Picture this: you’ve been invited over to a friend or family member’s house for a get-together. (In this case, it was Easter Sunday at my dad’s, with 12 people attending.) You casually ask, “What can I bring?” while internally chanting, “Please don’t say dessert… please don’t say dessert…” So what does my dad say?
“Can you do dessert, please?”
Cue internal meltdown.
Now, don’t get me wrong – I love to cook. I grew up watching my mum in the kitchen, a brilliant home cook with a flair for savoury dishes. But dessert? That’s a whole different game. Desserts demand precision, order, and – most terrifying of all – patience. Three things I definitely don’t have in abundance.
But this time, I decided to face the challenge. I thought back to summer gatherings where a Pavlova always stole the spotlight, and figured: if it all goes tits-up… we’ll just call it Eton Mess.
So, on a sunny Easter Saturday, I ventured into town to gather ingredients using a friend’s trusted recipe:
- 4 egg whites (I cheated and bought liquid egg whites because someone once warned me: “Even a tiny bit of yolk will ruin everything!”)
- 250g caster sugar
- 1 tsp white wine vinegar
- 1 tsp cornflour
- 1 tsp vanilla extract
- 300ml double cream
- Berries galore!
Back home is when reality hit. I was woefully underprepared. Scales? Nowhere to be found. Cornflour? Unearthed after a full-scale cupboard excavation. White wine vinegar? Used the last of it on a French dressing last week – only remembered after I’d returned from the shops. I found some apple cider vinegar and thought, “Well… close enough?”
Then came the whisking. I pulled out the electric mixer, only for the whisks to shoot out mid-whirl, splattering raw egg white everywhere. Delightful. Once the whites were finally stiff enough to flip the bowl over my head (yes, I tested it), I had to guess the sugar measurement using a jug and some frantic Googling. One cup, apparently.
In went the sugar, slowly, as I nervously wondered if I was over-whisking. Then came the cornflour, the apple cider vinegar, and a generous splash of vanilla to mask any vinegary weirdness.
Next hurdle: no baking paper. I crossed my fingers and reached for the tin foil, praying it wouldn’t stick. Into the preheated oven it went: 130°C fan for 1.5 hours. Once done, I turned the oven off and left the Pavlova inside to cool with the door ajar.
Feeling oddly confident, I made a berry sauce using strawberries and frozen raspberries, simmered with lemon juice and sugar, then blended and strained. Honestly, this was the only part that went exactly to plan.
Fast-forward to Easter Sunday. Pavlova in hand, I headed to Dad’s. Naturally, crack! somewhere during the car journey. And the frozen berries for the topping? Leaked all over my lap. But hey – after a couple glasses of rosé, no one’s looking that closely.
After an incredible lunch (and several bottles of wine), it was time for the big moment. My masterpiece. But alas… Dad only had a manual whisk. No one was about to break a sweat mid-bank-holiday, so my sister unearthed a hand blender. Surprisingly effective – possibly too effective, as the cream got a bit over-whipped.
As we peel off the tin foil from the pavlova, more cracks start appearing. No matter. Onto the platter it goes, covered the carnage with whipped cream, drizzled the sauce, added fresh strawberries, blueberries, and a few mint leaves for good measure. And guess what? They loved it.
It was gooey in the middle, sweet and tangy from the berries, and – best of all – it made everyone smile. Sure, it wouldn’t pass our pastry kitchen inspections, but we laughed, we improvised, and we got a good dessert out of it.
Moral of the story: things will go wrong in the kitchen – in mine anyway! But most of the time, it turns out just fine. And if you ask me what to bring next time? Please – let me bring the wine.