New Blog Address! 8.27.12
Decadent desserts now have a new address: vintagebake.com
Yes, the website is completed, and that's where you now can follow my blog. Hope to see you there, and come back often!
Yes, the website is completed, and that's where you now can follow my blog. Hope to see you there, and come back often!
Getting Fruit-Full 8.25.12
My youngest daughter joined my fruit-pickin’ friend and me yesterday as we headed to the country to pick peaches, apples and tomatoes. The fruit was good and plentiful, but the tomatoes were almost all green. How disappointing, because they were huge. Luckily, I noticed an old codger who was overhearing us complain about all the green ones, and I asked him if they would ripen after being picked. “Sure they will,” he replied, probably thinking the tomatoes weren’t the only green things in the field. So we stopped our complaining and began bagging. Now, I always pick too much of everything – well, double that this year, due to my daughter’s contributions. But I have plans. I am going to make peach and apple pie filling and can it, so it will be ready-to-use. I am going to freeze some apple slices, make sundried tomatoes, and probably can some tomatoes also. I bought a big canning pot and the right utensils so I won’t burn myself (as much) this time. The cupcakes will have to wait until my pantry is fruit-full again.
Photophobia 8.23.12
I tried to email my hairdresser a picture my sister had taken of me a few years ago, when my hair looked unusually good, because I wanted that exact cut again. When I sat down in the chair and asked her if she’d gotten it, a look of horror came over her face. “You want to look like Miley Cyrus?” she gasped. Apparently that is whose picture I sent her. How did this happen when I don’t have such a picture? So you can imagine what a challenge it has been for me to find pictures of my products (in my electronic files) and send them to my China daughter who is building my website. Many hours and tears, and much cursing and yelling, were involved. My poor unsuspecting youngest daughter regretted that she walked in on this ordeal because I started begging her to help me. I won’t go into the gory details. Suffice it to say that I finally got every usable picture (1) located and (2) attached to an email. This still left the problem of the many items I DIDN’T have pictures for. My easy-going website creator suddenly turned into a tyrant (in a good way) and told me I HAD to have pictures for everything (or at least enough for each menu category). So I learned pretty fast how to become a food photographer. What I couldn’t bake, I faked. Actually, that was a fun challenge, because of course it had to look like the real thing – no “bait and switch” here. (Then I just had to take every precaution to prevent someone from walking into the kitchen and popping into their mouth a mini-pie filled with a ball of aluminum foil.)
Baking is a Calling 8.21.12
I had more baking to do the other day, but before I could start I forced myself to make some phone calls to drum up more business. I mean I really had to FORCE myself to do it. I hate it. I am terrified. I have what I want to say written down, and I am sooooo grateful when my call goes to voicemail and I can just leave a message. Even then, my voice is shaky and I talk too fast and on every one of the five calls I made, I said that my business was “The Vintage Bagel.” (I did correct myself, but still!) So afterward I carried my cell phone with me, even if I left the room for a minute, and answered every call even when I didn’t recognize the number (they were all campaign calls). Now I need to let this go. If it is to be, it will . . . oh wait, I gotta go answer my phone.
Heirlooms 8.19.12
I know I have said before, “Never say never,” but for right now I think I can safely say that I will NEVER own or use a Kindle. I love holding a book. I read the back cover, I flip through the table of contents, I sniff the pages (that is NOT weird, you know you do it too). Similarly, I will never keep my recipes in a folder on the computer. One of the pleasures of “vintage baking” (for me, anyway) is to pull out a recipe card with the handwriting of a friend or sister or mother or grandmother. There is no uniformity to these pieces of paper. My macaroon recipe is on a bright pink index card. I can quickly find Mom’s Crazy Cake recipe on the blue card. Yesterday I was searching for my sister’s gingerbread recipe and I knew it was on yellow notepaper. My best pound cake recipe is on an old receipt in the shaky handwriting of an elderly friend (I even framed this one). These things are priceless heirlooms that let me feel my friends and family with me as I bake. No computer can do that.
Working In Working Out 8.17.12
I was too tired (translation: didn’t feel like it) to work out the other night, so I decided to go to the gym the next morning. I had plenty of time, so I sat down at the kitchen table and started to plan what recipes to try next. I realized I needed some additional ingredients, and just had time to run to the grocery store before getting to the gym class on time. Perfect. I didn’t want to shop after the gym because my face gets red as a beet and I am gross and sweaty. Humming to myself, I pulled into the store parking lot and then I noticed – I was wearing flip flops. I’d forgotten to change into my sneakers. Now I was rushing. I looked like a crazed woman flying up and down the aisles and careening around the slow people. (Really, would it matter if I were a few minutes late? But I can’t help it; my having to be on time is genetic.) I flew home, grabbed my shoes, and got to the class just in time. In time to wait, that is, because the teacher was late (that should teach me a lesson, but it won’t). It was my first time in this class, but the moves were pretty familiar and not too hard. Until we got to the end and the instructor started doing this twirling move. I tried it a couple of times but it made me so dizzy I decided to delete it from my workout. (I made sure to LAUGH, as if making fun of myself, for the benefit of the people on the treadmills on the other side of the glass partition, so THEY would know that I KNEW I wasn’t doing it right THIS TIME, as opposed to the REST of the times when I was pretty GOOD at it.) After the class, I was exhausted (when does the increased energy come?) but I still had the motivation to make my newest cupcake for fall – applesauce cake, caramel buttercream filling, and swirled spice buttercream on the top. Followed by a long rest.
Picture Perfect Day 8.15.12
Yesterday’s task was to finish gathering pictures for my website, which meant making a variety of things so I could snap photos. First up were chocolate chip cookies. While they baked I made some chocolate ganache so it could cool and firm up enough to pipe onto mini-chocolate cupcakes later. Next came the “cupcookies” iced with pink buttercream, and then chocolate-dipped macaroons. I had a chocolate cake and what I call a “tropical pound cake” (coconut pound cake with candied orange peel and rum) in the freezer, so I quickly unwrapped them and snapped pictures. It was fun setting up scenes for the photos . . . I dug into my storage bin where I am keeping a lot of vintage plates and pitchers and things, and arranged them with the desserts. I have (somewhere) pics of all my other products, so now to find them and send them on to my China daughter, who is building the website for me. Hopefully it will be up soon – stay tuned!
Without A Parachute 8.13.12
I used to say I would never go sky diving, but I think I just did. I quit my job. Do I have a parachute (i.e. a definite plan)? Hell no. It was the right decision, I have no doubt, but a little scary nonetheless. Still, I do have some ideas. I am going to rev up my baking business. I am going to go to the gym regularly. I am going to learn how to meditate. I’ll investigate possible new opportunities for my health care side, preferably in an advisory or supervisory role. I need to get pictures of all my products together before I can launch my new website. I have so much to do. I’m just hoping I can gently land somewhere, rather than crash into the ground...
Reality 8.7.12
Being at a slow point in my baking business gives me more time to spend with my youngest daughter, who leaves for her backpacking trip to New Zealand in a few weeks. Next weekend she and her best friend – and her best friend’s Mom and I – are going out dancing. That same weekend my daughter and I are going to a bridal shower together. In a few weeks we are going to spend the day peach picking. Plus there are the little day-to-day things that mean a lot too right now. Breakfasts together before work. Dinners. Shopping. And of course, watching bad reality TV. Yes, we do this. I admit it. Just the other night I called her on her cell phone (I was downstairs, she was upstairs) and told her to hurry down because an episode of Hoarders was starting. I will not apologize for this. Well, okay, I’m sorry, it is sad. But still, it’s our thing. Well, one of them. We also like Toddlers and Tiaras. Reality will set in at the end of this month when I’ll be missing a daughter, and reality TV will be missing one viewer.
Stuck 8.5.12
An inspector was (supposedly) coming by the other day to certify that our new gas range was installed properly. And since the lights inside our new refrigerator had suddenly stopped coming on (and the space-age sensor indicating the door was ajar would randomly beep for no reason), we had scheduled a service guy to fix that. Therefore, I was captive between the hours of 8 a.m. and 3 p.m. Naturally, I filled the time by baking. I wanted to make an apple pie as a gift to some friends, and also wanted to perfect a new method of preparing the filling that I had read about in “The Pie and Pastry Bible.” I was just about to begin cutting up the apples when the refrigerator man showed up. Hmmm. He was taking a long time, sitting on the floor and reading the instruction manual. That looked like a bad sign – should he have to read the manual? When he made a phone call to ask someone for help, I decided to go ahead and start the pie. I had hesitated because I always wear a scarf to cover my hair when I bake (my husband calls it my ninja look). It is a bad look. I usually don’t let people see me like that. But, this guy WAS in my way. I dabbed on some lipstick, which helped marginally, and endured his surprised expression when he noticed me. By the time he figured out that the problem was that the fridge doors were not level, I had finished cutting up the apples. I was momentarily disturbed when I saw that his first solution to making the doors level was to PUSH on them. But he came to his senses and adjusted the feet, the doors were level, the lights starting working again, and he was on his way. I finished putting together the pie, and put it in the fridge since I couldn’t turn on the oven ‘til THAT man showed up, which he never did. So, like making a prison break, my daughter and I flew out of the house and went shopping. I baked the pie the next morning in my wonderful (albeit uninspected) oven and it turned out great. Even with the wait.
To The Gym! 8.3.12
You know how I said I wanted to start taking a Zumba exercise class? Well, I joined a gym so I could go to that class. The next morning I woke up with a sinking feeling as I thought, “OH MY GOD, I JOINED A GYM . . . AGAIN.” I have a poor history with gyms. It’s not really my fault – it's just that they make it so hard to quit. You should be able to join, go once or twice, realize you hate it, and quit. But no, you have to sign up for a year. I have paid a lot of dues over the years for something I never used. So you can see why I’m nervous this time. I went the other night for my first class (my daughter went with me for moral support) and it was fun. No one there was SOOOO in shape and gorgeous that they made me feel funny. There were people fatter than me! And the next day I even was able to walk. So, unless some obstacle crops up (like a baking order), I’ll put on my sneakers and get out there, one Zumba at a time.
The Waiting Game 8.1.12
So . . . my baking business that sped up last spring came to a screaming halt over the summer. From almost too busy to almost nothing. In a way this was providential, what with the power outage and then the kitchen renovation. But I do wonder what is going to happen next. Do I really have to start pounding the pavement (well, pounding the phone lines) again? Or should I go all out and try to find an actual store to rent? Or just wait a bit? I think back to years ago when we put our first house on the market. We got the place painted and fixed up (when all of the workmen descended on us, it felt like we were in Disney’s Cinderella when the mice and the birds joined forces to make her dress). It looked better than it ever had, and it had some really attractive features to begin with. As I put the For Sale sign up, I was prepared for an onslaught of potential buyers. In fact, we had no buyers . . . for two years and three months. It was a time of incredible frustration. Imagine having three small children in a too-small house, trying to keep the house in “show” condition, vacating for the agent to bring people by, all the while living your lives. I alternated between desperation and depression. Finally, in one weekend we had three offers on the house, and one went through. We had to spring into action and find a house to move to. Turns out that the house we found had been on the market for a while but never had a sign out front (the elderly woman who owned it just never liked signs). When we looked at it we fell in love, but thought we’d never be able to afford it. Well, with salary increases over those two-plus years, my return to work part-time, and the fact that the seller of this house was REALLY anxious to move on, we ended up getting a fantastic home that we never would have even thought of looking at originally. The cruel wait was not only worth it, it was essential to the outcome. So I guess since I have no other sense of what to do, I’ll wait for the good that is coming. Meanwhile, I’m going to join a Zumba class at the gym.
Fabulous Fondant 7.30.12
On Saturday I discovered the world of fondant, or rather, rediscovered. I had played around with it, in fear and trembling, not EXACTLY sure if I was doing it right (I wasn’t). So I did the thing smart people do when they need to learn something new – I went and learned it. They had a teaching demo at the cake store where I shop (the place of my original cake decorating classes years ago). I went armed with the notebook I used way back then, because I always take notes even when I think I won’t need to. A small storm of anxiety blew up when the other people in the class saw that I had paper and they didn’t, so I tore some sheets out and passed them around. The girl next to me didn’t have a pen; in my purse I had six “bail bond” pens (see past entry), so I lent her one. The class proceeded, and as usual I learned something about every few seconds. During the break I was the first one out of the room, dashing into the store with the list of fondant tools I now could no longer live without. (I got the last rolling pin – he who hesitates . . .!) When the class ended about an hour later, I turned to the girl to whom I had lent the pen – her notebook was there, but she wasn’t. (I wanted my bail bond pen back. Should I go looking for her? But how awkward to ASK for my pen back! I decided to let it follow the way of all bail bond pens - that is, they come and go randomly - and I “paid it forward.”) Anyway, the class was a success and I can’t wait to start experimenting. Also I can’t wait for the next class . . . it’s on how to transport your decorated cake. But I think I’ll leave my pens at home.
Pig Heaven 7.28.12
Yesterday was such a fun day. I got to take everything out of all the kitchen cabinets and drawers, wash them, and clean the cabinets and drawers before putting it all back. (This is because of the dust and dirt all over everything as a result of the kitchen remodeling). I am not being sarcastic - I LOVE THIS. My oldest daughter knows me well; she called when I was in the middle of this endeavor and when I told her what I was doing she said, “You’re in pig heaven, aren’t you?” I was. I get a thrill from getting everything clean and sparkling. I love casting a fresh eye over my stuff and reorganizing it. I love de-junking and getting rid of things. It took hours and hours, and I was kind of disappointed when I was finished. Oh, there are other rooms in the house that could use this kind of attention (in fact, all of them) but they just aren’t as much fun as the kitchen. Anybody want their kitchen reorganized?
Farewell Pies 7.25.12
My oldest daughter is moving from the adorable townhouse she has been renting for the past year. When she moved in, I got to help her set up the kitchen, and later we baked a cake there. So it was only fitting that, as a farewell to her kitchen, I went over and we baked some pies. (She made blueberry, from the ones I picked recently; I made peach.) One of the freezer bags that we thought contained more blueberries actually was filled with cherries. What to do . . . cobbler? No. Another pie? No. How about the pie pastry tarts my great-grandmother made? Perfect, we even had some left-over pastry. I dumped the cherries in a pan, guessed on the amount of flour and sugar, and boiled it until it got thick. "Oops, a seed," I said. My daughter looked at me. "They all have seeds!" she said. Uh oh. I distinctly remember pitting the cherries before I froze them. Guess not. My intrepid daughter (that way because, as she puts it, she does so many things wrong in baking that she always has to improvise) told me not to worry, we'd simply wait ‘til the jam cooled off and remove the seeds by hand. Messy, but effective. The tarts and pies turned out great (although her pie looked better than mine). The next goal for her is to find an apartment. For me – set up her kitchen when she moves. Then have another fun baking day.
Back in the Saddle 7.23.12
Getting back in my kitchen last weekend (even though it was only for one day – the remodeling work continues this week) was like sitting down to a feast after being on a diet. I was a little nervous about using my new oven for the first time, so I did something very unusual for me – I sat down and read the instruction manual! I had so much fun opening and closing my new fridge, and putting dishes in the new dishwasher. (I didn’t understand why, when the cleaning cycle was finished, the word “dean” appeared on the control panel – ‘til I put my glasses on and saw that the word was “clean.”) Then the real fun began. I made a lemon pound cake with candied lemon peel and lemon glaze. I made an orange pound cake with candied orange peel, coconut and rum. I made a butter layer cake with chocolate icing. I made an apple pie. I WANTED to make chocolate chip cookies but it was getting late in the day and I decided to let the house cool off before dinner. (I’ll make the cookies first chance I get). This should hold me over for a few more days until the dust settles.
Crimes of the Phone 7.21.12
I gave up last week and agreed to surrender my big old cellphone. I really was sick of having to charge it every night because it was so weak, and besides, I could barely see the faded screen anymore. This is the phone I reverted to last year after my new touch screen phone gave me such trouble. So this time, I said I would get a replacement as long as it wasn’t a touch screen – they don’t seem to like me. I grabbed the touch screen phone out of the drawer (since it technically had one more month on the warranty) and we went into the AT&T phone store to tell the guy how it had never worked properly. (Well, it hadn’t.) As we were telling him we wanted a replacement since the phone was still under warranty, he was silently removing the back of the phone. As if catching us in an evil plot, he said judgmentally, “This phone has been exposed to water.” Seems there is a spot on the battery that changes color when it becomes damp. We felt like bank robbers whose bag of loot contained exploding dye. Or worse, George Costanza trying to return the “bathroom book” to the store – apparently this phone was “marked.” Now the funny thing is, I have been known to drop phones in the sink or put them in the washer. But the guy didn’t know that, and I had not done that with this phone (I hadn’t used it long enough). Still, my response to an accusation is to look very guilty and protest too vehemently. My husband just gets visibly and audibly annoyed. Nothing we said convinced the young man that we were honest citizens. We fled the store feeling like criminals on the run, and went to Best Buy to get a cheap basic phone that works fine. Now if I could just find out who DID drop my phone in water and bring them to justice . . .
Shirtless Running Man 7.19.12
Between my kitchen being torn up (see prior entry) and the hot, humid weather, I am out-of-sorts. I feel like I'm sort of in a dream state. Everything is discombobulated. I CAN'T do my usual kitchen-coping stuff, and I doubt I would if I could. Are these the so-called dog days of summer? They are for me. I am getting up later and later in the morning to go to work. I can tell this even if I didn't look at the clock, because of the Shirtless Running Man. Let me explain. There is a man I see every day who (as his title implies) is never wearing a shirt, and who runs along the major road I drive on my way to work. I don't know where he starts, but he runs the entire length of this road, and goes I am not exactly sure where. He runs in every type of weather. Once I saw him wear a hat (but no shirt) in the winter. He carries a brief case. Almost everybody I know who drives along this route in the morning has commented about him. Now, if I am on time in the morning, I will pass him near the hospital. If I am early, he will be north of it. If I see him all the way down by Starbucks, I know I am really late. I marvel at how anyone could do this run day after day, year after year. I can't even make myself walk around the block. But I am not jealous of SRM. In fact, I look forward to seeing this familiar figure every day; he is something of an icon now. And an inspiration to keep moving on. After all, how bad can things be if SRM continues to run?
Bruised But Not Beaten 7.17.12
I slept in on Monday after I had spent the weekend at the beach celebrating my friend’s birthday. I got up and threw on my fat shorts (of course at the beach you HAVE to eat frozen custard, French fries and pizza) and an old shirt and went to the grocery store. As I pushed my cart into the store I was thinking about all of the fun stuff we had done at the beach. Suddenly the clouds in my brain parted and I remembered that I had made an appointment for a routine eye exam for 11 a.m. – and it was 10:57. I didn’t want to cancel because I was already a year late, so I abandoned my cart and raced to the appointment. I made it. But as I was sitting in the exam chair and giving my history to the assistant, I suddenly noticed the huge bruise on my leg. (My fat shorts didn’t cover it up). I mean, this was some ugly bruise. You see, at the beach, we all went out on a pontoon boat for a few hours of partying around the bay. We had only been out for a little while when I (sitting in the front) was suddenly getting much wetter then I felt was normal. Just as I glanced down to investigate, my friend yelled, “We’re sinking!” We were. The front end of the boat was nose-diving and (as we were later to dramatically if inaccurately describe it) we saw a “wall of water” coming at us. With split-second reflexes and instant survival instincts I jumped up, ran in the opposite direction of the water and fell on my face. Helping hands reached down and pulled me up before I could be engulfed by the waves. I was covered in seaweed (okay, there was a piece of crabgrass on my foot). Our “captain” quickly righted the boat, no doubt saving all of our lives, not to mention our cell phones. The whole episode was made even more dramatic because it happened twice. Now, what was I going to say if the eye doc asked me how I got so injured? Would he think I suffered a beating? Would I tell the real story, or exaggerate a bit for dramatic interest? Would I admit that I am such a klutz that I can’t run three feet without falling down? As it turned out, he didn’t ask. But I’m getting my story polished up in case someone else does.
Grey Area 7.15.12
My husband and I have been married for 34 years, and one reason we work well together is that we are similar in so many ways, but different enough that we complement each other. For example, I am the science-brained one, which is good for a nurse practitioner and a baker. My husband is more right-brained; he has an eye for design and is an excellent writer, among many other things, which works well in advertising and PR. Here’s how this can cause fights. Well, not fights exactly, but tension. Annoyance. Frustration. We are re-doing our kitchen (it has some age on it). My husband has an image in his mind of how he wants the finished product to look. My only requirement is a larger French-door refrigerator like my sister has and of which I am jealous. (I also want a bigger kitchen, a pantry and a back staircase, but perhaps in the next house.) Initially I happily let him take the lead on choosing the countertops and floor – and I like both choices. Then it came time for the walls. What kind of wallpaper to replace the plaid we have now? This debate lasted a couple of weeks, involving sending for and examining many samples. Really, his patience is incredible. Mine ran out when he decided to paint the walls instead, and we proceeded to look at colors. Ok, color is important. But when he held up two whites and told me they were slightly different, I really thought he was kidding – is this “the emperor’s new clothes?” What if I say I see the difference and he goes, “Ha! They’re the same!” Then we look at greys. It reminds me of Mrs. Blandings in the movie, going into excruciating detail about the exact shade of each color she wanted, and when she was done, the painter said to his partner, “Yeah, I got it. Red, green, blue, yellow, white.” Please don’t think I am ridiculing my husband. I am sure there really IS a difference between “thunder” and “cloudy day." I'd just rather wait 'til the storm passes and I can get into my kitchen again.
Baby Steps 7.13.12
My youngest daughter is leaving for New Zealand in about six weeks. She is going backpacking, by herself, for an unspecified amount of time. You would think I'd be used to this by now, having been initiated into the land of not-knowing-where-exactly-your-children-are by my two older girls (who
literally have traveled all over the world). But this is my baby. Plus, I am used to having her around for the past year. As much as I am always trying to change recipes, I really don't take to change in my life too well. I remember when I was living in our first house. It was a narrow old rowhouse in the city. It had a tar roof that steamed the master bedroom in the summer, and old windows that let in the winter wind. The next door neighbors had a habit of starting to party at our bedtime every night. We had three daughters sharing one bedroom. For the first year or so I had no car, so activities were limited to where I could push a double stroller. The kitchen ceiling leaked, as did the window air conditioner in the living room. After 11 years, I couldn't wait to move to a larger house. But when we finally sold that house and moved, I was torn. I realized that I LOVED that house. Forgotten were the trials and troubles – all I could remember was the good stuff. The local pool we joined for $3 each summer ($5 with swimming lessons for the kids). The morning glories that grew in profusion in my front yard (turns out they like "poor soil," so they were in luck). The morning walks ending with a stop at the bakery where the lady gave the kids cookies. The parks. The nice neighbors. The movie nights in our living room, where we introduced our daughters to the classic films of Alfred Hitchcock, Bette Davis and Doris Day. After we moved, I must have made a dozen nostalgia visits back to the old neighborhood. It was a tearing-apart feeling. And so it will be when my baby daughter leaves. The few little day-to-day annoyances of dirty dishes left in a room, or an unmade bed, or worrying about where she is at a late hour – these will fade away, and will mean nothing. I know what the lesson is . . . enjoy what you have when you have it. Appreciate the NOW. Don't dwell so much on the few negative things. I think this big leap for my daughter will require continued baby steps on my part to navigate yet another transition.
literally have traveled all over the world). But this is my baby. Plus, I am used to having her around for the past year. As much as I am always trying to change recipes, I really don't take to change in my life too well. I remember when I was living in our first house. It was a narrow old rowhouse in the city. It had a tar roof that steamed the master bedroom in the summer, and old windows that let in the winter wind. The next door neighbors had a habit of starting to party at our bedtime every night. We had three daughters sharing one bedroom. For the first year or so I had no car, so activities were limited to where I could push a double stroller. The kitchen ceiling leaked, as did the window air conditioner in the living room. After 11 years, I couldn't wait to move to a larger house. But when we finally sold that house and moved, I was torn. I realized that I LOVED that house. Forgotten were the trials and troubles – all I could remember was the good stuff. The local pool we joined for $3 each summer ($5 with swimming lessons for the kids). The morning glories that grew in profusion in my front yard (turns out they like "poor soil," so they were in luck). The morning walks ending with a stop at the bakery where the lady gave the kids cookies. The parks. The nice neighbors. The movie nights in our living room, where we introduced our daughters to the classic films of Alfred Hitchcock, Bette Davis and Doris Day. After we moved, I must have made a dozen nostalgia visits back to the old neighborhood. It was a tearing-apart feeling. And so it will be when my baby daughter leaves. The few little day-to-day annoyances of dirty dishes left in a room, or an unmade bed, or worrying about where she is at a late hour – these will fade away, and will mean nothing. I know what the lesson is . . . enjoy what you have when you have it. Appreciate the NOW. Don't dwell so much on the few negative things. I think this big leap for my daughter will require continued baby steps on my part to navigate yet another transition.
Midway Point 7.11.12
Though this is completely incorrect, I always think of the 4th of July as a signal that summer is half over, and this is good news for me. I do not like the heat, bathing suits, picnics, swimming, or lemonade. I can see where this could make me appear to be a loser, but in my defense, I had some disagreeable childhood experiences in the summertime, so I am not so much a loser as I am scarred. (See past blog about failing swimming lessons – that’s one.) For another, my sister and I used to visit our very tall and very skinny cousins in the summer, who told us we were fat. That's the second scar. The third trauma is really more of a collage of discomforts – trudging down a hot sidewalk in the blazing sun to a tiny neighborhood beach covered with prickly grass and no shade. Walking a mile to see fireworks, hot and sweaty, with bugs. Sticky melting popsicles. Trying to sleep in an unairconditioned room. Ok, maybe these sound like "first world problems," but they are MY problems and the reasons I don't like summer.(I DO like vacations in summer, however.) Sooo . . . if we’ve passed the midway point for summer, I am anxious to start preparing for Fall baking. Putting up raisins in rum, picking apples for pies, working on new recipes. But let’s not start too soon – power outages in the summer wreak havoc on my freezers.
Preserving the Fruits of our Labor 7.9.12
On the third day of no power, I was resigned to tossing out all of the milk, eggs, heavy cream, cream cheese, etc. etc., but then I came upon the fruit my daughter and I had picked, washed and frozen – oh no! I could NOT let that go to waste. Ignoring the thought that boiling a big pot of water for several hours might not be the coolest thing to do, I decided to make preserves. I already had the canning jars and lids, and even several boxes of fruit pectin. As I sterilized the jars, I called my sister to ask her to google some recipes for me (I only had one for freezer jam, and after getting that one out I remembered I had no working freezer). Things went well. I had opened some windows and the kitchen door to let in a surprisingly refreshing breeze. I could light my gas stove by holding a lit match to the burner (I had overcome my fear of that after having to light the pilot on the big Vulcan oven in the kitchen I rent. This stove was child’s play compared to that.) I did run into a problem when I had several large filled jars in the big pot having their water bath, and I couldn’t get them out. I don’t have the right tongs you use for canning, so I was using cooking tongs. Then a spatula. Then a big spoon. Couldn’t get them out. I almost had one out and it fell back in and I got splashed with boiling water. I thought I’d try to empty some of the water out of the pot, but it was too heavy to lift. So I just kept wrestling with it and finally, two burned fingers later, I was successful. Then I did it again. Well, what was I to do, they had to have the water bath. Seven hours later, I was the proud owner of six jars of strawberry jam, seven jars of blueberry jam, and two jars of cherry jam. But I still had more blueberries. I had the bright idea to make a pie and freeze it unbaked, but . . . yeah, again no freezer. So we had a fruit salad for dinner. Past labors preserved.
Unplugged and Unmoored 7.7.12
A week without electricity at home was a shock, but also brought a few surprises – like some moments of unexpected relaxation. On Day 2, after escaping to my husband’s office where he had work to do, I encountered a glitch in my email and couldn’t connect. I was lost for a minute. So I grabbed my book and wandered down the street in search of a Starbucks, where I spent a very nice hour drinking coffee and re-reading a book by Elizabeth Berg (one of my favorite authors). I called my husband and asked how much longer he would be. Two or three more hours! Now what? I remembered that there was a waterfront café nearby, and feeling quite brazen, sat at a shady table and ordered a glass of wine. As I enjoyed the breeze and the view of the harbor, a feeling came over me that I can only describe as “unmoored.” Because I could do nothing about anything, I felt like all my concerns about the power outage, all the food I was going to have to throw away, my baking business, my job, my kids – everything – slipped off my shoulders and left me feeling light as a feather. I was so grateful, because without this forced abandonment of all my usual day-to-day activities, I would not have experienced this. You are probably wondering, “But what about vacations?” I will tell you, even on vacation I feel the need to plan and accomplish SOMETHING. This was different. It’s like I learned what relaxing really means. Now that I know, I want to intentionally do this on a regular basis. Even if baking might have to wait. (We’ll see how well this works, now that the power is back on.)
Baking at Home 7.1.12
So one of the biggest storms to hit the East Coast happened, and I missed it. Friends had taken me out for my birthday (belatedly), and after dinner we went to a neighborhood hangout (okay, a bar) that had karaoke. So while the trees were being uprooted and the lightening was stabbing the land, I was singing and dancing to Proud Mary. As we drove home I was mystified by the tree across the road in front of our house, and the lack of lights at home. I felt sort of cheated out of an experience. That changed as soon as I walked in the door, because it was hot as hell in the house. Nonetheless, my husband and I were able to fall asleep and dream that the power would be back on by morning. Disappointingly, we awoke to the silent fans staring at us and the lack of the lovely hum of central air. My husband heroically drove to the first Starbucks he could find that was open and didn’t have a mile-long line wrapped around it. Since plans for having friends to our house for dinner had changed abruptly, we met at a restaurant and then back to their house to charge our cell phones, drink coffee, eat desserts and borrow their battery-powered lanterns. I made up our beds in our still-cool basement and sleeping wasn’t bad at all. The game changed this morning, however. Still no power and with our electric line still lying in our yard, it was time to face facts. This is going to be a long haul. I took out all the dishes I had loaded into the dishwasher before the storm and washed them by hand. We ate a lot of eggs for breakfast (lighting our gas stove with a match), since their expiration was upon us. I let go of the idea that anything in my three refrigerators and two freezers was going to survive. I called our also-powerless neighbors and they gratefully accepted a big tray of cupcakes and some soon-to-defrost meat (they were escaping to relatives’ for dinner). I knocked on doors trying to give away cookies, and when neighbors were not home, I saw a woman in a car with kids, flagged her down, and gave them to her. I tried to adopt the attitude that this could be fun, like camping. But I hate camping. So we piled the rest of the meat and cupcakes into the car along with our laptops, had our daughter take herself and the dog to a friend’s who has air conditioning, and went to my husband’s office (the storm had brought on some emergency work for his utility client). Our daughter asked when we would be returning home. We said, "When it's time to go to bed" since there's nothing else there we can do except sleep again in the dark basement. What will I do tomorrow on my day at home? Can’t cook or bake, can’t use the computer, can’t clean, can’t breathe. Maybe I’ll see if they want me to come to work.
DIY Ingredients 6.29.12
In baking there are some ingredients you just cannot skimp on – you have to get the best. One is vanilla extract. If you want the best flavor in your baked goods, you simply cannot use “imitation,” you have to use “pure.” But vanilla is really, really expensive. A good friend of mine has given me a bottle of her homemade vanilla for the past several Christmases – it’s one of the best gifts I receive. When I ran out of it not long ago, I thought I'd try the "Do-It-Yourself" route. I found vanilla beans in bulk online (WAY cheaper than in a store), got some vodka, and followed a recipe, which I also found online. You won’t need a pencil and paper for this: cover vanilla beans with vodka in a jar, shake it once a week, and in 3 months you have your own extract (the longer you leave it, the stronger the flavor). I have several jars going at once. It’s fun, and you feel like you’re pretty smart. (Well, smart enough not to spend $20 per bottle of vanilla anymore!). Saving on other ingredients can be more of challenge. I was at the grocery store and had to buy some ground cloves. I literally gasped and said out loud, “WHAT? ARE YOU KIDDING?” A 0.9 ounce jar is $9.99! When did this happen? Was it THAT long ago that I bought cloves? I thought for a minute about buying the whole cloves at the “bargain” price of $7.99 and grinding them up myself in the food processor, but then I pictured breaking the food processor and having to buy another one. Not worth the two bucks. I think I’ll google “grinding your own cloves for fun and profit.” At this rate, maybe I should also look into churning my own butter.
Techno-Break 6.27.12
Though I use technology when it suits me, I don’t understand most of it. I feel guilty about this. Like I SHOULD know, or like I should at least TRY to find out about it. For example, my car. On the steering column and the stick you use to turn on the windshield wipers there are many buttons and switches. I just noticed these today. I wonder what they do. I really don’t care, I use my car to come and go and it does that; anything else is not necessary to me. Then there’s my cell phone, which is really old and big (I reverted to my old one when I could no longer attempt to figure out the new one). I make calls, I text, and occasionally I take a very bad photo with it. I am pretty sure my phone can do other things, but again with the apathy. I think one reason I turned to baking was to take refuge from this confusing, challenging and guilt-producing environment. I am not sure that this is healthy; maybe it is not smart of me to mention it, lest the image of The Vintage Baker become tarnished. But the truth is, though this doesn’t excuse my intentional ignorance, I do see some value in evoking the memories and feelings of a slower, gentler time. I think we all need a break from technology once in a while. Mine starts in the kitchen.
Cake Cottage 6.25.12
Every so often I have to drive a little distance to go buy supplies that I can’t get anywhere else. Or maybe I could, but going to The Cake Cottage is a treat. It’s like walking into a treasure trove of shiny boxes and glittering sprinkles and kitchen tools you never knew existed and now realize you desperately need. I grab a cart and begin to cruise the aisles. You want to go slow because there is so much to see. Candy molds, cookie cutters, gel food colors, tiny candy boxes, tins of every size and shape, melting chocolates, decorating bag tips, cake bases in every size, bakery boxes . . . my hands itch to grab and buy. But I get hold of myself and just load up what I need (mostly) and tell myself that this store isn’t that far away and I can always come back. Maybe tomorrow?
Cinnamon Toast Cupcake 6.23.12
Don’t panic, but Christmas is only six months and two days away. Which means that FALL is practically around the corner. That (and the fact that I am trying to compile a list of all my varieties for my new web site that will soon be born, thanks to my daughter and one of her good friends) means I have to
get busy and create the new Fall flavors I have in mind. (FYI, you have just a run-on sentence). I have a little piece of scrap paper that I carry around with me, and I scribble ideas down as they occur to me, with my “bail bond” pen (see blog post from last year). One of my ideas is a cinnamon toast cupcake. I wanted it to evoke the sensation of curling up on a sofa with a cup of tea on a chilly Fall day. I have to admit, compared to the iced tea cupcake project, this was simple to carry out. I used a basic cinnamon cupcake recipe, and added some toasted and buttered chunks of cinnamon swirl bread sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. After the cupcakes were baked but still warm, I spooned a little melted butter (Paula would be proud) and more cinnamon sugar over each one. For the frosting, I made a basic vanilla buttercream and added cinnamon and cinnamon extract. I also used evaporated milk in place of whole milk . . . I’m not sure that this had any real effect on the flavor, but I love evaporated milk. The frosting already had a lovely light cinnamon color, but I wanted a two-tone look (because cinnamon toast is not monochromatic, I think you will agree). So I tinted half of the icing brown and swirled both colors onto the tops. I was delighted with the look and the taste. One down, many more varieties to go (if I can make out what I wrote on that list).
get busy and create the new Fall flavors I have in mind. (FYI, you have just a run-on sentence). I have a little piece of scrap paper that I carry around with me, and I scribble ideas down as they occur to me, with my “bail bond” pen (see blog post from last year). One of my ideas is a cinnamon toast cupcake. I wanted it to evoke the sensation of curling up on a sofa with a cup of tea on a chilly Fall day. I have to admit, compared to the iced tea cupcake project, this was simple to carry out. I used a basic cinnamon cupcake recipe, and added some toasted and buttered chunks of cinnamon swirl bread sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. After the cupcakes were baked but still warm, I spooned a little melted butter (Paula would be proud) and more cinnamon sugar over each one. For the frosting, I made a basic vanilla buttercream and added cinnamon and cinnamon extract. I also used evaporated milk in place of whole milk . . . I’m not sure that this had any real effect on the flavor, but I love evaporated milk. The frosting already had a lovely light cinnamon color, but I wanted a two-tone look (because cinnamon toast is not monochromatic, I think you will agree). So I tinted half of the icing brown and swirled both colors onto the tops. I was delighted with the look and the taste. One down, many more varieties to go (if I can make out what I wrote on that list).
Rainy Day Fun 6.21.12
It was cold and pouring rain on the day my daughter and I had planned to drive to the country and pick blueberries. I texted her about whether we should still go, and her answer was typical of her adventurous spirit – “Of course.” So, wearing sweatshirts and hats, we set out. It was a beautiful drive, and it had stopped raining by the time we arrived. No one else was there (hardly surprising). The blueberries were big and plentiful, and so easy to pick from the tall-as-we-were bushes (no bending and stooping and squatting, like for strawberries). We had taken out large pails, and by the time they were full, our feet were soaked and I actually was able to wring water out of my sweatshirt sleeve. Undaunted, we decided to make another stop at a farm we had passed earlier. We were surprised to hear that they still had strawberries, and they also had cherries. I wanted my daughter to have some strawberries (I had plenty from my last farm trip) so we drove to the field and were delighted by the number of luscious looking big, red berries. We picked about ten before we got sick of it (bending, stooping, etc), then moved on to the cherries. Neither of us had ever picked cherries before, and it was so cool. Huge clusters of dark, red fruit practically jumped into our bucket. You could climb a ladder to reach the best ones. In no time we had filled the pail. Wet but happy, we set out for home. ‘Til we passed a small roadside restaurant and after a quick “Wanna eat?” and “Yes!” I swerved into the parking lot on two wheels. The food was homey and very good (French onion soup, BLTs, etc. - perfect for a wet day). Once we got home, the berries had to be washed, dried and prepared for freezing. Funny how you always have WAY MORE than it seemed you picked. The baking and cooking of berry recipes will be another day. This day was full, wet and fun.
Sailing Off 6.19.12
As must be obvious by now, I bake in every free moment I have. Either to fill orders, or to experiment, or to “re-stock.” But last Saturday, my husband so obviously wanted to spend a day out and about that I hung up my apron and off we went. It just goes to show that even when you love doing something, taking a break from it can be refreshing. We spent the day at Baltimore’s inner harbor extravaganza, Sailabration, hopping on and off water taxis to see tall ships from around the world and the Blue Angels air show. It was warm but not hot, breezy and sunny. We stopped in one of our favorite restaurants for lunch, (where we had the best mussels anywhere, second only to those we had in Positano recently), had cocktails with a friend who lives just off the harbor, and had dinner at a bistro where the conversation with other patrons was as good (well, almost) as the food. (Macaroni and cheese with dark chocolate? Ohhh yeah.) We ended the evening on the rooftop of my husband’s office building, basking in the lights of the city and the harbor, and listening to the cacophony of many parties along the waterfront. By that time it was windy and chilly enough to throw on a wrap and home we went – all in all, a perfect little slice of a day, even if there was no baking involved.
