Baking Bad

Eric’s dumpling attempt spirals into chaos, but failure tastes sweeter than success.

Eric Fenton had never baked in his life. His entire culinary history consisted of toast, scrambled eggs, and the occasional emergency ramen. Yet, on a bright Saturday morning, he stood in his kitchen determined to honor his late grandmother Ariana by making her famous apple dumplings from scratch.

He had the recipe card, yellowed with age, smudged with mysterious fingerprints, and written in Ariana’s flowery script that alternated between legible and cryptic. It began: “Peel six tart apples. Do not use Red Delicious. They’re trash.”

“Alright, Grandma,” Eric muttered, holding up a bag of shiny Red Delicious apples he had optimistically bought.

That was strike one.

After a quick emergency run to the store, he returned with Granny Smiths. Perfect for dumplings, Ariana had once proclaimed, usually while whacking his hand away from the dessert platter.

Eric set about peeling the apples with the grace of a one-handed pirate. The peeler slipped, skidding across the apple and nearly across his knuckles. By the end, the apples looked like they’d been mauled by raccoons rather than lovingly peeled.

Next came the dough. Ariana’s recipe read: “Make pastry dough. You know how.”

Eric did not, in fact, know how. A quick YouTube search taught him that flour, butter, and water were involved. He dumped flour into a bowl, then realized he had no butter...only margarine. Grandma's ghost surely groaned.

Undeterred, Eric hacked chunks of margarine into the flour and mashed it with a fork. The dough turned out sticky, gummy, and about as appetizing as wet cement.

“Maybe it’ll bake out,” Eric reasoned.

He moved on to the syrup: water, sugar, cinnamon, and, according to the card “a dash of love.” He had plenty of sugar, but no cinnamon. After rifling through his spice cabinet, he unearthed a jar of paprika. Close enough, right?

The mixture boiled into a reddish syrup that smelled vaguely like barbecue.

Eric poured it proudly over his dumplings, which looked less like dumplings and more like vaguely dough-covered asteroids. He shoved the pan into the oven and set a timer.

Twenty minutes later, smoke curled out of the oven vents. The smell was somewhere between burnt toast and charred apple cider vinegar. Eric opened the oven door and was greeted with a puff of blackened cinnamon-paprika steam.

The dumplings resembled cannonballs rolled in tar. He poked one with a fork. The fork bent.

Deflated, Eric sank into a chair. “Sorry, Grandma. Guess I failed.”

Just then, his phone buzzed. A text from his friend Mark: “Hey, how’s the baking going? We’re all excited for dessert tonight!”

Eric’s eyes widened. He had forgotten that he’d bragged at poker night about bringing his grandmother’s apple dumplings. Everyone was expecting them.

“No way I can serve this,” he groaned, eyeing the blackened bricks. Unless his friends wanted to reenact medieval siege warfare, they were useless.

Panic set in. He opened the fridge. Inside: leftover pizza, a half-empty bottle of ketchup, and a carton of eggs. None screamed “dumpling.” But then Eric remembered something Ariana used to say whenever she experimented: “Recipes are just guidelines. Trust your gut.”

Well, his gut was currently saying, Wing it, buddy.

Eric grabbed the remaining apples and chopped them into rough chunks, skins, cores, seeds, and all. Into a bowl they went, along with brown sugar, honey, and a splash of orange juice. He stirred with reckless abandon.

For the crust, he ditched the dough disaster and raided his pantry. There he found a box of crescent rolls. Genius! He wrapped apple chunks in dough triangles, rolled them up, and tossed them into a baking dish.

For syrup, he combined melted butter, actual cinnamon (which he finally discovered behind the paprika), and a generous glug of Mountain Dew. The neon-green concoction fizzed menacingly but smelled surprisingly good. He poured it over the dumplings, shoved them into the oven, and prayed.

An hour later, the kitchen smelled divine. Sweet apples, buttery dough, and a citrusy zing wafted through the air. Eric pulled out the tray, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Golden-brown dumplings glistened in the syrup, bubbling cheerfully instead of belching smoke. He poked one with a fork. It cut cleanly. He tasted it.

Heaven. Sweet, tangy, fizzy heaven.

That evening, Eric carried his platter of experimental dumplings to poker night. His friends dug in suspiciously, then devoured them with gusto.

“Man, these are amazing!” Mark exclaimed, syrup dripping down his chin. “Best apple dumplings I’ve ever had.”

Eric grinned. “Glad you like them. Family recipe.”

Somewhere, he hoped, Ariana was shaking her head with equal parts exasperation and pride.

Word Count: 764
Prompt: Write a story or poem about someone attempting to make apple dumplings from scratch... for the very first time.
Written for: "The Writer's Cramp"  Winner!