Cold

I'm blogging via phone. Let's see how long it takes for me to tire of tapping this small square of a keyboard.

Prince Charming and I broke up. Well, we're just on a break, but this is my first foray into the "on a break" realm and it sure sucks like a break up. I should probably be careful about what I write, being that said boy visits this site from time to time, and I don't want to say anything that might embarrass me. Granted, the four minute voicemail I left him a mere 12 hours after the alleged "talk" has left me with little pride anyway. Someone needs to create an app that saves all the voicemails you leave other people. I know i have left some ridiculous voicemails that could have only been spawned out of drunkenness or depression, however I have a theory that if I were to hear them replayed they would be twelve times more mortifying than I think and I would delete every single "I probably shouldn't call you" number from my pone. People like me need that kind of reality check. Regardless, I somehow had the sense to not leave a voicemail the second time I called him and he didn't pick up. Have I mentioned it has been a whole 25 hours since "the talk"? I have reached new realms of patheticism.

Hoping it'd help, I baked. Peanut butter cup cookies. I even added broken pretzels and red piping gel to make it a little more festive (see the terrible phone pic below). Well, the cookies have cooled, the once melted chocolate is hard, and my insides still feel cold like an untouched, empty oven. Preheating always seems to take longer when you're watching. Now off to find a distraction that keeps me from my phone...

The Curious Capers of Concucky Con Cupcakes...Coined by one Carzipan

I have been taking picture after picture lately, waiting for an opportune time to blog, but no such time has surfaced as of late.  Well, until now.  However, now has come and the opportunity to post all my slightly less than epic pictures has arisen, yet going through my pictures is less than appealing to me.  I feel like writing.  But what about, I do not know.  Kind of. I feel like I need to post some pictures first, however, in order for you to keep reading.  Boo, 2011.  Well here are your visuals, you filthy little chin wags.  (Confused?  Watch this.  Ellen and I are one and the same).  A quick, quick summary of my summer baking for ya:

Remember that vanilla sugar I blogged about  little while back?  I finally opened up that jar, five months later.  I can't tell you how much I wish this picture were scratch 'n sniff.

Eight eggs and a couple cups of vanilla sugar later, I had these little beauties.  Orange cardamom cupcakes made for my precious cousin's bridal shower.  I unfortunately did not think through temperatures in Riverisde during the month of July and my orange cream cheese frosting has a hot, melty mess.  Obladi, oblada.

Fast forward one month to this:

Before you judge this little guy (or me), know that on the inside it is filled with lots of yumminess.  Strawberries...  

...and lots and lots of lime zest.

If anyone is curious, no matter how durable your aesthetician will tell you that gel manicure is, it cannot stand up to a grater.  Neither can skin.  No worries, the first batch was tossed.

Anyway, this cake was made to celebrate the birth of my main squeeze who has trouble "ruining" a beautiful cake with a fork.  And because eating is so closely tied with caking and caking is so closely tied with my personhood, I needed to create an ugly cake for the sake of our relationship.  A pretty cake was created, in addition, for the sake of my sanity.  Who ever knew the powerful pull of sugar?

 

Heavy whipping cream tastes so much richer in buttercream frosting than your typical milk, but it adds an interesting (read: unpleasant) texture that I always forget about.  I should have gone with plain old milk over whipping cream for the aesthetic cake, especially considering that guitar is still sitting in his fridge three weeks later.  Oh well.  One day I'll understand him and one day I'll be able to differentiate between taste and aesthetics.    

Alright, we're reaching the end of my pictorial tour.  Almost.  

This was stolen off my instagram.  They are chocolate peppermint cupcakes made late one night last week.    Life has been more than crazy as of late and there was something very soothing about knowing that a spatula still has the healing powers it did one year ago.  Anyway, the peppermint feels very December-esque, but I truly believe that even just a hint of peppermint heightens the chocolate flavor and is appropriate year round.  Just my take, though.  

And now we've come to the final picture. Let's see if you actually stick with me long after this.  

This picture actually has a lot to do with what is truly on my mind and heart; what I actually want to blog about.  This post is already so long.  Full of pictures.  Full of fluff.  None of my heart.  Yet it is full.  My heart and this post, that is.  Oh well.  Here is a picture from dinner tonight.  Cupcakes turned dinner.  Garlic crescent rolls pressed into a cupcake tin, filled with monterey jack, beef, onions, thyme, garlic, and rosemary.  Cupcakes broadened from desert to dinner.  Cupcakes savory enough to make one roommate just about tear up. (Truth be told, anything beyond a lunchable can do that to her). A cupcaked dinner made for my beloved roommates who love me with longevity, sometimes to a place in my heart that has long been frozen.  Somehow they ice-pick their way in.  This post is full.  It is too full to hear my petty words of being let down and too full to cast light on the hidden cruelty deep within my heart.  Things I had initially meant to blog about.  It is too full (and I am a smidge too inebriated) to handle all my thoughts about Jesus breaking through my icicles and friends melting apart the ice cubes others have thrust into the freezer that is my heart.  So this is what you get.  For now.

There is a treason at sea.

 

Woof

Some of my best ideas come to me at night in those few lingering moments just before my active mind is completely engulfed in the warm, still blanket of sleep.  It is that feeling of slowly slipping into a warm bath or nestling your face into a fresh towel just pulled from a hot dryer, inhaling deeply the crisp yet soft scent of Bounce.  It is in these moments, these night time moments, that many people slip through delirium, yet for me I find in them pure clarity.  Well, sometimes.  Last night's clarity: dog snack cupcakes.  Those who know me well are laughing right now.  Those who don't are doubting my supposed clarity.  Rewind with me for a moment before removing me from your RSS. (Is that even the proper usage of "RSS"?)

