I have a friend.
OK, I realize that you, reading this right now, are saying to yourself, "well, darn skippy you do . . . I'm your friend!" And I appreciate you more than I can express. But this friend I'm referring to lives in Saltillo--the same town as me! It's been going on years since I had a friend who lived in the same town as me. So this is a big deal.
Such a big deal, that when she invited us over for dinner, I, pretending to be Betty Crocker incarnate, mentioned that I love to make desserts--could I bring one? I decided to make a flan. I've made flan before. I had all the eggs, milk, and sugar on hand. It's not very labor intensive, and easily whipped up a day or two before it could be served. Simple, right?
No--it's never that simple! Two hours after I put it in the oven, this flan is only slightly more solid than when I put it in. Will I be bringing a box of packaged cookies to my friend's house? Will I have to sell my hair to pay for this month's gas bill? And, if it never thickens, what does one do with a pan of egg soup?
I find myself doing this over and over--jumping into projects only to find out that I've gotten in way over my head. In this occasion, it's clearly not a big deal. No one but me will mind eating boxed cookies. I was just so set to eat a lovely, golden flan. I love having high expectations. When these expectations seem so easily achievable, but the result is complete disaster, the disappointment is almost crushing. In my imagination, I'm curled up on the couch with a bowl of ice cream. But, let's face it, in real life that doesn't really help.
It's time to pick myself up, brush myself off, and come up with a new plan. One that doesn't include my unreliable oven.
Rice pudding, perhaps?