The moment I came back from my soccer game, dizzy and sore, I collapsed on the kitchen table like a drunkard. Then the notion popped into my head: This is the perfect time to make beignets.
So I stumbled out of the chair and collected everything I needed. My mom walked in at this point and asked me just what I was up to. When I informed her that I was making beignets, she decided that it was high time she made dinner, and set about doing just that. In hindsight, I'm pretty sure she wanted to keep an eye on me.
Not that I needed it. I was doing just fine until I realized I had no measuring cups. We hadn't unpacked them yet.
So I just used this cup, which looked like the right measurement to me.
 |
| The cup I used for almost everything |
My mom helped me several times anyway, despite the fact that I told her I didn't need it.
"That water needs to be warmer for the yeast to ferment."
"Don't turn the mixer too high - that's about it."
"Clean up your mess, please."
That was another thing: her work-station was spotless. Mine looked like a flour tornado had touched down and ransacked our cupboards.
When it was all mixed, I stood there and read the recipe over in a "now what" kind of way. I have my dough, what do I do with it?
Oh, I have to cover it and let it rest 15 minutes, and then roll it out and cut it and put it on a baking sheet - hmm, this sounds like the part where I bake it....
WRONG.
After I put the beignets on the sheet, all ready to bake, I have to wait 45 minutes to let them rise.
That was too much for me. I was already beginning to become crazy with exhaustion, so I popped it in the oven and told myself by the time I came back in the morning it would have risen, and I'd be able to bake it then.
They didn't rise.
 |
| Taken at night |
 |
| The morning after |
Not only did the dough not rise, but it was now a hard mass. So I left it out the rest of the day, and forgot it, and went to sleep another night having not baked the beignets.
Now, I'll probably be shot for this breach of hygiene, but the next morning I decided it had taken long enough, and it hadn't risen and probably never would, and i was going to BAKE this dough.
So I did.
And this is what they ended up looking like:
They were like those English muffins I've eaten and disliked, only sweeter (I had piled on the sugar in the hopes that it would make up for every other deficiency).
I didn't even bother to force it on people. I miserably left my piece on the counter, where it hardened instantly into something rock-like. In an effort to make me feel better, my mom consumed about two before she dumped the rest in the trash.
Thanks, Mom. I'm going to stick to burning cookies next time.
