I could tell she was really upset about the (w)hole thing.

No excuses; a month went by due to booze, trips, and work. Hello again!

After another hiatus, I brought together a wonderful, diverse group of friends for a beet-filled night. There were several medical anthropologists, an accountant, and I. We discussed serious issues like race, genetics, and ethics. We commiserated about acne, chutzpah, and being beautiful women. Suffice it to say it was a good night. Everyone brought something to contribute. Gordon brought roasted beets and goat cheese. Luda brought a delicious beet hummus. EB brought an amazing Brazilian dessert. Arizona brought the beats, specifically from Prince. The theme being beets, I decided to stick with pizza and see how I might merge the two. 

As an aside, I've come to the conclusion that pizza is nothing other than pasta with pizza dough. Anything that you would put in pasta can be put on a pizza, just substitute the pasta for the pizza dough. Think about it. I'm not wrong. Deep down, you feel how right I am. Let that feeling wash over you because the pizza I made was pure fucking heaven.

The first step is to roast the beets. Simply rub some olive oil on them, wrap them in foil, put them in a water bath, and roast them until you can easily pierce them with a fork. Slice the beets thin, and I mean thin.

Kinda like that.

Next, toast a lot of walnuts, about one cup ground (toast before you grind; you'll have to eyeball it.) Put the toasted walnuts in a food processor. Alternatively, you can put them in a thick ziplock bag and use the bottom of a pan to crush them fine. I know this from experience, so don't complain to me because I've been there, man. I know the pain and you'll get no sympathy from me.

Or just get a god damn food processor

At this point you should probably take a break. Have some wine, chat with friends, tease a dog, etc. Do whatever you want. The ground walnuts aren't going anywhere.

Debate some ethics.

Observe your observant dog.

Waste
              Some
                              Time


       


Ok, stop slacking. Take about a cup of the ground walnuts and mix it into about 8 ounces of sour cream.

Use that as the pizza sauce. Add a layer of spinach, followed by the sliced beets, crumbled goat cheese, and finally a healthy sprinkling of pine nuts.

Simply eat me.

Bake until the crust is golden brown and there you have it, beet pizza heaven.

Aww, pink because we're females. 

Now before you slice into this beautiful bounty and eat away, you'll want to wait a few minutes for it to cool. In the meantime, you should eat some delicious beet hummus because, well, it's mighty fucking tasty.

This shit isn't event right.

This all should then be followed by am amazing milky,
custardy Brazilian dessert that completely stole my heart
and will soon destroy my waistline.






Thanks for the passionate conversation ladies. Shall we do this again? I'd say let's.

Fuck That Noise: Real Issues, Bitches

A few months ago, I had a eureka moment; pizza is nothing more than pasta ingredients on stretched dough. So when I see a recipe for lemon asparagus pasta, I think to myself "That's just noise. Put that shit on a pizza." So in the spirit of fucking that noise, I decided to make a lemon asparagus pizza with yellow peppers and red onions. Can you say bomb? No? Then you have no business eating my pizza.

The first step of any recipe that calls for asparagus is to break off the woody ends. It's really easy to do, you just hold it by the end and bend. It'll snap at the point when the vegetable transitions from woody base to delicious stem. For the pizza, I thinly sliced the asparagus into close-to-bite-sized pieces.

I adore yellow peppers and they add a nice sweetness to this recipe. I cut them in half and then sliced them like so. Reject pieces were eaten with delicious glee.

Red onions were an experiment for this. I cut them in shorter slices, but don't know if I'll use them again. They added an acidity that I don't think lended well to the flavor profile. Shit, don't I sound fuckin' fancy?!

Now for the lemons. This is really the most important part of the dish. It makes for a great summer dish that's light yet bold. Again, fancy britches. Anyways, I grated lemon peel and then mixed it into sour cream with some thyme. You should try pairing lemon and thyme. Don't ask questions. Just do what I say. I promise not to steer you wrong. Or I will and you should take pictures because misfortune is hilarious for those not sharing the experience.

I am such a good person.

I foolishly didn't take pictures while assembling the pizza and no, I didn't make the pizza dough. What can I say, even I get lazy sometimes. After working the dough into the right size, I spread the sour cream/thyme/lemon zest concoction as a base sauce. I then layered the vegetable medley on it, followed by goat cheese (heaven) and thin lemon slices. The latter is more for aesthetic. The argument could be made that biting into the lemon slices is overpowering. Those who make such an argument should grow some balls and eat it like a man.