Strawberry Shortcup 6.17.12
My friend’s birthday is coming up, and she asked me to make some cupcakes for the party. Now, I happen to know that she loves strawberry shortcake. And I do have a strawberry cupcake that she really likes – the “spring fling”(strawberry-filled yellow cake with a buttercream basketweave top). Still I wanted to come up with something that not only tasted but looked like strawberry shortcake. This one was a no-brainer. I took a cupcake (basic butter cake) and sliced it in half. I layered on some marshmallow frosting (it does NOT taste like marshmallow – and it is incredibly light and silky. The last person who tasted it wanted to fall face-first into the bowl. Oh wait, that was me). Then I spooned on some strawberry filling (made from fresh-picked berries). I stacked on the other half of the cupcake, more frosting, and another dollop of strawberry. And there you have it – a Strawberry Shortcup! Uh oh. I just realized that my friend reads this blog, so there goes the surprise. That’s okay, isn't anticipation part of the gift?
Aroma Memories 6.15.12
Of all the things that can evoke memories, for me the sense of smell is the strongest by far. One whiff of something can transport me back in time. Like the other day, I opened my car trunk and the warm smell of a closed-up car hit me. Immediately I recalled the time when as a teenager I drove my young cousin, who had been staying with us, back to her home some 40 miles away. Upon arriving and going to open the trunk to get her suitcase, I realized that I had left the trunk key at home (remember the days when there were separate keys for the door and the trunk?). My uncle had to remove the back seat of the car to get into the trunk. Oddly, I don't recall him yelling at me, though I can bet what he was thinking. When I open the kitchen door on a hot, humid summer morning and the scent of evergreen hedges wafts in, I am back on my grandmother's porch, sitting in her swing and overwatering her potted plants. A solitary bird's call early in the morning evokes being in my Mom's bed when my Dad was traveling, missing him and getting comfort from the fact that Mom had a baseball bat under the bed. But of all the aroma-memory links, the strongest by far HAS to be the smell of my own poundcake baking – the rich, warm, tantalizing smell connects me to memories of the elderly lady who gave me the recipe so many years ago, to Christmases and Easters when this cake was a centerpiece, to all the people who love it (and to those who want the recipe but don't get it - except my neighbor whom I couldn't hold out against any longer). I don't know if everybody has this strong connection between aromas and memories, but it’s what I call a gift. And my life is the richer for it.
Cupcookie 6.13.12
I saw it in a store and couldn't resist it . . . a cookie cutter in a cupcake shape. I'm thinking, many mothers would probably rather have their little children eat an easy-to-hold and less-messy treat than a cupcake. At least if they are out and about with a stroller and packages. I decorated them only with pink frosting and sprinkles, and put half of a maraschino cherry on top. It looks and tastes yummy. That got me thinking about Christmas cookies – how fun would it be to have customers bring in their cookie tins and get them filled for the holidays? Okay, I know I am way ahead of myself. But one must plan ahead. (Oh, and I have some great ideas for the Fall . . .)
Long and Rocky Road 6.11.12
After the humiliating defeat with the iced tea cupcake, my ego was restored when I made a run at the "rocky road cupcake." I didn't want to just use one of my regular chocolate cake recipes – and I wanted to try to get an ice cream flavor. Also, I was not going to use any nuts (my lawyer friend once wisely advised me to stay out of trouble by not using nuts or cream fillings). So I used a light butter cake recipe, and in place of the milk I used melted chocolate ice cream. I then added some white chocolate chips, semi-sweet chocolate chunks, and mini-marshmallows. For the frosting I used a pourable, fudgy icing, topped with more chocolate chunks and mini-marshmallows, then drizzled all over with chocolate. I’m pleased to say that the long road to creating summer flavors has become a wonderfully delicious rocky road.
Tea'd Off 6.9.12
I tried it again. I REALLY wanted to find a way to make "iced tea cupcakes" as part of my new summer flavors repertoire. I have come to the conclusion that it is not possible, and those people online who say they found THE WAY are fooling themselves that their recipe has a "definite tea flavor." In summary, here is what I have tried: steeping the milk with tea (bags as well as loose); steeping the butter with tea leaves; pouring strong tea over the sugar and letting it absorb; using strong tea in place of the milk; using the "poke" method and pouring strong tea over the baked cupcakes; using tea as the liquid in the frosting; using instant tea mix in everything. Now, I have a remarkable ability to convince myself of something I very much want to believe, and I really wanted to TASTE TEA in the dozens of cupcakes I experimented with. I am sorry to report that I did not. Apparently the tea flavor is just too delicate to come through. I think the only way I will solve this is if I accidentally create something and then say, "Hey, wait a minute, this tastes like tea!" (That is what happened when I made my "pancake muffin” – total serendipity). So, I will leave this topic, and move on to my next ventures – “rocky road cupcake" and "peppermint patty cupcake." Bag the tea!
Summer Flavors 6.7.12
I was determined to come up with some new summer cupcake flavors. I really, really wanted to make an iced tea cupcake. Starting backwards, I made candied lemon slices; they turned out well, and spurred me onward. Ignoring what I had read about how milk steeped in tea just DOES NOT impart a tea flavor to the cake, I did it anyway; I just liked the idea of it. Of course it didn’t work. I did more research and one source said that the surefire way to get that tea taste was to make tea-infused butter, a fairly simple process, except that I’d have to take out a loan to buy all the loose tea needed to infuse one cup of butter (and it still didn’t work). By now I was a teensy bit bored with the whole tea thing. Putting it aside for another day (I have learned that baking when you are not in the mood bodes ill), I moved on to my next idea – “old-fashioned lemon and peppermint stick cupcakes.” Here I had more success – I think I got it. I made lemon cupcakes (with fresh lemon juice and lemon zest), filled them with a peppermint filling, frosted with pale yellow lemon buttercream, and stuck in the top of each (what else?) a peppermint stick. (I ordered the sticks online since I couldn’t find them in the store at this time of year. Well, I only looked in one store, but really, who has the time?) Now I have to hope that people like these, or I’m stuck with a whole lot of peppermint sticks and Christmas is six months away.
One-Year Anniversary 6.5.12
I cannot believe it was a year ago this month that I started this blog. It was an impulse really, and I had no idea of how to go about it. But family pitched in. One daughter sat down with me and got me started, and soon my husband (tired of hearing me whine and complain as I tried to download and upload and whatever) took on the job of editing for me. So here I am. It has been a year of real progress for my baking endeavor – I now have three businesses that order from me regularly, as well as many individual customers. I have learned a few things this year, too. Like patience, enjoying the journey, waiting ‘til the time is right, and dealing with problems calmly. (Oh wait, I’m still learning these things). I have also learned not to believe a recipe when it tells you to fill muffin tins “3/4 full” (it’s usually too much and the tins overflow), not to try to pipe icing that has lemon zest or bits of chocolate in it (it gets stuck in the decorating tip and makes you really angry), and to let ALL ingredients come to room temperature (even the buttermilk). I will make sure to turn on the AC on a hot day before making buttercream frosting, and will not buy a huge jar of some ingredient like maraschino cherries ‘til I am sure the recipe involved will actually sell. I have become grateful to find that I like to write, and that people (to my surprise) like to read what I write. Thanks to my supportive readers who continually give me confidence and inspiration. What will happen next? I don’t know. But I think it will be something good.
Fruitful Mission 6.3.12
It was my fault that we were a little late in the season going to pick strawberries – I was away during the peak time. Nonetheless, my fruit-picking cohort and I were determined to follow our tradition and pick fruit. The day dawned dark, with the threat of rain and severe thunderstorms. But it was mercifully cool. Because my friend had car issues and needed to end up at her dealership, we decided to meet half-way at a park ‘n ride. I got there first, waited a bit, then called her cell phone (you know how I always expect the worst – see previous blog entries). “I’m here!” I said. “So am I!” she replied. Turns out I didn’t recognize her rental car, and we were parked a few cars apart. Laughing, off we went. We were going to try a new place, closer to home and where she had to pick up her car. I had called that morning and the recording assured me that “strawberry picking was good.” But when we got there, the dour woman behind the fruit stand told us that, “He (he?) hasn’t opened the field yet.” (Why not, was he letting them rot on the plants?) Luckily, my friend had the name of another nearby farm, but unluckily she had been given the wrong directions. So after about an hour of driving around, popping into a Royal Farms to get some bottled water, and a foiled attempt to withdraw cash from the ATM (the whole transaction went through, except for the part where I get my money, necessitating a call to my bank). A couple of phone calls to the farm later and we had the correct directions and finally found the place. It was a good one. “This is what it’s all about,” I thought, as I walked down a dirt path listening to the wind in the trees and watching the butterflies darting about in the fields. It was SO quiet. We began to pick berries . . . but the field was pretty well picked over, so for every two bad berries I found one good one. This was work. I didn’t plan on work. Plus there were a lot of prickly weeds that pierced your hands. In spite of all of these trials and tribulations, I filled a flat pretty full. (And I remembered a trick I once learned from a woman in the orchard – as she picked, she pulled off the green tops. That saved me a lot of time on my feet later on). By now it was getting darker, so we finished up, picked up her car and headed home, planning to meet again in about two weeks to pick blueberries. The storm broke right after I had cleaned the strawberries and put them safely into the freezer. Mission accomplished fruitfully.
Take-Away Lessons 6.1.12
The other day I was driving down a narrow alley in my neighborhood, and there was a car parked on the side. BEFORE, I would have panicked, thinking there wasn’t enough space for me to get by, or I would have backed up, irate. But since the experience of driving on the hair-raising Amalfi coast with buses, trucks, motorcycles and cars competing for the narrowest band of cliffside roadway, I merely laughed at this child’s play and breezed on by. So you see, Italy was very educational. Oh, in other ways too. Museums and ruins and stuff. But I really like the practical side of knowledge, especially when it benefits me in some way. For example, limoncello, buffalo mozzarella and homemade pasta (believe me, these things are educational, especially if you’ve never had them made “authentically”). These experiences really are helping to ease the transition back to reality, as was going last night to a new Italian restaurant we just heard about, where they combine wine-tasting, camaraderie and lessons about Italian culture. Now look out, because my next baking creation just may be a limoncello cupcake (if there is any left in the freezer).
Home Again 5.30.12
Anyone who travels knows that the first day back home is sort of a blur. Re-entry into your real world, unpacking (or avoiding it) and getting over the fatigues of the return trip (in our case, 25 hours of it, thanks to a malfunction in the plane’s fuel ports). As things settle down, certain memories of the trip begin to stand out, as well as some do’s and don’ts that we hope we will remember the next time. I never will forget the scent of jasmine EVERYWHERE. The sight of a motorcycle careening around a tight corner on the coast road, with a dog happily sitting on the floorboard, ears flying in the wind. The cacophony of multiple languages mingling with the clatter of china and silverware in every restaurant. Sitting at our favorite Café Positano sipping wine, overlooking the Mediterranean, as we calmly watched cars speed down the narrow lane toward us and make the curve in the road at the last minute (the waiters adroitly dodging traffic even as they push a huge dessert cart over to the tables). The little trucks everywhere (we called them“trundle trucks” because of how they trundled through crowded streets), looking like toys and carrying everything from flower arrangements, to bottles of milk, to luggage. The way every afternoon coffee or glass of wine is served with something to eat . . . a tray of “dulci” (sweets), olives and nuts, or tiny sandwiches. The charming people, who really DO talk with their hands and use expressions like “Mama mia!” For the rest, I will count on the over 400 photos that we took. As for the do’s and don’ts: Thank goodness I took a jacket with me – a last-minute thought – because I wore it almost every day, especially when it got so chilly in the evenings. I am glad I took cotton balls to remove nail polish, plenty of antacid, and tweezers (because I dropped the camera while recharging it in the bathroom and the only way we could turn it on after that was by pushing the button with the end of the tweezers). A huge mistake was taking the big wedge shoes (never wore them on those cobblestones), my tight capri pants (sorry Jackie O, just not comfortable at meal time), and most of the jewelry (it became tangled in the suitcase anyway). I should have had the foresight to leave more room in my luggage for gifts – by the end of week 2 we shipped our two largest suitcases home (filled with dirty clothes) and carried or checked the rest (filled with ceramics and scarves, olive oil and limoncello). Amazingly it all got home intact – the only thing that was broken was a small dish from Capri – which I dropped in my own kitchen the first day back. So now back to reality. And those two big suitcases to unpack when they (hopefully) arrive at the end of the week. (Editor’s note: Thanks to our daughter, Abby, for her creativity in designing today's visual!)
Last Day on Capri 5.28.12
We decided to have a leisurely day on Capri – no lines, no rushing to “fit things in” and “not miss anything.” First, breakfast in the dining room, which included the makings for mimosas (which we wisely skipped). We grabbed a cab to visit Anacapri, the smaller town on the island located way up the mountain. Once in the town, there is a chair lift there that you can ride to the top of Mount Solaro, the highest elevation on the island. I had pretty much ruled that out, sure that it would be popular and therefore crowded. But no! Only a wait of about ten minutes, so we went for it. I am so glad we did, even though getting on the chair (standing there while it came up behind you, not stopping, so you had to sort of jump backwards into it) and getting off the chair (same procedure in reverse) was a little scary, not to mention stupid-looking. Once ensconced in the chair, up you went (and up and up) and the view of Capri was . . . wait, this reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to say. People throw around the word “amazing” so easily. Everything from a cup of coffee to a TV show to a hamburger is “AMAZING!” I refused to use that hackneyed word, until NOW that I have seen its true meaning. This view from the top is one of those things. There is no other word for the aerial image of the town and the Mediterranean, or for the STILLNESS, the quiet, as you ascend to the peak, as if you are alone in the world. And you could still smell the flowers, even up so high. As I gazed down on the profusion of wildflowers and lemon groves, I knew that remembering this would be a source of peace and calm for a long time to come. After this we were ready for lunch, and found Addo Riccio, a wonderful restaurant on the water. I got brave and ordered a local specialty, baby octopus. Now I can say I did it and don’t have to ever do it again (it tasted good, I just couldn’t look at it). Then we realized that we were steps away from the Grotta Azzurra (the Blue Grotto), another place we had pretty much ruled out (again, the crowds – boy we really are sounding like wimps! Well, it is what it is). Anyway – no wait! For this tour, you get in a boat, and the boatman who rows you up to a narrow opening in the rock yells, “Get down!” and you flop backward to get your head below the side of the boat as you shoot through to the grotto inside in the trough of the next wave. The view inside takes your breath away. The water is a color of blue that I can’t really reallydescribe. . . it’s the result of light refraction. Gorgeous. Again, so glad we did it. Now we were ready to go back to Capri – so we took our lives in our hands and got into the next bus and careened our way back from the water’s edge. For dinner we had seen a really cute place in town where the outside tables are covered with individual canopies. It had gotten quite chilly, and as my husband was giving me his jacket, one of the cooks inside noticed, and ran out with a wool shawl for me. I love Italy! And I have resolved two things: when I get home, I am going to use the freshest, most local food I possibly can, and I am going to plant a jasmine vine in my garden. Oh, and a third thing – I am definitely going to return to Capri.
Capri Experience 5.27.12
Thank goodness we didn’t do the Isle of Capri as a day trip. After standing in line for the hydrofoil (high-speed boat) to take us across from Sorrento to the island, then the mob scene getting on and off the boat, then the long line to ride the “funicular” (a little cable car that takes you up the side of the mountain to the “piazzetta” or main square) and throngs of people, cars, tiny delivery trucks and even an occasional ambulance jostling each other for space on tiny narrow streets, I was at first hot and unimpressed. Fortunately, our hotel sent David to meet us at the boat, lead us to the funicular with our tickets, and send our bags on to the hotel. Once at the top, we trudged through (and further up) the town to our hotel, where everything changed when we passed through the front doors. We stepped into a very chic lobby and were greeted with fresh, cool lemonade and warm towels for our faces and hands. Then we were led up to a beautiful all-white room with a large ceramic-tiled terrace overlooking the town and the mountains. In a few minutes, a complimentary bottle of champagne arrived with an assortment of small “Capri cakes.” As the crowds of daytrippers emptied from the island every 20 minutes, the town transformed into a quiet and enchanted village by evening. The twisting and turning streets, the flowers covering every available space, the impeccably appointed restaurants and cafes . . . heavenly. The hotel made a reservation for us to dine at Il Geranio, at the edge of a cliffside terrace overlooking the famous Faraglioni rock formations in the bay at sunset (or as my husband called them, “fraggle rocks.”) The pasta was perfetto, as was the local wine. But the best part came later in the evening. When we were ready to sleep, being city dwellers we shut and locked the terrace door and turned on the air conditioning. Around 4 AM I woke up sweating (it turns out that there is no AC – the island breezes and the altitude make the air naturally cool – and we had instead turned on the heat). The room was an oven. I stumbled over to the terrace doors and yanked them open. I can only describe it like this – a blast of delicious air hit me, cool and sweet-smelling and good enough to drink. I walked out to the railing, and looked up. The sky was black velvet studded with diamonds. Then, suddenly, a wisp of white appeared on the left . . . it grew and soon enveloped the island. Oh my goodness, was the island on fire? Then I looked above this mist and saw clouds RACING across the sky – I mean, it looked like someone had hit fast forward. The stars were obscured, and then just as quicky they reappeared. It was truly an incredible, beautiful and unforgettable spectacle. This island may be a playground for the rich and famous, but its true natural beauty outshines everything else. I loved it there.
Stormy Tuesday 5.25.12
In the wee hours of Tuesday morning we were awakened by a thunderstorm. Rain pelted our terrace, lightening flashed. And the rain persisted off and on into the next day. After getting soaked during a walk, we decided to go out in the car once again and discover new territory. And did we ever. The further down the Amalfi coast we went, the greener it got. The dark overhanging clouds, the cold wind and the pounding surf created a totally new mood and reminded us of the Big Sur northern coast of California. The hillsides were terraced with lemon groves. The little towns we passed through seemed a little melancholy in the rain, so I didn’t have much hope for a great lunch spot when we finally parked in the seaside fishing village of Cetara. But I should have trusted my husband’s innate ability to ferret out a good restaurant wherever we go (I always choose poorly – I’m not putting myself down, it’s just not one of my strengths). We wandered around, accidentally walked into a private courtyard where the elderly lady homeowner politely shooed us out only after proudly telling us that she had planted all the flowers. She pointed us in the direction of Ristorante Il Convento (actually once a convent). BINGO. There my husband relived his spaghetti carbonara experience that he had in a little alley café in Rome, but didn’t think he would find again. As for me, I gloried in gnocchi. Delicious, delicious coffee and a type of lemon-filled cake that floated onto your fork completed the meal. Oh, and wine of course (the wine list was two pages long). We have to wonder how these tiny towns can support restaurants of this calibre. We see it again and again, all up and down the coast. I don’t get it, but I admire it greatly. Once again the Italians have proven that they know how to do it right.
Cooking Class 5.24.12
Monday was the day for Sorrento, where we had a cooking class planned for that afternoon. We drove in early, and wandered down the narrow side streets that remind us so much of the “hutongs” in Beijing, picking up a gift for someone here and there, and marveling at centuries-old frescos in churches sitting amid shops and restaurants. At 4:30 we arrived at Villa Ida, a family estate with pool and outdoor cooking pavilion amid luscious gardens.The impressive gates opened after we pushed the buzzer, and a friendly man – Federico – appeared and waved us in. From that moment until we left later in the evening, we felt like we had become part of their family. We began by having espresso and lemon cake by the pool, under the lemon trees. We quickly made two new friends, a couple of women who had also signed up for our group, and can you believe it, not only were they on the same flight into Rome as we were the week before, but they also live about five minutes from us at home! (It really IS a small world.) We then met Marida, our instructor, who led us through the preparations of a meal so incredibly simple yet so absolutely packed with flavor that I felt like I had been initiated into the secrets of the gods. Tomato sauce that was merely a tomato puree over olive oil, simmered with fresh herbs for an hour or two. Potatoes thinly sliced and placed over olive oil and freshly cut sage and rosemary, covered with white wine and baked. Oh, and the wine! Carlo (Federico's father and Marida’s uncle who owns the estate) makes it, and he took us to his wine cellar to sample several of his varieties and hear tales of local winemaking. I love what he said as he led us into the cave-like space – “When I have a problem, I come here. Not to SOLVE the problem, wine does not solve problems, it just makes you happy and you FORGET the problem.” We made a veal dish that was floured and fried and then covered with fresh lemon juice (and I do mean fresh – we went out to their garden and cut the lemons right off the trees.) The dessert was panna cotta - and I can only hope to try to duplicate it in some small way when we return home. It was an afternoon of learning how an Italian family cooks, eats and lives. I think we learned something more than just how to prepare good food.
Seaside Gem 5.23.12
On Sunday we drove in the opposite direction – up the Amalfi coast – to explore all of the little hamlets and villages between Positano and Sorrento. I’ll try to paint a word picture of what we saw: a road with steep rock formations on one side, the sea way, way below on the other. You round a bend and are suddenly in a “town.” You could reach out the car window and touch someone’s front door, or pick a geranium from a windowbox. A crowd of people, some holding flowers, cluster outside a church (and into the street) after a First Communion celebration. When your eyes follow steep steps going up a hill at an impossible angle, you find a stucco house at the top with bright laundry hanging out, partially obscured by lemon trees with heavy globes of yellow fruit begging to be picked. Roses – white, yellow, peach and red – climb walls and trellises, and everywhere is a splash of color called bougainvillea, something between magenta and fuscia that always makes me think of the Crayola crayon of that hue. So it was a huge surprise when we made our way down the mountain to the little seaside town of Nerano, and found a sophisticated little restaurant in the midst of all of this pastoral simplicity. We didn’t know it was there, of course – we were just looking for a restaurant on the water. We walked into “Taverna del Capitano” and immediately were captivated by the spacious simplicity, huge windows on the water, and sterling and crystal on every table. (The next day someone we mentioned the restaurant to said, “Oh, you really like fine dining!”) The maître d’ took my jacket, but when he offered me a stool “for Madame’s purse” I got a little nervous and Euro signs began to dance before my eyes. But no worries; the cost of a truly excellent meal was less than we paid for wine in Rome. I had the local rockfish wrapped in paper-thin fried potato, a zucchini flower stuffed with ricotta cheese, and fresh tomatoes. My husband had a local white fish wrapped around white asparagus and surrounded by peas (big, tasty, non-mushy). The waiter, who presented my husband with the version of the menu with prices, became an instant favorite with my husband when he told me (as I was interjecting a question about the menu), “Please, stay quiet Madame.” (By this he meant no disrespect - the translation would be, “Please relax, Madame, I will take care of everything.” But still. . .). He became an instant favorite of mine when he bent over and kissed my hand in farewell. These Italian men are so gallant, so respectful...it’s all one with the impossibly beautiful scenery and meltingly delicious food along this wonderful coast.
Food Like Mama Makes 5.21.12
On Saturday we drove (yes, drove, much to the obvious disappointment of our hotelier, who was very excited about giving us info on mass transportation, probably because driving these narrow coastal cliff roads is so hazardous that they’d rather leave it in the hands of the professionals, i.e. locals). Anyway, we drove down the coast through (literally) mountains with villages sticking to them, and the blue waters steeply down at our side. Names from the guide books were suddenly vivid, real and breathtakingly beautiful – Amalfi and Ravello among the most notable. I was totally impressed with my husband’s handling of the driving, with all of the shifting and dodging involved. I only screamed a few times. In Ravello, we found a shop that sells ceramics and boasts Oprah, Rachael Ray and Ina Garten (The Barefoot Contessa) among their customers. We bought earrings made of Venetian glass. We climbed about a million steps and never found the villa and gardens we were looking for, but did find a wonderful limoncello store that had tastings. Lunch was another phenomenal meal of sauces from heaven, all made by a little Italian grandmother who, when I asked for the secret of the lemon sauce over the veal, cradled my face in her hands and crooned, “My dear, VERY FRESH LEMONS.” (More about these lemons later - they grow them as big as footballs here.) My husband commented that, although we hadn’t ordered the spaghetti, he was sure it was handmade. She passed by, patted him on the head, and said, “I bring you spaghetti – you taste.” At the end of the meal, she brought us their homemade limoncello and complimentary tiramisu (light as a cloud). I love these people. And I am able to communicate with them. Wait, it’s not what you think. Yes, I DID study Italian for several months prior to this trip, so I am fluent with words like “grazie” and “dove" and “prego.” (I know you’re impressed). But I seem to have an uncanny ability to understand Italian people speaking heavily-accented English! Seriously, my husband will ask me to interpret, so I guess I got more out of my lessons than I thought. Anyway, another delicious day on the Amalfi coast.
Buon Compleanno 5.19.12
Yesterday was my birthday, and luckily for me we were in Positano. (The previous day was my husband's birthday, and unluckily for him we were on a train from Rome to Naples, hauling suitcases on and off and then dragging them down blocks of cobblestone streets – and I do mean IN the street, because of much construction
around the Naples train station – looking for the Hertz rental car office and then shlepping BACK down those same traffic-clogged and death-defying streets to a garage where we found the car we were renting. At least it was civilized on the train, where we were offered complimentary glasses of champagne. The Italians have the right idea about many things.) But yesterday MY birthday took place in the magical village of Positano, a city right out of a Christmas train garden, clinging to the sides of a mountain and apparently held in place by flowers. The scent of jasmine is everywhere. The day was perfeto. It began with cappuccino and breakfast on our private terrace, which has a breathtaking view over the town and the bay. Then shopping! I had a pair of sandals made while I waited, and the storeowners offered us cups of espresso. The shops themselves were a delight, on either side of cobblestone paths that wind down a narrow road to the beach. As long as you remained alert and kept eyes and ears opened, you were not that likely to be run down by buses, cars, motorcycles and scooters that all share the same road with pedestrians. It is almost trite to proclaim how good the food is here, but I have to tell you that I had the best meal I think I ever ate on the terrace of a hotel here overlooking Positano Bay and the Mediterranean. They do food so well in Italy – packed with flavors but so light. We had plump mussels swimming in a lemon-olive oil broth that you sopped up with wafer-thin pieces of toast. Then the ubiquitous caprese salad. I used to never order this at home because I considered it bland and a waste of time. NOT HERE. I can't describe it well enough to do it justice - just let me say that I came close to tears as it melted in my mouth. And that was just lunch! There followed more shopping, a nap, cappuccino and my book on our hotel terrace, then dinner at a garden restaurant in town with a jasmine vine canopy overhead. As we walked "home"– all uphill (which is why we don’t seem to be gaining any weight so far) – we window-shopped at a little bake shop displaying the works of art they call dessert (I got some new ideas). Buon compleanno to me!
around the Naples train station – looking for the Hertz rental car office and then shlepping BACK down those same traffic-clogged and death-defying streets to a garage where we found the car we were renting. At least it was civilized on the train, where we were offered complimentary glasses of champagne. The Italians have the right idea about many things.) But yesterday MY birthday took place in the magical village of Positano, a city right out of a Christmas train garden, clinging to the sides of a mountain and apparently held in place by flowers. The scent of jasmine is everywhere. The day was perfeto. It began with cappuccino and breakfast on our private terrace, which has a breathtaking view over the town and the bay. Then shopping! I had a pair of sandals made while I waited, and the storeowners offered us cups of espresso. The shops themselves were a delight, on either side of cobblestone paths that wind down a narrow road to the beach. As long as you remained alert and kept eyes and ears opened, you were not that likely to be run down by buses, cars, motorcycles and scooters that all share the same road with pedestrians. It is almost trite to proclaim how good the food is here, but I have to tell you that I had the best meal I think I ever ate on the terrace of a hotel here overlooking Positano Bay and the Mediterranean. They do food so well in Italy – packed with flavors but so light. We had plump mussels swimming in a lemon-olive oil broth that you sopped up with wafer-thin pieces of toast. Then the ubiquitous caprese salad. I used to never order this at home because I considered it bland and a waste of time. NOT HERE. I can't describe it well enough to do it justice - just let me say that I came close to tears as it melted in my mouth. And that was just lunch! There followed more shopping, a nap, cappuccino and my book on our hotel terrace, then dinner at a garden restaurant in town with a jasmine vine canopy overhead. As we walked "home"– all uphill (which is why we don’t seem to be gaining any weight so far) – we window-shopped at a little bake shop displaying the works of art they call dessert (I got some new ideas). Buon compleanno to me!
Alfredo and Benedict 5.17.12
In the past two days in Rome I have met two famous people. Well, not met exactly. I will explain. For dinner Tuesday night our concierge recommended a restaurant called Alfredo's. We took a cab and took a look and left – too bright, no atmosphere. We walked around the neighborhood for a while and came upon a restaurant billing itself as "L’Originale Alfredo." Let’s go with the original, we thought – looked like a fun and lively place with strolling musicians. Well, to begin, the caprese salad . . . there were no words to describe the combination of creamy sweet mozzarella, fresh-from-the-garden basil, small sweet tomatoes and a heavenly light olive oil. The olive oil was so good that I risked trying out my Italian and asked, "Posso comprarlo?" (Can I buy it?) This request opened up a conversation with the owner and her daughter, who happened to be sitting at the next table. She told us the story of her grandfather, Alfredo Di Lelio, and how he invented the fettuccine recipe of his name. His wife had just given birth in 1908 to their firstborn son and was unable to eat, until he whipped up a simple fettuccine with butter and parmesan cheese that soon became his fame. (Early film stars Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks even presented him with a gold fork and spoon to declare him master of the tableside tossing that made this recipe a dining experience.) As I enjoyed this light and delectable dish (nothing like the thick, gloppy American version, which adds cream to thicken the sauce in place of the higher-fat European butter) we talked with our new friends who gave us many recommendations and contacts for restaurants along the Amalfi coast, our next destination, and then presented us with a few gifts (my favorite, an apron with the name of the restaurant on it). This was the kind of experience that makes traveling so worthwhile. So that was the first famous person. The next one was Pope Benedict XVI. It was thrilling to attend a papal audience with seats so close, thanks to the Pontifical North American College where we retrieved our tickets the day before. We got several glimpses of him in St. Peter's Square, as he traveled through the crowd in his Popemobile. But the combination of waiting in a hot crowd for over two hours, then sitting through over 90 minutes of presentations mostly in other languages, then getting separated from my husband for almost two hours and thinking he was hurt because he didn't answer his phone and getting caught in a rain storm still searching for him and trying to talk a Vatican guard into letting me into a restricted area while he is yelling, "Signora, no!" and trying to pantomime "health suite" and then getting a call from my husband that he got tired of waiting for me and was in a cafe...well, those of you who know me and us can easily play out the rest of this scenario. It all got resolved over a glass of wine and the mutual decision to skip some of the other sightseeing stuff that day...really, enough is enough. I more enjoyed meeting Alfredo’s family the evening before.
First Tastes 5.15.12
Not that I was trying to crowd everything into our first day in Rome (which was yesterday) but I've already had four cappuccinos, one gelato, a bellini ( a local favorite – champagne and fresh peach juice) at a cafe overlooking the Spanish Steps, olives, incredible pizza, a liqueur chocolate cup (you drink it and eat the cup all in one bite) and TNTC (a useful lab term meaning “too numerous to count”) glasses of wine. This is pretty amazing, and excusable, considering the state of gritty-eyed fatigue we were in after an overnight plane trip. Plus, the hair-raising 20 minutes or so at the baggage carousel when my suitcase failed to appear. It's the thing you always fearfully play out in your mind...standing there, watching everyone else grabbing their suitcases while you are silently cursing yourself for also having a black one, and then STILL standing there while the same bedraggled, beat-up-looking, unclaimed green duffel bag continues to cycle past you forlornly. I just knew someone else had mistakenly taken my bag, and when discovering their mistake upon arriving in their remote village, would toss it in the dumpster. There was a happy ending this time, however – while my husband waited in a long line with other unhappy travelers I decided to go back to the carousel for one last look – and there was my suitcase, looking like an after-thought, but there. So I was able to move on. To cappuccinos etc. And to wandering around Trastevere, a picturesque little area near the Tiber River, with narrow cobbled streets and tiny alleyways where people spilled out of shops and outdoor cafes in the early evening. Tasting Rome!
Ciao Italia! 5.12.12
Of course I am excited about our upcoming trip to Rome and the Amalfi coast. But I always experience some anxiety before traveling (which rapidly dissipates once I am on the plane). First of all, the process of getting everything ready is grueling. I like to leave my house clean, laundry done, fridge stocked for the housesitter (and customers stocked with baked goods), garden tidied up, and gas tank in the car full. Then I can go with a clear mind. (Certain personality types will understand this, and the rest of you won’t. My oldest daughter once commented to me that she didn’t see how her sister could be enjoying herself in China with the way her desk drawers were so cluttered at home – she gets it). Then there is the packing. The airlines’ policy of charging for the second suitcase is really cramping my style. How I usually pack is like this: I carefully put a few outfits together, eliminating anything not strictly necessary. Then, I throw in everything I previously eliminated. This time I can’t do that. I have to be really firm. (Anyway, I want to leave room for all the stuff I’ll buy in Italy, though if push comes to shove I guess I could always ship things home. Somehow I don’t see my husband agreeing with this line of thinking). There is also a certain amount of letting go of control that leaving for a trip requires; after all the prep work, when everything at home is so nice, I have to entrust it all to someone else. It feels like it did after our wedding reception, when we left for our honeymoon waving goodbye to the best man who had all of our money gifts in his pocket. And of course, are your children ever so old that you don’t feel like you’re leaving your babies alone In America? (By the way, my husband does not experience one of these scruples, and he thinks I’m nuts.) In the end, off we go, I love every minute, don’t want to come home, and wonder what on earth I was so anxious about. Ciao Italia!
It's 1968 Again 5.10.12
My interview with a potential new customer this week was cancelled. I knew it. When I called to confirm, I just knew it was going to be cancelled. I felt it in my bones. I was disappointed, I was all ready for it (with lots of samples, which are fortunately still in the freezer). I know why I have this tendency to expect the worst. This may not be the only reason, but it sure was a huge factor. When I was in high school, the girls way out-numbered the boys in my class, so at prom time I invited a guy I knew from my neighborhood. I was so happy when he said yes. I went shopping and bought a formal gown, gloves, purse and wrap (stop laughing – many of my readers will remember that's what we wore then). Here's the part that scarred me. I had just gotten home and unwrapped the gown and was showing my mother when the phone rang. You can probably guess...it was the guy CANCELING because "his band had a job." Is this like the saddest thing you ever heard? Years later, I found out he was being truthful at the time. But nonetheless I was crushed. (Until, that is, I turned around and invited the boy I had a huge crush on and ended up going to the prom with him). Anyway, you can see why now I'm a little hesitant to wholeheartedly expect the best. But then again, I remember that time when one thing fell through and I got something better. No reason why that can’t happen again.
Bite of the Good Old Days 5.8.12
Since two of my faithful blog readers mentioned it recently, I have not been able to get the idea of a creamsicle cupcake out of my mind. Ideas have been intruding as I focus on my orders, and I just haven’t had time to try them out. But yesterday I decided enough already, and I put my ideas into batter and frosting. I am happy to report to my readers that I am THRILLED with the results! I wanted a cupcake that evoked the look and taste of the old-fashioned treat from our childhood (and teenhood and young adulthood). So…I made a basic butter cake, then (using a tear-out recipe from about 30 years ago) I did a “poke cake” technique with orange jello. After chilling for a few hours, I swirled on two-toned orange and white frosting that I flavored with orange. Voila! It's the good old days in every bite.
Email Orders 5.6.12
I am very grateful to have email, and I am very grateful that my customers order from me this way. Because they can’t see my face or hear my voice when I react. Don’t get me wrong – I am absolutely thrilled to get orders, even last minute. Here is what I mean. I tend to be very HONEST, and that often manifests itself in a way that could be called RUDE. I don’t mean to be rude. I just don’t naturally screen my real feelings. I am learning to do this, however. You can’t live with a PR man for 34 years and not pick up a few tricks, I mean skills. For example, I hear him on the phone - obviously we are being asked to do something he recently told me he would do only if hell freezes over. But he is all friendly and acts like he is actually considering it. I look at him aghast, I wave my hand in his face mouthing “NO!!!” What’s wrong with him anyway, can’t he stick to his guns? He looks at me in a superior way as he says to the other party, “As much as we would LOVE to [blank], we have a prior engagement. But let’s talk soon and get another date on the books”. Oh. I get it – you can lead with the positive as you think up your real response. You don’t have to let people KNOW that you are agonizing . Being nice doesn’t mean you are going to get roped into something you don’t want to do. Okay, back to my opening statement. As I said, I love getting orders, but when they come in just as I am walking in from work and it’s for a huge amount and it’s due ASAP, my face usually looks…well, I wouldn’t want a client to see it. It’s not my finest moment. I may also be yelling things inside like, “And just when am I going to do THAT?” etc. But after five minutes I am composed, excited, and busy planning how and when. And then I love preparing the order. It’s just those crucial first few moments that need to be screened.
Garden Variety Wisdom 5.4.12
I have mentioned that my garden is beautiful right now. Springtime is always the best anyway, before the heat of summer wilts both it and my motivation to work outside. But it wasn't always this lush and fragrant. When we bought this house 16 years ago the "garden" was sparse and dry. It stayed that way for about 13 years. Oh, it's not that I didn't try to get things to grow . . . it's just that I didn't know what I was doing. (When shopping with my daughter the other day for her plants, and answering her questions, she asked me how I knew so much about the plants. I told her it was because for 15 years I had been systematically doing the wrong things and killing them. Live and learn.) One of my problems was that I was always in too much of a hurry, and possibly too lazy, to do any research into type of soil, ph level (yawn), etc. I just dove in, with predictable outcomes. I wanted instant results...of course. Gradually, I learned to at least talk to those who know about what to plant and where. Interestingly, I don't do this with baking. I DO experiment, but it's after thinking it through. I definitely read up on different topics and love to learn more. Is there a lesson here? Yes, I think the lesson is: 1.You can't be good at everything, and 2.Hire a gardener.
Fudgesicles 5.2.12
When I was a kid, one of the joys of summer was fudgesicles. There was something about them. Looking back, I think the taste was not really all that chocolatey- was it? No matter, I loved whatever the flavor was, and the shape, and the coldness. My sister and I believed my grandmother when she told us that the ice cream treat would help you go to sleep (her motives are all too obvious now). So after finding a wonderful recipe for marshmallow buttercream, and then finding chocolate marshmallows in the store, my immediate thought was to create a “Fudgesicle Cupcake.” First I made the chocolate marshmallow buttercream, and I added some chocolate syrup when it didn’t taste quite chocolatey enough. What for the cake? I took a very basic butter cake recipe, cut down a bit on the sugar, and added chocolate pudding. When I slathered the frosting on the top, along with another splash of chocolate syrup, it looked good. It FELT like a good representation of a fudgesicle. When I asked my daughter to taste it and she took a bite, rolled her eyes and stomped her feet, I took that as a sign that I had hit the mark. Bring on the summer!
Distractions 4.30.12
Since we will be going on vacation soon, I told my customers they may want to “stock up” for the time I am away. Anticipating orders, I spent the weekend making the cupcakes, frostings and fillings I thought would likely be most requested. But suddenly, the gorgeous spring day called to me. It was warm but not hot, there was a breeze, and I could hear the wind chimes my Mom had just given me for my birthday. That did it. I put a chocolate cake in the oven, poured a cup of coffee and went outside. There is a garden in the yard outside my kitchen, and when I sit on the step, I am surrounded by roses and geraniums and viburnum, and my valiant primroses, still blooming from winter. I took a deep breath and drank in the beauty, and with it, peace. Good thing I set the timer on that cake, because I was in no hurry to go in.
Mind Games 4.28.12
So here's what it sounded like in my head the other morning as I was making a cupcake delivery on my way to work. "Okay, when I get there I can't park illegally, so I better go around the block and face in the right direction. When I get to the office I have to call for those stat lab results. I wonder if I can make a strawberry out of fondant – but it's so hard to get a good red color. I need to make a list of what I have to take to the next tasting/customer meeting in two weeks, not sure if I have enough. Today when I get home I'm going to make that new vegan chocolate cake recipe. I wonder what my schedule at work looks like today? Oh, I have to buy some food for my vegetarian daughter who is housesitting when we go on vacation. Should I make meals ahead, or let her handle it?" And I wasn't even out of my neighborhood. But this is how I operate best. I just can't let anyone else hear it.
