tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77440879136013962912024-03-12T20:59:57.751-04:00Cupcakes Are The New BlackMusings which focus on life...and the delights of baked goods.Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-46704258404351241272013-12-19T00:05:00.000-05:002013-12-19T00:05:38.473-05:00Sláinte! Irish Cream Frosting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Here's the deal, folks. It's against my nature to share this recipe. But good things are meant to be shared, right? I'll just have to hope that the people who actually pay me to make this frosting will still pay me to make it. <div>
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And for those who follow me, you know I'm an irreverent baker, at best. In retrospect, that would have been a great name for this blog: <i>The Irreverent Baker</i>. And now that I've said that out loud, someone's going to go and steal it. Or else it's already been used. Man! I sound paranoid tonight.</div>
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Anyway, this is one of my most popular frostings. It started out as a base recipe from Alton Brown, because he's my go-to guy, but I've definitely changed it up to suit the Irish cream.</div>
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First things first: if you're using a stand mixer, use the paddle attachment. If you're using a hand mixer, that's cool. You'll build some definition in your shoulder muscle.</div>
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And there <i>is </i>a difference between butters, folks. The "Eurpopean" style butters are not only going to be more expensive, but they will also yield a smoother, creamier mouth-feel. Regular old butter does fine as well, and sometimes I prefer it. Honestly, I usually mix the two. Experiment with them both and decide for yourself!</div>
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Also, I know some people get nervous when introducing raw eggs into uncooked food. I get it. The truth is that salmonella is carried on the <i>outside</i> of the shell, so if you crack the egg on a flat surface (a counter or plate, NOT the edge of the bowl), your odds of contamination are low. Other options are whole powdered eggs (usually found near the baking soda/cocoa powder/meringue powder in the baking aisle), but these don't work as well as a real egg. Some grocery stores--more and more of them, it seems--sell pasteurized in-shell eggs. These are my favorite. I buy a dozen and keep them aside just for frosting. But honestly… I have <i>literally</i>, in the truest sense of the word, made variations of this frosting hundreds of times with raw, unpasteurized eggs, and I have <i>never once</i> had anyone get sick. Your call. And no, something like egg beaters or egg whites pasteurized in the carton won't have the same effect, because the yoke and the emulsifying factor is what gives it the smooth texture.</div>
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Also, I love me some Bailey's Irish Cream. <i>Mmmm-hmm.</i> But that stuff is crazy expensive, <i>amiright? </i>My favorite substitute, which manages to pack all the flavor for half the price, is Merry's Irish Cream. It's good stuff. Carolan's is a distant third, and Ryan's isn't even on my list. And no, no one pays me. It's just that I prefer to use the cheaper stuff for frosting and the more expensive stuff for drinking, though Merry's is so good I use it for both. </div>
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Okay, with food safety lessons and liquor recommendations aside, let's get down to business:</div>
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<u>Ingredients:</u></div>
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6 oz of butter unsalted butter, room temperature (1.5 sticks)</div>
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3 oz of shortening (if you eyeball it, the volume is close to a stick of butter)</div>
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1 egg, room temperature</div>
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1 lb of powdered sugar (four-ish cups)</div>
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dash of salt (1/2 tsp or so)</div>
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tsp vanilla (optional)</div>
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Irish cream (few tablespoons to 2/3 C, to taste)</div>
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Mix the butter and shortening together in the bowl of a stand mixer with the paddle attachment (or with a hand mixer) until combined. Up the speed and whip the heck out of that fatty goodness until it's creamy and light yellow, 2-3 minutes. Scrape the sides, add the egg, mix to combine, and then up the speed again until smooth, glossy, and picture-perfect, another 2-3 minutes. Add the powdered sugar slowly in 3-4 installments, mixing on low speed until combined. Then up the speed to medium high and walk away and do the dishes or check Facebook for 4-ish minutes. Or, if you're using a hand mixer, just think, "my shoulders will look fantastic, my shoulders will look fantastic, my shoulders will look fantastic."</div>
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When it's light and fluffy, add a dash of salt and vanilla (the vanilla is optional. The salt is <i>highly </i>recommended). While the mixer is going on low, add Irish cream a little at a time. Don't be shy, but don't be crazy. Chances are, you're going to add MUCH more than you think is safe. Honestly, I start with about 1/4 cup, and then add from there. I can't tell you the exact amount, because everyone's taste is different. I <i>can </i>tell you that I generally add as much Irish cream as the frosting can handle while still holding a peak when I lift the beater out. It's a fine line. Too much, and the frosting will start to separate. </div>
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When you have it to your desired flavor/consistency, fill a piping bag or slather a spatula and frost to your heart's content. </div>
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The frosting will be shelf-stable, so if your cake is going to be eaten within 24 hours, it can stay on the counter. If it will be eaten later, or it's really hot outside (hard to think about in December), refrigeration is recommended--especially if your egg is unpasteurized.</div>
Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-32663356603313992832013-12-18T23:37:00.000-05:002013-12-18T23:37:33.984-05:00Irish Car Bomb/Chocolate Coffee Stout Cake - Cake Mix Tweak #4<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Wow, it's been a long time, huh? It makes me realize how little I've been baking, which is good for my waistline, but bad for the blog.<br />
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'Tis the season for holiday potlucks and office parties, and as such I agreed to bake five or so dozen cupcakes for Sean's office. And of course as luck would have it, I've been REALLY busy this week at work myself, so no way was I going to grind my own flour and churn my own butter and gather eggs for six geese-a-laying or however the song goes. Nope. I was going to make it as easy on myself as possible, which meant that I was falling back on a cake mix of some sort for at least one of the flavors.<br />
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My most popular frosting? Irish cream. So what goes with Irish cream? Chocolate and coffee. But what about chocolate coffee <i>stout</i> and make it a riff on the cocktail of sophisticated college students everywhere... the Irish Car Bomb?<br />
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For the uninitiated, any drink that has "bomb" in the name means you're dropping a shot glass of liquor into a larger glass of alcohol, usually beer. An Irish Car Bomb is a pint glass, filled halfway with Guinness (or another stout), with a shot of Irish cream on the side. You drop the whole shot glass into the pint, tap it hard on the bar, and chug it down as fast as you can--because as soon as the Irish cream hits the carbonation of the stout, it begins to curdle. Then you slam the empty glasses back down on the bar, wipe your mouth on your sleeve, and give your companion a fist bump of victory. I know, I know, it sounds nasty, but the flavor is actually a very rich, chocolatey, almost coffee-like taste. Perfect to transfer to a cake.<br />
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And guys... This is <i>so simple. </i>I had everything on-hand already, which means a lot of you might, too. And the beer flavor can be very prevalent, depending on how much coffee you add--so it's definitely for the stout-hearted. *snicker* get it? <i>Stout-hearted?</i> Heh.<br />
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Anyway, here's what you do:<br />
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<li>Grab your favorite box of chocolate cake mix (I'm partial to Betty Crocker chocolate fudge)</li>
<li>Replace the water with stout, porter, or a dark seasonal ale (I used Jubelale by Deschutes Brewing, because that's what we had on-hand)</li>
<li>Add 2-3 tablespoons of instant coffee (you can add more if you want. The more you add, the more pronounced the stout flavor becomes... And it's an effective tool for turning your non-stout beer stout-ish.)</li>
<li>Throw in an extra egg</li>
<li>Mix and bake according to package directions</li>
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Easy-peasy. You'll even have time to take some of that Irish cream from the frosting you're making, drop it into that extra stout you've saved aside, and chug it all down. Sláinte! (Cheers!)Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-25854324747610802422013-10-13T22:41:00.004-04:002013-10-13T22:41:59.386-04:00Time to call it splits...This may not come as a surprise to some of my loyal readers, but I sometimes have trouble updating this blog regularly. Some of this comes from the problem that I've mentioned before.... I spend all day in front of a computer for work--it's really hard for me to get excited to sit in front of a computer just for kicks and giggles later.<br />
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But there's also another reason... this blog address is listed on all the business cards that I send out for baked goods. I don't necessarily want people looking up this blog for pictures of cupcakes and getting the most recent non-sequitur post from the random side of my brain. <br />
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So. This leads me to my announcement for today. I've started a new blog over at <a href="http://www.non-sequiturism.blogspot.com/">http://www.non-sequiturism.blogspot.com/</a>. The whole name is a play on words: non-sequitur, the Latin for "not pertaining to anything" (i.e. the random side of my brain), and the pronunciation of "sequiturism" like "tourism," because, you know... I travel a lot, n' stuff. <br />
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Eh? Eh? Anybody? Well, <strong><em>I </em></strong>thought it was funny.<br />
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Anyway, if you're more interested in staying in touch with me or hearing my <em>non-sequitur</em> musings, pop on over to <a href="http://www.non-sequiturism.blogspot.com/">http://www.non-sequiturism.blogspot.com/</a>. In the meantime, I'll still post baked good of all sorts on this blog as I have time, inclination, and projects worth sharing.Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-21945924506564821912013-08-05T23:54:00.000-04:002013-08-06T00:04:34.890-04:00Calm You Shall Keep<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So, yes. It's been a long time since I've posted. I always know it's been a long time when I get emails from people that just say, "so.... when are you going to write a new post?" The funny thing about that is, I don't really feel like I'm that interesting. So the fact that there is someone out there actually WAITING for a post feels like a lot of pressure. The kind of pressure that requires a glass of wine and some extra deodorant.<br />
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Those of you who follow my blog know that we just moved. The thing is, I can't just write at the drop of a hat. Well, I suppose I could. But I can't write <em>well</em> at the drop of a hat. When I told my friend that I had just moved and if I wanted the blog to be funny I was going to have to wait a while--otherwise it would just be a rant--she said something to the effect of, "Oooh, that's ok! We <em>love </em>rants. Remember the <a href="http://cupcakesarethenewblack.blogspot.com/2012/07/dear-ikea.html">Ikea post</a>?"<br />
