Joy the Baker

I have a relationship with this pie.  That’s normal, right?  

The smell of this pie takes me back to the days six year old me would run screaming through our lime green, hallway shaped kitchen in anticipation of pie and ice cream and the imminent holiday festivities such a dessert suggested.   

My Dad has been making this pie, with more cinnamon, with less coriander, with two eggs, with four eggs, with all sorts of variations, for… oh, just my entire life.  

Believe it or not, it’s hard to write about something you’re so close to.  Two things here are strange.  One… I’m so close to a pie.  Two… I’m having trouble writing about dessert! Oooh Lordy. 

Here’s what I want you to know about this Sweet Potato Pie.  Excuse me while I stumble through this.  

     This pie is made with orange fleshed sweet potatoes.  Maybe you call them yams.  Maybe you call them sweet potatoes.  The difference continues to perplex and bore me.  

     If you’re wondering what heaven might smell like, whip this pie up, throw it in the oven, wait 20 minutes then take a deep breath somewhere near the oven.  There.  Heaven.  Coriander, nutmeg, cinnamon and brown sugar heaven.  

     This pie can be made with my Easy No-Roll Pie Crust.  You win.  I win.  Pillsbury pre-made pie crust loses.  It’s better this way.  Trust me. 

Sweet Potato Pie.  It’s beauty.  It’s love.  If you think I’m exaggerating… then we’re obviously not friends. 

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I’m going to need you to do a little something for me this weekend.  

Yes.  It’s Wednesday.  We’re planning ahead.  This is important.  

I think you and I should make it a point to seriously relax this coming weekend.  See… it might be our last chance to really take it easy before the new year.  Before we know it we’ll be swept away by Thanksgiving, festive flavored lattes, contemporary holiday music, visiting relatives, cranberry cocktails and company parties.  

This weekend though… this weekend we can take it easy.  

To help us with our plan, I’ve come up with the perfect weekend breakfast:  yeast risen waffles with maple and black pepper bacon.  

We’re taking it slow this weekend.  Are you in?

**But wait!  You don’t have a  waffle iron?  It’s ok.  These Milk Chocolate Chip Buttermilk Pancakes with a side of Maple Black Pepper Bacon should put  you in an equally great food coma.  Not to worry.

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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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This big old bowl of tomatoes and cream is the best thing to ever come out of my kitchen.

So good.  So right. I’m thinking of retiring.  I’m thinking of hanging up the apron strings and ending on a high note.  You know, like Seinfeld did in the 90’s.

But it’s just tomato soup?  What could be so special about it?  Let me explain. 

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or should I just call it Brown Rice Pudding?

When I was a little one, I remember lulling myself to sleep by listing off in my brain all of the things that I might like to find in heaven should I find myself there.  I started off with important things like:

I’d like to find my little sister Lauren in heaven, but I don’t want to have to share my toys with her if I don’t want to.

I’d like to find my best friend Natalie in heaven because I love to play with her hair.

I’d like to find Grandmother, Granddaddy and Aunt DeeDee in heaven because they make the best hamburgers every Friday night .

And then this list would surely devolve into something that resembles my Christmas wish list:

I want an Easy Bake Oven in heaven…

I want a Barbie Dream House in heaven.

I want mechanical pencils in heaven… I had a serious thing for mechanical pencils.  Still do.

Nowadays I’m barely awake enough to get my socks off before I’m zonked out on my pillow.  I’d like to put this down on record now, if you’ll indulge me.

I want Rice Pudding in heaven.  Rice pudding with raisins.  Rice pudding with dried cherries.  White rice.  Brown rice.  Any kind of rice cooked with milk and sugar.  Please.

A few mechanical pencils might be nice too.

Awesome.  Thanks.

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I’ve got a guilty conscience.  Here’s a little peek inside:

Dear Coworker David,  

Tonight when you were detailing the twenty one shots you had for your twenty first birthday, I stopped listening at about shot number four… the Raging Bull I think you said.  How do you remember all twenty one shots after twenty one shots anyway!?   Sheeesh!  Though I was smiling and nodding tonight, I heard not a word you said.  True. 

