Joy the Baker

Something happened last night-

It involved me, my space heater, a few comforters, season one of Pushing Daisies, a spoon, and an entire container of chilled rice pudding.

I realized two things last night. One: while Pushing Daisies is beautiful and charming, it’s almost too sweet. It is still, however, an effective way to wish away three hours of a Sunday evening. Two: Yes, my stomach does have the capacity to hold about 8 cups of rice pudding. How awesome is that!?

I ate the whole thing. Fact. Every last creamy, soft, raisin studded, vanilla bite. And the truth? I’d do it all again tonight if I could… and I can… but I won’t. Does that make sense?

This Rice Pudding might be best shared with your family. It’s Super Comfort.  If comfort became a super hero and came to save the day, it would come in the form of this rice pudding.

If you do have to eat the entire thing by yourself, under your covers on a cold night, well…that’s not such a hard cross to bear, is it?

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Say “Hey Neighbor!” with homemade.  Nothing says “Hey!  I like who you are.  I’m glad we’re in the world together” like homemade chocolate chip cookies.  Nothing  helps makes the world a better place like letting people know they’re appreciated.  See how that works?  Spread the good.

Whole Wheat, if not little by little then lot by lot.  Sure, whole wheat flour has been all the rage for years now, but it hasn’t really touched my heart.  This year, approach whole wheat little by little.  Your belly might just welcome a whole wheat triple chocolate cake, emphasis on the triple chocolate.   

Vegan time?  A few less sticks of butter and eggs and milk might just do a body good.  Those Chocolate Peanut Butter Cookies I made with Jill treated me right.  There should be more vegan baking in our futures.

Play.  Commit to playing in your kitchen.  Visit to one of those fancy food shops and buy yourself a treat.  Maybe something that you never played with in the kitchen before.  Get it home and get crackin’.  There’s something fundamentally awesome about playing with new ingredients in the kitchen.  It’s like getting that new color of Play-Doh for Christmas, and just about losing your mind. 

Give.  The best part of baking, aside from eating a brownie fresh from the oven, is being able to share your treats with others.  You might even consider contacting a shelter that might be able to take your goods.  That’s thinkin’.

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Tonight, from San Francisco, I’m raising my glass to one heck of a memorable year.  

 There have been highs and lows, lots of learning, some tears and plenty of beauty.   

Loads of goodies have come out of my oven.  Photos have filled the memory of my computer, and silly stories have flowed out onto the Internet.  

Here we are at the end and at the beginning.  Like a hop, skip and quick restart.

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Kid Table.  Can we talk about the Kid Table?  The Kid Table was something that I had to endure every holiday from the age of three to um…. present.  You know what the Kid Table is, right?

The integral family socialization tool.  The foundation of society.   The folding table and chairs circa 1943 that your Grandma busts out every every every Christmas.  Who sits at this pint sized table?  Certainly not Grandpa, Grandma, or any other high ranking family members.  

It’s called the Kid Table for a reason.  It’s where you dump all the kids.  In the adult mind, I think it’s the “sit down, eat your Christmas dinner, and if you’re going to throw your Jello salad at each other, I prefer to ignore it” table.  

The Kid Table still exists in my family.  One small catch:  there are no more kids in my family.  

Let me just say that Christmas dinner at the Kid Table is now…. more awesome than ever!  Kid Table got cool.  Kid Table is now the place to be.  Boom… youth success!

There’s nothing like wine, family smack talk with your cool uncles, and stealing all of the thunder from the main table.  They would sooooo like to think they’re the main event.  False.  Kid Table… cooler than ever!

And now… Pear Spice Cake.

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There is one reason why I have continued to feed myself, bathe, and otherwise keep myself alive these past few days: enchiladas. My Dad is making enchiladas for tomorrow’s Christmas lunch. I’m in. I’m so alive and I’m so in.

I’m going to come out of the next few family laden days with a camera full of pictures of my little sister doing various silly things, my uncle tormenting unsuspecting family members with a can of Redi-Whip Cream, and my Dad in several Christmas inspired aprons.

