Joy the Baker

Two days ago my sister was out in Seattle having dinner with a friend.  Simple enough, right?  

She was approached my a friendly faced woman and asked “Are you Joy the Baker’s sister?”  My  sister burst into confused laughter.  They carried on a short, smile filled conversation and went on with their meals… my sister still slightly confounded.  

Lauren is Joy the Baker’s sister… that’s not the confusing part.  The confusing part is that you all might recognize my sister in the world.   Awesome.  Odd.  Strange.  And awesome again.  

Have I told you how awesome you are?  How glad I am that you’re here?  How glad I am that you would say hi to my sister if you saw her in Seattle?  Well…. you are awesome.  I’m so stoked that you’re here and thanks for being nice to my sister.  For.  Reals.  Cause if you weren’t nice to her… we’d have to fight.  That would be weird.  

In other news… I can’t find my tweezers and I made you a cake.  Let’s discuss. 

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I was packing up my kitchen this afternoon and I got to thinking.

I got to thinking about my box grater… which is totally weird.  

As if thinking at length about my box grater weren’t odd enough… I’m now going to shovel my box grater thoughts onto your lap.  

There’s butter.  There’s cheese.  There’s roots and veggies.  All the drama and intrigue you could want from one little box grater.  

aaaand… seriously… thanks for playing along.  I realize I’m ridiculous. 

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I have downright baffled myself.  

I may have mentioned that I’m moving this week.  Moving is… horrifying.  Yes, I’m being dramatic.  Please indulge me. 

Among the things that I found under my bed and in the dark recesses of my closet as I’ve been cleaning and packing are:

eight kitten stuffed animals. 

one medium sized bunny stuffed animal. 

three puppy stuffed animals.

….. WWWHHHHHYYYY?

one baby sock….  A. Baby.  Sock.  I have no baby.  Seriously… What the heck is going on here!?

a tiny rhinestone turtle toe ring.  Really?  

one sweater that gives my arms a rash.  I found out the hard way.  

one wooden bobble head turtle toy.  Why so many turtles hiding in my house?

and… a rock.  Because… yea.  A rock.

Take these Little Lemon Hazelnut Cakes as a token of my love, affection, and dwindling sanity.  

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t 

I’d really like to conjure up some useful information for you.  That would be nice, right?  I could tell you all about avocados.  Where they came from.  What a lovely shade of green they are.  Why they’re so expensive at the grocery store… you know, things like that.  

But you didn’t come here for boring old information… did you!?  

I didn’t think so.  

You came here  because you want me to admit to eating Pepperidge Farm Soft Bake Cookies…which is totally happening right now.  You came here because you want me to admit to rrreeeeaaaalllllyyyy wanting to watch the season finale of The Bachelor… it’s true… it’s a problem.  You came here because you want me to admit to wearing my big fluffy slipper socks.  The dreaded socks/shoes that will keep me single for eternity.  Well… I’m wearing them and I’m loving it.  

So there, friends.  It’s all out on the table.  Now can we talk about cake?  

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Ok.  I’ve come to terms with the fact that I have housewife tendencies.  It’s true.  Don’t judge me… that would be rude.

I’ve tried to ignore these urges.  I’ve tried to pass it off as a phase… but really?  This can’t go on.  I’m going to have to own my housewife tendencies.  Now seems like as good a time as ever to fess up. 

See… yesterday afternoon I put on my frilly 1950’s apron, pulled my hair back, put on my giant fake pearl earrings and made homemade dinner rolls.  The apron and pearls are essential, so is a cigarette and a stiff cocktail if I’m to believe what I see on Mad Men.  

So there I am in my kitchen, proudly clad in my housewife gear, hand kneading some pretty sexy roll dough, thinking I’ve got it pretty kush when I realize that my housewife fantasy is missing two things… a… um… er… husband… and mud covered children that I have to chase around the house to get into the bath.  

So.  Ok.  Fine.  My housewife tendencies are really just an excuse for me to play dress up for an afternoon.  And rolls and butter?  Just the awesome perk of my extended dress up games.

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I do this thing when I’m filled to the brim with tasks and opportunities and responsibilities and stresses…. I add more.  I really just pile it on.  I somehow think that adding new responsibilities and stresses will erase the ones I’ve already loaded on my shoulders.  

It’s illogical.  It’s a terrible idea.  It’s downright crazytown.  

I’m in Crazytown and I’m about to move into Lost My Marblesville.  Someone please send a straight jacket.  

In related news, I’ve decided to move into a loft in downtown Los Angeles.  I’m driving to Seattle in a Uhaul next week with my little sister… pray for us.  Aaaand I’m teaching my first cooking class in Sonoma this weekend!  

