About those Thanksgiving brownies...go get a coffee, because the story requires a lot of self-justification upfront.
In June or so, I started baking cookies from scratch at Roy's house and have kept home-made cookies on hand ever since. It started because during the post-funeral flurry of family communication, an aunt mentioned my mother's gingersnap recipe. That gave me a hankerin' for her gingersnaps. I've made other kinds of cookies, too, even though I didn't bake cookies for entire decades. My recent rationale has been that if I'm going to eat cookies, and apparently I am, then they should be really good cookies.
Through the summer, I've learned that Roy's oven is peculiar because it tends to run hot. I've adjusted most recipes down 25 degrees, and I leave the cookies in the oven for about 2/3 of the listed time range to avoid crispness. They may be called "gingersnaps," but in my house, they're "gingerbends."
My real point is that I am no stranger to the oven in Roy's house. Furthermore, my acquaintance goes farther than simply turning it on and taking it for granted; I've messed around with cooking times and paid actual attention to darn thing.
And now, here's something most people south of 49 don't know about ovens in Canada. They have international symbols instead of words. These symbols, although theoretically understandable in any of the world's languages, are not that easy to comprehend. For proof, really look at the photo at the top of this post. (I know; not my best work. You can also see me taking the picture, and you don't even need CSI-like skills to do it.)
In June or so, I started baking cookies from scratch at Roy's house and have kept home-made cookies on hand ever since. It started because during the post-funeral flurry of family communication, an aunt mentioned my mother's gingersnap recipe. That gave me a hankerin' for her gingersnaps. I've made other kinds of cookies, too, even though I didn't bake cookies for entire decades. My recent rationale has been that if I'm going to eat cookies, and apparently I am, then they should be really good cookies.
Through the summer, I've learned that Roy's oven is peculiar because it tends to run hot. I've adjusted most recipes down 25 degrees, and I leave the cookies in the oven for about 2/3 of the listed time range to avoid crispness. They may be called "gingersnaps," but in my house, they're "gingerbends."
My real point is that I am no stranger to the oven in Roy's house. Furthermore, my acquaintance goes farther than simply turning it on and taking it for granted; I've messed around with cooking times and paid actual attention to darn thing.
And now, here's something most people south of 49 don't know about ovens in Canada. They have international symbols instead of words. These symbols, although theoretically understandable in any of the world's languages, are not that easy to comprehend. For proof, really look at the photo at the top of this post. (I know; not my best work. You can also see me taking the picture, and you don't even need CSI-like skills to do it.)
Where a setting on your oven might be labeled OFF, ovens in Canada have a circle with small lines coming down from the top and bottom but not connected in the middle (the top setting on the right dial in the photo). The lines mean that there's a break in the electrical connection required to make the oven come on. Or something else equally easy to remember. Cough.
Where your oven might have an ON label, this oven dial has three different kinds of horizontal lines to choose from: one with a heavy line on top, one with a heavy line on bottom, and one with a heavy line on bottom and a clock face next to it. I'm telling you, using the oven is a mental workout.
I'm just happy the temperatures (separate dial on left) are still labeled in both F and C. Speaking of mental workouts.
But back to the Thanksgiving Brownies. Saturday night, I was getting a jump on the holiday dinner, so I made brownies and the appetizery things. Then I made chocolate chip cookies, at Roy's request. Unfortunately, the first sheet-full was a disaster. It was the first time I had tried this recipe, so I was adjusting the temperature like crazy, and still the darn things would brown on the top but be gooey on the underneath. I couldn't figure it out. I wondered about the flour, the amount of mixing time (I do it by hand but I'm lazy), the cheapness of the chips (can't easily get Ghirardelli or Nestle here)--even the cookie size.
While I was mid-mutter, Roy came in to hover around till the early cookies were cool enough to sample. He asked the million-dollar question: "Is the oven on the right setting?"
Of course it wasn't. I had it on the "broil" setting, which is the setting with the heavy line at the top and the lighter line across the bottom. The meaning of the symbol is that the top element, the broiling element, is on and the bottom one isn't.
OK, it makes sense, but who has time to figure it out? And more important, why was I suddenly having trouble figuring it out, when I'd never made this mistake before? I put it down to pre-holiday stress. An early example of a senior moment. Nothing to dwell on.
Once I turned the oven over to "thick bottom line, thin top line," AKA "Bake," later batches of cookies turned out just fine.
And that, I thought, was that.
Until Roy started cutting the brownies after Thanksgiving Dinner. He beckoned me into the kitchen. "Are they supposed to look like that?" He pointed a knife covered in brownie batter to the plate, where brownie batter was oozing out from under a top crust. It looked a little like an experiment from an earth science class, one that demonstrates how deeper layers of magma are liquid and the earth's crust, which we consider solid, is just a thin top layer.
Apparently I had cooked the brownies on "thick top line, thin bottom line," too. And what's worse, I hadn't even considered the need to check them, even after the severe cookie consequences the previous evening. Is it possible I'm losing not only my ability to read international symbols and bake things, but also my ability to foresee consequences?
Naaah. I'm sticking with my first line of defense: it wasn't my fault. It's the weird oven.