Mostly I just wanted to stop and say Hey! Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Cheers to celebration, family, friends and food! It’s important. You’re important…. and I mean that. Have a great, belly filling holiday, and thanks for coming by and saying nice things like you always do. It means a lot to me.

Still looking for those last minute recipe? Here’s a few goodies you might be able to whip up without heading out to the store.

Peppermint Meringues

Just the Best Chocolate Brownie Cookies um… ever.

Make ‘em love you Apple Crisp.

Mocha Rum Cake… for serious.

Happy Holidays to you and yours.

I need to talk to you about the holidays, about the parties, about the dress, and about the cocktails. I need to talk to you about how cake, how the right cake can make it all better.

I had the perfect holiday dress all picked out. This dress would get me through thick and thin, casual and dressy. It was a simple and sassy black dress. I could do it up with colorful tights and heels or tone it down with a cardigan and scarf. This dress could go from holiday family function to night on the town…

All was fine and good until the dress actually went out on the town. Correction- I went out on the town and… well… the dress didn’t survive.

Let’s just say, that after several glasses of wine, and various other spirits, I found myself (and my dress) rolling down a rainy concrete hill. Don’t worry. I wasn’t hurt. I was protected by a hearty belly full of booze and the three friends I rolled down the hill with. It was hilarious. Memories were made. Dresses were… torn.

I now know that holiday parties are dangerous. That lesson came at a steep price: one helluva hangover and one tragically torn dress.

With my holiday dress out of commission, I was in a serious bind this weekend. Yea… the “what am I going to wear!?” bind. I decided to not sweat it. I decided that if I waltzed into a party with a gorgeous cake, not a soul would be worried about what I was wearing…

Guess what?

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Black. White.

Chocolate. Vanilla.

Cake. Cookie.

My favorite cookies, ever.

Yes. I can have it all.

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This cake and I. Ooooh this cake and I.

We had a fight, maybe I should call it a misunderstanding.

I had expectations for this cake. I needed it to be a certain way to make me happy.  Mistakes.

I wanted this cake to be dense, but moist, perfectly golden, easy to cut and just downright irresistible. In other words, I wanted this cake to be perfect. Perfect in the ways I wanted it to be perfect. Oh Joy. It’s like I’ve learned absolutely nothing these past twenty something years.

Nothing is perfect. No, correction. Things can be perfect if imagined in your head. Real life… the real stuff is never as perfect as it is in your head. But… (oh the but). Sometimes. Most times. The imperfections are what become the most perfect part of life.

Boom. Knowledge. I just dropped it.

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I feel like there’s food everywhere.  Literally everywhere.  Let’s see… it all started when someone sent a fairly innocent fruit basket.  Then the neighbor dropped by with a pound of chocolate candy.  Then I somehow thought it a good idea to whip up some fudge.  Then there was the five course holiday party, and the debauchery at a bar after.  Milk Chocolate Chip Pancakes were thrown in the mix, and right now all I can think about is tacos.  

See, there’s food exactly EVERYWHERE.  

It’s not that I’m complaining.  Oooooh no.  I think I’m just looking forward to a little after holiday broccoli.  For the sake of my tummy.  That’s all.

It would seem that people in blog land are bringing out the big guns.  

Mike of Mike’s Table whips up some Hazelnut Brittle.  Um… yes please!

Peabody of Culinary Concoctions by Peabody sets the world ablaze with Butterscotch Banana Chocolate Swirl Cake.  She also admits to having a very sneaky way with Christmas presents.  I’m glad I’m not the only one.

Nicole of Baking Bites makes Mexican Hot Chocolate Linzer Cookies and I love her for it.  

When did Gingerbread Popcorn enter the world?  I’m glad it did!

Linda is obviously trying to get me to move to Australia for her Churros with Dulce de Leche Sauce.  Her plan might just work.

See?  Food everywhere!  Good food too!  

Enjoy the links.  I’m going to go find some tacos.  It feels like the right thing to do.

Oh and one more thing.  Yes, that’s a random picture of my morning coffee up top.

These are the four pictures that are going to make you seriously consider why you aren’t in your kitchen right this second making these pancakes.

These are the four pictures that might just have you prioritizing the next few hours, the next few days, heck(!) your entire weekend around these pancakes.

