Good for Sue Compton. She won the Pillsbury Bake-Off Contest and made a cool $1 million:
http://www.philly.com/inquirer/front_page/20100415__1_MILLION_DESSERT.html
I’m an exceptional cook, if I do say so myself. But baking has always eluded me. It’s too scientific and dependent on just the right measures and atmospheric conditions. I appreciate science and math, but I’ve never had the acumen for either.
So reading about Sue Compton and her little creation of scrumptiousness made me a.) bow down to her greatness; and b.) recall that I’ve got some atoning to do.
And so I make this public confession:
When I was a kid, my folks worked for Hewlett-Packard. HP had the BEST annual company picnics—food and drink, street performers, live music, skits performed by the company’s execs, and activities for the kids. I was never much for organized sports back them, so I often opted out of the potato-sack races and bobbing-for-apples contests, though I secretly coveted the prizes they’d dole out to the winners.
I was just about to begin the 10th grade—the new girl at a new school—and the summer leading up to it had caused me great angst. When the annual picnic rolled around, I was looking forward to blowing off some steam, maybe having some actual interaction with kids I recognized. And my mother was pleasantly surprised when I said that I might even break out of my comfort zone and participate in some of the contests that year.
She told me about the more physical ones they’d planned for the kids, and they bored me, but when she mentioned the “bake-off,” my ears perked up. Now THAT, I could do. I relished the idea of making something sweet. I’ve always had a sweet tooth.
So off to the market we went, my mother and I. We bought some pre-packaged cake mix, frosting and decorations to jazz it up. She offered to help me with the cooking and assembly, but I told her, “Thanks, but I should do this myself. It’s a contest. If you help, that’s like cheating.”
My Mom honored my request, and left me alone in the kitchen to prepare what I hoped would be the best chocolate cake ever. I envisioned those judges plunging their forks into its spongy greatness—sounds of ohs and ahs, as they saw how moist it was. I saw their eyes closing and their heads being tossed back in ecstasy, as the rich chocolate melted on their tastebuds.
I followed the directions as best I could. Call it Attention Deficit Disorder or whatever, but I hadn’t paid as close attention to the measurements as I should have. And when the cake came out of the oven, it was still liquidy in the center, and I made the mistake of trying to ice it when it was still warm. I tried valiantly to place the icing just so, as to hold the crumbling, melting cake together, but in the end, what sat before me was a plate of chocolate soup. I cursed myself for not having the wherewithal to buy two boxes of that cake mix. I’ve always appreciated formulating a Plan B.
I wanted to cry, but didn’t. I called my Mother into the kitchen and declared, “It’s ruined. I’m out of the contest,” which was then mere hours away.
My mother looked at me, looked at the cake, and back to me. “Get ready. We’re leaving early.”
I had no idea what she had in mind, as she disposed of the cake-soup and washed the Tupperware cake plate off in the sink.
On our way to the picnic, we pulled off into the parking lot of the grocery store.
“Come on,” she prodded me. Into the store we went, and headed straight to the bakery section. There were a few pre-made cakes in plastic domes. “Pick one,” she told me.
I rather liked the look of the coconut cake. Its flakes of coconut shavings reminded me of snow, and it was hot that day. I pointed to it, and she snatched it up and high-tailed it to the check out. Once in the car, she instructed me to removed that coconut cake from its plastic cage and place it in the Tupperware. Only then did I realize what she had in mind. She wanted me to pass that cake off as my own.
“We can’t do this,” I told her. I was old enough to know that it was dishonest and scandalous, and I remember thinking that if anyone should find out, it would reflect very poorly on my parents, who until then were well-liked at HP.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mother said. “It’s just a silly little contest. But I put your name down for it, so you have to do it. And I bet everyone else BOUGHT their desserts, too. Who has time to bake?”
I was mortified to learn that most of my competitors were little kids who had clearly belabored over their baked goods, judging from the lop-sided cakes and misshapen cookies. When “my” coconut cake took first prize, and I was called to the makeshift stage to collect my blue ribbon, I wanted to die—right there, on the spot. I thought God would surely strike me down.
I felt so guilty, I had a hard time enjoying the rest of the day. Though I had the chance to ride in a tethered hot-air balloon that day, and got to climb a ladder to mount a real, live Tennessee Walking Horse (those beasts are TALL), the experience left a bitter taste in my mouth.
When we got in the car at the end of the day, my mother and I turned to each other, wide-eyed, and burst out laughing. “I can’t believe that cake WON,” she marveled.
“I know! I was so embarrassed, and felt bad for the little kids,” I confessed.
