It’s been awhile since we’ve had a Facepalm Friday. Lucky you, I’ve got a twofer.
Part I: Having my cake
Sam’s parents are coming to visit this weekend, and Sam asked me to make a Guinness cake for his dad, who had a birthday this week and, as it happens, loves Guinness cake (because he is human, come on!). Actually, Art asked Sam to ask me to make it, but nevertheless, Sam was excited:
“They’ll forget they asked, or they’ll expect me to have forgotten to ask you. Either way, they won’t be expecting a cake!”
Anyway, on Sunday I was adding up what ingredients we needed. We had flour, sugar, eggs, blargh, blergh….I picked up cream cheese and yogurt (there is a lot of dairy in this recipe…) and called it good.
Today, I started making the cake. Step two, as you might recall, is to slice a bunch of butter (yes! more dairy) into a giant saucepan. And I realized I was out of butter.
Annoyed, I got in the car to run to Walgreen’s for butter and, what the hey, a spare gallon of milk. And I realized what I was missing. The Guinness. (Apparently I had skipped step one of the recipe altogether.) Blergh indeed. So a full trip to the grocery store later I began.
Part II: And cleaning it up
OK. I have lived in my house for 2 1/2 years. I cook on my stove every day. Every day. And I did not know, hand to God, I did not know that you could just unplug the burner coils in order to remove the drip pans and clean them.
How, you might ask, have I been cleaning my stove all this time?
No, I do. Sometimes. I have given it what you might call the old college try. But usually I give up pretty quickly and redirect my attentions to grumbling about how badly designed electric stoves are (you can’t get in there!) and decide that clearly normal people aren’t supposed to bother.
What can I say? I grew up with a gas stove, where you could just lift the grates right off and put them in the sink. In grad school I had a ceramic top stove, which I also didn’t know how to take care of properly. At our old apartment, I used the foolproof technique described above. I just didn’t know. No one ever told me.
Sam apparently knew this all along:
Me: Why didn’t you ever tell me when you saw me contorting myself in an attempt to clean under the coil?
Sam: I don’t believe I have ever witnessed you contorting yourself in an attempt to clean under the coil.
Anyway. Suffice it to say, henceforth my stove will be at least marginally less horrifying.