It has been a long time since I’ve added to our little disaster pile. Even so, it hasn’t prevented me from moaning about my duds or enduring nasty week long ruts. Certainly it can’t be true, the evidence is unfounded if I do not pin up the proof  here on these pages as a blathering confession of failure. If I don’t show you then it didn’t happen, right? If you ask my hard drive, however, it has a different story. There are currently over 320 demonstrations shoved under the title of “help me!”. Things like macadamia drop scones (Hawaii, a macadamia paradise, inspired these and of course they flopped themselves right to the trash, taking with them a morsel of my baking happiness), red lentil fritters (in actuality were more like little red hockey pucks, except hockey pucks have more flavor), lemon speculoos ice cream, and yes, even these fresh corn hush puppies.

Up until last week if you asked me what a hush puppy was I would have mumbled and stumbled through a vague definition of a fried seafood ball thing. My (thankfully) few childhood experiences at Long John Silver’s formed that view as I’m sure I got it mixed up with the miscellaneous other fried things on my seafood platter. Thankfully I was wrong as I found out last week during our fleeting beach trip. We went to an ocean front restaurant sitting upon stilts and priding itself on the spectacular sunset views to be had from its deck. It of course had the usual beachy smorgasbord of seafood offerings along with a few extras for the sea-averse. Before ordering my husband leaned over and asked the waitress what hush puppies were. “Like a doughnut” she said.

Like a doughnut. She was right. The little fried dough balls she brought us were similar to savory doughnut holes you could butter up and pop into your mouth before anyone could pass a judging eye. Small, fluffy, warm, and all of it bread. It was perhaps the one redeeming quality of our meal that night. It also, just so happened, that I found an email in my inbox the same week for beignet style hush puppies using fresh sweet corn and herbs.

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I wish I had something good to share with you, some mouth-watering yummy recipe that begs you to run to the store, something that would carry on the last topic I told you stay posted on. But a week later, and an obvious disregard for giving any helpful hints to a more easy, stress-free holiday, could I at least tell you that all the grand plans, all the recipes I wanted to share came out miserably. Josh would argue that they were edible, but to me, a perfectionist — something I now have had to agree with, after being caught with a ruler as I cut even strips for my (burnt….ughhhh!) lattice pie lid — I say they were more deserving of the garbage. So accept this apology as I give you permission to laugh at me, I know it will be quite deserved.

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Today Josh has declared me to be the world’s worst daughter. Can I blame him when the birthday cake made for my mother went straight into the garbage as I frantically called my husband to “Get something quick! Oh, and can it be pumpkin cheesecake?” an hour before our guests were to arrive for their birthday dinner and dessert. Perhaps he’s being a bit harsh or perhaps I maybe, might have, I won’t admit to anything, alright I did ignore my mother’s birthday cake wishes and well, I guess this is karma.

Months and months (and months) prior to her birthday my mother requested a honey orange cheesecake for her birthday and I down right ignored her. Cheesecakes are my Achilles heel. They scare me more than phyllo, pie crust, mayo infused coleslaws and chicken rib cages combined and I was not about to conquer this fear, because that would be absurd, right?

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Dear Peanut Butter Graham Crackers,

I had such high hopes for you. Hopes that you would be light and crumbly and taste grahamy yet peanut buttery. I dreamed about you being a peanut butter crust to a decadent chocolate cheesecake or the ends to a peanut butter s’more. I had hoped that you would be sweet and wonderful, yet you were not. You tasted like a fiber cracker, a dull,  lifeless, boring, flavorless piece of cardboard.

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