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?

Help me!!!

There is something I've wanted to make for years now and for a variety of reasons I have yet to take it on, Cheesecake.  I can boil down this (inexcusable) avoidance into a series or bullets:

1. I didn't have a springform pan.  I now have a springform pan and so this excuse has been a load of shit since Christmas. 
2. My mother's cheesecake recipe is the best in the world and she won't share it.  How do you try and tackle the best, especially when the best belongs to your mother?  The answer is you look in the mirror, grab your genitals, and say "Stop being a wuss and make a goddamn cheesecake."
3. Without the best recipe, I am left to search for one.  This is not a problem in and of itself, but it leads to this post's rant and purpose.

New York style cheesecake should be UGLY.  It should be cracked all over the top, inconsistently brown, and just appear unattractive.  That is why people started putting unnecessary toppings on them; it was because they would sell more of them and not because they tasted better.  If anything, toppings made cheesecakes sickeningly sweet, distracting the tastebuds from the beautiful simplicity of the rich and dense cheesecake.  Any and every cheesecake I have ever had that was uniform and attractive tasted like crap.  They were greasy, flavourless, and were a waste of my time, money, and use of my mouth.  

So with that, I am asking you all to provide your recipe suggestions in the comments of this post.  I am currently considering the following, and would love feedback or thoughts from y'all.

http://www.simplyscratch.com/2011/10/new-york-style-cheesecake.html

For the love of god, HELP ME MAKE A HIDEOUSLY DELICIOUS CAKE!!!!

Soft Pretzel Freak Out

There are certain things I've baked that, before starting, made me very nervous.  They are things that seem impossible to make at home simply because they are so widely available everywhere.  My self-defeating logic is that if it's simple to make, people would do it and I had not heard of anyone making soft pretzels before.  Then again, I'd never heard of anyone making pop tarts before either.

I went with old reliable for this one, aka Smitten Kitchen.  Her recipes are easy to follow and seem less daunting than other recipe blogs I've found.  To say that this is my favorite would be an understatement.  Her blog and approach is what spurred me starting my own online account of my baking.  Suffice it to say, I highly recommend her.

I started by making the dough, which was easy enough.  I thought it was pretty dry when I get it ready to set for an hour, but my fears (why do I always get so freaked out?) were unwarranted as the dough came out perfectly.  After following all the steps, I started working the 16 pieces of dough.  That was difficult simply because I had to rub my hands together with the dough for what felt like a god damn hour.  16 soft pretzels.  What the hell was I thinking?  I have got to start halving recipes for Christ's sake!

The part that also made me nervous was the poaching of the pretzels, which I had no idea was what made them pretzel-y.  Just some baking soda and sugar in boiling water, reduce to a simmer is what turns bread into ballpark style soft pretzels!  I put salt on half the batch and cinnamon sugar on the other (unfortunately I went too easy on the sugar).

They turned out AWESOME!  My neighbor and our guests that night loved them and we all ended up eating about 3 a pieces.  Again, why the hell did I make 16 soft pretzels?!

To summarize, Smitten Kitchen is the shit, soft pretzels at boiled, and use more sugar.  Nomnomnomnom!

Mucus Monkey

In preparation for a get together, I decided to make Monkey Bread.  I'd been eyeing this recipe for quite some time, but had talked myself out of it for a variety of reasons, like time and inexperience.  At 8 o'clock on a Friday night, I has a fuck-it moment and I went for it.

As with every single recipe I ever do, I am plagued with doubt.  The dough seemed too sticky and then too dry.  I ran out of melted butter and used a bundt pan that is screaming to be replaced.  I literally do this to myself each time I bake, yet 90% of my endeavors turn out delicious.

Thankfully the Monkey Bread was part of the 90%...I think.

After letting the dough rise twice and baking it, the inversion turned out fine.  The cream cheese glaze looked and tasted great.  I stole a piece to 'make sure it's done,' and god damn it was tasty.  About an hour after finishing it, about 2am, it was time for bed.  The next day would consist of being with great people who would eat the bread and say 'yay.'

