Back to Basics. Making crepes.

-Pastry perfection.-

I tend to be wary of crepes. I love them, but I just happen to have a habit of burning them as if I were knitting tissue paper over an open flame. Dodgy business these crepes.

Admittedly, at times I have a tendency to simply skirt away from certain challenges as if stealing away from disapproving parents in the middle of the night, not bothering to even leave a note. Most of my life I'm happy to meet a challenge. Yet there are always those lesser confrontations; ones where neither your future nor your reputation on the line. Some of them don't even bother to address you, instead happy to lay a deck chair out in the middle of the road and wait for you to drive around them simply because, let's face it, it's easier for both of you that way.

Unemployed: Hazelnut-Apple Cake

-A little note about this post: I wrote this shortly after I became unemployed and decided not to post it while I was job hunting because it was best that way for obvious reasons. As of today, the day this post is going up, I am starting a new job that I'm extremely excited about. So yayness.-

As of the day I'm writing this, January 3, it's been almost a week since I was rather unceremoniously let go from my job. It was with sincere regret on the part of my employer, bereavement on my own part, and just a general sense that, suddenly, the floor was collapsing beneath me and an unfathomable plummet was imminent.

It was. Is, I suppose.

I left my old job in adoption services and foster care at a lovely little nonprofit a little over three months ago. It was a rather difficult move as I loved the mission, my co-workers, and the people we worked with but in the end a massive reorganization and other upheavals had left me feeling somewhat panicked and rudderless like a dinghy plunging to the center of Charbydis. I felt the need to move onward and upward to a place where there was a bit more room to grow.

With the recommendations of some incredibly kind friends I landed an interview for a job at a local nonprofit of sorts. More like a nonprofit bank, really. It was with a well-respected changemaker in the region with the ability to influence the region and that had come across my radar numerous times.  I was thrilled at the opportunity and salivated at the prospect - the first and only one I had come across in my recent months of search. With little investigation or research I updated my resume and shot off an email to the executive director.

I was, according to the job description, more than overqualified for. They wanted two years experience (I have nine), a Associates Degree (I received my Masters), and the ability to stay organized (OCD, motherfuckers). I absolutely decimated the interviews to the point that I knew that I would be offered the job.

A few days later the call came in with an offer and a salary that was more than I had anticipated. I eagerly agreed.

Just. Stop.: Eggnog Upside-Down Fruit Cake

-Because sometime venting helps me...-

"So how did the parsnip recipe work this time?" asked my friend and cookbook partner, Stephanie.

"Not so good. The first was too rich. The second was tasted like nothing at all. The third actually set off the smoke alarm." I sighed. "Honestly, if this recipe goes any farther south I'll be cooking in Mexico. I am beyond stressed right now."

"Mexican Mac and Cheese? Hmm..."

"Oooh. Yes. Jot that down. But, anyways, Mutual Friend X keeps bugging me. He can't cook at all. At. All. He wants to help test and to be honest I don't think he can handle it."

"Mutual Friend X couldn't handle a shot of raspberry schnapps."

"HA! Awesome. But yeah, when you come up I want your help working on this one because I am about to seriously go apeshit with these parsnips and club a bitch in the throat with one. I highly doubt the publisher wants that sort of PR."

"All press is good press, right?"

"Unless you're a despot or being profiled in People magazine for stretch marks or something."

"Indeed," she concurred.

-In this issue of People: celebrities who need your undying attention.-

Roommate Hunting: Coco-Banana Bread

-That one time in life where you have to let strangers into your home. And then live with them.-

"i am would liking to know if te room is still 4 rent? please send picture, address, phone number, full name to me so i can do need some research on the place. please consider the House mine. -Jessica"

Reading it I could actually feel a small part of my brain wretch as small blood clot formed from pure frustration struck it. In fact, I'm pretty sure I lost some grade school algebra in a small grammatically-induced stroke.

I deleted the e-mail that was most likely a scam anyways. I then edited the Craigslist ad I had put up, and with no dramatic rapidity or concern added the word "intelligent" into the description of the would-be roommate Fiance and I were hunting for.

I'm sorry, but if I have to live with someone then that person better have a firm grasp of syntax and punctuation.

The search for a new roommate - a situation brought about through fiscal necessity as Fiance and I were eager to start scrimping away more fervently for a down payment - had never been this hard before. Then again, the last time I was hunting for a roommate the economy was good and Bravo had yet to start airing anything starring an attention-whoring housewife. There were simply far fewer ads on Craigslist to compete with for potential roommates.

Of course, those who did seem to read the ad weren't exactly the ones who fit the description. In fact, I imagine that none of the potential applicants had actually read it in full. I use the word "potential" rather literally. Only one person have I actually deemed to meet and that one was more out of desperation than anything else. For the most part many of the applicants are failing to get past the preliminary phone conversation or e-mail due in part to grammar so blunt you could club a horse to death with it; or phone skills that demonstrate a third grade education, a drinking problem, or both.

-It's what happens when teacher drinks too much before class.-

The ad reads pretty darn simple. Clean gay couple with two cats. No drugs. You pay rent on time. Clean neighborhood. Attic and a washer and dryer are available. So on and so forth. Overall, it's the place I would have loved to live in but couldn't afford seven years ago. Thus, by my standards, it's a room in a house that people should be knocking down the door for.

Instead, I get people who call and ask about thier pet dog.

"The ad did say no pets," I replied. "I suppose if the dog is trained..."

"Well he's an inside dog, but he only poops on the floor every so often. He also hates cats."

"Everything you just said is a problem," I replied.

