Tuesdays with Dorie #7: Ice Cream Torte thing

Have you ever seen a better TWD mascot? Jon took this picture over the weekend, and honestly, I see pictures like this and I just think to myself "I am so happy to have taken in this little dude."And then he wakes up, stretches, purrs quietly because he has a weak purr from his days on the mean streets of Baltimore, trots happily into the bedroom where he stretches in a patch of sunlight on the carpet, then crawls into my closet to pee on my designer jeans.Alright, so on to baking. Lots of things have been happening over the last two weeks - a lot of running around, training, company, work deadlines/projects that have both Jon and me pulling our hair out, car breakdowns, and a dog who refuses to go to the bathroom. I mentioned this earlier, but my mom has been in town for the last week and we were able to sneak off to Cape Cod for the weekend and chill out a little. While there, we unfortunately experienced some really bad food. It's what I would call "old man food." Things would look really good on the menu, but in reality the lobster was as tough as rawhide, the pizza was generic and smelled like feet, the steak was overdone to the point of crispiness, the omelet was something (we're still trying to find the right adjective, as 'barfity barf barf' is the only thing that really sticks out). So in doing this, talking about bad food, the subject of my childhood and the meals we ate came up a lot. Not that my mom is a bad cook, she's an awesome cook. Sometimes I feel badly about dissing on her cooking, but it really wasn't her fault.See, we lived for a long time in Northern Michigan. It's really beautiful up there, but in the late 70s/early to mid 80s, good food was non-existent. To deliver fresh produce, one would literally have to drive six hours north of Detroit, then get off the highway and drive for another hour before hitting our town. So, look, fruit trucks don't make it up that far. Lettuce? Keep dreaming. Life was sparse. And the growing season is about 6 days long, so as soon as your asparagus starts to pop up, it's covered in frost and the deer are fighting over it.So what did we eat? Try "Red Hash." It was red because there were beets in it. Beets and potatoes. In hash. Sometimes there was meat, but usually not. I feel like I'm telling you stories from my days living in Northern Ireland.She also told this story that I somehow managed to block out of my mind. One of my family's favorite things to eat was fondue. I hated it. Not that I have anything against bread or cheese, believe me, they know me well. But we used to eat fondue on this white-as-all-can-be bread, using Swiss cheese that was, well, just Swiss cheese. And JUST Swiss cheese, not the fancy Swiss cheese stuff that you get at the Melting Pot. That was it. Anyways, one night we were all headed over to an uncle's house for Christmas dinner (of suet pudding. Yeah, another thing I should tell you about. We ate suet. Like birds during winter). But the weather became nasty, and we couldn't get through because the roads were so bad. So we came back home, and the only store open was the 7-11. My mom went in, bought bread and Swiss cheese, and we had fondue for Christmas dinner. Fondue from the 7-11. The same place that sells hot dog rollups, slurpees, and condoms. Later that night, when I caught her putting the presents beneath the tree instead of Santa Claus, I didn't really even care. So much of me was already dead inside.So anyways, back to the present. Here we spent this awesome time together and I was ragging on my childhood's culinary history. Honestly, I felt really guilty.And you know what happens when you're doing something wrong? It comes back to haunt you. It's your karma. Your karma can haunt you for cheating on a test in the 10th grade, and it can haunt you for not going to pick up your wife when her car broke down in the pouring rain. Karma is always there, ever-present. So I was fully aware that my karma would come back to me. How, though? Would my children be born with stunted taste buds and crave nightly for Beet Hash and fondue? Would my mom lose her hands in a freak accident at the coal mine, and never be able to cook some of the things I have loved throughout my life? Would her thoughts be "Well, it's ok that I lost my hands, because Duffy hated my cooking anyways."? NO!!!! NOT MY MOMMY!!!!! FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, I LOVE YOUR SOUPS!!!!!The guilt was WEIGHING on me.I put the torte together last night. I had issues with the ganache, mainly because I went with unsweetened chocolate so that I could control the sweetness of it, but realized it needed much more whipping and mixing. The ice cream - my god, that was good. My face was in that bowl before I had even started assembling the torte. That's going to be a keeper. And as for the shape, well, I haven't bought a springform pan yet, so I used a bundt pan. Honestly, I know it looks like pink dog poop, but it sliced beautifully.Ok. So here's the thing. I know, you're wondering when my karma is going to come back around and slap me rightfully upside the face for talking smack about my mom's cooking WHEN WE LIVED IN NORTHERN IRELAND. So here it comes.I gave Jon a bite of the torte, and said to him "Here, you're going to love this. It's my favorite thing we've made so far - this one is such a keeper."And his face registered three expressions:1. Oh. Wow, that's really good. Are those real raspberries in there? And that chocolate is so smooth. Wow.2. Oh. Wait, not so much. Hang on. Something's really wrong here. I'm having a flashback and it's not good. Why do I hate you all of a sudden?3. Oh. Oh my god, it's the raspberry delite dessert my mom made every night for an entire summer when I was 15. What the hell did you put in this? Oh god, get it out of my mouth. Is this instant microwaveable brownie mix too? Why do I taste baby puppies dying? Why do I taste genocide? Oh my god, I taste pollution and poverty. Get it out of my mouth!!!!!! This is all your fault! You are the crypt keeper!!!!! I'm leaving and I'm taking the cat!!!!See? Everyone has their cooking horror stories from childhood. And Jon's involves being fed a dessert made with raspberries, brownies, and Kool Whip every night for an entire summer. And yes, I told him that he should have been happy to even get dessert, rather than getting raspberries only when you accidentally stumble upon a raspberry bush on top of your beet patch that you have to harvest before you can eat next. He didn't get it. Those city folk.