Mixmaster Disaster

My mom had a Sunbeam Mixmaster 10-speed mixer with two beaters and two bowls.  I knew every inch of its motorized body and the nuances of its extremities, admired it for what it could produce for me.  Afternoons, I'd come home from school, do homework and then head to the kitchen to concoct a blazingly glorious cake for dessert, a cake so richly appointed with frosting and fussiness that I seemed destined for fame, perhaps as Betty Crocker II.  

The actual Betty Crocker, neatly coiffed domestic goddess of baking products, smiled at me from the outlines of a little spoon on her cake mixes.  I smiled back, winked at her sometimes.  I read the boxes like a novel, gleaned hints of baking technique, carefully read the subtleties of adding egg, water and oil, critically imagined the final product.  The thin cardboard containers of mix held cleverly designed plastic bags that you could zip open with an economy of motion and ease that I just loved.  Betty Crocker herself, cake master in an apron, surely approved the exacting standards of all her products.  She looked so unruffled and fine in her little spoon picture.  I imagined myself there, and it was wonderful.

I would pour the mix into the larger of the two stainless steel bowls, check for lumps, crack my knuckles, and set the oven to 350 degrees.  I'd fit the two beaters into their receptacles on the mixer and lock them into place.  You had to pay attention to the shape of the two beaters; one had rounded tines and the other squared off tines.  If you got them reversed, the squared-off beater would whack the side of the mixing bowl and make an embarrassing racket, and you'd feel like a nincompoop cake baker in there in the kitchen.  None of that for me.  I was in my domain, set for glory.

The beaters would settle down into the mix and you'd turn the dial to its slowest setting:  Level 1.  At that low speed, the electric motor of the Mixmaster would be growling lightly as if it were hoping for more to do, maybe hoping to really strut its stuff.  I'd turn the dial on the mixer up to 2 or 3 and then add my cup and a half of water, steadily.  I'd gaze down into the mix as the beaters got down to business and blended it, scraping the sides of the bowl deftly with my spatula.  I'd pour in my half cup of oil with a steady masterful drizzle, evenness of pour being the ultimate mark of a sure cake baker.  Then in would go two whole eggs.  The mix would get gooey for a minute and a little revolting, kind of slimy, but the Mixmaster would whisk it into a glossy batter before I could have second thoughts.  I would apply the spatula to errant bits of unmixed ingredients clinging to the bowl that looked like they were attempting to escape the tines of the beaters.  Confidence was everything.

I imagined myself smiling, professional and capable, waving to my throngs of admirers, signing autographs on cake mix boxes, posing for photographs, taste testing my way through a gigantic gleaming kitchen manned with serious-looking chemists, all working at my direction.  

Medium speed was next:  6.  Yes, that's right.  I'd bypass 5 and go right to 6.  Medium Speed for me and my Mixmaster.  Then, it was time for cleaning the spatula on the beaters while they were whizzing around in a blur of flashing stainless steel.  The electric motor of the Sunbeam would be at optimum speed, but poised for more.  This was not a maneuver for amateurs or someone using less than full attention.  I'd mastered this, and I felt this was an achievement of true Cake Makers Hall of Fame proportions.  I also sensed it was important to keep my mixer tidy and clean -- exemplary of a master at work -- during the mixing of batter.  I would attend to the needs of the machine, giving it plenty of elbow room and a sturdy stance on the countertop, and I was attuned to its many pitches of sound as it worked.  We were symbiotic; together we always produced a light, fluffy and delicious cake with a perfect "crumb," a term we cake mix masters used to describe cake texture.  The crumb of my cakes was elevated, sublime, nuanced.

In our house, there were five kids, a few cats, a ringing phone, friends over, homework projects to do, and at mealtimes an urgency to get dinner on the table because bellies were growling.

Having drifted into my Betty Crocker reverie, imagining rising fame as a Master Cake Baker with legions of admiring fans, I was poised to scrape my spatula with the Sunbeam in full roar at Medium Speed, Level 6.  I lowered the spatula, taking care to position it neatly toward the spinning beaters.  Steady, steady... All of a sudden, the phone was ringing, sisters were shouting, doors slammed and someone burst into the kitchen being chased by another.  I lost focus and looked up in alarm for just a split second, the split second it takes for a hand to press a red button and an atomic bomb to blast everything into oblivion.

The beaters grabbed the spatula in a startling grip. The Mixmaster bucked on the countertop with an angry snarl, throwing batter at me, the floor, the walls, the ceiling and God in heaven for all I knew.  I frantically grabbed the mixer and fended off the bowl with what was left of the batter as it jumped off the turntable.  The spatula was chopped and mangled, the beaters were still exerting pressure against it and the motor was still powering stupidly.  Once I gripped the dial, I turned it off, but I smelled that telltale odor of scorched electrical parts.  Cake baking heaven was gone in an instant.  I was left standing dumbly, alone in the kitchen, the house quiet once again.

I looked around and took stock of the batter splats and ruin.  I think the Mixmaster was panting; it looked ragged.  I took the beaters off and stood there holding them.  They were misshapen, bent.  My little sister wandered in.  I offered her a beater to lick - the real prize for bystanders.  I sat and licked the other one in silence.  We looked at each other and at the mess there.  "It's good.  You're a good cake maker," she said.  I noticed Betty Crocker over on the cake mix box, still looking tidy and trim.  Her eyes seemed to follow me, but they had a new glint.  I, too, have killed a Mixmaster on my road to cake baking glory, ruined a few German Chocolate cakes along the way, she seemed to say.  It's part of the game.

Yeah, me and you, Betty.  Here's to kitchen disasters!  I saluted her with a tip of my beater, a nod of my head, and licked my bent beater.  Best batter I ever ate, mixed with humility as it was, yes indeed.