“This is the kind of thing that would only happen to us,” we agreed. And we never spoke of it again.
http://www.philly.com/inquirer/front_page/20100415__1_MILLION_DESSERT.html
I’m an exceptional cook, if I do say so myself. But baking has always eluded me. It’s too scientific and dependent on just the right measures and atmospheric conditions. I appreciate science and math, but I’ve never had the acumen for either.
So reading about Sue Compton and her little creation of scrumptiousness made me a.) bow down to her greatness; and b.) recall that I’ve got some atoning to do.
And so I make this public confession:
When I was a kid, my folks worked for Hewlett-Packard. HP had the BEST annual company picnics—food and drink, street performers, live music, skits performed by the company’s execs, and activities for the kids. I was never much for organized sports back them, so I often opted out of the potato-sack races and bobbing-for-apples contests, though I secretly coveted the prizes they’d dole out to the winners.
I was just about to begin the 10th grade—the new girl at a new school—and the summer leading up to it had caused me great angst. When the annual picnic rolled around, I was looking forward to blowing off some steam, maybe having some actual interaction with kids I recognized. And my mother was pleasantly surprised when I said that I might even break out of my comfort zone and participate in some of the contests that year.
She told me about the more physical ones they’d planned for the kids, and they bored me, but when she mentioned the “bake-off,” my ears perked up. Now THAT, I could do. I relished the idea of making something sweet. I’ve always had a sweet tooth.
So off to the market we went, my mother and I. We bought some pre-packaged cake mix, frosting and decorations to jazz it up. She offered to help me with the cooking and assembly, but I told her, “Thanks, but I should do this myself. It’s a contest. If you help, that’s like cheating.”
My Mom honored my request, and left me alone in the kitchen to prepare what I hoped would be the best chocolate cake ever. I envisioned those judges plunging their forks into its spongy greatness—sounds of ohs and ahs, as they saw how moist it was. I saw their eyes closing and their heads being tossed back in ecstasy, as the rich chocolate melted on their tastebuds.
I followed the directions as best I could. Call it Attention Deficit Disorder or whatever, but I hadn’t paid as close attention to the measurements as I should have. And when the cake came out of the oven, it was still liquidy in the center, and I made the mistake of trying to ice it when it was still warm. I tried valiantly to place the icing just so, as to hold the crumbling, melting cake together, but in the end, what sat before me was a plate of chocolate soup. I cursed myself for not having the wherewithal to buy two boxes of that cake mix. I’ve always appreciated formulating a Plan B.
I wanted to cry, but didn’t. I called my Mother into the kitchen and declared, “It’s ruined. I’m out of the contest,” which was then mere hours away.
My mother looked at me, looked at the cake, and back to me. “Get ready. We’re leaving early.”
I had no idea what she had in mind, as she disposed of the cake-soup and washed the Tupperware cake plate off in the sink.
On our way to the picnic, we pulled off into the parking lot of the grocery store.
“Come on,” she prodded me. Into the store we went, and headed straight to the bakery section. There were a few pre-made cakes in plastic domes. “Pick one,” she told me.
I rather liked the look of the coconut cake. Its flakes of coconut shavings reminded me of snow, and it was hot that day. I pointed to it, and she snatched it up and high-tailed it to the check out. Once in the car, she instructed me to removed that coconut cake from its plastic cage and place it in the Tupperware. Only then did I realize what she had in mind. She wanted me to pass that cake off as my own.
“We can’t do this,” I told her. I was old enough to know that it was dishonest and scandalous, and I remember thinking that if anyone should find out, it would reflect very poorly on my parents, who until then were well-liked at HP.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mother said. “It’s just a silly little contest. But I put your name down for it, so you have to do it. And I bet everyone else BOUGHT their desserts, too. Who has time to bake?”
I was mortified to learn that most of my competitors were little kids who had clearly belabored over their baked goods, judging from the lop-sided cakes and misshapen cookies. When “my” coconut cake took first prize, and I was called to the makeshift stage to collect my blue ribbon, I wanted to die—right there, on the spot. I thought God would surely strike me down.
I felt so guilty, I had a hard time enjoying the rest of the day. Though I had the chance to ride in a tethered hot-air balloon that day, and got to climb a ladder to mount a real, live Tennessee Walking Horse (those beasts are TALL), the experience left a bitter taste in my mouth.
When we got in the car at the end of the day, my mother and I turned to each other, wide-eyed, and burst out laughing. “I can’t believe that cake WON,” she marveled.
“I know! I was so embarrassed, and felt bad for the little kids,” I confessed.
“This is the kind of thing that would only happen to us,” we agreed. And we never spoke of it again.
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