I am pretty much a one-trick pony in the kitchen. If it has yeast, I’m good. Which is not to say I don’t have my share of failures and faux pas with bread, but I’m not afraid of it.
About a year and a half ago I joined the Daring Bakers, which once a month takes me out of my yeast-bound comfort zone and into the world of cakes, pies, and other foreign objects. Sometimes the results have been quite lovely, sometimes not so much, but I always learn something, and I have to say I have felt pretty damned proud of myself for being so damned Daring twelve times a year.
But at least with Daring Bakers, it’s, well, still baking. Now I have a whole new reason to hyperventilate:
If it’s true that I don’t bake cakes, it’s doubly true that I don’t cook. Therefore, there is only one way to explain my willing membership in this new cadre of Daring, knife-wielding people: I am insane. Either that or I can’t stand the thought of not being part of this action, as fear-inspiring, embarrassing, and painful as it is bound to be.