Yea… that just happened. I just dropped that madness on you. I know… totally unfair.

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There are some things in the world that make me feel like an adult. Most of the time my brain likes to idle in the fact that I’m somewhere between ten and twelve years old. When I thought I was pretty cool. When I thought I had a pretty good handle on things. Before the painfully awkward Blossom hats and frizzy hair set in.

Something has happened though. Time I suppose. I’ve turned around and been hit square in the face with what feels like adult things.

Um… retirement plan? Yea… I have one. It’s totally weird.

Going to the airport by myself? Um… hello!? I need an adult to carry my boarding pass and my ID and to make sure I have matching socks on! Oh… I am the adult. Seriously?

Shoe shopping. No one is there to pinch the edge of my shoe and make sure I have enough toe room. How am I supposed to know if they fit!? I can’t very well pinch my own shoes!

And then there are things that show me that maybe I’m not so adult after all.

My Mom still nags me to write holiday and birthday thank you notes.

I love hot chocolate with marshmallows. I mean seriously. Come on! That’s some good stuff.

And these Peppermint Meringues remind me of the soft after dinner mints that I used to horde from my favorite Italian restaurant growing up. Do you know the mints I’m talking about? The somewhat chalky, melt in your mouth, white mints? I’m still a sucker for those things. I may have eaten them for dinner a few weeks back. Don’t judge me.

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Here’s what I love most about my blog and its readers:

- I can sit at my lap top in awe of my split ends until I figure out something clever to say to you about cookies.

-You’ll indulge me if all I want to talk about is how I’m a smitten kitten.

-You’ll understand when I tell you that I made these peppermint cookies mostly so I could eat the cookie dough cold from the fridge.

- You, dear and darling reader, have made me a millionaire. Well, a millionaire in blog hits. I just realized that I’m well over a million hits on Joy the Baker. Rock and Roll, right? Thanks to you and all of your clicks, I’m feelin’ like a rock star. Bless you and Thanks.

- Here’s how it works- I made some cookie dough. I baked some cookies. I took pictures of them. I threw the dough in the fridge. I drank some whiskey. I pulled the dough out of the fridge. I made more cookies. I ate them. I had company. We ate them. Sorta. Then we forgot about them and remembered the whiskey. That’s how the whole thing works and you like me for it.

Q: How awesome are you? A: So totally awesome.

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Some things are over the top for even me. Some things are so good that they actually hurt. I’m a real sucker for all chocolate and peanut butter combinations… but really!? Chocolate, peanut butter AND Rice Krispy Treats? Out of control. I think I pulled a baking muscle. These bars are so rich, so over the top, so peanut buttery, that I think I need to stick to only baking broccoli this weekend. I think I hurt myself.

These are just the treats I want to pawn off on my neighbors and coworkers. They’ll thank me, and they’ll hate me. I can live with that.

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I feel like I’ve been haunted by the three bags of fresh cranberries I bought about a month ago.

You’d think I’ve baked enough cranberry filled goodies to make these cranberries a thing of the past. Nope. Between the Banana Cranberry Bread, the All Purpose Cranberry Apple Cake and the Cranberry Sauce, how did I still have a lone back of cranberries dancing around in my fridge?

I’m happy to say, that with this deliciously moist and golden Cranberry Coffee Cake, my days of withering cranberries in the fridge are over. But… um… I kinda miss them. I’m thinking numerous Prosecco and Cranberry Cocktails are in my future, which means… more fresh cranberries! I hope you’re not sick of cranberry recipes yet. It ain’t over, this baker would really like a cocktail.

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I remember when I was a kid, I used to entice my little sister into the kitchen to cook with me. That sounds sweet and cozy, right? Well… I had slightly more selfish intentions. I had plans for my sister once we hit the kitchen: I would do all the fun stuff like measuring out sugar and chocolate, and she would do all of the not so fun stuff, like getting the flour containers out of the pantry, reaching for bowls, and doing all the dirty dishes. Baking always seemed like more fun if I had someone to do all the grunt work for me.

