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.