Bake the pizza for about 30 minutes or until the crust starts to brown. It should look like this:

Yummy! This pairs really well with salad, wine, and good friends. But first you should set the table like a boss. 

Here are examples of the other wonderful things I just mentioned:

Friendly friends!

Salad and wine for my bitches!

The title of this post implies real issues were discussed. This included items such as constipation, the minutiae of yolo, creating the IOF acronym for I'm On Fire, high school band, and tv shows. Most importantly, the night included the statement "I don't want to drink Metamucil!"

I love my friends.

Unfortunately, it'll be a couple of weeks before my next post. I am going out of town next week and won't be home until August 11. I will try to post something while I'm away, but this woman doesn't make promises she can't keep unless such a promise leads to free food or alcohol. In that case, I will lie through my teeth.

"My Name is Fayana and I Approve These Pancakes"

I'm BAAAAAAAACK! It's been almost two years since my last post, so I expect to head internet echoes to this post and can't fault a person for it. It's been a hell of a time. I've had love. I've had loss. Work was unbelievably difficult, but I kicked ass, took some names, and am now wonderfully acclimated to my Detroit life. What better way to celebrate the D than to make pancakes with two of my favourite people?!

I got this recipe from a dear friend's mother. It's about 120 years old will ruin Bisquick for you. Forever. The recipe is surprisingly simple and doesn't require dirtying many dishes. You start with 2.5 cups of sifted flour, salt, sugar, baking powder, and baking soda. No surprise that it looks like this:

You then melt four tablespoons of butter and let it cool to room temperature, which doesn't take long in 80 degree weather. Once cooled, you work that into the dry ingredients and let it rise for ten minutes.

The beer, though not part of the recipe, is necessary in order to properly appreciate the subtleties of homemade pancakes.

The only logical thing to do next is to start cooking the damn things. Oil up a cast-iron skillet - only fools would use anything else - and add the best fruit ever produced by the spectacular planet called earth: BLUEBERRIES MOTHER FUCKER! 

Some people make the mistake of putting extra ingredients directly into the batter. As with all cakes, this will result in a pile of blueberries, walnuts, chocolate chips, or any other heavy delicious thing to sink to the bottom. No one wants that so you should never do it. Okay? Do you understand this? No? Well, simpleton, just put the added ingredient(s) onto the top of the pancake after spooning it into the pan.

This is not a difficult concept to grasp.

Now I am somewhat ashamed to admit this, but this was the first time I ever made pancakes in my entire life. Seriously. The thought never occurred to me to try. What can I say? I'm a fool. Regardless of it being my first time, they turned out beautifully. They were think, fluffy, and held together well when drowned in syrup.

Delicious evidence.

It went over well with the company too.

Anyways, it's good to be back sweet bloggy internets. There will be more to come and if anyone would like to join me for one of my blog-oriented creations, don't hesitate to pop on by. You can also suggest dishes for me to try, baked or otherwise, in my comments section. Ciao for now!

Shit Got Real. Now I Can Cook. Hovel Stories.

The title pretty much sums it up, and in that order; we were going to move to Canada and that completely fell through. I thankfully landed a great job, but then my boss literally dropped dead of a heart attack. We spent a month living in a hovel, but have finally gotten settled into our new apartment in the Motor City. This place is great by the way, and no you won't be murdered if you visit. You'll just have to deal with incredible history, art, food, and a wealth of conversations about how capitalism can, in fact, fail.

While I was unemployed I took it upon myself to try a bunch of new recipes, none of which involved baking. All of my pans, whisks, spices, etc. were packed away in boxes so I had no choice but to betray my Nasty Baking motto and try my hand at cooking. Let me go on record as saying it was pretty damn rough at first. After a while though, I got the hang of it and I can cook up some damn tasty meals now, like roast chicken with smoked paprika and garbanzo beans, cauliflower soup, mexican chicken casserole, and my trademark butternut squash soup with caramelized onions and leeks. It's delicious and you're life is incomplete without it.

My baking has all but come to a standstill, which is sad but was necessary. It'll pick back up in the coming months and so will my posts once I have reliable internet. Remember now, shit got real. But all this is very dull compared to the real stories; or as I like to call them, "The Hovel Stories."

