Okay, so someone mentioned “butter love song” the other day, and it just threw me back to this one time I tried way too hard in the kitchen. It wasn’t exactly a song, more like a full-on kitchen battle fueled by, well, trying to impress someone.
The Grand Idea
I got this idea in my head that I should bake something. Not just anything, but something that screamed effort, you know? Something fancy. Croissants. Yeah, I decided croissants were the move. Golden, flaky, buttery layers of goodness. How hard could it be? Spoiler: Very.
Getting Down to Business
So, I went out and got all the stuff. Flour, yeast, salt, sugar, and the star player – a whole lot of butter. Like, an intimidating amount of butter. I pulled up a recipe online, glanced at it, and figured I basically knew what to do. Confidence, right? Mistake number one.
The whole process started okay. Mixed the dough. Let it sit. Felt pretty professional. Then came the butter part. You’re supposed to make this flat square of cold butter and fold it into the dough over and over again. Lamination, they call it. Sounds simple. It wasn’t.
- First attempt: Butter was too cold. Tried to bash it into shape, ended up with butter shards flying everywhere. Dough cracked when I tried to fold it. Disaster.
- Second attempt: Let the butter warm up a bit. Too much. It got greasy and started oozing out the sides when I rolled the dough. The layers just mushed together. More disaster.
- Third attempt: I was determined. Went super slow. Chilled the dough constantly. Chilled the butter. Chilled myself because the kitchen was getting stressful.
My kitchen looked like a flour bomb had gone off. There was dough stuck to the counter, butter smears on the cupboards, and I was pretty sure I had flour in my hair. It was chaos. And all I could think was, “This is for love?” It felt more like preparing for war.
The ‘Song’ Part
Looking back, maybe that whole messy, frustrating process was the ‘butter love song’. Not smooth or perfect like you’d imagine, but frantic, a bit clumsy, full of trial and error. It was all about the effort, the sheer stubbornness of trying to make something good happen, even when the butter was actively working against me.
I remember thinking, “If this works, it’ll show I care, right?” The pressure was on. Forget the actual song, the rhythm of rolling, folding, chilling, repeat – that became my weird, stressful kitchen soundtrack.
The Result?
So, after hours… literal hours… I finally baked these things. Were they perfect Parisian croissants? Absolutely not. Some were flat, some leaked butter in the oven, some were okay-ish. They were edible, mostly. Kind of dense. Buttery, for sure. Maybe too buttery in some spots.
I presented them anyway. With a nervous grin. The reception? Polite. Very polite. Which is code for “thanks for not poisoning me, but let’s buy these next time.”
But you know what? The whole experience stuck with me more than the outcome. It was a ridiculous amount of work. It showed me that sometimes the effort, the messy process itself, is the real story. That’s my ‘butter love song’ – less about smooth perfection, more about the greasy, flour-dusted reality of trying really hard.