That sort of fun in the kitchen with my sister didn’t last long. Lauren very quickly caught on to my tricks, and before long we were sharing the dirty dish responsibilities.

Since then, I’d like to think I’ve become a much more accommodating kitchen partner. Ask Simon. You know Simon, he’s that crazy kid from Foodproof. We made Almond Banana Bread together. It went swimmingly, and I don’t think I made him do the dishes.

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I want to show you how to bake a pie.  I’ve got step by step pictures.  I’ve got instructions.  I’ve got encouraging words.  I’ll even hold your hand if you need me to.  This isn’t anything to be scared of… but I do have a secret.  

See, there’s a secret to making the best apple pie in the world.  Love.   Any way you can get it or give it, the secret to apple pie is love.

Love is a funny thing.  (Ok, you should totally call me out- that’s just a silly thing to say.)  While I don’t contend to be any sort of expert on the subject, I do take comfort in the knowledge that getting love, and giving love, without a doubt, the best feeling in the world.  

I’d like to think of my apple pie as a pure and unadulterated delivery device for love.    

You know how cupcakes are actually a delivery device for sweet and fluffy frosting? How cheeseburgers are just an excuse to go crazy with the french fries?  How movie theater tortilla chips are merely edible spoons for gobs of fake yummy, cheesy nacho sauce?  Well this apple pie, I cross my heart and hope to die, is just an excuse to pour all of my love right into a pie crust and into the oven. 

It’s perfect.  There isn’t a more perfect thing in the world… ok, except maybe babies and puppies and snowflakes and kate spade flats (but WHY so expensive kate!?  $300, seriously!?)  

I will warn you, this pie is a labor of love.  It takes time.  It takes commitment.  It takes a personal outpouring of love and support.  I’ll just say it now, there’s cutting and pressing, chilling, peeling, macerating, boiling, tossing, rolling, preheating, baking, slitting and slicing…. almost in that order.

If I haven’t yet scared you away.  If you’re so full of love that you just might burst, throw it into this pie, and send it out into the world.  It’s important.  

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I know I promised you apple pie… apple pie so good that it will make your heart explode.  It looks like we’re going to have to wait just a bit longer for that epic post.  I’ve totally been swept away in Thanksgiving madness.  I know I can’t be the only one.  

I’ve got mad baking and enjoying of friends and family to do.  

Today I’m making banana bread.  I’ve got bananas that just won’t quit.  

And then, because no Thanksgiving would be complete without pumpkin, I’m making Pumpkin Pie Bars.  

I’ll be back after the holiday with recipes for your heart and for your soul.

This weekend, I went to Oakland, smiled a lot, sat in a tree and ran over a tumble weed at high speeds.

I wanted to sit down today and tell you about pie… about pie that’s so full of love and goodness it might make your heart explode. I’ve got the pictures, I’ve got the proof, and I can’t find the recipe. It’s got to be here somewhere covered in crumbs and flour.

Gimme a minute. Ok… gimme a few hours. I’ve got pie. You’ve got a heart that’s ready to explode. Now we just need to find that darn recipe…..

If my sister and I were produce instead of people, we’d be persimmons. Without a doubt… a couple of sibling persimmons- from the same tree but oooooooh so different. Let me explain. This will all make sense in a short bit.

My little sister and I are two and a half years apart. That means we were close enough to tear things up and figure out how to get ourselves out of it. You know, experiment, explore, break stuff and try not to get in trouble… life skills.

My sister, as an adorable, slick and sly child genius, would mush up and cry whenever trouble was on the horizon. I was not quite so skilled.

Maybe we’re about to get in trouble for knocking out the screen door that was just installed hours earlier… or we’re about to get a talking to for breaking the bathroom window with a soccer ball… or someone, who shall remain nameless, thought it would be a good idea to swing like Tarzan from the palm tree…

Here’s how the situation would play out: Lauren would run into the house, after one of our outdoor terror sessions , a big ball of red eyes and tears. She’d throw herself on the ground inconsolable, and thus… unpublishable. I would freeze and try to figure out a way to fix the broken thing before my parents could discover it. Not wise. Not wise at all. I was always the one left standing stiff with the broken object, eyes wide, wracking my brain for solutions. Thus… I always got in trouble. I’m not just saying that… Lauren, you totally know it’s true.

