I’ve been fighting a losing battle against the oven in the new flat since we moved in. Cakes don’t rise as well as they should. Tart pastries don’t cook through. Pizzas burn. I’ve come to wonder if a soggy pie bottom is a defensible reason for breaking a lease.

Last weekend I was making desserts to bring over to Laureen’s. A foie gras–eating vegetarian from Nashville, Tennessee, she was fixing a Puerto Rican–style roasted pork shoulder studded with garlic and oregano (although: “Not fixing,” she says, “fixin’.”). I told her I would bring her a strawberry shortcake and some chocolate meringues. “If you pronounce it mer-eng-gay,” I said, “it is almost Puerto Rican.” I made the shortcake while Dolly Parton played. It was golden on the outside but, I was to find out much later, heavy – sullen, even – on the inside. The meringues turned out OK, I think – fantastical chocolatey swirls on the outside, melty chocolatey goodness on the inside. But can a girl live on meringues alone? And what will I do with all the leftover egg yolks? Turn them in for cholesterol medication once I’m done with the pots de crème, the mayonnaise, the zabaglione, the aioli?

I’m going to have to do some temperature tests, I think. Let the bake-offs begin! I’ll show this oven who’s boss.

(Fingers crossed it’s me.)