Lazy Writer

And a fairly lazy baker ...

Well, we'll see how lazy. Below are some pictures from what I have baked since my last posting. First up, the prototype for my *pucker up* cupcakes. These only had lime zest in a classic yellow cake batter and were then topped with a lime icing. The next round will have lemon and lime zest and lemon and lime icing.



Then there was the Gingered Almond Apple Pear Pie ... A basic flaky pie dough crust. The top layer cut out with fluted biscuit cutters and then individually layered on the filling. I think I could have used more pears to balance out the apples and I think an extra bit of candied ginger sprinkled on the top pastry layer instead of just plain sugar could have made a lot of difference.


There was the apple pie that actually came before the above pie. It was the first pie I baked this fall and the first for quite a while. Perhaps an entire season? It seems I became a little too lost in cakes, cupcakes, and cookies. It was baked for a night of great discussion and conversation with friends. The next day I received an email from one friend saying she ate every crumb of the last two remaining slices on her counter. And she kept asking about the crust, how she had never had anything like it, and how she never eats all of a pie's crust but that she could not stop herself with mine. A true compliment indeed. The best a baker can receive.


And then there were last night's cookies. Keith came over. I had beer to help celebrate the Angels win over the Yankees but nothing sweet to offer. Mini muffins full of blueberries, cranberries, and cherries (sorry, no pictures) were tucked away in a container, wrapped in plastic, and in the freezer. I jokingly offered to bake cookies. He took me up on the offer and we spent a late night in my kitchen, talking, cleaning, baking, and then enjoying the cookies. They came out quite plump and cake-y. I love them!

Rich Chocolate Cake

With a bittersweet chocolate buttercream.

I wish I had more to say or more to write. Some clever words and musings. But nothing. It has been a rough week of battling a sore throat that seems to refuse to want to get better despite medication and enough tea and honey in my system that I'm now sweating the stuff. I swear my armpits smell like chai. Okay, that's just crass. But it's staying in here because, well, I'm tired and slightly annoyed and, frankly, don't care if I am crass or not.

Later this week there is a bake sale. Brownies perhaps. Blondies for sure. Or maybe just cookies. Apples keep calling me. I picked up two at the farmer's market yesterday. One is already gone. Along with some celery, potatoes, a bell pepper, and some onion (for the honey home remedy ... yummy. Seriously).

I am surrounded right now by cookbooks (didn't I just complain I didn't have any more to say or write?) and I can't think of one thing to do with them. Actually, I'm surrounded by a number of books I can't lift a finger to flick. This is what happens when a normally active mind and body suddenly has to rest to take care of a throat that isn't getting any better anyway. A week wasted? Perhaps. More time wasted by bitching right now? Most definitely.

Here's a bit of wisdom on this rainy Sunday evening. Blah.

What will I bake?

Dear lord, what will I bake? What will I bake? What have I baked??? I don't believe I have shared.

Let's start with the walnut brownies with a white chocolate swirl.

Here are the brownies ...


Here is the swirl ...


And then Keith turned 33. And I had NO idea what to make for him. I think I moved into my brain for a good two weeks until something hit me with a "duh" stick the night before the festivities were to begin. How could I not bake him black and white cookies ...


The recipe was okay but I was a little distracted and I mixed the flour more than I wanted to so the cookie was too dense for my taste. But, well, if you don't mind me patting myself on the back, not bad at all for the first attempt. The taste was exactly where I wanted it. EXACTLY. Just a touch of lemon coming through the cookie. The texture is what I'll work on. Improve upon. But it was worth it to walk into my living room with three cookies on a plate and sing him Happy Birthday a few moments after midnight.

Oh, and his birthday "cake?" A lime tart. A little on the thin side (what do you expect when you stretch it out into a 10-inch tart pan ...


Now, on to the question of what to bake for this Friday's dinner. I'm thinking I might attempt the Root Beer Chocolate Cake courtesy of Baked. But today is the first day of fall. And I let the entire summer go by without one stinkin' pie. I think this Friday calls for an apple pie. With apples purchased straight from the market and my dough made from scratch. Yum. Yum. Yum. The minutes are slowly ticking my. Slightly in tune with the new grumbling in my belly.

Reading Material Received

This wasn't the first choice when I flipped through the Appendix of my CIA "Baking and Pastry Arts" book. The book whose image appears below was the first choice. But this is here now (along with the one below) and I am a little too excited to sit here with their spines uncracked as I wait another 2-3 hours before being able to go home. And, well, truth be told, this nagging sore throat and cough means I will snuggle up with nothing more than my prescribed Robitussin with codeine when I finally crawl into bed.

Lesson Number 1: Understanding the Basic Ingredients

Do I understand them any more than I did with my first reading? Maybe during the second reading when I also let my pen bleed along the important points and etched thoughts in the margins? No. Perhaps this third time is the charm. A plan in place and to follow. And five more pages of notes to place in my binder.

Why does my head hurt? Why so long between posts? Why writing aimlessly now? Easy to answer the third; definitely the second -- procrastination. There is approximately one punctuation mark remaining to put these five additional pages to rest and I am instead writing here. Babbling really. Pointless perhaps.

I need my kitchen.

Is Summer Really Over?

And has it really been almost a full month since my last entry?

Before I get into what could have been or what was not done this summer let me bring you with me to a memory that I want to etch forever in my mind. Late last week I turned 30. Yes, the big, and seemingly obnoxious, 3-o! I don't feel 30. I don't know what 30 is supposed to feel like. What I felt on that day, however, was overwhelming love from friends. Keith surprised me with a dinner party with the closest friends I have, most strangers to each other, but absolutely and 100% beloved by me. At one point in the evening, as I was walking back to my apricot ale and fried pickles the following stopped me:

Jackie: Jenny, what is it that you're supposed to bake for me?
Me: A berry crisp.
Adam: And what are my favorite cookies?
Me: White chocolate dipped almond shortbread.
Carlos: And what did you promise me for my birthday?
Me: A white chocolate cheesecake with a hazelnut crust.

I then looked to Rachel and David who were beaming with smiles and I thought of my "brookies."

So many great friends and if there was one overwhelming emotion, thought, expression, etc., it was this "I have had the pleasure of baking for all of you. And I will continue to have that pleasure. And I thank you for allowing me to do so. Thank you for my very happiest of birthdays!"

Back to the summary of this summer: I didn't bake or experiment quite as much as I would have liked. But I baked. And I paid attention to what was around me. And I thought a lot. And I read a bit. And I think I have a handle on something more than nothing, which is better than where I have been.

But where am I really now that the summer season has come to a close and work sets into full swing tomorrow?

I am sitting here none too pleased or tickled with my blog name. Time to change. Something less harsh sounding. Recommendations accepted.

I am seriously contemplating another internship instead of my original plan to just sit tight in my apartment and experiment and read and learn.

On the other hand, I am also seriously contemplating moving into my kitchen, setting out a more detailed plan (horribly lacking this summer), get to reading and studying and really focusing on laying out a self-educating plan. On the side I might take a business class or two.

What can I take away from this summer?

Two cakes. One chocolate and paid for. Another lemon and adored.

A pancake recipe I can finally love. No milk. Some soy. Some yogurt. And lots of fluff and tangy taste.

Brioche that sweetly sits and waits for me to turn into a loaf and then a snack or breakfast. The next loaf absolutely must become a bread pudding.

Cookies and muffins galore.

The absence of a pie and looking forward to a fall season of pumpkins and apples.

Flan. Regular. Coffee. Coconut. Sweet. Too sweet. Just right. Needs rum.

Another About Me and Flan!

I have edited info about me and fell in love with this piece:

Two parts passion. One part hope. Yet one can so easily find her pantry lacking. Hope settled in somewhere in the back and its expiration date quickly settled in and set up residence for the week. Passion, left to dry on the counter, floundered about looking for another recipe that could use its room temperature state. And one can easily be left questioning what to do. Explore. Measure out the bit of passion still fresh. Scrape at the top of hope and burrow for the flesh still ripe. Assemble its simplicity and enjoy the show of the smells floating around the kitchen space, wafting from the cracks in the oven door.

