Why is it the worst sweet-tooth cravings only occur in the depths of the inky night? Right past the midnight hour when most food delivery services would spit, then laugh in your face (save for McD, who are yet another post of evilness ...)?
During the day, my cravenly cravings can be contained (ah, alliteration my friend ...) but come the twilight and beyond, not even Stephanie Meyers can give tome to the savage passion that arise in my misbegotten soul. Ha, take that, Ms Meyers!
With heaving bosom and more hair tossing that Fabio, I try to shake and slake my wanton desires with more wholesome offerings. An innocent, crunchy, juicy apple right out of the garden of Eden. I savour every bite to make it last. To halt the ravaging, almost all-consuming, burning, raging inside my weakening resolve.
Sugar, hissed the evil hordes. You waaaaaaant meeeee ...
Back away from the cripple, I hiss back.
You know you waaaaaaant to ... Giiiiive innnnnn ...
Piss off, you evil incubus of chocolate, I sniff back. I start mumbling,
"Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of chocolate
I will fear no Hershey
Blahddy, blah, blah ...
The Lord is my Her ... Shepherd
I shall not crave
He maketh me lie down in sheets of praline
He leadeth me to still wafers
He restoreth my souffle
... oh bugger it"
So in the middle of the night when all is quiet, I clang and clatter. I try not to wake the neighbours.
Have you tried to bake in the middle of the night and try not to wake the dead? Even without my impediments, I have a devil of a time. On top of that I am trying to do it all as silently and swiftly as possible. It's utter, delicious madness.
I cringe as the microwave pings loudly to signal that my blasphemously melted butter and chocolate is ready. Yes, throw baking beans at me, all ye purists. Cast the first baking beans, why don't you?! But you try to do a bain marie at 3am when you are striving for the world record in fastest and quietest baking!
I try to muffle the clack and click of my whisk on the sides of my mixing bowl as I cream the butter and sugar. It's hard and tiring enough using my left hand when I am right-handed on top of doing it the old-fashioned way. Elbow grease ... if only we can use it in lieu of butter ... I'll be 10 lbs lighter. And then my doctor will really think I am anorexic.
The rest is fairly low on the noise generation meter so it's a lot more manageable. But the smells ... oh holy Mother of Godiva! If the smells do not wake the dead, then I am neighbours with zombies. Actually ... well ...
How is it the smells of caramelising sugar and apples are so tantalising? I added balsamic vinegar in lieu of lemon juice. Not because I am a Lebovitz of incredible daring and verve but simply because I have no lemons in the house. Unless you count the hair straightener I bought from Watsons last year. Improvisation, thy name is S.
Vanilla extract. Yes, yes, shaddup, purists and snobs. I'm poor and handicapped. Suck it up.
Cinnamon with my flour mix. Beaten eggs whites. More clicking and clacking and cringing but surprising swift results. I am getting good with my lefty whisking!
Gentle folding and then gleeful layering and spooning of my caramel. Impatient heaping of batter on top. And the final stretch. Setting the lot to bake and returning to the bedroom.
And here's the dangerous part. To be honest, I am strange like that. I have cravings. I act on them. And then in the last step of fixing my fixation, I lose interest.
It's as if in making it, I beat and spoon away the lustful urges away. As if the smells alone assuage the previously, nostril-flaring lasciviousness of before.
Usually, while waiting for the baking, or roasting to be done, I have decided I wasn't that hot and bothered after all. The eating is almost a laconic after-thought by this time. I am like a bloke who chased down the mini-skirted, long-haired, false-eyelashed local Barbarella and lost interest after she started stripping down to her padded-bra.
There is always a high risk at this point that I may now happily go to bed. And wake up the next day to a totally cold, slightly-rock hard dessert of some form cooling its heels in the caverns of my oven. Again, I hark back to the local Barbarella analogy ...
If I manage to sustain my interest long enough, I usually rally sufficiently to devour at least one or two of my manic production. But then I will quietly pack away the rest for another day of diabolical cravings.
It's all rather a let-down to be honest. It's symbolic of many of my relationships I suppose. Total infatuation. Crazed rushing-in without fore-thought. Determined and conscientious contriving. Fast-cooling interest, followed by obligatory duty. Small partakings and then calling it a wrap.
No wonder some people wonder if I am not a man in disguise or a highly-ambitious lesbian. I wonder sometimes too, myself. Which has necessitated some rather inconvenient panic checking of the southward direction. No, I am not sharing the finding, you sad pervs.
This time, I managed to stoke my longing long enough to completion. I sated my cravings for sugary satisfaction but it was a close call.
I have no pictures because anyone expecting me to take photos in the middle of the night after I have exerted myself baking is mistaking me for a food blogger who gives a shite. All I care about is eating the damn thing to satisfy my craving so I can go back to bed.
And for the curious, I made apple upside-down muffins. Why muffins? Because I always make muffins as silicon muffin cups are ridiculously easy to wash up. And the portions are small so I eat a shitload and not feel like Oprah in her bad years.
Recipe? Forget about it ... I'll post that (maybe) tomorrow if I remember and can be arsed.
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