I had a monster cake fail this week. A biggie, but allow me to give you awkward giggle fodder first.
After a tv remote struggle the other night my visiting Mum was making me watch Dancing With The Stars. I wanted true Detective but she was too tired to try to translate the intense southern accents. Fair play, McConaughey is hot but he mumbles like a mofo.
I’m not opposed to watching a little fancy footwork on the box, but I’m more of a So You Think You Can Dance kinda gal where everyone is spunky and can actually dance which in turn makes you feel like you could probably dance too, as opposed to Dancing With The Stars where B graders with varying degrees of ability make you cringe and realise you will never Pasa Doble.
ASIDE – Mark Holden, WTF were you doing????
Anyhoo, I was bitching about the injustice of being forced to endure such Nana-viewing when there was a particularly curious ‘reverse lift’ performed by a little dude and his tall lady partner. The ‘reverse lift’ was actually moves we all know pieced together.
Unlike most lifts that I get a hernia watching this one seemed quite doable. It was a handstand 69’er, followed by a backwards walkover. All crotches in faces stuff.
Piece of cake, right?
Upon the judges mentioning said lift, the little dancing dude responded with ‘we call that the teabag’, to which I snorted like a birthing rhino.
“I don’t get it” says Mother dearest, “what’s a teabag?”
I’m a huge fan of teabags. Tetleys All Rounders, Bushells, whatever, but these are not what the fancy footed dude was referring to.
He was referring to the colloquial expression that is –
“But what is teabagging?”
There was only one thing for it.
“It’s when you dunk your scrotum in someone’s mouth like a teabag. Sometimes for pleasure, sometimes as a mean joke on someone sleeping”
Furrowed brows of concentration, which then raised with the dawning. A knowing nod of the head and that slight movement of the lips that says ‘of course’, and we carried on our merry viewing both chuckling quietly on the inside.
A bonding moment. Not much can shock my mother, and she’s as juvenile as I. Neither of us can mention rimming a margarita glass with salt without tittering.
I tried to make a really simple chocolate roulade today for my Nana’s birthday, but every step was foiled in the kitchen. I fudged it royally. I didn’t have my kitchen mojo on and you could say I sucked balls.
Teabagged in fact.
I was pumped to show off this simple yet fancy cake which when you saw it you would have exclaimed my awesomeness and oohed and ached appropriately alas I have created a monster. It has no flour, barely any prep, super easy and impressive.
Piece of cake, right?
I don’t think I cooked the roulade for long enough as I was distracted by mothers and children and making chicken pie, and checking Facebook simultaneously.
Then when it came time to make the chocolate cream I seized my melted chocolate. In trying to save the cement like Lindt chunk I managed to split it…. but I was undeterred. Being the cowboy I am I tried to fold that lump of oily fat into my whipped cream royally messing it up….
What did I learn from this?
Nothing, because I did it twice.
We decided to ditch the chocolate cream. Chantilly cream is fancy enough and add some raspberries and it’s positively three freakin’ hat stuff. But no amount of raspberries could save this train from derailing.
We have train smash people. Mega fail.
Luckily, it was for my Nana’s 84th birthday and old Nanas are pretty grateful for someone bringing any kind of cake so I think I’ll get away with it.
I’ll have another crack and hopefully blog roulade genius soon.
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