Wait ... the flan! One can condensed milk, one can evaporated milk, a lite spring shower of vanilla extract. Place on stove top. Beat five eggs and stir into milk mixture. Allow to heat, not bubble, until mixture is warm to the touch. Meanwhile (or before, I tend to do this before) place 3/4 cup of brown sugar and 1/4 cup of liquid (water, orange juice, apple juice, rum, etc.) into a saucepan, bring to a boil, lower temperature, and allow to simmer until the mixture is dark brown and syrupy. Pour into individual ramekins or a pie plate (I prefer the pie plate), and allow to set/cool. Check on your milk mixture. And then smack yourself upside the head for forgetting to preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Another slap for forgetting a 1/2 cup of sugar in the milk mixture (I forgot the first time, it was fantastic, I didn't forget this last time, it was a little too sweet). Add any variation you wish to the milk mixture. Yesterday I added slightly over 1/4 cup of strongly brewed coffee. Um. Now what? Oh, strain the milk mixture (when ready) into the pie plate or ramekins. Set into a bain marie, put into oven, and let cook for 45 minutes.

Run your knife around the edge to loosen. When cool invert onto plate. Note this is messy and will result in caramel dripping everywhere. No fear. Just dip your finger into the mess and enjoy a bit of dessert before dessert. Happy baking!

Happy Birthday, David!

There you go. The cake says it all, doesn't it? Happy Birthday, David! If you take a close look you might notice that the squiggly lines are a little squiggly in more places than they should be. If you took a closer look at my hands that afternoon you would have noticed a slight shaking. A bit of a ledge I had to talk myself down ... that the cake was going to taste great. That the icing was perfect and wouldn't pool into one lemon mess. And that I would, for goodness sake, actually spell his name or even "Happy" correctly. All worked out well. If the picture doesn't tell you that, let me say the round of applause I received at the birthday party would.

Thirsting for some additional information about the cake? It was lemon. Very lemon. I took a standard yellow cake recipe for two 9-inch cakes, added the zest of two lemons, and, poof, like magic, a cake. Well, more like magic, maybe a little praying, a dance or two to the gods of leavening, and an offering to the mistress of taste, and, poof!, a cake. The two cakes were then split in half with each layer receiving a healthy sprinkle of lemon syrup (equal parts lemon juice and sugar, brought to a boil, and cooled) and lemon curd. The citrus tower was then topped with a quick lemon icing (confectioner's sugar, a little milk, some butter, vanilla extract, and more lemon curd). I later thinned the icing, added some food coloring, and set about wishing David the happiest birthday I could wish him.

In a way I felt like I was also wishing it to myself. I can never give a baked gift without feeling as if I am stealing some of it in return. The smiles I see, the licked spoons, the clean plates, are all like little blue boxes wrapped with sparkly pink bows.

Happy right back at ya!

Rainy Day Farmer's Market

The idea seemed so comforting at the time--the rain was light, on and off, one block heavy, the other a sprinkle. Why not walk the 34 blocks to the Farmer's Market? Perhaps because by block 16 the shoes were soaked, the pants were drinking water like a neglected houseplant (a marigold perhaps), and my umbrella was leaking. Yes, leaking. But I had failed to pick up anything by the market near closer to my apartment and after a few days of cakes, sweets, and lots of bread in each meal (breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert), I wanted a collection of veggies that would help to make me feel clean and nourished and light. Tomorrow will be a heaving day of work and the gym and now laundry (darn rain!) and so there would be no time for any visit to the market. Today was my only option. So I walked. And then I perused. And this is what is now mine to work with this week:


The possible menu:

Carrots--to be chopped and used with some remaining hummus for snacks during the workweek. These will also be chopped and added with the potatoes, onions, and the yellow squash (looks sort of putrid in the photo) to stew a little as a side dish for some chicken I plan to bake.

Potatoes--see above. ;-)

Yellow Squash--in addition to the veggie mash I'll also slice a bit of it to add to some salad greens in my crisper drawer and to also add to lunch sandwiches (gouda, salami, squash, onions, yummy!).

Onions--Various and multiple uses. The veggie mash. The lunch sandwich. In breakfast omelets. And, if I'm really adventurous, a focaccia that will incorporate some goat cheese already in the fridge and ...

Tomato--A little slice into a salad or a lunch sandwich. Half of it sliced into the possible focaccia ... if I'm feeling adventurous.

Photographing

The boule proofing. This was my "first" loaf of bread. I say "first" because it was technically my second (you might recall I mentioned my first being a baguette experiment after reading "French Women Don't Get Fat").


Part of a simple and tasty dinner the other evening. A remaining green pepper, some tomatoes purchased that afternoon, a little onion. Saute. Chicken breast seasoned with honey, paprika, and I can't recall what else. Saute. Corn cobbed and boiled until mature (thank you "Joy of Cooking"). If memory serves, after each bite, I might have uttered multiple "mmmmms" and "ooooohhhhs" and at least one "Oh my God!"



Brioche. Oh, Brioche. A recipe from "Baking Illustrated." I was told to allow the dough to ferment in the refrigerator for at least 10-24 hours. It might have gone a little longer. Worried that the dough would have gone bad or sour I was willing to dump it. Someone wiser suggested I bake. I did. And this is what emerged. Possibly the best bread I have ever tasted in my existence. And it came out of my oven.

Kitchen Therapy

Some people go shopping. Others eat ridiculous amounts of chocolate chased by equally absurd servings of wine. What do I do when I am stressed out or depressed? I bake. Yes, I bake. This morning it was a loaf of brioche. Okay, so this is sort of cheating. I technically started to "bake" this long before the frustration and the stress settled in. But does it really count until you bathe the proofed dough in egg and place it in the oven? I say no. So, stress produced a brioche. A beautiful one at that. Tasty. And perhaps something to rival Keith's challah. Perhaps now my family will stop singing the praises of the one loaf of his they tasted almost a full year ago. Jealous much? No, not at all. It was good bread. Let's move on, shall we?

What else comes after a day (or two) of swimming in self-pity until one's fingers become wrinkled with it? A chocolate cake. Okay, this is also cheating. The batter was already done and baked and the finished cake frosted (there is a funny story in there that tickles me and will have to be written for your pleasure at some point). But I had some batter remaining. I never "saved" batter before but I thought, what the heck, right? Okay, maybe Keith was the one who thought what the heck and told me to save it. But those are minor details that are not at all important to the trajectory of this post. Much like his challah or how good it is. Or how much my parents still talk about it. Let's move on, shall we?

So in went the cake batter tonight into my greased and floured (really, Baker's Joy, $10.99 for a can of convenience?) 6-inch cake pan and out came a beautiful devil's food if-not-exactly-spiced cake (2 teaspoons of chili powder is clearly not enough). On it went some rum frosting. One can never go wrong with chocolate, chili powder, and rum. And now it sits on my counter. To be enjoyed tomorrow.

And with that enters the reason for kitchen therapy. My life should come with the tagline: "To be enjoyed tomorrow." Somewhere in this cosmic universe a grand play is unfolding in which me--the wily, fiery, and fiercely independent dark-haired beauty--fumbles after every turn all while the great lessons of patience and perspective play over and over and over and over and over again. Patience and perspective. The former a lesson I knew I had to learn but never really took the time to. The latter a new lesson to be learned. Perhaps the more bitter of the two. Nay, patience leaves a copper taste on my tongue while perspective allows me to appreciate the notes.

The bottom line: pastry school holds tight until the funds of my focus piggy bank gain weight. A scholarship I hoped for failed to come through. An easy out not so easy and not so much of an out anymore.

Holding tight with a hint of copper on my tongue.

Focus

There are a lot of tricks we all employ to keep ourselves focused. Calendars taped to the walls. Electronic reminders beeping to us in our sleep. Photographs pasted to the refrigerator door. My focus came in a few forms. One, my binder full of recipes and tips, was the first bit of physical focus I pulled into my apartment. This blog yet another. And now I have a third. A can that once contained whole coffee beans has now been covered in recipes from past issues of "Cook's County," a slit has been cut into its plastic top. This is my piggy bank. In it goes loose change, loose bills, random bits of money I might choose to put in there whenever I am moved to. The point of this little piggy? To remember that I am moving toward something greater. To remember that school is still in my future even if I have to pay for it myself with every penny-penny-give-me-luck-i'm -the-one-who-picked-you-up. And if for some reason funding finds its ways through other avenues then that little piggy will walk itself all the way to the bank and to the bakery that will come after school. The home I will build for myself where I will always walk in clean and emerge at the end of the day smelling of cinnamon and flour.

