Bundt Pan From Hell

I like this picture. It has such depth and texture and warmth. It makes me realize I really wish I had a glass of the grape to drown my sorrows.

Yes, I am sorrowful tonight and it is the fault of my diabolical bundt pan. I hate that pan. It has broken my heart over and over and I don't even know why I keep it. No matter how carefully I grease it and flour it and coo sweet nothings in its ear, it persists in wickedly clinging to any cake I try to bake in it, rendering what should be a pristine shape into a pathetic lump of gouged-out abomination.

I tried it again this evening. Filled it with a sublime batter of pound cake made with apple juice and bits of pineapple and craisins. Cooked the cake to the perfect moment of doneness. Turned the pan over and waited for it to drop onto the plate.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Finally I began carefully prying the cake away from the sides, noting it seemed to be free on the outside but was still clinging stubbornly to the center tube and bottom. Finally it came loose. And I wanted to cry. Shabby looking thing, with great honkin' gobs of itself still clinging to the cursed pan.

I am going to kill that pan. Don't try to stop me. There isn't a jury in this world who would send me away. Justifiable panicide, they'll say. And they would be right. My only problem is figuring out what method of murder to use. I could set it out in the parking lot and run over it with the car. Knowing the evil nature of the pan, however, I'm pretty sure it would manage to flatten at least two of my tires.

I could send it off to Good Will or one of those places but my conscience would hurt me. That seems a terribly cruel thing to do to some unsuspecting homemaker who only wants to bake something lovely for her family. I can see her now, sobbing as she serves pitiful portions of deformed cake to her dismayed clan. No. I can't do that.

I could sneak out in the middle of the night and leave the pan in the southbound lane of Highway 101, hoping a long haul trucker will flatten it. They have plenty of tires. BIG tires. But the poor trucker might try to dodge what he thinks is somebody's beloved pet and jackknife the truck right into the ditch. Guess that's out.

I thought of hunting up a priest to do an exorcism but I'm afraid the pan will start spinning around and upchucking voluminous globs of split pea soup. Have you ever tried cleaning up split pea soup from the walls and appliances? It ain't pretty.

I know. I'll give it to Ralph for a water dish. There isn't a bundt pan in this world that can get the best of ol' Ralph.

There. I feel better already. Now, if I only had some wine.