I procrastinated for weeks before opening the recipe book “Midnight Snacks: 150 Easy and Enticing Alternatives to Standing by the Freezer Eating Ice Cream from the Carton.” I knew I would eventually have to write the review, and felt fear slowly building in the pit of my stomach — or maybe it was just laziness.
Whatever the case, I realized I had a problem. First of all, I don’t cook. OK, I’ll admit it: I can’t cook. For some reason, I have always had trouble following the directions; I find measurements tedious — meticulously sifting an exact cup of flour into a bowl of slimy eggs and sugar or waiting an hour for a chicken to roast doesn’t exactly float my boat.
Why not just dump in whatever amounts of any ingredients you think will taste good together? Better yet, go to the store and buy that treat you’re craving pre-packaged. It’s faster and cheaper.
But after extensive soul searching — OK, it was only about five minutes — I came to the conclusion that culinary artistry must possess some sort of intrinsic value. After all, thousands of men and women do it every day — and they enjoy it, too. My mom can produce a tasty snack in what seems like minutes. Even my younger brother can whip up a mean lasagna.
So I decided to get busy. I read the introduction. Mmm — authors Michael J. Rosen and Sharon Reiss promised everything from hangover remedies to full-blown breakfasts, all meant to be consumed at the stroke of midnight or later. Flipping through the 193-page manual, I even found recipes for dog and cat treats. (I wonder if my cats lie awake yearning for a homemade midnight snack?)
The recipes seemed painless enough, and Rosen and Reiss promised “to uphold a certain moderation: No worrying about protein/carbohydrate ratios, no delicate suspensions of egg yolks and oil, no sifting of powdered sugar through doily templates.” However, a few of the dishes seemed to defy this guarantee, requiring fancy embellishments, such as Norwegian smoked salmon and drizzles of olive oil.
The book is divided into different hours with differing themes surrounding the recipes, such as “After-After Dinner Treats” and “Slumber Party Time.” Another of the cookbook’s merits is that it offers small portions — perfect if you’re a college student living on your own.
The drawings of various food items accompanying the recipes were also fun to look at, but it was time to get down to business. First, I chose the buckeye bars, but decided that would be cheating, because the recipe didn’t require any baking at all. Eventually, I settled on the parmesan shortbread, which required minimal ingredients — save for the eight tablespoons of butter! — and only 25 minutes of oven time.
The ingredients — lots of butter, sugar,
Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, black pepper, flour and herbs — were easy to mix, but I’m ashamed to say the shortbread emerged from the oven tasting something like sugary Play-Doh. Maybe it was the recipe, maybe it was my pathetic lack of skill, but the “snack” left something to be desired. Had I accidentally made the cat treats instead?
Appropriately, the milk toast in the “Comfort Cooking” section turned out a little better. A sugary-sweet concoction that only called for a little cinnamon sugar, bread, milk and butter, was far more edible, and all I really had to do was toast the bread. (OK, I know I said that was cheating earlier, but I was desperate at this point)
I didn’t discover the secret “joy of cooking” that day, but the entire experience was interesting, if not productive. If you’re up for some late-night adventure and a fun read, I highly recommend this cookbook. However, those looking for a mouth-watering delicacy should find more sophisticated fare. As for me, I’m sticking with my Count Chocula cereal.