It Ain't Over Yet

The sky is dark as pitch right now, beastly clouds chasing out what is left of Summer, and my camera is busted (a curse upon you oh techno Gods), but I can still take a nostalgic stroll to where the sky was once dotted with dancing bunnies and three headed dragons, and America was taking its turn on my play list (c'mon, I spent my kid years in Cali, cut me some slack, you muskrat you!). Just back from the Farmers Market with my kids; a Summer's heist, bags full of treats--berries, apricots, chewy bread, basil, free-range chicken...


I made pesto and more pesto and more pesto...but here, just for you, is a good start.

Into the Cuisinart went:
2+ very large handfuls of very well rinsed basil
5 juicy cloves of garlic
a generous handful of walnuts
1/3+ c. freshly grated parmesan
1/4+ c. virgin olive or grape seed oil
kosher salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

Begin to pulse, and add oil in a slow stream (I used grape seed oil cuz it's what I had on hand) and keep going until a nice wet paste is created. Taste and season as preferred with s&p and more parmesan if you like; learn what makes you happy, and do it.

Fantastic--the smell, the color, the taste.

On peasant bread with heirloom tomatoes and some slices of parmesan on top--killer...
oh, and if you get some ham in there too...a massacre!



to store: place in a jar or other 'liddable' container and top off with oil to keep it from discolouring (even if it does, it's not gonna kill you), and tuck it in the fridge, will keep for about a week.

A Tart Grows in Brooklyn

This my friends, is a no brainer. It's a fruit tart I made with some apricots that my friend E gave me from her overly bountiful trip to the Farmers Market. From time to time, I like to use, ahem, frozen Pillsbury pie dough (usually for my chicken pot pies more so than anything else). For the purists out there, forgive me, but I have to tell you that they bake up very nicely, and will do in a (single mom) pinch.

You need:
a cookie sheet, covered in parchment or a silicon matt
1/2 of a Pillsburry pie crust
7-8 apricots, washed, halved and stoned (I mean take the pits out Amelia)
turbinado sugar
butter

Pre-heat your oven to 375f. Roll the dough as well as you can into a rectangle. Yes, it's a half circle, it CAN be done, do you have to be so literal all of the time. Roll up the edges and press them down gently, just until they stay put and form a nice barrier to hold in the juices. Lay in the apricot halves. I place them with the stone side, or the pit side up, which makes for a rustic look. If you want something more refined, flip those babies over. I placed about a Tablespoon worth of butter, in bits and sprinkled it on top. I then sprinkled a very generous amount of turbinado sugar, about a 1/4 c. over the fruit.
Into the oven it went for about 20 minutes so the fruit would soften, and the juices would render and mix with the sugar and the butter.

I served this up plain, but dang it if I wasn't wishing that I had had some ginger ice cream to go along with it!

Sentimental Journey

These are my Grandparents, Mary and Hugh, or Baba and Gogo as they liked to be called; the only ones I was fortunate enough to have met. When I was very young, they were with the Foreign Service in Europe, and my family was living in California. We communicated primarily via cassette tapes which we sent back and forth 'par avion'. They would record stories, and Gogo would play us a tune on his piano. My brother and I would blurt "hello, cheeseburger" into the mic, and fall over in peels of laughter, rendering us useless to the rest of the dialog.

Sometimes, during the summer months, while we were off from school, we would meet halfway, in rural Pennsylvania. While there, Gogo taught me how to play 'Over The Rainbow' (with two fingers!!) and would take me on long twilight walks after supper. Baba attempted to teach my brother and me The Lord's Prayer, "...forgive u(snot) our trespasses..." (yes, my brother and I were cheeky twits), and would give my little hands manicures with lovely clear orangey pink iridescent polish.

Summer is on the cusp, as it was then, and as I think of them, right now, I know what a gift it is to have had these experiences with two of the most remarkable people I have known.

Funfetti?!!!