What's One S'more? 4.26.12
What do you do when you are running up against several deadlines and running out of time? If you're me, you throw something else on the pile. I don't know, it sort of makes me feel like I am accomplishing MORE because it's EXTRA and the REAL stuff HAS to get done because it is DUE. Crazy? Probably. But I worked on a cupcake yesterday that I am so happy with. It's a s'mores cupcake. I invented a s'mores muffin ages ago, but never a cupcake. First, I checked out Annie's Eats (a fantastic website – this woman is a physician and her recipes are delicious, reliable, and her photos are good enough to eat). She had a recipe that I tweaked a little bit, including changing the frosting because I have to be able to freeze it. What I ended up with was a moist chocolate cupcake with a graham cracker bottom, and a truly fabulous marshmallow buttercream frosting. On the top, I planted a "mini-s'more." I think it's a winner - let's see what my customers say.
Stop And Smell The Marigolds 4.24.12
There are not enough hours in the day for me to do all I want to do. . . try new recipes, invent new cupcake flavor combos, try new decorating techniques, work on the business end of things, set up my website, not to mention fill orders. I could easily never stop (except to go to work or sleep). But I realize there are some things even more important than indulging in my baking dream, and one of them is spending time with family. I have to tear myself away from the oven, but I am always glad when I do. Simple things, like accompanying my husband for errands on the weekend (yeah, a lot of them were for me, but still. . .). Or skyping for over an hour with my daughter in Shanghai – I pushed the rum buns order out of my head and laughed with her as we shopped together online. And going over to my oldest daughter’s adorable townhouse and shopping for herbs and annuals for her planters (geraniums, marigolds and an “urban-friendly” rosebush, plus some blue flowers I don’t know the name of, but they look fabulous next to the pink geraniums). It feels so good. Now, if I can just pin my youngest daughter down for some “quality” time. . .
Vintage Service 4.22.12
People complain that good service is scarce these days, and they have a point. But occasionally I find it, as in one place that might be an unlikely one. It is the Dunkin' Donuts a block away from my office. I never used to go there, but in recent weeks I have become addicted to their "medium skim hot lattes." (It took me a few visits to stop ordering the Starbuck's version of this – once you get used to their “language” it’s hard to shake it!) What is so great about this place is that if you’re a regular, they remember what you usually get. When I visit with my friend, who has been a customer there much longer, we walk up to the counter and her drink is there already – they see her in the parking lot! The other day I went in for both of our orders, and after they asked if I wanted my usual I said, "I also want the drink my friend gets.” They knew what it was, and who I meant! I resolve that if (when?) I have my bakery, this will be the kind of “vintage” personal service I will give.
Bad Hair, Beware! 4.20.12
Do you remember the old Bob Newhart sitcom where he and his wife ran an inn in Vermont? In one episode, their spoiled rich girl/maid was putting off getting her driver's license renewed until she could get her nails done. When it was pointed out to her that her nails would not show in the photo she replied, "Oh, if my nails aren't done it shows on my face." Well, that's how I feel about my hair. If it doesn't turn out, my self-image for the day has a crack in it, and my mood slips down a notch (shallow, but true). So I should have been forewarned when my hair looked un-good the other morning – things were not going to go well. I had to deliver cupcakes to a customer before work, and I had a big order, so I pulled up right in front of the store. Granted, I was facing the wrong way on the street, but was that any reason for some woman to GLARE at me? I don't mean a passing glance – she glared at me as she walked down the street, as she got in her car, and as she sat in her car eating a bagel. I tried to look oblivious as I went about my delivery. When I went back to my car, SHE WAS STILL THERE, GLARING. For a minute I thought she was going to make a citizen's arrest, but I wasn’t blocking anyone in. I tapped on her window and thanked her for her “understanding,” and she so helpfully rolled down the window to yell, “You’re on the wrong side of the street!” As I drove off trying to remain calm, I decided two things. One, next time I would go around the block and park legally (since it seems to be such a big deal) and two, the next time someone else does something...okay, stupid...while in a car, I intend to NOT look sour and glare. I mean, life’s too short and it wasn’t even 9 a.m. yet.
Can't Stand The Heat? 4.18.12
It snuck up on me. I mean the heat. It had been so cool and beautiful, I took it for granted. I forgot (like I do every year) how poorly I function when it is HOT. I had an order for 14 dozen assorted cupcakes to make in two days, so I hit the ground running in the morning. By 11 a.m. I was warm. By 2 p.m. I was dehydrated, and shuttling finished cupcakes to the freezer as fast as I could before they melted. By dinner time I was so worn out that, of course, I took my husband's head off when he walked through the door. Only later, after a good meal and a refreshing shower, did I ask myself the salient question: Why didn't I turn on the air conditioning? We have it. I guess it's because sometimes I get so caught up in what I am doing, head down, eyes on the task, that I am oblivious to the obvious. Will I learn from all this? Ask me next spring.
Favorite Things 4.16.12
When I bake or cook, I have favorite tools that I use for different things, for no reason other than I always have. I know I am not alone in this. Once at my sister’s house we were having a marathon baking day. I was about to make pie pastry, and I said to her, “Where is your bowl for making pie?” We were at the moment surrounded by bowls of all shapes, sizes and colors, but she unerringly reached for one and said, “This one.” And so it is with me – my old white bowl is for pie, my grandmother’s fork is for beating eggs, and one particular stainless tablespoon is for putting ice water in pastry dough. I will actually pass over other forks and tablespoons in order to get the “right” one. I also have some items I don’t even remember buying, but they are so great now that I can’t be without them. I am referring to my 3/4 cup, my 2/3 cup, and my 2 tbsp. measure. Such time savers. On the other hand, there is one measuring spoon that I keep in a separate place because I have had some close calls with it. This is the 1/2 tbsp. How often do you even need that? And it can so easily be mistaken for a teaspoon. But I’ll hang on to it . . . who knows, one day it may become a favorite.
Cold Hands 4.14.12
At the start of my cake decorating class years ago, I remember the instructor telling us to hold hands with the people next to us. She then asked, "Whose hands are cold?" The woman next to me, teeth chattering, said, "Hers are." I was pleased to learn, however, that cold hands are good for bakers, especially when you handle frosting and you don't want it to melt. My hands are always cold; at work I am constantly forewarning and apologizing to patients. I have tried using those hot packs that hikers put in their gloves. I have tried warming up the hand sanitizer and using it immediately before examining a patient. Nothing works. So now, at last, my cold hands would work for me! Or so I thought. Unlike at my office, the minute I walk into the kitchen my hands turn traitor and become nice and toasty. The pastry bag of decorating icing practically melts the minute I touch it – I have to keep popping it into the fridge to cool it down. Why is this? My theory is that it's the same phenomenon that causes previously infallible recipes to go awry whenever it really matters that they turn out, or that causes you to do something stupid like forget how much baking soda you just put into the recipe. There really is no satisfactory explanation - it's a situation I'll just have to handle.
Scary Words 4.12.12
Very few words in the English language have the power to scare me. Here is a sampling of some of them: tornado, cyclone, twister, leprosy and lawsuit. I can now add another…DRY. As in cupcakes. Raise your hand if you understand how fickle cupcakes are, and how tricky it is to get them JUST RIGHT. They have to be baked enough to be done, but not dried out. This is not as easy as it sounds. Especially if you are making dozens and dozens that will be on display for a day or two. I will admit to you that I am paranoid about this. I hover at my oven door, jabbing at the timer in 60-second increments, ready to pull the cupcakes out of the heat source the second the tester comes out clean. By the time I taste them I am in such a state that I can no longer tell if they are dry or moist, good or bad. How IS a cupcake supposed to taste, anyway? I never favored them over cake, their being so small. Plus, I like the inner part of the cake, not the edges, and a cupcake is a circle of edges, basically. So far, my cupcakes have stood up to the scrutiny of my home taste-testers, and they’ve been plenty moist. But that doesn’t mean I don’t continue to hover, jab and worry.
Family Affair 4.10.12
I am so lucky to have three daughters in their twenties, because they KNOW how to have fun, how to go with the flow, how to dive into the moment and ENJOY – and it’s contagious. We spent last weekend at the beach with our youngest daughter, and met up with my physician friend from work for some dining and fun. We found the latter at a karaoke bar. Well, if you know us at all, you will know that I LOVE to dance and my daughter can really sing. (This is my most eclectic daughter. She is equally at home dressed to the nines, red lipstick, hat and all, or sleeping in a tent with the homeless during the “Occupy” movement. In other words, she is a trip…an amazing one). Anyway, it wasn’t long before she and I were at the mic singing (her) and dancing (me) to Mary J. Blige’s “Family Affair.” (My husband is a patient man, though “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” had him up on his feet, too). It was a blast, a perfect way to blow off steam. There were only two things missing: my other two daughters (one was in Iceland and the other in Shanghai). But that may have been more than this club could have handled at one time.
More Cupcakes, Stat! 4.8.12
After a busy week of baking and with plans to go to the beach for the weekend, I had a day to catch up – shop for supplies, get to the grocery store for the family, do laundry, etc. As I was unloading the groceries from the car, I got a phone call from my newest (and biggest) customer. They were almost completely sold out of cupcakes and asked if I could quickly supply more. I stood in the garage with bags of perishables in my arms, thinking rapidly. What did I have? Well, I had several varieties of cupcakes already frozen (no frosting or decorations). I had one container left of strawberry filling, one of chocolate ganache. I had some mini-roses already made. I had a few cut-out fondant bunnies left. So if I hurried I could get a few dozen out to the store by the afternoon, and more in the morning on my way out of town. I have always responded well to emergencies – health care is my day job, after all. So I flew into action. First I made the shiny chocolate icing that has to set up in the fridge for several hours. Then I whipped up several batches of vanilla buttercream and one of lemon buttercream. I filled the spring fling cupcakes with strawberries and finished the basketweave icing on top. Filled the chocolate ganache and frosted them. Frosted the pink lemonade. Then the bunnycakes, and finally the chocolate chip cookie dough (luckily I had made a lot of mini-chocolate chip cookies the first go-round). Done and delivered. It felt very good, knowing my products were selling, and that I was supplying something that people really enjoy. Good way to end the week.
What A Crock 4.6.12
I have a new best friend. It is my crock pot. I used to not like crock pots so much...no matter how many different recipes I tried, all of the meals tasted the same to me. I much preferred cooking meals the traditional way. ‘Til now. I simply don't get around to cooking because I am too busy baking. My husband tells me not to worry about it, and that he's pleased to take responsibility for meals, but I feel an obligation to at least make an effort to put dinner on the table once in a while. Thus, the crock pot has come out of retirement. And yes, I still think the food all tastes the same, but now I'm so happy to have something that looks like dinner on the table, I don't really care. Eat up!
So Far, So Good 4.4.12
I am in a transition. I didn't expect it, but I feel it. Before, I baked stuff and gave it away, and everybody loved it and me. It was a lovely little circle. Once I "went professional" and had actual clients, the game changed. I wasn't just being NICE, I was CHARGING for my endeavors. I was at a new level, where expectations were (understandably) high. I had to live up to my claims. And I had to answer to my clients, hear their ideas, and accept their occasional criticisms. It's really no different from my "other job" as a nurse practitioner, where I leave my personal feelings at the door and relate to patients as a professional. I am now a business, and while I take my baking very personally, I'm working to keep the proper outlook. So far, so good.
Red Rediscovered 4.2.12
I didn’t really have a clear idea of what red velvet cake IS exactly (and apparently there are many diverse opinions about this). I associated it with that armadillo groom’s cake in “Steel Magnolias,” all gray and red and gross. Then, my neighbor made a red velvet cake and sent me a piece, and it was very, very good. Still, I didn’t feel the need to add it to my repertoire; all of that red food coloring! Surely in this age of increased consciousness of what additives are in our food, people will be shying away from red food dye. Apparently I am incorrect. Red velvet cake has actually experienced a resurgence in popularity. So, I tore my house apart looking for my neighbor’s recipe, but couldn’t find it. I then googled and searched and found Paula Deen’s recipe, which I made and tasted – and then had my neighbors taste it – and it was NOT right. Nowhere near chocolately enough and such a bright red it hurt your teeth to look at it (sorry Paula, I still love you). So I did what I should have done in the first place – I took the time to walk all the way across my driveway and get the delicious recipe from my neighbor. I frosted the cupcakes with a creamy whipped icing instead of the more traditional cream cheese, because these will be in a display case and not refrigerated. A little red “disco dust” sugar on top, and they were camera-ready. So now The Vintage Baker can continue to keep pace with public demand.
Going Bananas 3.31.12
This entry is dedicated to my sister, a fellow baker, because she too knows the pain of a failed or ruined product. (Just the other day, she emailed me about some “stupid stupid rye bread” that evidently misbehaved and ended up as a brick in the trash, so you see, she knows). I made the mistake of being too trusting and believing that every recipe I find online is going to work out if I just follow the directions. For example, I wanted to make banana buttercream frosting (I have a creation in mind). I followed the recipe exactly, and ended up with banana soup. I tried adding more confectioner’s sugar, but it was just swallowed up in the viscous mass. I decided not to waste any more ingredients, and I poured the whole mess down the sink. Oh well, I’ll try again later with another recipe, I said as I moved on to making banana chips. They would look so cute on top of banana cream pie cupcakes. All you do (according to the recipe) is slice the banana thinly, dip in lemon juice, and stick in a low oven for one to two hours. I happily went about other tasks knowing my oven was making cute little banana chips for me. I kept checking on them, and was a little nervous to see that they looked kind of brown. Surely that would go away; they just weren’t done yet. You have probably guessed that the brown did NOT go away. Maybe they weren’t TOO brown? They were, but they tasted delicious. So I stuck one on a cupcake, and I must say it was very off-putting. It looked like a piece of rotten banana on top of a nice cupcake. Strike two. Now I think I’ll go ruin some more bananas by trying to come up with the buttercream I want.
In The Moment 3.29.12
I admit it, I am rushing around a lot these days. Busy at my “day job,” plus filling big orders for my baking business (got 2 more this week), and trying to keep up with laundry and family meals in between. Not to mention trying to find time to create new and fun recipes. The other day I noticed that I was tense, even snapping at my husband (usually I am the picture of loving kindness). The next morning I sat down as usual with a cup of coffee and prepared to have my “quiet time.” I have several books I read passages from, to help me jump start my day. One of them that morning was astoundingly appropriate. It said, “Know what your dreams are and pay attention to what you want. But focus on the details of your life – how you feel each moment, the details of what you do. Don’t be so attached to outcomes that you forget how much fun it is to live.” Amen.
Never Say Never 3.27.12
How many times have we all said, and meant, “I will never do THAT again!” Like how I said “I will never weigh [x] again.” As with many prior emphatic statements, this was one I was forced to retract. (Sidebar: when I am trying to lose weight, I categorize my clothes as follows: 1. Don’t even go near it yet; 2. This feels a little looser, it will do for a short wear; 3. I can zip this, and could wear it if someone held a gun to my head; and 4. This I will wear every day for the next week or so – which is really labor intensive because you have to wash it every couple of days and you get really sick of it.) Anyway, I am sorry to say that another example of “I’ll never do THAT again” involves a very large chocolate cake. You know that definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? Well, when the time came to lift the big second layer onto the first, I did it like I always have. Except this time I had bought a cake lifter. I guess I thought that the cake would see this effort on my part and cooperate, even though the lifter was WAY TOO SMALL (it was the only one I could find). Of course the cake broke in half. I angrily stuffed it by the handful into a freezer bag (to use later for cake and icing balls). I got up early the next day and made another layer, then I googled “how to lift a 12” layer without breaking it.” As I scrolled through the answers (they were many and varied) I remembered that I had figured this out before! I popped the layer in the freezer ‘til it was firm enough to lift…voila! Victory! Boy, I will never make THAT mistake again…will I?
Rum Buns! 3.25.12
My brother manages a waterfront restaurant that would like to begin serving rum buns like those made popular in years past at seafood restaurants (specifically the old Hogate’s in Washington, DC). I remember them fondly, having stuffed myself with them on several occasions (and they were served before dinner!). He asked me if I could replicate the recipe. I found the original recipe, but the rum extract was harder to locate in the quantities that would be required (I ended up ordering it online). I couldn’t wait to get started. Unfortunately the recipe was a little vague on certain details, maybe on purpose? Anyway, I forged ahead. One part of the recipe seemed odd – it called for “fresh yeast.” (Silly, of course I would only use fresh ingredients). You mix up the dough and put it in the refrigerator overnight. When I opened the refrigerator door the next morning, it brought to mind the “I Love Lucy” episode where she tries to bake bread and it gets so large that it pushes open the oven door and extends across the room. There was this huge mound of dough hanging over the sides of the pan. Maybe this was how it was supposed to look? Shouldn’t they have warned you? Still, not to be foiled, I continued with the recipe and in the end, only two of the buns WEREN’T dry and hard. I decided to take another look at the recipe. Hmmmm, FRESH yeast. I did a little research and found the difference between fresh and dry yeast - and that I would only need to use HALF the amount of dry yeast in this recipe. So that half-jar of dry yeast that I so blithely added was just a tad too much. Let’s start over, shall we? (to be continued)
Clarity 3.23.12
I dropped off my big order the other day…it felt like leaving your baby at school for the first time. Will they like her? Understand her? Appreciate her? I am of course referring to the reception my cupcakes will get. It felt like taking a step into the big unknown…again. It was a scary feeling, and I couldn’t shake it. Yesterday morning I was annoyed to see that, for the third day in a row, the outdoors was blanketed in thick gray fog. Dreary. But when I went out to my car to drive to work, I noticed something. The trees that are blooming now with pink and white flowers were more beautiful than ever. They stood out so clearly against the backdrop of grayish white…it looked like colors blooming in snow. I couldn’t stop looking at them. Then I realized something. Sometimes when things seem unclear or muddled or unsure, if you calm yourself and keep still and look, clarity will emerge.
Pause To Snicker 3.21.12
Last week I was in no shape to take on anything new – I was working on two major and two smaller cupcake orders, baking my daughter’s birthday cake, and experimenting with a specific new recipe requested by a potential client (mum’s the word on that for now). Oh, and the monthly desserts I make for my charity were almost due. So when a co-worker asked me if I could make a Snickers muffin for her, I should have said, “Maybe next year.” But my curiosity got the best of me. I googled and found some recipes for it, but I didn’t like them – mostly because they called for just throwing Snickers bars into the mix. (I have evolved now – I don’t just throw something into a muffin or cupcake and then call it THAT – where’s the challenge? Instead, I close my eyes and BECOME the muffin or cupcake. I asked myself, what is the ESSENCE of it, that makes it Snickers, or Oreo, or a peanut butter cup?) And so I “deconstructed” the Snickers experience – the peanuts, caramel and chocolate. I made my basic muffin batter and loaded it with chocolate chunks. I roasted salted peanuts and melted caramels. I cored each muffin, then layered in some caramel, then nuts, then replaced the muffin top. Globbed on some chocolate buttercream frosting, placed a small piece of a mini-Snickers bar on top (I mean, after all), then drizzled on chocolate and caramel. I must say, it looked pretty good and it received rave reviews at work. Then it was back to the cupcakes.
Lemonlicious 3.20.12
The other day as I began an order of four dozen pink lemonade cupcakes, I suddenly realized my supply of candied lemon peel would be almost gone afterward. So as the cupcakes baked, I started in on the lemons. (I love lemons, so yellow). Wash, juice, remove the pulp, cut the peel into slices, boil and boil and boil, then simmer in sugar water for an hour. A little time-consuming, but not hard at all. Plus, it replenished my store of fresh lemon juice at the same time. When the cupcakes were finished baking and I had cleaned everything up, I saw the rest of the lemons sitting there (I had only used half of my supply). I sighed. I might as well do them too. To my delight these lemons, which were now at room temperature, juiced like a breeze and the pulp slipped out willingly. Lesson: always get the lemons to room temperature first. The second batch was done in half the time of the first. And I now have more lemon juice than you can shake a peppermint stick at.
Erin Go Figure 3.18.12
It could have happened to anyone. It is perfectly understandable. And anyway, St. Patrick’s Day calls for some beer, right? Let me back up and explain. It was a day of exciting things. First of all, my new freezer was delivered. It is so nice and big, perfect for my needs and a perfect fit in the garage. Then, at William Sonoma, where I go to buy my vanilla (at least until the batch that I’m making has aged the right amount of time) I was told I qualified for a “professional chef’s discount card.” How cool is that? Lastly, I finished the pink lemonade cupcakes and I am pleased with how they look. One more batch of four dozen oreo cupcakes to go. Since I had time, I finally went to the grocery store so my family won’t starve this week. As I was pulling into the garage after shopping, I saw my new freezer and was actually smiling at it when I heard a bad noise. It seems I veered a little too far to the right, being distracted by the freezer you understand, and I ran over a case of beer (relocated to make room for the new freezer, of course). It’s not like I hit a person, or the new freezer, but then again, there were shards of glass surfing across the floor on foamy beer. Next came “the swearin’ o’ the husband.” But as I said, it could have happened to anyone. Go figure – a brand new freezer full of beautiful cupcakes, and I’m sitting here just hoping they don’t end up smelling like beer (because the whole garage sure does).
Luck O' The Icing 3.16.12
Not a big holiday on my list – however, the salon ordered 3 dozen cupcakes with a St. Paddy’s theme. The choices for decorations are as follows: smiling leprechaun, mug of beer, anything green and shamrocks. Since I don’t do faces, hate colored food, and don’t like beer, I chose shamrocks. Now all that remained was how to make them. First I thought about fondant (piping buttercream seemed too labor intensive)…just cut out the shape and sprinkle with green sugar. But where to get a cutter in the shape of a shamrock? Oh, and it had to be tiny, as the cupcakes are mini’s. I looked around the grocery store and found (I’m not kidding) a bracelet with little shamrocks on it. I bought it, cut off one of the shamrocks, washed it well, and placed it on my rolled-out white fondant. Guess how hard it is to cut around a tiny plastic shape with a small sharp knife? TOO HARD. I tried pressing the shamrock into the fondant to see if I could use it like a cookie cutter, but all I got was a piece of plastic coated with fondant. “Oh heck, I’ll just cut them out freehand,” I thought. That lasted two seconds. I needed a pattern…I found a piece of cardboard, drew a shamrock on it, and cut it out with my Chinese scissors. Why did I think that cutting fondant around a cardboard shape would be any easier than cutting around plastic? And I needed 36 of these things! It looked like I was going to have to go the buttercream route after all. I had no idea how to pipe a shamrock, and none of my decorating books told how, nor could I find it by Googling. I looked up how to make apple blossoms in my old notebook from cake decorating class…that didn’t help, but at least it got me to the #102 icing tip. Taking a deep breath, I piped what I thought might be a shamrock. It looked like a shamrock! A sprinkling of green sugar crystals completed the celtic illusion. One down, 35 to go.
Kitchen Mysteries 3.14.12
A couple of things are givens when I am in full-blown baking mode. One is that if I am working with chocolate – whether frosting, mixing cake batter or decorating – I will have it all over me and all over the kitchen (I’m talking walls here). I don't know how it happens - I guess I am moving too fast. Another mystery is that I am always misplacing my cake tester (which, by the way, was given to me by my niece about 30 years ago and I love it – it has “cake tester” written on it in different colors). I lay it right next to the stove, but before the timer has gone off it has disappeared, and I end up spinning in frantic circles searching for it. I used to have two testers, but if you recall a prior entry, the other one took a trip under the stove, never to be seen again. This is related inversely to the “Bail Bonds” pen phenomenon. The pens keep disappearing and then re-appearing in greater numbers, whereas my cake testers simply vanish. And here’s yet another baking mystery – does anyone besides me have a little trouble figuring out what “2/3 full” or “3/4 full” looks like as you are filling cupcake pans? I know you’re going to say no, and probably feel superior to me, but just a minute. YOU try making all of the cupcakes a uniform size, and you’ll see this from my perspective – it’s not easy at all. I think there should be little “fill lines” inside the papers . . . hmmm, maybe I should invent that. No, I’m too busy filling pans and squinting at my batter for a new order of Spring Fling cupcakes (pictured), and scrambling to find a tester when they’re done.
Making Headway 3.12.12
I made my schedule, and Saturday I headed out with my list of ingredients. Three stores and a big chunk of my Vintage Baker bank account later, I was back, hauling in 25lb. bags of sugar and numerous bags and boxes of ingredients. I got it all organized faster than I thought I would, so I decided to do some prep work to get ready for the next day ( when I planned to make the ganache, the strawberry filling, the chocolate frosting and the buttercream). So I began by chopping up the chocolate. After the first ounce, it hit me that a food processor was staring me in the face. Why was I wielding a chopping knife and risking my fingers with every chop? First I Googled it to make sure you could use the food processor for this (you can), and bingo…eight ounces of chocolate finely chopped in less than half the time, with the bonus that I still had all my fingers when I finished. Next I got a huge bowl and sifted eight pounds of confectioners sugar (that is a LOT of sugar). And I still had two hours before I had to get ready to go out to dinner with friends. I went ahead and dealt with the strawberries. By the end of the afternoon, I was ahead of schedule. (But only because the second book in “The Hunger Games” series hadn’t arrived from Amazon yet!)
New Customer! 3.10.12
Well, my box of samples was a hit, and I will be delivering my first (of many, hopefully!) order of 16 dozen cupcakes to a wonderful local bagel shop on March 21. I never would have dreamed of approaching them. They are part of a really popular local restaurant group. I was in their restaurant for breakfast a while back, and when I saw the menu, I actually thought, “These are the kind of recipes I dream up!” Then recently, unbeknownst to me, my friend and hairstylist recommended me to them. So first, I stop panicking. Second, make a list of ingredients to buy (I was already counting my chickens before they were hatched when I made a batch of candied lemon peel earlier in the week.) Yesterday I made more of the tiny buttercream roses that go on top of the Spring Fling cupcakes. Next, plot out when to do what. I can do this. It’s what I’ve been working towards. I actually got the chance yesterday to thank the lady who first ordered cupcakes from me, 200 to be exact, back when I didn’t really focus on cupcakes. Because of her, I dived into testing recipes and came up with many original ones. I told her this when she came to pick up her order of muffins today, and her smile was my reward. So, on to the bagel shop order!
Sorry Doc . . . 3.8.12
So my dream is beginning to become reality and I am getting more orders and more possible jobs and now time is becoming an issue. Monday I cancelled my eye doctor appointment (routine) so I could bake. Yesterday I got an order that needs to be filled by Friday…so there goes the dentist appointment. It’s ironic for someone whose “day job” is health care to choose baking over her personal health. I just hope the future doesn’t see me becoming a blind, toothless old woman who makes a lot of really good cupcakes.
Coffee Talk 3.6.12
I am really having fun dreaming up new flavor combinations for cupcakes…and to think that not too long ago I wasn’t interested in them! The other day I was driving home and thinking about my 4 o’clock cup of coffee when the idea of a cappuccino cupcake drifted into my mind. I found a recipe online for the cake – it turned out to taste like dense dark chocolate. Not coffee-y enough. So…bring on a creamy mocha filling with a delicate but definite coffee flavor, and top it with an equally creamy mocha frosting. I gave the frosting a tint of ivory coloring, and dolloped it on so it looks like whipped topping. To suggest steam (coming off a hot cup of coffee) I piped chocolate into spirals that hardened, and stood one on top of each cupcake. Delicious. Fanciful. And gone soon after I put them out.
Early Bird 3.4.12
The other day I woke up at 5AM and couldn’t get back to sleep. First of all, a sudden order had come in from my café customer the night before (I saw the email as I was going to bed) for two dozen assorted cupcakes, preferably delivered the next day. I emailed a response saying I needed another day, but what the heck, I was awake. I was too nervous to go back to sleep anyway, because the day before a friend told me she gave my business card (along with quite a build-up) to the owner of a HUGELY POPULAR local restaurant, and the owner had said she would call me because they were actually looking for a baker. What? Really? Since I heard that, every minute seemed like a year. So, I was just as glad to be up at 5AM baking. First I put a can of sweetened condensed milk (for dulce de leche cupcakes) in a pan to boil. I spent the next three hours adding water to the pan as it boiled, while I was busy baking, filling, frosting and decorating four kinds of cupcakes. I boxed them up and delivered them to the café, then killed some time going to the bank and the drugstore. When I got home…no messages. Just as I stretched out for a short nap, the phone rang…if this was another telemarketer I was going to scream. But it wasn’t – it was the owner of the restaurant my friend referred to me, and now we have a meeting next week. Right after that, I got a return phone call from the owner of another café I had contacted last week, who may be interested in some of my products. How exciting is this? My weekend has been fully booked making samples for both of them – here’s hoping the early bird catches the business.
Dial M for Moxie 3.2.12
My hand and my stomach were trembling as I picked up the receiver and dialed the number for a local café. This was way worse than going to the dentist. I almost hoped no one would answer. When they did, I felt like my voice came out in an unnatural pitch as I squeaked, “Hello, my name is …I have a small local baking business…I’d like to bring you samples…etc.” The usual response of “we do our own baking in-house” was almost a relief because then I could hang up. I sat at my kitchen table, deep-breathing and feeling like you do when you’ve left the doctor’s office and you’re back in your nice, safe car. This was ridiculous. I had to get a grip. I decided to take my oldest daughter’s advice and JUST DO IT. Make tons of calls, and after each one, let it go and move on. Make it happen. Just because something is difficult doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Do I want to have a baking business? Do I think my stuff is good? Can I get over my fear and do what I need to do? Yes, yes and yes. So, taking a deep breath, I reach for the phone again…
Hello, Dulce de Leche 2.29.12
You know the Tres Leches Cupcakes I introduced the other day? And my idea about the whipped icing? Well, I was further inspired when a friend of mine asked, “What about caramel frosting?” My first reaction was “too heavy.” Then I remembered that my daughter had made a tres leches cake and poured caramel over the top and IT WAS TO DIE FOR! Now here’s the best part – she made the caramel by simmering an unopened can of sweetened condensed milk in a pan of water for 3 hours. Voila, caramel! (If you use this method, don’t be over-anxious and open the tab on the top of the can ‘til it cools, or you will burn your hand like I did. Other cooks have variations on the boiling can method, some of them wary of an explosion – they poke holes in the top before boiling, they simmer rather than boil, or even use a crock pot. Most agree, however, that the water level must be kept almost to the top of the can the entire time, so you have to watch and replenish occasionally.) I usually don’t eat the fruits of my labor, but after I put a dollop of this caramel on the cupcake I had to try it. OMG. The cupcake was so moist and milky, you could SEE the milk in it. The sweetness of the caramel combined with the cake to create…well, the only word I can think of is euphoria. So now we have the Dulce de Leche Cupcake (whose cousin is the Tres Leches Cupcake with light whipped frosting).
Tres Leches 2.27.12
Recently I went through my cake recipes and found one for “tres leches cake.” I had only made this once before and loved it, so I thought, how about tres leches cupcakes? This recipe is incredibly simple. You make the cake (or cupcakes ) and cool them and then pour over them the three milks – evaporated, condensed and whole. The result is a kind of a sponge cake, but a little denser, made soooo moist and tasty with the milks. This one is now going to be part of my repertoire. I think whipped white frosting is all that is needed to complete these little gems.
Bold As Brass 2.25.12
“Bold as brass!” That was a favorite invective by the nun who taught me in eighth grade, reserved for cheeky students, and never has it been more true than now. Today I actually called up the local bakery manager of a large natural foods chain store and asked if he would like to sample my products. Now, I am not totally crazy…I did hear that this particular store likes to buy from local vendors. Well, I’m local. He said he would be glad to talk to me, but was I aware that they did a lot of baking in-house? Yes, I was. I have tasted their stuff and it is very good. But I brazenly pushed on and said that I have some original recipes that I have not seen in other places. So, I will make an appointment to meet with him. Meanwhile, I decided to drop in again and survey their wares – “my competition.” My heart sank as I looked at the gorgeous array of cakes, cupcakes, tarts and muffins. They were beautifully decorated. The muffins were half the size of my head. But wait…I didn’t see any gluten-free somethings (I make a decadent gluten-free chocolate cupcake). I didn’t see any of MY cupcake varieties (like banana cream pie or lemon drop or piña colada). My signature pound cake and my pies – I think – look bigger and better. And maybe some people would prefer a smaller, bite-size muffin. Maybe there is a niche for me here…suddenly my outlook became "bright as brass."
Bread Pudding Bravado 2.23.12
Well, I am really getting nervy. But I decided if I want to grow my business, I am going to have to take some risks. This one came about unexpectedly. I was (what else?) baking, and I came across some bread I had frozen. This bread is from our favorite Italian restaurant, where we have eaten for years, and it is fresh and delicious. Whenever we get take-out there, they throw in two or three of these wonderful little loaves. We usually eat some, and the rest goes in the freezer rather than let it get stale and (sacrilege!) throw it away. In the past, I've made french toast with it, or turned it into bread crumbs. This time I made bread pudding muffins. I put the bread in the food processor and pulsed ‘til I got smaller pieces, but not too fine. The rest is a secret, but it involved vanilla-cinnamon-infused milk and chocolate chips. These little cups of moist, puddingy-chocolatey goodness are a great dessert, and would be so good with vanilla ice cream or fresh whipped cream. Now here’s the nervy part – I boxed some up and stopped in to see the chef (whose family owns the restaurant) to ask if he would sample them and consider adding them to the menu. Now, I wait nervously for an answer. I continue to ask why I do this to myself. And the answer is clear: because this is what I love doing.
Found the Key 2.21.12
After I was satisfied with my oreo cupcake, I turned to key lime. I automatically assumed that I would put a graham cracker crust on the bottom, topped with a layer of chocolate. I researched key lime cake recipes and found two that looked promising. One used green gelatin, and though very tasty, it was predictably an insipid and not-to-be-found-in-nature green. A definite no-no in the land of real key limes, which are more yellow than green. The finished product - crust, chocolate, cake and lime buttercream frosting with a dash of lime zest - looked good and (I thought) tasted good. However, my editor and official taster found the graham cracker base to be dry. So, I went back to the drawing board, found a different but equally delicious and moist cake recipe (and one not so green). I skipped the crust/chocolate combo, but after baking I layered on some chocolate ganache, then the swirls of lime buttercream and zest. This passed the taste test with flying colors … but I did like the graham cracker crust idea before, so I may just offer two varieties. My last effort of the day produced the “spring fling cupcake.” This turned out to my satisfaction the first time. Vanilla cake, filled with fresh strawberry filling, topped with either a basketweave white buttercream with tiny roses, or pastel-colored piped star flowers. Both were lovely and yummy. (This filling was made with the last of the strawberries I picked and froze last spring…but store-bought strawberries would certainly work). So, a productive and full-filling day in every way.
Cupcake Quest 2.19.12
Ok, I admit it, more and more I am succumbing to the cupcake craze. I have always been a muffin-person, but lately (1) I am being asked to make cupcakes a lot, (2) I already have enough original muffin recipes for the time being, and (3) I like a challenge. I have mentioned before that muffins are easy and forgiving when compared to the more delicate cupcake. So, I have devoted the past two days to coming up with some new and interesting cupcake flavors and combinations. I started with “oreo.” First I did what I do with my oreo muffin recipe, and made chocolate cake with an oreo cookie in the bottom of the muffin cup. I topped it with a cream and sugar glaze and some ground up oreos, and then put a miniature oreo on top. Hmmm…I didn’t like the look. I then dipped the mini-oreos in white chocolate, put two on top of a muffin, then poured the glaze over. This idea lasted as long as it took my husband to glance at the creation and say, “That looks like something going to a grade school bake sale.” Even worse than his observation, the cookies made the consistency too dry. So, I wanted to make a not-dry and not-silly-looking oreo cupcake. I thought, let’s just go for the FLAVOR and the IDEA of oreo. So I made the cupcake from my best and richest chocolate cake recipe, filled it with vanilla buttercream, piped swirls of the buttercream on top, and then drizzled some chocolate over it all. Chocolate, white cream, black and white…done and delicious. I then moved on to key lime cupcakes and something I call “spring fling cupcake.” More on those later.
Successful Test Day 2.17.12
I recently filled an order for vanilla cupcakes and those yummy cream cheese-filled treats called “black-bottoms.” A couple of days ago, I delivered an order for banana cream pie cupcakes and gluten-free chocolate cups. As I looked around the kitchen, I saw vanilla cream filling, lemon curd, cream cheese filling, chocolate ganache, and pourable chocolate frosting. So…Test Kitchen Day! I love these days. All of the creativity I can muster with no pressure to deliver a final product. At the end, the following new varieties were born: Black and White Cupcakes (vanilla cupcake filled with chocolate ganache and topped with chocolate frosting and miniature chocolate chips), Lemon Drop Cupcakes (vanilla cupcake filled with lemon curd, topped with vanilla buttercream frosting and lemon chips), and Coffee Cake Muffins (basic muffin batter but this time more coffee-cakey and mixed with the creaming method, then layered in the tins with batter/streusel/cream cheese filling and topped with streusel). I planned to debut the treats at work the next day, but somehow there were only two left by morning. So, the test was deemed a success, at least by the judges in my house.
Mastering the Mini 2.15.12
I have many varieties of muffins and cupcakes, and I can do them all mini-size, as well as regular size. Changing the size of muffins is – pardon the pun – a piece of cake. Muffins are very forgiving. You can play around with them a lot and they remain nice and moist. Mini-cupcakes are a different matter. My moistest recipes easily dry out. I mean, I watch them like a hawk – at six minutes they are practically liquid, at seven minutes they are completely dry. What to do? The salon I bake for ordered a batch for Valentine’s Day, and they really like the mini-size (much easier for their clients to handle and enjoy), so I had to figure this out. How could I ensure they would be moist and delicious? IDEA! I cored each mini-cupcake, piped in white buttercream frosting, put the top back on, then piped pink-tinted buttercream frosting on top. I completed the Valentine theme with a sprinkling of tiny heart candies and super-fine pink sugar. Voila – a moist mini-cupcake you can love.
Catch Up 2.13.12
Yesterday I had to make up for two days of kitchen-desertion, following a lunch and shopping excursion with my Mom, and an event at a local winery with my daughter and friends. An order is due today at the café, and a Valentine's Day delivery for the salon tomorrow. One of the items is my banana cream pie cupcake, which has many components that require several steps. Luckily I had 15 minutes the day before to make the vanilla custard. In the morning I baked the pastry cut-outs (three sizes), made the banana cupcakes, and made the whipped frosting. Assembly is the fun part – I scoop out the middle of the cupcake, place a banana slice inside, then the vanilla custard, followed by a round of pastry. The top goes back on, then the fluffy white frosting is piped on. Gold sugar crystals and a tiny pastry heart perched on top complete the creation. Usually I do the CAYG (clean-as-you-go) method when I’m baking, but I was in a rush because I was competing for use of the stove. So I left the mess in the sink and moved on to the gluten-free chocolate cups topped with pourable chocolate icing and a drizzle of white chocolate. Last of all were the pink lemonade cupcakes (lemon pound cake with chopped candied lemon rind, topped with a dollop of pink-tinted lemon buttercream frosting). Done. Except for the mound of dishes, pots and pans, but that’s okay. I used the time well by working on this blog entry in my head as I cleaned up.
Comfort Food 2.11.12
I took some sample baked products to a new café yesterday, and now I wait to hear if they are interested. This makes me very nervous...putting myself out there and risking what I perceive as possible rejection. So it was great that following my delivery I got together with my Mom, sister and aunt – people who have loved me my whole life. We went shopping and then to lunch at a favorite local diner (I love the Food Network and I appreciate gourmet cuisine, but I still say there is nothing like comfort food from a diner). We laughed at old stories and caught up on new ones. It was the perfect antidote to anticipating rejection, or a perfect celebration of upcoming success.