Nope!  Instead I woke up with a cold.  Boyfriend went and I have yet to hear how well the Monkey Bread was received.  My mucusy invaders is also why this post is both long and uncharacteristically dull.  Mucus acts as a fun filter, both inbound and outbound.  Booooo!

Absentee

My last post consisted of somewhat of an online existential breakdown.  Why am I here?  Does anyone like me?  WAAAAH!  I then fell off the face of the earth, likely leaving readers to think that I had committed digital suicide and was now living in a hole somewhere.

Not true.

Instead, two very significant things happened in my life that completely derailed both blogging and baking (insert sad face here).  The first distraction happened shortly after New Years.  I had just bought myself the first car I've had in over 4 years and everything was coming up Nasty.  I was finishing up at work one day when boyfriend called and said, "You need to come home.  We've been robbed."  After gathering my things, I come home to find the place completely trashed.  Both of our computers were gone, my camera, my bike, and a lot of jewelry.  Our dining room and bedroom were hit hardest with things strewn everywhere.  Through anger and tears, I did manage to crack a smile when I saw that my $400 stand mixer was still sitting under the worktable in the kitchen.

This is called perspective.

While the jewelry stings because some of it was given to me by my grandmother, it is really the bike that still hurts.  I loved and hated that bike.  I had bled and sweat on that bike.  I had felt every single bump of every road I'd traveled on its solid steel frame.  It took thighs of a similar construction, which it gave me, to get the thing uphill from a dead stop.  But it was my bike.  I had fallen and soared and smiled and cried on that bike.  It's gone and it breaks my heart.  Having said that, none of my bakeware was taken.  None of my knitting gear was taken.  Our cat was not hurt or lost.  Boyfriend's art was not touched.  Neither of us were hurt.

This is again called perspective.
The robbery did lead us to realize that, while adorable, our cat is a terrible theft deterrent.  So, we got this guy.

Meet Conjunctivitis Clyde!  Our 1 year old American Bulldog who farts and licks things incessantly.  He's perfect for our home and we're quite fond of him.  The cat is less than impressed, but she's slowly coming around to the thought of something bigger and hairier than her hanging out around the house.


Between the robbery, insurance, and a new dog, things have been hectic here at home.  But there was yet another distraction.




I WENT TO FUCKING ISTANBUL!!!!
That's right, Turkey, with lamb and Bosphorus and delight and other really fantastic Turkish things.  I had been planning this trip for work for about 2 months along with some partners connected with the government over there.  As part of my job, I lead a delegation to Istanbul Fashion Week.  Seriously.  The planning was mayhem and the trip was exhausting, but it was absolutely amazing AND I get to go back in May.  Fuckin eh, right?

So this is why I have been absent.  There has been almost no baking, but that is going to change.  I plan on making Monkey Bread this upcoming week and will update accordingly.  For all those who dealt with my digital existential issues, thank you.  It means the world to me:)

Presentation vs. Flavor Explosion

Living in Michigan has it's up and down sides.  There is fantastic produce, the people are kind, and hiking is great here.  Also there are few jobs, a strange obsession with cars, and a higher-than-normal occurrence of allergies.  For boyfriend and I, however, Michigan also means great distance between us and our families.  This is both a positive and a negative.  While we get to have our run of the place without worrying what our mothers will think of the state of our bathroom, we also have to travel for at least a day to see our families.  In 2009 we went to Minnesota and spent Christmas there.  It was lovely, but extremely busy with running around the Twin Cities seeing everyone we ever possibly knew while living there.  In 2010, we went to Nova Scotia to spend Christmas with my dad and step-mom.  It was much more relaxed and while we had a great time, taking an entire day to fly there and another day to fly back was a bit much.  So for 2011, we decided to stay in Michigan for the holiday.  Knowing that I would have an entire week off, my only option was to go batshit crazy and bake something really out of hand.  So I decided to make this.

You see those layers?  That spike of caramel?  See how perfect it is?  I wanted to do that.  I wanted a challenge, something that would help bring my baking to the next level.