My daughter just turned 8. The weather was delicious and we had a picnic here in Greenpoint; tasty finger sandwiches, perfectly ripened fruit--cherries, mangoes, melon, berries, water balloons, silly hats and the most perfect climbing tree. My friend M was all over my "martha-ness" (how did that old bird get to take the credit for any one's gift of style anyway?). The kids were drooling over the cupcakes, busily predetermining which one they would get (riiiight) when one of the carriers toppled over,"wasn't me!!!" they all yelped in unison, hands in the air. A little rescuing, and only one casualty, which really was only a cupcake stripped of its liner cup. M saw this cupcake, her eyes widened with surprise, and with her subtle sarcasm uttered, "Funfetti!? You're this amazing baker and you made Funfetti cupcakes!?!"


Absolutely. I got my start in baking with box mixes. My first cakes where Jiffy brand, way back when they even had a frosting that you could make by just adding water. It may seem sacrilegious for some for a baker to use a box mix, but let's get real here. It's just mama pulling together this birthday party. That means the planning and the shopping and the fixin' and the carting over to the park and the setting up, and the and the and the. . .and ya know, I frost them with the real sh*t, two different flavors in fact-- a mocha ganache and a coconut butter cream.

Chocolate Ganache:
melt over low flame:
1/4 lb unsalted butter
1 lb. semi-sweet chocolate

mix in bowl:
1 cup heavy cream
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1/4 tsp. salt
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1/4 cup extra extra extra strong coffee

Add chocolate to cream mixture, mixing well. Allow to set at room temp at least 3 hours before using.


Coconut Butter Cream:
1 lb. confectioners sugar
1/2 cup unsalted butter. softened
salt to taste
1/4 cup cream of coconut
1 tsp vanilla

Cream butter, add sugar and continue to blend in mixer at slow speed. Add cream of coconut, vanilla and salt. Beat at medium speed 1-2 minutes until creamy. Add more cream of coconut as needed until desired consistency is reached.





Suffice it to say, there is no shame here.

I'm Gonna Put a Melting On You

This heat we have been having is beyond unbearable. About as unbearable as business being slow the week before Father's Day. I suppose Daddy's are slated for golf balls and ugly ties, not sweets. Poor daddy's. I suppose the silver lining to business dragging is that I don't have to bake very much in this weather, which gives me plenty of time for silly melty face pics with my girl!


















Got a great piece of news today however. My brownies, which have been selling at Dylans's Candy Bar since January are now going to be sold home-style, cut from a pan at purchase, and not the typical celo bag. I am so in love with this idea, they'll look fresher, will move faster, and best of all, I'll no longer have to print out and individually cut out each sticker (no, there were no stickers in this particular dimension, believe me, I looked). Thank you Brownie Gods.
Back to melting. . .

I'll Be Loving You. . .

In Loving Memory of
MKS
1/7/1917 - 6/9/2003

I am raising my glass of chilled pink wine: here's to Yugoslavia, and your beautiful smile and laugh; here's to long weekend visits with you, and your belief in me; here's to your generosity, Yugoslavia, and your grace; here is to your strength, and your wisdom; here is to your flamingo pink lipstick worn to an itsy nub and your t-strap Ferragamo shoes; here is to the manicures you gave me as a little girl, and to attempting to teach G. and me 'The Lords Prayer' (forgive us 'snot' our trespasses); here is to your hidden stashes of candy, your flimsy nighties, your sneaking off for a smoke, and Yugoslavia; here is to everything I haven't mentioned, or have forgotten to mention. Here is to the wonder that was you.
I'll love you. . .always.

Drinks Are On Me

When the mercury is about to pop its cherry, and my small white-girl butt feels as if it stuck to the backs of my ankles, about all I want to do is drink. While water is the staff of life, my body and brain don't function very well on H2O alone. I have two drinks that I love to make. One helps me to get me thru these sultry days; the other to calm me during the nights.

I first tasted the Morir Soñando ( translates to 'to die in a dream') when I was little girl. It was one of those flavors that I recalled throughout much of my life but never came close to tasting again until I worked in the kitchen of Le Bernardin. It was often made up by one of the Dominican cooks who worked the morning shift. On the days that I was able to work a morning shift, and get there early enough after dropping my kids at school, I would be able to enjoy this gorgeous concoction of milk, sugar and OJ over ice, served in a tall acrylic tumbler a la 70's diner, it really is unsurpassed by most.


