extra added deliciousness

    When I was growing up, the very biggest treat that I could imagine was angel food cake with "Seven Minute Frosting." The recipe is named that way because the frosting cooks (in a double-boiler) for seven minutes, to thicken, while being whipped. The consistency is beyond imagining; the flavor is light and sweet but not overwhelming; it makes an exquisite, glossy topping to pretty much anything (on cupcakes it's fantastic; on graham crackers, it's to die), but it is best on angel food.
    Once upon a time, in grad school, I attempted to follow my mom's recipe for Seven Minute Frosting. I'd baked an angel food earlier in the day, before a group of friends came over to watch a UM football game on TV. After dinner - and while we had a few drinks - I made the frosting. I even dyed it green, just like all those birthday cakes that I had as a kid. (We were permitted to choose the color of our birthday cake frosting, and I almost always chose green.)
    I slathered it on the cake and presented it to the not quite drunk but headed in that direction crowd. They oohed and aahed appreciatively while I sawed the cake into slices. We probably polished off half the cake that night.
    The next morning, I glanced at the cake leftovers in the fridge. The frosting seemed oddly shiny. Not glossy, but shiny. I pulled it out of the fridge and set it on the counter. Turned on the overhead light. Removed the lid from the cake-safe.
    There were tiny flecks in the frosting. Grayish-silver flecks. WTF?!
    Then I looked at the pan - the top of the double-boiler - in which I'd made the frosting, still sitting on the stove waiting to be washed. It was...gauged. In concentric circles. Many, many concentric circles.
    I'd used my electric mixer.
    In the nonstick pan.    
    We'd eaten a Teflon-frosted cake.