Messy Baker: More Than 75 Delicious Recipes from a Real Kitchen

279 Pages·2015·10.63 MB·English

by  Christie

THE
MESSY
BAKER
MORE THAN 75 DELICIOUS RECIPES FROM A REAL KITCHEN
CHARMIAN
CHRISTIE

Dedication
To my practical, warm, unflappable mother.
You taught me to love the ugly scones,
embrace the broken cookies,
and appreciate the beauty of imperfection.

CONTENTS
Dedication
INTRODUCTION
THE BASICS
PASTRY
FLAKY
CRUMBLY
DIPPABLE
SLOPPY
SMUDGY
GRITTY
DRIPPY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
GLOSSARY
COMMON MEASUREMENTS AND EQUIVALENTS
Copyright
About the Publisher
INTRODUCTION
THE KITCHEN GOD
I stand on a chair pulled up to the counter. My nose hovers near my mother’s
elbow as I strain to see everything she is doing. She still towers above me. She is
God. With a capital G. She knows everything. She sees everything, right down
to the lone chocolate chip that has strayed from the flock. I have witnessed her
rescue burnt cookies and breathe life into an inanimate pile of flour. She is
indomitable, and her anger, although rare, is to be feared. I will not talk too
much. I will not pester her with questions. I will not touch things until I am told.
I will be good, better than I’ve ever been before, simply because she has
answered my prayers and is teaching me to bake.
Her gracious butter tarts shine upon all who eat them and bring them peace—
even when you’re mad at your sister, who won’t stop nudging your foot under
the table after you’ve told her a million million times to stop. The tooth-breaking
cookies from the nice ladies at church do not shine. Maybe the church ladies use
the wrong flour. But my mother bakes a cupcake so tender, so sweet, so
impossibly good, you cannot cry once you put it in your mouth. You can’t be
mean or angry or even scared. You can choke if you eat it too fast, but I will eat
anything we bake today slowly. I will chew each bite a million million times. As
long as she teaches me to bake.
Before we begin, she issues her commandments.
Assemble all ingredients.
Read the entire recipe—twice.
Always wear an apron.
Don’t eat the batter.
Share with the whole family.
(The last decree makes me wish I were an only child.)
Ready?
She pulls boxes and bags from cupboards above my head, aligning them in
order. She reads the recipe aloud and touches each ingredient.
Half a cup butter. Her long, slim fingers tap the parchment-wrapped brick.
One, two, three eggs.
Two cups flour. She rests her hand on a large checkered bag that seems to
weigh more than I do.
Clear Pyrex measuring cups with fading red print and a yellow ceramic bowl
appear from the cupboards below. She opens drawers and sets a wooden spoon,