I was living peacefully with two friends — when COVID-19 hit.

Suddenly we found ourselves jostling for office space on the dining table, surrounded by discarded tea bags and puzzle pieces.

I've always loved cooking, so entertaining ourselves during isolation didn't seem that daunting.

"Let's make the most of this isolation," we mused at one of our COVID-inspired house meetings, "let's conquer our culinary Everests!"

With the rest of the country just discovering baking, it seemed natural that we should show them how it's done.

We each picked a baking goal and would take turns conquering them.

Mim was up first. Her Everest? Croissants.

"I have seriously low expectations," she told us.

I was relieved that she knew disaster was inevitable. Croissants take years to master. Even Jamie Oliver buys pre-packed puff pastry — and he's an OBE!

She set about rolling layers of butter into rectangles, lining up sheets of dough and cutting them to shape.

"Gin and tonic?" she chirped, all sun-kissed from the light streaming through our kitchen window.

She watched through the oven door like an anxious kid with a new pet fish.

The croissants emerged from the oven — impossibly golden, as if browned by the Bondi sun.

Eureka = They were springy, puffy and perfect.

The second challenge

The next morning, Elliot walked in the background of my Zoom meeting, a ham and cheese croissant hanging from his mouth.

"Mim made those," I said proudly, cutting off a group discussion about teaching from home.

"No she bloody didn't!" a colleague offered.

Next came Elliot's Everest — Japanese milk buns.

Each bun was like a mushroom top, its surface white and lovely. Little pinchable bums.

"I conquered my Everest!" he cried, his mouth full of success.

And then there was me

I was up next.

I got my first Jamie Oliver book at 13. My teenage years were spent rolling ravioli and by uni I was routinely serving fluffy focaccia in a kitchen full of instant Mi-Goreng.

I'd picked sourdough and had been faithfully feeding my starter for a week.

As the reigning focaccia queen, I was not rattled — if anything, I wished I'd chosen something slightly more challenging.

A guest appearance on The Naked Chef felt likely.

I mixed my starter with flour and water. Next, I scooped my hands under the dough and they emerged covered in a thick glue.

I added more flour — not to worry — and mixed it around as best I could. I placed it on our perfectly warm windowsill and waited patiently, smoking an imaginary cigarette.

After an hour, it should have doubled in size. But four hours later — it looked exactly the same.

I called Dad.

"Just leave it overnight," he said.

I slept soundly, and in the morning I plunged my hands inside the goo once more. I reached for the jar of flour, which promptly became stuck to my hand.

Shit. It tipped sideways, emptying onto the bench. Shit. I rolled the goo on top of the flour but it was as if I had dived headfirst into a vat of toffee.

In the five minutes it took to wash the goo from my hands, I managed to cement my hair to my forehead and cake my phone in sludge, rendering the touchscreen useless

Again, I called Dad.

"What type of glue is it like?" Dad asked, relaxing back in his chair.

"Just glue!" I yelled at the screen.

"Like Clag?" he asked.

"Dad," I took the deepest of breaths, "it's like fondue, OK? It's the texture of fondue!"

"Cheese?" he said.

How could it get worse?

I lifted the goo into a mixer and added more flour, desperate for anything resembling dough to form. I tried hopelessly to adjust my glasses with my wrists, smearing the lenses as if they'd been dipped in rotten milk.

I turned to grab a tea towel and, in my haste, my elbow bumped the speed controller of the mixer.

Plumes of flour mushroomed into the air — covering every surface.

I collapsed onto the bench, put my face down on the cool marble and closed my eyes. A teaspoon stuck to my cheek.

I had to wash my hands with a scrubbing brush.

Next, I lay down a piece of baking paper and dumped the goo on top. It glared at me.

At this moment, my foot slipped into the dog's bowl.

I began slipping around the kitchen, my wet feet on a soiled tea-towel and my whole body dusted in flour.

My hands, once again, were dangerously adhesive. I attempted to drag the goo, on its baking paper, to the only remaining area of clean bench.

I lifted the goo ball into the air when suddenly — I dropped it. The whole thing. Upside down onto the floor.

I let out a whimpering noise I've never made before.

This caused Elliot to emerge, looking concerned. He paused, took in the scene, and politely backed out of the room.

Meanwhile, the sun was burning my face through the kitchen window.

I stood silent — unable to process the disaster that had unfolded. I was supposed to be the focaccia queen.

I spent the next hour washing up in sunglasses.

"May everyone panic buy flour," I prayed, "so I'll never have to attempt this Everest again."

Below | Perfect world scenario : Mimi's Croissants.