Morir Soñando: serves 2
* 2 cups orange juice
* 1/4 -1/2 cup of sugar (to taste)
* 2 cups whole milk
* 2 1/2 cup of ice cubes

While very simple to make, there are a few tricks that must be adhered to. The milk must be very cold, and you have to allow for some time for the sugar to the milk to dissolve before mixing in the juice. After the milk/sugar mixture has chilled, add the ice. In a slow stream, add the OJ while mixing all the while. Pour into two tall glasses (along with the ice), take a seat, put your feet up and enjoy.


This next drink, La Paloma, is a cocktail, which on a day like today, I should have made hours ago.
I like to eyeball this one when I make it.

Fill an old fashioned with ice. Squeeze the juice of one lime and drop lime half in glass. Add about 2-3 fingers of Herradura Tequila--I have used the gutter wash brands with this drink as well, and it's still pretty damned good. Top off with Jarritos brand Taronja (grapefruit) soda ( I would have linked ya, but in this age of Mercury Retrograde, I am lucky if I can still put my pants on). Add straw, stir lightly, dab a bit on your pulse points, and you are good to go.

Now chillll. . .

Lions and Tigers and Mercury is in Retrograde, Oh My!

I don't usually give much credance to the juxtaposition of the moons and the stars above, but after the oddities and mishaps of the past week and a half or so, I think that there might just be something to it. Mercury in Retrograde, for those of you who don't know what it means, means simply this: Murphy's Law on Crack--if it can go wrong, it will go wrong. For starters and most relevant here, is that I have not been able to post. Everything I write turns to jibberish. I am using a less superior browser now, but at least I can get my thoughts down now and not have them turned into a series of irritating question marks. Here is a short list of what has transpired.

~ a class trip to the Bronx Zoo with my girl, S. and all that we saw were lumps of fur resting in the shady brush. Check the pic, seems my camera was on the blitz too.
~ a cancelled second date (because of 'dinner with a client') and no rain-check (ouch) with someone I thought very promising. what I do I know? nothing. clearly. I'll take some small small comfort in what my friends Z and J always say (or would say if they shared one brain) 'oh, he must be gay!! you're hot milk, mommy!'
~ a big and complicated snafu invovling sample boxes that arrived too late, and a request for brownies in said sample boxes for a product/pr trade also came too late.
~ an insane rush to get 300 brownies to Rachael Ray to film a 'Snack of the Day' segment, only to find that it won't be aired in the Fall. c'mon people, mama needs income now. make that yesterday.
~ half a day with my cell phone in a 'black-hole'--missed a total of almost a dozen texts and phone calls.
~ my trusty printer has taken a vacation, light are on but nobody is home!


well, this is completely unfinished, but at the risk of not beign able to post this later, I am putting it out there now, and will finish it off later gator. or not. I'll just blame it on that big bully in the sky--Murphy McMercury

Ramen Love With You

I don't know about you, but I am feeling a chill today. Blue skies with a few wisps of clouds, a soft breeze, 63degrees--a perfect day. But I am cold down to my bones. Fortunately, I have my secret weapon, and it's not my nappy-ass sweater or my stripey socks, it's a hot steamy bowl of Ramen Noodles. I have found very few things, save for submerging myself into a hot bath, that help with a chill. Beyond the warmth of the spicy and tongue preserving saltiness of the broth, it must have something to do with the msg. I bet that could help with the energy crisis and global warming and fuel costs. We can all go back to the days of cold-water flats and keep ourselves warm with ramen fuel. Well, I'll leave you to ponder that, as my Ramen awaits.

A Stache Grows in Brooklyn

Lately I have noticed a ridiculous number of men sporting thick furry strips on their upper lips. Gone is the hirsute uber hipster full on beard (praise be to Allah, Buddha and Ganesha on that one). Seems they have been shunned for a trimmer sleeker slip of the fuzz. I am not sure how I feel about this. It's also curious how I have seen most of these men at McCarren Park, running about the track in black socks. Really. Feels kinda dirty to me. Really (yes, I meant to say it twice). Hence, the stache is dirty. Maybe these crumb-catchers are being grown for humanitarian purposes? One can only hope.