"The pooping or the cats?"

"Yes."

"You have cats then?" he asked.

I sighed audibly. "It's in the ad that I do. They are indoor cats."

"Can you put them outside?"

There are times, in fact, when it is perfectly acceptable to just hang up on someone and it not be considered rude.

Sometimes Creativity Wins Out: Rosemary Walnuts

-You know those recipes that take only two minutes of your time to make? I love those recipes.-

There is no rhubarb to be had in Sacramento.

Seriously, I’ve looked everywhere. I combed the aisles of the Farmer’s Markets and called every super market and Co-Op in two counties and I’ve come up empty-handed.

BF’s sister insists that she just bought some at Raley’s market the other day, but my own queries result in confused produce boys who have no idea what I was talking about and who swore they nary a stalk had graced their aisles. This leads me to wonder if either the produce boys are simply confused or liars. Another theory is that BF’s sister is having a laugh at my own expense. Perhaps she simply doesn’t know rhubarb from red kale? The latter would be most depressing as she’s a professional baker and, thus, she should know better. Furthermore, if this is the case, I would assume her “rhubarb” pie to be just terrible.

It’s April, though. It must be out there somewhere. It’s like hunting for a four leaf clover in a field. You know they exist; you just have to get on your hands and knees and search. Still, I’m not sure I want to pluck every green strand of grass looking for one. Sometimes you just have to call it quits.

This particularly sucks because the last three posts were supposed to feature rhubarb. (Well, four, now.) No firm stalks sitting on any tables or displays signaling to me in neon fuchsia brighter than a 1980’s track suit. I was happy to settle for the pale seawater green variety that admittedly tastes the same but lacks the colorful pop. Yet, there was nothing.

-Pictured: Epic Creativity.-

So, instead, I decided to just get creative. This is something that sometimes works out and sometimes causes small kitchen fires or the shellacking of the bottom of my oven in a black carbon crust that used to be something edible, like sugar or cream.

I began my culinary snipe hunt for inspiration by tumbling through the cupboards checking labels and looking through half used bags of fruits and coconut flakes. Eventually, I was going so far back into the reaches of the pantry that I was practically in Narnia before I remembered that my friend, Blair, an eneologist and farmer with an all-American appearance, had gifted me a huge bag of walnuts from his parent’s orchard.

On the counter below sat a small bunch of fresh rosemary given to me by another friend. Normally, I left rosemary out to hang in the kitchen and perfume the room, something I learned in college as a way to combat stinky roommates. I wasn’t sure what Paul had done to this particular plant but it had to be wrapped up at all times. To free it from its plastic confines was to make the entire kitchen smell like every tree in Tahoe was having an orgy in my kitchen. I love the piney scent of rosemary but this smelled like every nefarious needle was intent on going up my nose and stabbing my brain.

I decided then and there to combine the two. I had plans to serve some cheese as an appetizer to some guests that night having come into a precocious wedge of Nicasio Reserve in Davis and still having a hunk of Maytag blue on hand. I figured a complimentary snack of rosemary roasted walnuts would make for a sensational accompaniment.

-These will also pair well with most other cheeses and plenty of cured meats.-

I gave the rosemary a fine mince before tossing it into a bowl with the walnuts, a dash of cayenne, some olive oil, and a bit of melted butter because why not add butter? A flick of kosher salt and a few grinds of pepper finished it off.

The smell as it baked was warm and coniferous. It was impossible not to be invigorated from it. It was as if the kitchen were converted to an aromatherapy studio and the green perfume made the air seductive and clarifying. Indeed, the roasting walnuts were electric to the senses.

It was hard to remember why I had any longing for rhubarb after these little treats. Salty, verdant, and with a flavor that’s wise and husky like voice of someone’s aging grandfather. So yeah… to heck with the rhubarb. Sometimes creativity and a sack of walnuts just win out.


Rosemary Roasted Walnuts
Recipe adapted from Willow Pond Herbs

1 pound walnuts
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons butter, melted
3 tablespoons fresh rosemary leaves, well chopped
pinch of cayenne pepper
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
a few grinds of fresh pepper

Preheat over to 325°F. Place all the ingredients in a bowl and toss to mix. Spread on a baking sheet large enough to hold the nuts in a single layer. Bake for 20-25 minutes being sure to stir once or twice. Cool on a wire rack for 10 minutes. Serve right away or at room temperature. Store in an airtight container for up to 2 weeks. Makes about 2 cups.

Saturday Morning: Vanilla-Maple Granola

-Up and at them, George McFadden. It's daylight in the swamp!-

“Wake up.”

It’s eleven o’clock and BF is still under the covers trying to sleep. “Trying” is the key word as by this time on a Saturday I, Roommate, and the cats are all going about our business. The cats are bouncing all over the place running into one room to stop and freak out before dashing to the next, I’m usually cooking with reruns of Sex and the City or Xena blasting in the background, and Roommate may or may not be on the phone loudly chattering away like a chipmunk with a megaphone.

This morning might be exceptionally hard for BF as I sit on his stomach and grin at him, plodding him to finally get out of bed. Of course, it isn’t as bad as the mornings where I rush in in an exaggerated chipper attitude, yank open the curtains to let the light in, and beam in a sing-songy voice, “Rise and shine! It’s a beautiful day! It’s the first day of the rest of your life!” and so on. I’m like Julie Andrews on ecstasy. It is hilarious. At least to me.

