The Great British Baking Show

They really did turn out just like the picture!
Please ignore the greasy thumbprint. It’s how I mark all of my recipes.

Sunday, September 27, 2020

Today I am grateful for The Great British Baking Show.  Buttah, buttah, buttah!  I’ve gained weight just watching it.  Jam, lemon curd, croissant and buttah, buttah, buttah!   Chocolate, fondant, yeasty rye bread, Danish pastries and buttah, buttah, buttah!

Look, I’m aware that it’s been almost a week since I’ve written a blog, but believe me, I was doing something very useful. . .and necessary for my mental health.  I binge watched “episodes” on Netflix.  Before you go putting it in your Q, be aware that the humor in it is a bit raw and sexual.  Ok, very much so.  If that is not your thing, then don’t watch it, because it will probably offend you.

But if you’re a total scamp, like me, who likes a bit of sassiness, as long as no one is getting hurt because I hate violent shows, then take a look at this series.  But don’t watch one or two and ditch it.  Get past the third episode (25-minute shows) before you decide to go on or stop.  I’m watching it again with Himself because he would defer to anything besides the news and is enjoying it.

You won’t have that problem with The Great British Baking Show, which is my newest drug of choice.  If you’re a little off-whack like me, you’ll love it from the start.  I’m watching season six, but didn’t watch any other seasons, except maybe one a long time ago with my sister when I was at her house.  Now I’m addicted.  Himself is even a little into it, but don’t tell the guys cuz he’s afraid they’ll take away his man card.

First off, the hosts are a hoot.  An attractive silver-fox guy and a colorful woman are the judges.  She wears different color glasses depending on her funky outfit.  I can relate.  Then there’s a goth-guy who is as quirky as a circus performer on steroid cocktails and a gay, slightly seasoned woman who cracks me up.  These characters had me before the first thing went in the oven.

The contestants are even better.  Men, women, younger, older, gay, straight, weird, shee-shee, trendy and physically challenged. . .this show has them all.  We’ve pared it down to the last four so the bakes are getting more difficult. 

Instead of hearing the screaming noise of politicians and broadcasters, like election, supreme court take-overs, the upcoming debates, mail-in-ballots, the Covid nightmare numbers, the great mask arguement, social distancing and lies, lies, lies, I’m hearing about cream and mirror glaze and buttah, buttah, buttah.  Works for me!

I’m going to have to look a few terms up that you might know, but I don’t, like, craquelin, choux (no clue on either) and religieuse (some kind of nun pastry). 

I know what a ganache is but I’ve never made it.  My daughter in law is a great baker and she’s done it, so maybe some day she’ll give me lessons.

I’m absolutely certain that I gained 20 pounds from just watching four shows.  That’s five pounds a show and now I have a huge problem aside from the one I’m sitting on.  Unlike watching an exercise video, where I can stay in my chair throughout the entire thing and not feel compelled to get up, move or even breathe heavy. . .when I watch a baking show. . .I want to bake! 

Lots!  Everything.  Not the stuff they are making because I know when I’m out of my league.  No way could I stand in that kitchen for a five-hour bake.  They’d find me somewhere on the grounds, sprawled out on a chaise lounge, Googling the local bakery!  Then I saw a recipe in last week’s Sunday Inquirer that not only sounded good, but I knew I had all of the ingredients in the house to make it.  Win-win.

So, this morning, between challenges, I roasted some pecans, gathered ingredients and threw together muffins.  Oh boy.  And I still have pie left from the last bake.  I love making this stuff, but I can’t eat all of it and honestly don’t even want to.  Plus Himself is picky even about sweets.  He wouldn’t touch a muffin if he knew it had anything healthy in it, like oatmeal or protein drink. 

But what to do with the eleven muffins (I ate one cuz I have to make sure they are not poison) and two-thirds of a Dutch apple pie?  I texted my son!  He and the little one were stopping by for a few minutes and left with an entire box full of the baked booty.

More winning.  The motherland has produced The British Baking Show and it is killing me. . .and rescuing me.  God save the Queen!  And please pass the buttah, buttah, buttah!

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