I am currently hunched over by the oven in my parents’ house, glaring at the Pumpkin Cheesecake that is sitting so goo-ily within, trying to suppress an overwhelming feeling of despair. In my madness, I had convinced myself that I could overcome years of culinary ignorance in one afternoon and produce a dessert of such magnificence, such extreme sugary perfection, that all who feasted upon it would declare me a bona-fide domestic goddess, and my life from this day out would be filled with nothing but montages of me flitting about the kitchen in charming aprons and hosting adorable dinner parties with all my well-coifed chums in the small, nicely-appointed home I had been gifted by the city as a reward for my unmatched cheesecaking abilities. BUT ALAS. The stupid pumpkin layer came out way runnier than I think it was supposed to, and hadn’t fully baked (even after ten extra minutes in the oven) when I poured the cheesecake layer over it, and now I’m pretty sure the whole thing is a disaster.
This does not bode well for the turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy I’m supposed to be cooking tomorrow. THANKSGIVING IS CANCELLED, EVERYBODY. JUST CALL UP YOUR FAVORITE TAKE-OUT PLACE, TURN ON TCM, AND CALL IT A DAY.
(Another glance into the oven’s window has revealed that the monstrous confection has begun to ominously rise above the walls of its springform prison, and will probably continue to do so until it has grown large enough to destroy us all. I am really, really never allowed to cook again. Ever.)