I’ve regaled you, dear reader, a few times with some of my more clumsy
and amusing kitchen mishaps, but, thanks to a small dinner party I
threw recently, I have a whole cadre of new tales to tell, which, if
all goes according to plan, will put any fearful hostess-wannabe at
ease about their ability to host lovely, entertaining dinners.

I’m going to Tarantino this tale and start at the end – plates licked
clean, full bellies, and lots of laughter – otherwise, a successful
evening. Now, let’s start at the beginning, and you’ll get a real feel
for what a disaster in the kitchen I am….

I was a little troubled the other day…. while I desperately did not want to turn my oven to 375° on a day so humid you could practically bottle the humidity, I really, REALLY wanted a ginger scone and did not want the store or cafe-bought variety, which tend to be nothing like a real scone.

Well, as fate would have it, my scones (yes, I did cave and turn the oven on) were also nothing like a real scone, but, in fact, turned out to be more like the perfect ginger cookie. Now, before you think that all of this balmy Boston weather has gone to my head and turned me into some sort of ego-maniac, dropping superlatives like “best” and “perfect” with nary a thought for accuracy, let me tell you that this cookie is worthy of any and all laudations that you care to throw at it.

What is it about human nature that makes us willfully engage in activities that we are certain will have disastrous outcomes? That extra martini? Probably not going to make getting home (or remembering your bag) any easier. That cute guy reeking of Axe Body Spray? Probably not going to call you back. That inky black Prada bag with butter-soft leather that you simply couldn’t leave, because it felt like a baby being snatched from a mother’s arms? Probably going to feel like a bulldozer landed on your head when you see your credit card bill.

For whatever reason, the complicated and mysterious workings of our minds make it such that we do things we know are wrong with willful ardor. Such was my situation baking a long-forgotten favorite treat, Sticky Cinnamon Twists, over the weekend.

I’ve always pictured food writers deftly administering to their culinary tasks with ease and calm, knowing exactly where everything is, never forgetting an ingredient at the store, and having a profusion of measuring cups and nesting bowls to dirty without needing to wash them. While I do believe in mise en place and do try to stay organized, this is not always the case, and I’m going to own that I make mistakes in the kitchen, some small, some enormous, and some hysterical.

The most recent near-disaster was this past Saturday. I had invited a few close friends over for dinner. PT and I had decided to spend the day shopping in Wrentham, planned to be back in Boston by 5 and home with the groceries by 5:30 – more than enough time to prep for an 8:00 meal. Well, as they say, I stayed a bit too long at the fair… I don’t want to bore you with details, but Kate Spade was having an unbelievable-we-have-a-major-recession-on-our-hands-and-have-to-get-rid-of-inventory kind of sale, and, well, it was hard to pull myself away.