Two years ago, while my mom was visiting NC for my master’s graduation, we decided to make brownies. We were crazy excited for these brownies. We mixed them up and popped them in the oven. Twenty-something minutes later, my apartment smelled amazing and we both just about drooled anticipating the imminent chocolate-fueled brownie binge.
…But those were not brownies. Those were an oily, gooey mess probably brought into being because we used applesauce to substitute for eggs and got the proportions wrong (I don’t eat eggs at all, plus we didn’t feel like going out to get any even though Mom would have eaten what we didn’t use for the brownies). We both stared at the pan for a minute, totally bemused, before bursting out into bent-in-half, rueful, what-the-actual-fuck laughter. But, hey, we figured, it’s still edible, right?
So we spooned as much as we could into parfait cups and added whipped cream. Sweet baby Jesus, that was delicious. (Never mind that the pan took days to clean out and to this day still isn’t quite the same).
My mother and I have had our fair share of baking/cooking disasters—neither of us is skilled in the kitchen, and I border on just about hopeless—but we’ve never cracked up so gleefully about one before, and probably won’t again.
I think I’m going to make some cake batter cookies. I promise I’ve learned how much applesauce to use.