More on all of these things soon.  For now… here’s what I’m stress eating.. no joke.

Mini Chocolate Dipped Bananas rolled in crushed honey roasted peanuts.  If you really commit to your stress… I mean, really just get in there and wallow in it… I’m sure you can down a cool seven bananas in no time.  Just.  Like.  Me.  

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I…

Hate:  diet soda.  Like:  water.  Love:  bourbon.

Hate:  skinny jeans.  Like: Jeggings (jean leggings people… jean leggings).  Love:  my Levis.  

Hate:  bathing suit shopping.  Like:  vintage dress shopping.  Love:  shopping with someone else’s credit card… which never happens… ever.

Hate:  cold soup.  Like:  most soup.  Love:  um…. soup soup soup.  I really like soup.

‘Hate’ is such a strong word.  ’Hate’ was a bad word in the house I grew up in.  Mom, if you’re reading this… yes, you taught me better… but look!  I’m eating my broccoli!  That’s got to count for something. 

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On the Lamb threw a Speakeasy last night… complete with Bathtub Gin and Juice, Pork and Wild Boar Sliders and Cherry Bourbon Ice Cream. There was bourbon and scoundrels as far as the eye could see. Before we get down and dirty with my new favorite ice cream flavor, here’s a peek at what setting up a roarin’ Speakeasy looks like.

A Speakeasy requires a guest list, a password at the door, and a cash box for cashmoney.  

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Hi darling.  Hey sugarbear.  What’s shakin’ sweetums?  Lookin’ good sweetpea.  Hey loverboy!  Oooh darlin’.  

I’m practicing my terms of endearment.  Yea… I want to sound natural when the time comes to use them.  

Can I practice on you?  How does this sound?

     Hey loverbear, will you come on in here and help me with these dishes?

     Darlin’, will you hold the oven door open for me?

How about…

     Sweetpea, stay away from those cookies.  You know we have company coming.  

My favorite…

     Sweetums, I made you cupcakes… cause I love you like crazy.

How am I doing so far?  I’m a little stiff aren’t I?  I’ll keep working on it.    

Jump on over.  I have a lot to tell you!

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Can I let you in on a little something?

I don’t live in the cool Los Angeles neighborhood that all my friends live in…

I have more matching spatulas than I do matching bath towels.  

I still can’t seem to commit to buying myself a couch.  

My bedroom bookcase seems to be made up of one part books and three parts dust.  

I tell you all of this to let you in on the fact that I’ve been feeling domestically restless these days.  The kind of restless that has had me daydreaming about moving into a downtown loft that I can’t afford.  The kind of restless that has had me daydreaming about decorating a downtown loft that I can’t afford with expensive furniture that I also can’t afford.  

Not being able to afford your daydreams?  Torture and motivation.  Together.   

This weekend I decided… get this… that it’s all ok! 

I took to my kitchen with my rubber gloves, bleach spray and a few rags and I scrubbed and organized like I’ve never done before.  Yes, it’s just the kitchen.  No, I couldn’t get to my whole apartment.  But the scrubbing and organizing helped me remember that my humble little apartment, in the uncool part of town, is pretty darn sweet.  I don’t need the fancy loft and the expensive furniture.  I just need to make my little spot in the world a little brighter… with bleach.  

And the pancakes this weekend helped too.  Tremendous.

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Sometimes life feels like layers of complications.  Like taxes and traffic and cavities and getting laid off are all piled high into one smelly sandwich that you’re supposed to eat for lunch.  Really…?  Worst sandwich ever.  Do not want. 

Complicated.  Yea.  It happens to you.  It happens to me.  

Luckily there’s… bread.  And thank the holy heavens for butter.  

Bread and butter.  Yes.  A post about bread and butter.  Perhaps the most beautiful and uncomplicated thing you can put into your face.  Don’t fight me on this one.  That would only make things more complicated.  Go and eat.  Bread and butter. 

And yes… I burnt the bottom of my bread a bit.  These things happen. 

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I’d like to take this moment to request a platter of Black and White Cookies from the magic little elves that are currently in my kitchen doing the dishes, in my bedroom sorting laundry, and in my shower scrubbing the tiles.  Could you little elves please stop what you’re doing and make me some cookies?  Fresh baked.  With milk.  Please… that would be great. 

What?  The magic little elves have taken the night off!?  That’s some nerve.  Some nerve.  

Peanut Butter Bacon Cookies.  Because everything should have bacon in it.  Everything. 

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Let’s just close out eyes and pretend we’re sitting under an orange tree. An orange tree heavy with fruit… but with the occasional late blooming blossom. There are honey bees too. Just a few. The friendly kind. The kind of honeybees that remind you that life is full of creatures big and small… and we all have tasks to do.

