Coconut Cake Learning
An exercise in informal learning, self-efficacy, use of prior experience, self-ascribed valence, expert knowledge, self-reflection...
And cake!
We had been invited to an Academy Awards Party, hosted by one of the senior people in my husband’s department. It was the first departmental party we had been to, and my first Academy Awards party, ever.
The invitation read “Formal dress optional.”
Now, I know it was meant to be tongue and cheek, but prior experience told me this party was not going to be the onion-soup-sour cream-dip variety, and I was right. We received an email from the hosts requesting that we bring something from a list of foods that were related to the Best Picture nominees.j
Trying out a new recipe for important occasions is what I call performance cooking: It was my husband’s first party as part of his department, and I wanted to make a good impression. Successful outcomes from my past experiences with performance cooking strengthened my belief that I was capable of succeeding (self-efficacy) in making this cake for the party. I also felt that making it would be highly valuable to me (high valence) in that it would expand my cooking skills, and it would reflect well on my Ever Patient Husband.
My belief in succeeding and the high degree of value I had given the task worked together to motivate me to make this cake. Fortunately, both of these motivating factors were strong enough to reduce the bane of all learning...high levels of anxiety.
What to make?
I looked through the options. The appetizer choices were dull. I was not going to make any of the side dishes as they all needed to be kept warm to be at their best, and I didn’t have a portable insulated pack. Why? Becuase it’s only good for one thing: Transferring hot items.
I've never owned one because it falls under Angie’s Rules for Cooking, Rule # 5: Possess no kitchen equipment that only has one function.[1]
So let's look at desserts.
Some of the recipes were too easy, and quite boring, like brownies. One recipe was for a Bundt cake. I don't make Bundt cakes require Bundt pans. Bundt pans have only one purpose and would be a clear violation of Rule # 5.
No Bundt cakes.
Listed under the movie Django was Fresh Coconut Cake. I've never seen the movie, and I have no idea how coconut cake was relevant. If you know, please leave a comment.
I had never made a coconut cake, and this one was not a “mix contents of box with eggs and oil” recipe. It involved fluffy egg whites and cooked frosting. It also required fresh coconut and coconut water. It needed three fresh coconuts…
If you've read my post about my parent's coconut lamb curry fiasco, you will see the irony of this choice.
Anyway...time for some problem-solving.
Not only did the recipe require fresh coconuts, but it also required a hammer.
Yes…a hammer
I'm a good and experienced cook, but a hammer is not among my collection of kitchen tools. Our hammer is downstairs in the toolbox with the real tools.
I was going to look for another recipe, but the picture looked so good ad my instincts told me that it would be a hit at the party, and would reflect well on my husband (I know that seems old-school, but my cooking, my rules).
How do I deal with the coconuts?
I looked to the experience of others: I read the comments accompanying the recipe. There were several reviews suggesting purchasing fresh shredded coconut and coconut water from an organic market. The reviewer claimed that there was no taste difference—the only difference was someone else had shelled and shredded the coconuts.
Then were some reviews those who had used fresh coconuts and swore it was worth the effort. Those reviewers sounded a lot like they were suffering from cognitive dissonance: For the amount of time it took them preparing the fresh coconuts (about two hours) beyond what was required for the rest of the recipe, leading one to believe: "damn it, it has to taste better!”
I'm a pragmatist, so I went to the organic grocer and bought fresh shredded coconut, coconut water, and coconut milk. In total, it took about 20 minutes: seven minutes to get to the market, six minutes to find, select, and buy the goods, and seven minutes to get back home.
No hammer required.
I took the time to review and become familiar with the recipe. I read it several times, rehearsed it in my mind. I broke down the procedure into its relevant parts—making coconut syrup, making the cakes, making the frosting, and then assembling the cake—I even mapped it out on a timeline.
The recipe required a technique with which I was wholly unfamiliar: Seven Minute Frosting. You mix egg whites and powdered sugar in a bowl that sits atop a pot of lightly boiling water. I read several references on how to do it and felt confident that I could accomplish it.
The party was Sunday, and the cakes needed time to chill in the fridge before I could frost them.
If you frost a cake that is even slightly warm, the white frosting picks up bits of cake giving it the look and consistency of wet cement.
Opting not to risk a wet cement scenario, I decided to start cooking on Friday, around 7 p.m. This way if it all went to hell, then I would still have time to make the brownies—the ones that I had dismissed earlier as being boring.
I thought I had everything well in hand, but I hadn't accounted for my recently diagnosed Attention Deficit Disorder. I was still getting used to having and not having the medication in my system and had neglected to take into account that 7:00 p.m. was well past when my afternoon dose had worn off.
