I am a bit of a baker. I think we've already talked about that here and there and everywhere.
Last week I whipped up an easy but truly delicious chocolate cake chock full of chocolate chips and dark Dutch cocoa. It was pretty much decadence on a plate and could rival any night of bad sex.
Well. I am embarking on a baking challenge next week. I've mentioned that I am going to visit my Soul Sister D Money next week. Part of this European Debauchery includes a nice dinner at home in Putney, a meal that I'd like to help prepare in some way, considering I will be meeting her boyfriend Kingsley and fellow roommate Paul.
Now, there are a lot of things Brits do well. Their fish and chips are second to none. They brew a mean cup of tea. And how could you forget about that fantastic dessert, Spotted Dick?
Duncan Hines is apparently one thing the Brits don't do. Or Pillsbury or Better Crocker, for that matter.
So when I pack up my BCBG Girl shoes, my bevy of toiletries and cosmetics and my fun clothes, I am also packing up a cake mix and a bundt pan. London will never be the same after those people have a bite of my moist decadence.
But what's a girl to do when Fahrenheit is too hot to handle for those Brits?
If Ms. Crocker wants her cake baked at 350 degrees, then that's what she will get in the land of apple pie, baseball and Old Glory.
But in the country where Big Ben tolls? 350* checks in at 176.6 Celsius.
I don't think that one's on the oven dial.
I searched Betty Crocker/Duncan Hines/Pillsbury for some conversion offering and they only say their cake mixes were not formulated for Celsius baking.
The only thing I can think of is to bring a US made oven thermometer and hang that in the oven for said project.
Hopefully the cake turns out. I've got quite a reputation to uphold.