Let’s just hang out under our orange tree for a while. Right here in the shade, greeted by little spots of sun as the wind spreads the leaves.

It’s nice here.

Sweet. Thanks. I’m glad you’re here.

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What is it with me?  I’m always taking things too far.  I’m obsessed.  

Yes… so I love pancakes.  This much you know is true.  But pancakes turned into muffins?  Really?  I’m a nut job.  

Oh me.  Oh my.  

Is there some sort of support group for pancake addiction?

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It’s Friday.  I know you weren’t expecting this, but it’s time for a Pop Quiz.  

Don’t worry.  If you’ve done the reading this should be easy… (I hated when teachers would say that to me). 

Pop Quiz

1) True or False:  The joining of chocolate and coffee is like a cosmic combination of all that is good, just, and rock and roll in the universe. 

2) Fill in the Blank:  Breakfast is the most _________________ . 

3)  Multiple Choice:  The best choice for this weekend’s breakfast treat is:

a) stale Cheerios.  

b) Gerard Butler and hot fudge sauce. 

c) breakfast sandwiches made on Cheddar Black Pepper Biscuits.  

Now… here are the answers: 

1)  True….. duh!  2) Breakfast is the most important meal that ever was.  3) c… if and only if b is unavailable.  

Perfect score?  We’re best friends.  Take note. 

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Joy the Baker is two years old.  Two years of cookies.  Two years of cupcakes.  Two years of pancakes.  Two years of me standing on a chair in my dining room trying to get the right shot of a slice of cake before I gobble it up.  Two years of me.  Two years of you.  

Here’s what the last two years have looked like around these parts.  Come along… let’s reminisce. 

Once upon a time I made a podcast.  It’s totally dorky.  I can’t bear to watch it.  It’s like listening to your own voice on the answering machine.  Too much.  Totally.  Dorky.  

I made these cookies waaaay back in the day when Barack Obama was still battling it out with Hillary Clinton.  My Dad hated it.  He hated it so much he left a nasty comment on my blog.  Yea…. that happened.  Thanks Dad.  Love you.  Always.

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Let’s just go ahead and let the Hot Fudge Sundae Cupcakes do the talking…

Yes.  I am thoroughly satisfied with myself.  

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It would seem that you can throw just about anything into an 8×4-inch loaf pan and have some sweet smellin’ magic come out of your kitchen after an hour or so.  What’s more, pulling a beautifully risen quick bread out of the oven is sure to make you feel like your a prime-time, super legit baker.  

Here’s a peek at my favorite quick bread recipes.  

Oh!  Happy Wednesday to you.  Also… you look pretty today.  I like what you did with your hair.  

Low Fat Oatmeal Banana Bread.  Still moist.  Still all sorts of delicious.  I even counted the Weight Watchers points on this one.  Whaaaat!?  Yea.  That happened. 

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So….. what do you do when you forget to call your grandmother on her 80th birthday?  

Well… obviously you yell at your little sister who remembered to call your grandmother on her 80th birthday, and didn’t remind you to call your grandmother on her 80th birthday.  Some nerve.

See… forgetting to call your grandmother on her 80th birthday is just about as bad as kicking your dear and darling 80 year old grandmother in the shin.  It’s not cool.  There’s no going back.  You’re a real jerk if you don’t call your grandmother on her 80th birthday.  

Ok.  Here’s the deal universe.  I hope I live to be 80.  Please.  That would be great.  I think…. I hope. 

On May 25, 2061 Universe, I want you to break my phone.  See to it that no one calls to wish me a happy birthday.  I’ll remember why.  I’ll remember that I deserve it.  For real.  Yeeesh!

Also… biscotti.  I made some delicious biscotti.  This is me, sharing.  

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I figured it out!

I finally figured out the answer to all of those desert island questions!  You know… if you were stranded on a desert island blah blah blah…  It turns out the answer is always always always hot fudge.  

Watch.  I’m sure you’ll agree. 

Q:  If you were trapped on a desert island, what one food would you want with you?

A:  Hot fudge (and vanilla ice cream) for eternity. 

Q:  If you were trapped on a desert island and had one book with you, what would it be?

A:   Gone with the Wind… covered in hot fudge.  

Q:  If you were trapped on a dessert island would you prefer waterproof matches or a broken down sail boat?

A:  Um… hot fudge? 

Q:  Desert island roommate:  George Clooney or Gerard Butler?

A:  This is a trick question… obviously.  Gerard Butler with a side of hot fudge.

See?  Hot fudge.  Always the right answer.  Amazing. 

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