Thou Shalt Not Covet

OK, for the record, I was raised by Hippie-Freak-Heathens, very well educated, highly evolved artist/intellectuals, but HFH's none the less, I mean c'mon, my father wanted to name me Lotus Blossom for *uck sake...but I am digressing. My point, if I have one here, is that we never went to church, save for the three times we went with Baba and Gogo during our rare Christmas visits. So for me, to feel that I have done something wrong, to know that I am feeling something wrong, well that comes from the moral fiber within myself. I am having feelings for an inanimate object, a material thing. While I may not be 'sinning', I can tell you my obsession with this frilly vermilion postage stamp of a trench coat (3/4 sleeves? are you kidding me?!) feels pretty dirty, OK, not 'dirty' per se, but there are certainly other things more deserving of my thoughts and click thru time than of fantasizing about wrapping myself in a silly trench of cotton with a bit of nylon for sheen, the ruffle trim accentuating my decollete, those three-quarter raglan sleeves allowing admirers to, well, admire my slender wrists, and that smart self-belt which tucks into a bow a the waist, its length falling to my knees. I want this coat. I must have this coat. Oh, the things that might happen if I had this coat. Thankfully, my moral fiber (yes, it's probably more of a mores thing, but who really cares), that 'single mommy with just enough scratch for the essentials' fiber, keeps me from slappin' down the plastic। Sighhh; I suppose I'll go flagellate myself now.

"Uchhh, You Look Like a Cow"

Last week, while I was heading into the city on the L to get my monkeys from school, I was reminded of my maternal grandmother, M.K.. As I leaned against the door, my eyes drifted about the crowded train car; I spied something very odd and somewhat remarkable-- a rather large herd of people chomping away on gum. Not one or two narcoleptic gum chewers, but a head count of at least seven. Not a soft nibbling of gum behind closed lips, but a mouth wide open, lip slopping, teeth gnashing, tongue rolling kind of chew. The kind of chewing that might cause 'one' to compare another to a cow. That 'one' being my Baba; she had a sweet tooth to rival all sweet tooth's. She was clearly born with a Goldberg Peanut Chew in one hand, and a See's milk chocolate butter cream in the other. Her freezer was always packed with ice cream, candy dishes (overflowing) littered her home, in her purse was a tiny arsenal of treats, and she even had a stash of Goldberg’s in the top drawer of her dresser where she kept her stockings. What she didn't have tho, ever, as in NEVER, was gum. She loathed it. I never asked her why, but I think she felt it a lower class habit. Having come from a shanty-Irish family in Upper Darby, PA, she worked hard to separate herself from her lower class beginnings, which she was able to do because she was very bright, jaw dropingly stunning, and most importantly, she did not chew gum. My brother and I appreciated all of the goodies she put out for us on our visits, but we also had a thing for gum--breaking our jaws with Bazooka, puffing on 'cigars', nibbling bottle caps and chiclets fruit flavored...the gum from underneath the table at the Diner (don't deny you never tried it). We just adored the junk. Whenever our Baba got an eyeful of us with our mouths full, she would pull a face and mutter "uchhhh, what are you chewing on? You both look like cows." We would snort and go on our cud chewing way. I still enjoy gum; orbit mint mojito gum in particular is my current fave. But I have to say, during that mohhhhsey of a train ride under the river, having nowhere to look but deep into the mouths of that gum smacking herd, I finally understood my Baba's disdain, because inside of my head, until I was able to flee the cattle car, was, "Oh yuck! shut your mouths, shut your mouths, shut your mouths, you look like effing cows!"