Kitchen Bitchin' 2.9.12
Ok, I am in a panic. Well, not yet, but I think I will be soon. We need to make some updates to our kitchen. The cabinets are showing their age and some are in disrepair, and if we are getting new cabinets (or at least new doors), we might as well get the countertop replaced at the same time (something we’ve talked about for a while). Plus some of the tiles in the floor are cracked (they just don’t make them like they used to…they can’t stand up to a bottle of red wine falling from a height of eight feet). BUT the ceiling is peeling in spots, so that means there are leaks in the roof somewhere. SO, before we fix up the kitchen we have to first fix the ceiling which means we have to first fix the roof. Why does this upset me? The cost? No, not as much as the fact that I will have men stomping around my kitchen, making a dusty, plastery mess. How can I bake under those circumstances? How can I bake if I have no countertops? Or no floor? Some may think I have my priorities wrong, but I say, keep the old stuff and put a bucket on the floor when it rains. Leave me and my kitchen alone!
Back to Health 2.7.12
After a week in perfect Key West weather, I found myself quite under the weather last week. So there were two whole weeks when I didn’t bake at all! Yesterday I woke up and felt great, and did I have a lot to do. I came very close to canceling a routine doctor’s appointment, but sense prevailed and I kept it. But before I grudgingly set out for the doctor’s, I quickly cut up apples for a pie, and tossed them with the cinnamon and sugar mixture so they could macerate while I was gone. I also put out eggs and butter to come to room temperature. As soon as I got home, I mixed up my pound cake, because that has to start baking in a cold oven. As that baked I finished making the pie. Then I started in on the muffins – yesterday's varieties were cinnamon bun, double oatmeal raisin, pancake and sausage, and salsa. It felt good to be back in my apron again. Today the stethoscope goes back on . . . until I get home again to my oven.
Primroses 2.5.12
November is Thanksgiving, December is Christmas, and January was SUPPOSED to be snow. At least in my mind. Well, we still might get some snow, but I must move on. February is when I buy primroses. I don’t remember when I started this. Maybe years ago when I read and fell in love with the book Watership Down – the first and last sentences are about primroses. I didn’t even know what exactly they were then. Each is a cluster of deeply colored blossoms nestled in the center of a leafy nest. Their colors are brilliant, yet soothing to the eye. Creams and snow whites soften the cobalt blues and scarlets. Buttery yellow smiles through the other multi-colored petals. Bringing these into my home is like bringing inside the promise of spring. This year I arranged them in a long Chinese dough bowl that I found in an antique store in Florida. Perfect. It makes me happy to feast my eyes on this arrangement. (But I’ll still be happy if it also snows).
It's About The Bread, Lady 2.3.12
I told you in a previous entry how we had that delicious key lime coconut bread at a dockside bar in Key West and got the word from the bartender that it was made by a woman on the island called The Bread Lady. I immediately pictured a conch cottage in the palms, with a woman wearing a colorful turban on her head, and a few pans of bread cooling on the open window sill. I guess I got that image because once on Grand Cayman we had a piece of the BEST key lime pie I have ever tasted (albeit not chocolate covered nor on a stick), and found out it was made by a local woman on the island. Anyway, this romantic vision of The Bread Lady was wiped away after we called the bar the next day and talked to the chef, who said, “What? We haven’t used The Bread Lady in years. We get it from Euro-Bake, I think in Tampa.” Well. How disillusioning. Did The Bread Lady go out of business because a big heartless baking conglomerate forced her out? Did the growing demand for her heavenly treat become more than she could handle? Was there ever even a REAL Bread Lady? Or in reality was it a big hairy man smoking a cigar, who made a ton of money after selling his business to the big boys up north? (And if so, do you think the big boys would buy my stuff?)
Cake Walk 2.1.12
So one morning we meandered through Key West to peek into and taste-test some of the more well-known bakeries. First stop was Old Town Bakery, where I tell you, the chocolate croissant was better than what I had once in France. The outside was crisp, but one bite and you were through into tender, flavorful butteriness. You almost didn’t need the chocolate, but the dark creamy smoothness changed your mind. Then we sampled the sticky bun, ingeniously and untraditionally made with croissants, giving it a crispy edge underneath the rich glaze. I think we inhaled it. We met the baker, who readily expounded on his techniques and who remarked that people always think something from Europe is better, “but they make cheap crap there too.” I could have stayed there all day, but we had other spots to hit. Next was Cole’s Peace Artisan Bakery. The magical aroma of freshly baked bread and the cheerful owner welcomed you inside, and we immediately bought a loaf of her mango pan bread (this we enjoyed after we got home, so we could share it). We then went next door to their restaurant store and I had to be pried out of there . . . all of the kitchen gadgets and equipment your heart could desire, though I contented myself with a single purchase of a red spoon. Key West Cakes, a brisk walk across town, was next, and I must say, there we had the BEST cupcakes I have ever tasted next to my own. The decorations and fillings were as imaginative as they were delicious. We tried the lemon-filled and key lime-filled creations (each of which had a dollop of the filling on top – so the baker could easily identify the flavor, we were told!). They had an “upside-down cupcake” that was completely covered in chocolate, which I plan to add to my repertoire. The baker was happy to come out and meet us, wiping his floury hands on his apron. It’s one bakery I wish was located in my city . . . but maybe not, too much competition. Last of all, we stopped in “Cakes by Karol,” where you could order cakes for all occasions. Her decorating techniques were unique and unusual; most were lovely, if a little vividly colored for my taste. Her wedding cakes, however, were gorgeous with draped and sculpted fondant. We saw some beautiful and delicious desserts as we walked around this amazing, eclectic town, and met equally beautiful bakers. And we were grateful for the brisk walk back across town where we started – it gave us the illusion of walking off everything we had sampled.
Pirate's Treasure 1.30.12
One of the joys of travel is to ferret out the LOCALS’ own favorite eateries. Luckily, as we chatted with our jet ski guides before taking off, they happened to mention the best spot on Key West for fresh stone crab claws. It was a place we never in life would have ventured into – a trailer with canopy next to a gas station, decorated (?) with swords and skull masks, called Pirate Seafood Co. Boy oh boy, thank goodness we went in. The owner, a burly man in a pirate scarf, was our host. He served fresh stone crab claws that he cracked open for us on the spot, with his own honey mustard dipping sauce. We ate and he talked, explaining to us that, according to law, only one claw can be removed at a time from a crab – and once the crab is released, it re-grows the claw in six months. Yellowtail, just caught, was filleted and grilled for us, and it melted in the mouth like butter. His Cuban-born wife made the side dish of red beans and rice, so authentic and creamy, with some fried plantains. No beverages were served – you stepped next door to the gas station to buy cold beers and water from icy tubs and brought them back. My only wish is that we had found this place on day one! But we will definitely be back. Thank you, Mr. Pirate, for a real taste treasure.
Jet Ski: Check 1.29.12
Here is why jet skiing is worse than being in labor. With labor, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t die. No, I kid. Jet skiing is more fun. But it was HARD fun. I was unsure about doing this from the beginning, but I decided to live life to the full on our last day in Key West. We were the only two people signed up for the 10 AM trip, so we had a personal guided tour around the perimeter of the island. The guide assured us that it was a calm and perfect day. (By the end, if he had said that one more time I was going to wrest the controls out of my husband’s hands and run over him with our jet ski.) Yes, OUR jet ski - I rode on the back. I originally thought that was the best thing, not to drive (is that what you call it?) my own jet ski. I was nervous – I had to hold onto the back of his life jacket. After five minutes I had handfuls of the material clenched in my fists, and I was holding on to the seat with my legs in a way I hadn’t done since learning to “post” on horseback – another skill, by the way, that I never got. Until now. Fear of dying makes you hold on tight. I began to envy the people I saw on land that morning, sweating as they rode bikes, much like I used to envy the sleeping patients when I worked the 11-7 night shift at the hospital years ago. My husband did keep his promise and slowed down whenever I screamed in his ear, but once we were out of the Gulf and into the ocean, the waves were BIGGER and when you hit them, you flew up in the air and only by luck landed back on the seat. I could picture myself flying off the back, his entire life vest still clutched in my hands. I tried to distract myself from the fear by planning what muffins and cupcakes I would make for my next delivery to the café, but with all the blood-curdling screaming (mine) that was difficult. After one and a half hours of clenching and gnashing and saying acts of contrition, I adopted a very surreal attitude: “It’s not a matter of IF I am going to fall off, but WHEN. And I have on a life jacket, so they will find my body.” (As it turns out, I did fall into the water, but only when our jet ski was standing still over a sand bar). The sights WERE beautiful. We watched dolphins play just a few yards from us, saw a Portuguese man-of-war, and crossed paths with a snake. So now I think I can check the box next to “jet ski” and move on to other things. Like my new savory muffin recipes that one Key West baker found so interesting (more on that in my next entry).
Seven Fish 1.28.12
You would walk right by it if you didn’t know it was a DESTINATION, nestled there among quaint Key West cottages covered in flowering vines. True to its name, there is a group of seven fish sculptures hanging in the window. The maitre'd was on top of everything, and seated people expeditiously and on time, working with only about 15 tables. We had three fish and they were so good that the name of the place could be changed to “Three Fish” and we would have been satisfied. Our appetizer was mahi-mahi sautéed with garlic and herbs and rolled sushi style, with thin strips of fresh ginger adorning the plate – a dish that was deliciously mild yet piquant. One of our entrées was a meaty fish similar to mahi, brushed with a Dijon peppercorn glaze and served over roasted potatoes. Yum, yum , yum. Another entrée was grouper sautéed with lemon and ginger. It was served over angel hair pasta, topped with mango papaya chutney made with coconut milk and Asian spices. Wow. But I must say, as The Vintage Baker, the piece de resistance was (yes, a surprise selection) the sweet potato pie. OMG. I am admittedly a snob about restaurant desserts, and I seldom find them up to par (my par), but this WAS. The graham cracker crust with a strong flavor of molasses was just thick enough. The sweet potato filling was creamy, dense and moist and not too sweet – a perfect foil to the crust and the ice cream that was on top. I fell in love, and will spend the next few months trying to duplicate that pie. Or, just go back to Seven Fish when we get to Key West again.
Monkey Business 1.27.12
The other evening we had an 8:30 dinner reservation at Seven Fish in Key West, which was so good it will be the subject of the next entry. We showed up early (anyone who knows us will hardly be surprised) so we strolled around quaint streets on a coolish breezy evening when we spotted The Monkey Bar. As it was only a block away from the restaurant, it seemed like a good spot to wait. No sooner had our feet crossed the threshold than a stocky, friendly man turned to us and in a booming voice welcomed us, assuring us several times that “we are all locals here” and asked our names. Feeling somewhat conspicuous, we murmured our names, and the friendly man then boomed our names to everyone: “Hey everybody, here are …” He then proceeded, over our protestations, to push a fellow local off his barstool to make room for us. The local, befuddled but compliant, shuffled down one. So we sat. There were a few monkey statues here and there, suggesting the bar's unique identity. A crusty old bartender approached and when I asked for pinot grigio, looked blankly at me. I said, “white wine?” and he growled, “chardonnay” and I said, “perfect.” (I don’t as a rule like chardonnay, but this one was surprisingly okay.) The “greeter” also informed us that beers here were $1.50, far less than what we would find in the bars on Duval Street, the main drag just a block away. He then proceeded to introduce us to our fellow guests, most of whom ignored us, except for the “old” lady (the greeter's description)introduced as someones’s visiting mother. She was a trip. Pool cue and drink in hand, laden with turquoise bracelets and rings, she clapped me on the back and announced that she was 67 and was visiting her 47 year-old son, who was playing pool and coming perilously close with the end of his cue to anyone behind him as he poised for his next shot. The repartee and friendly insults among the pool players and spectators had us laughing out loud. One man accused us of having been there before and outwitted him at the game, and only reluctantly let that go when we assured him this was our first time there. The friendly local feeling was reminiscent of a neighborhood place at home that we enjoy – but this one was distinctively Key West style. We hardly wanted to leave. But Seven Fish awaited.
In Heaven 1.26.12
I think the one thing more fun and interesting than making and eating delicious food is talking to those who create it. This week we had dinner at “Blue Heaven,” a restaurant well-known for its delicious food and classic Key West ambience. Tables were scattered about, interspersed with trees growing up through the stone patio and covered by an eclectic collection of umbrellas. We had read about this restaurant – among other accolades it came in second to “The Blond Giraffe” for Travel Advisor’s best key lime pie competition (more on that in a minute). The dinner lived up to our expectations, and then some. We had scallops, steak and lobster. I personally could live on that lobster forever. For dessert we had “Banana Heaven,” and it was – moist and flavorful banana bread topped with bananas flamed with rum and homemade vanilla ice cream. Naturally I wanted to meet the chef and learn any secrets he had to share about the making of this ambrosia, and Guillaume was pleased to come out and sit with us. It was a delight to see him talk enthusiastically about his craft, how he only uses fresh-never-frozen ingredients, how he uses local rum in his dessert sauce, and how he simmers his stock for three days using roasted veal bones. When we mentioned the key lime pie challenge, he informed us that in the excitement of the judging, the WRONG pie (one meant only for display) was handed to the judge! He then treated us to a piece of his own award-winner (and it was!) Even our server Gina (herself a chef previously) had a recipe to share, and she promised to email it to me (I am going to hold her to it!). How cool is it, that in this big, wide world you find “foodies” who all speak the same language!
The Bread Lady 1.24.12
What would you expect the first thing I ate in Key West to be? Key Lime something, right? Well, it was, but from an unexpected source, which is what makes travel so unendingly interesting. We visited a little shop that specializes in Key Lime pie-on-a-stick, Key Lime pie, Key Lime ice cream and Key Lime wine (tasted like Key Lime mouthwash – apparently not everything should be made into wine). We wandered around the little streets, were briefly tempted by a hut selling Cuban coffee and ended up instead in a waterfront bar. (We were going on a sunset cruise and needed a snack first). We had a salad with tropical fruits (mango, star fruit, avocado, mandarin oranges) and steamed clams (not my personal favorite, but dip anything in butter and it’s perfect, right Paula?) Well here comes the surprise – we asked for some bread to mop up the clam sauce, and out comes what should have been featured on the menu in big type: KEY LIME BREAD. One bite and I almost fell off the bar stool (I know, that didn’t look good). The first bite told you (in a very subtle way) it was key lime, the next was a rich coconut flavor. It was dense but not heavy, moist with a firm, sweet crust and a thin dusting of flour. It was heavenly. The bartender was startled when, wild-eyed, I called to him and asked, “Do you give out the recipe for this bread?” I waited breathlessly ‘til he came back and told us that the bread was made for them by a woman on the island, but he couldn’t remember her name. I wanted to grab him by the neck as he casually turned to another server and asked who made the bread. All we got was “Jean, the bread lady.” Clearly our job is cut out for us now…find the woman responsible for this loaf of bliss.
Get Me My Keys! 1.22.12
Time for a little winter getaway – this weekend we are off to the Florida Keys, with our final destination being the Key West Food & Wine Festival. Despite being the southernmost tip of the U.S., Key West has become a culinary center all its own. As we’ve done before, we’ll tour different restaurants and cafes to see what we can discover. There’s a dessert restaurant called “Better than Sex” that was rated one of the top ten decadent dessert spots in the country by Trip Advisor. (I may need to camp out there). I definitely want to visit the bakery that has 32 different flavors of cake, including guava, hazelnut and dulce de leche. And of course you can’t miss the key lime pie - you find it on every corner. My hands-down favorite was the Blond Giraffe’s key lime pie-on-a-stick, dipped in dark chocolate, but unfortunately they closed their stores in Key West and relocated to (get this) the Smoky Mountains in Gatlinburg, TN! Key West certainly isn’t just about desserts, though – the fresh seafood, local fruit and Cuban food are fantastic. (One of our favorite restaurants is Seven Fish, serving a great variety of fresh catch every day.) Be assured that I will conduct extensive research and report back on what I find. And when I return, who’s up for a trip to the Smokies?
Old Bay, New Way 1.20.12
Upon hearing that I am experimenting with some muffin recipes that are on the savory side, my sister asked if I could make an Old Bay-flavored muffin to go with her crab soup. I have to admit, my first reaction was…yuck. My next reaction was…impossible. But then I thought, why not? So I made up my basic batter, after adding Old Bay seasoning, salsa and corn to the dry ingredients. The muffins tasted fine, but the salsa flavor was too strong, and the Old Bay had cooked out. I couldn’t just keep increasing the amount of the seasoning – too salty. I would have to incorporate the Old Bay into a vehicle of some sort to concentrate the flavor, and then add that to the muffins. I cubed bread, tossed it with olive oil and Old Bay and toasted it in the oven. I then added that to the dry ingredients, this time without the salsa. The result was a nice muffin that tasted like Old Bay if someone told you that you were eating a muffin that was supposed to taste like Old Bay. Not good enough. So I am pondering my next move. What else do I associate with Old Bay? Crabs, crabcakes...hmmm…maybe I'll stop on the way home and get some crackers and then…
Pie and Friendship 1.18.12
I have a friend whose husband likes my apple pie so much that after his first bite, he exclaims, “This pie is so good, I want to hit someone.” I know what he means, and I am flattered. This friend and I go way back. We met when our children were very young, and we were both at-home Moms. In the summer and on school holidays, we concocted outings and activities with our combined gang that are now the stuff of legend. We laughed, complained, cried and trick-or-treated together. She was there when my oldest daughter broke her leg (and was there when the same daughter came down with chicken pox the next day, and together we had to cut the cast open because of the blisters and intense itching underneath). She would call me on the phone and, without preamble, would continue a conversation from the day before. When my youngest was four months old, I returned to work part-time and had to go to two solid weeks of orientation. Without a pause and already planning, my friend said “Okay, how are WE going to do this?” (She came every day to stay with my children). As our kids got older, we didn’t see each other as much. Then for a long time, not at all. High school, college and our full-time jobs swept us along. Two Christmases ago I decided to call her (I still remember her phone number!) and invited her over. On a whim, I made her an apple pie to take home. So this year I did the same. Seeing her, it's like no time has gone by at all. You hold on to friends like her, and I intend to do just that. An apple pie once a year is just not enough.
Kitchen Withdrawal 1.16.12
I had such a fun time the other day. I spent the day with my Mom, then stayed overnight for a Chinese take-out dinner and movies with her and one of my sisters. (Trick question- what is the limit on the number of times you can watch “The Birdcage” and STILL laugh out loud when Nathan Lane tries to walk like John Wayne? Answer- there is no limit). So we watched movies and howled as loudly as the wind was howling outside – it was a treat. But by the next morning, I was oddly restless and ready to be on my way back home. I didn’t realize why ‘til I got home and started cleaning out my “Vintage Baker” freezer. A sense of peace floated over me as I pulled out containers of glazes, frostings, fillings and toppings that were still fresh but no longer in season (peppermint icing, sugarplum balls, sugar cookie dough, pie pastry). Having been away from my kitchen for 24 hours, I think I had gone into withdrawal. Well, I was back now. And all of a sudden the elusive recipe for that “sugarplum something” that I had been seeking last fall was staring me in the face. All of the ingredients for “sugarplum pie muffins” were sitting there on the kitchen table, so I got started. I made a basic muffin batter but substituted butter-flavored Crisco for the oil, and worked it into the dry ingredients. I rolled the sugarplum mixture into small balls. I placed a disc of previously baked pie pastry in the bottom of each muffin tin, topped it with a sugarplum, then filled the tin with the batter. After baking and cooling, on went the glaze, topped with crumbled pastry. They turned out perfectly - too late for this holiday, but having tested the recipe puts me ahead of the game for next Christmas. And I have another idea – for our next vacation, I better rent a place fully equipped if I want to avoid “kitchen withdrawal” again.
Boxing Match 1.14.12
Baking dozens of muffins or cupcakes is not the most challenging part of my business . . . it’s when I go to box everything up that I’ve met my match. I am apparently cardboard box-challenged. Folding flaps, inserting tabs, and ending up with something that looks like a finished box is almost impossible. Added to that, I am downright remedial when it comes to legible handwriting (no news here, for anyone who knows me or has worked with me). I am seriously going to have to either buy a label-maker or coerce a family member into writing labels for me. Today I filled my recycling bag with all of my little rejected labels that were to identify the products inside my delivery boxes. So between the boxes and the labeling, it takes me at least as long to get the products out the door as it does to get them out of the oven. But I must admit, it’s worth the effort. When I step back and look at the crisp bakery boxes tied up in lavender ribbon, displaying my (pre-printed) card reading, “The Vintage Baker,” I feel like a proud mother gazing upon her child. Ok, enough gazing – time to get my “child” off to the customer.
Chopped 1.12.12
Sometimes I am forced to stop baking and actually cook meals to stock the freezer. And since I don’t allot more than one ”session” to this every so often, it is usually a marathon. For my most recent cooking frenzy, I was inspired by the Food Network show “Chopped.” The contestant chefs are given a variety of ingredients, often odd ones, and have to create appetizers, entrees and desserts. So I decided to play "Chopped." I had quite a menagerie in the fridge . . . kalamata olives, capers, tofu, odds and ends of vegetables, a bag of frozen shrimp, two bags of spinach that were perilously near their expiration date, freshly squeezed peach juice and orange juice, a jar of sweet pepper strips, a bag of cranberries, several jars of homemade chicken stock, Spanish olives, and whole wheat mini-bagels. I scrapped the idea of looking for actual recipes – much more fun to let my imagination loose. I started on vegetarian dishes for my daughter. I think the tofu, soaked first in peach juice so it tastes slightly less like styrofoam, then stir-fried in olive oil with black beans, cherry tomatoes and capers, was a success. For the second box of tofu, I made a cream sauce and threw in the tofu with some mixed vegetables. Pizza bagels with a variety of toppings rounded out the non-meat menu. For the carnivores in the house, I baked chicken breasts, and then made two different sauces – tomato with sweet peppers and olives for one, and chicken stock mixed with OJ and pureed cooked cranberries with a little sugar for the other. I froze those for another time. Later, before serving the chicken, I just thickened up the juices the chicken baked in to make a light sauce. We had sweet rice with black beans, and fresh spinach and capers cooked in lemon olive oil and topped with lemon zest and freshly grated black pepper. For an added appetizer, I sauteed the shrimp in orange-infused olive oil with a little coconut. For dessert? Your pick from the freezer - it was already stocked (at least for now).
Inventive Friends 1.10.12
As I create new recipes, it’s fun to talk to others about my ideas, because they come up with even more. For instance, as my hair stylist snipped and combed, I told her about my pancake muffin. When she said, “Oooh, how about putting sausage in it?” the “Pancake & Sausage Muffin" was born. When, in a blog entry, I talked about the “Super Bowl Muffin” (the one with tortilla chips, beer and salsa), another friend asked, “Could you invent a saltine cracker muffin to go with soup or chili?” That got me thinking. It couldn’t be too sweet. I wanted a taste that evoked tomato soup and crackers, but it couldn’t be dry. I ended up using ground-up saltines in the flour, and reconstituted tomato soup for the liquid. Then, the surprise touch. After cooling, I cored out the center of each muffin and put in two oyster crackers. Once I put the “cap” back on, you couldn’t see that the top had been opened. The result: a bite of tomato soup with a crackery taste AND crunch. Now I might experiment with other soup flavors. Any other requests I might try?
Bad Start, Great Finish 1.8.12
It was my day off from work, which meant a whole day to bake. I had an order to fill for eight dozen muffins for the café, and I was dying to experiment with my new recipe ideas as well. But first I had to get to the grocery store for ingredients. Yes, I read “French Women Don’t Get Fat,” which says you are never supposed to leave your house looking anything but put-together “because you never know,” but I was in a hurry. So I flattened down my hair and put on some lipstick and prayed I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. I got to the store and the first thing I noticed was that since my last trip, everything in the store has been re-arranged. I hate that. It ruins your whole flow. It took me 20 minutes to find the cream cheese. Then, when I went to find the buttermilk, there was none. I don’t just mean the buttermilk was sold out, I mean there wasn’t even a slot for buttermilk. Did they stop making buttermilk? The man I asked said he didn’t know, but kindly offered to find out and he called me “Sweetie” so I guess I didn’t look too bad. (Or was that sexism? I still get that confused with compliments.) Anyway, I gave up when the man disappeared through those big gray doors, never to return, so I bought the powdered stuff. After an extraordinarily long time in the store I went to the check-out and waited patiently. My heart lept when a cashier asked, “Want to go to line number 6, honey?” (No sexism – just a helpful woman this time.) I immediately ditched my line for number 6. And line number 6 was slower. The cashier said sorry, but there I was. I finally got out of there and got home. Determined not to waste any more time, I loaded all my plastic bags on one arm and stumbled into the house. The security alarm, of course, started beeping, but I couldn’t extricate my hands from the plastic handles of the bags, just like that Chinese finger game that becomes tighter the more you struggle. The alarm sounded, but luckily I freed myself and shut it off before the police were notified. Not exactly the start of an idyllic baking day, but it did reach a great finish with some tortilla-cheddar cheese-beer-salsa-sour cream muffins that turned out heavenly.
Game On! 1.6.12
So I’m driving to work yesterday and my mind was wandering, as usual, when I remembered that it’s a new month and another order of mini-muffins will be due soon at my salon, where they serve them to their clientele. January, January. Last month’s flavors were easy – Christmas meant peppermint, egg nog and gingerbread. November was easy too – mini apple and pumpkin pies. What statement does January make? Then it hit me: Super Bowl! Now, I am not a big football fan, but I do like the snacks associated with the game. What muffins can I make that will suggest those snacks? Well, my pretzel and beer muffins, certainly. What else do you gorge on during the game? Chips and dip. So how about a dense cheesey muffin with a sour cream and salsa filling? I wonder if I could incorporate tortilla chips somehow? What about a French onion flavor? And oh, oh, for the people who have zero interest in the game, how about winter snowball somethings? I could dip balls of rich chocolate cake in white chocolate. At this point, having almost missed my turn, I pulled myself out of my dream state and faced the fact that I couldn’t start on these creations ‘til after work. But have no doubt – I’ll be tackling some new recipes before the big kickoff.
Departures 1.4.12
My daughter who was home from Shanghai for the holidays left to go back yesterday. I am never quite prepared when this happens - I get used to having her around again. I have dealt with this departure in different ways throughout the years. Once, I even closeted myself up in the TV room, lowered all the blinds, hunkered down with éclairs (by day) and wine (by evening) and watched all 13 episodes of Mad Men, season one. It worked – I was fine by the next day. This time I decided to cope by working on a couple of muffin recipes. I made some vanilla and cinnamon-infused milk and decided to try it in my rice pudding muffins. I also wanted to use some real vanilla beans to create a topping for vanilla bean muffins. But my heart just wasn’t in it. Even the snow flurries didn’t lift my spirits. Then my oldest daughter called and said she was going to stop by (no doubt sensing this would be a tough day for me). She brought coffee and her laptop with some work to do, and spent the afternoon with me. Just knowing she was there in the next room filled the house with more warmth than the oven. The muffins turned out well, and so did the day, thanks to my daughter’s gift of herself.
Redefining "Goodies" 1.2.12
What better (or more expected) way to start the New Year than to redefine our definition of what it means to “eat good.” I recently visited one of my favorite places in New York City, an emporium of all foods Italian called “Eataly.” The creation of Food Network gurus Mario Batali and Lidia Bastianich, the place is an explosion of tastes, sights and aromas. The huge, warehouse-style market is punctuated by marble-table cafes and tasting stalls. They sell everything here – homemade pastas, breads, cheeses, fruits, vegetables, fresh seafood, and everything you would need to prepare them in authentic Italian style. You can buy a glass of wine (usually from a tasting menu representing a particular Italian region) and sip while you shop (they trust you to return the glass, and they say that 90% of people do!). My favorite section of the store has shelves upon shelves of olive oil. Once naïve about oils other than Wesson, I thought there were just two kinds of olive oil – cheap and expensive. In reality, there are more kinds of olive oil in this palace of food than you can shake a breadstick at. After trying a dish at Eataly made with a phenomenal orange-infused oil, I was thrilled to find a bottle of it on the shelf. I also picked up one made with Meyer Lemon. There was an olive oil I had tasted at one of Lidia’s restaurants in New York last year, which had the most fantastic delicate grassy flavor. There it was on the shelf. I grabbed a couple of unknowns to try as well. A whole new world of tastes has opened up for me, as I experiment with pairing oils and recipes (the savory ones for now, although some pastry chefs are using olive oils in desserts, as well). And though I can hardly believe it, this is one goodie that is GOOD FOR YOU. Here’s to the start of a healthier New Year.
New Year's Cake 12.31.11
It is hard for me to admit it, but the holidays are almost over. Weeks of preparation and anticipation have flown by and I’m about to close the door on another baking season. But wait, what about all of those walnuts in rum that I still have in my cabinet? As I discovered them I also noticed a jar of boozy raisins lurking back there. I open the fridge to get some milk, and several partial packages of coconut spill out. Hmmm...light bulb goes on. I am going to make a “New Year’s Cake” today. I am going to fill it with all of the joyously prepared but as yet unused fruits and nuts, plus some candied rind from those Florida oranges a friend sent me for Christmas. What else can I put in? I am going to go on a tour of my fridges, freezers, and cabinets . . . all ingredients will be considered (even that stash of the “good booze” my husband thinks he hid from The Vintage Baker). Bring out the old, and ring in the new!
Predictions 12.29.11
Some people have a knack for predicting trends. They can tell which latest device or invention is going to really take off, and which will fizzle out. Me, I have the ability to do the exact opposite. Anything that I oppose, dislike or shun . . . you should buy stock in it. It is going to hit the big-time. Years ago, when they had just become the rage, my husband talked about buying a VCR. We were living in a tiny house, saving money and raising babies. I believe what I said was, “The last thing we need is another gadget - when is this technology quest going to end?” (Oops. Before it gave way to the DVD player years later, that VCR served countless hours as babysitter, “date night” and kids’ slumber party chaperone.) One Christmas not long after, my mother asked me if my husband would like a microwave as a gift. My reply? “No, we don’t need anything like that – we do just fine with the stove and oven. What he really needs is pajamas.” Fortunately, she ignored my advice and gave him the microwave instead. (Not that she has any better inclination than I do about technology trends – years earlier, when my sisters and I asked our father what he wanted for Christmas, she jumped in with, “Oh girls, he just wants your love.” My father quickly shot back with, “No I don’t – I want a cordless phone!”) Maybe I am just intimidated by machines. Or maybe I just favor the status quo. But, while I love my old rolling pin, depression glass juicer and antique bottles, I’m predicting there may be some shiny, new gadgets in my life in 2012, including a new web site – stay tuned.
Cooking Without A Net 12.27.11
I am a TV food show addict. I am by turns thrilled, instructed, appalled . . . and jealous. Thrilled by the competitions where they have 30 minutes to create five things out of unlikely and sometimes horrible ingredients – and they do it. I learn something every time I flip channels and catch even a glimpse of someone demonstrating a new twist on an old recipe, a new technique for using kitchen gadgetry, or a new way to present a meal. But I have to wonder why no one on these programs wears a hair net. I guess it’s because hair and beard nets would be very unattractive on TV. And have you seen the sweat on the male chefs, when they’re competing over big pots of boiling stuff? And what’s with the jewelry on some of these celebrity chefs? I stare in fascination as one woman positively bedecked in diamonds and heavy bracelets AND long sleeves merrily plunges her hands into doughs and batters. When I bake, I look like I am prepping for surgery. I remove all jewelry. I put on an apron and head scarf. I wash my hands and arms up to the elbow. Maybe that’s why I’m not on TV. And that’s where the jealous part comes in.
Christmas Present 12.25.11
At the risk of being totally predictable, this post is indeed about Christmas memories. I am not among those who sigh and long for their children to be little again “because that made Christmas so much more fun.” Don’t get me wrong – I am not denying the magic of those times, because I loved it. I have photo albums full of memories. I also have videos, including a child learning to ride a new bike in the living room on Christmas morning, and another so overly excited that she careens through the dining room on new rollerblades with her new Barbie phone draped around her neck, narrowly missing the glass-fronted china cabinet. But those times had their own peculiar stressors, like finding a babysitter and going out to do all of the shopping in one night, where we ate M&M’s for dinner in the aisle of the toy store (well, that was KINDA’ fun). I don’t miss the nerve-wracking-ness of putting unwilling and overly tired kids to bed on Christmas Eve, and then checking a million times to make sure they were asleep before putting out Santa toys. One year I actually built a barricade outside the youngest one’s bedroom door, figuring I’d at least hear her climbing over it. I don’t miss being jolted out of bed at some ungodly hour to “go see what Santa brought,” knowing that I would spend the rest of Christmas Day with prickly eyes and totally exhausted. No, I like the way it is now. We all go to Mass on Christmas Eve and then out to dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant (where we always have the same waitress and we love her). Then driving through the lights at night back home (lights always look different to me on Christmas Eve – brighter and holier), where we light the fireplace, open champagne, and exchange gifts by the tree. These days, we go to bed before our daughters, but get up at a reasonable hour, have some coffee, and then put out the “Santa gifts” before they are awake. When the girls appear, they exclaim over their gifts with the same excitement they always had on Christmas morning. If I close my eyes, I’d swear that no time has passed at all.
Day Before The Day Before 12.23.11
I love getting ready for things – parties, holidays, trips. The anticipation, the checking of lists, the falling of things into place. With some events – like Christmas – I think the preparations are often as much or more fun than the actual day. Is it just me? This is why my favorite night of the week to go out is Thursday – you can still look forward to the whole weekend because you haven’t “spent it” yet. My favorite day leading up to Christmas is the DAY BEFORE Christmas Eve. You are busy getting ready, but the roller coaster car is still positioned at the top of the track; the heady ride hasn’t quite started yet. So today is a day to wrap, bake, hurry, hustle and savor.
My Favorite Customers 12.21.11
Today I get to give Christmas cheer to my favorite Vintage Baker customers. It’s an organization that helps mentally ill homeless men find health care, jobs and places to live. I know from past experience that they love anything I make for them. And for that reason I put every effort into making something special. I want to help them remember better times. (The staff has often said that the sight and taste of something they remember eating when they were young opens up for them many happy memories.) I want to fill them with feelings of warmth and love. I want to give them an abundance. I want them to see that they are not forgotten, that someone cares enough to spend the time to make something delicious for them. This year, I made a holiday cake packed with goodies including pineapple, nuts and coconut. I made chocolate chip cookies and doubled up on the chips, and filled individual bags so that each person will have something to hold onto and enjoy. Because the staff at this homeless center is not allowed to eat the treats provided for their clients, I made them their own cookies. After all, Christmas is for everyone. And nothing tastes as good as giving feels.
High Notes, Low Notes 12.19.11
We just got back from a family weekend in New York City, where it is so lively and festive this time of year, decorated to the hilt, and with great food around every corner. One of the highlights of our trip was an evening at Lincoln Center, where we marveled at the New York Philharmonic performing a fantastic rendition of Handel’s Messiah. But even in magical New York at Christmas, occasionally you hit a low note. As we walked out of the concert hall I overheard a woman actually saying, “I wish there had been more solos – that chorus really irritated me.” (What? The chorus performs the main parts – and the best parts!) We visited the new 9/11 Memorial at the World Trade Center site, which was definitely a profoundly moving note. The next day, as we were darting all over town to shop, we split the gang into two cabs. Two daughters jumped into the first cab, and the rest of us hailed one right behind it. My husband said to the driver, “Follow that cab!” Unbelievably, the driver giggled and said, “Oh no, I can’t do that!” (What? Has he NEVER seen a TV show or old movie where they tell the driver to follow that cab and he obediently steps on it?) Later, in a hot and crowded department store (they all were) I heard a woman having a meltdown in the middle of an aisle, saying very loudly to her daughter, “I am NOT staying here! I was up ‘til 2 a.m. and I AM NOT STAYING HERE!” Well, by that time I was pretty much in agreement with her. New York at Christmas can exhaust. But the fresh pork sandwiches, chocolate bread and almond cookies on the ride home helped to finish the weekend on a high note.
A Cut Above 12.17.11
At this time of year, as I compiled my list of people to buy gifts and/or bake for, one special person came to mind immediately. She’s a person I could not live (as well) without. We all have those people – family, friends and those we count on throughout the year. She’s all of these to me. I would drive hours to see her. I have made her promise to send me her forwarding address if she ever moves. She is that invaluable. Sure, I like my doctor and my dentist. But this person is IRREPLACEABLE. I book appointments with her months in advance. She is my hair stylist. And she makes me look good. She listens to me and supports me in my new baking venture. She is a taste-tester and an enthusiastic promoter. Any woman will tell you that the person who best knows her hair is worth her weight in gold. So as I count my blessings, I’m thankful for this special person who is a cut above the rest.
Year in Review 12.15.11
You know how this month you see on just about every channel the “year in review,” with scenes from the news, shows and other events – some funny, some poignant, or both? Well, this past year in my kitchen saw some bloopers, accidents and messes that might make for good viewing. If you spin it fast through your mind, to the tune of the 1812 Overture, it looks something like this (you have to hum Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da – BOOM BOOM . . .): Balancing eggs on top of the microwave while simultaneously trying to reheat my coffee and (BOOM) they roll off and break all over the floor. Cutting two packs of yeast apart and then shaking one down before opening it, and (BOOM) dry yeast flies up into the air, down my shirt, into my hair and all over the stove, because I had inadvertently cut the pack open. Toasting almonds in a pan, bending close to sniff for doneness and (BOOM) burn my chin on the edge of the pan. Adding flour to my stand mixer and flipping the switch too quickly so the blade spins at warp speed and (BOOM) flour shoots up into the air like a geyser, coating everything on the counter. Hearing the oven timer go off for my muffins and hurriedly looking for my tester and not finding it, and suddenly spotting it and grabbing it and (BOOM) having it fly out of my hand and slide under the oven with the accuracy a hockey player would envy. Gingerly placing a three-layer chocolate cake onto a glass refrigerator shelf, only to find out that the shelf was removed earlier, and (BOOM) the cake falls to the bottom of the fridge. So winds down my year of kitchen adventures. In between these scenes, normalcy usually prevails. But for some reason, those times aren’t as memorable.
Never Say Never 12.12.11
I recently said that I would not need to venture into vegan territory – sticking to my niche and all that. Well, never say never. I learned this from my daughter, who has been living and working in China for the past four years. She has developed her own web-based art and design business, and NEVER turns a job down, especially if she’s never done it before. My favorite story is when she won a job to do hundreds of calligraphy invitations for a very posh designer event in Shanghai, and when they offered to accommodate her in their offices, she declined, saying that she preferred to work in her “studio” (aka bedroom). She then jumped on her bike, stopped into an art store to buy the proper pens, and raced home to Google “how to do calligraphy.” They were ultimately thrilled with her work, and she has gone on to more calligraphy jobs since. Well, back in Baltimore, the neighborhood café that sampled my wares last week really liked them and wants me to supply them on a regular basis. They asked me if I had any vegan and gluten-free recipes I could add to my repertoire. Not quite possessing my daughter’s degree of bravado, I admitted that I do not, BUT would definitely do some research and come up with something that works. And I will. And it will be delicious.
