We are still at war.

I hate this oven. I really want to just give it a nice kick in the you know what.

I tried to play nice, making only no-bake treats, avoiding anything with baking soda, treating my chocolate cravings with Nutella¬†and bananas; but today, I decided to go to the front lines. It was time to face my enemy. I whipped up an easy batch of peanut butter brownies, guessing here and there because I only have one measuring cup. I was hopeful that if I looked up the exact conversion between Celsius and Fahrenheit I might have a shot at eating these brownies without a spoon. Do you know that 325 F equals 162.778 C? This was super helpful, considering 162.778 isn’t on my European oven dial. In fact, it’s kind of difficult to use anything besides increments of 50 on this oven. The thing is, deep down, I knew my enemy wasn’t really the temperature dial.¬†It was the other one. The one that shall not be named. The stupid one with all the stupid icons.

Despite my anxiety over ruining another batch brownies, I put them in the oven and hoped for the best. I checked them 30 minutes later (as per the recipe) and found them slightly cooked, but mostly still batter. I sat back down and waited another ten minutes.

Ten minutes later, not much had changed.

Ten minutes after that, not much had changed (again).

I was really starting to want a bite of those brownies, so ten minutes later I stuck a knife in and found the middle still completely gooey.

Ten minutes after that I was running out of patience. I decided to turn up the temperature.

Five minutes after that I smelled burnt chocolate (terrible smell), insert [swear word] of your choice.

I was not about to let the oven win that easily, so I pulled them out and scraped off the burnt layer, then shoved them back in the oven. I decided to make a bold move; I changed the other dial. To avoid that awful smell again I checked them frequently over the next ten minutes, but after 80 minutes in that stupid oven I finally called it. Game over.

After all that work I wasn’t about to let them go to waste. I ate 1/4 of the pan with my fork — it was a small victory that I didn’t have to use a spoon, but a victory none the less*. Take that, oven!

I know I get some fat kid points, but before you get too impressed, it was just an 8×8 pan.

*They still weren’t set up enough to send leftovers to Jay’s office. I refuse to embarrass him with anything less than my best… which basically means no one in England will ever taste anything I bake.

The end.

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