TASMANIAN DEVIL OF THE KITCHEN

Experimental cooking is my latest challenge.  I don't mean anything fancy.  I mean the plain old basic stuff that most people have no problem whatsoever baking, frying, braising, etc.

Let me give some background.

When I was a freshman in high school, everyone wanted to be my chemistry lab partner because no matter how carefully I followed the lab directions, something always blew up or caught fire in my lab group, courtesy of me.  This followed me into college when, as a grown up adult in my early thirties, I took a few courses to get back into the whole school gig. 

One of the courses I had to take?  Chemistry.

I have no problem mixing chemical compounds algebraically on paper.  Again, though, I became the scourge of the lab, the Typhoid Mary of Chemical Reactions.  The answer to the professor's question "What the hell is going on over there, Heliand?" was the inevitable and repetitive "Nuclear fusion, apparently."

My cooking is no different.  Oh, sure, I have some staples that get me through:  Toll House cookies, Oriental slaw, lasagna, beef stew, broccoli cheddar cheese soup, and an apple pie that is remarkably yummy.

My attempt to make oatmeal blueberry muffins should be relatively simple.  The recipe requires two egg whites.  I can do this, and, if I can't, I have an old plastic egg separator which is really only moderately accurate.  I take the eggs out of the fridge and let them sit for a few minutes while I assess my ability and confidence levels.

Can I do this?  I don't have many eggs, so if I screw this up, it could warrant a trip to the store.

I am brave.  I don't even bother with a knife edge - I go right for the side of the cup measure.  I crack the side of the first egg, pull it apart, and immediately turn my wrist upward, catching the yolk and a massive amount of white in the shell half while some of the white drools into the container.  Slowly and cautiously, I scoop the yolk into the other half of the shell, letting the white ooze out but not breaking any yellow.  Back and fourth, back and fourth, until --

Nothing in the shell but yolk.  Separated that first egg and then the second egg like an absolute boss. 

This all sounds great in theory until I decide that the paltry amount of blueberries required by the recipe will not yield me blueberry muffins worth eating, so I throw in double the amount.  I forget to allow for blueberry squishy-ness when baking, and I accidentally overcook the muffins just a touch, not worthy of disaster, but definitely a bit.

Doesn't matter.  I eat them.  I freeze some, but I eat the rest, that is.  A little butter and some milk on the side, and no one will ever suspect that I am the Tasmanian Devil of the kitchen.