Poor Cookies

Don't adjust your screen. There is nothing wrong with the photograph. It isn't blurry. The cookies are imprisoned. Poor cookies. I truly had no choice in the matter.


You see, I was in the mood for something sweet. Again. I was torn between brownies, cookies, a re-imagining of a s'more. And I finally settled on cookies. White chocolate coconut pecan cookies at that. Their beautiful fragrance melding nicely with the scent of a freshly cleaned apartment and the hint of the humid air beyond my laptop's screen and the smudged window. Okay, the words aren't poetic but that smell was. And I was suckered in. Out came a glass of cold milk (too hot for the coffee I'm really craving) and a single plate for a single cookie. Still warm. Still gooey. The white chocolate slightly firm but collapsing completely once in my mouth. Hints of coconut. Every so often a bite of pecan.

I wanted another. And as I was posing the cookies to capture with my camera, my nose kept brushing against that scent. My stomach lurched. Pushing me forward. I pushed even further. Went straight to the top shelf of my cabinet and pulled out two plastic storage containers. And so they sit imprisoned. And I sit the victor for having withheld and having survived the temptation of another cookie. Perhaps not an actual victor. Those cookies were good and I know I would be all the happier with another one in my belly.

Breakfast This Morning

An early morning this morning. I woke up feeling I was running late and had slept through my alarm (partly because I was sleeping on my alarm). Instead it was a full hour before the alarm was set to go off. I could have gone back to sleep but instead I rolled out the yoga mat, stretched and saluted the sun a few times, and then set myself to the kitchen for breakfast.

Breakfast this morning was the last of the leftover waffles from Monday morning. Keith loves my waffles. I love my waffles. And I can whip them up and together in the time it takes for the coffee to brew. The problem is always that the batter produces anywhere from 5-6 waffles. Did I say problem? How can that be a problem? It isn't. Not only is there enough breakfast for us on whatever morning I make them, but I then have breakfast for another couple of days. I think the waffles actually even get better after a couple of days. Doused with maple syrup and dotted with blackberry jam, I couldn't be happier (that was breakfast yesterday morning). This morning was simple with maple syrup and some chicken sausage because yesterday morning I began to believe that perhaps there was a massive whole in my stomach from which all food was escaping; how else to explain how I was hungry not even two hours after eating a waffle (a large one at that). With no real protein in my diet yesterday I figured a remedy was in order this morning.

As I was reheating, cooking, and pouring a glass of orange juice, I went back to thinking about a picture a friend sent me the other day. The picture was taken possibly no more than three years and sixty plus pounds ago. That lone picture coupled with the sight of my current one (the one used as my profile picture here) got the wheels turning and there are so many thoughts flowing about capturing my journey with food. How I went from a fattie to a foodie. That will be a to be continued.

For now, I look forward to the rest of today, which includes one of the last of the frozen muffins I made with the raspberry peach champagne jam. Tomorrow brings some sort of kitchen adventure. Perhaps even tonight I'll make the cookies my brother adores so much. There is a lot to look forward to. Good morning!

Another Hour

Another hour of an already long string of hours of this day spent in front of a computer. It is no wonder my eyes have gone batty and I need eyeglasses to see down just one tiny little New York City block. This evening spent in front of the computer playing around yet again with the template of this blog. Playing with what is available until I can either enlist someone to create the site I want or until I take the time to teach myself html so I can do it myself. But time spent with html means time away from my kitchen. And time spent customizing the little things like text size and visited link colors also keeps me away from the kitchen.

But earlier this evening there was a break from the mundane and 90 minutes spent in the world of baking. Granted that world was in the words of another and the most amount of work I did was moving my pen under words and lines that I wanted to remember, jot down, and utilize at a later date.

Another batch of bread was made the other morning. Along with four loaves of pumpkin walnut quick bread and an experiment of challah twists that were heaving with cinnamon and plump dumped with density. Not inedible but definitely something to continue to work on. The quick bread was a success. Snacked on our first morning camping. Set over our first camp fire with our first cup of coffee. Snacked on while waiting for the water to boil and the grounds to then sink in.

Sweets call to me now. Sweets always call to me. A cake. Perhaps a cookie or two. Perhaps that summer pie I keep dreaming of making but haven't yet. Perhaps a cheesecake. Perhaps that s'more pie I rolled around the insides of my gooey mouth while sitting beside our last camp fire of the trip.

Third Time Perhaps the Charm?

An evening to myself on Monday night. A bit of a crazy weekend and all I ached for at the end of it was a quiet apartment, no lights, no sound, just quiet. And just the lure of a kitchen waiting for me. It was a little late by the time I made it back home but I knew I wanted to try bread again.

The bag of bread flour came out, my yeast, milk, water, olive oil, and maple syrup. Yes, maple syrup. Starting with the basic ratio of 5:3 (five parts flour to three parts liquid) I altered the liquid used, substituting a little more milk and then going beyond the ratio just slightly to add in a tablespoon of olive oil and another of maple syrup. I mixed, I kneaded, and then waited. In the interim I popped in Branaugh's "Much Ado About Nothing" and relaxed. By the end of the movie the dough was ready for me to shape it and then allow for its proofing. I divided the dough in half and shaped both into baquettes, leaving both on the floured pizza peel and covered with a dish cloth.

An hour later, proofed, I scored and brushed with olive oil. In both baguettes went into the oven and out came ...

Proof and Poof!

There is no picture of the finished loaf because I forgot to take the picture and all that remains now are a few slices. A couple of them toasted on a stovetop griddle to be paired with this morning's breakfast of chicken sausage and eggs.

The bread. If you recall, I recently purchased Ruhlman's Ratio. A great book that aims to teach its readers the fundamental basic ratios of everything from bread to muffins to custards. In the wake of learning these ratios the idea is that the home baker will almost never have to consult a cook book again. Know the basics, master the basics, and you can play as you wish.

The first chapter covers bread. A standard ratio of 5 parts flour to three parts liquid. Add a little yeast, a little salt, knead, rise, knead, shape, proof and poof! bread. Right?

Last Thursday was my first Thursday of the summer of not having to go into work (lots of vacation days that need to be used this summer and Fridays off anyway have gifted me with four-day weekends every weekend this summer). I finally had the time available to attack bread for the first (really, the second, time .. note: The first time I ever made bread was actually from a recipe from "French Women Don't Get Fat" when I first set about to no longer be fat).

Where was I? I tend to fall off track, don't I?

Last Thursday. I took 500 grams of bread flour and 300 grams of water. Sprinked 10 grams of salt and 1 tsp of yeast and set my mixer to knead it all. About 10 or so minutes later the dough had reached its optimal elasticity. It looked perfect. I shut off the machine, placed plastic wrap over the bowl, and let the dough sit for about 2 or so hours while I napped. When I woke the dough had doubled in size. I removed it from the bowl, poked my finger in to make sure it had the right sort of give, and then set about kneading it to "punch" out the gas. I shaped the dough into a boule and then left it on my pan to proof. When complete I scored with a giant "X" and brushed on olive oil that was full of fresh rosemary and some dried thyme.

45 minutes later my boule was a beautiful golden brown. Impatient I couldn't let it sit. I thumped the bottom and then grabbed my bread knife and sliced in. Tasty ...

The final thoughts: the bread was tasty but:

(1) I would have liked it a little more "airy," i.e. have more pockets of air, making the bread have more of a "netting" look, something I am a fan of in my purchased loaves.

(2) I would have liked a little more crunch to my crust. The first thing I might do is bake it a little longer. The second "fix" will be to use my baking stone instead of a cookie sheet.

The plan is to make bread again very soon. This time I'll shape into a baguette. This time I'll use the baking stone. This time I'll play with what liquid I use (no need to only use water). This time I might add with some other extra seasonings.

This time for next time.

Patiently Waiting

For these muffins to cool. In the meanwhile I procrastinate with taking pictures, checking Facebook, and playing around with the template for this site (again!). At some point I am sure I will either (a) teach myself html so I can format this to look exactly the way I want it or (b) buy Seton a beer and beg him to redesign it for me.

