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Becky does food blogging

January 18, 2012

About a year ago, my husband and I joined a team of people launching a new community group at our church that would minister to young couples: those engaged/newly married all the way up to those with young children.  Our team is made up of married folks of various ages.  During our group’s time together Sunday mornings, we function pretty much like a Sunday school class: eating and talking (otherwise known as “fellowshipping”) and studying the Bible (or something marriage-focused, like a “Bible study“).  During those early days, we had several meetings about the logistics of our group.  I’ll be honest and tell you that much of the discussion centered on the food element of our community gathering.  At one point, one of the older women (by older I mean, older-than-me) got excited about the idea of a volunteer-based snack-bringing system: “We should have sign-ups so the ladies can all bring their favorite dishes.”

The ladies.  And their favorite dishes.

For some reason, I can’t shake the image of Maggie Smith as Dowager Countess feigning that she gets the Grantham cup for her roses because the flower judges “decide these things.”

The cup for best hats, sure. And if you're not already watching Downton Abbey, stop reading and go do it. NOW.

Hey, I’m a Southerner, so this womanly cooking requirement isn’t a practical problem for me.  We’re taught early to have some go-to item for funerals, etc.  It’s good raisin’ to know what to bring on such an occasion.  But the whole way the thing was framed just crawled all up on me and caused an involuntary (and probably disproportionate) response.  Like how I jump when I think there’s a spider on my arm, but it’s just one of my own escaped hairs or something.  I kept thinking, “Can we please use ‘someone’ or at least ‘women’ if we can’t go gender-neutral?  Does this have to sound like something out of the 1950’s?”  Or, “What if one of the guys had some crazy breakfast casserole?”  My husband was a cook at Outback while we were in college and his grandfather owned and operated a diner for decades.  Men can cook.  This is why Top Chef is still a bastion of patriarchy:

Patriarchy and throwback hairstyles, that is.

So all this was replaying in my mind when I read an email asking those of us on the leadership team to bring food to our first gathering of 2012.  Since that “lady-dishes” comment, I’ve essentially been biding my time, occasionally contributing a bowl of grapes or some Costco muffins to the community table.  But this semester, I decided it was time to come off the bench.  Pinterest, my newest obsession, hath inspired me to bake, um, *stuff.*  I looked at the email and someone had dibs on an “egg dish” and another lady claimed “bowl of fruit.”

This edition of Becky NOT Becky is brought to you by the genius of:

Obligatory churchy name like "Go and Cinn no more Rolls"

I initially planned to go full-food-blogger on y’all, with step-by-step instructions and a pictorial tutorial for awesomeness, but I was too busy fussing with the cooking to document much of anything.  I shoulda been sporting one of these puppies (courtesy of WINterest again):

I'm thinking Green Lantern powers would be the most useful in the kitchen.

I started off concerned because my little cinnamon roll-ups weren’t rolling up as neatly as planned.  I was cutting off dough because for some reason, no matter how square I made the thing, it kept rolling up all wolly-gagged.  I mean, at this point, I didn’t even want to eat the thing and I could smell the butter and cinnamini-goodness:

"My kitchen is cleaner than yours" photo FAIL.

Here I was planning for this epic food situation, the lady-dish of all lady-dishes, and the little boogers kept coming out like some flawed wonton experiment:

Here's hoping it's a MAGIC oven.

Oh, and in typical me fashion, I didn’t fully assess the state of the equipment beforehand.  Our babysitter had recently made crayons in my mini-muffin pans, so two of the three weren’t really usable.  Nothing will ruin a buttery masterpiece like a mouthful of Cornflower Blue Crayola.  So I was left to inefficiency: filling a pan, cutting some rolls, and emptying/cooling the pan in sloppy sequence thus creating a half-dozen doughy pile-up every 10 minutes.  What should have taken me half an hour became a 87 minute curse-fest with a first degree pinky-finger burn as a bonus.  So much for “cinn no more” rolls.  At least you couldn’t taste the profanity…

They actually came out pretty good.  Golden and sugary and perfectly swirled (once I selectively discarded the crazy and/or inflated ones). And, nope, I don’t have a picture of them.  WHY would I take a picture of how they turned out?  Especially when I thoroughly documented the ugliest part of the process.  Please.  I’m not an amateur.  I also made a pretty yummy cream cheese frosting and took no pictures of that, either (I even forgot to bookmark the recipe for that, so I can consider that a one-hit wonder).

The best part was, I actually surprised one of the better bakers that morning with my tiny homage to the cinnamon roll.  Take that, “bowl of fruit.”  That fantastically winning moment lasted about 24 seconds until one of our newlyweds came up to the table and asked, “Oh, did you make those with crescent rolls?  YeahIthoughtso.”  Moment of glory aaand SCENE.  Stupid Pinterest.  You can fool the old ladies, but these new ladies have the tech-savvy (and an eye for creatively-employed crescent roll dough).

It doesn’t matter.  I totally won breakfast last Sunday.  And there’s no stopping me now that I’m a SAHM, y’all.  It’s SO on.

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One Comment leave one →
  1. TCF permalink
    January 19, 2012 9:53 pm

    No way “egg dish” topped that. You win the Becky Olympics despite your secret getting out. Also, Green Lantern would totally rule the kitchen.

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