Problem Solved

I’m going. I’m going to do it. I don’t feel 100% better, though, so I hope it isn’t a huge mistake. But I figure if I feel icky here I’m going to feel icky there. Right? Sort of. Something like that. I don’t know. I’m packed and ready. I want to go. I’d rather not sit home and feel sick. I think. Gah.

Yesterday I decided to whip up a Pumpkin Dump Cake to take along. I don’t really like going to someones house like that empty-handed. As much as I enjoyed that cake, I figured the girls (there I go again) would, too. I also figured it would be budget-friendly since I had the ingredients on hand. Or so I thought.

I brought out my bowl and mixed up my pumpkin and spices. Oh, golly, gee. There’s that call for condensed milk again. The first time I made it I ran down to the pantry (I say “pantry” but really it’s just some steel shelving in our garage that we load up canned goods on) to grab a can of the milk. I knew I had one, if not two. I sure did. And they both expired back in 1845. Goodness. Trash those. I had just been to the store, and really didn’t feel like going again. I searched the ‘net for viable alternatives, but none of them pleased me. So I made my own. I used regular milk. There ya go. I had contemplated coconut milk, but decided that was straying too far from the path.

Well yesterday I couldn’t remember what I used in place of the condensed milk. Sour cream? What? What did I use? I didn’t want to mess it up, and, since Frank was on a run to pick up a pizza (Groupon deal, large for $6), I called my mommy to see if she had a spare can. She sure did. Mommy to the rescue. Called Frank, who had to circle back, to pick up the can.

Problem solved.

I melted my butter in the microwave, and went to grab my yellow cake mix. Hmm. I did have one, didn’t I? Not in the cupboard. Not below… so.. yeah. No. I didn’t have one. So much of making a recipe with stuff I already had.

Called mommy. Again. She didn’t even try not to laugh at me, and because she’s the queen of having extra baking supplies on hand, she sent my husband home with that, too.

Problem solved. Or so I thought.

Frank gets home, I finish off my mix, add the wet stuff to the pan, add the cake mix, pat-pat-pat it down, and put it in the oven; set the timer for 45min.

Half an hour later, Carlito goes to warm his spaghetti in the microwave and says, “What is this?”

“What’s what?” I called from my perch on the couch.

“This yellow stuff, grouse, in the microwave. I can throw it out”

Yellow stuff? MY BUTTER!!! “Nooooooooooooooooo!!”

I forgot my butter, dagnabbit. You can’t complete a recipe without butter. I contemplated throwing myself down the stairs, or hightailing it in to the kitchen to view the disaster that was awaiting me. Begrudgingly I took the butter from my son’s hands, and opened the oven. It looked OK. It smelled fantastic. Here goes nothing.

Butter poured, back in the oven for 10 more minutes. The end verdict is that it looks fine. I’m apprehensive because I made it in a throw-away pan, which I haven’t done before, and I let it sit in the oven longer than it should have. We shall see. It’s still coming with me on the trip.

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