Why does the layout matter so much? And why would I be writing about that instead of the muffins that are sharing this dining table/desk/end table/catch all for my junk that I am currently sitting at? Because I am adore order and I work best when my working area works for me. Things need to be where they belong. Out of place and I concentrate more on that then the task at hand. Hence, the entire paragraph on this ridiculousness.

It has been AGES since I have written or posted anything, hasn't it? Apart from this site I have also been relaxed in posting to other food blogging sites. Not to mention my time in the kitchen has not been nearly as plentiful as I hoped.

Yes, there was the 5am attempt at dried apricot scones. Turned out more like weird biscuits. Not a fan.

There was my baby brother's birthday cake. That was started, um, twice. That's what happens when you get in your mind that the cake you were making called for 1 1/2 cups of milk instead of just 1/2. And, well, once you have already beaten in the four eggs into the over the top milk, well, you have no choice but to start over. There went 4 eggs, 1 1/2 cups of milk, and about 2 cups of flour (something like 10 ounces). Oh, and sugar. There was sugar in there too. And vanilla extract! All of it in the trash. Started again. I can't believe I forgot the wasted butter too. I need to move on. Moving on. The cake. Tasty. Basic yellow with a lemon icing. The icing was SWEET and quite lemony. My niece licked all of the frosting clear off her cake and kept saying out loud how good it was. I truly believe that is what every baker strives to hear--a five year old who never eats anything you bake and calls your souffle a "snowflake" exclaim loudly how good the cake is.

The remaining icing had to then be used somehow. So I made cupcakes out of another yellow cake batter. Keith and I took those to two separate picnics and the remaining ones were taken to work where colleagues decided dessert was best served at 10am with the first morning's cup of coffee. Who am I to argue?

There was a batch of late night cookies. I played with the recipe and added a touch of ginger. A few days later the cookies are still moist and chewy and the ginger is coming on strong. Gives a great extra kick to the overall taste. And it makes me want to buy a cookie jar. Some people disagree but who doesn't love a cookie jar?

There was also my first (well, second) batch of bread. But that will be for a later post and a tomorrow post. Because I am tired. My feet are dirty. And I need a shower.

But tonight. Tonight I took a great gift of Raspberry Peach Champagne Jam and I folded two heaping spoonfuls of it into the muffin batter I had waiting. I find myself waiting now. Not so patiently. I need the muffins to cool so I can wrap and freeze for later consumption. There is nothing like taking one of those out of its casing and plopping it in the oven to warm to have with a cup of joe in the morning.

I sent a message of thanks to the giver of the gift along with a picture of the cooling muffins. This serves as an extra thanks. A humble thanks. A very grateful thanks.

Now what should I bake tomorrow? ;-)

To be continued ...

I tried hard not to cry. I looked at the clock, saw how close it was to my time, turned back around to my station and wiped down the last bits of lemon and egg yolk. Tulia walked over and said "it's time, isn't it?" I smiled and didn't look at her.

My last day at the bakery. After six months of going in twice a week for a few hours a day it is hard to know that when I walked away from the kitchen today, I would not be returning. At least not for a while. There were encouraging words. Questions about what I would do next. Compliments. And thanks. And then I was done. Augusto was in the locker room as I threw my last sullied towel into one basket and my relatively clean apron into another.

Today was simple. I made frosting for our German Chocolate cakes. And made the lemon syrup for our lemon cake. I then creamed the butter and started the sugar mixture for our Swiss Meringue Buttercream Frosting. In between I chatted with Gerard about everything from sour cherries (frozen vs. fresh) to crumb cakes.

Soon I will sit down and write down all that I have learned before I truly forget it all. This morning on my way in Keith asked what were the top three things I learned from my time and here they are:

(1) Patience. A lesson learned many times over from the most simple action of scooping cookies to making yellow cake. And with that case, in particular, I remember being so anxious to move to the next step that I didn't properly scrape the bowl and was left with chunks of butter that I then had to try to smooth out into the batter.

(2) Chocolate is messy. No matter which way you cut it. If it's frozen, melting, room temperature, a frosting, a cake, a custard, a pudding, or a biscotti. It is MESSY. And I have a respect for chocolatiers for my teeny little bit of time spent with that confection.

(3) The importance of colleagues. Working side by side with bakers of all kinds improves your work. Not only what you make in a kitchen but the way you make it.

Many more things to write but I feel my brain scattered. I'm still too close to the melancholy to think of anything more to say. To be continued ...

Food Therapy

Last night provided little sleep. And what was had was restless. Too many thoughts ran through my head. Unsaid words. Said words. Things undone. Or done. When the day's light ran in through my window early this morning I gave up trying to will myself to sleep and walked into the one place I knew I could find peace of mind.

You might look for a warm room with a soft glow from a table or desk lamp. I look for my brown sugar. You might seat yourself in a comfortable armchair or spread out on a chaise. I grab a mixing bowl and my wooden spoon. You might find someone in front of you or beside you, speaking to you, listening to you, asking questions, offering guidance or just a welcome silence in which to fold yourself. I find myself with my flour friends who never speak but allow me to work.

There is no guessing with baking. If I want muffins there is a certain amount of flour to a certain amount of fat. If I want a cake there is a different amount called for. But always a certain amount. Items are weighed and measured and save for a few spicy or extra sweet kicks there is always the basic from which to start. Follow those basics and you can't go wrong. You might have a normal, run of the mill cake, but it will still be a cake. It will still be edible. And if you want to play with it, you can. Add some cinnamon, add a little nutmeg, crystallized ginger, substitute brown sugar. Spice it and sugar it and make it yours.

If only life could be as easy. Five parts communication to three parts affection.

A funny thing at work today (and yesterday)

I think I'm full of musings today (be patient). Today at work a colleague asked if I would bake a cake for a weekend getaway he will be on in July. An offer to pay me to bake the cake. How could I refuse? Similarly, the idea to combine our annual rummage sale with a bake sale. And guess who is baking. Yippee!

Procrastination continues ...

Time ...

has definitely gotten away with me. This weekend was supposed to be my first attempt (scratch that, second) at baking bread. The flour was purchased, the ratio studied, and I even planned out what to add, and wondered if I should use some great little mini loaf pans a friend had gifted me.

Instead I spent Friday running around the city, working out at the gym, shopping at Whole Foods, making strawberry hazelnut bars (see below), and watching two thirds of "Rendition." I thought to myself it was fine if the bread had yet to be realized. I still had Sunday off from work. And if that failed. I had Monday. Sunday failed. Not as a day but for its bread baking moments. In its stead I had brunch with my family to celebrate Dad's day. There was dinner with Keith, a free performance of 80+ trombones in the Rotunda of the Guggenheim, and a viewing of Summer Hours. Hardly a bad exchange.

Monday brought with it a lazy start to the day. The gym class hoped for did not happen. But there was lounging, and laughing, and talking, and cuddling. Again, hardly what anyone in their right mind would call a bad exchange. A few hours for me existed between errands (a quick trip to the gym and a return to Whole Foods ... I should buy stock in it) and I quickly filled it with a red velvet cake and cream cheese frosting. The gifting of which would take place the next day for a friend/colleague.

Again, hardly a wasted day or wasted time or wasted efforts. I learn every time I bake anything. For one, if one wants red velvet instead of mauve velvet, one should have trekked a little further downtown to get that perfect shade of Christmas Red food coloring instead of hiking all of five feet to the local grocers for a generic watered down red. But one was apparently a little lazy that evening. Or maybe one did not want to walk into said store where one could procure said food coloring because one would fall victim to purchasing baking and kitchen items one does not need but always wants (6-inch cake pans, anyone? how about mini bundt pans? what about cute cupcake liners?).

There was, however, still no bread. And in looking at the coming weekend (Saturday is a day off but that is already planned out ... Happy Birthday, Marisol!) I cannot see any moment to begin my experiments. I long for the summer. I long for a full two days off together. I long for moments in which I have absolutely no responsibility so I can step into my kitchen and bake. So I can crack open eggs, make a mess of my apron, grease cake pans, and look at the things I do have in my pantry that can come together for a treat to give to someone else.

I long for summer!

