Joy the Baker

Bust out the booze friends!  I’ve got a weekend project for you!

We’re making our very own vanilla extract!  Why?  Why make your own vanilla extract when you can just buy the stuff in a teeeeeeny tiny bottle at the grocery store for close to ten whopping dollars?  Hm… see what I did there?  I seem to have answered my own question.

Homemade vanilla extract only requires a handful of things.  Come on… we can totally rock this.

First let’s talk vanilla beans.  Yea… they’re a tad bit expensive, but totally worth their weight in… vanilla.

There are a lots different varieties of vanilla beans.  So many varieties all with their own subtle nuances… it can be a bit overwhelming.  There are beans from Madagascar, Mexico, Tahiti, Tonga… just throw a dart at the map and they just might produce vanilla beans there. Ok.  I’m exaggerating.   Different beans from all over the globe have different characteristics.  We could talk about this for days… seriously.  Here’s a brief brief brief run down of my favorites.

Madagascar beans are powerful, dark, full vanilla flavor beans.    Tahitian beans remind me of vanilla figs- fruity and floral.  The Mexican variety has just a hint of sweet creaminess.  How’s that for brief?

What beans are you going to choose for your vanilla extract?  Where are you going to get them?  Use exactly any bean you want!   Maybe you’ll buy them online here.  Use exactly whatever you can get your hands on.  Mix and match!  It’s your world.  It’s your extract.

This is going to be so easy!  Let’s get started!

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When it comes time for a little human to call me Mom, there are several things I hope for.  Here are a few of those hopes:

I hope that I’ll no longer run screaming from the room at the sight of a spider.  Mom has to take care of the spider… that’s sort of part of the deal as Mom, right?  Maybe can I always get away with saying, “Let’s go get Daddy to take care of that spider.”  I hope that works.

I hope that a deep affection for pickles and pancakes, though not necessarily on the same plate, is hereditary.

I hope that I have as good a pair of Mom Hands as my mom.

Most importantly, I hope that I create as patient and loving, supportive and hilarious a family as was provided for me.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you who have the patience and care to raise new, happy, and lovely people in the world.

Here’s some dreamy Raspberry Lemonade, and all sort sof recipes that you might consider making for your mom and family this weekend.

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These bourbon laden treats were inspired by two things:  those still spring, but almost summer days that give you a hint at just how blazing hot this summer is going to be, and… this weekend’s Kentucky Derby.

Here’s what I know about Spring:

It’s green.  Once we get past the Easter Bunny stage, it’s all about blooming flowers and May showers.  Spring makes me feel like I’m in love with the world… probably because I am.

Here’s what I know about the Kentucky Derby:

Horses.  Hats.  Mint Juleps.

Here’s what I know about bourbon:

Dang, it’s good!

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I remember when I was a kid, I used to entice my little sister into the kitchen to cook with me. That sounds sweet and cozy, right? Well… I had slightly more selfish intentions. I had plans for my sister once we hit the kitchen: I would do all the fun stuff like measuring out sugar and chocolate, and she would do all of the not so fun stuff, like getting the flour containers out of the pantry, reaching for bowls, and doing all the dirty dishes. Baking always seemed like more fun if I had someone to do all the grunt work for me.

That sort of fun in the kitchen with my sister didn’t last long. Lauren very quickly caught on to my tricks, and before long we were sharing the dirty dish responsibilities.

Since then, I’d like to think I’ve become a much more accommodating kitchen partner. Ask Simon. You know Simon, he’s that crazy kid from Foodproof. We made Almond Banana Bread together. It went swimmingly, and I don’t think I made him do the dishes.

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If my sister and I were produce instead of people, we’d be persimmons. Without a doubt… a couple of sibling persimmons- from the same tree but oooooooh so different. Let me explain. This will all make sense in a short bit.

My little sister and I are two and a half years apart. That means we were close enough to tear things up and figure out how to get ourselves out of it. You know, experiment, explore, break stuff and try not to get in trouble… life skills.

My sister, as an adorable, slick and sly child genius, would mush up and cry whenever trouble was on the horizon. I was not quite so skilled.