Dog snacks.  I love dog snacks.  And by "dog snacks" I mean those little sweetened sesame sticks found in random munchie assortments.  See below.

Sometimes I refer to these other little pub mix gems as dog snacks...

...but for the sake of this post refer only to the former snack.

Anyway, one of my roommates who knows and understands my love for dog snacks is always on the hunt for better and better munchie assortments.  "Better" of course referring to the ratio of dog snacks to pretzels.  She has been known to clandestinely leave bags and barrels of dog snack surprises for me to find.  She is a gem.  And I digress. Where were we? Ratio of pretzels to dog snacks. This brings me to my latest grievance:  Pretzels.  Namely, pretzel sticks and the overwhelming amount of them in my barrel of monkeys.  Er, munchies.  

So last night, as I sat perched on the couch with said roommate, rifling through my pretzel-filled mix for the occasional dog snack, I decided to extract all those pesky pretzels and use them to make something. The thought was fleeting, however, and it did not come back to me until I was laying beneath my sheets, ready to be bathed in warm sleep.  Chocolate cupcakes with a brown sugar pretzel base.  The perfect recipe for making my dog snack hunt a smidge easier. Hence the name. Dog snack cupcakes.

 Being that I am not my mother and do not own a mortar and pestle, I had to get a little creative.  In case my mother is reading this, yes, mom, I did remember to wash the hammer first.

Aaaand, the finished product.  Chocolate cupcake thrown together from the random assortment of fridge/pantry contents paired with a lovely pretzel/butter/brown sugar base.  This one will definitely be revisited.  Praise God for sweet and salty cupcakes. And for dog snacks.  And for roommates who indulge me. 

     

And So We've Come to the Close

I wouldn't be me if I didn't bake something for the final installment of Harry Potter.  These are butterbeer cupcakes with a butterscotch ganache filling and butterscotch buttercream frosting.  The snitch is just a miniature cake pop with gum paste wings. I got the recipe and idea from here.  She is a genius.  I wish I could take credit, but alas, I can't.

More than a Bumblebee, More than an Ant

I haven't posted in about seven years thanks to that good first date from my previous post turning into a good second date and third date and fourth date and...well, you get the idea.  Between entertaining the new boy, moving to a new city, and transitioning to a new job life has grown a tad frenzied.  That is a lot of new for one little mungbean.  It is also a lot of excitement and I can feel my eyes smiling (yes, eyes can smile...take it up with Tyra if you don't trust me) at just the thought of it all.

Somehow in the midst of all the bustle, I have found a little time to bake and thought I'd make up for the lack of posting these last few months with a few pictures.  Who wants to read the book when you can rent the movie, right?

These two pictures are chocolate cupcakes with a peanut butter filling.  The filling was essentially a (tasty) conglomeration of random things in the fridge, most of which I can't remember now.  The key ingredient was honey roasted peanut butter.  Yay for Whole Foods and their miracle peanut butter machines.

I also recently rediscovered the joy that is creating with fondant.  Fondant and I have had our ups and downs in the past, mostly because it tastes far less appetizing than it looks, but cakes like this and cupcakes like these or these make me rethink my fondant aversion.  I tried making the Iphone cupcakes with a friend of mine a while back.  She is a professor and wanted to make something fun for her students.  We tried making the fondant ourselves and it was EXTREMELY difficult to work with.  Never again.  Something like six hours and a couple stained shirts later we had these:

Lesson learned:  Cornstarch, cornstarch, cornstarch

So my recent forays into the world of fondant have been brought to you by the letter "W".  That is, the lovely people at Wilton made it for me.  I just had the pleasure of dying and squishing it as I fancied.  Much more successful, if you ask me.

The first couple are from my roommate's Little Mermaid themed party (she works the new Mermaid ride at Disney's CA Adventure).  I'm not going to lie...I was crunched for time and cheated by using a candy mold. The last picture is from a random Monday for a not so random boy who very much deserved a random three layer red velvet Sponge Bob cake sitting on his front porch.  As you can tell, I compromised on the yucky fondant taste issue of mine by making just the shapes out of fondant.  Good compromise, if you ask me :)

Dates and Dinosaurs and Douche-Baggery

I went on a first date last night.  It was the perfect first date.  Perfect.  Not only did we have great conversation, but he was also sweet and gentle towards me.  We really clicked, I felt.  He thought so too.  I think.

All credit goes to my Curious George socks.  I typically wear weird socks on first dates.  Usually underneath the outfit I have spent hours perfecting one can find odd, mismatched socks.  No date of mine has ever seen the socks.  They are my secret.  And though I sometimes joke that the socks serve as a chastity belt, really they are there to make me feel more comfortable and more like me.  They failed me a few months ago when I went on a first date, probably because I went straight from a root canal to the guy's house without taking any pain killers.  Not even dinosaur socks are prepared for that much pressure.  He asked me where I'd live if I could live anywhere and I opted for a candy castle in the sky.  The dinos were retired after that.  So were root canals.  Anyway, doesn't matter...on to Curious George.  

Curious George and I came home grinning and I only stopped sometime today.  I am a little wary to  post anything about guys I date because I never can be sure who is reading this our how secure my "anonymity" really is, but I suppose if he does find this, this post is the least of my concerns (in comparison to other posts, that is).

