(from wikimedia, http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:Tapioca_pearls_and_cranberry_seeds.jpg)
So I alluded to this story during my last post on figs. This is easily one of the more embarrassing things I have done in terms of cooking, particularly with my background being in the physical and natural sciences.
I used to LOVE tapioca when I was little. My mom would make the Jell-O cook and serve kind, and I thought it was the best stuff on the planet. Last winter when Tony and I were in Missouri for Christmas, Tony's mom and dad introduced me to the Mennonite store 20 minutes away from their house. (I would like to point out that there house is in the country, and their next door neighbors live far away. I wish I lived there :(...) Anyway, this store is like a little piece of heaven for me. It has locally made goods, such as jams and jellies, along with bulk items like whole wheat pastas, spices and teas. Walking along one of the aisles, I saw it. A massive bag of tapioca, for about $2. The recipe was on the side, and I was good to go.
Fast forward to about a month later. Tony had staff duty (guarding the barracks) and I was home alone. I decided that I was going to make tapioca for the both of us, and it would be a nice surprise for Tony after he had worked a long (ridiculous) shift.
Everything was going fine, until I learned the hard way about how a solute (in this case, protein) effects the boiling point of a solution. This is easy stuff. Milk is not water. One should never, EVER "boil" milk on the highest stove setting. *Flashback*:
"The "9 or 10" setting on your stovetop should really only be used for boiling water..."
"Yep. Got it, mom."
Needless to say, I wish I had a picture of the incredible catastrophe that occurred. It was frightening. It was gruesome. It was...well...milky :(. The milk boiled out of control, even after I removed it from the heat. Thankfully, there was another burner open for me to place it on. OH, WAIT. No, there wasn't another burner open, because we used to have the teeniest, tiniest kitchen on the face of the planet. So, the milk, boiling out of control, had to be held above the burner (because Lord knows the darn sink was still full of unwashed dishes). Then, there was smoke. Milk, particularly milk with some sugar in it, burns like a champ.
So there I was, holding a heavy pot full of boiling milk at arms length, coughing, gagging, probably (definitely) thinking/yelling very bad things. The damage that this stupid experiment-gone-wrong had done was pretty vast, so I did what any hard working, diligent, loving wife would do: leave it there until Tony came home.
Noooo, not so he would clean it up (though he helped), but instead so he could see the awesomeness of the milk+tapioca explosion that our kitchen now was.
Tony walks in the door:
"Hey Pook, is something burning???"
"Um, nothing's burning...now..."
"Really? It smells like fire..."
"Yeah...I know.."
My strong, handsome, loving husband walked around the corner into the kitchen.
"What the..... (*&^%#??!!??" (If you are Tony's momma or grandma ryno, feel free to insert "heck" in here...everyone else, use your imagination...)
As my strong, handsome, loving husband walked around the corner, he saw a sight no man should behold: a milk bomb that his wife couldn't bear to witness all by herself. Needless to say, we used roughly an entire forest of paper towels to clean the milk from off the stove, refrigerator, cabinets, floor and sink. Then, we lifted off the burners to clean underneath, and found the other 3 cups I had misplaced. Did you know that milk+burnt-on stuff from 8 tenants ago= gray sludge that smells like feet? I owe Tony for that one, because while I was busy dry heaving in the corner of the apartment next to the hole where the rats got in (it was really not a nice place...but that's an entirely different story), he cleaned up that part of the mess.
Low and behold, I've never put milk on the stove again and turned the heat to above 4. I don't really care if it takes an eternity, but I suppose one wouldn't after witnessing milk Hiroshima in a 5'x2' kitchen.
I used to LOVE tapioca when I was little. My mom would make the Jell-O cook and serve kind, and I thought it was the best stuff on the planet. Last winter when Tony and I were in Missouri for Christmas, Tony's mom and dad introduced me to the Mennonite store 20 minutes away from their house. (I would like to point out that there house is in the country, and their next door neighbors live far away. I wish I lived there :(...) Anyway, this store is like a little piece of heaven for me. It has locally made goods, such as jams and jellies, along with bulk items like whole wheat pastas, spices and teas. Walking along one of the aisles, I saw it. A massive bag of tapioca, for about $2. The recipe was on the side, and I was good to go.
Fast forward to about a month later. Tony had staff duty (guarding the barracks) and I was home alone. I decided that I was going to make tapioca for the both of us, and it would be a nice surprise for Tony after he had worked a long (ridiculous) shift.
Everything was going fine, until I learned the hard way about how a solute (in this case, protein) effects the boiling point of a solution. This is easy stuff. Milk is not water. One should never, EVER "boil" milk on the highest stove setting. *Flashback*:
"The "9 or 10" setting on your stovetop should really only be used for boiling water..."
"Yep. Got it, mom."
Needless to say, I wish I had a picture of the incredible catastrophe that occurred. It was frightening. It was gruesome. It was...well...milky :(. The milk boiled out of control, even after I removed it from the heat. Thankfully, there was another burner open for me to place it on. OH, WAIT. No, there wasn't another burner open, because we used to have the teeniest, tiniest kitchen on the face of the planet. So, the milk, boiling out of control, had to be held above the burner (because Lord knows the darn sink was still full of unwashed dishes). Then, there was smoke. Milk, particularly milk with some sugar in it, burns like a champ.
So there I was, holding a heavy pot full of boiling milk at arms length, coughing, gagging, probably (definitely) thinking/yelling very bad things. The damage that this stupid experiment-gone-wrong had done was pretty vast, so I did what any hard working, diligent, loving wife would do: leave it there until Tony came home.
Noooo, not so he would clean it up (though he helped), but instead so he could see the awesomeness of the milk+tapioca explosion that our kitchen now was.
Tony walks in the door:
"Hey Pook, is something burning???"
"Um, nothing's burning...now..."
"Really? It smells like fire..."
"Yeah...I know.."
My strong, handsome, loving husband walked around the corner into the kitchen.
"What the..... (*&^%#??!!??" (If you are Tony's momma or grandma ryno, feel free to insert "heck" in here...everyone else, use your imagination...)
As my strong, handsome, loving husband walked around the corner, he saw a sight no man should behold: a milk bomb that his wife couldn't bear to witness all by herself. Needless to say, we used roughly an entire forest of paper towels to clean the milk from off the stove, refrigerator, cabinets, floor and sink. Then, we lifted off the burners to clean underneath, and found the other 3 cups I had misplaced. Did you know that milk+burnt-on stuff from 8 tenants ago= gray sludge that smells like feet? I owe Tony for that one, because while I was busy dry heaving in the corner of the apartment next to the hole where the rats got in (it was really not a nice place...but that's an entirely different story), he cleaned up that part of the mess.
Low and behold, I've never put milk on the stove again and turned the heat to above 4. I don't really care if it takes an eternity, but I suppose one wouldn't after witnessing milk Hiroshima in a 5'x2' kitchen.
-Lisa-
2 comments:
I'm so glad you're back to posting. I've missed reading about your adventures. -V- xoxoxo
Lol...
your so cute. atleast now we know that experts too screw up sometimes. :)
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