A Baker

I am not a baker, I am a cook.
Why? I think I would rather be
a baker, but I'm not. Well,


for instance, Max wanted
to make a blueberry pie. I said yes.


This is what happened:

I thought it would be adorable to make little pocket pies, and I just happen to have a heart-shaped sandwich cutter. Sounded easy and foolproof. But for me, no baking is fool-proof--because baking is Not. For. Fools. You have to be able to measure, for godssake. And that requires numbers. So right away I'm doomed.

I didn't know I was doomed until Max had cut out all those cute little hearts and painstakingly piled tablespoon-fulls of blueberries on top of each one. (NB: Do you know how many fresh blueberries fit in a tablespoon? Three. So, as I say: doomed.) (NB2: Do you know how hard it is to get a 5-year-old to painstakingly do anything? Much less pile three blueberries into the center of irregularly-shaped pie crusts? DOOMED.) The full force of the doom hit me when I went to place the top crust on each pie and realized--a tad belatedly--that the top crust couldn't possibly be the same size as the bottom crust, or it wouldn't fit over the berries. But I had just the one cutter. So I stretched and cajoled the unwilling dough, eventually just saying "fuck it" and patching up the edges with dough scraps.

When I pulled them out of the oven, they were so browned and crunchy with sugar crystals and beautiful and fragrant...and completely empty. Every single drop of filling had leaked out of every single pie and coated my expensive cookie sheet and my baking stone.

Good thing I thought to pour the leftover berries into some ramekins and stretch a little extra dough over the top. One even made a smiley face. See?

He seems to be saying, "Clearly, I was the better idea, dumbass." Yeah? Thanks a lot, pie.

** My sincerest apologies to you for both the blurry photographs and my egregious (and awful) appropriation of one of the loveliest poems I know: Frank O'Hara's "Why I Am Not a Painter."

I am totally backdating this post.

Because I made these chile rellenos like two weeks ago. (1)

It was an exhausting, emotionally harrowing couple of weeks. And I know I should blog anyway, because I have a responsibility to my readers and all that crap, but you know what? There's like ten of you. And I love you dearly. But I was just too damned tired.

So but anyway. Chile rellenos.

I should preface all this by saying that I make outlandishly good chile rellenos, normally. Dorian loves them--which means that they are a giant pain in the ass to make. I do it maybe twice a year. So I'm always on the lookout for ways to capture that deliciousness without destroying my kitchen and my sanity. Rick Bayless has never let me down before, so I didn't see this coming AT ALL. And it sounds so good: roasted poblanos stuffed with pulled smoked chicken, shiitake mushrooms, spinach, and fresh corn. Yum! Bonus: They are baked in a casserole dish, smothered in cinnamon-tomato sauce, with just a touch of crema drizzled over top. So they are not only easier than The Good Ones but way healthier, too.

This recipe is great because it uses up those tiny bits of chicken you salvage from the carcass between dinner and stock-making. And it can be made ahead. If you remember to do either of these things, you're golden. (2)

Anyway, they weren't tough to make, just time-consuming. And I got the traditional Bayless Scars on my forearms from flying speckles of nuclear tomato sauce (3). But the dish was, overall, surprisingly bland. Okay for a first try, but certainly not worth to the time/effort/money that went into its preparation.

The take aways:

1. Roasted poblanos make anything taste good.
2. The chicken was wholly unnecessary; Dori confirms. (5)
3. The method is sound. Easier by far than battering and frying, and with little reduction in taste/texture. At least not in proportion to calories/mess.

I'll do it again, sans chicken, plus more mushrooms and some black beans. Maybe even butternut squash. I'll probably even do it in layers, like a lasagna, so I get more of those roasted poblanos in every bit--and don't have to stuff them. Also, no worries about searching the sketchy Latin grocery universe for nine--NINE!!--unblemished, uncreased poblanos with stems still attached. In my town, that is like searching for the Holy Grail...or meaning in a Katy Perry song.

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(1) Which I guess means the leftovers in the fridge are no longer a valid backup meal plan.

(2) Of course I did neither of those things. Because I am a masochist.

(3) WTF, Rick? Who heats a cast iron pan until it smokes, THEN adds tomato puree?!?! (4)

(4) Answer: People with maids.

(5) This is bliss, because here is a typical conversation at our house:
DORI: We should be vegetarians.
ME: Awesome. Here is your vegetarian dinner.
DORI: This would be great with some meat!
ME: ...