Anyway, I came home from my date smiling like the smitten little mung bean that I am to a roommate who was anxious to hear all about it.  I had sent her a text earlier while driving home while in my parked car that read, "Best first date ever" and she was expecting to hear a magnificent tale involving limos and ponies and rainbows and Paris.  It had none of that and she simply blinked at me as I mapped out the night for her.  After I finished, she said that any guy that didn't shove me into a broom closet (no guy has ever actually done that to me, mind you) ranked "top notch" on my list and he got way too many points for doing the basics that every guy should do.  He paid.  He walked me to my car.  He was kind and gentle and respectful.  Those are basics.  And those are foreign to me.

I was talking with a roommate today about a guy she is kind of seeing.  She also described qualities he has that most would deem "basic" that she found nothing short of astounding.  He cares for her when she is sick.  He respects physically boundaries.  He has genuine interest in her emotional well being.  Basics.  Yet she too was shocked and, honestly, frightened by them.  She won't actually date him because he is too good to her.  How is it that we have gotten to places in life that we expect and want only guys who dabble in douche-baggery?  Forget dabbling, they're drowning in it.

Perhaps the issue isn't us.  Perhaps the issue is that the so-called "basics" have run scarce.  Perhaps the quality  of the male standard model has depleted as time has gone on and it is foolish to hold out for the bedazzled Prince Charming edition.  I've been thinking about that all day - all through church, all through baking, all through the minutiae my day.  For now I suppose I'm okay putting to rest the thoughts.  Either way, whether or not the date from last night is standard or jewel-encrusted, he was kind to me and he was fun and I am happy.  He has already relayed twice since last night that he wants to see me again.  I should be happy.  I am happy.  I think.

Why do girls long to be treated like trash?  Why do we reject guys for being too kind?  Because it feels wrong and foreign and alien.  Like a bad Katy Perry song.  That's the only answer I've got.  At least for now. In the meantime, maybe I'll test out those dinosaur socks again.  Maybe they're more cut out for second date pressure.

Now Hiring

I learned a valuable lesson today.  Actually I learned two, one from church and one from baking, but let's be honest.  No one really cares to hear me preach in a blog.  So, onto lesson numero dos: Everyone will fail you.

Stick with me.  No sermon to follow.  I promise.

The Pioneer Woman, my idol, FAILED.  I saw a recipe the other day for malted milk chocolate chip cookies on her blog and thought to myself, "Huh, there's an idea."  Plus, with all her vivid pictures, I just couldn't resist.  So, off the cupcake wagon I jumped to try out another cookie modification.  Let me just say this: my parents knew what they were doing when they shielded me from things like whoppers and milkshakes and meat.  Well, the meat thing has nothing to do with this and is a post for another time and they were wrong about that. Anyway, malted milk gives things that aftertaste that screams nothing but "health", but that taste is but a lie.  Malt simply triples the calorie content* and makes cookies taste bad.  It did give them a beautiful rich color, but that is beside the point.

There is an upside to this, however.  Redemption for all can be found.  In caramel.  I added caramel to the batter and masked the malt.  Masked the malt.  I've thought for a while about writing an entirely alliterated post but have never done so.  Maybe I'll work on that next.  Wow, I definitely have a penchant for getting off topic.

Anyway, I tried malt and I'm putting it back in the cupboard.  Back in the back of the cupboard, that is.  So much for my experimentations.  Basics.  When it comes to cookies, I do basics best.  Here's to hoping I remember that.

Also, I am now accepting applications for the position of "Mung Bean's Pedestal".  All references will be contacted.  


*I only passed math in high school because my Algebra II/Trig teacher died on the last day of class during our final and never got a chance to calculate grades.  True story.  Believe my calculations at your own risk.    

Click Click. Snap.

This is a poor quality picture of a plain looking cupcake.  It feigns homeliness so well  that I forgot to take an actual picture with an actual camera and was forced to snap a quick pic with my phone in between calls at work.  Appearances lie, is what this cupcake teaches.  This little guy packs a punch.  It is a dark chocolate orange cupcake with a raspberry rhubarb filling and orange cream cheese frosting.  It is the plainest cupcake I have made and it is my favorite.

Suzy Lee Revisited

I'm behind.  And I have four hundred things I want to write about.  First off, here is a picture from last week's cake decorating class.  I still have a ways to go, as you'll see from this week's pictures, but practice makes perfect, right?

Fast forward one week to tonight - class number three.  Three.  This is a four week course.  I am sitting here on the couch, peering into the kitchen at this week's cupcakes and thinking, "Those are not 'I've completed 3/4 of a cake decorating course' kinda cupcakes."  Well, apparently they are.  At any rate, I am having fun and this class has given me a reason to invest in proper cupcaking (yes, I did just say "cupcaking") tools.  And people.

I gave a girl my number tonight.  I am elated.  Rewind with me for a moment, and this will make more sense.  A good friend of mine has been known to walk up to other girls that she has observed from afar (in the most non-stalker sense of the word "observe"), and tell them she has a friend crush on them and would like to hang out.  Friend crush.  It makes sense.  Well, at least it does to me. And the kinds of people I surround myself with, apparently.  Anyway, there is this girl in my class who is basically me and I am entranced by the thought of another mungbean walking around this earth.  She is this small little Indian girl, made of curry and spice and everything nice, who initially appears to be quiet and demure but actually has much more fire and spunk than she lets on.  I saw through that veneer from a mile away as I am all too familiar with it.  Anyway, I asked if she planned on taking the second course and she replied that we should continue on our Wilton journey together.