Not good news.
Typically when I cook, I have everything I need prepped and set out on a tray next to me. Kind of like a surgeon’s tray, but without nasty looking scalpels. I used to think I did this because I was a bit Type A, then I discovered that real chefs do that as well, it's called a Mise en Place.
I also discovered that chefs are a bit Type A.
Anyway…
I should have known something was wrong when I realized that I hadn’t prepped my tray. Internal alarm bells failed to sound as I decided, “what the heck” and just dove right into the recipe.
Sooo not good news.
I was creaming the butter, sugar, and egg yokes when my 9-year old stand mixer blew an oil seal. With oil—not the good kind—going everywhere, forward motion was impossible. It was also 9 p.m.
I did not take this well. At. All.
My Ever Patient Husband merely shrugged and went to the local large-item retailer and bought me a new mixer. Amid frustrated tears, kind of like a two-year-old who skipped their nap, I finished the cakes (it was about midnight), but they just looked wrong to me. They tasted alright, but they hadn't risen much. I admitted defeat and went to bed, having decided to try again in the morning. My self-efficacy had taken a beating, but having ascribed such a high valence to this project, I was still motivated to make that cake.
The Friday Fiasco resulted in the creation of Rule # 14 - Do not attempt new recipes after 5 p.m.
I woke up, took my ADD medication and had breakfast. I laid out my prep tray, my Mise en Place, and had the new batch of cakes cooked and cooled in two hours. It was—a piece of cake. This small win increased my motivation to complete the process.
Then came the 7-minute frosting…
6 ½ minutes into the process the egg whites weren’t stiffening, but I didn’t panic, I relied on expert knowledge and called my best friend. She is an incredible baker.
She said that a seven-minute frosting never takes seven minutes— it takes 15-minutes. I kept her on the phone for the next 6 ½ minutes, and sure enough, it became frosting.
I assembled the three-layer cake on my new cake stand. Because the stand can also function as a chip and dip tray (a bowl surrounded by chips) and as a punch bowl, it does not violate Rule # 5.
That afternoon, I reflected back on the experience. In addition to learning more about ADD management, I was able to annotate the recipe to make the instructions clearer...
...and I wrote that it was 15-minute frosting.
The cake was a hit. Coconut Cake Learning
An exercise in informal learning, self-efficacy, use of prior experience, self-ascribed valence, expert knowledge, self-reflection...
And cake!
We had been invited to an Academy Awards Party, hosted by one of the senior people in my husband’s department. It was the first departmental party we had been to, and my first Academy Awards party, ever.
The invitation read “Formal dress optional.”
Now, I know it was meant to be tongue and cheek, but prior experience told me this party was not going to be the onion-soup-sour cream-dip variety, and I was right. We received an email from the hosts requesting that we bring something from a list of foods that were related to the Best Picture nominees.
Trying out a new recipe for important occasions is what I call performance cooking: It was my husband’s first party as part of his department, and I wanted to make a good impression. Successful outcomes from my past experiences with performance cooking strengthened my belief that I was capable of succeeding (self-efficacy) in making this cake for the party. I also felt that making it would be highly valuable to me (high valence) in that it would expand my cooking skills, and it would reflect well on my Ever Patient Husband.
My belief in succeeding and the high degree of value I had given the task worked together to motivate me to make this cake. Fortunately, both of these motivating factors were strong enough to reduce the bane of all learning...high levels of anxiety.
What to make?
I looked through the options. The appetizer choices were dull. I was not going to make any of the side dishes as they all needed to be kept warm to be at their best, and I didn’t have a portable insulated pack. Why? Becuase it’s only good for one thing: Transferring hot items.
I've never owned one because it falls under Angie’s Rules for Cooking, Rule # 5: Possess no kitchen equipment that only has one function.[1]
So let's look at desserts.
Some of the recipes were too easy, and quite boring, like brownies. One recipe was for a Bundt cake. I don't make Bundt cakes require Bundt pans. Bundt pans have only one purpose and would be a clear violation of Rule # 5.
No Bundt cakes.
Listed under the movie Django was Fresh Coconut Cake. I've never seen the movie, and I have no idea how coconut cake was relevant. If you know, please leave a comment.
I had never made a coconut cake, and this one was not a “mix contents of box with eggs and oil” recipe. It involved fluffy egg whites and cooked frosting. It also required fresh coconut and coconut water. It needed three fresh coconuts…
If you've read my post about my parent's coconut lamb curry fiasco, you will see the irony of this choice.
Anyway...time for some problem-solving.