My mom did this way too many times to me as a child to wake me up for school. Generally, I would just roll over and throw the covers over my head and dream of her falling down a well. If she was really in the mood to harass me she would go the extra step and whip the covers off me and barrage me with kisses, and hugs, and affirmations of how much she loved me. By that point the only thing I was self-affirming was matricide.

As an adult though, yes, being on the giving end of this is endlessly fun.

BF, however, just sort of gives me empty look and sighs. He resigned himself to my eccentricities some time ago. Now he just puts up with it and settles for getting me back at some point when he’s more awake. This usually takes the form of waking me up in some terrifying manner (that time he pretended to be a burglar easily chopped a few years off my lifespan) or creeping up on me and swatting me on the butt hard with enough force to cause physiscits to study us.

Lucky for me, I have food to mollify him.

-Open wide!-

“Open,” I command while pushing food into his face.

“What is it?” he yawns. He scrounges his face trying to adjust his eyes and analyze what is being forced on him.

‘Questions, questions. Too many questions. When I have ever fed you something weird by surprise?” (Weird with warning, yes, many times. Never by surprise.) “Now eat.”

He opens and I pop it in his mouth. He begins to chew and I leave before even getting a response.

I know that he is no longer annoyed. In fact, he’ll probably, finally, wake up and start his day like the rest of us.

“It’s homemade granola!” I shout back before he can ask what it is.

-I mean, really, isn't it obvious what it is?-

I plop back on the couch to watch some more TV as I wait for the granola to cool. The recipe is one of the best out there as far as I’m concerned. I strong-armed it out of one of the line cooks at Grange during my internship there before taking it home and tinkering with it a bit. A bit of vanilla bean, some orange zest, and heavy hand of coconut makes it one of the simplest and most epic recipe in my repertoire. In fact, this granola is downright addictive, which is why I don’t make it all the time. Otherwise, I would be fat from oats and dried fruit.

A few minutes later BF stumbles into the kitchen and begins hunting for the top of the French press. Depending on who unloaded it the night before it can be in one of three places. Today it’s behind the coffee cups. I feel it’s a logical place as opposed to next to the wine glasses where BF puts it, or next to the coffee where Roommate thinks it’s most appropriate. After finding it he puts some water in the kettles and sets it to heat before turning and looking at the tray of cooling cereal.

“That was good granola,” he mumbles out and smiles. He grabs a handful and heads out to the patio for his morning e-cigarette session.

“FANK-voo!” my mouth full of milk and granola. My parents would be so proud to see how those etiquette classes sunk in.

A few minutes later we both sit down for lunch to a bowl of granola and raw, whole milk from the Farmers’ Market. We pop on an episode of Family Guy and let the cats come cuddle up and get a proper start on another Saturday.


Vanilla-Maple Granola

4 cups rolled oats
3/4 cup almonds, chopped
3/4 cup flaked coconut
3/4 cup maple syrup
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 vanilla bean, seeds scraped out
2 T orange juice
2 T orange zest
3/4 cup dried cherries
1/2 cup dried apricots

1. Preheat your oven to 350º and adjust the top rack to the middle of the oven. Place the oats, coconut, and almonds in a large bowl. Whisk together the maple syrup, vanilla bean seeds and pod, orange juice and zest, and brown sugar in a saucepan and place over medium heat until almost smooth.

2. Pour syrup mixture over oats and stir gently to combine and the oats are well coated. Spread out onto a baking sheet lined with parchment paper or foil. Bake for twenty minutes. Cool completely. (If some of the granola is still sticky and wet bake it for another 7-10 minutes.) Break into pieces and add the dried fruit. Store in an airtight container.

Good Dates and Bad Dates: Date-Nut Bread Recipe

-A good cure for a bad date. Though giving the date a swift kick to the shin is equally good.-

There had been a few warning signs, sure, and normally I would have ended the date by now. However, when your friends chastise you for being too damn picky you have to try your best to be a bit more tolerant. Then again, when you first meet someone its hard to tell what parts of a person are simply quirks and what might be the characteristics of a wacked-out, Xenu worshiping, has a skin suit sewed from his victims psychopath.

I had only ended a four year relationship about ten months before and had recently decided that it was time to put myself out there and see who the world had to offer. Of course, it had taken a while to get to a point where dating felt right again. Well, as right as dating ever can feel. I had learned a few months earlier that I wasn't ready when I had gone out to meet a friend for lunch and catching up. It was a semi-date of sorts. We had been friends for seven years and always had a mutual attraction towards each other. Considering that we were both now single we decided to give it a shot. The semi-date ended when in the middle of getting to second base on my couch I broke out into a bout of uncontrollable sobbing. Hardly a turn on, but definetly a sign that at the time I wasn't ready to move on.

A few months later, sobbing and emotions now in complete control, I was ready to broach the dating scene. I was all spiffy and raring to meet the men this time. I was slick in some new clothes, had begun to style my hair a bit differently, and began to embrace some aspects of my old social life that had been yearning to breathe in my claustrophobic relationship the past few years. I was ready to conquer the world, or so I said in my online dating profile.

Of course, I learned quickly that most online meet-up sites simply aren't gay relationship oriented. In fact, probably about 99% of them are geared towards finding a guy in the closest proximity who is looking to get off. I found that using these sites weren't conducive to finding someone who likes long walks and isn't tied down, as much they were to finding guys who like long shlongs and being tied down with rope. Not that that wasn't useful some nights.

-Deglet Noor dates have a delicious root beer flavor and are perfect for baking. Brown sugar-y Medjool dates are more widely available though.-

Still, the dating scene wasn't exactly filled with hopeful prospects, like cracking open eggs and finding each and every one rotten inside to the point where you dread the foul possibilities contained in the next. Sure, there would be the occassional date where there was simply no connection. A fine situation I simply accepted, though I was fortunate enough that a few of those people are now good friends.