Let Them Eat Hoochie Mama Cake

My baby brother turned 40 the other day. Couldn't tell you exactly when he morphed from a wisecrackin' chicken legged critter into a towering dry witted man, but he did. Socially conscious, he said he didn't want any gifts that would end up in a landfill. What he really wanted, what most men seem to desire, was a Playboy Bunny jumping out of a cake, and onto his lap. Falling just short of having any connections with the Heff (save for that one dream I had about frolicking about the Playboy Mansion circa 1973, I kid you not) I went out and found myself one 'Susie', (aka Hoochie-mama) cake topper. The cake I chose to bake up was chocolate (of Horseradish Grill fame) dense and moist; between the 4 layers was a mocha ganache; the frosting, a coconut cream. The stage was almost set; there was the round cake--a round bed. My monkey, S., and I patted shredded coconut onto the coconut cream frosting--the white fur blanket. We placed 2 acid-red Hostess Zingers near an edge, and tossed on a few heart shaped chocolate dipped cookies--the bolsters and pillows. Little Hoochie Susie, in her naughty nitie, took repose upon the 'bed' with her glass (filled with yellow sugar and dragees) and bottle of champagne. Quite foxy; very Ann-Margret a'la Tommy. Baby brother was very, very pleased with his gift, and at his age, a Bunny jumping onto his lap might very well have given him an unkind jolt. G. was so taken with Susie, she now keeps him company (as part of his toy collection) at work, and will no doubt, like any good hooch, find herself upon many a cake in the future.

The Well Heeled Baker

A little while ago I joined my bff, Z, for a little shopping excursion to a super swishy store in the Meat Packing district. She was hot to spend a gift certificate, I just relished the opportunity to take a break from Sugartown.
Initially I was completely taken by a Dior number, a floaty vermilion dream of a dress with a floppy poppy upon one shoulder; another story, another lifetime perhaps, sigh. What distracted me from my opiate laced dream, were the shoes. Glorious, well heeled shoes of insane proportions. Shoes not meant to be worked in. Shoes one would wear only to be carried about in a chariot no doubt. Chariot to elevator, chariot to desk, chariot to coffee machine…Still, I was taken.
With the work that I do, baking, and the occasional catering gig or cooking party, flat shoes are, as snoozy as my new perception makes them, a must—typically a pair of blunnies or converse. When I worked at AshBox I was so brazen as to wear flip-flops. This has for the most part meant that these vertically challenged varieties are the ONLY variety of shoe that I wear. From morning to night. From cradle to grave, I fear. Flat, flat, flat.
Adamant I was to change this. The other day a cute pair of very tall and strappy espadrilles caught my eye, and I snatched them up and brought them home. I slipped my feet into them, fed the tiny strap through the clasp, and off I went about my kitchen, posture improved, bum in the air. Simpler to reach those things on high, tho a bit of a wobbly challenge to dip low to retrieve needed items.
I now wear them when I cook supper, or test a new recipe। My daughter is taken with the notion as well, and uncovered quite a few pairs of long neglected heels of mine that are soon to experience a rebirth as we put them on and shuffle about. I have mastered the terrain of my kitchen, without too much pain, and with a bit of grace. I know that one day these heels will touch pavement, hopefully with chariot awaiting (that, or I remember to keep some flip-flops in my bag).

The Sign of the Cookie

Quite often customers request that a gift card be enclosed with a shipment. I usually don't pay too much attention to them, but every so often one stands out.

"Sometimes me think what is love, and then me think love is what last cookie is for. Me give up last cookie for you."
~ Cookie Monster

Cookie and I have a bit of history, but not for the obvious CM:cookie connection. It's because my friend J helped me thru a rotten ass-whoopin of a year with his loving and supportive Cookie Monster laden emails. They were silly and sweet, and boosted my spirits at times, and am thankful that he was there in some way for me. It wasn't however, without an undercurrent, of course, as along with J and CM, there was that nasty bugger of a monster, 'unrequited love monster'. Eventually, when my life began to resemble a simmering chaos rather than the rapid boil that it had been, it got to be more painful to have J in my life than not. I would completely fall to pieces after we would hang out. I wished him well in my heart and tried to move on. When cookie monster came up in an order I for a single moment, thought it a sign; J had come to his senses* and realized that he wanted my 'cookie' aka my heart, but I knew it was just another kick in the head that the fates have disguised as something 'random' (what is up with that anyway!).

But, despite my romantic failings, (and how I took someones loving sentiment for their mother and turned it into something to add to my self suffering) I still adore Cookie Monster, his simple nature and sloppy exuberance. As for J, well that's trickier, I'm sure you know how that goes. My cookie, well it's just about mended, and looking for a plate to call home.


*You see boys and girls, (unfortunately) I do believe in fairy tale romances-- both my Baba and my mom had them. I figure it's just a matter of time before I get mine... or that long over-due lobotomy.