When male companion and I finally made it to the city, we had to settle for a month-to-month lease until we could find a more permanent place. We found a hovel that was right in midtown and fit within our budget, so it seemed perfect at the. It was small, falling apart, and in the throws of gentrified evictions. I know this because I saw them evict a disabled black man because he was one day late on his rent. His apartment was later rented to a hipster with a fixie. We felt really great about being white while living there.

The stories began the day we moved in. My dear friend I previously almost killed was gracious enough to help me with the move since male companion had to work. Things were going smoothly until we were moving the bed up the five flights of stairs and her magnificent ass lightly grazed the stairwell window. The force of her ass lightly touching it made the windowpane, i.e., the thin sheet of plastic, flutter down two stories to the ground below. We had a good laugh and remarked on the overall quality of the establishment. Haha.

The first two days were not so funny for us. Our poor dog would drool uncontrollably when left alone, likely because it had been sprayed heavily for cockroaches and bedbugs. There were car alarms going off every hour and the radiators made the apartment ungodly hot. Within 48 hours of moving in we had signed the lease on our current place and had handed in our 30 day notice. This did not stop the stories from accumulating.

The building office was in the basement, which I had to visit in order to submit our notice. No one was there and so I opted for the drop box, but when I looked closer, I saw that above the very formal "Office" sign someone had written a larger version in bright red bubble letters. The only problem was that, despite the plaque just below it, whoever had written it had written "OFICE." True story.

Our stay at the hovel lead to numerous encounters with some pretty eccentric characters. There was the 70 year old gay man who arose every day at 9 to get liquor from the corner store for when he would stand by the USPS drop box and drunkenly chat with the neighbours. There was the friendly homeless man who resided in the park adjacent to the building who had spent many nights with members of The Temptations, scoring pot and whores for their trip to a horse farm in Ontario. There was the heroin addict who lived below us, but her story comes later. Hers is the creme de la creme.

Our last night in the hovel involved us packing up as much as we could and renting some DVDs. As we were watching god knows what, a strange odor began to grow. After a while male companion looked at me and asked,

"Are you wearing perfume?"

"I have perfume, but no, I'm not wearing any. Why?

"No it just smells like alcohol."

I informed him that I don't wear perfume with alcohol because I have some semblance of taste (oh god I'm so white) but that I also smelled something.

We continued watching the god-knows-what movie, but we eventual couldn't take it anymore. The smell was terrible and it became increasingly clear that whatever the smell was, it was poisonous. Male companion got pretty fed up and went to see what was going on. It wasn't anything too noteworthy though, just a man varnishing floors at 11 o'clock at night with no windows open or fans going. What could go wrong with using large amounts of noxious chemicals at night with no ventilation?

Now that final hovel story took place the very next day. Male companion and I were loading up a truck with our stuff to get the hell out of that horrible, horrible place. As we were walking up the stairs for the umpteenth time, sweating in our filthiest of clothes, the heroine addict came out of her apartment.

"Hey, are you two models or something?" she asked with slurred speech.

"...no, we're not." We respond because, well, we're not even close to looking that good at that moment.

"Really? You two look like you'd be in picture frames of somethin'." She said, backing up her initial question of our modelling careers.

We continue up the stairs at that point, not really sure how to respond. After getting into our hovel apartment we had a good laugh and continued clearing out our stuff. Male companion took a trip down to the truck solo and came back up with wide eyes and a disturbed grin. Here is what he described to me:

"You know that heroine addict? The one who asked us if we were models?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I had another interaction with her outside of her apartment."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, she came out when I was going down the stairs. She said 'it takes two phones to run a business.' She then said 'I have a butter face, but a model's body. I have the clothes to prove it too.'"

"Wow," I say, "you just got hit on by a heroine addict."

Our last and final day in the hovel finished up The Hovel Stories with an emaciated junkie trying to sleep with my partner the moment he was within sight without me. These stories, as ridiculous as they are, are what makes life interesting. Who else would hear about The Temptations affection for whores and horse farms? Who else has had a junkie hit on them in such a unique way? We could have continued living in mid-Michigan where things are fairly boring and the status quo is maintained, but life is way too short for that.

Now to get me some dope and some whores, I have a horse farm to get to!

When Life Hands You Lemons, Just Start Making Shit

Significant other and I have been in the throws of what seems like a never ending move.  Our friend moved into our place to take over our lease at the beginning of August, we haven't gotten the go ahead to move into our new place (the Internets do not deserve details), and so we've been hopping between friends' houses for almost two months.  We've both been without work, have been relying on savings, and have overall had a pretty terrible time.  Our saving grace has been the generosity, understanding, and love our amazing friends have shown us.  I don't get touchy feely in this blog, but I gotta say that I feel truly blessed.