Looking at the recipe, I knew I would have to spread this out over a couple of days.  On day one, I started with the sables.  The recipe is very easy, but the dough was very crumbly.  This concerned me as I rolled it out and then as I baked the cookies.  They turned out wonderfully though.  Buttery and delicious, definitely worth eating on their own.  I was off to a great start and feeling confident, I looked at boyfriend and declared that all I had to do was "two things" on Christmas day.  Ha.

Back tracking just a little, I was unable to find cranberries anywhere.  Apparently the only time of year when you can get them is Thanksgiving and so if you want anything cranberry for Christmas, buy early and store them.  This was little issue in the end as raspberries were on sale and sounded great with maple and walnut.

On Christmas day, I began making the raspberry gelee.  I had started out thinking that reducing the berries down would only take 20-30 minutes.  Again, ha.  Not only did the raspberries take over an hour, but I had to strain them twice to get all the berries out.  More importantly, the gelee would not thicken enough.  I doubled the gelatin in the god damn thing and still it was runny.  I reached my 'fuck it' stage and put it in the fridge to cool.

With the sables and gelee finished, all that was left was for me to make the mousse.  Sounds easy enough, right?  Well I had never made mousse before and had no fucking idea what I was doing.  My first try resulted in scrambled maple eggs, leaving me without enough maple syrup for the finishing glaze.  My second try took over an hour (again) and seemed very runny.  Looking at the recipe, I was to halve the mousse and incorporate some of the gelee into one half of it.  I did this and it destroyed any hopes I had of achieving a presentation even remotely close to what is seen in the recipe.

After letting everything cool, I started assembling.  First the maple mousse (which turned out great), then the gelee (which was runny), then the mousse/gelee mix (which was a terrible consistency), and then topped with the sables that were not resting on top of the other ingredients like I had hoped.  I put the little bastards in the freezer and dipped some walnuts in caramel to give the semblance of a fine dining dessert.

After chilling in the freezer, I removed the monstrosities and ran a knife around the edges.  I then inverted and...nothing.  I ran the knife again and...nothing.  I slapped the dish a few times to loosen the dessert out of the molds and...nothing.  My presentation was officially ruined.  I served them to boyfriend and myself in their cooling dishes with the sables on top and the caramel walnuts on the side.  The dessert was delicious.  I mean really phenomenal, but I couldn't get the presentation right and that is the story of my baking.

I can bake just about anything.  I don't mean that to sound arrogant or conceited.  I mean that I have a love and a skill to make delicious baked goods, BUT I am terrible with my presentation.  I'm not a visually artistic person.  I'm a writer by trade and so while I would love nothing more than to be able to make beautiful baked goods, I am left making ones that taste wonderful but look like Sloth from The Goonies made them.

It doesn't matter though, because people will still eat and love what I make.  Now if only I could incorporate a pirate ship...

Zucchini bread=destroyed

I have this recipe for zucchini bread that is just fucking delicious.  I mean knock your socks off good.  It's moist, flavorful, and not too heavy.  I've made it about 5 times now and each time it has come out perfectly.  That is until recently.

We spent a grey Sunday up in Flint with some friends who we'd not seen in almost a year.  We were having a great time as I was getting the bread ready.  I made a slight mistake right off the bat as I'd forgotten to add the eggs.  For most recipes, this isn't a big deal because the ingredients don't always have to be added in a certain order.  The same is true for zucchini bread.  So I just dumped it back into the mixing bowl and gave it an aggressive stir.  The egg was thoroughly mixed in and in the oven she went.

Now in my kitchen, which currently houses a crap-tastic oven, this bread takes about 1 hour and 20 minutes to bake, 20 minutes longer than the recipe calls for.  An hour after the bread has been in the oven at my friends' place, I take a knife and put it almost at the middle.  The knife comes out clean.  One would assume this means the bread is finished.  That it should be left to cool, then inverted and sliced.  In this case that person would be wrong.

I take the bread out and let it cool for almost an hour.  I invert it, put it on a plate and start slicing.  Everything is going fine until I reach about an inch past where I inserted the knife to test its done-ness.  I think to myself, 'Wow, this is one moist batch!'

Right.