Then there would be the ones where after a few dates I realized it wasn't going to work. I admit I was an ass in those situations as my usual tactic was simply to completely cut off all lines of communication. This meant never returning calls, e-mails, or text messages. The person simply stopped existing to me.

It was only after a guy I was interested in did the same to me that I realized how much it hurt. Not like a sharp sting when someone simply ends it or turns you down at a bar, but a dull pain like a day-old bruise, purple and mottled. I vowed from then on to always end things in person.

Every so often there would be a truly bad date. At a food conference in Napa my friend Ashley had planned to set me up with a friend of hers at an exclusive after party. It would be my first blind date and while I was eager and nervous, and though all my gut instincts told me to tell her no, I went along with it. After all, shouldn't everyone experience the social phenomenon of the blind date at least once in their life?

The answer is no. No, everyone shouldn't. The guy was nice enough but after three minutes we realized that we had absolutely nothing in common and nothing to speak about, nor were we physically attracted to one another. As it was, we both spent the next three hours doing our best to socialize at the complete opposite corners of the very tiny room.

Of course, there were other bad dates. Many bad dates. So many that at one point I had decided to never go out again. I would raise my standards so high that they would put Japanese high school entrance exams to shame. This was both good and bad. It was good in that the number of bad dates I went on reduced dramatically. However, it was bad in the fact that I now became almost impossible to please.

My friends pointed out that I was being a bit impractical. It was unfair to not call a guy back because he had a bad haircut. Possibly, it could have been cruel to dump someone over the fact that they didn't know what the capital of South Korea was, a factor I interpreted as not being geopolitically aware. Maybe it was mean to end a date early with a lie that my dad was in the hospital because my date insisted that the Spice Girls were overrated during the nineties. (I'm still not willing to bend on that one. A boy has his standards.)

-Perfect in the morning with some English Breakfast tea.-

To quell the insistent lecturing of my friends I decided to be a bit more lax. I would lower the bar a bit and maybe pass some people that I might otherwise reject. Plus, I realized I really was being a bit too finicky and cooking for one was beginning to get a bit tiresome as leftovers truly do lose their charm after you start eating the same curry for the fifth day in a row.

His name was James, the date in question that started this post. We had met through a mutual acquaintance at a party and after some time chatting he asked me out. James was an event planner and he wrote the astrological forecasts for the local paper. To me both of these were red flags. At the time I considered event planner as simply a job that one developed after graduating college in Communications. (A wedding planner friend of mine has proven me quite wrong in this regard.) As for his firm belief in astrology, well, I have trouble believing that giant balls of gas billions of light years away that sort of make a shape if you squint and use your imagination have any feasible bearing on the condition of your life, and that basing your decisions on them is silly at the least and irresponsible at best.

Putting my first impressions aside however, I decided to go out on the date. James seemed nice enough and he was handsome in an outgrown hipster sort of way with his over-bleached hair and jeans so skinny they looked like they were his natural skin.

He arrived to pick me up from my apartment and surprised me with a few gifts. A bundle of incense sticks and a hexagonal mirror covered in Chinese symbols. Again, red flags to me, as anything that remotely resembles what my dad would call "out there ideas" like healing crystals or UFO trackers seemed a bit too crazy hippie to me. However, I realized that both were just kind gestures. These were a personal and new age bouquet of flowers. I was touched, if not a bit confused, and thanked him for the gifts. I put the mirror, apparently one specially designed in a feng shui manner, above the door in order to block negative chi. I secretly gave the incense to my roommate as incense smoke often made me sneeze uncontrollably.

-Thankfully, I no longer have to date anymore. Nowadays, I just have to try and get BF to stop playing video games long enough to help me clean the apartment.-

As we were about to leave he asked to excuse himself for a moment. Wondering if I had done something to scare him off he insisted that he just had to have a quick smoke and I told him he could use the patio outside. He thanked me, went outside, and, rather than open a pack of cigarettes, he proceeded to whip out a pipe and a bag of hash and quickly huffed down a bit of Hawaiian Skunk. A strain, he told me later, that could run $120 an ounce.

This would normally have ended the date right then and there. Honestly, I don't care if a person smokes tobacco or marijuana. However, I consider smoking a bowl right in front of your date to be just plain rude. I doubt such a situation is covered in any guide on etiquette, but I was sure that Emily Post wouldn't have approved his actions.

We went out to dinner, a nice place for Moroccan food in downtown Sacramento that I had always wanted to go to. As we talked we began to chat about our jobs and hobbies and all the stuff you go on about when you first get to know someone. All seemed to be going well and I had put the minor reefing incident aside and decided that maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

That was until he excused himself again. "Bathroom?" I asked.

"Just going to smoke another bowl real quick in my car," he replied.

"Oh! Uh, okay."

What else could I say? So I waited by myself at the table. I sat down and began to nibble furiously at the plate of dates that we had ordered. It was, I think, the first time I had ever really eaten them, as an adult. My dad chopped them up into oatmeal when we were kids but I never really focused on their flavor before. I marveled at the silliness of eating dates on a date, but was more intrigued with their butterscotch aroma and root-beer flavor. These particular dates had been filled with cheese and wrapped in bacon, then quickly grilled so that their sugar caramelized to compliment all the salt. I doubted if this was authentic Berber cuisine, but I was happy none the less and the dates took my mind off my date's absence.