There is something about wanting to be friends with someone and learning that they want you as their friend back that can turn the stormiest of days into May.

I called my parents after class because no one revels in sharing my elation as they do and I relayed to them all the details of my class and this new friend.  (I also called them because I needed help saying her name, but we're going to ignore that for the sake of this post) It reminded me of a kindergartener coming home from school, yammering on about having someone to sneak nibbles of play doh with.  Someone to share the crayons with.  Or piping bags.  Some delights in life may not ever go away.  Relationships.  People.  Creating new bonds and forging new things.  Together.  This time with the assistance of 7lbs. of buttercream.            

Walk with Me, Suzy Lee

I started a cake decorating class this past week.  I knew that I had been missing school.  There is something about freshly sharpened pencils and smell of a clean notebook that makes my heart go pitter patter in a way that nothing else can evoke.  However, I did not know exactly how much I had been missing school until the lady registering me for the class handed me a sheet of paper with the words "Class Syllabus" printed at the top and tears of joy started to pool in my eyes.  I couldn't stop telling the poor Michael's employee how excited and happy I was and I left shortly after sensing that she was on the verge of calling security.

Anyway, the first class went pretty well.  I showed up a  good twenty minutes early, apron securely fastened and bookbag in place, ready to start frosting.  I had procured every item on that school supply list, even just the frivolous ones deemed "optional"  (Yeah, that's not happening again now that I know I'll have a new list of supplies to obtain for each and every week.  Clearly Wilton is feeling the recession and is targeting unsuspecting fools like myself.).  The instructor had set little name cards around the table and it felt like walking into a grade school classroom.  However, instead of the walls being adorned with over-sized alphabets and bright colored animals exclaiming things like, "Learning is fun!" there were multi-layered cakes and cupcakes.  It was perfect and I felt completely in my element.

There are eight of us in the class - some could be grandmothers, a couple probably too young to know about pogs or slap bracelets, and a few scattered in the middle.  Somehow, despite there being girls significantly younger than me, I was "mi hija" to the instructor and the class now thinks my name is Mia.  Oh well.  Definitely not the first time this has happened.

So tomorrow I shall practice my newfound skills a bit.  As you can see from the picture below, we just went over the very very basics on cookies and I am in need of lots of practice.  Hopefully the cupcakes I'll be making tomorrow will provide me with enough miniature practice canvases to wow my teacher once I go back to class on Wednesday.  Either way, I am excited to try out a new recipe: lemon cupcakes with a blueberry basil filling. Happy Sunday, happy baking :)

  

let me have men about me that are fat

Sometimes I wish all my friends were psych majors.  Sometimes I wish life had a pause button.  Or an E-brake. Sometimes I wish didn't have writer's block.  And sometimes when the wishing gets wearisome I bake 253 cupcakes in one week.  Sometimes it doesn't work.

Agitation

I slept with sneakers last night.  Jeans too.  I do that sometimes, typically when I'm feeling especially pensive or antsy.  Something about it makes me feel secure in the fact that at any moment I can spring back to life and keep going.  There is nothing to hold me back.  When my thoughts run too fast, my body feels the need to run too, and somehow I find enough safety in the immediate accessibility to running that I usually don't need to set foot on anything other than my bedsheets.  I'm not sure when I first discovered the beauty that is sleeping with your feet securely bound, but when I did I had to fight with myself not to do it nightly.  There are a few nights here and there, however, that I allow myself this luxury.  Last night was one of them.

I've been turning thoughts over and over in my mind recently, trying desperately to grasp concepts that I should have mastered years and years ago.  Thoughts about God and guilt and sin and salvation.  Concepts that have blurred in my mind during the years I spent wrestling through seemingly harder concepts.  I'm crossing my fingers, hoping that after a bit more tossing the rough rocks thrown in my mind will topple out as smooth stones, easy to hold and slip smoothly into a pocket.  It never works that way.  I guess that is what comes with being human.  

A few years ago I clawed my way through what I believed about depravity and wretchedness of humanity.  Jesus dying on the cross became less and less about God caring about me and saving me from hell and more about God taking a highlighter to his character.  Somewhere among the bright yellow streaks is the fringe benefit of human salvation.  The status of my soul and my salvation is simply fringe.  I spent years thinking through this.  I'm not ready to say that this is untrue, but I think it lacks crucial facets and places too tight a harness on God's intentions.   Anyway, I never properly built up again my understanding of God, humanity, and God's relation to humanity after tearing it all apart.  So with my jagged edges and less than sufficient grasp on basics like God's love, I am trying to tackle bigger things.  I am attempting long division without first knowing how to count.

This led to the shoes.  They didn't help much.  I woke up this morning still processing, still thinking, and feeling like my mind had only had a full 2.8 minutes of rest.  It was this distracted, groggy person who agreed to bake on school t.v.  I'm not sure what I was thinking.  I'm not even a student anymore.  A broadcast journalism major friend has been trying to get me to agree to bake for the campus news broadcast.  I skillfully rejected the phone calls and kept "forgetting" to call back.  Until this morning.  I forgot not to answer and I forgot to say no.  No t.v.'s beyond the ones gracing the cafeteria walls will ever have the pleasure of playing the segment, but that is more air time than I'd like.  Oh well.  Anyway, I suppose I can turn those pink swirl cupcakes I never ended up doing into green swirl shamrock cupcakes.  They should be bright and aesthetically pleasing enough for college t.v., right?