Strawberry Hazelnut Bars

A fan of Culinate, I find myself on the site often looking up and queing recipes as well as writing the occasional blog or thought. A recent blog on home remedies became a finalist in a blogging contest and my prize could not have been more perfect ... "Rustic Fruit Desserts." Last night some friends gathered for a late-night picnic and an evening of free Shakespeare in the park. My contribution to this party? Dessert, of course! There were first strawberries from the market. And I wanted to incorporate them somehow into a cupcake. Maybe I was just more interested in baking cupcakes and knew the strawberries had to be used before yet another pint would be lost to my laziness.

A recipe in "Rustic Fruit Desserts" was found for cherry almond bars. I had neither cherries nor almonds. But I had strawberries and hazelnuts and another little secret ingredient. The strawberries were cooked and the crust was assembled and it was placed in my oven. Set to cool on my table and then in the fridge it sadly did not set enough for it to be transported to the picnic. Instead the friends were invited over for a post-play treat.

On the way back to my apartment we talked about various other confectionary delights ... everything from a banana coconut cake I had made to brownies to the later Franken-cookie creation combining the left over brownies and a cookie recipe (lovingly referred to as "brookies.") It was a great evening. Not just because I was surrounded by people who loved the sweets I had tinkered together for them but because the rain had held, the sky was clear, there was great food, wine, and entertaining Bard-speak.

Little by little, with each new confection, I am feeling more and more the baker. I need no title. I need no certification. I am an amateur, surely. And I have a world of just basics to learn. But I am a baker.

A Decision Made

Two days remain for me at the bakery. Just two more days after six months of spending a few hours a week elbow deep in cake batter or swiss merengue buttercream frosting. Just two more days after six months of wishing people "Happy Birthday" or "Congratulations." Just two more days after six months of sharing with bakers in broken English or Spanish how to best use orange zest in cherry cobblers or how pounding a pound of butter into a square for croissants can be the most therapeutic way to start your Monday morning.

About 3/4 of the way through the internship a recommendation was made that I try a bread internship as my next venture. The prospect sounded enticing and something that would be the perfect break during the summer months. Something to break up the monotony of my full time job. Another activity to keep me focused and moving forward with my passion for baking, experimenting, and sharing my creations. But then something struck me. A slight little slap on my back. A little tug of the hair. A little twitch in my left pinky. Self-motivation was knocking and telling me to skip another internship and move into my kitchen.

This morning the twitching turned to an overwhelming urge. There is bread to teach myself to bake. Then there is pasta. There are pies and tarts to bake. There are fresh fruits to pick, pit, or poach. The desire to teach myself is there. The desire to learn is there. And there is a wealth of information in my books and from my internship experience to tap into and unleash.

A decision made.

French Women Don't ... Oh, we know already!

Yes, we know. But do we really know how to make a delectable baguette or ciabatta? I don't. After picking up and inhaling each page and recipe in "French Women Don't Get Fat" I decided to try her recipe for a baguette. It was my first attempt at bread. Worrying so much about the dough, the yeast, the kneading, the scoring, I failed to really think about where I was placing the bread in the oven. The loaves came out tasty. But ... well, one was golden brown but a little too doughy in the middle. The other was perfect in the center but not all that great to look at. A little pale. Like my legs after a winter encased in the death shroud of stockings and knee high insulated boots. Since then I have not attempted bread. I have experimented with quick breads and croissants and biscuits but I have yet to try bread since then.

That is until now. This weekend. My new assignment. Taken from Ruhlman's "Ratio" I will try to make bread not using any recipe but remembering just the ratio for bread: 5 parts flour, 3 parts liquid (add yeast and salt). I have some fresh rosemary that I'll incorporate and will keep it as simple as that. Stay tuned for pictures or rants and raves.

Come to Me

My brown satchel bag was extremely light yesterday evening. The cap of my water bottle had fallen onto one of the city's many grimy streets after trying to juggle returning it to its place while still holding the Mutsu apple I had just cleaned. No cap. No water bottle to return to the bag. In to the garbage it went. The Mutsu apple went into my still smiling stomach (who knew a pulled pork sandwich and a brownie could keep a gal happy for so long. Ah, no, it was smiling from the breakfast that morning).

But the heaviest item that had not returned to its place strapped across my back was "The Thirteenth Tale." A lend from a dear friend and a book I could not remove from my hands even when confronted with some of the other gems I had recently procured or borrowed. Finished yesterday. My bag empty. No book to cradle my thoughts after work (so a walk of about three miles was made) and no book to catch my head on the late night ride home. But the book was there with me comfortably in pajamas looking longingly at the bed. I cracked the spine and turned to the first page of text and my eyes swooned. I lamented the absence of a highlighter and no amount of excitement at the first few paragraphs of this book could get me to walk downstairs to the corner market for one. I'll just start again today. Start from the beginning. Highlighter in tow.

Sunday Morning

On most mornings I wake up a little groggy. No matter how much or how little sleep I get in an evening it seems as if my eyes want nothing more than to open as soon as the day hits 7am. Most of the time I wake up and hardly think about what to do for breakfast. A sad reality to face since breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. When I lived with my parents I would wake up early on weekends and prepare a feast for them. And some days I would extend that invitation to my uncle and his family across the street or to my brother and his family a few blocks away. Breakfast was, and is, and always will be my favorite meal to prepare and to eat. Which is why I usually find myself saddened on those days when I wake, wipe the sleep from my eyes, and exert no more effort than what is involved in finding a bowl, a small spoon, the cereal, and milk. As much as I might like the idea of indulging in experimenting with something more than a bowl of Pumpkin Flaxseed Cinammon Clusters, I make the mistake of packing too much into the mornings I have before work. There is the gym to go to. A blog to try to keep up with. Friends to email. Articles to read. Laundry to do. Etc. etc. etc. etc.

But. On some mornings. Be it Sunday or Wednesday or Friday or whatever, I am blessed to wake up with someone to cook for. The sun starts to peep through my bedroom curtain, my eyes open, I stretch and yawn a little tune, and my mind turns. The first obvious question. Sweet or savory? Once that is answered I can really let my mind free and allow it to go where it pleases--through the articles of my pantry, fridge, and counter space. Nothing stays simple in my mind since I always aim to challenge myself in some ways. Will I go the sweet route? Okay. Let's try waffles. Do I want whole grain? Some flax seed? Perhaps some toasted and chopped walnuts or pecans. Yum. And, if I do that, do I want to saute some apples? Or maybe carmelize some bananas. Or maybe simple maple syrup is the way to go.

This morning I woke and my taste buds screamed SAUSAGE! Yes, I admit. I am a card-carrying, proud member of the Breakfast Sausage Adoration Society. What to go with them? Perhaps some slices of that loaf of Black Olive bread I procured from the bakery. What else. Well, obviously, sausage and bread calls for eggs. Scrambled I was tired of. Enough of it already. I didn't have enough to do an omelette I could be proud to serve (no more cheese in in the fridge, the swiss chard? Been there, done that. And, wouldn't you know, fresh out of garlic! How could I allow that!?!?!). A simple solution--poach. I will waive my right to plead the fifth and will admit wholeheartedly that I have yet to poach the perfect egg. In fear of gifting salmonella with a tasty loaf I tend to overcook the egg. I have never achieved that most beautiful state of breaking into the yolk and having it ooze and soak into the toasted bread beneath. (Perhaps a subconscious doing since I am actually not a fan of a runny yolk?) This morning no different. How could I continue to wow in the face of that hardened yolk? And then the final touch hit me in those moments before he could even lean and further take over my side of the bed--asparagus. The first bunch purchased this season. A little pricey but a beautiful addition to my plate. Judge for yourself.

A Return to the Market

Perhaps I need another trip to the Farmer's Market. I went this morning. Resisted the strawberries and rhubarb but snagged a few apples. There was asparagus to be had. Finally. Sitting on my counter now waiting to be devoured. Perhaps for breakfast? Perhaps for dinner? Perhaps sliced, diced, cooked, and pureed into a filling for some ravioli. That sounds delectably divine. An onion and some swiss chard. Nothing crazy. Nothing over the top. I looked at the radishes and kept walking. I did the same with crate after crate of peas. The first time viewed this season. A new color to the ever growing palette of goods waiting to be experimented with. And now this article to taunt me.