Slow Down 12.11.11
The other day I woke up late, a hundred thoughts and plans already running through my mind. I had to do grocery shopping for the family (which I had not done for two weeks) as well as for my business. I had cupcakes to finish for a party that night. I had a list as long as my arm of things to bake for various upcoming events. I had gifts that had to be wrapped by early next week. Exhausted after a few late nights of parties, I shot out of bed and hurriedly drank my coffee as I finished my grocery list. Ok, I admit it, I am a definite Type A personality. Usually this is fine - my husband is the same way, so we’re a good team. But something interesting is happening now that I have two grown Type B daughters home for the holidays. An astute person will immediately recognize the first obvious issue: grown children do not like reverting to the role of “child” when they’re in their parents’ home, which happens in spite of the best intentions of parents. Add to this the Type A plus B thing, and sometimes the pot boils over. For example, the other day I was champing at the bit to have a particular errand done, which my daughters were nice enough to agree to do for me, but in order to do it, they had to leave the house by 2:30 at the latest. At 2:15, I saw one daughter working at her laptop, murmuring, “Now I’ll have to start this whole program over,” and the other one on the floor in her pajamas, playing with the dog. I kept looking at the clock and tried not to sigh too loud as I bit my tongue. But they ended up accomplishing the errand perfectly and on time. It’s not just MY stuff that they are so nonchalant about; their own plans are always very fluid, changing with the speed of a text message. It can drive you nuts, like when one of them is leaving for work in the morning, coat on, purse on arm, as she pours a bowl of cereal “to eat in the car.” There is obviously a different sense of time/deadlines here. And yet, these girls accomplish so much, and do it well. They just are so relaxed about it all, that it seems WRONG to an adrenaline junkie. So I have decided to learn something from these Type B's in our house (at least for the holidays): to take a page out of their book, take a deep breath, and SLOW DOWN. Thank you, daughters.
Piece of Cake 12.9.11
In our "old" house, we lived for 11 years with a problem sink in the (one and only) bathroom – no water pressure whatsoever. With the taps turned on full blast, only a thin stream of water came out. Well, we thought, what could you expect, the house was over 100 years old and so was the plumbing. Most of our neighbors had the same water pressure issues, so we lived with it. It wasn't until years later, when we had our house re-inspected before putting it on the market, we found out what the problem was. It was a clogged filter on the spigot. We cleaned it out and voila, Niagara Falls. Ok, at the risk of sounding further like idiots . . . at our next house we found a separate heater in the wall of the kitchen, which is the coldest room in the house. But it wouldn't turn on. We froze every winter morning that first year as we sat and had our coffee. The next year we had a new floor installed, and when we told the contractor about the problem with the heater, he unscrewed the front of it and reset the "on" button. . . instant heat. Can you stand another example? We were having unidentifiable electrical issues with the light over our front porch, and eventually had it replaced with a new fixture. All was resolved for about a month, when one night the porch light wouldn't go on again. Totally frustrated, we called the electrician (a great guy) to come back, which he promptly did. He refused to charge us for replacing the light bulb, which was all that was needed. It’s human nature, I guess, that sometimes we assume the worst in a situation, and then overthink it, deliberate too long and delay action. Sometimes the solution to a problem is staring us in the face. And the answer may be a piece of cake.
Editor's Note 12.8.11
It seems I may have caused a small buzz with my post on 12.7 regarding the labeling of one of my recipes as "vegan" if it, indeed, contains honey. I'm aware of the honey debate that has been ongoing within the vegan community, including discussion of the treatment of bees and the exact origin of the "product" that is honey (a topic that The Vintage Baker finds too unsavory to discuss in the kitchen). There are vegans who support the inclusion of honey in their diets, and those who do not - I respect all points of view and won't engage in that debate. Instead, The Vintage Baker will continue to include the ingredients that infuse her creations with the old-fashioned distinctive taste she has become known for, and refrain from aligning with any particular cause or belief, except that of tasty wonderfulness. In other words, stick to my niche.
Visions of Vegans 12.7.11
Yesterday was a day of high hopes that were dashed and then possibly resurrected. My daughter had very kindly mentioned to a recently opened cafe in her neighborhood that I am a baker, and asked if they would be interested in tasting and possibly selling some of my products. They were. So, I baked and baked and assembled a large box of muffins, cupcakes, mini-pies, cakes and cookies that would soon be on their way. I then turned my attention to a new variation on my sugarplum cookie recipe. "Sugarplum." The very word conjures up sparkly, magical delight. I thought I had achieved the desired outcome – a little portion of various dried fruits that I softened in rum and water, and mixed with honey, toasted oats and toasted walnuts, all chopped and blended into a bite-size explosion of flavor. I needed a pastry to wrap them in – I didn't want a cookie-ish thing, so I pondered. By then my daughter arrived and whisked the box of signature Vintage Baker treats to the cafe. Soon after, she called me. They tried everything in the box and LOVED them, right? Not exactly. They told her they would try them, but they really were headed in another direction – VEGAN. Did I do vegan, they asked? DO I LOOK LIKE I DO VEGAN? Did you SEE all of the butter and eggs in that box? Then it hit me. My sugarplums (in their current unfinished state) are vegan! Nary an egg nor a pat of butter nor a hint of cream in those tidbits! Just sprinkle with powdered sugar, and they're done. Ever versatile and accommodating, I will assure them when they call that I have a new vegan specialty. And by the way, my macaroons are technically vegetarian.
Elves Needed 12.5.11
I have found (and I don’t think I’m alone in this) that for every job or task I undertake, there is a part I enjoy or at least tolerate, and a part I hate. For example, I really like doing laundry – there’s such a sense of accomplishment when all the dirty clothes disappear into the washing machine and you hear the swoosh-swoosh of cleanliness happening. But I HATE folding laundry, especially pairing up socks. I truly enjoy grocery shopping – some sort of pioneer left-over instinct in me to “stock up.” But then there’s unloading the bags from the car. The culinary world has this figured out. They have sous chefs. They do all the chopping and peeling and washing up so the chef can do all the fun stuff. I used to have little helpers in the kitchen who were willing to do some of this, but they grew up and found their own interests. Santa has the right idea – the elves seem content to stay put year after year. Wonder how they do with sock pairing?
Gift of the Unexpected 12.2.11
Sometimes the unexpected turns out to be a gift. Like recently when I dropped my new touchscreen phone into a pan of water. I just could NOT get agile with that phone - I tried, really I did. So when nothing would revive it (even sealing it for two days in a baggie of rice), I returned to my old phone with happiness and relief. (And no, throwing the phone in water was not on purpose). That’s the way I try to view life - when a mistake or inconvenience or annoyance occurs, I perk up (after, of course, the anger and disgust) and look for the "surprise." Often something good turns up as a result. And when it’s a kitchen disaster, it’s usually something good to eat.
Just Throw It Out 12.1.11
I have already said how I love to save and use any and all leftover ingredients to try new recipes. Recently I woke up too early and couldn’t get back to sleep, because I got an idea of how to use the rest of the oatmeal I had made for muffins the day before. I would roll it into little balls with some cut apple pieces in the center, place into the muffins, and use apple juice instead of milk in the batter. I started the coffee maker and cut up the apples. I went to the fridge to get the oatmeal – and it was gone. I pulled everything out, looked in the freezer – no oatmeal. Did my daughter grab it on her way out the door the previous night and eat it with a spoon in the car? Highly likely (judging from how many of my coffee cups, bowls and spoons are rolling around inside her car). So now is when the economy part of my plan falls apart. The apple chunks were waiting, so I made more oatmeal. That worked out fine, although essentially I had started the recipe from scratch again, so no leftovers involved. Not content to leave well enough alone, I decided to make pancakes with some leftover piña colada filling I didn’t want to waste, opening a new can of coconut milk to add to the batter. Well, apparently the leftover filling was too much like icing, and the pancakes were sticking (and I didn’t need an additional pancake trauma, as described in a previous blog entry). I added flour. I added water. I turned the heat up, then down. I used up the rest of the coconut milk. I threw the whole mess away. I guess sometimes a leftover is just begging to be thrown out.
Calm Before The Storm 11.29.11
I approach my baking business and the Christmas season much the way people prepare for a hurricane. The weekend after Thanksgiving is the calm before the storm. The pies have all been baked, delivered and eaten. It’s a little too soon to start in on the cakes and Christmas cookies. So now is the time to hunker down and prepare. To fill the jars with fruits and nuts and rum. To zest the lemons, juice them, and freeze. To toast the nuts and coconut. To make my special oatmeal and form into balls and freeze (for muffins). To replenish my supply of candied orange and lemon peel. To make the rather long drive to my cake supply store for the melting chocolates I prefer. Now when the orders start rolling in, I’ll be off and running. Santa’s elves may have 364 days to prepare, but I’ll have just a few weeks.
Feast or Famine 11.27.11
How often do you think you’re out of an item, so you make a mental note to buy whatever it is the next time you go to the store, only to get home to find ten of them on the shelf already (and it’s usually something like rice or baking soda, which hangs around forever). Or I’ll happen upon something I absolutely LOVE, like a comfortable, flattering, easily packable and inexpensive pair of pants in a great color. Or the perfect pair of comfortable shoes, or an amazing kitchen tool. Doesn’t matter, I buy just one. ONE! And spend the rest of my life looking for another one, which of course no longer exists anywhere. This explains why you may see me wearing a somewhat raggedy pair of those pants that used to look so good. Or baking too many of something and storing them in my freezer. Feast or famine. Why, in some things, is “portion control” so difficult to achieve?
The Day After 11.25.11
I love the day after Thanksgiving. First of all, I can stop eating. And I can start preparing for the next event – CHRISTMAS! I put away the fall decorations and haul out the many boxes and bags of Christmas decorations I have collected over the years. (It really seems like I just put them away.) I love the sense of rediscovery as I touch the pine cones and red bows and snow globes, many of which are showing their age more every year. I have fun turning the fireplace mantle into a winter scene of pine and “sugar-coated fruit” and white lights. I leave the outside of the house to others – I focus on turning the inside into a visual feast. Later in the day, I revisit something that is dear to my heart and completely necessary to my sense of tradition – I watch “White Christmas” for the hundredth time. Sometimes I can make the family watch it with me, but if not, it doesn’t really matter. Then, I put my own turkey in the oven (since we go to our families’ homes on Thanksgiving), put on some Christmas music, and start to plan my next onslaught of baking. What a perfect day.
Gotta Believe 11.23.11
Today I have lots of pie deliveries to make for the holiday – apple, pecan, blackberry and of course, pumpkin (this year with a brandy sauce that is to die for!). Before I “went pro,” I was certain that I made the best pies and the most delicious cakes of anyone. I even bought a little sign I saw in an antique store that I hung in my kitchen – it simply says “the best pastry.” But somehow when you put yourself out there and start CHARGING for your stuff, it causes you to rethink everything. Suddenly I am asking myself – is that pie REALLY worth the price tag I put on it? Is that cake as good as it ought to be? Sure the cupcakes and gourmet muffins take me hours to make, but can I really charge what I THINK they are worth? Do I even know enough about baking, especially since I never went to culinary school? And then it hits me. The real question is this: do I believe in myself? I guess there comes a point with any skill where you just have to dare to use it. Take a breath, and take a leap. It was certainly like that for me when I started as a nurse practitioner – it was like walking into a strange new land, alone. “Who do you think you are, and what do you think you’re doing?” was a question I often asked myself back then. Now I have to remind myself that I know the answer: I am a Nurse Practitioner, and I am a Baker.
Delicious Recall 11.21.11
Tell me if it's just me, or if other people experience this too. Almost every memory of mine is associated with the sight or aroma of some food. Just say a word or phrase, and up pops a food item, like the answer to a quiz show question. French class: the smell of freshly baked cake (my class was held right before lunch, and the "cafeteria ladies" baked cakes and cooled them on the window sills every day). First grade: cold chocolate milk in glass bottles (Sister handed out them out each day for lunch, and came around to punch a hole in the top for your straw). Volunteering: jelly donuts (I was a candy-striper in the hospital cafe and got to take home any leftover donuts at the end of my shift). Fall evenings: creamed chicken over rice (a staple of my Mom's – so warm and satisfying). Nurse Practitioner class: candied peanuts and frozen strawberry yogurt (a new thing then!), which we bought at a nearby market. Band practice: brownies and Pepsi (the required snack for a 60’s rock band, if you were practicing in my parents’ living room). Sensory recall or just a food obsession? Who cares, as long as the memories remain so delicious.
I Remember Agnes 11.19.11
This time of year brings back memories for everyone, and one in particular for me. Years ago, I became friends with an elderly lady named Agnes. She had been a patient of mine when I was just a student nurse, and for some reason she “adopted” me and began to call me from time to time. She was ill and lonely, never had married, and had her food (and an occasional bottle of vodka) delivered by merchants downtown, in the days when merchants provided their customers with open accounts and delivery service. One thing led to another, and soon I was visiting her, and helping her out in little ways. I took on her grocery shopping once a week, with a standard list of about 10 items that were “staples” for her: Chips Ahoy cookies, ham slice, canned peaches and Pepsi, among other delicacies. She was a chain smoker, but I seem to recall that the same gentle merchant who provided her vodka took care of that vice, as well. Agnes and I got along famously, but the thing was, Agnes was mean. Not all of the time. But on occasion she would pepper her conversation with insults. Still, there was something about this feisty old woman that I liked. When I became engaged, I introduced my fiancé to Agnes, and she instantly LOVED him. But the more she loved him, the more insulting she became to me. I guess she had the capacity to accept only one person at a time. But I went on, doing her weekly shopping before work, and made a lot of allowances for her sharp tongue. She eventually entered a nursing home, and at Thanksgiving I decided to bake her one of her favorite pies. True to form, she insulted me upon unwrapping the pie with some crack like, “Now what the hell am I supposed to do with a whole pie?” I probably shot back that she could throw it away or give it to any damn person she wanted, and I left fuming. (Also true to form, she reserved a cheery goodbye for my husband as he followed me to the car.) A couple of weeks went by, and my annoyance faded. I decided she was old and sick, and couldn’t be held responsible for her rudeness, and I decided to call her. We had a perfectly nice conversation. A few days later, I got a call that she had died. I still remember her every Thanksgiving, some 30 years later. She left me an afghan she had crocheted, which we still use in our family room. So in spite of her occasional chilly disposition, we still have something warm to remember Agnes by.
If It Ain't Broke... 11.18.11
I like learning new things in the kitchen – like a different way to prepare an old recipe, or a new technique for baking a pie. But I swear, some things I should just LEAVE ALONE. There are certain things that are tried and true, and I shouldn’t try to "improve" on them. Like this week, when I was baking Thanksgiving pies to freeze. I had just discovered a wonderful resource on all things to do with baking – Rose Levy Beranbaum – and I was trying out some of her ideas for making pastry. Now, I have a great pastry recipe, and my pies always get rave reviews especially BECAUSE OF the pastry, but no, I had to improve it. Some of the tips, like chilling the bowl and the flour, were great and easy to do. But I have learned in the past, and I just learned it again – when I chill the pastry before rolling it out, IT NEVER WORKS. My beautiful, pliable pastry ended up all dried out and broken. Anyone passing by might have heard me yelling, "I did it again! Why did I do it again? It never works! Why can't I leave well enough alone? You just had to change it, didn't you?" Rose Levy Beranbaum is a genius. I love her books, and I am gaining much from them. But I take issue with her on this one topic. Lesson learned: to prevent breaking pastry dough, don't break with what you know.
Abandoned Standards 11.16.11
It is a point of pride with me to never use a boxed mix or canned anything (if at all possible). I am a snob about restaurant desserts. . . quite simply, I think mine are often better. I tend to look at vending machines and fast food places with scorn. But there are exceptions to every rule. Recently my sisters and I took my Mom to the beach for her 88th birthday. Why is it that a whole new mindset comes into play once you cross the bridge to a resort town? A little voice inside says, “Bring it on.” Signs everywhere beckon – donuts, fried oreos, fried anything, milkshakes, caramel corn. It all sounds not only good, but RIGHT. As if you’ve abandoned all culinary standards, you chow down on, oh let’s say, French fries dipped in a chocolate milkshake (don’t knock it unless you’ve tried it). Then for dessert, you order the fries covered with melted cheese and/ or gravy. You stop after that, so you’ll have room for dinner, which could be barbecued ribs or a burger, both with fries. And why do donuts at the beach look so GOOD? I’ll admit that, at least on this trip, I didn’t eat any of these things. But there was (WAS) a chocolate ganache-filled birthday cake that would tell another story.
Holiday Tips 11.14.11
With the holidays upon us, we can never hear too many kitchen tips, especially those that may help us out of an occasional “jam.” The more I read cookbooks on the science of baking, the more I am thankful for the little pearls of wisdom I happen upon. Here are just a few. Do you ever find yourself with a bit of bad timing when you want to make a recipe using very ripe bananas, and the only ones you can find at the store are barely ripe? Well, problem solved, if you think in advance. You can actually freeze the overripe bananas on your kitchen table when you have them. Just peel, wrap in plastic wrap and then in aluminum foil, and voila, ripe bananas when you need them next. Do you want added flavor in baked goods that call for nuts and oats? Try toasting them before adding to a recipe. It takes only a few minutes and the difference is delicious. For oats, spread them on a baking sheet and toast at 350 degrees for about 10 minutes, tossing occasionally. For nuts, there are two methods. Spread shelled nuts on a baking tray and put in a 400-degree oven for about 7-10 minutes, shaking the pan half-way through, or spread them in a single layer in a skillet on top of the stove over medium-high heat and shake the pan continuously for 5-7 minutes ‘til golden brown. Last tip o’ the day, if you find yourself in a time crunch and have to bake and ice a cake all of a sudden (yes, this does happen, right?). Mix up a pourable icing (Google the recipe - it's easy) and pour it over the cake or cupcakes before they are completely cooled. The result looks fantastic, and you're done. Okay, an “encore” tip, this one from my mother. It’s easy to get distracted and forget how many teaspoons/tablespoons of an ingredient you’ve added to a recipe. Next time you’re counting, grab an item on the table (spoon, cup, salt shaker, etc.) for each spoonful you add, and put it near your bowl. You’ll see at a glance where you left off in the count. Mom’s pretty smart – guess that’s how she has made it through 88 holiday seasons so far!
Changing Perspective 11.12.11
When my kids were little, I was very protective. Okay, INSANELY protective. They could only ride their bikes "from our front porch to that pole." They couldn't cross the street by themselves. I never left them alone ‘til they were old enough to be babysitters themselves. I cut their grapes in half so they wouldn't choke. Now, they are grown and have traveled the world. One daughter who was living in Beijing took a little side trip to Mongolia one weekend (you know, to sleep in a yurt and ride a camel). The next day I said to a co-worker, "Thank God my daughter is back in Beijing where she belongs." My friend said, "Do you hear what you just said? Last week you were worried because she was IN BEIJING!” I guess your perspective changes, once they’ve gone beyond the front porch and the pole.
Fools Rush In 11.10.11
I am so glad that I began to bake before I found out that I didn’t know what I was doing. Let me explain. I learned to bake at what you might call the “grassroots level” – that is, I didn’t go to a pastry school. I just merrily plunged in, mixing and beating and adding and deleting and sometimes guessing. Then, as I got more serious about it all, I became curious about the how’s and why’s of things. Why did the recipe call for baking soda and not baking powder? Why do you have to add wet and dry ingredients alternately in some cakes? Why do you scald milk in a bread recipe? So I started gathering books and reading. Wow. There is so much to it all. The chemistry is complex, for one thing (though fascinating). Do you know that the people who know everything about the subject still don’t completely understand what happens when a cake bakes? I may have been scared off if I had discovered this before I had any actual experience. But knowledge is power. The more you know, the more you can manipulate ingredients or correct mistakes. So I continue to read and learn and benefit from the experience of other bakers. And try to understand why the finished product tastes so darn good.
Useless Knowledge 11.8.11
I am of the belief that no knowledge gained in life is ever wasted. The algebra I learned in high school I now use to calculate recipe amounts. The Latin courses, obviously useful for health care terminology. I can recite the entire “Jabberwocky” poem from Alice in Wonderland to amuse and/or bore people at parties. In eighth grade we had a speaker come in and talk about “Charm For the Young Woman,” and as the only student in the class who bought the book, I successfully learned the correct way to get in and out of the passenger side of a car. See, useful. But for the life of me I can’t figure out the benefit of learning to march, in elementary school no less! A classmate’s father who was a Naval officer was asked to come and teach us all about military marching. As a result, we spent many an afternoon on the playground, drilling “left-right-left” and “at ease” and “dress-right-dress.” (“To the rear – hup!” was especially fun.) I don’t march much anymore, though I could if ordered to. Maybe there IS such a thing as useless knowledge.
Secret's in the Soaking 11.5.11
Finally, I arrived at another great rice pudding muffin recipe I have been trying for. (I think it took me four or five attempts.) I was getting a little discouraged along the way, though I know by reading and watching the Food Network that this is the wrong attitude to have. All chefs and bakers have failed attempts, and have to go back to the drawing board. Anyway, the secret turned out to be soaking the cooked sweet rice and raisins in warm milk that I had previously “made” by steeping vanilla beans and cinnamon in it. (I KNEW I’d find the perfect use for it!) Also, to get the chewier texture I wanted, I substituted oats for half of the flour. I tweaked a couple of other ingredients, and the taste is like a mouthful of, well, rice pudding! Milky and with a good hit of vanilla and cinnamon. Moist and just dense enough. Now to concoct the perfect topping...
Balance 11.3.11
Once we were invited to dinner at the home of a couple we knew. When we got there, the husband told us that his wife would be back soon – she was shopping for the ingredients for the meal. Contrast this with the image years ago of my family going to my grandmother's house for dinner, walking in the door and immediately sitting down to eat. These two extremes illustrate the need for a middle-of-the-road approach in life. I admit that I usually live at one end or the other. My hair either looks wonderful or horrible. I had a great day or an awful day. I am thin or I am fat. My cake turned out perfect or it's a disgrace. The new thing I tried to make was either an overwhelming success, or I know I'll never get it right. Balance. I am trying to adopt the attitude that, more often than not, things don't need to be perfect in order to be good. It's okay to take some time to make mistakes and try it again if necessary. Sometimes "good enough" is, well, good enough. Or at least not as bad as I thought.
'Never Say Die' Pie 11.1.11
It should come as no surprise that with a name like “The Vintage Baker,” I am new to using a food processor to make my pastry dough. I just got a new larger capacity model, and stepped out of character long enough to actually watch the video that came with it (instead of plunging ahead, hoping it would be “intuitive”). Because of the larger scale projects I’m doing these days, I was excited at the thought of being able to turn out pastry more quickly. So, having an order for apple and pumpkin mini-pies due for Thanksgiving, I made my first batch. Nothing I was producing looked anything like what I saw in the video. Still, I finished and chilled the dough while I prepared the fillings. I will only say that I have never had such trouble rolling out pie dough since I was twelve. It cracked, it tore. I’ll condense this painful part. Four “how to” Google videos and three attempts later, I had a few pumpkin mini’s in the oven. Not too bad, and I even learned something. When I tried to dump those suckers out of their little tins, I learned that I will NEVER AGAIN make pastry in that machine. (True to my never-throw-it-out mantra, I mashed up the little pumpkin pies, added some pumpkin pie spice, combined with my basic muffin recipe, and topped them with cream cheese icing. Never say die when it comes to a pie.)
Blue Jean Blues 10.30.11
I dropped off a Halloween order for circus-themed mini-muffins (my popcorn-flavored muffins topped with my own caramel popcorn, white chocolate and multicolored sprinkles). I had the rest of the morning free, and being tired of my jeans falling down all the time (I am between sizes), I decided to take the plunge and do the one thing that is second in horror only to shopping for bathing suits. I went to a store that “mature” women seem to flock to, thinking that this sisterhood would surely have something for me. Well. It did, but TOO MUCH. Why, oh why, are there so many choices for a pair of jeans? There were no less than seven areas in the store with shelves and racks of jeans. Different brands, of course. But within each – tall, average, short. Comfort fit, low waist, at the waist. Slimming, skinny, relaxed fit. Boot cut, narrow, straight leg. Dark blue, light blue, black, ripped at the knee, sparkly. I must have had 17 pairs in my arms as I staggered to the dressing room. I went into the handicapped stall because I had become very hot and needed a lot of room. I suddenly realized I was talking out loud to myself, saying things like, “Oh, noooo way,” and “Why is this so hard?” and “Why am I here doing this?” I did end up with one pair. Then I consoled myself for the misery by buying two pairs of shoes . . . plenty of choices there, but all FUN.
A Berry Juicy Rescue 10.28.11
Recently a customer ordered strawberry cupcakes. As it is not the season for them, I was about to suggest something else, when I remembered the strawberries I had picked and frozen back in May. Perfect! I thawed them out, saving the juice. I did wonder for a minute if it would make a difference using frozen berries versus fresh, but the batter looked right so I didn’t add or subtract anything. They smelled delicious as they baked, but looked a little funny when they were done. Sort of too done on the sides, and wrinkly on the top. As I was deciding what to do, my daughter appeared in the kitchen and took a big bite out of one before I could scream, “Don’t eat that!” She rolled her eyes and said “This is DELICIOUS!” I inspected the inside of the cupcake like a detective looking for a clue . . . ok, it tasted good, but perhaps it was a little dry. Then I remembered my cake decorating teacher’s mantra, “There are no mistakes, just a change of plan!” I decided to save the day by making a strawberry filling out of the juice I had put aside. That would take care of the slight dryness that I, in my perfectionism, thought was there. The piled-high strawberry frosting covered any sins on the tops. Strawberry juice to the rescue! (But next time I might try using the berries while they’re still frozen.)
That'll be $1 million 10.26.11
There are some things I make that are so time-consuming or complicated or just plain annoying that I could never charge enough to make it all worth it. Sure, there are high-end wedding cake makers and celebrity chefs who can command any price. But I’m talking about the little bakers, like me. And a little project to make cake pops that look like brightly colored balloons. They should be easy. But I was having a not-good day. You know, when you really should just hang up your apron and get out of the kitchen because everything is going wrong and your frustration is building as fast as the mess around you. It started with dark chocolate cake balls that kept falling apart when I dipped them in the melted white chocolate. Not a disaster at first. I carefully dug the crumbling ball out of the whiteness, so as not to ruin that too. I had several more dishes of the white chocolate that I planned to color individually. You can only use gel colors in melted chocolate, and that is all I use anyway. So no problem there. Soon I had a lovely yellow, blue, pink and green. Then I wanted red. Ah ha, I spotted a nice jar of red gel color in the cabinet. I added it, and immediately saw why the expression “seized up” is used to describe what chocolate does when it isn’t happy. Then I suddenly realized that all my little bowls of colors were hardening . . . maybe the food color was too cold (everything in my cabinets gets cold this time of year). I popped the bowls in the microwave for a few seconds and they all (except the red) softened up nicely. For about 60 seconds. So I was dipping cake balls and scooping the crumbs out and spinning back and forth, re-softening chocolate in the microwave, because you have to decorate the balls before the icing hardens. All of a sudden I looked down and saw bright red footprints all over the floor. I checked my hands for bleeding, then realized that it was the red dye. I threw my now-red shoes into a corner and hurried on ‘til I finished the cake pops. Done. I plan to charge one million dollars per dozen.
Lemon A-peel 10.24.11
I love candied lemon rind – it adds such a special touch in many recipes. And it’s pretty. It’s also a little bit time-consuming, but so worth it. Whenever I use a lemon for its juice, if I don’t zest it right away, I put the lemon halves in a bag in the freezer. When I am ready to proceed with the candying process, I take them out of the freezer and place them on paper towels to thaw. I didn’t have a whole lot of time one day when I suddenly decided to launch into this, and it requires three boiling/draining steps. So as I put the first pan of water on to boil, it occurred to me to put another pan of water on at the same time. So when the first one was done, I could quickly drain the lemon strips and toss them right into the next pot while the first pot got back up to boiling again. Ok, not rocket science, but it does save time. (I guess theoretically you could boil THREE pots of water at the same time, but somehow that seems like overkill.) I recently added some of the lemon peel in syrup to a lemon pound cake. . . wow. A little zesting can add a lot of zest to just about anything.
Kitchen Wisdom 10.22.11
Sometimes my two careers (healthcare provider and baker) intersect quite nicely. What I mean is that kitchen wisdom often can convey the point I am trying to make to a patient better than anything else. For example, when I am prescribing a new medication, I start at the lowest dose first to reduce the risk of side effects. I’ll tell my patient, "As my mother says, you can always put more salt in, but you can't take it out." I had an elderly lady who was having trouble remembering each day which of her blood pressure medications she had taken – yet she was resistant to the idea of putting them in a weekly pill box. I said "Have you ever looked into a mixing bowl full of white flour, white sugar and white baking powder and tried to remember whether you've added one teaspoon of the baking powder or two? If you separate your pills by day of the week, you can tell at a glance what you've already taken.” And when my patients complain of stress (which is most of them these days), I advise them to make a list of all of their "have to's" and then go back and cross off the “unhealthy ingredients” that are disposable. Sometimes the secret to better health begins in the kitchen.
Like Buttah 10.20.11
Okay, so I thought I had hit on a great tip in the kitchen – not brilliant, but nonetheless useful and time-saving and annoyance-preventing. Before putting it into a blog entry, I wanted to get my husband’s reaction. Okay, so maybe I didn’t even let him get in the door – I have a habit of being excited about whatever and hitting him with it just as he is coming in with a full briefcase and a ton of drycleaning. This may have caused him to become confused and to forget to think carefully before responding to my idea. That’s probably why, when I told him, he responded with, “Doesn’t everybody already do that?” At that point I had a choice: I could forget the tip and the blog entry, or post it and risk the smirks of people who probably know more than I do about the subject. But what the heck, here goes. Are you tired of putting a wrapped stick of butter on the counter to soften, only to have it squish and flatten later when you try to cut the portion you need? (And why can’t my sharpest knife cut through that wax paper?) If you don’t need an entire stick, but rather a couple of tablespoons, (here’s the tip – ready?) cut the desired amount of butter before softening it, and put the rest away. I hear you all guffawing. Or maybe that’s just my husband.
Pop Goes The Cupcakes 10.17.11
You may remember me whining a few entries back about the applesauce cupcakes I wrecked. I know you will not be surprised to hear that I saved them anyway (in the freezer), in case I thought up another use for them one day. (They TASTED good, they just didn’t hold together well). The other day I thought of something. I took all of the errant cupcakes out of the papers and put them in a big bowl. Then I made a caramel frosting and added that on top of the cake. I smushed it all together, rolled into small round balls, and inserted a lollypop stick in the middle of each one. Cake pops! Because Halloween is coming, I dipped half of them in melted dark chocolate and the other half in melted white chocolate. (I put them on a plate in the freezer first for about one hour, so they held together well when dipped). Once they hardened, I melted some orange-colored chocolate (I usually avoid evilly colored food, but Halloween colors are orange and black, so I can’t do anything about that). Using a pastry bag, I put a dollop of the orange icing on top of each cake pop. I needed to dry the orange icing, but couldn't stand the pops upside down like I did when drying the white and dark chocolate. I had an idea: I inverted my big colander and stuck each pop through one of the holes! They dried perfectly, even if it looked like a Martian helmet on my kitchen table. Hmmm . . . costume idea?
Sour Grapes 10.14.11
When my children were little, we lived in a small row house in the city, where an old grape vine grew along our narrow backyard fence. At first I thought this was so cool, ‘til the summer came and it attracted yellow jackets, forcing me to spend a lot of time waving things in the air and screaming, and in general making myself an undesirable new neighbor. Later in the summer, in my continuous effort to find amusing and useful activities for my children, I decided to gather the grapes and make grape jelly. I did not know how to make jelly. I had a friend who did, however, and I packed up kids, grapes and sugar and drove 45 minutes to her house. It was a fun – though sticky – day, and required a lot of work that ended up with one precious jar of jelly. But, I counted it as a success. Well, I hoarded that jar of jelly. There was only one! It had been so labor intensive, and there were no more grapes on the vine. Eating it would require an OCCASION, and one presented itself in the form of our vacation to the beach. I would take it with us and we would have it there. I will summarize briefly what happened next: Beach/ 3 children, ages five and under/ I got sick enough to have to stay in bed/ husband dealt with everything himself all week, including finding me a medical clinic/ packing up to (finally) go home/ cardboard box full of leftover food on the elevator/ bottom of box gives way/ unopened jar of homemade jelly hits the floor and shatters/ elevator reeks of grapes/ ride home reeks of bitterness. Ever since, I'll do homemade strawberry, raspberry and peach jelly. But when I want grape jelly, I reach for the Welch’s.
Smells of Fall 10.11.11
It was a perfect day to go apple picking – temperatures in the 60s and breezy. The trees where my friend and I go were changing colors faster than the trees at home. They were gorgeous shades of orange and red. Unlike last year, I called ahead and made sure they were actually open for picking, and they had several varieties available. The apples were huge and red and plentiful. It doesn’t take long to pick a lot of apples and the load quickly become quite heavy, so I stopped myself at about 30 pounds. (As Nathan Lane asked in The Birdcage, “What? Too much?”) So we were done in about ten minutes – too soon to go home. But wait, they were also picking broccoli! Have you ever seen broccoli in the field? I hadn’t, and it was really cool – all of these huge leaves and nestled down in the center was the broccoli. It seemed like a lot of leaves and hooha for a little bit of broccoli, but anyway. So we loaded up the car with our apples and broccoli and headed home. We stopped for lunch in a little historic town we were passing through, and then walked around for a while looking at this and that. We started to feel a little warm, and went back to the car. That’s when we realized something about fresh broccoli. You don’t leave it in a car, in the heat, and expect that your (well, HER) car won’t smell like a dead mouse when you return. As we drove home with all the windows down, we agreed that next year we’ll just buy broccoli at the grocery store like everybody else. Then again, later I discovered it was worth the smell – best broccoli I ever tasted.
Welcome To My Laboratory 10.9.11
After making 200 cupcakes with five different flavors of cake, frostings and fillings, I had leftover ingredients of many varieties. Let’s see – I had chocolate ganache, chocolate frosting and whipped cream frosting. A survey of the freezer revealed one layer of a chocolate cake, and some orange peel in syrup. Also some banana cupcakes, unfrosted. My mind began to whirl, matching up one thing with another. Ok, fill the banana cupcakes with the whipped frosting, then add a dollop of the chocolate icing and some shaved chocolate on top. Break up the chocolate cake, mix in the rest of the chocolate icing, roll into balls and insert in the center of banana muffins. Voila – banana truffle muffins. Create a new muffin mix with the ganache and some orange juice as the liquid, and add some chopped candied orange peel. Dip the baked and cooled muffins in the last of the ganache, and garnish with some orange zest. There, all done. Covered in chocolate but happy, I could settle down and …but wait, what about those apples that aren’t getting eaten?
Sticker Shock 10.6.11
Why is the apple industry trying to make it harder to make apple pie (or apple anything)? I’m talking about that little sticker on EACH ONE, which you have to remove before you can thoroughly wash it. You bring home a load of apples. You pray there isn’t a sticker on each one. But apparently the apple industry runs more efficiently than any other industry on earth, because there’s a sticker on EVERY SINGLE APPLE. Okay, we LOVE your brand. We BELIEVE that you picked them. But I HATE the sticker you put on each apple. And where do you put that sticky thing after you carefully remove it in one piece (not an easy feat)? You have to actually think about it and plan on how to dispose of them, because you don’t want to rinse them down the sink. I usually end up lining them up on the side of the sink and they get all wet and sort of disintegrate, and by the time I get to wiping them up they are a gummy mess. Or they've gone down the drain where I didn’t want them to go. It’s the same with lemons too. And it’s even worse with soft fruit, because you rip the skin when you peel the label off. How come they don’t put them on oranges? Ah yes – the brand is STAMPED on. That makes my life easier . . . until I start thinking of all of the stamp germs I can’t remove.
Necessities 10.3.11
I have too much stuff stored in my house. What I mean is, we have all the usual family items (okay, mostly my shoes). And now all my Vintage Baker supplies. Not just the ingredients, but all the various-sized pans, bowls, spoons, spatulas, decorating equipment, a new freezer . . . the list goes on. And yet I keep thinking of things that I suddenly realize I absolutely need and can no longer live without. Like a new food processor. After watching the Food Network, I realize I can no longer live with a malfunctioning lid, and besides, mine looks so shabby and plastic compared to the ones the professionals use. So in my professional opinion, I need one that’s bigger and shinier. I looked into getting a combo food processor-juicer, but we would have to build an addition onto the kitchen, because they’re so mammoth that they have to be pictured on the floor next to a kitchen trash can for size perspective (and I guess to show that you need a trash can next to it to catch the juicing refuse - the whole setup looks unappetizing.) So for now, I’ll just keep juicing the old fashioned way, by hand with my vintage depression glass juicer. But I’m going shopping for a new food processor. And I hope I don’t see something else that I didn’t realize I needed until now.
To My Blog Buddies 9.30.11
Now, The Vintage Baker does not want to let all of her fans down, but as we head into a new month, I have decided to scale back a bit on my blog entries - perhaps weekly or a few times a week rather than daily. Oh, don't just assume that my creativity is beginning to dry up, because I'm still brimming with cleverness and wisdom. But thanks to my friends and customers, my baking orders appear to be increasing (please God, let that continue!), which is requiring more time baking and less time blogging. Of course, I envision that my regular readers are going to console themselves by re-discovering my prior entries, exclaiming that the wisdom contained in them is timeless. (If that’s not the case, please keep it to yourself so I can continue to live in the dream.) To all of my loyal readers, I'll see you at the next post and keep coming back!
Shopping Pleasure 9.29.11
On a blah day, sometimes the perfect pick-me-up is a trip to my neighborhood grocery store. I don't mean the big one, where you buy the necessities and staple items. I mean the small, gourmet grocer where it’s bright and clean, the aisles are small, the staff is attentive to your every need, and the produce is fresh and artistically arranged. You won’t find many bargains, and in fact, you pay more for most items. So I reserve these visits for when I need something special, or something I forgot at the big store, or just when I need to feel taken-care-of. The people who work there greet you like you’re an old friend. They ask you at every turn of your petite shopping cart if you need help, and when you’re finished, they guide you to an open check-out lane where they insist on unloading your cart (which, I’ll admit, was a disconcerting moment the first time I shopped there, whereupon seeing a man I thought was another customer reaching into my cart, I reacted with, “Hey, those are MY groceries.” Guess I was used to a more rough-and-tumble shopping experience). I love that they sell milk in old-fashioned glass bottles (too expensive, but I like seeing them on the shelves). I think they've figured out what the bigger stores haven’t – that shopping for food should be more than a transaction; it’s part of the profound pleasure of cooking and baking.
Fall In For Dinner 9.28.11
If there ever was a season that brings on the urge to cook old family dinners, it would have to be fall. When the weather gets cooler and jackets come back out of the closets, the old menus and recipes come out again too. Must be the memories that go with fall. Breakfast on a chilly morning may have been as simple as oatmeal swimming in milk with a pat of butter. But dinner was a big deal. It may have been fried chicken or homemade barley soup. Dessert was warm bread pudding, fruit cobbler, or a cake. Sunday dinner was an even larger event – sour beef and dumplings (the beef took three days to prepare) or sauerkraut, pork and dumplings. My mother’s dumplings are the potato variety, and required a full day of intensive training for me to master the art. Roast lamb with mint jelly and mashed potatoes was also an occasional Sunday treat. With all of the talk about how to get families back together more often around the dinner table, there’s no better “bait” than an old favorite fall meal. I think the generations before us knew this all along.
