Joy the Baker

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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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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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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Exactly one year ago I was rockin’ out with a mug of this stuff.  I was also saying things like “totally tubular!”  and “radical!”, wearing acid wash jeans, and hair-spraying my bangs into a tall wave across my forehead.  Ooooh 2008.

Banana Pudding Ice Cream. Rad, right?

I’ve been struggling for the past few hours with what to tell you in conjunction with these Blackberry Pie Bars.

I thought maybe we could talk about how I’m still totally dragging my feet about going to my ten year high school reunion.  No… that’s been done.  Boring.

Maybe we could talk about how I sat around a campfire with Andrea Zuckerman… a character from that show Beverly Hills 90210, but that was actually just a dream I had last night.  Not real.

We could chat about the weather?  Seen any good movies lately?

No?  Ok… let’s not fight this.

Let’s get on to the bars.  They’re good.  Really good.  Good enough to not need a silly introduction.

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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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Not every morning in my life is filled with Chocolate Chip Buttermilk Pancakes and Chocolate Chocolate Chip Banana Bread… not when things like my ten year class reunion and bathing suit season loom just around the corner.  For real friends, those are two scary things.  At least I don’t have to go to my ten year reunion in my bathing suit.  Can you imagine the horror!?   Yea… so there’s always a silver lining.

I’d like to introduce you to Low Fat Oatmeal Banana Bread.  If this bread were one of your dear friends from high school, it would be that friend who wore old lady shoes because they were the most practical, and played the trombone, and was the super smart editor of the school newspaper.  This bread would be the friend that was super sensible, and sweet and just downright made you feel good about your day.

Go ahead, think of this Low Fat Oatmeal Banana Bread as your friend… and then it eat.  No, there’s nothing weird about that.

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I’ve figured out that most things in life… well, they completely surprise me.  As soon as I expect certainty, life has a way of galloping in with situations, opportunities and loves that I never could have imagined for myself.

Despite all of life’s uncertainties, I’m convinced that some things are set in stone.  Some things I’m just certain of.

I’m certain that I can throw back a box of Frosted Mini Wheats and happily call that dinner.

I’m certain that, before the week is finished, I’ll have spilled something juicy and red on my new favorite white shirt.

I’m certain that despite my nurturing personality and love of colorful flowerbeds, I’m destined to massacre every flowerbed I’m charged with caring for.

I’m certain that breakfast always tastes better served warm out of a cast iron skillet.

We wobble our way through most of life’s uncertainties.

Sometimes it just feels good to hold unto something certain, like the warm handle of a breakfast skillet filled with simmering berries and warm dumplings.  Yes.  Success.

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Pie takes time.  Pie requires attentions.  Pie demands love and care.  Pie, even for an everyday baker like me, is a lost art.

I needed a good, old fashioned, pie contest to help me slow down, take a breath, and dream up the most delicious pie I could.

The most delicious thing I could dream up was this:  bananas, homemade peanut butter, chocolate, graham crackers, butter, whipped cream, and as much sugar as I could reasonably pack into a single pie dish…. and some chocolate shavings for good measure.

The result:  one mad Peanut Butter Banana Cream Pie.  The contest:  inspired by Whitney and several bottles of wine.  The contestants:  as serious about pie as they are about being incredibly fashionable and audaciously cool.  The competition:  stiff.  The winner:  one devastating, delicious and perfectly tart Key Lime Pie.

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Kid Table.  Can we talk about the Kid Table?  The Kid Table was something that I had to endure every holiday from the age of three to um…. present.  You know what the Kid Table is, right?

The integral family socialization tool.  The foundation of society.   The folding table and chairs circa 1943 that your Grandma busts out every every every Christmas.  Who sits at this pint sized table?  Certainly not Grandpa, Grandma, or any other high ranking family members.

It’s called the Kid Table for a reason.  It’s where you dump all the kids.  In the adult mind, I think it’s the “sit down, eat your Christmas dinner, and if you’re going to throw your Jello salad at each other, I prefer to ignore it” table.

The Kid Table still exists in my family.  One small catch:  there are no more kids in my family.

Let me just say that Christmas dinner at the Kid Table is now…. more awesome than ever!  Kid Table got cool.  Kid Table is now the place to be.  Boom… youth success!

There’s nothing like wine, family smack talk with your cool uncles, and stealing all of the thunder from the main table.  They would sooooo like to think they’re the main event.  False.  Kid Table… cooler than ever!

And now… Pear Spice Cake.

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This cake and I. Ooooh this cake and I.

We had a fight, maybe I should call it a misunderstanding.

I had expectations for this cake. I needed it to be a certain way to make me happy.  Mistakes.

I wanted this cake to be dense, but moist, perfectly golden, easy to cut and just downright irresistible. In other words, I wanted this cake to be perfect. Perfect in the ways I wanted it to be perfect. Oh Joy. It’s like I’ve learned absolutely nothing these past twenty something years.

