Joy the Baker

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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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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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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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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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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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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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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Hi.

I’ve noticed you around these parts a lot.  I made you some cookies.  I’m glad you’re here.  

Maybe we could sit down and you could shell out some advice.  I just have one question.  Gimme your gut.  What’s it thinkin’?  This might seem silly, but what else is new?  I really need your help with this.

Couch.  Should I buy a couch?

Just the thought of a real life couch in my little apartment gives me all sorts of unreasonable anxiety.  Yeesh.  I thought I would only buy a couch… a big fluffy couch… when I was an adult and I had my life aaaaaaaallllllll figured out.  Well… I’m pretty darn sure I’m an adult, and I’m pretty darn sure I’ll never actually have it all figured out…. so I might just need to buck up and buy the darn couch, right?  

Couch.  It’s just a couch.  Somehow… it seems like so much more.  What do you think?

I’ll trade you your thoughts for these ridiculously good cookies.  Deal?  Deal.

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I just stepped into my kitchen, turned on the light and was greeted by a massive amount of dirty dishes… not to mention a random stick of butter I left out this morning.  

I walked across the way to the dining room table to find all of the half addressed holiday cards I have yet to send. 

I shouldn’t even mention the atrocious pile of laundry that I’ve managed to ignore for weeks.  

But all is well.  All is juuuuust fine.  Why?  Because I’ve got my little nativity scene up.  My Christmas lights are twinkling.  I’ve hung silver snowflakes from my windows with scotch tape, and there are cranberry smells coming out of my kitchen.  At this rate, I can ignore the household atrocities well into the new year.  

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In my kitchen this past week I’ve managed to burn my Thanksgiving brussels sprouts, make a bum batch of chocolate brownies, crack my favorite coffee mug and somehow spill a half bottle of red wine under…UNDER my refrigerator.  Additionally, since my kitchen seems to be a vortex of ill fate, I’ve refused to do the dishes.  It wasn’t a pretty sight, friends.  I was just about due for an intervention.  

I was just about ready to throw a stick of dynamite into my kitchen and hope for the best.  Instead I opted for one last shot… mostly because sticks of dynamite like the ones they have in cartoons are hard to find… maybe I’m just looking in the wrong places… whatever the case,  I preheated the oven, kept my head down, and… success!  Sweet, dense, chocolate and peanut butter success.  

This dark kitchen cloud seems to have passed, and I’ve managed to get all of my dishes in the dishwasher…. things are looking up and tasting pretty darn good too. 

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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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Autumn is settling in.  Autumn has settled in, and here I am ready to accept it.  I’m also ready to accept the fact that my days in the kitchen are about to dramatically increase (if you can believe that) as my cravings for apple crisp (lovelovelovelovelovelovelove), pumpkin cookies and cranberry treats become harder to ignore.  I’m less ready to embrace the way my jeans are tightening around my thighs… or maybe it’s my thighs growing inside my jeans.  Either way, the tightness and the sucking in of the tummy seems to be just a part of the season.

What are you up to in the kitchen these days?  Here’s some food for thought  Yes… I totally just said that. 

Mocha Hazelnut Marble Cake.  This cake was gorgeous, classy and utterly fine… until I tried to transport it in a fancy cake stand and got this glistening chocolate glaze exactly everywhere.  Everywhere.  Lesson learned. 

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Persimmon Pudding, from tree to table.  

Step One:  Find a neighbor with a gorgeous, almost cartoon like persimmon tree.  Ask your Mom to help you pick persimmons… Mom always likes to help.

Step Two:  Entice neighbor and Mamabear with the promise of fresh baked persimmon pudding if you’re granted access to their persimmon tree.  

Step Three:  Try this phrase, “Hey Neighbor!  I think you’re just swell.  Can I borrow a ladder?  That’s one tall tree.  Sweet… thanks.”

Step Four:  If you decide to sneak a peek into the other neighbor’s yard while you’re up on that ladder picking persimmons… maybe you’ll want to be more subtle than my mother.  I’m just sayin…

Step Five:  Pick the ripest, softest persimmons.  Way to be, Mom!

Step Six:  Carefully place super ripe persimmons in bag to cart off home, thanking your neighbors Dan and Libby for their ladder and their abundant tree. 

Step Seven:  If you don’t happen to have a neighbor with a persimmon tree, I’m betting that the local farmer’s market will have some gorgeous Hachiya persimmons for you this time of year…. and you won’t need a ladder. 

Step Eight:  Call your favorite Aunt from Indiana and ask her to promptly send you all of the persimmon recipes she owns… that will be a lot.  Seriously.  Thanks Judy!

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If this blog were written by 13 year old me instead of 28 year old me… I can safely say that I would blog about these White Chocolate Macadamia Nut Cookies every. single. day.

One bite of these cookies and… oh heavens!  I feel like I’m being dropped off at the mall to meet my friends on a hot summer day.  We speak Gibberish and Pig Latin.  We are fluent enough in both made up languages to combine the two into one mega made-up language.  It’s pretty sick. 