Anyway, time for bed.  Time to brush my teeth, time to wash my face, and time to tie my pink converse extra tight.  Double knots.  Triple knots.  Duct tape those little buggers.  I can't afford another slip up tomorrow morning.  

Word Salad

I didn't actually grow up in America.

Wow, that could not be further from the truth.  That is not at all what I meant to type but somehow when my fingers skirted across my keyboard that is what came out instead of the sentence I was actually thinking: "We have a new student worker in our office these days."

Huh.

Odd.


It's at moments like these that I fantasize about having a séance to call upon Freud himself.

The psych major in me is itching to just run with my slip and see where it takes me.

Meh, forget it.  I'm a terrible runner.  I have a bad heart.  And as fascinating as a fantastical story about being raised up by tigers in the Himalayas would be, I'm inclined to say a public blog is not the proper couch on which to probe at my psyche.

Great, now I can't even remember where I was initially going.  Well, I'll say this at least.  I made chocolate chip cookies last night and they were the ultimate failure.  First off, I don't know whose pipe I was smoking when I thought almond extract in chocolate chip cookies could be good.  I tried it again, only using the teeniest tiniest splash of almond and it still overpowered.  Never again.  I'm done with modifications.  I think the roommates are too.  Second, it didn't help that while these failure cookies were baking there was a house quarrel nearly as heated as the oven.  All four batches burned.  Oh well.  Better luck with the cookies next time.  And better luck with keeping tabs on my mind and blog post topics.          

Valentine's and Vanilla

Valentine's day cupcakes were a success, if I do say so myself.  I found a recipe for vanilla bean cupcakes that looked promising and went for it.  Unfortunately, I didn't plan more than a day in advance, nor do I reside in Europe, so I had to cheat at making vanilla sugar (regular sugar and vanilla extract in the sun for a couple hours).  By the time I decided on making a second batch of cupcakes the sun had gone to bed and my vanilla sugar (version 2.0) was compromised.  I don't think anyone noticed.  Well, that is if you equate noticing with complaining.  Apparently I do.  Anyway, after I mixed in the vanilla bean, I was enamored with the lovely little black speckles and was more than convinced to save my pink layered idea for another Valentine's.  Back in the cupboard the food coloring went.  For the frosting, I went with a berry cheesecake buttercream.  I loosely followed the recipe here, opting for mixed berries, scrapping the vanilla bean, and not paying much attention to how much sugar I put in.  My self-appointed food critics came back with all positive reviews.  In the end, I made close to 200 cupcakes - some miniature, some standard, all eaten :) 

   

love is in the air

We are on the eve of the eve of the runner-up for  my favorite holiday.  For many single women I talk to, Valentine's day is dreaded like none other, perhaps even more so than that thrice rescheduled trip to the gyno.  Unfortunately for those women, a date on the calendar can't be postponed by simply sly-dialing a cranky receptionist.  Combating this lovely pink holiday typically requires a more overt approach, usually featuring a high volume of the color black and events bearing names such as, "Cupid is Stupid"*.  I don't understand these women.  I wasn't always a super girly girl and I cringe to label myself as that now.  It was only partway into college that pink hues, glitter, and Disney started finding their way into my closet (the psych major in me has fun picking this one apart).  But somehow now I find myself embracing all things deemed "girl" and I revel in a holiday that doesn't sneer at me painting pink hearts on my nails or for baking pink layered cupcakes.  It doesn't matter to me that there is no Prince Charming to notice my fingernails or partake in sweet little heart-shaped confection made especially for him.  In fact, I think I prefer it.  I think I'd rather be single on this day.

Perhaps it is because the only terrible Valentine's day experiences I have had have both been on behalf of a guy I was either dating or pseudo-dating.  Maybe deep-down inside I have this belief that when you try and mix a glorious day of pink, sweet smelling things with snakes, snails, and puppy dog tails nothing pretty can ensue. I'd rather not mess with it.  My recipe for a good Valentine's day has been perfectly crafted and I'd rather not let more ingredients in to potentially ruin the good I've created for myself.

I won't lie to you.  Would it be nice to receive flowers and a specially cooked dinner for two?  Sure.  Would I enjoy baking treats for someone special instead of just my roommates?  Of course.  Is it pathetic that the only boy getting a valentine from me this year is my 16 month old nephew?  Probably.  But at the end of the day I am content.  Maybe contentedness in singleness stems from the leftover hurt from dating too many snakes and snails.  Perhaps supposed "contentedness" is really a protective callous I have built up around a tender heart; something that is good and healthy for a while, but eventually the yellowed Hello Kitty band-aid needs to be removed to let the cut breathe and actually heal.  I think that is where true contentedness (and true joy) comes in.  I'm not really sure where I am and I think I'm alright with not knowing.  I do know that on February 14th when I put on my pretty pink dress and paint little hearts on my fingernails I am doing it solely for me.  I'm okay with that.  And when I bake my pink cupcakes I am doing it for the girls in my life who love me with longevity.  And I'm truly content with that.

Happy Valentine's Day to you, whoever you are and wherever you're at.




*I cannot take credit for such a catchy event title as "Cupid is Stupid".  It is a real event hosted by a church I have been known to occasionally frequent.  I think the elders must have forgotten their WWJD bracelets at home on the night this one was planned.

