Joy the Baker

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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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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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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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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The kitchen.  It’s where I do a majority of my… standing.  

Standing and staring.

Standing and staring and spreading cream cheese onto Wheat Thins.  

Standing and staring and eating cream cheese and Wheat Thins until I come up with a recipe and post idea.  

If you were a fly on my kitchen wall… well, I wouldn’t like that very much… but you would probably think that a) I have very few brain cells firing with all of the standing and staring I do and b) I have an unhealthy relationship with cream cheese.

You might be right about the brain cells…  I won’t argue that the standing and staring is a strange process.  But the cream cheese?  Yea… I’ll admit I have a bit of a problem with cream cheese and crackers.  I’m trying to break the habit with chick peas and olive oil and mint and parsley.  I think it’s working.  I really think it’s working. 

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In the event of some sort of big fat natural disaster in California, I may be up a creek without a paddle.  Sure, I’ve got the canned tuna, the emergency gallons of water and a few flashlights with dying batteries.  I’ve got the walking shoes, a space blanket and pepper spray… you need those things, right?   It’s just that I’m not sure the internets or my cellphone are going to do me much good in the event of a meltdown.  Won’t all the cell towers be jammed?  How am I going to reach out to my family?  I don’t think Twitter will quite do the trick.  Clearly my only option is to jog to them… in a space blanket.  That seems to make the most sense.

My parents?  I think they’re just ahead of me in the emergency game.  They’ve got cell phones from 1993 and a telephone land line.  At least the land line will come in handy.  

My grandfather!?  He’ll fare better than all of us in an emergency.  He’s got Ham Radio.  Ham Radio is a sort of amateur radio system that allows people to talk to one another all over the world.  Don’t be fooled by the name.  Ham Radio is actually pretty badass.   Sort of like… trucker radio meets old school technology meets grandfather hobby.  In emergencies, Ham Radio is booming.  You better believe that in an emergency, my grandfather will be all over that radio.  Who he’ll be talking to?  I’m not exactly sure.  He’ll probably be saving the world.  I’ll be jogging my way to safety.  My parents will still be screening their phone calls with their answering machine.  Who is the hero?  Grandpa. 

I tell you all of this because Lemon Poppy Seed Muffins (specifically the giant ((seriously giant)) kind from Costco) are my grandfather’s favorite.  He no doubt has a 48 pack of those giant muffins in his emergency kit.  You think I’m kidding.  I’m not.

Note:  my descriptions of Ham Radio here may hinge on trite and are most certainly superficial and inadequate.  

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I’ve got a case of the lazy bones.  Serious and impervious to negotiation, lazy bones.

These lazy bones have coerced me into watching a solid five hour block of television last Friday night.  These lazy bones strong armed me into excessive Saturday and Sunday napping.  I also did that thing where you get up and make breakfast, eat it, hold you belly with the sheer joy of your accomplishment… then get back in bed… back in bed (!) for a nap.

I’ve had the best of intentions, but I learned early on this weekend (about halfway through watching my third bridal show on Friday night) that my to-do list was just going to have to sit tight and have some patience.  That’s how it goes some weekends.  Who am I to disrupt the flow?

Nuts.  I somehow roasted and fancied up hazelnuts.  This must have been done in one of the hazes between naps.  I have no real recollection, but I do have photographic evidence.  Thank heavens.  I may not fully remember making them, but I sure do remember the dream where I was shoving them into my face by the fistful.  True.

Ok…. maybe they’re not the prettiest nuts you’ve ever seen.  Delicious?  Oh.  So.  Yes.

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I’m putting on an orange leotard tomorrow.  An orange leotard. 

I’m also putting on bright blue leggings tomorrow.. and white leg warmers… and sweat bands.  

I’m going to encourage the big, puffy, curly hair that I spend most days trying to tame.  Yes, there will be blue eye shadow.

I’m going to step out in the world tomorrow as an 80’s aerobics instructor.  The only little hitch?  That I actually have to step out of the house in a skin tight orange leotard and skin tight blue leggings.  Oooh lordy.  Whose idea was it to take the Halloween celebration beyond my solo living room dance parties?  Yeeps!  

Ironically, the only thing making me feel better about my very bright and very tight 80’s debut are these S’mores Icebox Candy Bars.  There are fifteen in a batch and I’ve worked through four just writing this post.  Send help.  Orange leotard, people…. send help. 

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Let’s play a game called What’s on Your Nightstand?.  What?  Too personal?  Oooh come on!  We’re all friends here.  Let’s try to figure out what our night stands say about the state of our lives.

On my night stand is:

1 Ikea lamp.

A water color painting made by my aunt in the 80’s.

