"I need to make that apple tart-thingy tomorrow," I said to my husband (the chef). He was looking at the computer, with his manly 'I-can-only-focus-on-one-thing-at-a-time' face on, but usually any indication that I might be doing something in the kitchen, besides washing dishes, will turn him away from the Dark Side.
"What?"
"You know, that apple tart upside-down thing you make? I have to make it for the International Lunch Friday. At the school?"
"YOU'RE going to make it?" I certainly have his full attention now. "By yourself?"
Okay, okay, in the past I have said that I would make that apple tart-thingy. & I mean to, I really do. But then my husband will see me preparing to peel 40 or so apples, in my inept & unskilled fashion, & he will give a huge exasperated sigh, roll up his sleeves & basically take over.
"Sure," I said confidently. I try to put past knife experiences out of my mind, like that time I was cutting onions & almost cut off the tip of my little finger & had to call my husband to take me to the Emergency Room. But that was YEARS ago...
He eyes me speculatively. "You'll have your phone charged up for a change?" I can see he is reliving the onion cutting event as well.
"I'll be careful!"
He grunted in disbelief & turned back to his computer.
"Wait! I need you to tell me the directions so I can write it down."
"You're kidding!" He pushes back from the computer again. "How many times have we made this together & you STILL don't know how to make the Tarte Tatin?"
Ah! I knew it wasn't called that Apple Tart-thingy!
"I always make it with you! Besides, I have tried to write it down before but you never tell me anything specific that I can write!"
"That's not true."
"Fine. Look, here I have a pen & here..." I scrounge around & find the back of an ATM receipt, "...I have a paper. Now you will see me write it down. Go ahead."
"Peel the apples, I guess you know that part..." He rolls his eyes.
"Yes, duh! How many apples?"
"A bunch."
"A bunch? Like 'a bunch of bananas'? Apples come in bunches? I have 2 bags of green apples here - is that enough?"
"Should be. Then again, I've seen the way you peel..."
"Okay, never mind." I write down '2 bags of apples' with a flourish. "So, I peel the apples, -"
"& core them."
"& core them," I scrawl, "& cut them up into thin slices?"
"No! Cut them in half."
"Only in half?"
"Yes, only in half. Along the pole, not the equator."
Oddly enough, I understand this, so I need make no smart remarks about travel arrangements.
"Cut in half along the pole. Now I put them in the pan with the honey, right?"
"Right. Flat side down."
"Flat side down. How much honey?"
"Just pour some in the pan."
"Some? How much is some? Fill the bottom of the pan?"
"Yes."
"Fill the bottom of the pan with honey," I write.
"Oh - I usually add some butter, too." he recalls.
"Butter? What, melted, I am guessing?"
"Well, soft at least - it will melt in the oven anyway."
"So I don't have to mix it IN with the honey?"
"No, no..."
"How much butter?"
"Oh, just a bit."
"A bit? How much is 'a bit'?"
"How big is the pan?" Ooh, a counter-attack! I know how to respond to this question!!
"Oh, about so big." I hold up my hands some vague distance apart. See how he likes it! But, then I give in, "Two 8X8's, I guess that's what we have?"
"Yeah, okay."
"So, how much butter?"
"About an ounce."
"An ounce? Like a tablespoon?"
"28 grams."
"Of course." I write down 'big spoon of butter each pan'.
"So, now I get the puff pastry -"
"Not yet! You have to cook them first!"
"The puff pastry?"
"No! The apples!"
"Oh, okay, okay. What do I set the oven at?"
"Say, 350...375...should be alright..."
"Which? Do you see what I mean? Do you see why I never write anything down? - a bunch of this, a bit of that, some of this, combined all together & cooked at some unknown temperature for what? Presumably some unspecified time?"
"Until they are soft to the touch." He is smirking, I see it.
"Ugh! You could never write a recipe book. I want something that says 5 pounds apples, 1 cup honey, bake at 375 for 40 minutes. I can do that! I can follow directions! But this wishy-washy 'maybe this much/maybe that much' is no good. How'd you like to be treated like this at the doctor's office? 'Oh, you broke your arm, well, take a bit of this medicine, take some of that medicine, wear this cast until your arm is soft to the touch...!"
"Cooking is an art form, Helen."
"That may well be, but some of us are not artists...& we still have to cook sometimes...anyhow, fine, soft to the touch. What is your estimation of how long it might possibly take for the apples to become 'soft to the touch'?"
"30 to 40 minutes."
"30 to 40 minutes," I jot down.
"After that let them cool down-"
"For 'a while', perhaps?"
"Yes. Then get the puff pastry sheets, that are defrosted-"
"Meaning I can take them out of the freezer NOW & put them in the fridge for tomorrow?"
"Yes, you could do that. Then drape the sheets over the apples & tuck them in around the edges-"
"& slit them, right?"
"Right, for the steam to get out. Then cook them again."
"How long? Please, just tell me a real time."
"Half an hour."
"At the same temperature?"
"Lower it down a little."
"'A little' - how about 350?"
"Fine."
"350 for 1/2 hour," I write. "Now, then later, I take it out of the pan-"
"Much later - it needs to cool down for all the ingredients to congeal together. In fact, maybe you should wait for me to get home tonight to do that part..."
"With pleasure! Now, that's my favorite part of this recipe so far! I suppose you'll be home 'sometime tonight'?..."
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