So I keep slicing only to find that the other half of the bread is completely raw in the middle.  Quickly, I put the bread back in the pan, get it in the oven, turn it up to 350 and leave it for about 20 minutes.  I then test it and it's still raw.

Ok.

So I leave it for another 5 minutes.  I test it and, indeed, it is still raw.

Another 10 minutes and...raw.

At this point I have been dealing with this bread for hours and just want it over with.  Everyone has finished supper and is ready to munch on some bread. At this point, there is nothing I can do to prevent the outside of this bread from burning.  All I can try and do is salvage the bottom half of the bread and hope that it is cooked all the way through.  So I up the oven to 375 and leave it in there for 20 minutes.

Once that 20 minutes had gone by, I knew there was no way this thing was going back in the oven.  I was committed to it be finished in some capacity.  I take it out, let it cool a few minutes, invert it, and...raw.  Unbelievable.  This thing was in the oven for about 2 hours and it's still raw in the middle.  Obviously the in and out didn't help, but holy crap.  I ended up throwing away the entire crust, the middle, and ending up with about 4 legitimate slices that I then cut up into bite sized nuggets of disappointment.  It tasted fine, but disappointing nonetheless.

A Rude Classic, Does Anyone Read This Damn Thing?

It's pretty obvious that I have taken a long hiatus from this blog and it has been for a multitude of reasons.  Let me throw some bullet points at you:

1. Taking pictures while baking is annoying.  I have to stop what I'm doing, wash my hands, and take a bunch of pictures.  This has become increasingly difficult as I have taken on more complex recipes that are very time and temperature sensitive while also requiring constant stirring.  
2. I'm lazy.
3. I don't know if anyone reads this.

So there are my reasons for not updating this bad boy in over 3 months.  I have gone back and forth on whether or not to continue this blog at all and so I turn to you, the assumed reader.  I am curious as to why you read this blog.  What draws you to it?  Do the images matter to you and, if so, how much?  What would you like to see that I have not done?  I'm trying to gauge readership and learn what the reader enjoys/wants.  I could write this blog in a book and keep it for myself, but that's not why I started it.  I wanted to share my love of baking along without puttin on the ritz.

Ritz are delicious and so I'll leave you with that.

Most of you out there know that I am a very skilled baker, who is also partnered up with a very skilled chef.  While my talents have come from practice at home, my partner's come from 17 years of cooking experience ranging from mom and pop Italian to fine dining and just about everything in between.  The consequence of this is delicious food, a kitchen that is always in a state of disrepair, and a fat intake that requires an obscene amount of exercise in order to avoid needing one of those rascals.

DIGRESSION

Because of our eating habits, I typically end of biking to work and back.  Round trip, this equates to about 12 miles a day.  Do that three times and you're at 36 miles, than add on any rides we might take for fun.  I also do yoga, but that has little to do with this tangent. 

I was biking home the other day after a pretty long day at work, over 9 hours if I remember correctly.  I almost always ride on the street with the exception of 3 blocks.  This particular road is 4 lanes of one-way traffic, heavy traffic that also has numerous turn lanes.  It is a brief gauntlet that scares the bejesus out of me and so I opt for the sidewalk.  On this particular day, I saw a man riding on the same sidewalk coming in the opposite direction.  He was in a rascal and, without falling into anger-induced stereotypes, let's just say he did not signal that he was in this mobile chair due to glandular problems.  I say this as someone who knows people with such ailments who have to use motorized wheelchairs and have articulated to me how to spot those who simply lead an unhealthy lifestyle.  Now, I usually wouldn't pay much attention to this except that he, well, aimed for me.  No joke.  The son of a bitch started grunting and actually tried to run me into heavy traffic.  What the hell?!

GET BACK ON TRACK

One night a few months ago, some of the more annoying people we know paid us a visit.  These guys in fact:

We decided to make the best of their company and wow them with our culinary skills.  Well, it was more my partner who was riding the Wow train.  I was just excited to eat some good food.  We began with a little of this:

Which was quickly follow by this:

With a touch of that:

 Et voila!  you have this:

DIGRESSION

   

Back in 2009, my partner cooked for me for the first time.  The relationship was new, in fact it was still "dating" and this was really the first thing either of us did to show our affection for each other  He made a rare New York Strip Steak with a blue cheese sauce on top of garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus.  As I was eating it, he asked me what I thought.  All I could say was, "I'm in trouble."  To which he replied, "Yes.  Yes you are."  Almost three years later, he still has my stomach and my heart wrapped around his finger.  