A Scrap of Paper

I think it might still be in the pair of jeans I was wearing that Wednesday morning. I remember it being a little greased from the butter on my fingers. I remember it looking fragile folded into fours. A little slip of paper that held these words:

Jenny 6/10

1 - German Chocolate Frosting
2 - SMBC Frosting
3- Chocolate Silk Frosting

The little slip of a scrap of a piece of paper held on to a metal shelf on a brick wall by a binder clip. In front of my station in the sweets kitchen of the bakery. On most mornings over the past six months I have had the pleasure of watching frostings made, I have even assisted once or twice (the most recent time with Luis who hadn't made any of the frostings in ages and had to constantly consult his book for hints and who asked me to translate certain things into his spiraled pages so he would remember for the next time around), but I had never been assigned those to create on my own. My frostings were made at home, in my empire red Kitchen Aid with no more than a pound of butter or confectioner's sugar, never enough for more than two cups of frosting, never more than enough to frost a 9-inch layer cake. Definitely not what I was now tasked to make--enough to fill four to six tubs and each made with more butter than I typically purchase in an entire year.

I looked at the piece of paper and then at Wilna. And she smiled. It's easy enough she told me. You'll be fine. Tulia walked by later, prepping her butter for the frostings she thought she would make. Wilna's words again. Jenny is making the frosting today. And so I did. Melted chocolate. Creamed butter. Whipped egg whites. Heated yolks together with evaporated milk. Stirred. Whisked. Heated. Beat. Creamed. Mixed. Spooned. And labeled. Before me at the morning's end: one large container of German Chocolate Frosting, four tubs of SMBC frosting, and three of the chocolate. No lumps, thank you. And the SMBC held together in exactly the way I prayed it would as I saw the paddle attachment of the mixer whipping the whites into soft peaks and then staying in place as the creamed butter was added. Frosting that held together on my next morning when I was charged with frosting four red velvet cakes and the tubs I pulled had the familiar markings of my own handwriting. The same with the Devil's Food Cake I frosted later when I wished Christine a Happy 30th Birthday. Frosting that Lucia later used in her German Chocolate cake.

I plan to hold on to that scrap of paper for as long as the greased creases remain together. And then I'll bind them in tape. And then I'll put them in a keepsake box. The beauty is in the simple things. A simple scrap of paper that will always remind me that someone else gave me a challenge, knew I could do it, and then smiled at me as she saw me complete it successfully.

Pulled Pork and BBQ

Exiting the station at 23rd I kept waiting for the wafts of bbq and smoked and charred meats to hit my nostrils. If this really was as big of an event as I always heard it to be, then why wouldn't those scents make their way into the littered stalls of the underground transit authority? But, no, no hint of honey or tomato or cinnamon. Only the smell of sweat from the gentleman slowly and huffingly making his way up the stairs above me. Coming up streetside, the passing buses and trees of Madison Square Park hid the tents from my view making me wonder, "if I don't smell it, if I don't see it, and I'm not tasting it, does this event really exist? And then I saw it, the music stage and beyond that billows of smoke coming up from the stands in the distance along Madison Avenue. And the crowds. Not many at that hour. It seemed like more of those in the area were interested in Shake Shack than the promised heavenly offerings of some of the South's best bbq masters. A troubling sign of our culture when good, down home American Cuisine was being completely ignored for a mediocre burger and overpriced shake from a shack?

Keith and I idled for a moment. Letting the smells tug at our bellies, building up the desire, seeing the passing disposable cartoned containers of ribs, pulled pork, beans, and coleslaw. Finally we made our way to Madison Avenue. A quick look at the map. A quick look at the lines and the vendors. A quick punch from my belly when my eyes hit "Pulled Pork and Coleslaw." That's what it wanted. A pulled pork sandwich. And that is what I indulged in. After passing the horrendously long line for the on-site celebrity (my stomach lurched my legs forward toward a smaller lined stall) we stopped and waited for a group that was more famous for their sauce than the pork. Sitting along a building window's ledge with my sandwich slathered and swimming in the infamous sauce I resisted temptation and dipped my fork into the coleslaw at first. It was heavy on the vinegar but the pieces of pickles sliced and diced definitely caught my attention and made my stomach produce the first smile of the afternoon. Next the pork. Heavy on the salt but still a good season blend that made me think more of my father's pernil than anything I would ever imagine coming from a grill (his is slow roasted and swims in garlic). The bbq sauce was a great addition and welcome with the soft bun. The sandwich melted in my mouth and came apart in my hands and I happily licked every piece of scrap of pork and sauce and bread from my hands and the carton it was delivered in.

Coriander. You devil. How could I forget you. A greasy-aproned gent holding an aluminum tray stood by yelling his free offerings of bbq ribs. I grabbed one. Took a bite. The meat was dry. And, well, tasteless. All of the tastes concentrated on the rub that either hadn't had enough time to soak through or that was put on at the end and sent to the grill in that unfortunate condition. Coriander is what I got a mouthful of. Don't misunderstand, I love it. And use it. Quite frequently in a cocoa-spiced rub both my father and I are obsessed with. But there is a hint of it. Not a helping. Unfortunate blip on an otherwise perfect outing.

My stomach is still smiling. Perhaps aided by the later indulgence of a brownie from Blue Smoke's stand and a cup of coffee.

A Kid in a Candy Store

Books. I read them. I devour them. Some might complain I collect them (i.e. I purchase books even when I own plenty that have not had their spines cracked yet by my hands). And I am now drowning in them. A Central Park picnic surprise of Bourdain's "Nasty Bits" that I take with me on the train or to bed (because who doesn't want to read about blackberries swimming in seal blood or the go-to dives of Hell's Kitchen right before you are whisked away to Dreamland). A friendly loan of Ruhlman's "Soul of a Chef" where I find myself many times in public wincing in horror at the trials endured in becoming a Certified Master Chef or in running your own business. But where I also find myself nodding in agreement over the craft of this world I have decided to plop my feet firmly upon. And now I have before me, taunting me, enticing me, beckoning me ... Ruhlman's latest work ... "Ratio." A special purchase meant to be used as a supplementary textbook for the education I continue to provide myself.

Some Fun in the Kitchen

Tonight for dessert? Strawberry, rhubarb, raspberry crisp. All fresh from the market (save the raspberry that is fresh from my freezer). The first time I have purchased rhubarb. The first time cooking with it. And the first time tasting anything with it. We shall see how it turns out. Stay tuned for pictures and another update.

This was the beginning of the dessert. The strawberries and rhubarb were cut and sliced. The raspberries dropped in whole. Some sugar. Some flour. Some lemon juice. And I let it sit. The topping contained some additional flour, some additional sugar, a little bit of butter, and chopped hazelnuts. Because we were both a little occupied with the action surrounding the Corleone family in their second saga, dessert might have cooked a little too long, bubbling over on to the cookie sheet I thankfully placed underneath the individual ramekins. It was hot and sweet and would have gone perfectly with a scoop of fresh vanilla ice cream on top.

A lost post. Found. Shared.

Originally written and posted somewhere on January 7. So much promise and focus for 2009 that is so wrapped in this dream to walk each morning in to a kitchen. To see my life continue to unfold with a kitchen at its core. Enjoy ...

Literally rolling. Too many cookies, cups of hot cocoa (with requisite marshmallows), dinners out, and too little time at the gym. Oy! At least I can still squeeze into my jeans (thank god for the invention of stretchy fabric). I'm waiting for my croissant dough to chill enough for its next two turns so I'll take this moment to reflect (and to avoid doing other work I know should be done).

The end of 2008 and the beginning of 2009 is leaving me with a lot of hope for what the rest of this year has in store for me. Christmas this year was spent in San Francisco. We walked the city streets, ate delicious food, visited the most sublime little bakery at the Ferry Terminal (I will be attempting to replicate those little delicious french macaroons at some point during my little vacation), watched my favorite holiday movie of all time ("A Christmas Story") and another ("It's a Wonderful Life") that I want to make part of my Christmas Eve tradition. I ate freshly baked croissants dunked into potato leek soup and cinnamon rolls washed down with many cups of coffee. Talked about my dreams and plans over a glass of wine while staring out at the city landscape. Indulged in a seafood stew and I promise there are embarrassing pictures of me in a lobster bib somewhere; they will stay hidden for as long as possible. There was salmon and dinner rolls, chocolate cheesecake, and sushi for an early afternoon lunch (before the long trip back to NYC). There was early morning coffee and bagels and great conversation. Great conversation at every turn. Promising. Inviting. Intoxicating.