Maybe we’re about to get in trouble for knocking out the screen door that was just installed hours earlier… or we’re about to get a talking to for breaking the bathroom window with a soccer ball… or someone, who shall remain nameless, thought it would be a good idea to swing like Tarzan from the palm tree…

Here’s how the situation would play out: Lauren would run into the house, after one of our outdoor terror sessions , a big ball of red eyes and tears. She’d throw herself on the ground inconsolable, and thus… unpublishable. I would freeze and try to figure out a way to fix the broken thing before my parents could discover it. Not wise. Not wise at all. I was always the one left standing stiff with the broken object, eyes wide, wracking my brain for solutions. Thus… I always got in trouble. I’m not just saying that… Lauren, you totally know it’s true.

Any while we’re on the subject, please allow me this:

Dear Lauren,

You know you were the one that ran straight into the new screen door. That was all you. I was watching The Cosby Show and minding my own business. You and your tears! I got in soooo much trouble for that! No, twenty years later, I’m still not over it. Well played sister. Very well played.

This isn’t over.

Your sister,

Joy

So… um… persimmons. Follow me.

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It’s November, and that means that we’ve undeniably entered the holiday season. In my world that means lots of family, lot of parties and eating a ridiculous, almost painful amount of food. Cocktail parties. Tacky Christmas sweater parties. Surprise guests and…. my oh my… is it too early to be this excited?

Despite all of my (possibly premature) excitement, I’ll admit that I’m sometimes at a loss when it comes to a holiday night out. If I’m not fussing over what I’m going to wear, I’m getting nit picky about the dessert that I’m going to bring. It’s enough to drive myself crazy and send me straight to the egg nog bowl when I hit the party. The egg nog is always such a nice thought, but the actual introduction of egg nog into my system is a very, very bad idea.

This weekend I picked up a few party dresses and tights- festive and hip but not over the top. I also baked up the perfect all purpose holiday cake. It’s a winner because you can throw it together with virtually anything and everything you have in your pantry.

Let’s discuss…

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Pumpkin is upon us.

It’s a fact friends.  Deal with it.

I went a little pumpkin crazy at the store this week.  Something comes over me when the seasons change.  Because I live in a city where the weather insists on staying virtually the same temperature all year round, and the palm trees know nothing of seasonal changes, I feel like I’m forced to express the change of season in very outward, often very expensive ways.

When early October hits, and the hint of a cool night beckons me to turn my bedroom fan off, inevitably, the next day I’m out shopping for scarves, tights, knee high boots, and yes….. pumpkin.

We had a chilly night this past weekend (I’m talking low 60’s) which prompted me to take out my winter coat (yes I have one, and it’s fantastic).  This also prompted me to go on a pumpkin bender at the grocery store.

I’m giving you the heads up.  It’s pumpkin time people.  Are you with me?

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I was trying to come up with some charming childhood anecdote to accompany these butterscotch puddings, when I came to the blunt realization that I didn’t like pudding as a child. In fact, I may have purely despised the stuff. My only exposure to pudding came in the occasional lunch time trade with a friend for her chocolate pudding cup. I seem to remember a goopy, brown, almost plastic flavored dessert. Even when I was eight I knew that there had to be a better way.

A mere twenty years later I’ve decided on the perfect pudding solution: mix together cream, brown sugar and bourbon whiskey (among a few other ingredients) and call it Butterscotch Pudding. Glorious! Top that pudding with Bourbon whipped cream and toffee and life just got that much sweeter.

If I could talk to eight year old Joy the Baker, I’d tell her not to trade her all natural fruit snacks for the chocolate pudding. There’s something much better lying ahead. I’d also tell her that she won’t have horribly frizzy hair forever, and it really is ok that precious, blonde, adorable Hayden likes Alison and not her. It really is ok.

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I went into this post practically kicking and screaming today.  Let’s be honest-  sometimes the words flow, other times it’s a task just to get myself to sit in the chair long enough to post a few words and photos.

This whiny, kicking and screaming, can’t-even-stand-myself feeling seems to be a Labor Day holiday signature of mine.  See, the holiday represents the end of summer.  I’ve always had enormous jubilation for Memorial Day, the unofficial kick off of summer, and great disdain for it’s holiday evil doppelganger- Labor Day.  When I was a kid, we would always have to return to school the Tuesday after Labor Day.  The end of summer and the return to school always seemed like a great tragedy to me.  I’m talking Hamlet level tragedy.

It would seem that the feelings of that 9 year old, who can’t come to terms with her new backpack and Trapper Keeper have followed me to adulthood.  I still don’t like Labor Day.  I still have a hard time coming to terms with the end of summer.  But now I get to add alcohol to the mix.

My Oh My.  Cucumber Raspberry Vodka Sparklers.

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