Any while we’re on the subject, please allow me this:

Dear Lauren,

You know you were the one that ran straight into the new screen door. That was all you. I was watching The Cosby Show and minding my own business. You and your tears! I got in soooo much trouble for that! No, twenty years later, I’m still not over it. Well played sister. Very well played.

This isn’t over.

Your sister,

Joy

So… um… persimmons. Follow me.

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I know Thanksgiving is still a week away, but I’m already thinking about what I’m thankful for.

I have a lot to be thankful for. I like to reflect upon it, savor it, write it down, study it. I know I’m early, but it’s a lot to think about. Don’t give me a hard time… you should be thinking on it too. There might just be a test… yes, on the things you’re thankful for. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

So far I’m thankful for smiles that come from the inside out… the ones you can feel in your gut. I’m thankful for contagious laughter and persimmons that ripen in their own stubborn stubborn time. Smiles, laughter and fruit with free will. Pretty great list so far.

I’m going to go whisper sweet nothings at my stubborn persimmons, make you a treat and we’ll talk more tomorrow. Get thinkin’ on your thanks! It feels good. Promise.

I know this book is one of my new favorites for two reason. I’ve had it for three days, I’m half way through reading it, and the cover is already bent beyond belief. I have a nasty habit of falling asleep with a book and then sleeping all over that book all night. For that reason, my favorite books, the ones I read over and over again, either have no covers or are bent beyond recognition. Some might call this habit of mine charming. It is.

Let me tell you about Zingerman’s Guide to Good Eating. In two simple words: super awesome! It’s a book for people who care about food, where it comes from and how it’s made. This book makes food a story about people and places, time and craft.

Take traditional balsamic vinegars, for example. Traditional balsamic vinegars come from the town of Modena in the Emilia-Romagna region of Italy.  That’s it!  That’s the only place where traditional balsamic vinegars come from!  Are you still with me?  Balsamic vinegars weren’t even available for purchase until the 1980’s. For centuries, balsamic vinegars were lovingly crafted and passed down from family to family. Vinegars were carefully dema by the matriarchs of the family and kept under lock and key by the patriarch of the family. They were so essential to family history that they were often given as dowries.

See, I learned all that from Zingerman’s Guide to Good Eating!  The book is so inspiring!  It makes me want to go out, ask questions and seek out shops that are as nutty about food as I am.  

Nowadays you can hop down to your local grocery store and buy virtually everything you’ll ever need, including an unassuming bottle of balsamic vinegar. I have to tell you that this isn’t the stuff that old Italian women are making in their attics. The real stuff, the good Italian stuff, the stuff approved by the Italian government is expensive. While the price may deter most of us, the taste and the experience is absolutely astonishing. The brilliant part about beautifully crafted food is that it inspires others to create good food in its imagine. That’s when those of us with tighter pocket books win.

For those of us who can’t spend $200 on a small bottle of tradition balsamic vinegar, there are inspired artisan varieties that have some pretty sultry depths. A bottle of artisan Elderberry Balsamic Vinegar (made from elderberries instead of grapes) will set you back $40, for example. Totally doable!

The amazing thing about good food, prepared with care is that your tongue will tell you what’s what. You don’t have to be a fancy vinegar connoisseur, or a cheese expert to tell the good stuff from the crap.

What I love about Zingerman’s Guide to Good Eating is its totally unpretentious and approachable attitude. It shows us that good food come from people who really care about it, and that care translates into the quality of their product. Good food comes from culture and time and tradition.  Most importantly, good food is for everybody. This book totally warms my heart. Yea, it’s that good.

There are wildfires raging all over Southern California and although I don’t live in the danger zone, the thick air and daunting skies make the fires impossible to ignore.  

Driving around at dusk tonight, listening to the fire coverage on my car radio, I remembered that between the ages of about seven and eleven I would proudly proclaim that I wanted to be a firefighter to any adult that would ask.  