He came back, a little more pungent than before and we continued eating and talking. Twenty minutes later he excused himself again. Just for a quick joint he told me.

-I had another bad date once where the guy's boyfriend called him in the middle of our dinner. I just got up and left after that.-

All and all he ditched me eight times to go smoke out in his car. This wasn't simply someone who smoked every now and again; this was full-on, hardcore addiction. Most smokers can go an entire meal without having to break for a cigarette. This guy was huffing down pot like there was a pot of gold at the end of each roach.

When I asked him about it he got defensive. I let it go and tolerated the rest of the awkward meal. Once the check was paid I requested that he take me home and that I drive since I simply didn't feel safe with him behind the wheel. After a small argument that ended with him walking into a glass door, he handed me his keys and I drove his ancient Ford Pinto back to my place. At home I thanked James for a lovely dinner but explained that I didn't think this would work out. He called me stuck up and left. I assume to buy more pot.

My roommate creeped out from his room after hearing the commotion and asked how the night went. "Not a total loss," I replied. "That date may have sucked, but I found plenty more that I can't wait to have again."

The following morning I went to the store and picked up some dates and began to cook and bake with them with vigor. They seemed to cure my dating woes and spice up my meals, giving them a richness I never knew they lacked before. Chicken cooked with lemon and dates, date and buttermilk pie, and good old fashioned date-nut bread. A simple comfort that helped adjust me to what seemed might be a longer single life than I had imagined, and that was okay.

However, it seemed the mirror was helping out a bit, too, as the number of bad dates I had dropped dramatically. I guess there is something to reflecting all that bad chi. Well, and the bad dates.


Date-Nut Bread

This recipe is from the ever effervescent Dorie Greenspan, who is as sweet as the dates used in this bread. I have yet to find a better recipe for date-nut bread. This came from her epic tome, Baking: From My Home to Yours.

2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature
3 ounces cream cheese, room temperature
3/4 cup (packed) brown sugar
4 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
1 cup dates, chopped
1 cup walnuts, chopped

1. Center a rack in the oven and preheat to 325F. Grease and flour a 9X5 loaf pan and place the pan on an insulated baking sheet.

2. Whisk together the flour, baking powder, and salt. Set aside.

3. Beat together the butter and cream cheese for 2 minutes on medium-high until light and fluffy. Add the sugar and beat for another 3 minutes. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating for a minute each. Add the extracts and beat another 30 seconds. The mixture will look curdled but don't fret. Reduce mixer speed to low and add the flour mixture. Mix together until just combined. Fold in the dates and nuts and turn into the pan.

4. Bake for 40 minutes. Then cover the top loosely with a foil sheet and bake for another 40 minutes, until the top is golden brown and a cake tester comes out clean. Cool on a wire rack for 10 minutes before taking the loaf out of the pan and cooling completely. Best the next day once the flavors have melded.

Saying Yes to German Chocolate Cake

-Contrary to the name this cake is mysterious in origin.-

I often say yes without thinking about what it is I'm saying yes to. It's something that's gotten me into trouble more often than I care to admit.

For example, there was that time in college when the housing department put on a Tunnel of Oppression event and I had agreed to preform as a Nazi. They asked me because I had a stereotypical German look due to my blue eyes, pale skin, and at the time my hair was still Children of the Corn white-blonde as opposed to the dirty-blonde it's shifted to in the past few years. I said yes because I had to ingratiate myself to housing so I could get a job the following year as a Resident Advisor; a job I really wanted. I would have said yes had they asked me to run naked through the Student Union.

I spent the entire night screeching horrible things to people in German. What I screamed was not only horrible because of the content of what I was saying, but also because I didn't speak German. Each stomach-turning phrase I knew I had only learned an hour earlier so every word I said sounded like I had beaten it to death with an old chain. (Years later, I still know those phrases. When I visited Austria, I had no idea how to ask for directions to the bathroom, but once there those phrases yelled out loud would clear a line for the toilet in no time.)

Between all of this I would screech a well placed "Schnell!" (mainly because I could say that word without it sounding like I jammed it through a meat grinder) and push around people in the tour groups. This played brutality was actually a welcomed respite from the room itself, which had been fashioned to look like a death camp. What made it so bad was that multiple televisions around the room that were playing the most horrifying scenes from movies like Boys Don't Cry and American History X, and clips from a graphic documentary on WWII extermination camps in continuous loops. They were meant to traumatize and demonstrate to the audience the kind of violence that minority groups face.

By the end of the night I was so traumatized by these images that I ended up spending the entire night alone in my dorm room sucking on lozenges for my sore throat, and terrified that if I left the room a gang armed with aluminum bats would bash me into a coma.

Then there was the time in high school I told a bunch of friends that I knew how to do the choreography from Michael Jackson's Thriller. A total lie said only to up my cool points in high school. The next day they asked me to teach it to them at a party the following night. Unable to come up with a decent excuse (for the record, I've never actually been a good liar) I left for the video store and rented a collection of Jackson's music videos. At home I played and replayed the music video - which I had never actually seen until that night - memorizing every single dance move so I could make good on my fibbing and make it truth.

Though, given, I did pull it off. That leaves me to question of whether I actually, in fact, did lie.

-Filling and ganache. Please, readers, if you make this cake don't start just eating these with a spoon like I did.-

Knowing all this it shouldn't be a surprise that when Roommate asked if I knew how to make a German chocolate cake and, if so, would I make him one for his birthday that I replied with an emphatic "Yes!" The moment he was out the door I ran to my cookbook shelf. Sadly, all of them were German chocolate cake-less, so I hopped online and Googled the hell out of it.