A cup of what once was hot lemon water with honey, now just a mass of lemon seeds at the bottom of a mug.

A glass bowl with a ring and a business card for a French bed and breakfast.

Two books:  Unaccustomed Earth and Seize the Day.

My credit card, and a small bowl with cookie crumbs in it… Lemon Rosemary Palmier cookie crumbs.

What might my night stand contents say about me?  I love a home furnishing bargain.  When I run out of tea I make do with lemons.  I can’t sleep in jewelry and I like to daydream about vacationing in the French countryside. I either read a book or go internet shopping before I fall asleep, and I eat cookies in bed.  All things considered, it seems like a pretty cushy and self indulgent life…. plus, cookies!

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It’s August 3, 2009 and I refuse to believe a) that summer is almost over, and b) that we’re a handful of months away from 2010.  Turns out that whether I believe or refuse to believe these two things… they’re still true.  

It’s August 3, 2009 and I will openly admit that in the past few days I’ve been stress eating like a maniac over these picnic plans.  I’m not proud.  

It’s August 3, 2009 and tonight is the night I’m going to polish off the frozen dough balls in my freezer.  Again, not proud.

It’s August 3, 2009 and I’m thinking it’s going to be really awkward when Dr Martens come back into style and I bust out my original pair that I sported back in middle school.  Yes, I still have them.  Yes, they still fit.  

It’s August 3, 2009 and among the many other things I’m thankful for today, I’m also thankful for internet shoe shopping and these beautiful thumbprint cookies.  

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I had no idea how easy ranch dressing was to make.  Here’s how it went down in my kitchen.

I looked at the Buttermilk Ranch recipe.  I shrugged one shoulder.  I mashed garlic, chopped herbs, and dolloped various white and creamy ingredients into a bowl.  I again shrugged a shoulder.  I threw in some salt.  I threw in some crushed peppercorns.  I threw in a dash of Tabasco.  I… yes, shrugged my shoulders.  I stirred the bowl of herbs and creamy things together.  I shrugged.  I threw in some buttermilk.  Stirred again.

Then I did this thing…. I took a leaf of butter lettuce and dipped it into the bowl.  Holy Hell!  Gracious heavens!!  It tasted… get this… JUST LIKE RANCH DRESSING!  Geeeeez!  That was cool.  Sometimes goodness sneaks up on you.  Dang.

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Lovely friends… hi.  Dear readers… hello.

Let’s talk about keeping it classy.  Hot dang! I try hard to keep it classy.  Holy smokes… do I ever fail sometimes.

Let’s discuss classy versus not classy, and what the heck chocolate dipped bananas have to do with anything.

Classy:  a tastefully short summer sundress.  Not class:  booty shorts that awkwardly bunch in the crotch.

Classy:  gracefully switching from wine to water at the company picnic.  Not classy:  maybe getting drunk and punching the sous chef in the face.  Oops.

Classy:  How much I love listening to public radio.  Not classy:  How much I love to watch The Real Housewives of  New Jersey.  Guilty… but why do they yell so much?

Classy: Enjoying mini chocolate dipped bananas on a summer afternoon.  Not as classy:  Trying to gnaw your way through a giant chocolate dipped banana.  It’s just not pretty friends.  Let’s try to avoid this scene this summer.  I think we all know why.

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Can you do me a favor?

I cringe any time someone asks me if I can do them a favor.  I always want to say… sure, yes, of course… only to be asked to do something like… I dunno… be a bridesmaid in their wedding and wear lavender and ruffles.  Ok… so that hasn’t been a favor asked of me just yet.  The thought obviously terrifies me.

I hope when I ask you to do me this favor you won’t completely cringe.

Do me a favor and make this popcorn this weekend.

I wouldn’t ask unless it was totally important, and totally delicious.

Believe me.  If you’ve never believed me before, now would be the time to start.  Make this popcorn.  It’s perfectly sweet and perfectly salty.  Make it for dinner.  Make it and sneak it into the movie theater in your giant purse.  Make it and sit out on your patio with a glass of cheap wine.  Find the time.  Find a way.  Just do me a favor and enjoy this popcorn as soon as possible.

It’s that good.

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You know that team building exercise you might play at sleep-away camp that requires you to fall backwards into the waiting arms of a fellow camper?  The Trust Fall?  The basic idea is that you completely let yourself fall backwards, trusting that the person behind you has arms outstretched to catch you before you hit the ground.  It’s a very literal way of saying “Hey!  I’ve got your back!”  or “Don’t worry, I’ll catch you if you fall.”  If the person you’ve entrusted to catch you is not paying attention and flirting with her sleep-away boyfriend as you fall… well, you might have trust issues for life.  Not cool.