Back home in NYC there was Christmas morning recreated (sort of) with the family. My baking dreams all realized in the form of cake servers, thermometers, cake pans, loaf pans, popover pan, a scale, another cookbook. My elephant dreams satiated with a little iron sculpture and a clock on reclaimed redwood from a wine barrel. My heart happy.There was a trip through the Zoo's Winter Wonderland with a four-year-old who made me run from tigers to giraffes to reindeer to sea lions to decorating cookies amid ice sculptures. A nap desperately needed but never achieved. But overwhelming love felt as she wrapped her hands around my neck, her napping head on my shoulder, and the tender tone of "I love you, Titi."

There was New Year's Eve party where midnight struck as I was in my kitchen with my man, pouring champagne while we both laughed; the apartment full with family and friends ringing in the new year while watching "Big Trouble in Little China" instead of a crystal ball dropping. If time with friends, family, me in my kitchen, my man laughing at my side is what 2009 has in store for me then I can not be more blessed. There was more time with family. Loud. Full of food. Good food. The kind that satiates more than just physical hunger. Grace was said, I held your hand, and I smiled.

Movies were watched (lots of movies). There was Doubt, Slumdog Millionaire, and the Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Which left me, curiously, appreciating the fleeting nature of life and how important it is to live each moment to its full potential, without fear, without doubt, but with hope and love and promise.

And then there was ice skating. My first time. I didn't fall. But I laughed and squealed a lot. No pictures. Sorry.

Brownies in Cookies?

At a dinner party last week (the one previously written about with David's experiment for his cooking contest) I made brownies with white chocolate and hazelnuts. The brownies were good but not exactly what I wanted. Regardless, they were tasty and I as well as company enjoyed eating them.

But there were so many of them left over. So so many. What could I possibly do with all of those brownies? I didn't want to keep eating them. I had already shared them. Yet they still sat on my counter and each night they spoke to me, saying, it's okay, eat me, you'll go to the gym tomorrow and work me off in two hours. Oy!

I knew I wanted to do something else with them. What could I do with left over brownies? Crumble them into ice cream? It's still a brownie. I wanted to take the brownie and create something completely new. Where the presence of the brownie would be a surprise. Not an expectation. How I came to a cookie I don't know. But I did. And in they went.

The basics: I took a simple chocolate chip cookie recipe I had tried many times before and am absolutely in love with. But I didn't want a standard chocolate chip cookie. I wanted the extra kick of more chocolate. I had a double chocolate chip cookie recipe I had tinkled with before but that I wasn't the biggest fan of (though others were ... that elusive "I like that cookie" response finally escaped from Crystal's lips). So, I thought, why not just add cocoa powder to the standard chocolate chip recipe and use the brownie as the kick instead of the chocolate chips. In went the cocoa powder, in went the crumbled brownies, and in went extra white chocolate chips (for color balance and to make it look more visually appealing).

The result: the cookie is moist, big and chunky, the contrasting white chocolate makes it look divine and scrumptious, and the brownie bites are little explosions of extra chocolate. Success. And my apartment smells like chocolate and freshly baked cookies. I don't think there is a better scent.

Another Night, Another Computer

I walked into work this morning and the sun was shining quite strong overhead. I ducked into my cave for the day. A 10-hour work day scheduled with enough craziness in the midst of it to mean I would not get much time to leave. Heels that were cute but annoying enough to cause most movement to be painful. A quick escape for a few minutes yielded some sun, some fresh air, a gift of a coffee crisp, and "The Soul of a Chef." Lunch was a pasta dish with some sauteed chard, diced cherry tomatoes, a handful of artichoke hearts, a little bit of garlic, and some mozzarella. And perhaps a side of the coffee crisp. Lunch also served another helping of internet surfing of Dining and Wine sections, blogs, and a new online magazine catering to those like me who are obsessed with the craft of sweets.

As I left work and felt the welcome humidity and heat and saw the waning sun over the Hudson, I didn't want to get on the train to go home to my teeny apartment whose only view to the outside world are a handful of windows and one tiny little marigold plant purchased 3 days ago and miraculously still alive. Perhaps instead a sip of wine outside? Or perhaps a stroll to the park to see the last bits of the sun escape? No. Instead I am at another computer. Facing my windows and looking at the sky and the little bit of nature ahead. An improvement from the earlier day.

But at least now my aim and purpose in front of a computer is to capture those recipes I have experimented with and loved. To pull them all into one format, save, send, print, and then insert into that beautifully growing cookbook.

A smile escapes from the stress held between my shoulder blades.

One more note, I had thought to take the brownies I have remaining (with white chocolate and hazelnuts) and make them the extra chunk in double chocolate cookies. The night is still young. Perhaps those will still be made.

A Little Helping of Focus

About a week ago I sat outside in the sun after an energizing and clarifying workout to think about the summer. To think about what I really wanted to accomplish. While I hoped to be in school (or closer to it), it is not the reality. The reality is that my kitchen does need to become my classroom and instead of only wanting it to be so, I need to go about making it that way.

Fast forward a week later and there wasn't much of focus to go with my helping of wanting. And that needed to change.

All I want to report on, for now, is a little purchase that has made a world of difference. I walked into Target, grabbed a cheap (and durable) 3-ring binder and some top loading sheet protectors. Later in my apartment, after my brownies were cooling, I took some of my most man-handled recipes (the stains and tears to prove it) and organized and placed them in their protective sheets. And I flipped through the beginnings of what will be my very first personal cookbook and my very first personal workbook.

Tomorrow I go about gathering some other recipes I use constantly. I'll type them onto new sheets with my notes and personal reflections of what worked (or didn't), print, and insert. Later I'll grab my technique books and articles I have clipped and saved, copy and scan, or type and print, or cut and tear, and those too will make themselves a new home in my binder.

I'm smiling.

A Little Competition

My very good friend David has decided to enter into a cooking competition and I am reaping the rewards. The challenge is to create your own recipe, using certain local ingredients, and to pair that all with a local wine (local being Washington State local and not New York local--at least for the contest but not for us). Last night he and Rachel came over for a tasting. While David cooked (a great roasted red pepper and pear soup with great little cheddar bunuelos), we chatted, we set the table, and I tried to stay away from the white chocolate hazelnut brownies I had cooked for our dessert.

The food (just like the last time we got together for a little culinary exploration) was divine. We tasted the meal with two different types of wine before settling on one bottle (a Cabernet Sauvignon) and before Rachel and I dived biscuit first into the soup. We talked about what worked, what didn't, and about how versatile and tasty the soup was (with plans to recreate and use it for various summer picnics).

By the end of the evening our bowls were licked clean and David had to hide the last little beautiful bunuelo from us. There are more plans to get together to cook again. Shop together at a Farmer's Market. Head out of the city to the country to spend a few days cooking. All of it sounds delicious.

And the brownies? I could have let them cook a little longer. I also don't know how I feel about the hazelnuts. The white chocolate was not as present as I would like. But they are tasty.

Next time I'll make the little mini chocolate cupcakes I had originally wanted to experiment with.

Frost! Frost! Frost! -- At the Bakery

I had a great morning there today. Cakes to frost. Happy Birthdays and Congratulations to wish. So many times when I place a cake in the box, making sure it is as perfect as it can be, I look down and think of the next time it will be viewed. What will Hallie or Jake or Noah think when they look at their name across the top of a red velvet or devil's food cake? Will they think my "B" or "C" crooked? Will they wish for more sprinkled confetti or for room to place an extra candle? Will they wish I used chocolate instead of blue or pink? Will they not care as they search in vain for that cake server or knife so they can slice through the thick layer of frosting? I make myself hungry. Not for cake. But to be a part of that experience. I want to bake a cake. And gift it.

My internship is coming to an end. Another four or so weeks and I will no longer walk into that kitchen, don my apron, hat, and mess towel. There are some mornings when dragging myself out of bed and thinking of the long day ahead of me (bakery, gym, work) I want nothing more than to call in to the bakery and make my excuses. But then I remember the great opportunity this has been and how little time I have left. So little time to stand side by side to some of the best bakers I have met. Men and women who learned not only in school but in the daily grind of early mornings or late nights. Men and women who stood side by side to great pastry chefs to learn when to perhaps use oil instead of eggs in a cupcake and why. Lessons I fear I might forget if I don't chronicle them and if I don't keep myself in a kitchen.