Luscious Cupcakes for a Lovely Lush

I was recently introduced to the growing trend of modeling cupcakes after cocktails and decided to try my hand at it today.  My roommate was all too eager to email me a recipe for margarita cupcakes with the subject line reading, "PLEASE MAKE THESE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE."  I myself hate margaritas or anything else containing tequila for that matter.  I casually broached the subject of turning a different beverage into a baked good only to hear an emphatic, "WHY???"  I should note that I have never actually seen this girl drink a margarita so I'm not quite sure from where this sudden fascination came.  Perhaps it was because her typical drink of choice, blue frost Gatorade with one (or seven) shots of vodka, wouldn't make the most appetizing of cupcakes.  With that in mind, I more than happily obliged to give in to her newfound tequila fixation.


So peruse through the liquor aisle in Albertson's I did, not realizing until later that there is a distinct difference between a bottle of margarita mix and a bottle of pre-made margarita (strong little cupcakes they were).  Then I recalled the book I've been reading off and on for the past year: The Manual.  It really is an easy (and hilarious) read, so I am not completely sure what is taking me so long to get through it.  Anyway, I just finished a chapter on grocery shopping (yes, there is an ENTIRE chapter devoted to the "art" of buying tomatoes) in which the author informed me that men go to grocery stores to pick up women.  That guy in aisle four buying a lone pack of Trident is in fact NOT there for the gum.  It doesn't stop there though.  According to this book, guys are checking out not only the girl herself, but they are also observing the contents of her basket (Is she buying all the ingredients for a meal at once?  That tells him she doesn't cook very often...frown).  Anyway, this little nugget of information that had recently nestled itself into my mind was at the forefront of my thoughts as I pushed a cart filled with sixty dollars worth of liquor and three bags of confectioner's sugar.  I don't think I even want to know what analysis gum whore over there was making about me.  Oh well.  


Anyway, the cupcakes were disgustingly easy to make and turned out marvelously.  Even I, the girl who gagged when measuring out the José, considered going back for a second cupcake.  Needless to say, my roommates and I all highly recommend them.  You can find the recipe here.


As with the denouement of most of my baking endeavors, I opted for my signature chaser: chocolate chip cookies.  I'm still trying to create the perfect chocolate chip cookie and have been toying with different variations on a base recipe I'm quite fond of.  Tonight I completely threw out vanilla in favor of almond extract.  Not my wisest decision.  Perhaps I sampled a little too much margarita batter.  However, not all is lost.  It added an interesting flavor and I think I'll keep a splash of it in for next time.  So, the reject cookies were packed up and sent to work with my roommate - sustenance for her grave shift - and I will soon drift off to sleep with a clear mind, thinking simply of what to bake tomorrow.  Perfect chaser and perfect night cap, if I do say so myself.

Binge Baking

Well, I promised to post on how the pop tarts turned out, so posting I am.  Being that I am not the most decisive creature on the planet I opted to bake both cookies AND pop tarts today.  I also baked little beefy cheesy croissant bites that I am clearly not excited about enough to create a proper name for, but I'll still mention them I suppose.

Anyway, the pop tarts came out better than I had anticipated.  I baked Gruyère into the crust and I am pretty sure I can never bake without it ever again.  Half of the batch boasted Nutella and the other half was filled with cinnamon pear preserves I had whipped up earlier in the day.  I know right now you're doubting how either of those two things could meld with such a flavorful cheese and still be appetizing, but trust me.  Even the picky roommate ate two.

By the time I got around to baking the cookies, I was feeling so jazzed that I decided to branch out.  No more vanilla pudding.  I scrapped it for butterscotch.  I also used bite size toffee bits along with my typical chocolate chunks.  I was pleasantly surprised and my roommates will have happy tummies for a fair few days - success :)

Dad

The oven is fixed.  I am too giddy to know where to begin.  There is something so inviting about the quiet sheen of a melted chocolate chip in a simple round cookie, however the adventurous spunk in me begs to create something I've never done before.  (It often also begs me to change the oil in my car all by myself without the assistance of Pep Boys.  Fortunately, I have enough sense yet to leave the fate of my car in the hands of an Ehow article.)  Well, regardless of what I decide on baking, I have contentedness in the fact that I will be baking today.

So, back to the oven getting fixed.  Yesterday, the father of the perpetrator of the Great Oven Slaying of 2011 came over with a new, intact piece of glass to install.  While we were waiting for said father, one of my roommates made a comment alluding to the fact that she was not 100% convinced that he would be competent in the proper fixing of our oven.  I kind of laughed it off and naively responded that he had to know what he was doing because his title read "Dad."  She just kind of stared at me, trying to figure out how to kindly convey the concept that men don't suddenly gain knowledge of all things in the universe upon successful insemination.  Logically speaking, I suppose this must be true, but I cannot bring myself to fully buy it because I can confidently say that my father knows everything.  It's true.  One year he had eight candles on his cake and was skillfully scaling coconut trees, the next year his cake was gleaming with forty candles, he was my dad, and he held all the secrets of the universe.

I feel I should note that I am not five years old, nor have I created a place for my father in the Trinity.  It's   hyperbole, people.  Stick with me.