It’s funny the reasons you choose to declare your future profession when you’re a child.  See,  I don’t particularly like fire, or being hot, or tall ladders or carrying heavy things.  I’m not much of a hero.  I don’t have that life saving gene inside me, aside from not killing the cricket that was in my kitchen last night.

My seven year old brain wanted to be a firefighter for several unheroic reasons: I liked (loved!) how awesomely clean and shiny fire trucks were.  I also really liked color and something about the red truck and the yellow suits and the black and white Dalmatian was totally exciting.  This is going to sound totally weird, but I used to love to do pull ups (I know, nutty), and my child brain somehow connected the ability to do pull ups with the ability to save lives and fight fire. 

So I wanted to do pull ups and be a firefighter, until I wanted to own a zoo and be a vet, until I wanted to be a brooding writer, until I wanted to be a lady baker.  Phew… figuring out that stuff is nearly exhausting, and I’m not even done dreaming yet.

How about some squash?

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Joy the Baker needed a pretty, pink face lift.  What do you think?  Can you dig it?

On Saturday afternoon I found my self standing in my kitchen, sipping a hot cup of milky Ovaltine. As I stood there, I started reading the Ovaltine canister… you know, like you read the box of cereal as you eat breakfast.

It turns out that my unassuming canister of Ovaltine had a recipe for me. I paused. I raised an eyebrow. I set down my mug of Rich Chocolate Ovaltine and I decided to bake their Ovaltine brownie recipe.

Let me stop here to answer the questions that have undoubtedly formed in your mind.

Yes, on rare occasions, I’ve been known to enjoy a cup of warm Rich Chocolate Ovaltine. A girl can only drink so much tea.

No, I will never again enjoy a warm cup of Rich Chocolate Ovaltine.

Why? I’ve discovered that Rich Chocolate Ovaltine is neither rich, nor chocolate. I’m not even convinced that it’s food. It should not be baked into brownies. Ugh. God. Ick. No! Mistake.

What happened? My ‘brownies’ came out of the oven bubbling with butter and chocolate-ish preservatives. Brownies are not supposed to bubble with butter. My house didn’t even smell like warm brownie goodness. It wasn’t a pretty picture. I felt sorry for the two sticks of innocent butter that I subjected to such torture.

But I learned something- something that I had already known, but my judgement must have been clouded by artificial chocolate flavoring. Use real ingredients. There is no substitute. Ovaltine is not chocolate. It might say it’s chocolate. It might strive to be chocolate, but it’s not, and it has no business in your brownie pan.

Sigh.

Don’t get it twisted. I’m not entirely hating on Ovaltine. Ovaltine rocks the house in my Chocolate Buttercream Frosting.

On any given day my diet is consistently composed of scrambled eggs (seriously the perfect food), some variety of baked goods fresh from the oven, cheese (lots of cheese) and tea (I drink so much I run out of mugs).

Have I mentioned that I love scrambled eggs?  I’m convinced that the perfect way to eat them is in tortillas, standing in the sunny spot in my kitchen flipping through cookbooks.

But this post obviously is not about my love for the egg.

There are days that I decide to slow down, take a deep breath and make myself something other than scrambled eggs for dinner.  On those days I go for my no frills, yet somehow impressive Hungarian Paprika Chicken dish.  It’s flavored with sweet Hungarian Paprika, onions, tomatoes, and the added creaminess of a touch of sour cream.  Served it over a bed of buttery egg noodles, and the world is instantly coming up roses.

Everyone should have a no fail chicken recipe in their back pocket.  This is mine.  From my stove top to yours.

As a note, I think the big red tin of Hungarian Paprika is the only way to go with this chicken.  You should be able to find it in your local grocery stores,  it’s not a fancy pants thing.

Go say hello to the boys at Foodproof for my recipe.  It’s a winner, I cross my heart.

It should come as no surprise that I relate to the world through food. Sure, I’m fairly well adjusted, I can carry on a warm conversation and function in life, but in the secret world that is my brain, I’m always trying to understand the world around me by relating it to something I’ve eaten.

Crazy? Maybe. Confusing? Let me explain.