Nothing is perfect. No, correction. Things can be perfect if imagined in your head. Real life… the real stuff is never as perfect as it is in your head. But… (oh the but). Sometimes. Most times. The imperfections are what become the most perfect part of life.

Boom. Knowledge. I just dropped it.

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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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I know Thanksgiving is still a week away, but I’m already thinking about what I’m thankful for.

I have a lot to be thankful for. I like to reflect upon it, savor it, write it down, study it. I know I’m early, but it’s a lot to think about. Don’t give me a hard time… you should be thinking on it too. There might just be a test… yes, on the things you’re thankful for. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

So far I’m thankful for smiles that come from the inside out… the ones you can feel in your gut. I’m thankful for contagious laughter and persimmons that ripen in their own stubborn stubborn time. Smiles, laughter and fruit with free will. Pretty great list so far.

I’m going to go whisper sweet nothings at my stubborn persimmons, make you a treat and we’ll talk more tomorrow. Get thinkin’ on your thanks! It feels good. Promise.

Delicious!  Delicious!  Delicious!

I was lucky enough to have a holiday weekend free from hurricane winds and rain.  My prayers go out to those of you who had to put up with that madness from Mother Nature.

I spent a lovely amount of time in a bathing suit and miraculously managed to make an absolutely stellar late summer dessert.

In making these gorgeous roasted plums I also developed a deep love for my cast iron skillets.  I realized this weekend that I use my cast iron skillets for everything, short of boiling pasta.  From pancakes to grits to scrambled eggs to sweet roasted plums.  It’s in and out of the oven.  It’s heavy enough to clobber any would be robbers.  It holds heat like a champion, and it’s just all around reassuring to have in the kitchen.  I have two.  I’m thinking about naming them… that’s how far my love goes.

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I’ve decided to have a very quiet and still weekend.

Today- more pictures than words.

I hope you all find a piece of peace this weekend.

These unassuming, simple and delicious meringues might be just your ticket to bliss.

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It’s just an ordinary day, except for the fact that I made milk!  Not the yummy stuff that comes from the cow, but Almond Milk with a touch of honey.  It might just give Old Bessie a run for her money.

Let me tell you a little about me.  I’m part Irish, part African American, and A Little Bit of Hippie.  Today we’re only going to discuss the Hippie in me.  My parents raised me on, what seemed at the time to be, the gnarliest health food on the planet.  I remember sitting down to dinners of Tofu Potato Baker (which I did eventually come to love- thank you ketchup), loads of barely-steamed-mostly-raw brocolli, whole wheat fig bars and fresh squeezed carrot juice.  Granted, I love all that stuff now, but what I would have given for some Chips Ahoy and Kentucky Fried Chicken when I was 5.

I make my family’s dinner habits sound like abuse, don’t I?  That’s probably not fair.  In their choices, my parents instilled in me, what I call, A Little Bit Of Hippie.

As a person with A Little Bit of Hippie in her I am prone to do things like enjoy vegan food on Friday night and throw back a medium rare filet on Saturday night.  I also might ride my bike to work, but only twice a week.  It’s also the Little Bit of Hippie in me that lead me down the granola bar path and inspired me to make these Banana Blackberry Smoothies with Homemade Almond Milk.

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I have nicknamed this bread Crazy Face Mango Bread.  Why?  Because every time I tell someone what this treat is- Fresh Mango Bread, they make a crazy face.  I don’t even mention that it’s made with whole wheat flour and also has grated apples (and golden raisins… shhhh!).  That might just send them over the top!

I bet you’re making a crazy face right now.  I’m sure you are…  But this bread is great!  Turn that crazy face into action and whip up a loaf for yourself!  With the flavors of ginger and cinnamon, and the surprise pieces of fresh mango, this bread is perfect with tea for breakfast or an afternoon snack.

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There is something in the air this time of year. I’m as restless and a 12 year old girl waiting for summer break so she can go hang out at the community pool. Maybe it’s the impending 3 months of relentless, almost suffocating Los Angeles heat. Maybe I just yearn for the carefree days of summer. Maybe I just need a vacation. I’m completely restless these days, and with no real vacation in sight, what’s a girl to do but play with her ice cream maker.

Today I bring you Mango Lime Sorbet. It’s like going on vacation with your spoon. Just like going on vacation- minus those pesky airport lines, and the passports and the exciting new places to see, and delicious new food to eat. Why do all that, really, when you can stay at home and make sorbet…

Pardon me while I wallow in woe. But seriously… someone please take me away.

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It all started out so beautiful and promising- with diced dried fruit, wholesome nuts and old-fashioned oats. I was my day away from the bakery, and I thought I’d use my kitchen to experiment with homemade granola bars. I seem to have trouble eating normally, standing on my feet all day, working in front of a mixing bowl. I notice that I’ll turn occasional bites of dough into a meal. To help solve my intake dilemma, I thought I’d make granola bars to have on hand when hunger strikes but break time does not.I had the greatest of intentions, and the stickiest of results. Read more »