Dear Downstairs Neighbor,

Is it noisy down there?  Does it seems sometimes like I’m stomping around on my second floor apartment floors?  Probably.  I am.  I can have some heavy feet from time to time.  Do I do it on purpose?  Sometimes.  Yes.  To be fair, I do this because, as you know, I left cupcakes on your doorstep for you one afternoon and I watched you discover them and take them to the dumpster to throw away.  I saw you do that.  Not cool.  Not cool at all.  

Dearest Friend (pssst!… that’s you),

Sometimes I make recipes vegan simply because I’m out of eggs and/or butter.  It’s true.  A severe and persisting egg shortage in my house was the inspiration for the Vegan Pumpkin Bread.  If you’re vegan, you’re probably annoyed.  That’s ok.  I can be annoying.  If you’re not vegan, you’re probably happy to know that you can still bake up some wonders without eggs and butter.  Your call.  

Love,

Joy the Baker

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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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These eggs aren’t the only thing that’s scrambled.  

My brains…. also pretty scrambled right now.  

As far as I see it, there are two solutions to the scrambled brain mess that I’ve got going on inside my head right now: a whole weekend worth of sleep or a bag of fun size Snickers bars.  

Aaaand Snickers it is… but first, let me show you what I eat morning, noon and night:  scrambled eggs.  

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Have I introduced you to my little sister Lauren? 

Lauren… this is everyone.  

Everyone… this is Lauren.  

Lauren and I grew up in the kitchen together.  We made brownies, we burnt cookies, we frosted crooked cakes, and we could plow through a box of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch in 10 minutes flat.  We were always in the kitchen either creating or consuming.  True.  

Things aren’t all that different for me and Lauren these days.  We spend a lot of time baking up treats, talking about Paula Dean, and arguing about which awkward teenage phase was worse:  my Blossom Hat Phase or her Sweatpants and Vest Wearing Phase.  Just typing those out… they each seem like equal tragedies.  Thank heavens we’ve moved past that.  

I’m introducing you to my sister because these two things are true:

1.  If Lauren were not in the world, I would surely be unable to breathe… that’s how much I love this girl. 

2.  I shoved my camera in Lauren’s hands last week, told her to bake something and take pictures of it.  In her unending brilliance, she returned to me a camera full of pictures (including the self portrait below) and six of these cookies.  Holy heck!  A food blogger could get used to this kind of treatment.  For real.  

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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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Autumn To-Do List

Buy boots.  Wear new boots at every waking moment.  

Bust out the scarves and go for it.  Two at a time?  Fine by me! 

Make Dad’s Sweet Potato Pie.  I know… I’ve been talking about this for ages.  I need to shut my trap and get bakin’ already.

Don’t get Swine Flu, that would be seriously lame. 

Is it time for flannel sheets?  Well.. is the Pope Catholic?  Heck yes!

Eat Roasted Pumpkin Soup by the truckload.  Do it.  Done.  

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I sometimes wish that my future self could just pop into my present world just to… you know… say hi, and let me know that everything in the future is going along just swimmingly.  That never happens, but maybe I just haven’t given future me enough guidance.  With this in mind…  here’s a quick letter to future me.  Now maybe 48 year old me will get crackin’ on some answers.  Slacker.  

Dear Future Me,

Hi.  How’s it going?  You look really pretty in that sweater.  

I have a few questions for you.  I hope you’ll indulge me.  

Are you still unreasonably afraid of spiders?  Probably.  You know what?  That’s ok.  That’s what spouses are for… clearing spiders from anywhere that might interfere with you.  

Speaking of spouses… do you have one?  How’s that going?  Awesome.  I hope it’s awesome.  I hope you two hold hands and take morning walks and go out on dates.  

Do you still buy the cheap mascara?  Have you been to Italy yet?  

Tell me you still wear a little black dress and heels on occasion.  Please.  

Kids.  Do we have Mom hands yet? Oooh, I love Mom hands.  I can’t wait to have Mom hands… well I can wait.  I’m waiting right this very second and I don’t feel bad.  But Mom hands…. I bet we totally have Mom hands. 

How do you feel about eggplant?  Do you like eggplant yet?

What’s been good?  What’s been not so good?  Are you livin’ the dream?

Let me know how we are.  Send me a sign… maybe a paper airplane with your answers… whatever you need to do.

I’ll be sitting here with a cup of tea and my Spiced Apple Cake waiting to hear from you.