That aside, this really blows and I'm tired of it.  S.O. has started working and so I've been left to my own devices.  Also one of the friends we've been staying with had his birthday.  Why does this matter?  If you have to ask that question then you probably shouldn't read my blog, but if you've recently had a flare gun to the head and haven't figured it out, it means that I have been baking and cooking up a perfect storm of tasty buttery herby cheesy slut-tastic heaven.  There's been spaghetti, enchilada casserole, cauliflower soup, mushroom stroganoff, blackberry cobbler, and brownies.  All made from scratch and all within the past 8 days.

I would provide pics, but my camera is in a box.  I would provide details about each meal, but that would require putting more effort into composing my blog than the food I make and that goes against my greater sensibilities.  What I can say is this (touchy feely again), when life hands you lemons, when your world is turned upside down and you have no idea what will happen next, remember the people around you who love you and the activities that make you smile.  Those two things, whatever and whomever they may be, will make any situation you face easier.  Thank you to all who have done something, anything, to help us these past few months and, more importantly, thank you to the person thousands of years ago who invented butter.

I Officially Have Big Girl Pants

When I was a teenager I was convinced that if I learned certain skills that could be referred to as "women's work," that I would be setting the women's lib movement back by decades.  I avoided learning basic things like sewing and cooking because somehow keeping my skill set low would help propel women into positions of great power.  Hilary Clinton, you're welcome.

This worked out really well for quite a long time.  While I wasn't completely inept at all things involving heat, my cooking abilities were limited to cheese quesadillas, scrambled eggs, and ramen.  I had baked in high school but avoided cooking anything besides tasty sweets because

I AM NOT A HYPOCRITE!

Ahem.  So then I went to grad school.  I was on my own living in a big city with no money to eat out and no one to cook for me, excluding friends who took pity on a hapless Canadian-American with no practical skills (thank you!).  I don't know if it was hunger, dating a chef, or years of critical thinking in college, but I finally realized that avoiding learning how to cook was doing nothing but making me hungry and excluding me from an entire world of creative expression.  I decided to deal with reality and learn how to cook.  

Let me be frank by saying that I fucking hated it.  I had no idea what I was doing.  Meat terrified me, I had no idea what 'sauté' really meant, and the only thing I could consistently make was rice.  Let's just say it was a bland year and I cooked for no one.  

After finishing my coursework I moved back to the states to be with the guy I laser gunned in the face.  We moved in together, which meant that I couldn't get away with cooking atrocities just for myself.  I was going to have to share it with someone I cared about, meaning it had to be better than it-won't-poison-you standards.  This was easier said than done.  Living with someone who had cooked for upwards of 20 years meant that when I cooked, it was either leave me the hell alone or let's get into a fight.  My hatred of cooking continued.

I believe that one sign of a good partner is that they will push you to pursue things you've shown interest in even when you want to throw in the towel.  Laser gun man did just that.  He was and continues to be blown away by my baking, but it took years to get what I got the other night.  For the first time I made a real meal.  I've made pastas and casseroles and soups and other tasty things before that showed my progression as a cook, but the other night I made a simple yet perfectly executed meal. There were baked potatoes that were rubbed in oil, sea salt, and pepper and then baked in the oven, not the microwave.  I made roasted vegetables with rosemary and thyme.  To top it off I baked chicken coated in garlic, rosemary, and thyme.  See the theme here?  

Everything came out at the same time and was cooked perfectly.  The potatoes had a crispy skin, but were soft on the inside.  The chicken was savoury and moist.  The vegetables were cooked but not soggy with mushrooms that had absorbed all the herby goodness.  For the first time, I had successfully made a proper meal and my chef man said he was impressed.  After hearing that I can say that I have officially put on my big girl pants.

How I Accidentally Ate a Cock Ring and Almost Killed My Friend

It's been a long time for your Nasty Baker.  Life got the best of me and my interest in cooking, not baking, took over (expect the blog's theme to change...slightly).  I've thought about whether or not to get rid of this blog or to try and bring it back with a bang.  I chose the latter.  While I can't promise weekly updates, complex recipes, or even consistent nastiness, I will be blogging once again.  With that, I present to you the story of how I accidentally ate a cock ring and nearly put my friend in the hospital.