I bring up the old Trust Fall because we’re talking about sandwiches.  Sandwiches are serious business.  I feel like I need to do a good round of Trust Falling with someone before we’re allowed to make each other sandwiches.  Like I said… sandwiches are serious.

I need to know that someone has got my back when they make me a sandwich.  Who’s making me a sandwich?  No one… that’s not the point.  It’s all about trust, and care and attention.  Like… which slices of bread they choose from the loaf, and how the mayonnaise doesn’t sneak over the edges, and how the tomato slices are just thin enough, and the lettuce is mostly dry from the washing.  Sandwiches have a lot of details.  There’s a lot going on.  I need to trust that my sandwich maker can handle these details… you know?

What?  Too much?  It’s just a sandwich?  Yea… a sandwich.  I take my sandwiches to heart.  I haven’t done the old Trust Fall with the young gentlemen at my local sandwich shop, so frankly, I don’t know if I can trust them to make me a sandwich… ridiculous, but true.

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I woke up to an utterly dreamy California morning on Tuesday.  The soft morning sun was just streaming through my bedroom window, the birds were singing good morning, and I knew that I had a whole basket of clean laundry for the week ahead.  Pretty sweet morning, right?

Sure… the only problem was that my brain was entirely unwilling to join  the sunny spirit.  Nope.  I felt like on  big stale loaf of bread.  After an extended love affair with my snooze button, I determined, behind closed eyelids, that the only thing that would change my circumstance was streusel topping.  On the shuffle from my warm bed to the kitchen counter I decided that blueberry muffins with streusel topping would flip the light switch in my brain.

There was only one problem with my blueberry muffin plan.  I had not a blueberry in sight.  No fresh.  No frozen… just a whole lotta outta luck.  After rifling through my freezer and fridge I emerged with the tail end of a bag of frozen raspberries, and half a jar of strawberry jam.  I figured that, brought together under the welcoming umbrella of streusel topping, these two would simply have to work.  Not but thirty minutes later, puffy streusel topped muffins found their way out of the oven and into my face.  While they didn’t pay that pesky credit card bill, or make that much needed dentist appointment, they at least kept me from crawling back in bed for a handful of hours.  Sometimes, that kind of help is just enough.

It’s not every morning that you jump out of bed ready for the world, fully equipped to make blueberry muffins.  When those morning escape you, I promise that with a little jam, the remains of your frozen fruit collection, and loads of streusel topping, you just might be able to set things right.

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I was notorious in my family for being the child that could only be comforted by my mother.

Most playful family weekends, the scene went something like this:  I’d be in the backyard playing with my little sister, my dad and Scamper, the family dog on our creaky, rusted and awesomely fun swing set.  My favorite move was to swing as high as I could, count to three with my sister and jump out of the swings onto the grass.  Sounds innocent enough, but I was always getting my little girl fingers stuck in the chains of the swing as I dismounted.

I’d hit the ground and look at my dad with the silent cry face… the face kids give their parents before the completely lose it and burst into tears.  My dad would invariable come over and try to talk me out of losing it, but I was already halfway into the ugly cry by then.  It was then that no one but my mom could handle the cajoling and kissing of my finger.  I’d run into the house, screaming like a maniac and clutching my (not even bleeding) finger, looking for my mother who had found just a few moments peace to take a shower or a short nap.  I’d force myself into her lap, lift the offending, pained finger, and wait for the mom comfort to blanket me.  So good.

Come to think of it, that swing set caused as many injuries as it did smiles.

Come to think of it, jumping off the swing set is always worth the hurt finger.

Come to think of it, this pudding has much the same healing qualities as my mom’s lap.

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Here’s a fun thing to do!  Take a few minutes to close your eyes and imagine yourself as an old person.  I’m not talking about late sixties.  That’s not old yet.  I’m talking about great great grandmother old.. pushing the mid-nineties.

Sounds crazy?  Why would you spend time picturing white hair in bobby pins, shuffling feet and rocking chairs?  I feel like getting old is a luxury.  Not everyone gets to do it, so why not sit and enjoy the thought a bit?

I imagine that I’m the kind of old lady that talks to her over fed cats, and yells across the house to her practically deaf husband.  I hope I’m the kind of old lady who has a piano in the house just so my grandchildren can come over and practice their scales while I shuffle around the kitchen baking them cookies.

I want to be the kind of old lady that always thinks a glass of champagne is a good idea.

I want to be the kind of old lady who always has something out on the living room table for that unexpected guest.  Maybe it’s those soft chalky mints.  Maybe a freshly baked pie.  Maybe it’s these Sweet and Spicy Baked Almonds.  These nuts, my friends, have me daydreaming of old lady times somehow… with a smile on my face.

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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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