The 'Magic' Touch 9.27.11
So I know that I am not good with new technology, but I really thought I could use a phone. We just got a new plan, and with it came touch screen phones. I didn’t ask for nor expect this, especially since I was perfectly happy with my old phone (actually, it was my old-old phone, because my latest phone didn’t survive a trip through the washer, and I reverted to a previous phone that had nothing but the basics). But I was reassured by everyone that the new phone would be a no-brainer. I was shown how to use it, by people who just seemed to whip from one screen to another with a gentle stroke of a finger. What fun, and how cool would I look doing this? How naive I was. When I tried to swipe my finger across the screen, guess what happened? That’s right. Nothing. So I swiped again, even harder. Nothing. Someone suddenly called me, and I tried to accept the call, but it kept ringing. They finally gave up. In total frustration, I began to complain that the stupid phone didn’t work. I even took it back to the store. The patient salesgirl was able (of course) to use the phone with ease. She gave it to me, and it immediately stopped working. “See?” I said, feeling validated. “Show me how you do it,” she said to me, so I did. “OHHHHH," she said, "you are just sliding your finger across the screen. You have to tap it first, then slide.” Well, thanks so much for that little tidbit. Never saw that in the easy set-up guide. So it wasn’t my fault after all. The phone (and my sliding finger) work fine now. But why are some technology basics, which are apparent to everyone else, always kept a SECRET from people like me?
Squirreling 9.26.11
Fall is here, and I’ve cleaned enough of my house to check that off the list. So now I will turn to preparing my kitchen for fall baking. This is fun – I feel like a squirrel storing up for the winter. Already, I put up a batch of raisins and a batch of walnuts in rum, to use in my eggnog muffins and other holiday treats. I made some more candied orange peel to put in the freezer – some in syrup, and some rolled in sugar and hardened. Then, I steeped cinnamon sticks and vanilla beans in hot milk – it smelled heavenly. I can't wait to try it this week in muffins. Then I’ll make more and freeze it (as soon as I can rob a bank to buy another vanilla bean – have you seen the price of these lately?) Let’s see, what else can I prepare and preserve for the baking days ahead? I’m on a roll! (Hmmm, something new to try with rolls . . .)
Confection Affection 9.25.11
The world is divided into two groups: huggers and non-huggers. I am a hugger. I come from a long line of huggers on my mother’s side. Not long after they started dating, my father (a non-hugger) lamented that Mom’s family “hugged each other every time they left the room.” I won’t apologize for being a hugger. Though it may make some people uncomfortable, I think a hug is a welcome surprise in an age of technology-induced isolation. It warms people right up, and can open the door to deeper communication. Understandably, though, a non-hugger isn’t going to just start hugging. But they can – and do – find other ways of demonstrating warmth. If you’re a non-hugger, there are two suggestions I have for you. First, stay far away from my mother’s family gatherings. Second, consider a hug in a box – a little bakery box. A fresh treat for someone you care about will wake up their senses and fill them with warmth. The crunch of a cookie edge. The heavenly aroma of cinnamon and spices. The touch of a gooey dollop of dark chocolate icing. The visual feast of a confetti-covered party cake. The tang of a candied orange rind on your tongue. Each is a hug in itself.
Drizzle Like A Honey 9.24.11
I admit it – I’m a drizzler. I wasn’t always a drizzler. It used to be that finishing my pieces with just a peaked or smooth layer of icing was enough on my cakes, muffins and cookies. But now occasionally I like to add a drizzle – it’s festive and says, “NOW we have a party!” My first drizzle was on coconut macaroons. Fresh out of the oven, I coated them in a warm, dark chocolate. It added decadence to decadence. But can you have too much decadence, I ask you? No. So then I melted some white chocolate to drizzle over the now-hardened dark chocolate shell. The problem was, I was practically twisting my arm out of the socket trying to twirl a spoon fast enough to drizzle and not glop. Speed and direction are important for drizzling, you see. But buried in the kitchen drawer was my answer: a honey-dipper. PERFECT! The little ridges hold just enough for a single serving of drizzle, and applying it only requires a dip and a wave of your hand for a randomly artistic application. The technique is much easier on the arm, and the finished effect is extremely easy on the eyes and tastebuds.
New Rules For The Nest 9.23.11
Now that I know I can survive Empty Nest and Unempty Nest (see entry for 9.16.11), I’m on to the next challenge. There’s a whole new dynamic in play when children return home. Whereas you used to pounce on their every need and every cry for help, now you have to WATCH SILENTLY as they go through their struggles, anxiety and problems. You could jump in, but you shouldn’t. They have to find their own way. You realize that you can no longer solve their problems with a simple band-aid on the cut, or with cookies and cocoa. So you just stand by, more often than not wringing your hands and biting your tongue. You realize that listening is better than speaking. And once again, you realize that sometimes the ones who still have some growing up to do. . . are the grown-ups.
Out of Season 9.22.11
I had a little time this week to run some errands – including getting over to that store that is out of the way, but I keep meaning to get there, because it has some essential things I can’t find anywhere else. So I grabbed the list I had been compiling over the past few weeks and headed out. I found everything except ice cube trays. I need them to freeze little bits of leftover things, like fresh lemon juice, so I can just pop out the right amount when the recipe calls for it. My go-to store was out of them. The second store “had just run out.” (Really? I wondered fleetingly if there was a maniacal ice cube-lover just steps ahead of me as I made my rounds!) At the third store, the saleswoman had a different line: “Oh, we’ve BEEN out of them.” I made a frustrated noise, to which she responded, “Well, it’s that time of year, you know.” So it wasn’t a lost cause – I learned something new. There is a definite time of year to buy ice cube trays, after which you are out of luck until next year. I guess when Ice Cube Tray Season rolls around again, I’ll have to start the search earlier. Better mark my calendar.
Pat On The Back 9.21.11
Yesterday I gave myself a pat on the back. Unlike the previous day when I was beating myself up. I had an order of 200 assorted cupcakes to fill, and at the last minute, when I was almost finished, I made the unfortunate decision to “go out on a limb” with an untried recipe. It may have turned out all right under normal conditions, but I fell victim to the twin evils of baking – feeling rushed and being tired. As I looked in horror at what was coming out of the oven, I mentally backtracked to find out what went wrong. There I saw it, sitting on the counter looking all innocent. My ¾-cup measuring cup masquerading as a one-cup measure. (Proving once again that exactness in baking really does matter, especially if you use a little more or a little less of something as important as flour). I shook it off, and yesterday completed and delivered the order successfully. Chocolate ganache, pina colada, lemon, banana cream pie, pink lemonade and Oreo. And so a pat on the back.
Wanted: Sous Chef 9.20.11
Occasionally I enjoy an “all-bake day.” Nothing else on my to-do list (at least until tomorrow) except hours that just stretch out before me, beckoning me into the kitchen. In other words, a perfect day. I “play” with ideas and recipes until my kitchen starts looking like a war zone. I look like a war zone. (Somehow, the minute I even THINK about melting and mixing chocolate, I have it all over me and several appliances). I may concentrate for a while on one new recipe, or get many things going at once – cake batters, fillings, frostings, decorations. Then I get a little befuddled by it all, and need to sit down with a cup of coffee and some index cards and do the thing I love almost as much as baking – organizing. Writing down which cake flavors go with which frostings. Clipping cards together, reassembling recipe boxes. Before long, order is restored. Until I look around at the piles of bowls and beaters and pans. New item on my to-do list: get a sous chef.
Holistic Baking 9.19.11
A physician friend of mine recently asked me how I reconcile spending half of my time counseling patients about strategies to avoid heart disease and diabetes, and the other half creating sinful and decadent desserts. My philosophy is that great desserts serve as special rewards or occasional boosts for the spirit, and they can even provide therapy and stress reduction. They are not meant to be eaten every day or even every week. Some treats are good just once a year. We learn more and more about how foods can serve as "nutraceuticals." They can encourage better arterial health, help prevent cancer and reduce cholesterol, among other benefits. And while healthy ingredients make baked desserts good for the body, their flavors, textures, aromas and colors make them good for the mind and soul. They can create a pause in your hectic day, a step back in time, and warm memories that soothe, even if for a moment. So there you have it – bakers specialize in holistic health care.
Production Mode 9.18.11
Moving my baking passion from hobby to production mode has meant acquiring some techniques that help trim time, reduce risks and bring peace to the kitchen. Now, I’ll never be a “box mix” baker, so don’t worry about that. Vintage recipes and fresh, wholesome ingredients are the reason I got into this in the first place. What I’m referring to are timesaver techniques. When you have simultaneous orders for cupcakes, a birthday cake, muffins and cookies, there isn’t time for mistakes or do-overs. So I adopted a few stress-reducers along the way. Like a crumb coat. It’s the “primer” coat of frosting you put on the cake first (especially one with a crumbly surface). After it dries, the top coat of frosting goes on with ease – and no stray crumbs peeking through a smooth finish. Also, the “pre-freeze.” If a finished item is to be frozen, I give it a quick freeze before wrapping, so the wrap doesn’t destroy the surface. Thawing it later is done in opposite order – unwrap while frozen and thaw. And here's one other lesson I’ve learned: trying to scoop out/ spread/ stir a very sticky, gooey mixture can cause much stress, which is very bad for us and puts anger into our baked goods. Not what we want. The solution is simple – spray the spatula or spoon with non-stick cooking spray and voila! No sticking, no anger. And nothing in our baked goods but peace and love.
Meals For Mom 9.17.11
Yesterday was so much fun. Mom and I went to the grocery store, then on to my sister’s house where we spent the day cooking enough meals for Mom to have in her freezer for over a month. It was a gorgeous day, cool and sunny, and Mom sat on the porch where she could read while listening to us chat (guffaw, scream, etc.) as we cooked. Only had a couple of glitches. I am not used to an electric stove, so my golden pork chops suddenly turned black and my sister had to talk me through that. Then I bumped my sister on the arm with a burning hot muffin pan, but that was an accident, I swear. The kitchen was a place of warm, delicious aromas (roasting chicken, pot roast, corn muffins, spiced apples) and laughter, as we recalled some of the “pearls” of cooking wisdom we learned over the years. Like “It’s better to have too much than not enough,” “You can always put more salt in, but you can’t take it out,” and “If you want to get that old casserole dish looking like new again, make something in it and give it to someone – it will be cleaner than ever when you get it back.” Mom has given us a lifetime of memories in the kitchen - it was fun to pack a few in her freezer for the fall days ahead.
Unempty Nest 9.16.11
Empty Nest is a familiar term, especially to our age group. But what no one seems to talk about, until you stumble into it, is Unempty Nest. That’s when those who flew away come back to the nest again, if only for brief periods. You really missed them, and at the same time, you sort of got used to the extra peace and quiet. And the scissors and tape being in the drawer where you last left them. And being able to get to your washer without scaling a mountain of dirty clothes. And leftovers being in the fridge when you planned to have leftovers for dinner. You may not have realized just how life was during that one brief, shining moment. You’re back again to the 11 p.m. conversation that begins when you’re told, “Ok, I’m going out now.” And you resume your watch at the bedroom window beginning at 2 a.m. (You knew they kept these same hours or worse in college, but you were sleeping blissfully, miles away.) You crave the little niceties you didn’t fully appreciate before. Like having an empty laundry basket when you need one. Or having more than one glass left in the cabinet. (Actually, that’s the first sign that they have left again – there isn’t room in the cabinet for all the new glasses that you bought before you found the old ones, half-full of various liquids in various rooms of the house.) Or coming home from work and finding your laptop where you last left it, fully charged. No, life has changed – again. You come down in the morning to find lights that were left on all night, the TV still on, and someone you recognize asleep on the couch. And you hope that same someone won’t leave again too soon.
Mangia! Mangia! 9.15.11
I love Italy and the food lifestyle there. The best gelato I ever tasted was in Milan – it was chocolate, and I think I ate it with my eyes closed in rapture. Italy is also where I’ve had the best coffee ever, served in little porcelain cups for sitting and sipping in the café (not 16 oz. to-go cups – why has coffee become a pleasure only enjoyed on the run?). I stopped at a small Italian sidewalk café for lunch one day, and wanted so badly to speak only Italian for the entire meal. I did pretty well, with my trusty guidebook of phrases in my lap. Take a bite, look down, whisper a phrase to myself, look down for the next phrase. It was nerve-racking fun. When I was finished eating, I went inside to pay, and carefully enunciated my final question about whether the “servizio” was included. I was very pleased with myself, ‘til the waiter said in careless English, “Yep, tip’s included.” Oh well. In that case, can I get a coffee to go?
Proof In The (Rice)Pudding 9.14.11
Feeling a little tired when I left work yesterday, I was planning on sitting down with a cup of coffee and a book when I got home. But on the way, I began to think about the latest batch of rice pudding muffins I made. I wasn’t happy with the results at all – too much ricey-ness and not enough spicey-ness. I knew just how I wanted them to taste – very moist, with a creamy rice consistency, a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg, and a whiff of Irish Cream liqueur. I began to think of all the “What ifs” and before I knew it, I ditched the coffee and book idea. (I didn’t have to make dinner because we were eating leftover soup – see previous entry.) The next stop was the Asian market, where I picked up some sweet rice to substitute for regular white rice. Once home, I soaked the raisins in Irish Cream (instead of adding the liqueur to the batter), and upped my amounts of cinnamon and freshly ground nutmeg. When they came out of the oven, I used a 10X sugar-cream-spice glaze instead of the usual brown sugar-butter topping. Eureka! It was the taste and consistency I was looking for. I was satisfied. . . until I started thinking of a few more variations on the recipe. And so continues the quest for the perfect rice pudding muffin.
Kitchen Wars 9.13.11
In our kitchen at home, I may have the title of Executive Baker, but my husband is a better cook. (Those of you who know me, KNOW I wouldn’t just say that out of modesty.) It makes sense, given my health care background, that I am more adept at a science-oriented skill, involving careful measurement and a required process. Whereas my husband, who is a whiz at most things right-brained, enjoys the less-than-precise method of adding things to taste and eye-balling a dish “til it looks right.” It results in some great meals, but it irks me. Especially in the fall. That’s when he starts to get the hankering to make soup. Any soup – the crazier the variety, the better. This would be fine if (a) he made enough soup for just one meal, or (b) I had enough storage space for gallons of it. Neither is the case. He’ll introduce the idea one weekend morning by saying, “I think I’ll make a BIG POT of soup today.” By “big pot” he means the largest bathtub of a receptacle that we can find, which is usually stored away in the basement (because it won’t fit anywhere else.) So I unload all of the pots, pans, dishes, furniture and household items that have been stored in this “soup pot,” wash it out and away he goes. (I usually oblige by cutting up a few vegetables, just for a show of support.) And the result is delicious. But throughout his creative frenzy, I remind him that he cannot use my “Vintage Baker” freezer because it is for my business, and it is full. And the additional freezer in the basement is chock full of all the fruit I have picked and prepared for winter baking. The beer fridge in the garage is a possibility, although it is unreliable – it will suddenly stop working and require defrosting. The kitchen freezer is filled with meals I have made ahead for the week, including separate foods for a vegetarian daughter. So you see, no room for soup. But he makes a cauldron of it anyway. He may win the Kitchen Wars, but he won’t win the Freezer Wars – that victory is mine. Although the victory fades as we eat soup for a week.
Tasty Testing 9.12.11
I love to test new recipes – whether new twists on old favorites, or variations on recipes from the pages of well-worn cookbooks. It usually begins with me on a mission to scavenge interesting ingredients from my kitchen. Let’s see, what do I have? Applesauce? Fruit juice? Cookies? Chocolate? Syrup from candying oranges? I gather it all and start to play. What can I combine with what to create something delicious? One day I was using up some coconut cupcake batter, and didn’t feel like making more icing. I had some syrup from the peaches I had prepared for pie, so I poked tiny holes in the tops of the cupcakes and poured some syrup over each. Then I sprinkled the tops with powdered sugar. My resident focus group gave them high marks. I don’t intend to add everything I test to my menu of offerings (unless something turns out REALLY GOOD, then I write the recipe down for another time). Experimentation may be good for business, but what I like about it is that there is no pressure at all, no limits or rules, just imagination and freedom.
Our Other 9/11 9.11.11
Six years ago today, my sister-in-law passed away. The youngest of my husband’s siblings, she had a heart you couldn’t miss. Always upbeat, direct and honest. Her optimism was contagious, even when others around her seemed not so sure. The brightest light in the room, you found yourself saying, "NOW the party can get started!” when she came through the door. She was sensitive and resourceful, and had an untiring work ethic. And hysterically funny. Like the time she came out to her car after shopping, and saw that the stereo she had left on her back seat was missing. Wasting not a minute, she jumped up on the hood and surveyed the parking lot for the fleeing thief (she noticed the thug had even left his knit cap on her front seat!). Only to realize in a few minutes that she was standing on the hood of someone else’s car – hers was two rows over with the stereo still on the back seat. Or when she kept a friend’s dog, Buddy, for the weekend (she volunteered this service all the time). One evening, after she paid a pizza delivery guy, Buddy bolted out the door and followed him down the driveway. “Dammit Buddy, get back here!” she yelled. The dog kept going, but a shaken pizza guy obediently hightailed it back to her door. She was our Lucy Ricardo, always in a tight situation, and always coming out of it with grace. She touched so many people in her short 42 years, it’s only fitting that she share a national day of remembrance.
Discontinued 9.10.11
Seems like every product I like and truly come to rely on eventually becomes extinct before it has finished a successful run. Sometimes this happens suddenly and without warning, before I’ve had the chance to roam all stores and create a stockpile of the stuff to last me. Years ago, I found a pair of stockings ("nylons" in the pre-pantyhose era) that were PERFECT for my work as a hospital nurse – perfect fit, weight, texture, stay-up-ability. They were gone within months of my finding them. Dunkin' Donuts used to make this sinker called "buttermilk." It was my occasional reward, or pick-me-up, whichever I needed that day. They removed it from the menu (at least at my location) as soon as I became addicted to it. I finally found just the right color of makeup foundation, and relied on it for years. Guess I was one of its few fans, because it's been nixed. Chili's used to make this phenomenal dessert of warm apples and vanilla ice cream in a sweet and cinnamony tortilla shell. I said used to. Need I go on? You just learn to live with these disappointments and move on to the next generation of products (except the stockings – I think we’re well rid of those). But you always pine for that first perfect product.
Choose Your Flavors 9.9.11
For me, a large part of self-confidence came from having done things in life that I really didn’t want to do, but thought I should, and then waking up one day and realizing that I don’t have to do them anymore if I don’t want to. For example, jumping into a swimming pool. I hate getting into cold water and will never again gamely lower myself painfully, inch by inch, into the side of a pool, all the while with a big sporting grin plastered on my face. I now also know I don’t have to go into the ocean beyond my ankles, no matter how many people are cajoling me. I can be the only one who wears a life vest when I go snorkeling in shallow water. I don’t have to be a good sport and a daring, full participant in life if that means spinning downhill on a snow tube. (I had three broken ribs teach me that.) I can go walking instead of running, don’t have to stay up later than I want to, or watch CNN if I’d rather see a Real Housewives episode. On the other hand, I have learned I like sushi, exploring cramped and dusty bookstores, opening the door for room service coffee, and sitting at the ocean’s edge in the wind. At some point in life, you realize that the reason they make so many flavors is so you can pick the ones you like and pass up the rest, without ever going hungry.
Happy Birthday! 9.8.11
Happy 22nd birthday to our youngest daughter! It seems like just yesterday that you were belting out Phantom of the Opera tunes from your car seat, as you traveled along on school pickups, grocery store trips and other errands. You graciously folded into an already busy family’s routine when you arrived, and you’ve consistently been our flexible good sport, peacemaker and breath of good humor when needed. But most of all, you’ve been a delight to behold as you’ve grown into your own strong woman. Keep the beautiful music coming!
What's In A Name? 9.7.11
Have you ever noticed that some foods are just as scrumptious as they sound – like blueberry buckle or fruit crumble. Other foods taste better than the name suggests, like torte or flan. But have you ever been snookered into making something because the name appealed to you, and the end result was, “Ugh – so THAT’s what that is?” Granted, I was young and naïve in the kitchen, but it was the era of the British Invasion, and all things English were popular. While the rest of my friends were listening to The Beatles, I was in the kitchen making dinner for my parents – with a surprise side dish. I plunged into the task as usual, with little preparation and no research. You can imagine my surprise as I pulled out of the oven my (Ta Da!) Yorkshire Pudding. And you can imagine my disappointment when I tasted it and realized its salty dryness bore no likeness to anything I would call pudding. Or anything I would feel the need to make again.
Good Grief 9.6.11
After you’ve continuously labored over a recipe, it’s very hard to admit when it doesn’t turn out. When that happens, I find that I go through the classic stages of grief. First there is denial. “It’s just a simple gravy, nothing difficult.” I did the flour and water, but it’s still too thin. I WILL fix it. I add more flour, stir and stir, add cornstarch and . . . nothing but watery liquid that now has lumps in it. So now I have anger. “How many years do I have to try to make this, only to have it NEVER turn out? What’s so complicated about this? IT SHOULD HAVE WORKED!” I could resort to bargaining, but unless my mother is standing next to me and I can coerce her into making the gravy, I just move on to depression. “I must be stupid if I can’t even make gravy. Who can’t make gravy? Everyone makes great gravy except me.” And with that, acceptance, as I realize that I don’t even need gravy and can live without gravy. Now I'm back in a happy place. Sometimes in the kitchen, grief is good.
Waste Not 9.5.11
Perhaps it’s because my kitchen has become a testing laboratory for various tastes, that I try not to waste anything that might come in handy. Leftover juices, frostings, syrups, broths, gravies – you name it, I’ve got a small container of it in my freezer. I think I got the “creative reuse” gene from my mother, who always found a million ways to stretch leftovers. But one time, I remember, she took it too far. Years back, she went with us to the beach and we decided to try out one of the higher-end restaurants. From the moment we walked through the door (when the hostess asked her co-worker in a stage whisper, “Where do you want to stick the people with kids?”) it was an awful experience. Cold steak, overcooked vegetables, undercooked mashed potatoes (with a whole raw potato found in the middle) and a dismissive wait staff from start to finish. At the end my husband left the table to speak discreetly to the manager, and returned a few minutes later to let us know that our meal had been “comped.” Imagine the look of horror on his face when he saw the styrofoam container my mother had packed up with the leftovers. “We don’t want to waste this, do we?” she asked. Nonetheless we walked out with our pride intact (and my husband staying ten paces ahead of the box of leftovers my mother was carrying.)
Respect Your Gadget 9.4.11
I rarely meet a kitchen gadget I don’t love. But there are a few I actually fear, or at least have a very healthy respect for, and therefore avoid. One is a blowtorch. Sure it’s good for caramelizing the surface of a crème brulee, but it has danger written all over it. Another – and you’re going to think this is peculiar – is my blender. I can happily use it to make smoothies and the like, but why doesn’t anyone tell you that if you try to blend anything hot, THE TOP BLOWS OFF? When I first had this happen to me, I assumed I had just packed the blender too full. I actually cleaned up the whole mess, noted my mistake, filled it less, AND BLEW THE TOP OFF AGAIN. In my usual mode of assigning blame, I decided that the blender was a useless piece of junk, and moved on to my trusty food processor. Only to note another phenomenon no one seems to warn of: raspberry syrup doesn’t just leak – it gushes out the bottom of a food processor, even after all parts are tightened securely, leaving what can only be likened to a crime scene on your kitchen counter. This is one substance you can clean and clean, but you’ll never really know if you’ve cleaned it enough ‘til the ants arrive the next morning. And they always arrive, which makes a really bad way to start the day. So the blender is in the basement, and the food processor is being used only for solids from now on. Give me a good old-fashioned strawberry huller or cherry pitter any day.
Pass It On 9.3.11
One of the greatest compliments a mother can receive is watching her grown children repeat some of the things she used to do with them when they were young. One of my daughters was babysitting and told me she had taken the children on a “fall walk” to pick up leaves, nuts and other treasures to make collages. My heart swelled (and I remembered those crumbly collages hanging on the fridge years ago). Every once in a while, one of them will call for my apple pie or pound cake recipe because they are having friends for dinner. I sigh with contentment. As a Mom and a baker, there’s nothing more satisfying than passing along great experiences for the next generation.
Setting Up Shop 9.2.11
I love to set up kitchens. This week I got the chance to do it again, when my daughter moved to a new house. By now, all of my kids know the routine when they move, even if it’s just to an off-campus efficiency apartment. Mom has dibs on the kitchen. (By default, Dad is given dibs on all overweight boxes and items that won’t fit through the door.) They let me have free rein (though I can’t understand not wanting to do it yourself). Cabinets to organize, windowsills to display things, pantry shelves to stock. Mulling over where to place the glasses and dishes, then rearranging it all when another box full of supplies gets opened. Putting a pot of flowers on the table is the finishing touch in the freshly organized room. No, wait, that’s not true. The finishing touch is installing the aroma of freshly baked cake that fills the house. I’m going back today to do just that.
Chinese Scissors 9.1.11
Every once in a while you find an item that, after acquiring it, you wonder how you ever managed to live without it – and you wish you had bought more. For me, it’s what I call Chinese scissors. I found them in a Walmart in Beijing three years ago. They have big loopy gold handles and long narrow blades. I thought they were cute, so I bought two. It was only after I got home and used them that I found out they were miraculous. They can cut through anything. I had a pair of trauma team scissors once that could cut a penny in half, but couldn’t come close to these. They can gently clip an herb, or cut through a rug. Truly awesome. So when I visited my daughter in Shanghai a year ago, I picked up a few more pairs. But I had talked them up so much, I ended up giving them away to friends and relatives. Now I fear I will run out. Disturbing right? Even more disturbing to my daughter is that I’m going to ask her to load up on them when she comes home for Christmas. Family, get ready for razor-sharp stocking stuffers!
Can't Stand the Heat? 8.31.11
Recently I stuck my nose out the door one morning and was hit in the face with a wall of steamy heat and humidity. Instantly I was 12 years old again and back in my un-air-conditioned childhood home. I awoke at 5 a.m. too hot to sleep, and I remember I grabbed a book and sat outside on my back porch steps to try to get cool. I was reading “The Yearling” and got to a part where someone was making scones. I wasn’t sure what scones were, but they sounded wonderful. So what to do at daybreak, before anyone else was up? Make scones, of course. The fact that I would have to turn on the oven didn’t immediately occur to me (this may have been when I first got the urge to heat up the kitchen on a sweltering day, an impulse I still follow today against the protests of my family). I excitedly prepared the dough, but unfortunately, not understanding scones, I rolled it out flat and the result was more like pizza. So I ended up frustrated and hotter. No scones that day. But I now know what scones are (and have several good recipes). And true to my childhood urges, when I can’t stand the heat I get into the kitchen.
Listen for the Flavor 8.30.11
One of the skills that has served me well during my thirty-plus years as a nurse practitioner is listening. If you listen, a patient (almost always) will tell you everything you need to know in order to make a diagnosis. As I sit with them, I try to suspend my own thoughts and let the patient’s thoughts, feelings and experiences fill my mind. It allows me to hear beneath the words, and really understand what they are trying to tell me. I never thought of this as a technique, until I realized that I do the same thing when I am imagining a new recipe. I let the idea and the experience of the final creation work around in my head, listening for the flavor, texture, aroma and appearance, until I can say “Ah, THAT might work.” And then I begin creating in that direction. In baking, as in medicine, it’s all about achieving good outcomes by listening along the way.
Rookie Mistake 8.29.11
You would think by now there are some rookie mistakes I wouldn’t make again. You would be wrong. Recently I was trying out recipes for cupcakes, and I found a “lost recipe” for lemon pudding cake I had stored away years ago. Perfect! It was old, and it sounded delicious – it said that the cake turned out with a “delightful layer of custardy pudding on the bottom.” So why not try it as cupcakes? Luckily I had all the ingredients, including the freshly squeezed lemon juice and lemon zest I stored in the freezer. I melted the butter and separated the eggs and beat the egg whites. Humming to myself, I read on. Uh oh. “Set the baking dish in a larger pan and fill with enough hot water to go two inches up the sides.” Drat. Why didn’t I read the recipe through first? (This is the rookie mistake I was referring to.) It was a pretty wide cupcake pan. So I tried a baking sheet. Sure, it’s too shallow, but my heart was in the right place. Need I say that what I ended up with only bore a faint resemblance to the “pudding” part of the description? Trying to lift the finished cupcakes out of the pan was like trying to pick up jello with your fingers. But using a spoon, it scooped right out . . . into the trash can.
Putting the I in Irene 8.28.11
I love getting ready for a big storm to hit. I like stocking up on groceries and filling the gas tank. I like getting all the laundry done and preparing food in case we lose power – knowing that I could well be cozied up in my house for a few days. I feel PREPARED. (I even gave away all the muffins and cupcakes I had stored in my freezer to a friend who was going to distribute them to the homeless, just in case.) Of course the whole “cozy” thing falls apart if we do actually suffer damage from the storm, or lose power (both of which have happened in the past). Then my reaction is, “Hey, wait a minute, this isn’t what I meant. I meant being prepared in an air conditioned (or heated) house, with hot coffee and cable and a pie in the oven.” Is that so unreasonable?
Baking Sweet Memories 8.27.11
As I continue to enjoy the experience of baking, I am also learning more about the science of baking, and the fundamental processes that are involved. While I just knew that the aroma of something baking in the oven could trigger warm memories, I was thrilled when I read recently that this pleasure is based in our physiology. I find that fascinating. I was reading the book “How Baking Works” and came across this line: “Signals from your olfactory cells travel to regions of the brain involved with memory and emotion.” Validation! You really can bake sweet memories!
In The Swim 8.26.11
I always used to think of myself as timid in a lot of ways. My sister always thought I was bold because I’d get out of the “walking line” at school dismissal, in defiance of the “patrol” student. (I was only acting out because I was jealous and wanted to wear that patrol belt). I was actually easily intimidated, like the time we took swimming lessons when I was about nine years old. It was awful. First of all, we had to take a bus to the park with boys who were loud and cussed. Upon arrival, we met the man and lady who would be our swim instructors (they were probably 16 years old). The man wore a chain around his neck with a dime hanging from it. One of the kids whispered to me that it was against the law to put a hole in money, so I spent the entire two weeks of our lessons looking askance at the instructor and nervously waiting for the police to show up. The last straw was being ordered into the bay before I knew anything about swimming. Instinctively I mastered the dead man’s float, but failed everything else. What gave me the confidence to persevere? We got to visit the canteen after each lesson, where we bought our favorite - Black Cow candy. That was the summer I learned you can stand any trial as long as there are sweets at the end.
Clear Direction 8.25.11
Before you can branch out and create your own recipes or twists on old classics, you have to learn the basics. This requires following directions. But instructions must be clear, and there’s no one better to test this than a novice, because instructions that SEEM simple to the initiated may be quite the opposite to someone new to the business. It reminds me of a patient I once had. An older man, he had a heart condition and was told by his cardiologist to wear a patch containing heart medicine he needed. He was directed to put on a new patch every day. Obviously these instructions were not entirely clear to the gentleman, who came to me for a follow-up visit with his body covered in the patches. (He didn’t get that you take the old patch off each time). This is why I sought advice early on when I came upon an instruction in a cookbook like “beat the egg whites until stiff but not dry” or “stir until the dough follows the fork around the bowl.” Once you’ve taken a spin around the bowl, you know.
Quake of Cakes 8.24.11
In the aftermath of yesterday’s chaos, disaster and lingering uncertainty over our future, The Vintage Baker wants to assure all of her fans that her rolling pins did not roll far, and her kitchen remains in operation. There will be no – repeat NO – pause in the creation of delectable sweets. Sure, it may be tough at times to focus as spice bottles drop around us, but I will do my part to produce the virtually endless array of moist treats that will help us all get through these troubled times. I will try to forget the trauma of what seemed like countless seconds of shaking, and will instead take up my whisk, sift my flour, grate my peels, and create a cloud of confection that will dull the fear and misery we have experienced so deeply. So everyone take a deep breath, relax, and buy my stuff.
Keep It Real 8.23.11
I continue to find unexpected similarities in both of my careers – health care and baking. For instance, I discovered long ago how patients appreciate a provider who is down-to-earth and talks like a normal person – no jargon necessary. A sense of humor works wonders, puts everyone on a level playing field, and creates an atmosphere where real communication and understanding is possible. It’s conducive to good medicine. Real is also best with food. (Not to sound preachy, but) we’re too surrounded by fake and imitation food, and the effects continue to mount up. When did real sugar become a villain? What is wrong with real butter? Why is modified cornstarch/syrup/whatever better for you? Did you ever notice that when something is “low-fat,” the carbs soar, and vice versa? “Low calorie” often means loaded with salt and way low in satiety value (so you are hungry again in an hour or two). Ok, so I’m on a soapbox. I just get angry when I see so many of my patients struggling with weight and falling back (unsuccessfully) on all of these fake and expensive products. LET’S GET REAL! Real food – in the proper amounts – with real taste and real satisfaction. It’s something we can live with.
Pardon My French 8.22.11
I dipped into my French cookbook the other day for some recipe help, and was immediately taken back to my high school class where I first attempted the language. Oh, it was a very innovative method of learning all right – it involved a reel-to-reel tape recorder and a “language lab” with not-so-private study carrels. It scared me because I always had trouble winding the tape through the player, and then you had to wear those geeky-looking headphones, and on top of THAT, you had to repeat the French words out loud. Nonstop embarrassment. In the end, I was the proud speaker of about five dialogue excerpts and that was it. A few years later, a friend and I took a trip to Europe and by lucky coincidence my aunt, a nun who taught high school French, was in Paris perfecting her already excellent skills. One evening, while walking with her to a café and hearing the conversations of everyone we passed, I wanted badly to blend in. So I began to recite Dialogue Number One: “Bonjour, Paul, je m’appelle Jeanne le Blanc” and so on. To my delight, my aunt responded with line 2, and we rattled through all the dialogues we could remember. People around us probably wondered why I was telling her to get up out of the snow, and why she told me it was alright, she indeed had paper. C’est drôle, non?
Fresh Start 8.21.11
Call me crazy, but every August I start to get the itch to houseclean. I don’t mean just clean the house. I am talking about pulling down the curtains, emptying the closets, vacuuming the walls…in other words, an all-out frenzy. I take after my mother, who would throw open all the windows, strip the rooms and clean every inch (I can still smell that clean, fresh air blowing through empty, echoing rooms). She did this every spring and fall. I have chosen just the fall option. . . I mean, let’s not go insane here. Anyway, there is something about this process that signals a new beginning, a fresh start. It prepares me for autumn. I feel ready to tackle the months of baking ahead. I can’t wait to start on all the apple and pumpkin recipes, the Thanksgiving pies, the Christmas cookies. I look forward to putting potted mums on my porch, and wearing a sweater again. Once I made the mistake of eulogizing the fall to my daughter, and she said “All fall means to me is a stiff, itchy new school uniform, new shoes that are too hard, and a hot classroom that smells like chalk.” Well, back to earth for me! At any rate, for ME, a new season and a clean house give me so much to look forward to.
Live Long and Prosper 8.20.11
It was the first day I was going to bake in the commercial kitchen I’m renting. I found it through a fellow nurse practitioner with whom I instantly became friends. It turns out that she is the vice president of her church, which has a health department-approved kitchen. The kitchen is great, very bright and friendly looking. Except for the monster Vulcan ovens. They have to be lit with a match. My last memory of this procedure is me at five years old, in our tiny kitchen with my mother, who is bending in front of the oven door with a lit match yelling, “Stand back!” So naturally I had the sense to be a little scared that this time, I was going to be the one holding the match. I held my breath. I said a prayer. I pictured myself in the local hospital burn unit. I lit the oven. No explosion, just a good working oven. At least for today (in the words of another great Vulcan, Mr. Spock), I can “live long and prosper."
No More Lunch Duty 8.19.11
For the first time in 22 years, we are not in “back to school” mode. Just saying that brings back the smell of freshly sharpened Number 2 pencils and newly waxed classroom floors, and the back pain of hauling boxes, crates and mini-fridges up endless flights of dorm steps. It also brings back memories of packing school lunches. Okay, Moms everywhere are going to hate my guts, but I used to enjoy the challenge of coming up with fun and healthy lunches (only if I got a running start the night before). Sandwiches cut into shapes, apples cored and filled with peanut butter and raisins, baked oatmeal, homemade granola, freshly cut fruits and yogurt, whole grain muffins, etc. Sure, every week an unopened yogurt or untouched oatmeal raisin muffin would roll out from under the car seat, mocking my good intentions. But for the most part, I think they enjoyed the variety. They also enjoyed the occasional reckless abandon when, after one of them would announce to my husband on the morning school drive that she forgot her lunch, he would careen into the grocery store and grab whatever high-sodium-high-sugar-high-fat “convenience pack” atrocity he came across first. Ever loyal to me, however, the child would rat him out that evening with a rundown of what Daddy bought her for lunch. (Not that she wouldn’t have made the same choice herself, however, if let loose in the store.)
The UnMuffin 8.18.11
It was inevitable, I suppose. There IS this whole cupcake craze going on. I wasn’t particularly involved at first, instead focusing most of my creative efforts on developing and perfecting new kinds of muffins. But the cute shops and pink trucks and online stores and TV baking wars started springing up everywhere, and it became apparent that I needed to be on the cupcake train before it fully left the station. Now, I always could make cupcakes, but I’m sure by now you realize that by today’s foodie standards, a plain ordinary cupcake (think Hostess in your lunchbox) will no longer measure up. So I threw myself into a frenzy of creating and testing cupcake recipes. At first I hit roadblocks and had some disappointing results. Then it hit me – I was thinking like a muffin – dense, moist and deliciously chocked with goodies. I had to start thinking like a cupcake – lighter, frothier and decorated up like a baby pageant contestant on one of those cable shows. Once I had that epiphany, it was smoother sailing, and new taste sensations are being born every week. So now I’m whipping my icing high and proud, and doing my part to bring the “UnMuffin” to the masses.
Sour Day Turns Sweet 8.17.11
Yesterday I felt a little down, and immediately cheered myself up by deciding to make candied lemon peel. I have always loved lemons, and other ingredients that you can actually hold in your hand, like eggs. I love the color, the roundness. Anyway, it was fun juicing the lemons by hand in my old-fashioned cobalt blue glass juicer that I bought last summer in a little town nearby. Then I got to scrape out the insides with my grapefruit spoon (how cool is it that there is such a thing as a grapefruit spoon?). Several other steps followed, and soon my kitchen was filled with the delightfully fresh aroma of lemon. The best part was rolling the peels in sugar and putting them on racks to dry. No, the best part is thinking up all the fun ways to use these yellow jewels. Moral: when life hands you lemons, candy them.
Family Recipe 8.16.11
This has been the summer of experimentation and innovation for me in the kitchen. I may have added 20 or more muffin varieties to my repertoire, in addition to testing new ways to create fruit pies, cupcakes and miniature versions of old favorites. So when I arrived at my Mom’s house a couple of weeks ago for a “tasting” with my sisters, I was well-armed with new material. We sat around the dining room table, the scene of so many family dinners past, and sliced and passed around muffins for everyone’s comments. Along with their critique, we all brought out the old jokes and memories, laughing the entire time. The Thanksgiving turkey that slipped off the platter and skidded under the kitchen table. The somewhat-doddering dinner guest who once announced in the middle of a meal, “I love making these rolls – my fingernails are always so clean when I finish!” The muffins were good, but being together and carrying on the way you can only do with your family . . . that’s a recipe worth repeating.
The Labor of My Fruits 8.15.11
Sometimes I put too much on my plate (and cutting board). I like to be busy, but I can overdo it – especially when the fruit in local orchards is plentiful and ready to be picked. The other day when I went to a pick-your-own farm with a friend to pick peaches, I already had plotted out my purpose: old fashioned peach cake, peach muffins, peach pies, peachcake cupcakes, and bags of fresh sliced peaches in my freezer for this winter’s baking. Naturally, one box of peaches didn’t look like enough, so I picked two. Then the tomatoes looked incredible, and oh! The blackberries! They looked like purple gemstones. It was very fulfilling. When I got my prizes home I realized I had 40 pounds of peaches, 20 pounds of tomatoes, and 10 pounds of blackberries. All sitting there on my kitchen floor, staring at me. Guess how I spent my weekend. I think I might have carpal tunnel syndrome from all the peeling and slicing. And the work continues. But now I can’t wait for apple picking in the fall. I’m sure I’ll remember the peaches and not go overboard (yeah, right).