Love,

Present Me

Quick Blurb of Shamelessness

Hi… it’s me, Joy the Baker.  I hang out here a lot.  So do you.  I like that.  Thanks. 

Last week I was nominated for the Foodbuzz Blog Awards.  The Best Baking Blog… go figure.  If you’re feeling… votey, you might head on over to Foodbuzz to vote for all the fine folks that are up for an award.  Yea?  Thanks!

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Pumpkin. 

It’s October and it is time.  Pumpkin.  

Hold on to your hats.  I’ll be all up in your grill with peppermint and chocolate for Christmas before you know it.  

For now….

Pumpkin.   Don’t fight it.

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Can I tell you a secret?  Sometimes I lack all confidence in the kitchen.  It’s true.  Sometimes a project will keep me up at night.  Sometimes the ingredient list will just baffle me.  Sometimes I hold my breath as I incorporate the ingredients, or I second guess myself and reread the recipe with every turn of my spatula.

It’s the absolute truth.  Sometimes I just need someone to hold my hand through a new recipe… or I at least need to be allowed to throw my hands up and call uncle at any point during the process.

I tell you all this so you know that when I stepped in the kitchen to make pasta this past weekend… well… I was totally intimidated.  I wasn’t sure I could pull this off.

I know… I know… everyone was telling me how easy it was.  Frankly, I was convinced they were liar liarpants.  For real.  Handmade pasta!?  Easy?  Not possible.

Well, let me be honest.  Pasta isn’t as entirely easy as everyone would have me believe.  That’s not to say it’s impossibly hard…. not at all.  For me, making pasta by hand just involves a little talking to myself, a big area where I could throw flour all around, a rolling pin and willingness for a good arm work out, and a few hours set aside for doughing… mostly just patting it, talking to it, and walking around the house showing it to whatever family member would pay attention to me.

The end result is beyond… BEYOND comforting.  The process was super satisfying, and really?  So Much Fun!  Pasta!  I made pasta!  Daaang!  I’m going to go ahead and pat myself on the back for this one.  Don’t mind me… I’ll be done in a minute.

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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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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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Dear My Bank,

We’ve known each other for a long time.  You know how I deposit my humble paychecks every so often, how I rarely use the ATM, and how I hate to use my debit card at the gas station.  I know that you like to decorate with bullet-proof glass… guns, I get it… have pens that don’t always work, and always want me to sign up for your credit card.  As much as I hate to admit it, we sort of have a thing going.

Let’s be honest Bank.  We’re not friends.  We don’t even really like each other very much.  I know that you have rules.  You know… if you’re being honest with yourself, that I do my very best to follow your rules.  And I do… Bank…..! Unless, I suppose, I just forget to add one payment to my balance books, leading me to believe I have several hundred dollars in you, Bank… instead of less than zero.

Here’s my beef with you… Bank!  Jerky bank.  When you penalize me several times in a row for spending money that I thought I had, well… that doesn’t get me any closer to having the money that you’d like to take.  How on Earth did you determine that $33 was an acceptable overdraft charge?  Why are you allowed to take money that I don’t have?  You know what I think?  I think you’re taking advantage of my mistake.  You know me, Bank.  You know that I don’t like to spend money I don’t have… and when I do… accidentally… you use that as an opportunity to take advantage of me.

That’s reeeeeaal crappy.

Nobody likes you.  I’ve done the research.  It’s true.

Nobody will ever… not even once… make you cookies just because you’re nice.  Why?  Because you’re not nice.

Now you know.

Love,

Joy

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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 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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There are three things I want you to take away from this post.  No foolin’ around… I’ll get straight to the point.

One.  You’ll want to stop by tomorrow if you think you might like to be one of those people that attends my (holy heck yes!) summer party.  It’s in August.  It’s for real.

Two.  You know that part of the pedicure when the lady at your feet goes to it with a pumice scrub?  It’s at that point that I have to try with every ounce of who I am, not not not to kick her in the face.  I’m ticklish.  Extremely.  Now you know.

Three.  These blueberry muffins are (yes) perfect.  Straight forward.  Simple.  Summer.  One whole hell of a lot better than the stale coffee shop version… perfect. How often do I say something is perfect?  Not often.  Fact.

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