My dear friend Betty Page (seen on the left, in front of the drunkard) was getting married and a bachelorette party was in order.  Drinks, presents, more drinks, a hotel suite, and some male genitalia were all a part of the plan.  I had already gotten her the traditional sex toy presents, but wanted to do something more.  I decided to make a game with this and these.

I had it all planned out.  I was going to make a penis cake filled with white buttercream that would 'ejaculate' onto the counter of the hotel suite kitchenette.  There would be a cock ring inside and whoever got the cock ring in their piece would win some lube and a bullet vibrator.  Fun for all, right?

I chose a fairly easy batter recipe for the cake and went with a Bailey's Buttercream for the filling and "frosting."  Before putting the cake in the oven, I looked into the melting temperature of silicone.  Everything I read lead me to believe that I could easily and safely bake the cock ring in the cake.

The cake finished baking at about 10pm.  It inverted perfectly and I set to work hulling my penis cake, munching along the way.  About half way through I remembered that I'd put the cock ring in the left ball.  Realizing that I'd carved away most of that, I panicked.  I hadn't come across it and as I poked through the whole testicle, there was nothing to be found.  Not only that, but I had eaten the pieces I'd cut out.

Oh god, I just ate a melted cock ring.

Still freaking out, I checked to see if there are any health concerns one might have for accidentally digesting what is supposed to be silicone.  If it was silicone, which it wasn't, then I would be fine.  Since I didn't actually know what the cock ring was made of, I opted to hop aboard the denial train and pretend nothing bad could happen to me.  So far I've been fine, but I fully anticipate archeologists to unearth my remains one day only to find a complex puzzle that could only be answered by combining alcohol, a cock ring, and too many skittles.

At this point it was almost 11pm and the party started the next day.  I had to get to the hotel beforehand in order to set up the ejaculation scene, so to say that I was rushed would be an understatement.  I hopped in my car and ran to Kroger where I begrudgingly bought two boxes of Duncan Fucking Hines Devil's Food Cake Mix.  For those of you who know me, you know that I never ever buy pre-mix boxed cakes or brownies or anything.  I make it all from scratch every time.  Buying those red boxes was a hard thing to do especially when it was for my friend's bachelorette party.

I ran home and made the cake again, this time sans cock ring.  It thankfully inverted perfectly and I carved away.  I whipped up the Bailey's Buttercream and inserted the cock ring into the filling (always buy a set ladies).  Why I didn't do this the first time is beyond me.  The cake was ready for its setup.

The next morning I skipped out on the breakfast festivities for the party in order to get the cake ready at the hotel and I must say it looked ridiculously spectacular.  Our camera was lost that night so at this point I have no pictures to show how violent the penis cake was ejaculating.  It was all over the counter and was dripping on its cake-y head with such force that it looked like there was a cum fire.  It was art god damn it, art with a cock ring.  Despite what had happened it was perfect.  I then set off to meet the girls for lunch and to begin our drunken escapades (let's go!).

Despite the chilly spring air and some light rain, we had a blast.  We had so much fun in fact that I didn't pay attention to Betty Grable here telling bartenders not to give her bourbon because of a severe allergy.  Over and over she refused whiskey, scotch, etc. because it bring on a severe asthmatic episode and she would have to be rushed to the hospital.

durrrrrrr

We headed back to the hotel with hot pizzas in tow and a hot stripper en route, the cock cake waiting.  It went great.  She and everyone else LOVED the cake.  We ploughed through the pizzas and started in on the cake.  Guess who got the cock ring?  None other than my asthmatic friend.  We all started eating and chatting and laughing.  Everyone remarked on the tasty buttercream and than Ms. Grable goes,

"This is so good, what is in this?"

"Homemade buttercream with Bailey's,"  I say proudly.

"Bailey's?"

"Yeah, Bailey's."

"You know I'm allergic to bourbon, right?"

uhhhhhh

Ms. Grable went to bed shortly after that and I left with my head hung low.  I'd be lying if I said I didn't avoid her for a few weeks after that.  I was mortified.  Thankfully nothing happened to her.  There was so little Bailey's in the buttercream that she had no reaction.  She also hasn't held it against me at all, making her one classy broad.

There it is.  The story of how I accidentally ate a cock ring and could have easily put my friend in the hospital.  Now what lessons have you learned from this?