My moratorium on cooking lasted 24 hours... A good blog vent and a discussion of same with the guilty parties elevated the situation to a new level... So last evening I ventured into making a pastry dish which intrigued me, the genesis being a vague comment on a cooking show which I overheard in transit from one room to the other. The premise: wrap ripe bananas in puff pastry, along with a generous sprinkling of pecans and chocolate. Wrap up like an enchilada and bake until nicely browned.
In psycho oven, "nicely browned" takes on a rather sinister connotation. I have to dramatically reduce the temperature and seriously shorten the baking time, or oven ventures could warrant a visit from the boys in the big red truck. We've been there, done that, and never again (I pray). However, in this deep cold spell, I could have probably let psycho oven run at the suggested temperature - the pastry didn't puff easily nor well, and the length of time this extravaganza was in the oven wreaked havoc with the bananas.
The resulting explosion wouldn't rival that of a good Die Hard movie, and Bruce Willis was nowhere to be seen in a fireman's uniform, but it was a mess. Before anyone could see the baking tray, I washed it. The pastry (read: incendiary device) looked like something the plunger suctions out of the toilet when it has backed up from too much paper flushed; I was embarrassed to serve this to our guest. After my rant, and with the fact my family isn't used to me baking extra treats (food stylists be damned), they ate it. Not a single comment....
That recipe won't be appearing in the Ancestor's Diet cookbook, and no photographic record remains of the event. If I had it, I'd post it. Then again, this is a family site, and the visual could be misinterpreted. (Sigh) Tonight's journey in lunacy - cinnamon buns!! Be afraid, be very afraid.