For the most part I knew it had something to do with coconut in some pecan-colored mash. (Were there pecans in this cake? I think so...) I recalled that this kind of cake was supposed to be a few layers high and I gathered there was chocolate frosting involved. Second guessing myself as I waited for the results to load I realized that the only vague picture I had of a German chocolate cake probably came from the dessert menu of a Denny's when I was twelve.

Wikipedia popped up with a simple explanation of the recipe, noting "German chocolate cake is a layered chocolate cake filled and topped with a coconut-pecan frosting. Sweet baking chocolate is traditionally used for the chocolate flavor in the actual cake, but few recipes call for it today. The filling and/or topping is a caramel made with egg yolks and evaporated milk; once the caramel is cooked, coconut and pecans are stirred in. Occasionally, a chocolate frosting is spread on the sides of the cake and piped around the circumference of the layers to hold in the filling."

Simple enough.

-Normally, I wouldn't suggest chocolate cake be served on white linen. But, damn, if it isn't pretty.-

However, the first thing I realized upon reading this was that German chocolate cake could in no way be German due to the pecans, which are nuts native to North America. My friends in Europe tell me that pecans are all the rage in France and Austria right now as the countries only just started importing them. My friend, Nikita, an Austrian citizen and mercurial girl who frequently travels to Germany told me that it's a dessert she's only seen stateside.

Another possibility is that the cake might be named for German chocolate. Before WWII, German chocolate was considered peerless. Only during and after the war did many countries stop using it. Attitudes shifted and people and began to see the Swiss as the most talented chocolatiers. Maybe its original, creator was German in decent and, after using some new world ingredients with and some decidedly European techniques, decided to christen it after the family homeland? Is that what made it German? Who knows?

But, no, German chocolate cake couldn't be, and isn't, German.

A bit more research brought up other information to light. The first recorded reference to the recipe was supposedly in 1957 and it was created by a Texan housewife. Thus, it seems German chocolate cake is most likely Texan in origin. Surprise, surprise. Apparently, you're more likely to have it with barbecue than schnitzel. However, recorded buttermilk chocolate cake recipes have existed since the early 1920s, so there may very well have been some earlier versions of this cake in the United States.

So I wondered, was I really making a German chocolate cake? Could it simply be telling a hopeful fib? This cake was claiming something in it's identity that it couldn't seem to back up. It seemed that we would be colluding together, this cake and me. The cake, its name; and me, my claim.

Now, the reason I said yes was due to my being all ego'd up after my externship. After pounding out 200 blue cheesecakes I figured that one simple chocolate cake wouldn't be a problem. I'll be the first to admit that I can be a bit egotistic, not to mention narcissistic and attention hungry. You see, without constant reassurance and praise I wither and die. It's a fact. This all results in me possessing a mouth that often bites off more than it can chew leading to my self-inflicted suffering and possible humiliation. All well worth the risk to garner praise and appreciation.

-Chocolate, coconut, pecans, and a hint of bourbon. Yes.-

Still, it's a cake. It couldn't be that hard. A quick drive to the store and back and I took to my task. Though the cake consisted of many different parts (e.g. frosting, filling, cake, and syrup) it was all relatively easy. After an hour or so the cake was completed. Four layers high, packed with coconut-pecan filling, and a hearty ganache poured over it, it made for a stylish and rustic-chic cake.

Looking at it in its completed form brought up many questions: Did I lie? Did I simply fib? Is there a difference?

I had said that I could make this cake without being fully sure if I could. Given, it wasn't like this was an artsy wedding cake for the princess of Monaco. I possessed the skills required and knew how to put this cake together without having ever actually done it before. The failure rate was significantly low. Either way, I had said yes being only 99% sure I could do it. Yet, isn't that how sure we usually are in life? I can only think of a few times that I really felt 100% about anything and truly believed it.

And then there was the cake. German. A misnomer. The cake was a lie. A tasty lie, but a lie none the less.

Lie or not, misnomer or otherwise, it's a delicious cake. One that can be served after sauerbraten or ribs and still please all at the table. It brings to light the questionable nature of truth or lies, the confusion of history, and the grey areas both in our lives and our food. A perfect cake for such a curious topic. Though, once you begin to eat it, I doubt you'll care one way or the other.

So, in the end, aying yes with haste may get you in trouble. But other times, especially when those times include cake, it can be worth the risk.

Update: It seems, that I missed a clear piece of research that many of my commenters do know. German chocolate cake was based on a recipe using chocolate made by a guy named Samuel German in 1852, hence the name. His method and factory were bought by Bakers™ Chocolate later on. It seems afterwards that the history of the cake got a little lost. At least, it seems, to my generation of bakers. (Probably, just me though.) Seems I just don't have the right history books on my shelves.

So, maybe the cake isn't a lie. Still, the name is probably one that will confuse and confound many generations of bakers (and, as my friend Nikita points out, many German people). Regardless, the cake still stands as a shining example of chocolate decadence and the twisting turns of history.

-Cake. Post-Party. In the end, does it matter what we call it?-

-Decicious layers of pecans, coconut, and chocolate.-

Reclaimed

-"Can I help you?"-

We all toss our old junk for various reasons (other than the fact that it's old junk). Spring cleaning usually gets a lot of us. Sometimes we're rummaging stuff out of the attic for our parents. Other times we're digging through boxes of our childhood belongings, turning over each gold starred assignment or beaten Christmas present from way-back-when to absorb and rekindle any old memories attached to it before sending it to the curb or to be dropped of for donation.