While I have been looking at other opportunities for internships this summer I am sad to report that no one is really responding. While you would think this experience would make me a shoe-in it seems as if school is still something people are looking first for. There is one slight opportunity that will take me off of the sweets path but will keep me in a professional kitchen. I can only keep my eyes and mind open and see where that leads me.

Fiend!

My garbage smelled foul as I lifted the lid and threw in the wilted shards of the peonies. I could smell you rotting inside. And I wanted nothing more than to purge you, yes, you, even in your decaying state, from my kitchen. Heave you into a darkness deeper than the first one I condemned you to on Sunday morning.

You. Yes. You! Flat. Thin. But I did not stop there. Oh no, there was the tasteless punishment to be inflicted upon you.

Into the deep. To be forgotten about. Until your stench reached up and assaulted my senses and sensibilities.

Pancakes. Fiend! How you torment me.

My Jungian shadow clasping my eyes by way of my nostrils with visions of you sliding from my nonstick pan into a plastic grave. Oh you scoungrel! How you mocked me the very next morning at breakfast appearing on his plate. How beautifully you presented yourself. Tinged with lemon and ricotta, accessorized with blackberries and strawberries, showered with a deep amber maple syrup. I sneered at you as I tasted your fluffy flesh, secretly hoping to be able to snarl that most hurtful of all nouns in the English language--BISQUICK!

My body instead sagged at the truth. You could not be sullied with such ugliness. Such a thing could not prostitute that kitchen. No. You, fiend, were beautifully created with the most basic and simple ingredients. My enemy. My achilles heel.

I remember your presence years before tart with grated apples. How you mock me with those memories. One day I shall conquer you again as I slide my spatula swiftly under you, flipping until you are perfectly golden brown and sweating with just the faintest hint of melted butter. One day I shall have revenge on you that now mocks me from that rotting grave.

What? No Picture

Six eggs and three cups of milk. To save two bananas that were beyond their level of ripeness. Some extra rum. Some extra brown sugar. My first bread pudding for my father. A success.

Two eggs. 1.5 cups of milk. A little over 2 cups of flour. Some nutmeg. A little vanilla. To make one batch of pancakes that were thrown into the garbage.

Another 2+ cups of flour. Butter. A lot. 4 large Mutsu apples. And one great apple pie. Of which I had one spoonful (of mostly apples and none of my buttery, flaky tart).

All of that equals not one picture. And I feel this blog suffering for it. The pie was beautiful. A delight in its white pie plate, if not in my belly.

Home Remedy

I am a single gal living in this big bad city in an apartment all by my lonesome with nothing but my kitchen and web musings to keep me company on most mornings and nights. There is nothing wrong with it. I rejoice in it (sometimes). When do I feel alone? When I’m sick.

With the recent publication of “What we Eat When we Eat Alone” or the popularity of books like “Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant,” or the countless movies and television shows and articles about cooking for one, or living alone, or enjoying the life of a single gal in the city, you would think that this entire world is full of nothing but people eating, dining, and living alone. You could also find yourself uttering the words, “how depressing.” I can’t help but think of the scene in “Under the Tuscan Sun” where, recently divorced, she inhales her dinner alone in her kitchen while standing at the sink. Okay, so sitting in my living room, still in pajamas, recovering from a horrible cold, and not being able to think of anything but “Under the Tuscan Sun” to reference is making me think, “how depressing.” Let’s move on, shall we?

A little over a week ago it started with the slight tickle in the back of the throat. A couple of days later the throat tickling advanced to aching. And then one morning I woke to find my throat sitting closed in protest for the nose’s audacity to go on vacation. There was sneezing and coughing. Achy eyes. Yes, the eyes ached. There was the trudging in to work, the trips for cough drops (quite surprised I did not overdose on those), countless tissue papers abused, cups of tea that might have been better and more quickly served intravenously, and finally the great collapse.

The morning after the great collapse, feeling quite alone, with no loved one to soothe me to sleep, to make me tea, to gather me into their arms and sweetly sing all would be okay, I walked into my kitchen. Okay, walked is perhaps too strong of a word to describe the act of the drooping head that lugged dragging feet all of ten feet from my bedroom into my kitchen; regardless, I was in my kitchen. I took a small glass bowl gifted by a sweet friend, poured about half of a bottle of honey into it, sliced half of an onion, and coarsely chopped one clove of garlic together and immersed it all in the honey. I put the cover on the bowl and let it sit on my counter.

Four hours later the water from the onion had seeped into the honey and turned it into a sweet sticky juice. It is my mother’s home remedy for a cold. Two tablespoons of the concoction each day is supposed to cure all. Or at least loosen enough of the sludge that caused my lungs to rattle to bring on a cold free morning sooner than any dosage of NyQuil could. Who knows if it really works. Who cares. For the first time, after almost a year in my apartment, I felt truly alone. For the first time, I was making my mother’s home remedy while not standing in my mother’s kitchen using my mother’s ingredients and tools. The glass bowl was mine. The onion and garlic from my pantry. The honey purchased myself. I put them all together and I then ingested them. I was sick. Alone in my apartment. And taking care of myself. And while I felt truly alone I felt anything but lonely. With the first spoonful I saw my father’s hands work at pulling the rind of an orange in one peel to make me a comforting pot of tea, with the next I felt the warm hand of my mother work through my hair as my heavy head slept soundly on her lap, with the next spoonful I saw the strong back of my boyfriend as he worked in my tiny kitchen to make me breakfast and to serve me smiles.

Sick, yes. Definitely not as much this morning as I have been the past week. Alone, no. Friends, family, and love have taken up residence in the simple ingredients of my pantry.

Out Sick

This is day 3 of a common cold that has literally knocked the socks off of me. No gym. No work. No bakery. Sigh. No bakery. I went through a little withdrawal the other day (yesterday) and opted for some kitchen therapy. Second rate blueberry muffins. Not exactly what I wanted. But they're passable. We'll for me. I guess I know what I'll be having for breakfast for the next few days.

A Beautiful Day at the Bakery

Wednesday. I was tired. I haven't been sleeping well the past few nights and worry the same will happen tonight (blame the sinus pressure and the NyQuil not kicking in fast enough ... I guess I can also blame the random web surfing that is keeping me occupied enough to stay awake but to run off on tangents ... FOCUS). The bakery. On Wednesday. Right? Yes!

I was exhausted. And looked it apparently (as commented by the little flitting Tinkerbell). My assignment that day was to frost cakes. Lots of them. Loads. There was a six inch red velvet with the most random birthday inscription I have ever come across and a challenge to fit on the small face of the cake. But, mission accomplished.

There were more red velvet cakes. An Achilles heel (much like pancakes, baguettes, some pastas, you get the picture). I could never slather on enough of the buttercream to get the cake to look just as I really wanted it to look. Perhaps I thought too much. Perhaps I allowed myself too much time to frost each cake. Not so much on Wednesday. Too make cakes. I got to work, pulled out the off set spatula, gave the buttercream a good turn, flipped over the first layer, frosted, cleaned, smoothed, flipped on the second, frosted, cleaned smoothed, and then decorated as instructed. Perfect. Even by my standard. There were four more like it before I moved on to other cakes.

A good day. An accomplished day. And I got to squeeze in a Pilates class before work. Joy!

The Power of Orange Cookies

Or any cookie for that matter. I walked into a pastry shop around my apartment with the idea of "scoping it out" for a possible summer internship. I haven't sampled any of their offerings and thought I should (support local business, right) before seeing about anything else. The display cases were not at all appetizing or appealing (the shop wasn't either to be truthful) so I picked what looked the most interesting--a chocolate cheesecake. While waiting for the pre-cut slice to be put into a paper bag I looked at the rest of the offerings--more cakes: chocolate mousse, carrot, german chocolate ... standard fare). There was a large bowl of chocolate chip cookies and some interesting looking (and LARGE) rugelach and I was overcome with the desire to purchase a chocolate chip cookie. Not because it looked particularly tasty (it looked dry actually) but to see if I could judge the quality of a bakery on a cookie. That has given me ideas. I feel like I judge myself based on the quality of my cookie. Why can't I do the same with others? So, a horrible task and assignment but one I think I can suffer through ... sample the cookie offerings of New York City's bakeries. See what passes the test and what should just be passed by.