Cooking and baking has always been a passion. My father apprenticed as a pastry chef in Germany and passed that love on to me. So whenever he came to visit, I prided myself on cooking and baking yummy food for him.

Prior to becoming a vegan, my dessert specialty was chocolate soufflé. This included homemade chocolate and caramel sauce, as well as vanilla ice cream. So it was a natural choice for a dinner when my parents came to visit. And as always, I included my friend, Lea and her husband. And though those who were present the night in question might not believe it, I was really good at making it.

Let me back track by mentioning early in the day I had a procedure on my right butt cheek. The dermatologist had to excise a suspicious lesion. Since it newly occurred in a place that the sun doesn’t shine, he wanted to do a large excision of the area. No biggie. I’m not prone to fear of doctors or dentists, though he insisted on a little sedation for the butt lesion exploit. I’m sure this had nothing to do with what happened later that evening.

In the course of the evening, I prepared a delightful dinner. What it was, I cannot say, but I’m sure that it was delicious. I then ventured to the kitchen to begin the preparation for the soufflé. There may or may not have been alcohol involved, another detail that has slipped my mind. I mixed and stirred and then placed my fragile little individual ramekins into the awaiting oven and began my sauce preparation.

If you have never made caramel sauce before, it requires steady temperatures, cream poured into hot butter and sugar at the precise time, and such – measures that are probably not suited to someone combining drugs and alcohol while using an open flame. But one of the joys of mild impairment is that you don’t know you are impaired. Fortunately for me, Lea was close by to make sure I didn’t burn the house down.

As my sugar mixture approached the magic temperature, I attempted to pour in the cream and stir. I really am not sure what happened, but I didn’t do it right. Stalagmites began forming. Rock hard spikes coming up from every stir of the pot. Not little lumps. Six inch long stalagmites. I was starting to panic because I knew I would have to start over and I was trying to time everything perfect and impress my parents, and guests. Did I have enough ingredients? Would the timing be right? Would I look like a pastry master? Yes, maybe, nope. Trying to remain unfazed, I began anew.

About this time, Lea comes wandering into the kitchen to see if I need help. Obviously I did, but wasn’t ready to admit it. So I started the process again, with a witness this time. And the same thing happens. Beautiful, golden stalagmites. Hard as rock. Lea stares. I stare. And then we start to laugh.

Not little giggles. Hardy gut felt laughs, which rapidly deteriorated into hysterical cackles. Enough to draw the attention of the people in the next room. My mom slowly meanders in to make sure we are okay, only to find us bent over laughing, unable to explain what is going on.

About this time, I feel a weird sensation in my butt. Kind of like a popping.

Moments later, blood is running down my leg and onto the floor. I laughed so hard I busted my sutures. Now I don’t want to leave the kitchen to attend my bleeding butt cheek because the soufflés are ready to come out of the oven. And I don’t want to ruin those too. I have snorted to Lea what is going on (plus she can basically read my mind) but my mom is still standing there confused, while I gasp for air, and try to stuff a napkin up my skirt.

After securing the soufflés, I quickly run to the bathroom because I still have hopes of presenting a grand dessert to the awaiting table. Nothing seems to stem the bleeding from the gaping wound, but I try numerous Band-Aids, gauze and tape. I wonder if my continued maniacal laughing has anything to do with it. But I emerge with blood stained skirt to make my dessert debut. But alas, I took too long and the soufflés are now flat.

But still, I am undeterred. Ignoring the pillars of granite in the sink, I place the former soufflés on plates. Get the chocolate sauce. And serve chocolate flapjacks with a side of sauce. Ignoring the stares everyone was giving my bloodstained clothing I enjoyed every bite. To everyone’s credit, they didn’t mention the flat dessert, blood fest, or crazy laughing. I think they might have been a little too scared.