One bite of these cookie and I have tragically frizzly triangle hair and my twenty dollar allowance in my pocket.  My friends are trying to convince me to see Jurassic Park and all I want to do is sit on a bench with a bag of White Chocolate Macadamia Nut Cookies from Mrs Field’s and try to muster up the courage to go talk to the cute cashier at Sbarro Pizza.  

One bite of these cookie and, yes… I’m wearing overalls.  Yes.. I only have one strap buckled.  Yes… one hanging strap on overalls is super cool.  

Who knew one bite of a cookie could be so transforming…. and awkward.  It’s a good thing I don’t make these very often.  

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These are pretty, right?  Hot diggity dang, I think they’re precious.  

In the middle of frosting these cupcakes I looked down at my hands.  No big deal.  I was simply looking down at the cupcake in one hand, and frosting covered knife in the other.  I had to see what I was doing, right?  When I looked down at this particular moment, I saw… my grandmother’s hands.  There they were, the worn and wrinkled hands that had absolutely fascinated me as a child… only now spotted with powdered sugar and tinted with food coloring.  

When I was a kid I would hold my grandmother’s hand in my lap and study it like it like I might study my favorite picture book.  Somehow her hands weren’t at all different from reading an intricate a story.  

So there I was, frosting a cupcake with my grandmother’s hands.  The image was so strong that I even put down the cupcake and knife and bent my left index finger with my right hand.  It ached a little.  I don’t know why.  And just like that… those hands were gone from me.  

That was simultaneously perplexing and so comforting.  I had to share that with you…  I now only hope that I live long enough for my hands to be read like a story book.  

Now let’s talk cupcakes!

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Some things just shouldn’t be a luxury.  Some things are an absolute necessity.

Spending too much money at Target, for example.  Sometimes… (you know it’s true) that’s a total necessity.

Hot bath plus cold beer.  You need it.  I need it. Necessity.

A super comfortable dress that shows a little shoulder.  Everyone loves a little shoulder.

A girlfriend you can talk about your lady parts with.  Yes, I said lady parts.  Please don’t under estimate this necessity.

Aaaaand, last but not least… a little pancake love on a weekday morning.  Do it.

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I have this nasty little habit that shouldn’t bother you in the least… unless of course you’re one of the unlucky people in the world that might have to share a pint of ice cream with me.  

See… I’m a picker.  I will shamelessly pick out every good morsel of ice cream chunky goodness from a pint, leaving only half melted ice cream for you.  Cookie Dough Ice Cream is only Cookie Dough Ice Cream until I get my paws on it for five minutes.  After a cool five minutes, that pint is just a sad excuse for vanilla ice cream.  Don’t even get me started of Chocolate Peanut Butter Ice Cream.  I’ve got enough skills to dig out every ounce of peanut butter in seconds flat.

It’s a shameless habit.  It’s terrible and selfish… and it’ll never change.  I can’t help myself. 

Cookie No-Dough Ice Cream may have just solved my ice cream picking issue.  Instead of having vanilla ice cream with chunks of cookie dough embedded within it, this ice cream… the entire ice cream is the flavor of cookie dough!  Holy heck balls!  That’s amazing.  Yea.. it is. 

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I like you.  I like you a lot.  I mean it… and I don’t think I’ve told you in a while.  Sweet.  I’m glad you’re here.

Would now be a good time to tell you that I have a serious, though not lasting, aversion to my kitchen these days?   I have an even more serious aversion to my oven.  For reals.

It’s just that… well, it’s summer!  There seems to be so many museums to visit, brunches to have, friends to laugh with, wine to drink… and somehow none of this fun takes place in my kitchen.

Amazingly, and through the miracle that is my freezer, I’ve managed to throw together a lovely and waaaay super easy summer recipe.  It’s apple pie meets snow cone, minus the cone, plus a hint of awesome.

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I love a good weekend project, especially when that project involves my fingers in loads of cookie dough.

I’ll admit that I may be waaaay behind the times on this trick.  It’s the sort of trick that super moms have on lock to make them look even more awesome than they already are.  Since I haven’t yet produced other people with my body, this trick is just now hitting my radar.

The idea is this:  one day… (say, maybe a lazy Saturday morning) whip up a couple batches of your favorite cookie dough.  Dollop that cookie dough onto a cookie sheet, all close like.  Throw the entire cookie sheet into the freezer.  Freeze the dough balls, then throw them into a zip lock bag and back into the freezer.  You know what that means?  All you have to do is flick on the oven and throw in a few dough balls anytime you want fresh baked cookies!  Dang this livin’ is easy!

This frozen dough ball situation is key and here’s why:

You and the family can have  fresh baked cookies any and every night.

Surprise guests?  No problem at all… you just happened to be whipping up a batch of fresh cookies.  Taaadaaa!

Bake ‘em directly from frozen…. do it!

Frozen dough balls in the middle of the night?  I won’t tell a soul.  Can I be honest?  I eat the dough balls more often than I actually bake the cookies.  In fact… be right back.  Dough ball for breakfast.

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