I tried explaining this to an ex-boyfriend one time and he smiled at me much like the way one smiles at a child yammering on about the tooth fairy.  He found the notion that I had not yet fully grown into my adult shoes endearing.  What I don't think he realized at that moment in time was that I was developing that same child-like confidence in him and his ability to do anything.  In the end, I was right.  He did know how to do everything, including how to break my heart into more pieces than an oven door.  And therein lies the difference between him and my father, other than him being a democrat and a monotheist and an unappreciative tool.  That last bit was in reference to my ex-boyfriend, not my father.

I digress.  I do that a lot.  I think I do that when there are too many thoughts bumbling about in my head and I haven't quite figured out how to make them cohesive.  I am going to attempt to squish 'em together and hope that they flow.  I'm not being graded on this after all, right?

The past few weeks at work have been rather busy with the close of the fall semester and preparation for the Spring.  Something about the combination of grades and bills being received so close together does not bode well for me each time the phone rings, especially when academic disqualification letters have been thrown into the mix.  In ways it works out alright for me because parents of those students typically are more frustrated with their underachieving sons and daughters than they are with me, but those are my least favorite phone calls to receive.

I cried with a father on the phone last week.  His daughter had been academically disqualified and he was in more distress than he knew how to deal with.  I was not there for the yelling and door slams that disqualification letter probably brought to into their home.  I was simply an outsider on the phone, there to listen and cry and pray with him (and eventually advise too).  Here was a father who clearly loved his daughter beyond words and strained his bank account to somehow make it possible for her to get the kind of education he had always wanted and she threw it back in his face.  Well, at least that was what it felt like to him.

I should probably mention soon that I was a child straight out of hell.  Somehow my parents stuck through it all, never ceasing to love and support, without the knowledge that morning would ever come.  It came.

Anyway, I was there for the angry words exchanged across my own parents' dinner table and the panicked voicemails of calls I had rejected.  On the phone last week, however, I was only a school employee listening to a grieved father - he spoke to me like a fellow adult, not like the wayward daughter that I often feel like.  Here was a father, a man who knows everything and can fix anything, unable to repair his daughter's mistakes.  It was an interesting conversation to be a part of, hearing all the things my own father tried to get me to understand and I couldn't.  Rather, I wouldn't.

This time, dad, I get it.  And I'm sorry.

In the end, though, my dad did fix it.  As cheesy as this sounds and as much as I hate sounding cheesy, he fixed it by loving me through everything and in turn revealing Someone else who also loves me through all my blunders, a Father who truly can fix everything including my heart and my inclination towards deviance.  I don't think I'll ever understand how a non-Christian father can continually point me in the direction of the Christian God, however somehow he always does and for that I couldn't be more thankful.

This post was a little more revealing than intended.  And a little too disjointed.  I may remove it.

Anyway, off to the store to pick up pears!  Pop tarts it is!  I'll let you know how they turn out.  And they will let you know how competent another father is in repairing oven doors.                              

I'll Have a Side of Salmonella with That

I hate irony sometimes.  It figures that the girl whose cupboard boasts four types of sugars and three kinds of chocolate would be the one needing the extensive dental work.  What doesn't figure into it is that I don't typically eat my own confections.  It's a beautiful thing, really.  Baking for catharsis, that is.  By the time a cake is cool and frosted, it has already given me all the pleasure a baked good can offer.  The enjoyment is in its creation, not consumption.  So, in the end, I am left happy and my roommates are left fat.  That's a win-win if I've ever seen one.  However these days I am not feeling like much of a winner.  I feel like a loser.  One who has lost $2400 (or, rather, will be gradually losing it over the next eighteen months).  The best part of this is knowing it is my fault.  I'm not going to lie to you.  I'm trying really hard to [inconspicuously] tip the blame onto someone else's plate (namely my father from whom I received such bad dental genes), but, truth be told, I should have seen this coming.  I have a strong hatred for dentists with their soft, indescript jazz and floss wielding fingers. I hate spitting into that whirring suction funnel, probably because when I was small my sister convinced me that I could be one of the "lucky" children that gets sucked away to a land filled with loose teeth that would gnaw on me all night long. (And people wonder why I slept with a night light till I was 12.) So, I avoid the dentist and his suction cup of doom like the plague and I choose not to floss most nights because the tips of my fingers are quite fond of oxygenated blood. Well, these two things, or, rather, the lack of these two things, have lead to seven dentist appointments in six weeks.


I started the above post a couple months back, fresh off an impromptu root canal. I never got around to finishing it, something that happens to me often, not just when I'm hopped up on Novocaine. Every time I have gone back to finish this one, and others, writer's block rears its ugly head and I sit there, fingers poised above my little laptop ("Lappy", as I tenderly refer to him) waiting for inspiration to hit. It doesn't. I have been itching to post this particular one, however, because I am mesmerized by the number of commas in the final sentence. Five. I like that.


So, I'm just going to go for it and post this one unfinished. Just think of it like munching on raw cookie dough. And even if you are the kind that prefers warm, golden brown cookies over the gooey salmonella-laced kind, you're out of luck. Oven's broken. Sorry. Enjoy the salmonella in all its unfinished glory.

Kellogg's Aint Got Nothin' on Me

I have had the urge to make pop tarts lately.  And by "make" I mean make...not simply toast.  I am not much of a fan of the packaged, store bought variety anyhow.  The crust gets too crunchy, the filling gets too hot, and Goldilocks is not fond of having her mouth scalded and scratched all in one bite.  Plus, the possibilities for fillings are endless: fresh jam, nutella, pesto and cheese, minced pear and Gruyère, etc.  But, alas, our oven is still broken and I am unable to try out possible recipes.  For now, I will have to be content with it simply preheating in my mind and hopefully, after having kneaded, baked, and glazed dozens of imaginary pop tarts, my first real life batch will hold perfection.

