Joy the Baker

The date was September 17th, 2009.  

Yes.  Yesterday.  

That’s the day that I finally stopped totally sucking at scone baking.  That’s the day that I didn’t pull a tray of overly sweet, super flat triangle shaped mounds out of the oven, trying to pass them off as scones.  

Summon the parade.  I’d like you to call in the marching band please.  Flag twirlers would also be nice.  This is sort of a parade worthy occasion.  Fluffy, rounded, nicely browned, fruit filled scones?  From my oven?  Yes.  Parade please.

Oh!  Just so we’re clear…  I’ve made at least twenty dozen terrible batches of scones in my lifetime.  Terrible terrible.  I just couldn’t get it right!   Let this space hold as proof that I’ve wrestled scone dough and oven temperatures and come out successful.

Here’s proof:  pink and fruity, spiced, hearty and subtly sweet scone proof.  

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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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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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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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How are you going to share the love the Valentine’s Day?  How do you share the love every other day of the year?

At the restaurant, this Saturday night’s reservations are already fully booked.  We’re going to be packed to the gills with love birds.  We’ve got people calling trying to pull the VIP card.  What’s that?  Oh.. you happen to think you and the chef are bffs this week and you’d like a table for two at 8?  Tough luck.  Really…

But Friday night…?  Not a soul.

What a day Valentine’s Day is… so ripe with expectations, how can you satisfy?

I remove myself from the whole game.  There are so many other gorgeous days of my life that I prefer to share love with the world around me.  How do I do it?  It usually involves butter, brown sugar and cocoa powder, but that’s just my style.

Sometimes love is as simple as sending someone a goofy postcard.  As deliberate as looking someone in the eye and smiling as you pass on the street.  As tiring as staying up extra late to make your Mom a birthday cake.  We share more love than we might realize.  Everyday, in the little things.  Let’s remember that this week.  Let’s remember that always.  It’s those little touches that make this life seem loads brighter.

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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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I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but- enough with the chocolate chip cookies!

I will admit that for one brief moment, I thought about throwing a handful of chocolate chips into this darling quick bread. I slowly released my death grip from the chip bag, and thought better of it.

This quick bread is fuss-free and it has almonds two ways: almond extract and toasted slivered almonds. The almond flavor is actually really subtle, and the gooey raspberry flavor really comes to the front.

This post is also my submission into 28 Cooks’ Behind the Apron- a look into the hearts and minds of elusive food bloggers. I haven’t been so elusive, have I? I kinda let you all up in my business.

Here we are. Behind the apron. No! Not under the apron! Please get out from under there…

That’s me. I look like a hungry maniac. I sometimes eat off the stirring spoons. I started this food blog after seeing a recipe for slice and bake cookies on Smitten Kitchen. I thought- I want to do that! Now!- and Joy the Baker was born. Now I get paid to bake and write about food, and it feels like a good life. Not only that, I’ve met a whole community of people as nutty about food and photography as me.

I feel like I’m just where I’m supposed to be. Thanks for being here with me.

Now, about that bread.

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Kids between the ages of 3 and 7 are pretty amazing.  They’re little screaming, snotting, jumping, and crashing balls of honesty.  If they don’t like you, you know it.  If they recognize you for the poopoo head that you are, they’re not afraid to tell you- to your face, in ear piercing tones.  They haven’t yet developed the ability to filter their opinion of you.  It’s simultaniously refreshing and completely unsettling.

That’s why, whenever I meet new kids, I come with cupcakes.  Not just cupcakes, but cupcakes with sprinkles.  It works every time.  It’s irresistable.  It’s my dirty little trick.  Walk into their house with cupcakes and a smile on your face, and you’ve got an instant friend.  And when they come and thank you for the cupcake with chocolate all over their face- well, there’s nothing better.

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