Not only did the recipe require fresh coconuts, but it also required a hammer.
Yes…a hammer
I'm a good and experienced cook, but a hammer is not among my collection of kitchen tools. Our hammer is downstairs in the toolbox with the real tools.
I was going to look for another recipe, but the picture looked so good ad my instincts told me that it would be a hit at the party, and would reflect well on my husband (I know that seems old-school, but my cooking, my rules).
How do I deal with the coconuts?
I looked to the experience of others: I read the comments accompanying the recipe. There were several reviews suggesting purchasing fresh shredded coconut and coconut water from an organic market. The reviewer claimed that there was no taste difference—the only difference was someone else had shelled and shredded the coconuts.
Then were some reviews those who had used fresh coconuts and swore it was worth the effort. Those reviewers sounded a lot like they were suffering from cognitive dissonance: For the amount of time it took them preparing the fresh coconuts (about two hours) beyond what was required for the rest of the recipe, leading one to believe: "damn it, it has to taste better!”
I'm a pragmatist, so I went to the organic grocer and bought fresh shredded coconut, coconut water, and coconut milk. In total, it took about 20 minutes: seven minutes to get to the market, six minutes to find, select, and buy the goods, and seven minutes to get back home.
No hammer required.
I took the time to review and become familiar with the recipe. I read it several times, rehearsed it in my mind. I broke down the procedure into its relevant parts—making coconut syrup, making the cakes, making the frosting, and then assembling the cake—I even mapped it out on a timeline.
The recipe required a technique with which I was wholly unfamiliar: Seven Minute Frosting. You mix egg whites and powdered sugar in a bowl that sits atop a pot of lightly boiling water. I read several references on how to do it and felt confident that I could accomplish it.
The party was Sunday, and the cakes needed time to chill in the fridge before I could frost them.
If you frost a cake that is even slightly warm, the white frosting picks up bits of cake giving it the look and consistency of wet cement.
Opting not to risk a wet cement scenario, I decided to start cooking on Friday, around 7 p.m. This way if it all went to hell, then I would still have time to make the brownies—the ones that I had dismissed earlier as being boring.
I thought I had everything well in hand, but I hadn't accounted for my recently diagnosed Attention Deficit Disorder. I was still getting used to having and not having the medication in my system and had neglected to take into account that 7:00 p.m. was well past when my afternoon dose had worn off.
Not good news.
Typically when I cook, I have everything I need prepped and set out on a tray next to me. Kind of like a surgeon’s tray, but without nasty looking scalpels. I used to think I did this because I was a bit Type A, then I discovered that real chefs do that as well, it's called a Mise en Place.
I also discovered that chefs are a bit Type A.
Anyway…
I should have known something was wrong when I realized that I hadn’t prepped my tray. Internal alarm bells failed to sound as I decided, “what the heck” and just dove right into the recipe.
Sooo not good news.
I was creaming the butter, sugar, and egg yokes when my 9-year old stand mixer blew an oil seal. With oil—not the good kind—going everywhere, forward motion was impossible. It was also 9 p.m.
I did not take this well. At. All.
My Ever Patient Husband merely shrugged and went to the local large-item retailer and bought me a new mixer. Amid frustrated tears, kind of like a two-year-old who skipped their nap, I finished the cakes (it was about midnight), but they just looked wrong to me. They tasted alright, but they hadn't risen much. I admitted defeat and went to bed, having decided to try again in the morning. My self-efficacy had taken a beating, but having ascribed such a high valence to this project, I was still motivated to make that cake.
The Friday Fiasco resulted in the creation of Rule # 14 - Do not attempt new recipes after 5 p.m.
I woke up, took my ADD medication and had breakfast. I laid out my prep tray, my Mise en Place, and had the new batch of cakes cooked and cooled in two hours. It was—a piece of cake. This small win increased my motivation to complete the process.
Then came the 7-minute frosting…
6 ½ minutes into the process the egg whites weren’t stiffening, but I didn’t panic, I relied on expert knowledge and called my best friend. She is an incredible baker.
She said that a seven-minute frosting never takes seven minutes— it takes 15-minutes. I kept her on the phone for the next 6 ½ minutes, and sure enough, it became frosting.
I assembled the three-layer cake on my new cake stand. Because the stand can also function as a chip and dip tray (a bowl surrounded by chips) and as a punch bowl, it does not violate Rule # 5.
That afternoon, I reflected back on the experience. In addition to learning more about ADD management, I was able to annotate the recipe to make the instructions clearer...
...and I wrote that it was 15-minute frosting.
The cake was a hit.
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