I mostly donate out of laziness and to pad my tax return a bit. Not the most philanthropic motivation but the good is done. I never donate clothes with holes in them and certainly never give them anything broken. I only donate what might actually make the Salvation Army a buck (a buck probably being on the high side). Still, whenever I donate I do hope that whoever ends up with it will find some use and pleasure in it.

Argue all you want that things don't bring happiness. They do. And since these things we part with often have offered some modicum of happiness in our lives it's reasonable enough to want them to do the same for others.

That's where I introduce this guy:

-"I bring good luck! Feed me a peanut!"-

BF and I spotted him sitting by the dumpster on top of an abandoned desk that would have looked pretty jaunty had it not been missing its middle drawer. A little, ceramic elephant statue about a foot and a half high. Ugly, but good lines and a certain charm. I stopped in my tracks to investigate it and, after a few oh-my-gods upon realizing he was in perfect condition, I decided to adopt him right then and there.

He's the perfect kind of ugly, like one of those pets you see at an adoption kennel that looks like it was run over by the Fugly Parade. You can't help but just fall in love with its lazy eye and freakish overbite. So it was with the statue. Kitschy. Awkward. An offense to good taste, but damn it if he wouldn't look perfect in my poorly kept excuse of a vegetable garden.

Cleaned up a bit and propped next to the screen door he's the new good luck charm of the garden. He's has Many Names: I call him Ganesh; BF named it Jubo; Roommate calls him an unfortunate decision, but what does he know?

As it is with horrid ceramics, so is it also with ingredients. Recently, a neighbor gave me a small basket of figs. They were almost overripe and she wasn't going to get around to them. Later, Roommate uncovered a forgotten bag of still-good hazelnuts - an impulse purchase - that he wanted to throw away as he doubted he would find a use for them.

Where they saw a burden I found opportunity! "No! Don't toss those! I can use them!" I cried. These are ingredients that just need a bit of love and attention. A bit of re-purposing to spruce them up a bit.

The resulting pasta is just such a thing. The hazelnuts are toasted and thrown into some brown butter along with figs and a quick chiffonde of basil. Tossed with spaghetti it becomes a modern, intriguing dish that utilizes the best of late summer produce. Toss with a bit of Parmesan (surely, most good food lovers have a block or an old rind with some meat still on it somewhere) and you have a meal that's guaranteed to impress. And, maybe, goad you into reassessing all that stuff you passed off as junk.


Spaghetti with Brown Butter, Figs, Hazelnuts, and Basil
Adapted from Pasta Sfoglia
Serves 2

1/2 lb. spaghetti
1/2 cup hazelnuts
8 oz unsalted butter
10 ripe figs, quartered
6 basil leaves
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
ground black pepper
1/2 cup pasta water
grated Parmesan for garnish (optional)

1. Preheat oven to 350F and toast the hazelnuts for about 10-15 minutes or until fragrant. Use a tea towel and rub off their skins as they're a bit bitter. Roughly chop the hazelnuts and set aside.

2. Bring well salted water to a boil and stir in the spaghetti. In a 10-inch skillet over medium high heat place butter, hazelnuts, figs, basil, salt and pepper and leave undisturbed so the butter can brown and the figs can become tender.

3. When the spaghetti is almost done take it out of the water and place it in the skillet along with the 1/2 cup of pasta water. Cook for two more minutes. Serve immediately and garnish with freshly grated Parmesan.

Armenian Preserved Walnuts

-An Armenian treat that pairs perfectly with earthy cheeses or your favorite blue.-

Some of the fun in putting together a cheese plate is designing the pairings. Sometimes it's easy to do as any cheese book will tell you what wines to use, and will likely offer the tired old suggestion of putting out dried fruit or nuts. These cheese accouterments are overused and stagnant, like boxes of old clothes in the attic your parents used to wear thirty years ago. Yes, it was cool back then and might be nifty for a party, but lets just retire them. And not to knock the honey-blue cheese pairing but, God, can we find something else? Can we? (I did. Try sprinkling a bit of saba - a syrup created from grape must - over it. Outrageously good.)

Recently, I was turned onto something delightfully new by my friend Kirsten over at the blog, It's Not You, It's Brie: preserved walnuts.

Preserved walnuts are an Armenian delicacy that are just now making their way to the U.S. hardcore foodie mainstream (it's a very small stream, more like a maincreek behind your aunt's house in the country). The walnuts are picked young, very young. Younger than when you would pick them for Nocino. They're picked when the shells are still quite soft and have the texture mature walnut, and baby walnut inside is soft and mellow. They're then packed in sugar, water, and lemon juice and set to preserve for a very long time.

-Hmm, a new home preserving project? I think so.-

The result are small, ebony spheres of intrigue. They have the taste of a walnut, but softer, sweeter, and more velvety. Not nearly as earthy but with a flavor that can only be described as woodsy. It's the sort of dessert you might picture out of a fairy tale. While it looks like a dessert of the evil stepmother, it's a delicacy fit for a fairy godmother.

The preserving syrup is epic on it's own merits. My future plans involve dripping some over a blue cheesecake or a walnut tart. I can only imagine what a skilled mixologist would do with it; I imagine a dash of the syrup with some chocolate liquor would be phenomenal.

I plan to serve these delightful little walnuts with some aged Dry Jack cheese, a cheese known for its walnut profile; and alongside some Oregonzola, in lieu of honey. The sweet and nutty flavors should shine well against the sting of a blue cheese and snuggle up nicely to any nutty cheeses, like Comté or Jack.