STOP BEING CUTE AND GET ON WITH IT!

After eating my partner's perfectly seared scallops, delicious mashed potatoes, and wonderfully crisp asparagus, I felt disappointed in what I was going to make...popovers.  

Really?  I can't believe I just let him show me up like that!

Thankfully, because the main course was so hefty, a light and airy dessert was just what the people wanted.  So they got it:

Let's be real here, that looks pretty damn cute.

Originally I wasn't sure what to do for the topping.  The most intrusive of the two guests, Captain Red Shirt whom I suspect is a commie, piped up and suggested doing a simple yet delicious chocolate sauce.  He gave me his recipe, incorporating a secret ingredient that proved most delectable.  Thank you, commie bastard!

The result was...

 

 Light. Airy. Chocolaty. Delicious.

I will kill you

A good friend of ours, in fact...

 ...this guy

...recently moved home to New Orleans. He, J, is a great guy and an even better friend.  He's someone with whom you can get into a shouting match during a heated debate and then have a great time laughing about a sophomoric joke the next day.  In gratitude for all he'd done for us, I decided to surprise him with real, traditional Louisiana Bread Pudding.  So I called in some favors from...

this girl.  

Ignore that guy.  He refused to drink with us in NOLA.

He learned his lesson after he was dropped off in the 9th Ward overnight. 

That girl was an old friend of J's.  She'd housed Captain No-Fun and us in NOLA before ever meeting us, so I knew I could abuse her generosity further by asking for her input on the Bread Pudding.  I looked around different cookbooks and websites, deciding to combine two recipes into one.  I ran it by Lady Generous and I was off to make one of the most unhealthy desserts ever wrought from my small, pale hands.

When I begin to describe this Bread Pudding to people, I am frequently met with remarks referring back to one's mother and how said mother's recipe could not be beat.  Well you know what?  Your mother didn't use doughnuts for the bread.

You read that right.  I bought a dozen glaze doughnuts and staled them out in a bag for days, using that as the bread for the Bread Pudding.  Conclusion: your mom did not know the real deal.

The first step is to soak the stale doughnuts in milk until they are nice and mushy.  You can't overwork them because they'll turn into actual mush.  You must walk the line while plagued with doubt.

While the doughnuts are soaking, you prepare the bourbon sauce, adding as much bourbon as you like.  I, apparently, like it a lot.  Once the sauce is ready, you basically add spices, eggs, sugar, vanilla, and raisins gingerly.  The doughnuts are very delicate at this point and they must be treated as such in order to result in the proper fattening of loved ones.

After baking what will become the Bread Pudding, you plate it and add the bourbon sauce.  None of us were prepared for how strong yet delicious this would be and so some had to wait before driving home.  

It might look like slop, but this shit is tasty!

So to J and Lady Generous, thank you for everything.  I hope to see you both again soon!

EAT S#@T AND LIVE!

Breathe in through the nose.
Hold.
Now out through the mouth.

The prodigal baker returns, internet and stories in tow.  I acknowledge it has been a very, very long time and I expect that there is a desire to see what I've been baking these past few months.  You must, however, wait because I have a rant that will shed some light on why my few weeks of internetless life became nearly 4 solid months...

It all began with a move into a house.  My boyfriend and I took a relatively big leap and decided to rent a house instead of a larger apartment.  We found a beautiful home in a wonderful part of town. 

We moved in shortly after signing our lease and I began my research of internet and home phone options.  This decision was an important one because I was obsessed with being able to use my refurbished rotary phone and, since I had been stealing internet before, I would have to begrudgingly purchase the service in our new home.  After many days of research, I decided AT&T was the best choice for the money.
I soon would learn that I was an uneducated fool with an ass for a brain.
I called and set up my service on April 21st and everything went swimmingly.  Of course it did, I was a new sale.  I ordered my telephone and DSL service, with a free modem/wireless router combo in the mail.  Upon receiving my world wide web package, I quickly went to set up my new telecommunications device.

