The Maginot Line or Republicans' immigration policy proposal?
A well designed plan can be the razor-edge separating success and failure. The keen readers will have noted that I didn't say which side planning ultimately leads to; often it's success, but memory serves notable instances where planning was less than…well…efficacious. Take for instance the ill-fated Maginot line; France's ostensible answer to a potential repeat of Germany's 1914 invasion. The rationale was sound enough: an enormous, well-fortified, securitized wall between France and its longtime military rival would dissuade further German aggression. German forces surely appreciated the grandeur of such valiant rationality as they swept north through Belgium and then drove southwards into France, but this time circumventing the Maginot Line altogether, a barrier that only ran the length of the German-French border. France earned double irony points as this was precisely how the Germans had invaded in 1914. Yes planning had served France well indeed.
What has this all to do with baking? Well I like France had presumably learned from prior culinary debacles and had made appropriate, logical adjustments to my plans. THIS time, unlike so many others, I was fully prepared from the onset. All my ingredients pre-measured and prepped, oven preheated, all utensils easily accessible on the countertop. I had gotten the jump on forgetfulness and would laugh heartily as my efforts yielded the most succulent blondies ever to emerge from a brownie pan. Then Germany came calling *cue Deutschland, Deutschland über alles*
The first batch was offered me solidarity to those Frenchman standing on the Maginot Line, watching at the Germans flew overhead or swept around the flank, utterly helpless. I had done everything correctly. The recipe followed to the letter, even going so far as to employ the foodscale to measure dry ingredients. Alas, my unraveling came from my own stupidity (my most ardent nemesis) and that brown saucy devil that is caramelizing sugar.
The latter devil cackled first. Lying to me in the sweet aromatic overtures of bubbling caramel I attempted butterscotch for the first time. Slow and low I crafted, intently and inexpertly, my neophyte's masterpiece. My first hint of failure was how the butterfat had seemed to separate from the caramel when I transferred it from pan to bowl. Fifteen minutes later it had become a mass with only slightly less density than my own obtuse brain.
As the caramel reified into a crystalline catastrophe I happily sailed oceans of ignorance while preparing the blondie batter. Once again suspicion left me wondering why the batter was so wet, and so much butterfat was accumulating on the surface, despite my faithful recreation of the recipe. Assuaging my fears by reliance on the wisdom of the recipe author I placed 1/2 the batter in the pan and flash baked. What came out was golden brown and smelled quite good. So good in fact that a scant 120 seconds after having removed it from the oven I saw fit to grab it with naked paw and subsequently scatter it in explosive crumb form all across my kitchen floor. Blondies after all can be served on the floor as well as a plate. It was only after sweeping up the mess did I discover my amber colored butterscotch bowling ball stuck to my bowl. I could hear France laughing at me.
Now a matter of principle I made slight modifications to the blondie recipe to make it drier, and located a more moron-proof butterscotch recipe. The denouement of this story is something more than France today: actual, unmitigated success. My blondies were perfect, the butterscotch lost half the batch as repeated spoon dips were transferred directly to my mouth. This all flying by the virtual seat of my pants.
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