Newlywed Brownies and the Breaking Point

My husband, David, is a Biology major and a Chemistry minor who just so happens to love cooking and baking. When you’re a “down home” girl, like me, who just so happens to love cooking and baking as well, things can get tricky in the kitchen. “Scientists” are taught to measure; “down home” girls are taught to eyeball it.

I love my husband. I love him dearly. This includes all of his little quirks and annoying habits. I knew this going into marriage but when it comes to cooking, these little endearments rub the fur off my patience. David had never made brownies, or seen the process of, until the other night. If you are a knowledgeable cook, like David and me, you know that baking is chemistry and all the “formulas” must come out exact or you end up with either salty petrified wood or sickeningly sweet glue. But if you’re baking with Betty Crocker, her boxed “formulas” are fool proof. Really fool proof.

I begin the process. Fresh eggs? Check. Enough vegetable oil? Check. Paid the water bill? Check. The directions called for either a 13x9, 9x9 or 8x8 glass dish or metal pan. Even after all the wedding registry work, we failed to register for, or receive, a 13x9, 9x9 or 8x8 glass dish or metal pan. No big deal. I found a glass baking dish that “looks” like would work. I’m a “down home” girl; you don’t use exact measurements, right?

“What size is that?” David points to the dish.
“I don’t know but it should work,” I assure as a reach for a mixing bowl.
“What size does the box call for?” Another query from my darling husband.
“Thirteen by nine, nine by nine or an eight by eight but this one will be fine.”
“Are you sure?” DING! Unknowingly to him, my patience is being pushed.
“Yes.”

I cracked 2 large eggs into the mixing bowl and measured out a little less than 1/3 cup of oil. One third of a cup is what the box called for and I remember that this was the exact measurement because of the following:

“Is that enough oil?” He asks.
“Yes.”
“Didn’t the box call for a third of a cup?”“Yes.” Why lie? I know what I’m doing. This isn’t my first brownie rodeo.
“Then why didn’t you add the full one third?” It wasn’t a derogatory question. It was actually really naïve but I’m about to smack the boy. “I normally don’t add ALL of the oil. I figure the less amount of fat the better.”“I thought the oil was there to make them moist…” he trails off.
Oh. My. God. I reach back into the cupboard and, without measuring which I’m sure made him ancy in his pantsy, I poured what I thought to be enough to make a WHOLE 1/3 cup of stupid vegetable oil into the mixing bowl.

I stir everything together including the three tablespoons of water (“I wouldn’t think it would make that big of a difference” he says but, trust me, it does) and ask him to grease the baking dish.

“I’m curious,” he says as he walks out of the kitchen. He comes back with his measuring tape. He measures the dish. What the f… He’s measuring the dish! “Hmmm…” he says. “Looks like it’s a six by ten baking dish. Are you sure this will be ok?”“Yes, David.”

“Hmmm…” he pauses and whips out his cell phone. “Let me check and see if the volume would be right.” THE VOLUME. He’s doing the calculations for the freakin’ VOLUME of all four of the baking dish sizes on his cell phone calculator. First, he has the formulas MEMORIZED and second, HE’S CALCULATING THE FREAKIN’ VOLUME OF ALL FOUR BAKING DISHE SIZES.

“It looks like this dish has a volume that’s between the nine by nine and the eight by eight,” he concludes.

You gotta be freaking kidding me, I think to myself. “Trust me, Dave. This will work. Now, can go and grease this for me, please? Get the edges and corners.”

I try to pour the batter into the greased, almost volume correct, dish. I say “try” because Helpy Helperson is, well, TRYING to help hold the bowl while a scrape the goo out with a wooden spoon. We registered for rubber spatulas and our registry shows that SOMEONE bought the damn things for us but the utensils are no where to be seen. I scrape the mix out as best as I can. Stupid registry. “Give me the bowl.”

I put the dish of brownies into the preheated 350 degree oven (the first thing I always do before baking because THAT’S WHAT THE BOX SAYS).

“It says 30 minutes but we’ll check them in about 20,” I say.
“Ok.” I FINALLY got an agreement.

Twenty minutes roll by and I decide to check them out. Now, the box said to insert a toothpick 2 inches from the side of the pan and, if the toothpick comes out partially clean, the brownies are ready. I’m pretty sure that when I checked them with my toothpick it wasn’t EXACTLY two inches from the side but it was the side and it came out partially clean.

“Are they done?” Dave asks.
“Looks like it,” I say, very satisfied with myself.

He then gets himself a toothpick, measures out exactly two inches from the side of the dish, inserts the toothpick (which comes our partially clean) and says, “Hm. Guess they are.”

I walk away.

If I don’t break this man, I will have to break this man.