Problems with Chocolate and Underpants

Tomorrow my former co-workers and I are having a potluck. I am bringing dessert. My general method of bringing foodstuffs to other people’s homes is to buy something at the store, put it in my own tupperware, and say I made it. But since I have a newfound lease on life, I decided to take a stab at this thing called preparing my own food.

Inspired by this seemingly-regular person (who in retrospect is probably an alien blessed with unrealistic culinary skill), I decided to make chocolate pots de crème. Since they have to be refrigerated for a while, I planned to make them this afternoon.

Things went swimmingly at first. I boiled milk and separated eggs (!) and chopped up exceedingly fancy chocolate. Then I put the liquid in the ramekins and popped them in the oven for an hour and fifteen minutes.

While they baked, I shaved my legs and went looking for my massage underpants. I had a massage scheduled at the local massage school in the afternoon. An indulgence. Last time I went there it was awful, but I figured that the semester is further along, so maybe the students have improved their technique. At any rate, underpants that conceal my ass crack are essential for situations in which I am naked with a person but not in a sex-way. I have one appropriate pair.

I could not find the massage underpants. This boded ill. I was forced to gird my nether-regions in lace.

The oven timer dinged ten minutes before I had to leave. Perfect! I could just pop the custards into the fridge and be off. But lo! What’s this?! These are not custards! These are entirely-not-cooked-at-all containers of chocolate liquid!

I called my mommy. We speculated that the evil atmosphere of Colorado had cursed my custards. Her suggestion was to stick them back in the oven, turn it off, go to my massage, and turn the oven back on when I returned. She seemed to think that leaving uncooked eggs and cream sitting out for two hours was not at all problematic. Since I have a scar on my hand from the last time I ignored my mother’s advice, I did as I was told.

Off to a relaxing massage! In the pouring rain! Now, I’d only been to this place once before, and I was coming from a different direction, and I am prone to getting discombobulated in the relative confines of grocery stores, but I didn’t seem to think I needed to check the address before leaving. It’s a big brown oddly-shaped building right off a street near my lifepartner’s office. So off I sped!

I turned down what looked like the right street and proceeded to a big brown oddly-shaped building and pulled in. Parked. Looked at the sign. I was at Lockheed Martin. Yes, the defense-weapons contractor. I went to get a massage at a place that manufactures warheads. I turned around.

Fifteen minutes late for my appointment, I finally found the right place. Rushed in. They’d given my appointment away to a walk-in. No socially-awkward rubby-dub for me.

Back home. Custards back in the oven. Went to switch the laundry. And there I was confronted with a perfect housefrau cliché: I’d washed my lifepartner’s favorite white cotton shirt with a pair of red cotton underpants.

I called my mommy again. She instructed me in the magic of a potion called bleach.

Checked the custards. Checked them again. Again. After being in the oven for two and a half hours, they finally appeared cooked. I had made exactly enough to take to my potluck tomorrow; no extras for tasting or screw-ups. So I stuck them in the fridge and decided that if they appear too liquidey when we eat them tomorrow night, I’ll say it’s pudding. Or some sort of French chocolate dessert soup. Maybe crème de la I-can’t-fucking-cook.

I emailed the lifepartner. Asked him to bring home takeout. Called it a day on housefrauing.

Tune in tomorrow for “Watch Me Get Drunk and Say Uncomfortable Things to My Friends.”

PS—Advance apologies to anyone reading this who might be eating those pots de crème tomorrow night.