In the meantime, I have been furiously spending my energy on the Stairmaster.  This past weekend I went to the gym no less than five times.  I should probably note that it was a long weekend and I'm considering Friday to be a part of said weekend.  I should probably also note that that this kind of commitment to is somewhat very much out of character for me.  I have had this gym membership (thanks, mom and dad) for seven months now and haven't gone in four.  About four months ago gravity and concrete got into a fight and I was a casualty.  Concussed, the doctor restricted me from the gym for six weeks.  Being that my brain is rather important to me, I decided to be extra careful and take an additional ten weeks to give my cranium adequate time to heal.  If my brain doesn't want to go to the gym, who am I to argue with it?  

At the end of the day, however, I can't hide from the truth. My oven bailed on me, my bank account hates me (yours would too after four grand in dental bills in three months... but that's a post for another day), my swim wear is fearing the warm months ahead, and I am in need something to expel all my pent up energy on.  My answer has been exceedingly clear: dig out the sneakers (and Icy Hot), brush the cobwebs off my yoga mat, and brave being talked to by sweaty gym rats.  Thus far, it has gone really well.  It would have gone really really well if I had not attempted the advanced poses in my very first day of yoga (I'm Indian...aren't mad yoga skills inherent?).  None of that matters now, however.  I am feeling rather zen about life and about the oven situation.  Plus, the back spasms have subsided, the oven parts have been shipped, I get paid in three days, and life seems to be returning back to normal.  Well, normal with enough surprise jolts thrown in to keep me excited...much like biting into a pop tart expecting fake mucus-like strawberry substance and instead finding a warm blueberry compote with a cream cheese glaze drizzled delicately over the top.  Oh goodness, who am I kidding?  Anyone know how to expedite mail that has already been shipped?                     

Ode.

To the girl who told me I would look ugly today after sleeping only 3.47 hours last night:  Don't underestimate the power of a tube of good mascara and a well-fitting herringbone skirt.

To the girl who haphazardly wore black lace tights the day after a diy pink glitter rockstar manicure: Not even herringbone can redeem that "office tramp" getup you've got going on.  Your twenty-three year old face may still look adequately bright and cheery after a night of little sleep and coat of Bad Gal Lash, but your ability to choose a work appropriate outfit is grossly diminished.  Sleep.  It does the body good.   

 

Glass and Tears and Deviled Eggs

For the very first time I came home from work in tears.  It was rather curious to me that today would be the day to bring the waterworks having not been wrought with screaming parents nor having received over one hundred phone messages (welcome to last week).  I guess it makes moderate sense to me, as there have been a few unexpected tumults as of late on this road called my life.  However, it wasn't the aforementioned stressors that did me in.  Oh no. Blame the biscuits.  Whilst driving home from work, Jack Johnson softly strumming his guitar in the background, I decided to bake cheddar bay biscuits (think Red Lobster) to go with dinner (a dinner that, at that point, consisted solely of a bottle of two buck Chuck).  And then it hit me: I can't bake anymore.

Oops.  Time to rewind.    

Our oven is broken.  A friend of my roommate was over at the house the other day and decided to clean the oven.  Well, really she decided to make the oven clean itself.  I've never actually used the whole "self clean" feature probably because the idea of little metallic hands coming to life out of the inner recesses of my favorite kitchen appliance to scrub away casserole remains frightens me.  This girl is fearless, however, and not only did she opt to brave the wretched little oven fingers, she also wanted a front row seat.  Open the door she did and when a drop of tepid water pinged against the 900 degree pane of glass, it revolted.  Our oven has no glass.  I have no outlet.

It doesn't sit well with me to be angry with someone over a mistake I could easily see myself making.  In fact, if it had been me, I probably would have tripped over a rogue apron string, spilling a whole cup of ice water on the precarious oven door.  What a fun sound (and trip to the E.R.) that would have made.  At any rate, the oven is out of commission and so is my ability to handle life (and my brain), apparently.  All eight roommates are fearfully sleeping with locked doors.  (I'm going to pause right here while you wrap your mind around nine girls in one house.  Everyone needs it - no need to be ashamed.  Yes, we all happen to be single at this brief moment in time.  No, you may not bring all your homeboys over.)

I sat in my empty driveway long enough to replay track 7 four times, long enough for my neighbor to drown his hydrangea bush while gawking at me, and long enough to come up with a new game plan: deviled eggs.  Yep.  Deviled eggs.  No baking required.  Tasty as they may be, I had greater plans for these eggs.  Watch this.  Yup.  That's exactly right.  Well, not really.  I have talked about devil egging someone's car for months and months now.  Years, probably, in fact.  It has never actually happened, half because I am above the age of fifteen, as are all of my friends, and half because I know deep down that hurting someone for three minutes will only deepen the hurt I feel, no matter how much they may supposedly deserve it.  It won't bring me any real satisfaction, nor will it bring me any actual catharsis.  Even fantasizing about hurting people who have have hurt me has only brought me pain.  I suppose the fact that I am still grasping this means that not all of my mind crumbled with the oven door.  So, for now I just watch Gilmore Girls and let them do all the maladaptive behaviors I long to have the strength to do, all the while knowing that not doing them is strength in itself.  Or is that just something a timid person tells oneself to feel less pathetic?

On another note, anyone know how to fix a broken oven door?