Did I sound as if I was bragging yesterday when I wrote about all my neat little freezer containers of food for winter? If so, I apologize, because I certainly got my comeuppance today.
The day started off well. I followed my own rule about settling down to writing this morning, and by lunchtime I had cranked out some 1900 words -- a product good enough for a NaNoWriMo performance (but more about that later!) For now, we're talking about what happened after lunch. Despite several crockpots full of applesauce, I still had 18 apples to use up, and I couldn't bear the thought of any more sauce. So I checked the internet for ideas and found a promising Rachel Ray recipe for baked apples. Now to be honest, I don't much care for Rachel Ray, but this seemed too good to be true.
Take McIntosh apples (which is what I had), cut the tops off, take out the core and seeds with a melon baller, stuff the centers with a mixture of granola, chopped walnuts, butter, and brown sugar, stand each apple in a muffin pan cup and bake for 20 minutes at 425 degrees. Simple enough, right?
Oh no. Do you remember those grade school days (your own or your kids) when you built a paper mache mountain, added vinegar and baking soda to the crater and watched the volcano explode? There's even a current commercial that features this kind of fun. But when it happens in your own oven . . . .That's right. My apples exploded. Every one of the eighteen, at approximately the 17-minute mark. They split their rosy little skins, the apple flesh expanded into marshmallow fluff, and then poured forth their syrupy stuffing all over the muffin tins and down to the floor of the oven.
Sigh! Add oven-cleaning to the list of the week's chores. As for the apples, what I salvaged of them looks and tastes pretty good, but truthfully, it still tastes like applesauce.