Nocino Bitters

So the nocino is done. Sort of. It came out a bit bitter. It might have been too little sugar, too much clove, or the cheap vodka but it didn't have that luxurious taste that Elise's nocino had. Hers was drinkable. Mine, not so much.

However it does possess good flavor. When you first taste it you're engulfed in sweet aromas, nutty scents, and enveloping tastes that just wrap around you, sending your mind into a dessert laden haze. Then it disappears, not even vaporous clouds remain. Then suddenly the bitter taste of the alcohol sucker punches you in the tongue, leaving it's bitter coils wrapped tightly for about two seconds, then it too vanishes.

So what we have is nocino bitters. Perfect for flavoring a spot of gin or vodka perhaps. The bitterness will for the most part vanish in the drink, but the distinct nocino flavors will lay delicately underneath. It's what I will call a successful failure. A welcome mishap. I was planning on curing some bitters anyways, so now I just took an early step.

Cheers!

Breakfast Cupcakes (Almond Cupcakes With Pecans and Currants)

I was in the mood for something really simple after a long and quite shitty day, plus with no breakfast foods in the house I wanted something that would be good in the morning. I think this cupcake borders on being a muffin, but considering I topped it with loads of turbinado sugar I am calling it a cupcake. I suppose you can give it a smear of butter after warming it up in the microwave or fresh out of the oven.

I based the recipe off of goji berry pecan cakes at La Tartine Gourmande, the measurements are the same but the ingredients vary. The cupcake/muffin uses half all-purpose flour and half almond flour and is studded all throughout with black currants and chopped pecans (left over from the Acorn Squash Cupcakes). It's a recipe that's easy to throw together after work, and has some tasty results. It also makes a small batch recipe so you'll only get nine cupcakes, so no worries about having hordes of tasty treats in the house tempting you.

Breakfast Cupcakes
Makes 9 cupcakes / 350 F oven

What You'll Need...
7 ounces of unsalted butter, room temperature
1/2 cup of sugar
3 eggs, room temperature
1/2 cup of almond flour
1/2 cup of all-purpose flour
pinch of salt
1 teaspoon of baking powder
1/4 cup of currants
1/2 cup of chopped pecans (or other nut)
turbinado sugar

What You'll Do...
1) Preheat the oven at 350 F.

2) Cream the butter and sugar together until light and fluffy.

3) Beat in the eggs, one at a time, being sure to scrape down the sides of the bowl.

4) Add the dry ingredients and mix until just incorporated. Fold in the pecans and currants.

5) Scoop into cupcake papers, about 3/4 full. Sprinkle turbinado sugar on top. Bake for 17-20 minutes. Let cool on wire rack.

Acorn Squash Cupcakes with Currants, Salted Buttercream and Toasted Pecans

I must confess, I detest acorn squash. It is the vilest of the squashes, if not the nefarious mastermind behind the fearful youth populous at large who, night after night, are assaulted by plates of the stuff. Of course, my opinions may be prejudice, but I have my reasons for hating many of the squashes out there.

But acorn squash, for some reason you have plagued me, haunted me, most of all.

I have tried you baked, pureed, fried, candied and every which way but up. Yet year after year, when I try to overcome my misconceptions and low opinions, My Judgment, you seem to come up awful all the same. I hate acorn squash.

This year though... this year we made a treaty of sorts. A white flag was raised, and a hush came over the kitchen. The guns went silent, only to be replaced by the roar of a mixer.

Apparently acorn squash and I can have a settling of arms when it comes to cake. When complimented by seasonal spices, fruity-tart black currants, and toasted, yet cloyingly bitter-sweet pecans, acorn squash can actually be quite charming. The buttercream actually uses salted butter, as that extra bit of salt gave a nice contrast to all the sweet. A perfect treat for fall!

Maybe it's time to overcome your fears, or if you already have a blissful relationship with the nubile winter gourd, dress it up a bit different this year before your cupcake night on the town with friends.

Acorn Squash Cupcakes
20 cupcakes / 350 F oven
Recipe adapted from Cupcake Bakeshop

What You'll Need...
3 cups of flour
1 teaspoon of baking soda
1 teaspoon of baking powder
pinch teaspoon of kosher salt
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon of allspice
1/4 teaspoon of nutmeg
pinch of ginger
2 1/4 cups sugar
1 cup of vegetable oil
3 eggs
2 teaspoons of vanilla extract
3 1/2 cups shredded fresh acorn squash
2/3 cup of black (or red) currants

What You'll Do...
1) Cut open a large acorn squash, take out the seeds and strings, then chop into pieces and grate the flesh. If you have a food processor, this will be much easier.

2) Sift together the flour, salt, baking powder, baking soda, and spices. In another bowl whisk together the sugar, eggs, oil, and vanilla extract.

3) Add the wet ingredients to the dry, about a fourth at a time, and stir to combine. The mixture will be very thick, slightly crumbly, and will possibly break your radius like a twig. Add the squash and the currants and mix to combine.

4) Scoop into cupcake papers, about 2/3 full. Bake f0r 20-25 minutes at 350 F. Let cool for a minute then place on a wire rack to cool further. Frost when cooled.


Thick & Salted Vanilla Buttercream & Toasted Pecans
What You'll Need...
1/2 cup salted butter, room temperature
2 cups of powdered sugar
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
1 cup of chopped pecans

What You'll Do...
1) Cream the butter until soft.

2) Add the sugar and then the vanilla extract. Cream till soft. Spread on cooled cupcakes.

3) Toast the pecans in a dry pan over medium-low heat until fragrant. Let cool then crumble and press onto frosted cupcakes.