Pudding, jelly, cake, anyone?

Let's face it. I'm no domestic deity. I strive to keep a clean home and that's about it. The less said about my cooking skills, the better.

But maybe I should consider myself lucky because whoever said the way to a man's heart is through his stomach was definitely not speaking for my man. And yet hope springs eternal in my heart as I constantly aspire to impress him with my culinary delights. After countless misadventures trying Italian, Iranian, Arabic and what-not cuisines, I had an inspirational thought.

Baking. Yes! That's what I can do. After all, baking is not cooking. Baking is, well … baking. The aroma of warm bread/cake/cookie/whatever baking in the oven filling the air will soon have the husband asking for more, I reckoned.

While I was wondering how to inaugurate my stint as a homebaker, an e-mail dropped quietly into my inbox. A friend, who is not quite a kitchen buddy, sent me a recipe for baked custard apple. This was serendipity at its best because she had no clue about my secret desires. Interpreting this as a sign, I printed out her recipe and placed it next to the oven.

I was required to invest only 30 minutes, so there was no point in putting this momentous occasion off.

I briefly pondered sending the husband out on an errand so that I could surprise him on his return, but changed my mind. I might need a second opinion while baking the baked apple custard.

Okay, so here's what I had to do: Make plain custard. Cut, peel and puree an apple. Mix the two and place it in a greased baking tray and put it in a pre-heated oven for 20 minutes.

Everything went according to plan. At least for 20 minutes. When I peered into the oven, the mixture looked exactly the way it looked when it went in. Maybe it needed more time. I turned the timer knob on the oven for another 15 minutes. Still, nothing happened.

But hey, this is the point where the husband comes in handy.

I called out to the husband and made him peer into the oven as well. Hmm, he said, "It kind of looks … what did you say you were making?"

"Don't worry about that," I muttered. "Does it look like it's done?"

Exasperated, he refused to give his precious opinion until I told him what it was.

Since it didn't look jellyish, cakeish or even puddingish, I was at wit's end. I didn't feel very good about telling the husband that I had no clue what baked apple custard looked like. That would be too damaging to my reputation as a fledgling baker.

"Well, check the recipe," he said, pointing to the printout. "What does it say?"

Bake for 15-20 minutes until the mixture is firm to be spooned out. That's what the recipe said.

Well, in my baking tray, the mixture looked like it could be poured into a glass with a miniature umbrella and sipped with a straw at the beach.

"Should I bake it further?" I asked him. This annoyed him because he hates to offer half-baked — no pun intended — opinions.

Anyway, I put my faith in fate and put it on the dinner table. Eager to shore up goodwill, I said, "Isn't this great? We have a dessert tonight."

At this point, the husband had a distinctly glazed look in his eyes. Did he think I was baking it for a home-science class? Of course, we were going to eat it.

To be fair, he managed to swallow large spoonfuls, so what if he used a soup spoon?

While I was basking in the after-glow of a job well done, the husband said, "Please don't bother to make any more desserts."

Wounded to the core, I was ready to shed tears at his ungratefulness when he won me over with his next sentence. "It was delicious but I don't want you slaving over the oven when we can get frozen, ready-to-eat desserts."

Well, next time I'll only try a recipe that comes with a picture showing what the finished dish looks like.