A Flippin' Challenge 8.14.11
Tell me why I learned to make a cake that looks like a wicker basket brimming with roses in two lessons, and yet it took me about 15 years to make pancakes right? I’m not kidding. Something about the bubbles around the edges…you think you see them, but then you try to flip the pancake and you know your timing was bad. You try to flip it back and you just have a pile of half-cooked batter, no pancake. So for the next one you wait longer for the bubbles to appear and then flip it, and it looks good. But when you lift it out of the pan the insides are gooey and the top slides off. I don’t get it, this should be easy. Maybe that’s my problem, it’s TOO easy. I need a challenge. Oh wait, this IS a challenge. Huh. Maybe that humbling realization is why I finally learned to make them right.
Bygone Baking 8.13.11
For years I have collected old cookbooks. There is something about them that I love. I have a Boston Cooking School Cookbook from 1896, and it has recipes in it like “Cottage Pudding” and “Jam Cake.” I love “The Rumford Complete Cookbook” from the baking powder manufacturer in 1908 because it is a small, thin, red hardback (and yet it is "complete"). Somewhere in all of these old cookbooks I saw a recipe that called for a “walnut of butter” – a fascinating term I later learned was the equivalent of a couple of tablespoons. Of course, after seeing the movie “Julie and Julia,” I had to treat myself to “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” originally published by Julia Child in 1961 (but my edition is recent). With the exception of her “galettes au roquefort” (delicious little bleu cheese biscuits), I’ve used it more for cooking than baking. My latest acquisition is “The Lost Art of Pie Making Made Easy,” which contains recipes from ladies in the 1800s, complete with pie superstitions, vintage quotes, and the ingredient “spry” (apparently a precursor to Crisco shortening). As these old cookbooks conjure up images of baked treats from bygone days, even the words become delectable!
Techno-Torture 8.12.11
I accept the fact that I am not a computer wizard (stop laughing). But really, there is something not right about my laptop. My family can tell when I'm working on it, because all they hear is a constant stream of "What? What is that? How did that happen? Stupid, stupid, stupid! Oh, now what? Where did it go? I give up!,” etc. Seriously, my keyboard has a hair trigger. Sometimes I just START to move my hands near it and a screen pops up or disappears. Emails get sent before I'm done, documents get deleted, and several times the thing I’ve been typing suddenly turns into Chinese. (That may have something to do with my daughter using my laptop when she visits from Shanghai.) Usually I have no idea how these things happen. And most frustrating is that I can't tell you how many times I've tried something, it doesn't work, I ask for help from someone nearby, and my “rescuer” does THE EXACT SAME THING I JUST DID – and this time it works. I have come to believe that the laptop can smell my fear and purposely torments me. Nonetheless, I’ll just 不及物动词不及物动词不及物动词不及物动词不及物动词不及不
Delicious Freedom 8.11.11
After 15 years of Catholic school, I know how to follow rules. I am very law-abiding and structured. I don’t regret this – conformity certainly has its upside. But in becoming a baker, I have had to learn to break some of the rules. At first, when confronted with a recipe, I religiously (no pun intended) followed it. But the seeds of a desire to create began to grow, and I started to take the daring step of (gasp) CHANGING SOMETHING. Adding a new ingredient. Experimenting with the batter. Trying a new flavor. The more radical I became, the more reckless I got, letting my imagination go wild. I’d get an idea, and at first think, “Should I? Have I ever seen anything like that before?” When the answer was “no” I plunged in and did it anyway. Delicious freedom. And an “F” for obedience.
How Fruit Floats 8.10.11
For years, I added fruit and nuts and raisins to muffins and cakes, only to find them clumped at the bottom of the finished product. Tasty, but not what I’d seen in bakeries. Then somewhere along the way I learned that if you want your fruit and other add-ins distributed evenly throughout, you should mix them in with the DRY ingredients when you make the batter. They become coated with the flour, and suspend more evenly in the mix. I haven’t figured out the physics of this, but it works. Of course, don’t do this if you LIKE everything clumped in the bottom (to each his own).
The Test of Time 8.9.11
Ever had a friend you talk to maybe once a year or less, but your friendship continues to be great, and you jump right back in every time where you last left off? I have a friendship like this, and it goes back more than 35 years. One of those times we connected was when my children were babies in diapers. I had just run up to the third floor of my house to get something and the phone rang. I answered it hurriedly, and I really wanted to talk to her, but told her I'd call her back as soon as I got downstairs. Well, by the time I made it down, there were diapers that needed changing, someone was crying and someone else had spilled juice, and on and on, so I got busy. For the next year. When I finally called my friend back, I opened with, "Okay, I'm downstairs now." We still laugh about it, every year when we talk. Some things were just made to stand the test of time.
Use the Good Stuff 8.8.11
Not all things from the past are meant to be saved. Some recipes just aren’t as good as you thought they would be, like the sugar cookie recipe I found that was my great aunt’s. It called for wine, and because it was an old authentic recipe from a reliable source, I thought the cookies would be incredible. Not at all. They were very bad. Was it the KIND of wine I used? Maybe. That can make a big difference, like I found out one time when I was going to soak raisins in rum in preparation for my eggnog muffins. I didn’t have any rum, but I found some bourbon in the cabinet. Later my husband commented on the fact that these muffins were the best yet. He was surprised (but not pleased) to find out that the bourbon I had found, and used up entirely, was a stash of Maker’s Mark he had for special occasions. So it is important to use good alcohol when the recipe calls for it. Maybe I should go back and try my great-aunt’s recipe again – but my husband won’t tell me where he hides the good stuff anymore.
Vintage Inspiration 8.7.11
Ever notice how much of our appreciation for food today is rooted in those tastes we remember from the past? Old-fashioned brown edge cookies, whose scent and taste are indelibly etched in my memory, will always and forever remind me of my great-grandmother. My sister and I were allowed to walk the one block to her house "all by ourselves" (Mom never took her eyes off us until we arrived at her front walk). Going through the gate, we were engulfed in the fragrance of red roses climbing her fence. Inside, she had a tea party prepared with tiny china cups and plates, and of course the brown edge cookies, all crumbly, vanilla-y and buttery. Sometimes there would be sheets of noodle dough hanging to dry over the backs of chairs, later to become a dish she called “flicky” (pronounced fleech-kee), a Czech ham and noodle casserole I still make today. Her house held many other memories for us, like walking down her narrow back yard to feed some ducks living in a wire cage. But her kitchen, with its big washtub and scrubbing board in the middle of the floor, was one of the warm places where my appreciation for vintage tastes began – and a place that continues to inspire my baking today.
Child's Play 8.6.11
Baking disasters aside, I think I have my daughters to thank for teaching me how to ride out panic. Right out of college, they have traveled the world gathering experience and experiences, and I have received more than my share of phone calls from foreign places starting with the gasped-out words, “Mom, I’m really sick.” For example: New Zealand, 9 p.m. - “Mom, my throat is so sore and swollen I can’t breathe.” (Serious case of strep that led to shingles.) Beijing, Easter Sunday morning - Roommate calls and says, “You better sit down.” I still have post-traumatic stress disorder from that call. (Apparent appendicitis that ended up being a simple gastric illness.) Cambodia, 7:30 a.m. - “Mom, I think I have malaria.” (Not true, thank God.) London, 6 a.m. - “I’m ok, but I was in the subway when it was bombed.” (Fortunately she was two stops away from the disaster.) Shanghai, 9 a.m. - “I have a cough so bad I can’t breathe, should I go to the hospital?” (Started clearing up the next day.) Providing health care from the other side of the world? Harrowing. Starting a business? Child’s play.
Getting Out of Shapes 8.5.11
I don't mean to sound like a baking snob, but why is it that occasionally someone who finds out I make cakes will immediately ask, “Can you make a cake in the shape of (fill in the blank)?" Now, making cakes in shapes requires no particular skill, just the right (expensive) pan. It DOES require a little bit of masochism, because eventually you have to "color in" the details with teeny weeny bits of icing (and maybe even buy some candy) to make it look as realistic as possible, which results in much stress and back pain. The alternative is to slather on different colored icing in a freeform fashion, but the result is no more rewarding. Cakes in shapes (and sometimes with a computer-generated icing photo) is why the supermarket bakery exists. I believe in crafting cakes, lovingly making buttercream roses, and decorating with cascades and swirls and blossoms. Okay, so I am a snob.
Feeling Captainish 8.4.11
Don’t you just love it when you feel full of energy and everything you do just flows? A busy day, with multiple tasks, and it all goes seamlessly. You can do it all. You are in charge. Nothing can deter you from your course. These days don’t happen all that often, but I recognize them the minute I wake up, and I say to myself, “Oh goody, Rabbit’s Busy Day.” That’s borrowed from A.A. Milne who wrote Winnie the Pooh, and he captures the essence of Rabbit perfectly. “As soon as he woke up he felt important, as if everything depended upon him . . . It was a Captainish sort of day, where everyone said ‘Yes, Rabbit’ and ‘No, Rabbit’ and waited until he had told them.” YES! That’s it! I am the captain. I spin around my kitchen, popping trays into the oven, melting chocolate, icing cakes, making a wonderful mess of dishes. A gift of a day, and I’m fully in charge.
Early Start (Part 2) 8.3.11
My foray into sales began when I was seven years old. In school we received our first box of chocolate bars to sell – the “World’s Finest” – and they were, at least to us. They sold for 50 cents a bar. I dutifully went around my neighborhood hawking chocolate, and when a little old lady told me that 50 cents was too much, I promptly dropped the price to a quarter. I was ahead of my time in introducing “Friends and Family” rates, but my mother wasn’t happy with my innovation since she had to make up the difference. Not discouraged, I continued to branch out on my own and build my sales resume. I collected various foodstuffs from my mother’s kitchen (canned goods, eggs) and put them in a basket to sell in our front yard to passers-by. I believe I had only made one sale when I was intercepted by Mom. (Yes, someone actually bought one egg from a kid in a yard). Anyone less intrepid may have been discouraged by these sorry early outcomes, but not me. Only 50+ years later and I am back in the saddle.
Early Start (Part 1) 8.2.11
I learned to cook at a very young age. When I was five, my younger sister and I would take my mother’s wooden spoons (originally my great-grandmother’s – did my mother know we were doing this?) into the yard. There we would pick mimosa flowers, dandelions and clover and concoct delicacies. I think the sauce was dirt. I can still smell the “sneezy flowers” scent and feel the coolness of the grass. No doubt my mother’s enthusiasm when she “ate” our creations helped push me forward on the path to baking. (I would give a lot to have those wooden spoons now.) Come to think of it, I wonder if I could make a muffin with mimosa flowers?
A Taste For The Past 8.1.11
I think one of the best gifts we can give our children is an appreciation for things of the past. Like playing with wooden blocks when they were babies, and digging into the “dress-ups” (including tons of old bridesmaid dresses) to have pretend tea parties in the basement. We avoided the video game craze when they were young, opting instead to introduce them to great old movies. Like Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Man Who Knew Too Much,” after which we worked our way up to “Rear Window.” A few years later they were ready for Bette Davis’s “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane” and “Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte.” My kids tell me now how glad they are that they got to know these films – so many people their age don’t. What a shame to miss out on something so vintage and delicious.
New Beginnings 7.31.11
This time of year makes me remember our first summer vacation on a North Carolina beach 21 years ago, where we witnessed a miracle. It was turtle hatching season, and all up and down the island there were nests roped off in the sand, just waiting to erupt in late summer. Early that first evening, a friend who was one of the island’s volunteer corps of “nest sitters” came rapping at our door, telling us to hurry down to the beach – one of the nests was ready to hatch. We arrived to find a small crowd moving quietly about their “duties” around the nest – smoothing a path in the sand from the nest to the water, and creating sand “bumpers” on either side of the path to keep the babies from straying. One volunteer stood at the water’s edge, shining a flashlight toward the nest (baby turtles instinctively head toward the moonlight), and another volunteer was stationed beside her with a rake, ready to clear aside the crabs and other predators that would emerge from the water to prey on the babies. Then it happened – like a pot boiling over, the indentation in the sand over the nest dropped deeper, and out emerged a hundred or more tiny turtles, awkwardly stumbling and eventually finding their way along the cleared path to the water’s edge. They were adorable and brave and incredible. And while we were told that only a few would actually make it past the surf and its awaiting enemies, the sight of new turtles going out to sea was thrilling. We sat by nests every summer vacation for the next 15 years on that island, but never experienced another miracle like that one on our first night. New beginnings are exhilarating.
Margo, Muffins and Me 7.30.11
I said goodbye to a friend today to whom I owe a lot. I met her nine years ago when I was searching for a local charity to be involved with. Her name is Margo, and she works with the poor and homeless in a small inner city house where she established her ministry. We quickly started a regular routine of my baking something for her special dinners or events, and she would come to my house and pick it up. This gradually became weekly, after we came up with the idea of a "muffin ministry." She would distribute these to the homeless and the poor with whom she had contact, sometimes right on the street as she got out of her car. The response was gratifying, and soon I became known as "the cake lady." Spurred on by this enthusiasm and appreciation, I tried each week to provide something new and different. I began to experiment with new recipes (fortunately I wrote these down as I went along). Margo has been one of my biggest supporters, and has encouraged me to "sell my stuff" for years. She has given me delightful feedback from my favorite “customers,” the men and women who come to her for love, assistance and comfort. Thanks to her and to them, I now have about 50 original muffin recipes to add to my repertoire of baked goods. Margo is moving away next week to another state, to continue her marvelous ministry. I will be forever grateful for her role in my life and her warm, encouraging words as I contemplated my baking career. Who knows, maybe I'll start a mail-order sideline to keep her and her new friends in desserts.
Just Say 'Nay' 7.29.11
In life, it’s important to know what your skills are – and what they are NOT. Sure, you can explore and experiment, but some things become quite clear and you should pay attention and avoid them. Like riding horses. I always loved horses – the little plastic ones that did what you told them. But after several very traumatizing experiences with real horses, I know I am not a person who should ride one. It took me several “lessons” to learn that. As a teenager, I fell off a horse and got a concussion (didn’t know it, groggily drove myself and my little sister home afterward). When I was even younger, I went horseback riding with my cousins. My horse (Grasshopper) was unusually tall, and I split my pants trying to climb onto him. I spent the rest of the day walking BEHIND everyone and trying to pull the ragged edges of my pants together with bobby pins. It was a long day (my cousins were boys, so enough said.) Fast forward to me as an adult who should have learned by then. I went riding on a beach in the Caribbean, only to have my horse become incontinent. I won’t describe the scene, except that our guide – a six-year-old riding bareback – had to lead my horse back to the barn. So, okay, I get the hint. Check “no” next to horses. It gives me more time for baking anyway.
Keep it Simple 7.28.11
Almost always, simple is better. Simple words to songs, pithy phrases, minimal make-up. The opposite serves to illustrate. Years ago we were invited to a summer party. It was held at a beach. This should have forewarned us – it had “Pleasure” in the name. The management was obviously trying very hard to hide something. I soon found out what it was. Here I was, eight months pregnant and toting a 15-month-old to this “picnic,” which I found to be a crowd of people on a blistering August day sitting cheek-by-jowl at a splintery wood table with a major heat source (otherwise known as the grill) at one end. I alternated between balancing on the thin wood bench and darting after a toddler who was attracted to the grill like a moth to a flame. On the verge of heat stroke, I decided to walk her to the “beach,” stumbling down a stony foot-piercing weedy path to a small slope that led to some of the filthiest water I’d ever seen. I let my baby wade in her shoes, knowing later I was going to throw them away. The piece de resistance on this sweltering day was the outhouse (insert gag reflex here). Now I ask you, what would possess anyone to call this, in their wildest hallucinations, a “pleasure beach?” Exactly. So when I name my confections I will not include the words “yummy,” “delicious,” or “pleasurable” – those are words I’ll let my customers use instead.
Plane Good Planning 7.27.11
Starting a baking business while continuing to work in health care requires planning and organization. Hour by hour, day by day: Make the buttercream roses in the morning before work, the cake layers in the evening, the cookie dough on the weekend. My husband has this planning shtick down pat – probably from flying Southwest. Tickets are purchased for the first flight of the day. At first I didn’t understand why we had to book a flight that required us to be at the airport at 4 a.m. As he explains it, the first flight is on a plane that is already at the gate, so less chance of a delay. Also, the bathrooms have just (we take this on faith) been cleaned – a situation that gets sketchier with each flight that follows. Getting into an early boarding group (A, not B or God-forbid-C) requires going to the web site exactly 24 hours prior to our flight. (Anyone who tells me that you can pay a little extra for early boarding apparently doesn't know my husband, who relishes the "thrill of the hunt.") There he sits, from 23 hours and 57 minutes, hitting the “check in” key repeatedly ‘til he is allowed in. Being in an early boarding group is important for several reasons. One, you’ll have space in the overhead compartment. Two, you can sit in the front part of the plane. This is good because you want to keep the middle seat empty for books and extra leg room, and other passengers won’t settle for a middle seat too soon – they walk by with their eyes searching farther down the aisle for a better spot. The risk of backtracking for your middle seat is statistically low (they would have to “swim upstream”). Three, you are among the first to de-plane, so you can get a good spot at baggage claim (near the chute where bags first come out, so you can beat others on your flight to the rental car counter). So you can see how all this plotting and planning is necessary for a fun trip. And what qualifies my husband to help me run my bakery.
Bending the Recipe 7.26.11
Innovation is good. Sometimes you come up with great new recipes. Like my peanut butter cup muffins. And my hot chocolate muffins. And my pancake muffins. But changing a recipe because you don’t have the required ingredient – or enough of it – is not innovation, it’s laziness. Get in the car and go get what you need. But sometimes, I admit it, my instant gratification gene takes over and I wing it. Oh, I suffer for it, but in my frenzy to get something done I don’t always consider the consequences. You know how in some cookbooks they list ingredients and what you can substitute for them? Well, I now have a list of what to NEVER substitute. Here is a partial list:
- For one egg, never add NO egg (it turns out very flat)
- For whiskey, do not substitute rum or tequila (it’ll be just plain bad)
- For vanilla – there is no substitute for vanilla – stop what you are doing immediately and get some vanilla
- For good red wine, don’t use any old red wine you have open and sitting around (in fact, most chefs say you shouldn’t use any wine in your cooking that you wouldn’t enjoy drinking)
I know some people will claim that they already knew these things, but admit it – you’ve done something like this at one time or another in your kitchen. For those who haven’t, I’ve saved you.
- For one egg, never add NO egg (it turns out very flat)
- For whiskey, do not substitute rum or tequila (it’ll be just plain bad)
- For vanilla – there is no substitute for vanilla – stop what you are doing immediately and get some vanilla
- For good red wine, don’t use any old red wine you have open and sitting around (in fact, most chefs say you shouldn’t use any wine in your cooking that you wouldn’t enjoy drinking)
I know some people will claim that they already knew these things, but admit it – you’ve done something like this at one time or another in your kitchen. For those who haven’t, I’ve saved you.
A Patient Lesson 7.25.11
Sometimes a lesson in patience can come from the most unlikely place. I had a patient who suffered from severe anxiety and bipolar disorder, and was one step away from homelessness. She called often, when she was upset and needed to talk. But once she got to my office she would tell me what was going on, and all I would have to say was, “So, what are you going to do?” And she would always know. She made a plan on-the-spot, cataloging the positive things she had going for her, and listing the things she would do to work through the tough issues, so she could manage her life in the next minute, or day, or week. I looked at her and she looked like a lost soul. But she was not. I thought she was gallant. And I thought, if this patient could draw on her strengths to survive, I can draw on my patience and learn to wait for what's next.
Curse of the Black Widow 7.24.11
When I was in third grade my sister and I walked home from school every day down a long street bordered by a very high, old brick wall. One fall day, as we scuffed along kicking leaves, we discovered a little hole in the wall. Legend (based on what other kids said) was that inside the hole was a million dollars, BUT also a black widow spider. Now, I had read the Trixie Belden books so I KNEW how deadly a black widow spider could be. Oh, how I wanted to put my hand in there and get the million dollars. Every day as I walked by that spot in the wall I was tormented with conflicting desires. But fear won, and we moved away soon after, so I was not confronted with the conflict any more. I never forgot that mysterious, beckoning hole in the wall, however. A few years ago, I had the chance to walk down that street again. I held my breath – would it still be there? It was! It looked just the same! I reached toward it, still in search of that million dollars, but stopped short. There was still the problem of the spider.
When Vintage Isn't Cool 7.22.11
Vintage may be a wonderful concept for some things, but not all things with some age on them are necessarily good. Take our furnace, circa 1950. Recently our house starting feeling unusually hot, and the central air conditioner (circa 2001) attached to the furnace wasn’t blowing cool air. We called a repairman to come out IMMEDIATELY. This was an emergency. One of our daughters had just flown back to Shanghai that morning and I was so sad I had to bake for consolation. So the house had to be cooled. Luckily, the repairman was prompt, but not very sensitive. He took one look at our ancient furnace (the size of a VW bus) and burst out laughing. That’s hardly ever a good sign. He began to lecture me about how old and “dangerous” it was. I started to feel guilty – how had we behaved so carelessly and endangered the lives of our family for so long? Then I started to get annoyed – how were we supposed to know about the blah blah blah, and didn’t it get a clean bill of health at every fall inspection? Anyway, when the sermon was over he examined the situation further while I retreated to the kitchen where I needed to get down to business. (Plus, I didn’t want him to see me wearing my baking headscarf – it’s ninja-bad). After a few minutes he announced his diagnosis: he had no idea what was wrong, other than “The furnace is OLD and DIRTY, and I’m surprised it’s working at all.” He must have seen the look on my face (hot, desperate, perhaps a little crazed) because he volunteered to take one more look at it. Lo and behold, he found a blah blah that he switched on, so that maybe the blah blah would work. And it did – the air conditioning was back, at least temporarily. So I made four dozen muffins, and a week later we called another contractor who replaced the entire unit with a brand new, non-vintage wonder.
Gingerbreaditis 7.21.11
(Not to rush to Christmas memories in July, but . . .) Why do stay-at-home mommies think it’s so great and important to make gingerbread houses at Christmas? Or maybe it was just me. It seemed so, well, Christmassy. Naturally, I didn’t want to use a kit, oh no, I had to make it all from scratch. Really get into it. I found a recipe, and the girls (ages 5, 4 and 3 months at the time) got to “help.” I baked the gingerbread “walls” but somehow when I went to put them together with the icing “glue,” they were all irregular and didn’t fit right. I deserved this. Didn’t measure well, I guess. Anyway, I just figured if we glopped on more “glue” it would hold, and it did. At least, until my oldest daughter walked into the kitchen and said, “Mommy, my tummy hurts,” and threw up. Daughter #2 followed suit. It was back then that I thought you had to take your kids to the pediatrician whenever they were sick, so we all piled into the car, leaving the leaning tower of gingerbread to hopefully and miraculously harden. Three hours later we returned home, and actually completed the gingerbread houses (in for a penny, in for a pound at this point). I guess you could say that we were successful, against all odds and airborne stomach flu germs. Predictably, the houses mildewed about a week later, right before Christmas arrived.
Reading the Signs 7.19.11
In addition to baking, one of my interests since my children have grown up is studying languages. Specifically French (since high school), Spanish (just a beginner), Mandarin (just enough to travel) and for a brief stint, American Sign Language. I think ASL is beautiful, and I have a few hearing-impaired patients so I thought it would be useful. Oh, I learned so much at one sitting, me and my book. The signs made so much sense that it was EASY to memorize them. I was so excited when I saw that one of these patients was on my schedule one day – and she was so happy to sign with me! Only I forgot that, once I signed to her, she would sign back. And everything would be backwards! I was stunned, like a deer in the headlights, as she excitedly “talked” to me. I was speechless (signless). She saw my dilemma and kindly slowed down. I just continued to stare. She went slower. By this time my mind was frozen – nothing was going to get through. Finally, she turned around and, on the wall behind her, traced the letter she was trying to convey. We both broke out laughing. (I still didn’t know what she was trying to spell to me). I grabbed a pad and a pen, and we finished our conversation. Small steps . . .
The Circle Continues 7.18.11
There are some things I am very particular about. I won’t drink coffee from Styrofoam. I prefer not to drink wine from a plastic cup. And for baking I have accumulated special tools, either old and passed down, or purchased from antique stores, that I insist on using. All of them have one thing in common – they are evocative of the past. My wooden rolling pin, the “cooking fork” from my grandmother, cookie cutters from my great-grandmother. The old wire egg basket I somehow talked my mother out of. The Depression glass pitcher. A big yellow bowl for mixing batter with a wooden spoon. I feel a special connection with the past through these things . . . it’s like the circle continues. My children will one day receive them, but for now, I just know everything I bake has a special ingredient: memories.
Essential Ingredients 7.17.11
Lots of people hate going to the grocery store, but for me, stocking up on ingredients is a fun prelude to baking. I have loved food shopping since I was a little girl, and I think I remember when it started. There was a small grocery store down the street from our house, and my mother would allow my sister and me to walk the long block by ourselves when she needed bread and milk. The store owner would stand outside and watch us cross the street. Now, I had a good deal going here. First of all, the owner's daughter was a classmate at school, so I occasionally talked her into giving me a free candy bar. Second, I loved to open the metal door of the ice cream freezer and stick my face down in it . . . it smelled so ice-creamy. If my mother had told us that we couldn't have any ice cream that day, we "generously" bought one and took it home "for her." (Who do you think got to eat it?) Or maybe we would be in a gift-giving spirit and buy (with the money she gave us) a box of Swans Down cake flour. I can still see and smell that store. Friendly, cozy and filled with delights. Another ingredient in my love of all things food.
Spam Anyone? 7.16.11
I have always been excited about checking my email. There’s the sense of anticipation – who wants to talk to me NOW? The down side, of course, is seeing that big 0 in your inbox (thanks to the apparently more popular modes of texting and Facebook). This has become more acute since I started my blog. I JUST KNOW that people are reading it and are appreciating it, and want to tell me that, right? I am certainly laughing, so I’m assuming everyone else is too, right? So today when I opened my email and saw “1” in my inbox I was a little disappointed, but thought, oh well, it’s early, and at least SOMEONE is contacting me. Then I saw it was a reminder from the vet to give my dog her heartworm medicine. I was so angry I exerted the most power I had – I marked them forever and ever as “spam.” (There are days, however, when even spam will do – I’ll take mine with a slice of pineapple and maraschino cherry, please.)
Sew Possible 7.15.11
It's pathetic that when I was in 8th grade I won first place in a sewing class. Actually, I tied for first place with my sister. We beat out the other kid. Me, who when taking notes on what we would need to bring for the class, wrote "hooks and ice" (the teacher had an accent). I had picked out the material at G.C. Murphy's - the ugliest solid aqua you can imagine. I don't remember what my sister chose, but it had to be equally bad for us to have tied. I didn't even enjoy the class. It was on the second floor of a building on Main Street in the summer and it was hot. You know what a PB&J sandwich smells like after sitting in a brown bag on a dusty floor in an 85 degree room? And that was still the highlight of the day for me. And yet I won. Is it any wonder that I believe in the impossible?
Wonderland 7.14.11
Another obstacle to my business has been overcome – I now have a health department-approved kitchen to rent!!! And guess where it is? One block from the house where my grandmother used to live. My sister, cousin and I spent two weeks of every summer there, so this area is loaded with memories. Playing under the big pine trees in the front yard, running around with the neighborhood kids (who always seemed strange to me – one neighborhood girl actually told us it was part of her religion to lie nine times a day, and being a wise guy even then I said, “Yeah, and that’s one of them.”) We ate ice cream at night “to help us sleep,” had outings with my aunt to the movies . . . it all was fun. But the best part of all was the mysteriousness of the house. Well, it was mysterious because my cousin told us it was, and she was a year older so we believed anything she said. The most scary part was the cupboard in the bathroom. It was high on the wall, narrow but very deep. Looking inside, you couldn’t see to the end of it. My cousin told us that it led to “Wonderland.” I was afraid to go to the bathroom. Mysterious. And scary. And stupid. But on second thought, as I think of myself starting to bake in a kitchen just down the street, maybe it did lead to Wonderland.
In the Moment 7.13.11
I’ve always had trouble living in the moment. When striving toward goals, whether an A on a test, or to get children off to school, or to be on time to see my next patient, the present races into the future. There is pressure to think ahead to the next step, the next day, the next year. This is why I am grateful to have discovered my passion for baking. I walk into my kitchen, and close the door on the world. No radio, no music, just so quiet you can hear the wind chimes in the garden. As I pull flour and sugar from the cabinets, I am suffused with a peaceful energy. I am in an enclosed place, kept company by warm memories of kitchens and food and home. The familiar movements of mixing and sifting, the sound of the wooden spoon on the bowl, the clink of beating eggs with my “cooking fork" (a worn, old fork that belonged to my grandmother) - all soothe and comfort. As the kitchen fills with the aroma of cakes or bread or cookies, I feel timeless. I exist in this moment, and I am content.
Right Time, Right Place 7.12.11
Okay, sometimes it takes me a while to figure things out, but I’m no dummy. I catch on eventually. Like with my greenhouse. After only six years I realized that the only thing that would grow in this hot house (name should’ve been a hint) was cactus, and not the herbs I’d visualized. There is no water or air source in there. And after more than ten years of plants not working in the garden outside my kitchen, I finally understood that there was no SUN in this particular area. The list goes on, but the point is that I DID finally learn and by making a few adjustments (potted herbs, shade-loving plants) I had success there. Not what I’d pictured, but something good nonetheless. And with my bakery . . . after eight years of starts and stalls, it’s taking a path I hadn’t originally planned on (i.e. an official one). And so far it’s working out. Some things just require the right conditions before they bloom.
Finding My Glasses 7.11.11
I guess it’s obvious by now that I love old things – old recipes, old words, old books, old houses and old glass. Sea glass. Bits of the past in the sand, hidden from the eyes of most. I have tons of white, green and brown. Uncommon and coveted are the cobalt blues, and even rarer the orange, yellow and red. I have rarely seen these colors on the ocean beaches, but the bay produces some of the best I’ve found. One weekend while indulging my taste for the old in a small town on the bay, I came across a rummage sale coat – thick, brown faux fur from head to toe. Perfect for walking the beach on that brisk day, where, to my surprise and delight, I came across an even better find. There, as if someone had tossed milk of magnesia bottles against the rocks, were handfuls of cobalt blue glass. I could scarcely contain myself, and immediately adopted the sea glass-seeker’s pose – hunched over and ambling slowly down the beach, head down and totally ignoring my friends, who at that point were not delighted for me, but bored. After I had collected pocketsful of blue treasures, they pointed out the view from where they stood – a big, brown furry creature, practically on all-fours, lumbering across the sand. Did the locals think it was a bear sighting? Who cares – I was already plotting my next visit.
Spend the Dough 7.10.11
Part of “discovering my niche” has been to realize what I will never in life attempt again. I’ve already covered wedding cakes and graduation cakes. This is about homemade Christmas gifts, which “save money.” That is a lie. In my experience, homemade gifts are ten times the work and four times the money of a bought gift. But I didn’t know that when I was a new Mom, not working, and on a very tight budget. For Christmas one year I decided to make each family on my list (and there were about eight) a bread wreath. To accomplish this, you had to actually make bread and braid it into a wreath. Then you had to dry it, and spray shellac on it about a hundred times, letting it dry in between. (This involved running out my back door numerous times every day, in between changing diapers – Board of Health issue again? – and feeding kids). Then came the final touches of decorations with dried flowers or whatever. Oh, they looked good. I was proud (there’s that word again). The wreaths made it to Christmas day, there were oohs and ahhs, and people actually hung them up. I only found out later, in bits and pieces, that the wreaths came apart in, well, bits and pieces. Stupid recipe. Stupid waste-of-time-and-money. Stupid wreaths. Next Christmas everyone got plants. That way, any destruction that followed was their doing, not mine.
Upper and Lower Crust Unite! 7.9.11
There are two kinds of pie bakers in the world – those who actually bake pies, and those who are afraid to bake pies. I think I know what’s happening here. In a cookbook somewhere, some sadist told the world to roll out pie pastry between two pieces of waxed paper. Now, those of us in the first group probably tried this early in our careers, and found out that if you use this technique, all you get is flat pastry stuck to waxed paper. But, having good self-esteem, we put the blame where it belonged and moved on to the right way to roll out pie dough (more on that in a minute). Those in the second group suffered a fatal blow to their self-confidence, concluded that the problem was with them, and gave up. Here’s my theory: Pie snobs don’t WANT anyone but a select few to know how SIMPLE it is to successfully roll out pastry. Not wanting to be branded as one of this Upper Crust of bakers, here it is – go to the store and buy a pastry cloth and a sleeve for the rolling pin. Put flour on both. Roll out the pastry. This technology is available to even the most timid pie bakers. There – the secret is out. Upper and Lower Crust unite!
Making a Dream Official 7.8.11
I am making progress. Recently I obtained an LLC and then opened a bank account under the name “The Vintage Baker.” It was very exciting. It probably wasn’t good that I burst out laughing when the bank manager, filling out the form, asked me, “What is your projected annual income?” I really must learn to contain myself. But I was laughing because of my audacity in starting my own business. And because I AM starting my own business. And because of the joy and excitement of seeing my dream appear on paper. I told her to put “TBD” for that question. (Who knows, it may be more than I think!)
Out to Lunch 7.7.11
Starting a baking business makes me realize there’s a lot I have to learn. And that’s okay, I will. But there are other things in life I don’t know about that I feel like I SHOULD, like taxes and cars. Things most people learned along the way, and I was somehow absent the day they taught the lesson. Of course there’s no catching up NOW. Way too late for that, because then I would have to ADMIT to other grown-ups that I DON’T KNOW what they take for granted everybody knows. But I get by – I have a pretty fail-safe technique involving facial expressions, sounds, and certain key and universal phrases. For example, a group of us at work sits joking and laughing during lunch, when some show-off starts talking about a law and a politician I’ve never heard of. Everyone quiets down and starts adding his/her two cents. I just nod slowly ‘til I get the drift of whether we like this man and his law or not. When it’s clear we do NOT, I’ll add an “Oh well, what can you EXPECT?” or even better (hiding out in the open) “Can anyone ever REALLY understand all of this?” This works for just about every subject you can throw at me. Of course, I prefer topics I actually know something about, but one must start somewhere.
Made in the Shade 7.6.11
On the weekend when my oldest daughter graduated from college, she and her roommates planned a party for their families, and asked me to make the cake. Of course I was thrilled and agreed. Oh, I went all out. A 12-inch, several-layer cake decorated ornately with the college colors. On the day before the graduation, we caravanned with family and friends for three hours to her college town. We decided to stop for lunch in a scenic mountain spot along the way. What a brilliant idea. This was May, and the weather was warm, so let’s park in the sun too. We lingered over our meal, talking and laughing and carrying on, as we do. We ambled leisurely back to the car, being in no particular hurry, and opened the rear door, and OH . . . MY . . . GOD. One whole side of the cake had melted and sunk. OF COURSE IT HAD, WHY WOULDN’T IT, IT WAS 1,000 DEGREES IN THERE. I actually had FORGOTTEN THAT I HAD SPENT ABOUT FIVE HOURS MAKING AND DECORATING A CAKE THAT I THEN LEFT IN A HOT CAR. What was wrong with me? Too late to ask that question. We sped the rest of the way to our destination, and got the cake in the fridge ASAP. At the graduation party, it was a simple matter (and group effort among all of our travel accomplices) to turn the cake so the good part was facing out, divert everyone’s attention, and quickly and deftly slice it up (ALL of it). The memory was so indelible a year later that, for our second daughter’s college graduation, we ordered a cake from the nearby Food Lion.
You Too Big! 7.5.11
I have already mentioned my self-consciousness about the weight issue, so you will appreciate this. A few years ago my husband and I accompanied our daughter to Beijing where she was going to live and work. We were very excited to go to the famous “Silk Market” where we had heard you could buy anything for a great price. The bargaining has to be experienced to be believed, and fortunately our daughter already spoke enough Mandarin to help us out. But the main issue was not the language, it was the SIZES. I was stunned to find out that the “large” or even “extra-large” were miles too small. The vendors were undeterred – they kept digging deeper and deeper into piles of clothing, yelling over their shoulders to me, “No, no, Chinese size, very small,” and coming up with another item that might fit “auntie,” as one of them called me. When I could no longer take the humiliation of seeing the X’s multiply on the labels, I fled, and we found what looked like a normal department store. Surely here I would find my size in SOMETHING. The saleswoman took one look at me and handed me a coat. I put it on and it fit! My satisfaction turned to horror when I looked at the label – it was 5x! I tore the coat off and took off toward the door, followed by the woman who kept repeating in a blaming voice, “YOU TOO BIG!” In total exasperation I turned and yelled, “I know it!” I went somewhere else and bought a one-size-fits-all (even in China) scarf.
The Pen That Bonds Us 7.4.11
Ok, this has nothing to do with baking, but it is so weird I have to mention it. Have you ever seen those pens imprinted with the bail bond services company? They are yellow and pink and they show up all over town – in stores, restaurants and wherever you have to sign a receipt. All of a sudden you will reach into your purse for a pen and there it is. You have no memory of getting that pen, or of putting it in your purse (or of any recent need for bail bond services). But, you keep it because it is so handy, just the right size. However, that is not the weird part. The weird part is that these pens DISAPPEAR just as mysteriously as they appeared. All of a sudden you can’t find your bail bond pen, and by now you have really become attached to it. Once, I was standing in the checkout line at the grocery store and I signed the receipt with my bail bond pen, turned to push my cart out, and the pen was gone. I searched my purse, the floor, the bags in the cart . . . gone. There are numerous other instances I could cite, but they all have one thing in common – the bail bond pens APPEAR, then VANISH. I have a theory that it’s the nature of this pen to be shady. So, I’ll adapt. Now I grab one of these pens whenever I see one. (Hey, I think I just figured out the mystery).
An Ounce of Adventure 7.3.11
I am not really what you would call an adventurous person. My daughters travel all over the world, alone, and I prefer not to eat by myself in a restaurant. So branching out into the dream of owning a bakery is a big step for me. But I have had my share of unusual experiences. Once, years ago, my husband and I planned a trip to St. Kitts with friends. My sister was watching our three young daughters, and the youngest was sick. Always a wreck about leaving my children, I was very upset about this. But I had total confidence in my sister to handle things and keep me posted. So when a phone call was directed to our room early in the morning the day after we arrived, I assumed it was her. “Hello,” I said groggily. A male voice said, “I hear you are back in St. Kitts…where is the package?” I sat bolt upright in bed, my hair no doubt standing on end. “There is a mistake. I don’t know what you are talking about,” I gasped. “I will be there soon to pick it up,” said the voice on the other end. Click. We changed rooms pronto. I spent the rest of the vacation looking over my shoulder – especially later in the week when a huge tile fell from the lobby ceiling at my feet. Makes starting a new business seem rather tame now.
Icon, Youcon 7.2.11
It used to not matter that I didn’t know how to use a computer. At work it was a joke that I learned how to “do email” (and that I was proud of that). Now I want to employ social media for my new business, so it is no longer cute that I am so ignorant. Have you ever noticed how computer-savvy people are very intolerant of people like me? They are so superior. Even my husband. Once I was so ill-advised as to call him at work with a question about the computer. I was at the big old computer in our den (no laptops yet) and couldn’t get online. At first he was sooooo nice. “You just hit the world icon,” he said. He wasn’t happy when I asked, “what’s an icon?” So he described to me what an icon was, but for the life of me I couldn’t find it. I was desperately looking everywhere on the screen. I began to sweat so profusely that I almost dropped the phone. I so wanted to make him happy by finding the thing. IT WASN’T THERE. Finally, in a tone of excessive patience, he said “Here’s what you do (oh, good, a breakthrough is coming) - push back your chair, stand up, and step away from the computer.” Well, I know an insult when I hear it. I didn’t step away, I STOMPED away from the computer, the invisible icon and the whole mess. And guess what? When he came home that night, HE couldn’t find it EITHER. “OH, you had to do such and such first,” he said. That’s what I hate about computers. There are too many “secret” things you have to somehow miraculously know. I prefer recipes. Never needed icons there.
