It’s not that I like violence, exactly. I’m more of the passive-aggressive type. But every once in a while I like to get tough. I like to inflict pain upon unsuspecting heaps of butter and flour. (Maniacal laugh.) Here’s how it all went down with the brioche dough needed for pecan sticky buns:
|The war zone on day three|
But where was the slap?
Grind grind, sgush sgush. No slap.
Glurp. Glurp. Grrrrblup. Still no slap.
Check recipe. Breathe.
All right, time to get serious. Add more flour, be patient. I won’t do anything for at least two more minutes. Tick tick. One minute passes….Must... Add... More... Flour.
Glurp. Grind. Glurp.
Still no slap? What the…?
Forget the recipe: I know better.
I stopped measuring. I stopped counting minutes. I threw all caution to the wind and moved on pure instinct. More flour, more!
And finally, the dough began to cooperate. At last I achieved that sought-after rhythmic slap. My baker's high kicked in. Brioche dough, I will destroy you! (Some days I like to coddle my baked babies, but I was in a domineering mood by now. And I know you talk to your dough too. Admit it.)
By this point, the KitchenAid was getting pretty heated up over all the work it was forced to do. I was secretly hoping it would finally poop out on me so I could save the day with my kick-ass hand-kneading skills. (Flex Captain America biceps.) But no luck. The mixer persevered. At least I didn’t have to aggravate the old carpel-tunnel syndrome. (Sad face emoticon.)
|Look at my butter layers!|
Yeah, the gorgeous dough fell apart at this point, but eventually I got it to behave. I knew I could do it all along.
The rest of the project proceeded as expected: Add butter. A little more butter. Now add some more. Roll dough into submission. Incarcerate in refrigerator for awhile. Remove from fridge and add more butter. Re-roll. Just for a little more punishment, place dough in solitary confinement in the freezer. Remove from freezer, slice into rounds. Add pecans, butter and some brown sugar. No, more than that. More. A little more. Okay, good.
Ignore for two hours. Bake. Flip onto plate. Torment family with enticing scent of warmed butter, cinnamon and sugar, but refuse to let anyone taste a morsel for at least an hour until buns are cooled and brunch guests arrive. (Looks good. Evil happy dance.)
Another winner. After three days of perfecting my torture techniques, it better be.