Dessert Disasters

     Baked Alaska.  Well really it was called "Baked Hawaii".  Allow me to set it up for you.  My family Hosted many dinner parties when we were younger (I'm talking teens here, I was 16).  Sometimes these were quite nice affairs.  I would fold napkins; Sissy would be the perfect waitress, 5 star meals here. 

     Dad by this time had emerged as quite the chef, and a bit OCD in the kitchen (yes, same guy as stuff-in-the-stuff.  My how they grow) He needed to be in control of everything, from recipes to service (still not overly interested in cleaning).  We would have family friends come help cook and we would all feast afterward.  As most know, you can't be in 2 places at once, or...well you just can't, it gets messy.  Well, Daddy'o decides one time we are doing Baked Alaksas for dessert, but they have some pineapple twist, and all in little individual ramekin-esque containers, so now they are called baked Hawai’i. Fine.  Then he needs to oversee their every step in preparation.  Fine.  Then he decides we aren't doing it right so he takes over...not so fine.  Then he wants to go schmooze.  Fabulous, we in the kitchen (mind you I am the youngest cook, the others are grown and one is a pro chef, just helping some friends) are growing weary of the "part time control freak" thing.  Be gone crazy man.  Everything is going fine, (“fine" in kitchen terms means chaotic but food is going out, and empty plates are coming back.) UNTIL....

     The timer goes off on the oven, a quick peek inside reveals 9 beautiful, ready to serve "Hawaii’s".  SUCCESS.  Then, out of nowhere, the sky darkens, lightning strikes, and in the doorway appears a man we recognize as my father, but he's wearing a mask, a cape and a shirt that say "Dessert Destroyer".  (ok that might not be exactly what happened, but my story, my narrative)  he insists that in a kitchen full of capable adults ( and me) he is the only one who can extract the delicate beauties from the oven. With one hand he deftly raises the tray and...immediately flips the entire contents onto the floor!!!!!  NOOOOOO! Oh the humanity!...  Ok enough drama.  He did drop the tray.  Hawaii’s gone.  Thankfully we had another tray ready to go, and most people around that time reneged on individual desserts and opted to share with spouses or friends.  Another tray goes in.  Again we let Dad take the reins (everyone needs a shot at redemption).  This time he carefully uses 2 hands and...and...and... They hit the floor again.  I kid you not.  Two full trays of handmade mini baked Alaska on the kitchen floor.  I'm not sure how my father survived, because everyone wanted him dead at this point, but I think it had to do with the following.  My inner teenager welled up inside me (actually it was probably hormones/pms and the knowledge that my chances at eating dessert were being threatened) and I told him to GET OUT of the kitchen and not to return. 

     The last tray of 9 was successfully delivered to the dining room where they were shared. The kitchen staff managed to salvage enough fresh ingredients to make 3 for ourselves, so it was not as bad as setting the kitchen on fire (we almost did that earlier) but it was touch and go there for a while.  And the following year I out rightly banned my father from the kitchen and took control, showing the silver lining in every dark cloud, even one wearing a mask and an ominous tee-shirt!

Stay sweet!