Like most problems, this one begins with my mother. She makes the perfect apple bread. It’s almost more apple than bread, and the apples themselves are cut into pretty large chunks, making for this final product that is cotton-candy soft, so moist it’ll drip if you squeeze it and smells like I wish a cider mill did¹. Years ago when I went to make it myself, I wasn’t entirely surprised when it came out all wrong. Mine was leaden, greasy and attracting fruit flies almost before it cooled off. I told my mom, we trouble-shot it a little, and the next time I made it the same thing: nearly inedible.
We did what we always do in times of baking need: we made two together, side by side. I mimicked her perfectly. Our breads were identical. Until we baked them, and mine came out of the oven looking like an oily paper weight and hers was its usual angelic self.
“Wow.” She said. “You’re right. Only I can make it.”
And that was that. Suffice to say, about once a year I try a new apple bread recipe and each time they’re just not right. They’ll never be right. I’ll still be on the lookout for that eye of newt I know she slips into hers.
I’m not going to give you the recipe, but I got it from Kita at Pass the Sushi if you’re interested. There’s nothing wrong with the bread — it merely tasted like bread. It was not especially apple-y, or anything else really. The four eggs made the texture a little too rubbery for my taste, too.
This recipe-neutrality has been happening a lot with me lately, and it’s taken the wind out of my sails. Also: being so sick I hallucinated my aunt speaking to me on the phone. Boy was that solicitor confused! I think my somewhat insane cackle toward the end of the conversation helped clear things up.
¹I suspect an actual cider mill smells like gasoline, dirt, rotten fruit and sweaty immigrants.September 20th, 2010 | Eatin' Fancy