Say I walk into my parents’ house and am greeted with a hug and kiss from my father. That’s just like eating a bowl of vanilla bean ice cream smothered with warm dulce de leche sauce. The hug from my dad and the ice cream create the same feeling in my brain. Get it?

The smell of fresh rain on concrete is just like eating a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup.

Having a heart to heart with my mom is just like sipping Earl Grey tea with extra sugar and milk.

Getting a paper cut is just like taking a shot of cheap tequila with salt and dry limes.

Falling absolutely, head over heals, silly in love with someone is just like smooth bourbon and cigarettes at midnight.

Sitting next to Grandmother at the dinner table and feeling her almost thoughtlessly stroke my hand as if it were her own… that’s just like this perfectly spiced Banana Cranberry Bread. Yes, there’s that much comfort in the bread. It’s the real deal.

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Fact:  I love this blog of mine.

Fact:  I absolutely adore all of its readers.   That’s you.

Fact:  I’m obviously not very good at posting every day as NaBloPoMo would have me do.

Request:  Bear with me.

Hope:  This blog has always been about quality and not quantity.  

Another Fact:  I’m getting in the kitchen to bake right now-  mostly because I’m starving, also because I’m thinking of you and what you might like.  

Last Fact:  I went through a serious sunflower loving phase in my early teens.  I will admit that this phase included several straw hats with fake sunflowers glued to them.  Painfully dorky, and now.. for you to know. Facts are facts.  

To Do:  Thursday 11.6.08

-Scowl at 6:30 am alarm clock.

-Randomly hit night stand in search of snooze button.

-Search the bed for warmth, find it, snuggle hardcore.

-Force self out of bed.  Write.  Seriously.  Write something.   

-Um…. snuggle more.  It’s not a crime.

-Dress.  Aroma Cafe.  Tea.  Breakfast.  Dreamy.

-Write, seriously, you have to write.

-Jump on the bed.  

-Make Sugar Crusted Ginger Cookies-  eat a great deal of the dough.

-Watch Foodproof videos.

-Snuggle more.  For your health.

-Think about showering.  

-Shower.

-Discuss cheese.  Make cheese look pretty.

-Bourbon.  Drink some.

-Bed.  Snuggle.  Prepare to scowl at forthcoming early alarm clock.  

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Feel good today. Life is too short to feel bad. Fact.

We need to talk. It’s important.

I can’t have you using that Ground Nutmeg you have in your pantry. I know it’s easy. I know it’s cheap. I just can’t in good conscience let this continue.

Let’s talk about nutmeg. I have The Internets so I know everything I need to know.

Nutmeg comes from a type of evergreen tree in southeast Asia and Australasia. Now, before I continue, am I the only one that didn’t know what Australasia was? Australasia includes Australia, New Zealand and Papua New Ginuea. True. Fun fact!

So two important culinary items come from this magical evergreen type tree:  nutmeg and mace.  Nutmeg is actually the seed of the tree.  It’s slightly smaller than an egg, solid and hard, but when grated, has an interesting lace like design.  Mace is the dried, reddish covering of the arillus seed. Huh?  Yea. Pay attention, we’re still learning.  Mace has a slightly more delicate flavor than nutmeg and when baked, imparts an almost saffron like orange glow.

The beauty of nutmeg is that it’s so versatile.  It’s an integral part of a spice cake like carrot cake, or my beloved Sugar and Spice Cinnamon Rolls, but also shines when sprinkled over sauteed spinach or mixed into cheese sauces.  The key to nutmeg is to always (always! always!) go for the fresh stuff.  It’s easy.  I promise.  It’s not a pain in the ass.  All you’ll need is a jar of the nutmeg seeds (they often come in a jar with between 6 and 8 ) and a microplane.  Microplanes are just about the handiest zester/grater ever!  

When a recipe calls for freshly grated nutmeg, you’re good to go.  If a recipe simply calls for 1 teaspoon ground nutmeg, you might want to use a dash less.  Go for 3/4 teaspoon of the fresh stuff instead.  Fresh nutmeg is stronger, more aromatic and more forward that the pre-ground, dusty nutmeg.  

Pre-ground nutmeg is a poor excuse for such a beautiful spice.  Go fresh.  It’s the only way to go.