I like to think of myself as an okay baker. Maybe even a pretty good baker. (I’m nothing compared to my friend Emily, however. Check out her delicious stuff here.) We’re having company tonight, and I got lazy about dinner plans (“let’s order pizza,” I said), so I thought I’d make whoopie pies for dessert.
I found a delicious-looking recipe at A Family Feast, and thought, “How hard can it be?”
“How hard can it be?”
So. Effing. Hard.
The first batch was a sloppy, sad, wet nightmare. I overcompensated with the second, so they were tough little chocolate biscuits. During the third batch, I discovered the hard way that the cancel button on our new oven doesn’t just cancel the timer. It cancels the heat. Those whoopie pie ends made a thunk noise when I plopped them onto the cooling rack (after cooking them at very low heat for triple the time). Whoopie pie ends should definitely not make a thunk noise. The last batch was slightly overdone, because my heart wasn’t in it anymore.
I over-applied the filling, and after I assembled the whoopie pies, the little demons slid all over the place like goats on an ice rink.
Why didn’t I just bake cookies?