One Smart Cookie 7.1.11
My Mom makes THE BEST chocolate chip cookies in the world. Just ask anyone who is lucky enough to have her as a relative, friend, customer, patient or neighbor. My sisters and I have tried to duplicate her cookies. We have grilled her as to the exact recipe, the kind of flour, the size of the eggs. When we found out that she keeps her flour in the refrigerator, that’s where all of ours went. (She does that because of ants, but we were leaving no stone unturned.) But we can’t get it right. Ours are good, but they are not HERS. We are beginning to suspect that she is holding out on us. There is some secret she is not sharing. Recently, my Mom had surgery and couldn’t bake for a while. Afterward, when she had an appointment at the hairdresser’s, we all pitched in to make cookies for her to take, so as not to interrupt her streak (she takes them as a thank-you). While baking in my Mom’s kitchen, I discovered that her oven is insane. The temperature veers wildly from 350 to 500 degrees, then drops to 200, then catapults to 500 again. All the while you are constantly opening the oven door and adjusting the knob and cursing. (Mom prays rather than curses it. Hmmm. . .) Now I really have to wonder – how does she make such great stuff in this oven? Are her cookies fabulous because of or in spite of it? Did she deliberately rig her oven when she knew I’d be…no, I go too far. We may never know the reason. (Is that a sly look on her face?)
All That Glitters 6.30.11
Do they still make glitter? Or did the market hit a slump after I graduated from eighth grade? All I had to hear was, “Class, there is a project due,” and I was off to Read’s to buy glitter. My posters were always filled with fading-away cursive writing, a picture or two, and then the piece de resistance: layers of glitter trying very hard to adhere to gobs of thick, white Elmer’s glue. It was beautiful. I never understood why my posters never won a prize when all of those plain ones did. Of course, now I get it. But I am not going to apologize that I STILL like shiny things. Pink castor sugar on top of a white glaze, deeply colored glass jewelry, satin ribbons on a present. There is something childlike and wonderful about these things. I guess that is one of the reasons I like baking – so the child in me and in you will look at what I make, see the “glitter,” and go, “Ahhhhh.”
Taste of Nostalgia 6.29.11
Recently I went to the funeral of a family friend, and at the luncheon afterward, we talked about the “old neighborhood days.” People our age will remember – the relief of changing out of your hot school clothes and taking off on your bike. Running around in the cool dusk, pretending not to hear your mother calling you to come inside. (I always waited ‘til the third call). The scary thrill of hearing “the mosquito spraying machine” rumbling a block away and heading toward you. (Turns out we were right to run away from it). Saturdays, when we were told to “go outside and play” and we did, all day. Dodgeball in the side street. Exploring the nearby woods and a neighbor’s “bamboo forest” (not a forest). Eating grapes from an old man’s grapevine, both hoping and fearing that he would see us and yell at us. The ice cream truck and the new white popsicle I just had to try (bad banana flavor). Lying in bed when it wasn’t yet dark, bathed and cool, next to an open window. The flavor of this magic time (or so it seems now) is one thing I hope to capture in what I bake. So that we all can taste nostalgia, one bite at a time.
Life's Full of Choices 6.28.11
One of my talents is that I usually choose just the wrong thing. Whether an item on the menu, a color of lipstick or a new blouse, most of the time I wish I had chosen “the other one.” This began early in my life. I was in the first grade. Sister told us each to bring in a wrapped Christmas gift, and we would put it under the tree in the classroom. Then, on the last day of school before the holiday vacation, we would file by the tree and choose a gift. Great. The day finally arrived. I sensed trouble when I saw that one boy had brought in his gift unwrapped. But with typical nun ingenuity, the comic page of the newspaper materialized and the boy wrapped his gift in it. As we walked to the back of the room to begin the gift-choosing, all I could see was that comic paper gift. It was mesmerizing. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I didn’t want that one. As I watched my hand reaching for it, I was screaming inside my head, “Nooooooooooooo!” Did I feel sorry for the boy? Did I not want his gift to be the last chosen? No. I simply was the victim of my bad talent. It got worse. When I got back to my desk I opened the present. It was a plastic rosary. It was gray. And it had a mysterious and unfortunate permanent brown spot on the cross. I didn’t want to touch it. This is why you may hear my husband say to me from time to time, when I am deliberating over something, “You’re going for the rosary with the brown spot, aren’t you?” Yes, I am.
Paging Dr. Pooh 6.27.11
I discovered the treasure “Winnie the Pooh” when I was already an adult. Lines from the stories still come to mind from time to time, and warm your heart while they make you smile. I have a friend who once, years ago, was in the hospital for testing. She was quite anxious about it, and didn’t feel well on top of that. So I took it upon myself to go to her room at lunchtime (I was working in the clinic downstairs) and read to her from Winnie the Pooh. We both began to look forward to this (in those days, people actually stayed in the hospital for more than two days). She had a roommate, but the curtain was usually pulled between the beds. One day as I was reading aloud, I heard a soft murmuring of voices from behind the curtain. It didn’t disturb ME, so I continued. Suddenly, I heard a male voice raised in irritation. The man (whom I recognized as a cardiologist from the clinic) pulled back the curtain roughly and said to the lady in the bed, “I’ll be back when you’re ready to listen to ME.” Apparently the patient was enthralled by Pooh and was listening to the story, rather than to her doctor. We all sat there in silence as he stormed out. Then I continued on with the story. Sometimes healing requires more than medicine.
The Truth Spanks 6.26.11
When something is not right, it’s not right. Some disasters, baking or otherwise, cannot be rescued. You may try for a while, but then that heavy sensation of reality forces its way to the surface and you admit it – you have to change your plan. For example, I was shopping with my daughter this week and saw a dress in a store window. It was “me.” I put it on and the smaller of the two sizes I’d chosen fit. My daughter said I looked thin and beautiful. I FELT thin and beautiful. Well, there were some pesky bulges here and there, but that’s why they make Spanks. So (by this time running very late) I raced to the department store to buy the now necessary foundation garment. No matter, I felt like Cher in “Moonstruck” with a gorgeous dress just ripped from the window. It was unusually warm in the dressing room as I pulled on one industrially tight underthing after the other. By the second one, sweat was pouring down my face, hangers were sticking to the clothes, and the “fabric” of the (let’s face it) girdle was rolling into the size of a rubber band and wouldn’t pull up. I felt like Mrs. Doubtfire. I finally found one that worked. Sure it hurt – that’s how you know they work. Later that night, I put on the entire combo to show my husband. I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face. Let me amend that. I couldn’t wait to see the look I EXPECTED to see on his face. What there WAS, was silence. He said “Hmmm . . .” This didn’t seem good to me. “Don’t you like it?” I asked. “It’s kinda tight” he said. “That’s why I’m wearing spanks,” I assured him. (Here comes the death blow) “Are you wearing them NOW?” he asked. The dress went back on the hanger and in the back of the closet. At first I really hated him for bring mean. I hated him all evening, so he would know how mean he was. As often happens, reason returns in the morning. The dress was tight. I have lost a lot of weight, but there are a few pounds to go before that dress will work. So I’m keeping it ‘til then. I may deny reality from time to time, but fortunately I have a best friend who always tells me the truth no matter what. “Those muffins are perfect.” “Those muffins are a little dry.” “You look great in that dress.” “That dress is too tight.” He has a tough job.
The Oven Knows 6.25.11
My mother, sister and I have often lamented the fact that you can bake something 100 times and have it turn out perfectly, until the time you are baking that same thing for something important. That will be the time the cake sinks in the middle, the cookies burn before falling apart, or the icing seizes up like a ball of play-doh. I have tried the Winnie-the-Pooh trick of saying, “Tut tut, this thing I’m baking is for no reason, no reason at all, just for fun.” Stupid. Of course the oven can’t hear me. I have tried returning a fallen cake to the pan and back into the oven. I have tried gluing a broken part of a layer on with icing. I have turned filling into sauce, icing into glaze, and an entire cake into trifle. All the while reciting my cake teacher’s mantra, “There are no mistakes, just a change of plan. There are no mistakes . . .” Sometimes the item can be saved, or at least transformed. But the question remains - who is doing this to us, and why?
It's All In How You Sift 6.24.11
Being both a health care provider and a baker have at least one thing in common, and that is the need to be precise. Whether taking a history from a patient or measuring ingredients, little things can make a big difference. For example. Once I was talking to a patient who was a schizophrenic. I asked him a routine question (for a schizophrenic), “Are you bothered by any hallucinations?” Without hesitation he said, “NO.” When I replied, “Great, then you aren’t having any hallucinations,” he said, “Oh, I’m having them alright, but they don’t BOTHER me.” See what I mean? Is this much different from discerning the difference between adding “three cups of sifted 10x sugar” and “three cups of 10x sugar, sifted” to a recipe? Not at all.
Visions of Sugarplums 6.23.11
Sometimes when I can’t sleep I concoct recipes in my head. I would rather do this during the day. The usual reason that I can’t sleep is that two of my three 20-something daughters are temporarily back home. I love my daughters. That’s why I can’t sleep. As I am going to bed and saying goodnight, they are going out the door and saying goodbye. That’s fine, until I wake up at 2 AM and look out the window and don’t see their car. I start out by telling myself to calm down, they are adults, go back to sleep. I lie back down. Ten minutes later finds me furiously texting them (by flashlight so as not to wake my husband, who is obnoxiously asleep). I text instead of call because of the “they-will-answer-texts-but-not-calls” phenomenon. Also it seems less intrusive. I lay there, clutching my cell phone, waiting for that reassuring little noise that signals a response to my text. Nope. Okay, now I really can’t sleep. Maybe I should wake up my husband and ask him if I should just go ahead and call them. He always tells me to stop worrying, they’re fine, leave them alone, then I feel better and go back to sleep. So I wake him up and ask him and he gives the wrong answer – “Yeah, it’s late, you better call them.” “WHAT?” I screech. “YOU’RE worried?” Ok, this is bad if he’s worried. He’s never worried. Hands shaking, I call. No answer. I sit in the dark, maniacally redialing over and over. Finally, a disgusted-sounding groggy voice says “WHAT, Mom?” Relieved but now angry too, I ask, “Why didn’t you call me? Where ARE you?” Big sigh. “Mom, we’re home, in bed.” I jump up and tiptoe into their room, holding my cell phone open as a flashlight. Sure enough, I shine it right into their faces (they hate that). Now they’re awake. And now I can sleep.
Just Peachy 6.22.11
I used to be fat. Even when I wasn’t, I thought I was. So baking, and then eating what I made, was a guilty pleasure. I was incredibly self-conscious, and I swear I had a sign on my back asking strangers to insult me. When I was in my 20s, I was watching a karate exhibit at a county fair while eating a peach (a GOOD food, right?), when this guy came up to me and said (no lie), “If you did karate you wouldn’t be so fat.” I was young, easily hurt, and inhibited, so I didn’t say anything. (Now, being over 50 – ok, well-over, actually - I would have a lot to say.) Anyway, it has taken me years to learn that there are no “good” foods or “bad” foods. That eating something scrumptious and decadent is one of life’s pleasures and is to be enjoyed. That by taking the value judgment out, you can enjoy SOME and not have to eat ALL. That I can bake sweet memories and enjoy them. That I can feed my body as well as my soul. Life is a peach after all.
Beauty Between the Lines 6.21.11
One of the reasons I want to have my own baking business is that I can be my own boss. Then, if I make a mistake, only I know about it. I dread making mistakes, and I know where this comes from. One day when I was in the second grade my teacher told the class to get out paper and a ruler. We were to draw lines all the way across the page and then color the spaces in between (an early form of mosaic, I guess). Soon everyone was busy making this happen. But not me. I couldn’t figure it out. How did you get the lines all straight? I began to sweat. My paper became damp. I pressed harder with my pencil and the paper began to tear. My lines were all over the place, haywire. I began to panic. Soon, I knew, Sister would be sidling up and down the aisles, looking at our work. And suddenly there she was. “Why, what are you doing? I expected better from YOU.” And there it was - failure and humiliation. I’ve often wished I could go back in time and tell her . . . oh, who am I kidding, I would still be afraid of her. But I have learned a lot since then, and one thing is that something doesn’t have to be perfect in order to be beautiful.
Custard's Last Stand 6.20.11
Don’t you just love the word “custard?" I love old words, like junket. (I am not even sure what that is, but I love it). When I was a little kid, we used to go to Betterton Beach on the Eastern Shore, and my grandmother would buy frozen custard for my sisters and me. She made a big deal about it not being just ice cream. I forgot about frozen custard for a while, ‘til one day I was in Ocean City and saw a woman eating a huge cone of what appeared to me to be frozen custard. Wow! Did it really still exist? To my family’s everlasting embarrassment, I ran up to her and asked, “Where did you get that?” Ok, I was probably a little too excited and perhaps appeared threatening, because she sort of drew back and shakily started walking in the opposite direction. I became obsessed. I had to re-capture this childhood memory. I speed-walked in the direction of the frightened woman ‘til I found the place. It advertised “frozen custard.” I bought a cone and…IT WAS ICE CREAM. How disappointing. How could a store be allowed to lie like that? One of my daughters said (and I’m sorry to report that it was in a very scornful voice), “Mom, frozen custard IS JUST ICE CREAM." I knew this was not true. But no one would believe me. I tried to convince them, and perhaps went on a bit too long ‘til everyone was thoroughly sick of the subject. To this day they make fun of me for this (and for traumatizing a woman on the boardwalk). The fact that we later found a store that had a huge poster listing the differences between ice cream and frozen custard didn’t matter. As I understand it, my ecstatic reaction, my yelling about being vindicated, only underscored the depth of my obsession. But there is a difference – and you can taste it.
Surprise!!! 6.19.11
Here’s another one under the heading of “What was I thinking?” It was my mother-in-law’s 75th surprise birthday party, and of course I volunteered to make a three-layer 14” chocolate cake. So it began. Each layer took, not 55 minutes, but 1½ hours. Did I mention my oven’s unfortunate quirk of sometimes baking stuff unevenly? Even so, I remained calm because I had a leveler. I attacked the first layer. It started out ok, I measured it right, but uh oh, the cake was wider than the leveler. So I got a knife and finished the job. It WAS even, but a whole lot shorter, and the top was very crumbly-fudgy. Well, I was getting tired and grouchy so I had a glass of wine. (Mistake - that made me way too nonchalant about handling the knife on the next layer.) I knifed that layer rather quickly. Not too satisfied with the overall symmetry, I decided to start stacking and correct any misshapen areas with icing. Base layer, stacked. Second layer, stacked. Uh oh, no icing between base layer and second layer. Damn wine. I decided to proceed, figuring no one would notice. But the second layer wasn’t centered. Have you ever tried to PUSH soft cake across soft cake? I’ll save you the trouble - it’s not possible. I regarded the uneven mess thoughtfully, and began lifting the bad layer off. “Lifting” is a euphemism for digging in with my hand and pulling chunks of cake off, and also some of the bottom layer which I hastily smashed back in. It was an out-of-body experience. I guess I just went a little bit crazy for a minute. As I looked at the wreckage, I knew I had to bake a replacement layer. Wearily, I got all the stuff out again. This layer turned out pretty even, so I decided to be “smart” and leave it in the pan ‘til the next day, i.e. not try to turn it out too soon and risk it cracking and sticking, etc. (FYI - don’t ever do that - don’t even ask why). So now I had four alleged layers. I ditched the idea of a whipped cream icing - what was I on when I chose white icing for a crumbly chocolate cake? Time to put all these layers in the fridge in the garage, the plan being to do the final assembly the next day. Having forgotten that I had removed the glass shelf from the fridge several days prior, I carefully placed it all on a non-existent shelf and watched as the entire stack fell three floors to the bottom, breaking into chunks. I knew just what to do – I got hysterical. Then, I came to my senses and called the bakery.
Going With The Current 6.18.11
I was getting pretty stressed out, what with trying to start a business and continue my “real” job, so my oldest daughter (noticing this) told me she wanted to take me out kayaking, to help me relax. I hesitated. I have been kayaking several times and it can cause trouble. You see, there are two ways to do this: in a kayak by yourself, or in a double. I have only ever gone in a double, being chicken. Let me tell you, I advise against the double if you are partnering with anyone you want to stay friends with. You WILL hate them in the end. For example, once my husband and I were kayaking on the Russian River in the Napa Valley. I was in the front, he was in the back. Supposedly the one in the back has to be the stronger, in order to steer. There was a good current moving us along, but even so I wondered why I was sweating and laboring as I paddled. I looked back and saw my husband, paddle over his knees, staring dreamily at the scenery. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I asked. “WHY AREN’T YOU HELPING?” He replied, “You are working harder than you have to. You always do that. Just let the current carry us.” Maybe he hadn’t noticed, but the current was busy carrying us into the underbrush. “Help me paddle!” I said through clenched teeth. He did, and we went right into an overhanging tree and flipped over. He will say this was not his fault. Anyway, you can see why I had some doubts about going kayaking. But I did go. I got a “single” even though I was a little nervous. My attitude has been changed. Once we navigated the bay, we entered a water trail. It was like we had been poured into a still life. A picture of a sun-warmed bowl filled to the brim with clear water, the side made up of grasses. No sound at all, except our whisper as we passed. My daughter had it right. I felt new.
Say Cheese 6.17.11
For the past 5 years I have studied French with a native speaker. I am not fluent by any means, but I can hold my own in a conversation. The reason I decided to study a language was that time I felt stupid in Italy. Here’s what happened. My husband and I were in Milan trying to find a certain market that we had heard was filled with all kinds of fresh foods. We especially wanted to buy some fresh parmesan cheese. First we got lost, so we stopped a kind-looking lady to ask directions. She didn’t speak English, and asked if we spoke French. Spanish? German? Uh, no, no, and no. We thanked her and slunk away, feeling like Americans. We finally did find the market, and the array of breads, mushrooms, fruits and cheeses was incredible. We were going home the next day, so we wanted just enough cheese to have for that night in the room, with some wine. Was ¼ lb going to be enough? We decided it was, and tried to tell the vendor, who naturally enough did not speak English. We tried saying it louder, then gesticulated, and finally I air-wrote “1/4 lb.” “Ah, si, si,” he said. Imagine our surprise when he dumped a large, heavy parcel in front of us. Too embarrassed to say anything, we grinned and backed away with our FOUR POUNDS of parmesan cheese. Well, at least we’d have enough now for a snack on the plane. Boarding the plane the next day, feeling like Lucy Ricardo holding the cheese in my arms, we ordered some wine and opened the package. The pungent odor of the cheese shot through the plane like a missile. At that point, I think we understood the words we heard around us, no matter what language they were in.
Labor and Delivery 6.16.11
I probably make it sound like I do nothing but make big messes. Not true, it’s just that the things that turn out don’t make for a pile of laughs. Except this one. I was on a roll for a while a few years ago making decorated cakes. Birthdays, graduations, confirmations, etc. Because my lawyer friend scared me to death about people coming to pick up their cake and falling on my sidewalk and liability and blah, blah, blah, I took it upon myself to deliver them. Again with the optimism. Did I even think for a minute about HOW exactly I would accomplish this? Here I am with a 10” or 12” two- or three-layer cake, just brimming with sugar roses and garland. Yes, it’s in a cake box, but what good is that? Put that on the back seat of the car and it’s no more stable than if you set it on the hood. Then try driving down my alley. You really don’t realize how many ruts there are ‘til you hit every one with a cake that took you hours to make, sliding around on the back seat. I recall one other time I felt this paranoid about being rear-ended. It was when I was going home from the hospital with my new baby. I remember glaring out the window at any car that came too close. Cake delivery is like that, but worse. At least the baby was in a car seat. They should make car seats for cakes. I should have one of those big yellow “Baby on Board” signs, just cross out “baby” and put “cake.” On second thought, maybe I should make people come to pick up their stuff . . . my nerves can’t take it.
Fudging It 6.15.11
I‘ve always thought of myself as an honest person - meticulously so. That’s why it made me feel so bad when I had to lie that one time. A woman who used to work for me saw me baking constantly, and when she asked me to make her son’s birthday cake, I was both flattered and nervous, on the spot as it were. Of course I said yes. Since it was for a nine-year-old boy, I thought chocolate was the way to go. Unfortunately this was before I had learned which of my chocolate cake recipes comes out of the pans, and which doesn't. I chose poorly. I had two ragged layers, one of them almost separated into halves and both of them leaning to the right. (My oven DOES bake unevenly, but I won’t say that because it sounds like an excuse and a GOOD baker would figure out how to compensate for that). Anyway, I was pretty sure that chocolate icing would make a good glue, and I slathered it on and built up the one side (kids like icing). I stuck the cake in the fridge and about an hour before my customer was going to pick it up, I took a peek and couldn’t believe my eyes. The whole right side of the cake was . . . melting is the word that comes to mind. My daughter, drawn to the kitchen by all the screaming, started murmuring soothing words like, “It’s ok Mom, it can’t be all that bad. Oh." Quick on her feet, she said, “I know! Remember that cake in the Disney movie Sleeping Beauty, where the fairies were all fighting over how to make it, and it ended up sort of runny and leaning? Just say you were GOING for that!” What was I to do? I had no choice. I went for it. She bought it. I went to confession, and made her another cake for free. And a pie.
Taking Risks 6.14.11
Deciding to start a baking business is crazy. But really, it’s now or never. What - am I going to wait 10 more years, at which point I will need the wheelchair ramp I will have installed for my customers? Oh yes, I have a life-size picture of what my little storefront will look like (a quaint building, on the street, windows, flower boxes, a climbing rose, all of my vintage decorations – and I have a lot – tables and chairs…I can see it all). It’s time to take a risk. Of course it’s scary. I’m not going to let that stop me. I’ve taken risks before. Like the time I bought those yellow shoes in NY. Ok, they were bright. One might say vivid. I have wanted yellow shoes ever since I had a beautiful pair years ago, but they got old and were sent to the “dress-ups” bin my daughters used to play in. These NY shoes weren’t exactly right, but they were there and so was I, so I got them. The risk part came when I wore them to work. People were actually coming into my office and saying “Ok, let’s see the shoes!” I could have taken that as proof that everyone liked my shoes and were in fact jealous, ‘til the elderly lady from billing came in for a peek. “Oh my,” she said. Then, as if collecting herself and determining to be nice said, “That’s ok, you go ahead and wear those shoes. You’re not HURTING anyone.” Hurting anyone?? I gave the shoes to my youngest daughter and dug the old ones out of the dress-ups.
Throw Momma On The Train 6.13.11
This entry is late because I spent the last two days in New York with my husband, mother-in-law, and sister-in-law. It was a trip for fun, and included a lot of eating - I consider that research. I like to look in bakery windows and see how other bakers decorate their confections, and what combinations of flavors they come up with. One of the last things we did today was to buy some very expensive cupcakes from a well-known market, to eat on the train ride home. We were pretty weighed down with our luggage and other purchases, but got to Penn Station intact. Now here is the thing. I do not understand this particular train station's way of loading passengers. This may sound petty, but it is so bizarre, I have to tell you about it. Actually, it is so incredibly random that I don't know why I am the first one to complain. My anxiety about this began on the train trip up. Here's what happens. First you must understand that although everyone has a ticket, there are no assigned seats, and it seems vitally important that you get to sit with your party. It's a mindset that takes over, believe me. So, mobs of people are milling around in the center of the station. A huge board in front announces the trains, their numbers, and time of arrival. But not the track each will be on, until the boarding announcement. There are, on each side of the huge room, several numbered escalators. No one knows which track THEIR train will be on. There are a lot of mind games going on, like "Last year we were on 12 West, so head over in that direction" or "Look at those people gathering over there, why are they over there? What do they know?" You act excessively casual as you slowly move over to where you think you might need to be.You watch the board like a hawk. All of a sudden the loudspeaker yells, "Train number 123 now boarding on Gate13 East." They might as well have announced "FIRE!" You thought you were ready but you are taken by surprise anyway. Wild-eyed, you grab your suitcase and fling yourself forward into the mob, which is rolling toward the gate. Dodging and darting, pushing and shoving, looking back over your shoulder so as not to get separated from your family, you behave in a way you taught your children not to. My suitcase suddenly feels heavier, and I realize I am dragging a man by his leg. But he doesn't say a word - he takes advantage of my slowing down to push past me. As I turn around to regain my place in front , I am horrified to see my usually gentle mother-in-law leaping over a baby stroller. My sister-in-law yells to me "Never mind, baby's okay, keep going!" I throw myself down the escalator and obey the voice behind me (my husband's) which is yelling "Turn right!" I run down the track and fling myself into the first car; not stopping for breath, I run down the aisle 'til I find four seats together. Success! Relief that it's over. Only a momentary and fleeting fear that I'm on the wrong train. (I'm not). Is this nuts? What kind of a system is this for a big city? Who's in charge here? But as the train pulls away, the last few moments fade rapidly, and we all reward ourselves with the cupcakes that somehow survived the battle.
Behaving Badly 6.12.11
The night before my dentist appointment I seriously debated canceling. Not because I was afraid - my dentist is very gentle and never hurts - but because I wanted to stay home and bake. (Being addicted to baking, or anything, causes you to lose perspective and renders you unable to make rational choices). In the end, I kept my appointment, but only because the power was out (refer to previous entry) and I was hot and couldn’t turn on the oven anyway. As I sat in the chair in the exam room and waited, I realized something. I (a nurse practitioner) was sitting there thinking like a patient. Here is what I mean. 1. I did not want to be there (ok, common, normal). 2. I had a definite bad attitude i.e.“He better not come in here and tell me something is wrong, I just won’t have it, I don’t have time.” 3. I planned to lie. It’s a self-defense mechanism really. I mean, I floss my teeth every other day. I don’t ever intend to floss every day. If the dentist asks me if I floss every day, I know what the right answer is - yes, I do. What does he care, if my gums are in good shape? Why should I burden him with the truth? Then he would have to tell me to floss every day, yada, yada, and I would have to look like I cared. This makes it easier on everyone. 4. I SAY I will make an appointment in 6 months, but that is unlikely. In 6 months it will be December, for God’s sake, my busiest baking time. But I don’t want to make an issue of that now when I am out the door. All of this is normal patient behavior. We are kidding ourselves if we think it isn’t. So now when I ask MY patients questions like “are you taking your medications?” or “do you plan to schedule that test?” I look at them with squinty eyes and ask, “Oh really?”
The Storm 6.11.11
Last night right in the middle of The Real Housewives of New York there was a huge storm and our power went out. So I ate five pieces of pizza and lit some candles. My main concern was for my muffins I had baked that evening and were now in the freezer. (They had turned out really well - two brand-new recipes I had thought up while stuck in beltway traffic on the way home from work). Usually when this happens our power is restored within minutes or at least hours. Not this time. I finally decided that since the pizza was gone I would just go to bed. No air conditioning, but that was okay, I would just turn on the fan. Oh, yeah, that’s electricity too. No matter, open the windows and let the humidity in. The sheets felt like damp washcloths. Hot damp washcloths. For the rest of the night I wandered around the house looking for and not finding a cool spot. I wanted to check on my muffins but didn’t want to open the freezer. This morning the power is still out, so I will have to post this later. It’s kind of cool, though. With the windows open you can hear your neighbors talking as they walk by in the alley, like after a blizzard but hotter. The warm air in the house recalls childhood summer days sweltering on the porch and eating sticky dripping popsicles. And walking down to the beach on hot glaring sidewalks. And tossing and turning on a hot bed in your hot room. HOW DID WE STAND IT? WHY DOESN’T THE POWER COME BACK ON? I gotta get out of here. Me and my muffins are going to go ride around in my car 'til things are back the way they oughta be.
Meanwhile, Back Home 6.10.11
It can be a little discouraging, trying to start a baking business. Gone are the days when you can just bake from home and sell, make a name for yourself, and off you go. I am trying to find a commercial kitchen to rent, as well as investigating all the rules and regs of the state. Plus continue to work at my "real" job. BUT all I have to do to get back into my peaceful zone is walk into my kitchen, put on my headscarf (my husband calls me the ninja baker) and pull out the flour and sugar. I am restored.
Baking in China 6.9.11
This is about the country, not the dishware. I visited my daughter in Shanghai last October for three fabulous weeks. She hosted a cocktail party for me to meet all of her friends, and I offered to help with the food. She also enjoys baking, and had told me about all of the things she had made for parties. We planned a menu, including mini-tarts and cake balls coated in ganache. (I had made friends with ganache by this point – see previous entry). The caveat here is that there are few, if any, ovens in China. So we did our baking in her toaster oven. Now, this particular toaster oven had some age on it, and probably wasn’t that good in the first place. Baking in it involved constant observation and turning pans around and guessing at the temperature. We realized that the cake had gone a little too long when the “corningware” dish exploded. Glass everywhere. We debated, but only for a minute, about picking the glass out of the cake. (What? Ingredients are very expensive there!). But integrity prevailed and we discarded the whole mess. Next we wanted to make a gluten-free dessert for her roommate, so I threw caution to the wind and made my usual pastry recipe, this time with rice flour. The result was dubious at best, but it took so long and was so much trouble that we served it anyway and people actually ate it. We served lots of wine with it. Amazing what you can do when you have to. I loved every minute. (And the toaster oven lived to bake another day.)
Wedding Cake, Shmedding Cake 6.8.11
Oh, I can laugh now. Years have passed since this trauma. It was right after I finished my cake class and I was full of my new-found skills and overblown ideas of my abilities. A friend who owns a local inn was hosting a wedding there and asked me if I could make the cake. She meant well. Thinking that my fear was a thing to be overcome and not a warning, I accepted. I didn’t have a decent night’s sleep from then on. First of all, I vaguely recalled from somewhere that wedding cakes needed supports in them. I couldn’t track down my cake teacher, so I decided that since this cake was going to be “simple and elegant” I could dispense with that part. (kind of like how I ignore the weird red warning light on my car’s dashboard. Theory - if you don’t know what it is, it can’t be that important. I no longer ascribe to this). I made about 30 royal icing roses and froze them. I then proceeded to make three cake layers in three sizes. Ok, I had cake, I had roses. A couple of days prior to the wedding I made the white icing. Just (“just”) the assembly and the decorating remained. Don’t start to decorate a wedding cake at 6 pm after a full work day. The crumb coat went on well - that only took 45 minutes. All the layers were sitting on top of each other and behaving. Everything would have been fine, except (I didn’t mention) this bride wanted chocolate filling between the layers. In my innocence, I thought that because the cookbook said that ganache is easy, it would be. Well, it sort of is, but you have to try it a few times, work with it, get to know it. But no matter, I had learned in my class how to do filling. I made the ganache and it seemed a little “loose” (i.e. runny). I popped it in the fridge for a while, then in the freezer for good measure. Still runny. Maybe this was how ganache was, and it would thicken later while nestled between the layers. At any rate, I didn’t have time to wait for it. I slathered it on and put the layers on each other and did the crumb coat. Now it was time for the final coat of icing and the roses. It was 9 pm. To make a cake look smooth, there is this plastic thing that looks like an iron. You take some special paper, lay it in a spot somewhere on the cake (you have to start somewhere) and iron it. This takes way longer than it sounds like it should, especially when the “special paper” leaves marks like a paper towel would. So you have to re-iron. I persevered (I was exhausted by this time) and was almost done when to my horror I saw my second layer spring a leak. Chocolate ganache was oozing runnily out, onto the pure white and very smooth icing. I screamed and grabbed a glob of icing from the bowl and slapped it on the leak like spackling. It was 10 pm. The wedding was the next day. I didn’t know what to do, so first I cried and then I blamed my husband. He felt sorry for me, so he helped me spackle the rest of the cake where it looked iffy. We then gingerly carried the cake to the fridge. For a few times that night I went to the fridge, held my breath, and slowly opened the door a crack and peeked in with my eyes half-shut, expecting God-knows-what. How I slept that night I do not know. How we got the cake to the inn the next day I REALLY don't know, except I seem to recall sitting in the back of the car, cradling it in my arms. I never asked my friend the innkeeper what happened when the bride cut the cake (did a shower of ganache burst forth and cover her gown?) But for some reason she never asked me to make another wedding cake. (And that's fine, because wedding cakes are OFF my menu.)
Pick a Peck . . . or Not 6.7.11
It's going to sound like all I do is pick fruit, but the strawberry entry reminded me of this. Last fall my friend and I returned to the farm to pick apples. To me, fall = making apple-anything. I love to pick apples. OK, so. We got there and were immediately told that the orchard wouldn't be ready 'til tomorrow. I don't like to be thwarted, but I couldn't convince the woman to make an exception in my case because, well, it was ME. Option two was to just get over it and buy some from the barn. They looked good, and the peck size was on special. I don't remember the exact price, but say it was $10. A 1/2 peck was $5.99. Because there were no full peck baskets there, I chose two 1/2 peck baskets and took them up to the counter. "That will be $12," the lady said. "Oh, no. I got a peck, so it's $10." "No, you got two halves." I was confused. "Don't two halves make a whole?" I asked, feeling stupid for even asking that. "Yes, they do." Oh good, she wasn't nuts. So, I handed over my $10. "You owe me $2," she said patiently. "But the sign! It's a peck! I bought a peck!" At this point, I recited it with her - "No, you bought two halves." On the farm, it's their way or the highway. I handed over the $2.
The Muffin Ministry 6.6.11
I needed customers. Admittedly, my "bakery" at this point existed solely in my head. Though not if you asked my family. Every day they came home from work or school to a kitchen covered in flour and every surface occupied with sweets in various stages of production. A foreigner listening in would assume "DON'T EAT THAT!" meant hello in English. An exaggeration. I let them have a taste. But most of it went to my friend, Margo. She has worked with the poor in the city for years, and it has been my pleasure to bake for her. (My husband would see a cake or three pies on the kitchen table and ask, "Margo?") One day while driving home from work, as I mused about Margo's recent comment to me about how grateful the people were, and how it cheered and warmed them to think that someone would "go to the trouble" for them, I had an idea. Instead of random treats, let's have a weekly donation...a muffin ministry. My imagination took off. Each week I create new muffin recipes that are received with enthusiasm by my biggest fans. I have the pleasure of knowing that the muffins are warming their hearts and feeding my soul.
Bake Sales and Other Lessons 6.5.11
Life is a series of learning experiences. Once I learned that no matter how beautiful and delicious I KNOW my product is, an eight-year-old may not see it that way. For example, the girls' school was having a bake sale. Of course I volunteered, and decided to send in an apple pie. Now, I pride myself on my pies. So there you go, I was asking for it. "Pride goeth etc." I dropped off the pie, and later, when I picked the girls up from school, I asked how it went (meaning, "Was my pie the first to be bought? Did anyone comment on how gorgeous it was? Or on how it tasted?") "Huh? I dunno," one of them said. But the oldest piped up and informed me that "Kids don't really like pie. Finally one of the teachers bought it. Kids like cake with lots of stuff on it." Wait a minute, I saw those cakes. They were either store-bought or evilly-colored. So, my first focus group. Message - know your audience. For the next bake sale, I concocted a towering conglomeration of tinted frosting, Oreos, M&M's, sprinkles, and whatever else I could think of to throw on. It was hideous. I should have been ashamed of myself. It was the first cake to be sold.
Strawberry Memories 6.4.11
Yesterday I went to a farm and picked 16 lbs of berries. The warm sunshine and laughter of little kids picking (eating) next to me took me back to another time. For years, when my daughters were in grade school, on the very last day of school we would go strawberry picking. Followed by a snowball at the stand in the parking lot, or a lemon with a peppermint stick. (The operative word being "stick-y"). Then we'd go home and make strawberry pies and muffins. Wait, this sounds sickeningly idyllic. It WAS fun, but to get the total picture: visualize a small un-air conditioned kitchen and 3 hot sticky children who tire of hulling berries after the third one, and leave to watch TV. They return in time to make a few passes over pastry with the rolling pin. But it's ok, I'm in my element and together we created more than dessert - we created a memory.
The Vintage Baker is Born 6.3.11
I had a patient in the 1960's who was very sick, and I took care of her for a long time. We became friends, and wrote letters back and forth for years. To her I owe one of the best recipes in my repertoire - she called it "old time lb. cake." I still have the faded scrap of yellowing paper that she wrote out the recipe on, with a "good luck, hon!" at the bottom. This cake is dense and moist and is an immediate hit everywhere. The house is filled with its unmistakable aroma as it bakes, and makes me feel warm and cozy and Christmassy even in the summer.
This cake is so good that I began to think about how nowadays so many desserts and sweets are fast and easy and fake. Why not have a niche of making authentic, old recipes? I contacted friends (ok, especially old ones) and friends of friends to gather all the old-time recipes I could. I got some good ones. I got picky about my ingredients - using only fresh-squeezed lemon juice, top-of-the-line vanilla, etc. Thus the name "The Vintage Baker." Not because I am old, because I'm not, but because my recipes harken back to a slower, safer time. The tastes and smells soothe and comfort and heal. One caveat: Because I am so grateful to Mom G (as I called her) for the pound cake recipe, I forgive her for setting me up on a truly horrible blind date with her grandson, whose main selling point (as she so proudly told me in a voice weighted with awe) was that he had a car.
This cake is so good that I began to think about how nowadays so many desserts and sweets are fast and easy and fake. Why not have a niche of making authentic, old recipes? I contacted friends (ok, especially old ones) and friends of friends to gather all the old-time recipes I could. I got some good ones. I got picky about my ingredients - using only fresh-squeezed lemon juice, top-of-the-line vanilla, etc. Thus the name "The Vintage Baker." Not because I am old, because I'm not, but because my recipes harken back to a slower, safer time. The tastes and smells soothe and comfort and heal. One caveat: Because I am so grateful to Mom G (as I called her) for the pound cake recipe, I forgive her for setting me up on a truly horrible blind date with her grandson, whose main selling point (as she so proudly told me in a voice weighted with awe) was that he had a car.
Feeding the Soul 6.2.11
I am not a trained chef. I am a health care provider. For 40 years. I enjoy it (most of it) and I'm good at it. But my passion is baking. I didn't always know this. Oh, I knew I liked to bake, I had been doing it for years. My Mom taught me to make Christmas cookies and Thanksgiving pies. The memories of coming home from school on a snowy day to the aroma of chocolate chip cookies inspired me to do the same for my children. I baked often, but was busy with raising three daughters and working. But then, the daughters grew up and moved away to college. What was I to do with my extra time (besides working full-time)? I will skip over the whole empty nest saga - it's too long. But I did some reading about "find your passion." What was mine? I was afraid I didn't have one. During this time, I had been working with a local charity, making desserts for them once a month. Then it expanded to two charities. It was fun! People would thank me profusely, but I felt like thanking them, because they gave me a reason to bake. Then (a couple of years ago) a friend invited me to take a cake decorating class. I did it more for the fun of going out with a friend than anything else,but I found out that I was good at it. I began to make buttercream roses and cakes that looked like a basket of flowers and soon family and friends were asking me to make cakes for their special occasions. I became addicted to baking. I baked every chance I got, for any reason or none at all. People who tasted my creations began to tell me to go into business. "This is the best cake I've ever tasted, you have to sell it!" The poor and the homeless that I bake for once a week call me "the cake lady" and send out the word when they hear that I am delivering something. I discovered that something baked with love and given away fed the soul. I had found my passion.
