If at first you don't succeed, destroy all evidence that you even tried.

My husband has a lot of virtues, but he is possessed of a particular attribute that leaves me in the dust.

Husby does not swear.  

No cursing in traffic, no expletives when he stubs his toe, no creative conjugations when the Yankees biff it at bat. {It is a trait which I emulate, with variable levels of success.} Something that makes his restraint even more impressive? The man grew up on a farm. Not just any farm....a dairy farm. A place populated by those terminally vacuous creatures known as cattle.  I've been told that their native stupidity could drive the pope himself to salty exclamations, so I regard Husby's restraint as a real mark of character. {Yes dear, you ARE a character.}

As a matter of fact, about the worst, most inflammatory thing I've heard come from Bart's sweet lips is a phrase handed down from his overall-wearing, land-tilling, ranch-working grandfather. A phrase that was historically only pulled out for dire occasions like when a cow got loose and was out tromping the grain. Or when that vital, elusive part for the hay stacker broke ~ again. A phrase that in Bart's farming family means serious business is at hand:

 "GAISH BLAST"

{It rhymes with nothing, but think the word "eye", sandwiched between a gutteral "g" and the finality  of a swishy set of consonants, "sh". Top it off with a good solid, self-explanatory "blast". Gaish blast. Or however the heck it's spelled.} 

So when something is terribly wrong in our house, if the Husby is involved you can rest assured that your ears and your sensibilities will not be assaulted. {Unfortunately, I can give no such guarantee.}

***

Little did I know that there was a gaish blast in store last weekend as I planned Valentine's Day dessert.  Having recently completed a weekend culinary class in pies and tarts, I thought I'd show Husby my hot new skills with a sexy, silky, made-from-scratch lemon tart. 

Unsuspecting fool that I was, I separated eggs and zested lemons with visions of Martha-worthy confections in my head. 

Innocently baked off a gorgeous pate-sucree tart shell and whisked up fresh lemon curd with a song in my heart. 

Whipped meringue to soft peaks and popped the assembled loveliness into the oven with a smile on my sappy face. 

And when my prize came out, looking all golden and whippy and fluff-laden, the evil pixies of humidity and capricious egg whites wreaked havoc. 

The mountain of meringue sat there looking pretty for about two minutes. 

And then it seeped. 

And it liquefied. 

And it slid all around the surface of my gorgeous from-scratch lemon curd like a blasted speed skater. 

As I progressed from blotting the moisture with paper towels...
...to spooning off the syrupy goo...
...to viciously flinging the meringue layer of my stupid Valentine's Day failure down the sink, a process percolated:  

My pastry-chef-wannabe pride macerated in its own juices. 

All the carefully cultivated from-scratch vanity deflated like the cursed egg whites. 

And although the gravity of the situation surely merited such an expression, the simmering thoughts in my head DID NOT include any variation of "Gaish Blast". 

Oh, no...nothing so pure as that. 

So, I am no kind of baking blogger this week. 

No tack-sharp pictures of my culinary triumph on its fancy footed presentation plate. {see post title}

No rave reviews of the fabulous new technique/tool/taste sensation that you simply must try. 

None of that stuff.

Just the following notes:

1)  I confess that I wish I were a little more like Husby in restraining my tongue. {I do believe I blistered the countertops with the monologue/diatribe that escaped as I was ferociously flipping the garbage-disposal switch. It is a Vesuvial moment when my precious baking goes awry.}

2)   It occurs to me that some of the mantras which make me tick may be less than healthy. {again, see post title}

3)  I have a renewed appreciation for my farm boy and his appetite. While I sulked at what was left of the tart, the blessed spouse demolished almost all of remaining 10-inch-diameter tart shell and its lemon-curd contents over the following 24-hour period. If I went to the trouble to make it, that sweet man would eat swill. {Come to think of it, I have and he did.} 

It makes a girl feel like something's right with the world to know that her man will eat her cooking, even if it is seasoned with something a little stronger than "Gaish Blast". Now, that's a Valentine's principle I can get behind.


p.s. Although I'm referencing this a bit late, I found a noteworthy web offering: One of Bon Appetit's writers did an article that's equal parts practical and hysterical  on why folks should stay in for Valentine's Day. It's worth a gander.