the return of betsy
Mar. 7th, 2016 12:56 pmI'll admit it, I am absolutely guilty of sticking with my safe areas when it comes to baking. I know my strengths there, know what I can fiddle with and how, know what flavors might taste good together and how I can alter the texture of a thing by changing an ingredient or two or altering the bake time just a little. I'm comfortable baking pies. I have been for years.
Baking a cake however, is another story.
I'm on my third attempt at what might hopefully turn out to be Lee and Eric's wedding cake and, honestly, I'm trying not to get too discouraged. The first two hadn't been outright disasters, but neither had felt good enough for so important an occasion. I haven't even started on the decoration part of things and I'm honestly not even sure where to start there. I'll probably end up with something simple if only because if I try anything at all complicated, I'll just ruin it instead.
But for now, I'm trying a white chocolate with raspberry cake, the batter all poured and ready for the oven.
Only when I turn around to do just that, my oven is.. it's...
Oh my goodness. "Betsy??"
I have enough presence of mind to set the pan down before I'm on my knees, feeling along Betsy's glass front and metal sides, all her dings and scratches from years of wayward chairs and hockey sticks and dropped kegs. She's still cool to the touch and I don't even mind that I'll have to set her to pre-heat again. It's Betsy, my sweet, under-appreciated Haus friend, my steady rock, my girl who was always there for me every morning when I got up early to make breakfast, meeting me when I got home from class, there when Jack and I worked together on our final--
Oh.
It hits all once then, like uncorking a champagne bottle, an explosion of memories from all sides. I can remember getting Johnson's dibs, remember not even knowing what that meant until the others explained it. I remember my room right across the hall from Jack's and him yelling at me for singing too loudly in the shower, to study nights with Ransom and Holster, to threatening time and time again to get rid of that horrible, awful couch and only backing down for fear of Shitty's wrath. I remember the frogs, Nurse and Dex always at each other's throats, and sweet precious Chowder just trying to avoid getting caught in the fire. I remember Lardo's art exhibit and, oh goodness, Shitty getting into law school. I remember... I remember meeting Kent Parson, remember the look on Jack's face when he opened the door and saw me accidentally eavesdropping, remember how shaken he looked and how awful and small I felt when he slammed his door. I remember getting to the playoffs again, the thrill of being on the ice with Jack, still on his line, and I remember losing, too.
I remember finding Jack in the loading docks alone. I remember sitting with him. I remember the feel of his pads under my arms as I tried to comfort him. I remember crying with him, letting myself cry with him.
My chest aches suddenly, and I'm still bent over in front of Betsy, gasping for air. I wonder if this is what it feels like for Jack when he's having a panic attack, like the whole world is spinning and caving in all at once.
Or maybe I'm just being overly dramatic.
I don't have much time to think on it either way before the sound of my doorbell ringing pierces through my thoughts.
"Just-- Uhm. One second, please!" I call out, taking a moment to scramble to my feet.
My face feels cold and clammy and I have to force a breath as I wipe my hands off on my apron and go to answer the door.
Baking a cake however, is another story.
I'm on my third attempt at what might hopefully turn out to be Lee and Eric's wedding cake and, honestly, I'm trying not to get too discouraged. The first two hadn't been outright disasters, but neither had felt good enough for so important an occasion. I haven't even started on the decoration part of things and I'm honestly not even sure where to start there. I'll probably end up with something simple if only because if I try anything at all complicated, I'll just ruin it instead.
But for now, I'm trying a white chocolate with raspberry cake, the batter all poured and ready for the oven.
Only when I turn around to do just that, my oven is.. it's...
Oh my goodness. "Betsy??"
I have enough presence of mind to set the pan down before I'm on my knees, feeling along Betsy's glass front and metal sides, all her dings and scratches from years of wayward chairs and hockey sticks and dropped kegs. She's still cool to the touch and I don't even mind that I'll have to set her to pre-heat again. It's Betsy, my sweet, under-appreciated Haus friend, my steady rock, my girl who was always there for me every morning when I got up early to make breakfast, meeting me when I got home from class, there when Jack and I worked together on our final--
Oh.
It hits all once then, like uncorking a champagne bottle, an explosion of memories from all sides. I can remember getting Johnson's dibs, remember not even knowing what that meant until the others explained it. I remember my room right across the hall from Jack's and him yelling at me for singing too loudly in the shower, to study nights with Ransom and Holster, to threatening time and time again to get rid of that horrible, awful couch and only backing down for fear of Shitty's wrath. I remember the frogs, Nurse and Dex always at each other's throats, and sweet precious Chowder just trying to avoid getting caught in the fire. I remember Lardo's art exhibit and, oh goodness, Shitty getting into law school. I remember... I remember meeting Kent Parson, remember the look on Jack's face when he opened the door and saw me accidentally eavesdropping, remember how shaken he looked and how awful and small I felt when he slammed his door. I remember getting to the playoffs again, the thrill of being on the ice with Jack, still on his line, and I remember losing, too.
I remember finding Jack in the loading docks alone. I remember sitting with him. I remember the feel of his pads under my arms as I tried to comfort him. I remember crying with him, letting myself cry with him.
My chest aches suddenly, and I'm still bent over in front of Betsy, gasping for air. I wonder if this is what it feels like for Jack when he's having a panic attack, like the whole world is spinning and caving in all at once.
Or maybe I'm just being overly dramatic.
I don't have much time to think on it either way before the sound of my doorbell ringing pierces through my thoughts.
"Just-- Uhm. One second, please!" I call out, taking a moment to scramble to my feet.
My face feels cold and clammy and I have to force a breath as I wipe my hands off on my apron and go to answer the door.