Let's just say it didn't work.  Nothing worked.  No dial tone on my phone and nothing happening with the modem/router.  So I call AT&T...at 10pm at night.  

Anyone who lives in the US knows why I shouldn't have done that.

 

It is at this point that things start to get blurry.  I know that I called the next day to set up some kind of service protection thing for $5 a month.  I was told something along the lines of, "wait for this to be
 applied to your account, which will happen tomorrow, and then report the problems in your service."  I did as they asked.

It is at this point that I should mention that I spent 1.5 years working in call centers.  I am familiar with efficient, informative systems and terrible systems.  Many people who call these centers do not realize that the incompetence of the person on the other line might have nothing to do with their intelligence, but instead with the resources or lack thereof that the company has provided them.

After 4 days and literally dozens of phone calls with no consistent information regarding my simple questions, I canceled my service with AT&T. You may think to yourself that this would explain, at most, maybe 2 weeks of internetless life.  You're wrong and you're wrong because AT&T, should it be a person, would more than deserve being set ablaze.

After my run-in with the monopolizing corporation, I looked for a local company to provide me with my internet and home phone service.  I found a great one right here in town and they had my request submitted with 15 minutes of the call.  The problem, though, is that AT&T has a monopoly on the telephone lines (again) and the local company had to literally lease the use of the telephone lines from the multinational corporation.  Frustrating, yet simple, right?

Nope.  Because I had recently been an AT&T customer, the local company was unable to get permission to use the lines.  Despite having canceled my service, AT&T had yet to process the cancellation.  So we waited...then we tried again...to find the same response.

At this point I called AT&T and donated some rage.  Like so many of my calls with them, the individual on the phone was kind and sincerely wanted to help me.  The problem, however, is that within the same god damn call I would speak with multiple people who would all either tell me different things or not know how to access the right information.  In one call, I was told I owed them over $150, even though services were not rendered, and another person told me I had a credit on my account, even though I had not paid them anything. This is how AT&T works, like a pot head roommate who doesn't remember shit and so they just make stuff up. 

To make what is already a long story short, let me say that this went on until early July until I finally had to give up on my wonderfully helpful and patient local company.  I am now a Comcast customer and remain so for one year until my contract expires.  At that time, I will return to my local company, assuming that AT&T hasn't bought them out.

So, Nasty, what did you do with your time while you were unable to search the 'web.' Well, readers, I fucking baked!

• triple fudge cookies
• lemon meringue
• apple pie
• tres leche
• Mexican coffee popsicles
• blackberry cobbler
• strawberry rhubarb dessert
• dairy-free peach cobbler
• strawberry summer cake with barley flour
• regular peach cobbler
• strawberry rhubarb pie
• baked alaska
• strawberry compote
• Boston cream pie
• French silk pie
• German pancakes

Yeah, I went ape-shit.  All of these things were really delicious and warrant repetition.  All warrant their own entries, but alas I have few pictures a much time has passed.  I will treat you with a brief post about the triple fudge cookies, which were by far the grossest item I baked.  Here's the proof:

 My neighbor at my old apartment was having a hard time and wanted chocolate.  I had chocolate chips and cocoa powder so I figured I would assault him with both.  I began by doing what every baker does and mixed the dry ingredients.

Pretty normal so far.  I then mixed the wet ingredients together, then mixed the dry and wet to make what seemed like a strangely dry, thick dough.  I then had to reread the recipe because it called for making logs of the dough, wrapping them in seran wrap, and chilling overnight.

Ok, but...

it looks

like

shit.

I swear this was not intentional.  It really did just turn out this way, though not to my disappointment.  So I did as instructed and wrapped them up.

Appetizing, right?

The next day I cut these pieces of crap into little disks and arranged them on the appropriate cookie sheet.

I still had hope at this point, but it was foolish on my part.  They were very dry and disappointing to eat.  After munching on a few, I opted for a nap.

Now you know what I look like...a sleepy blond.