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And I was going to write a post earlier. I thought about it several times. I even had some good ones lined up in my mental queue before we moved, but they got seared out of my permanent memory by the heat of my rage...er... <em>frustration</em> with the move process<em>.</em> <br />
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I was even going to write this post earlier in the evening, but I had a strawberry seed stuck in my tooth, and let's just face it. There's simply no way a girl can concentrate with a strawberry seed stuck in her tooth. Not only is it true, but I'll take any excuse to procrastinate. And let's just say that if you make it all they way through today's little novella, you definitely earn a gold star.<br />
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And as for the title pic... well, I wish I could take credit for that. Barring <em>taking</em> credit, I wish I could <em>give</em> credit where it's due, but it's just a random meme someone texted me. It instantly appealed to my not-quite-secret inner geek chick.<br />
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Anyway, the move. Our third trans-continental move in... what? Five years? Our fifth move in seven years? Something like that. Regardless, the process is old hat to us now. Before the movers come, you have to pack all the things you want to keep with you:<br />
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When the movers come, you have to be organized and "with" it and be able to tell them what EXACTLY you don't want packed, give them a tour, show them your priceless family heirlooms (remember my <a href="http://cupcakesarethenewblack.blogspot.com/2013/03/no-more-banana-bread-please-or-what-to.html">grandma's fryer?</a>), and then <em>get the heck out of their way</em>. Then the loaders come, and it's kind of the same thing all over again, only different. <br />
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Then you get to your destination before your stuff comes, and you can either stay in a hotel or steal--erm...<em>borrow</em>--a bunch of supplies from your mother-in-law and camp out in the new place. And then you can whine about the borrowed air mattress losing air each night until you wake up with your butt on the floor with your legs and head propped up in a V by the remaining air. And every time you switch position, your little pooch launches right off the end of the bed like someone jumped on the other end of a seesaw and sent him flying. And then you can give in to your husband's pleas to buy a new, fru-fru, double-stacked air mattress with its own pump under the justification that you can "use it for guests". And then you'll sleep on the new, fru-fru, double-stacked air mattress with its own pump and kick yourself for not just <em>giving in</em> and listening to your husband earlier.<br />
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Eventually your stuff will arrive, and your husband will conveniently be out of town when they schedule the delivery. Very suspicious, that... but it's probably all for the best--I've done it so many times on my own now that I tend to go all alpha female. Sean being out of town is probably God's way of ensuring that the move doesn't incite a divorce. <br />
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But then your husband will have a stroke of genius and suggest that you ask your little brother-in-law to come out and help, who--at all of 17 years old, is one of your favorite people. And then your little brother-in-law DOES come out, and suddenly everything feels more manageable.<br />
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But then stuff starts coming off the truck like this:<br />
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and suddenly "manageable" is the best you can hope for as you try to tamp down the smoke coming out of your ears. Men are pulling boxes off the truck and calling inventory numbers for you to check off on the list while two unconcerned, uninvested, summer-job teenagers ask for instructions on where to put each box in the house until you feel like your head is beginning to spin around like that girl in <em>The Exorcism.</em> I've never actually seen the movie, but I'm pretty sure that part has been used over and over again everywhere. That's when you thrust the clipboard at your little brother-in-law and go into Alpha Mode. <br />
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Alpha Mode allows me to maintain tight control while telling people what I want done, with only the terseness of my voice and the flaring of my nostrils to indicate that I. am. <em>angry.</em> Alpha Mode is what keeps me from busting into tears of frustration when I realize they've lost all the hardware to our bed frame and can't put the bed set together, so it's going to be in pieces until I file a claim. Alpha Mode lets me keep my cool when I realize they've scraped paint off the banister, taken a chunk out of the door jamb, and the appliance installation guys put a ginormous tear in the vinyl floor in the mud room. Alpha Mode allows me to calmly take pictures of all the damage and silently vow that these suckers are going to pay my claims or <em>so help me God.</em> <br />
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And my little BIL exuded calming forces, too. The great thing about him is that nothing ruffles his feathers. He is the antithesis of the "stereotypical" 17-year-old boy. He is truly helpful. He is considerate. He is willing. He listens. He's got a natural goofiness that defuses any situation. He's gonna make someone a very lucky girl some day. But I digress. I can go alpha female on my little BIL because, you know... I'm not <em>married</em> to him. He doesn't have to live with me. I can tell him exactly where I want him to put those plates, because who is he to argue? Plus, I try to always ask nicely, and he's able to tell that my anger is not targeted at him. <br />
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With my little BIL's help, we powered through unpacking the entire kitchen that evening after the movers left, which is <em>unheard of</em>. I have never gotten that much unpacked so fast. He earned the dinner and ice cream that I bought for him in thanks. He would have earned himself a beer or two, but you know... the whole 17-years-old thing. His mom still thinks I'm a good influence. Ha!<br />
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And then--<em>and then</em>--my little BIL is SO COOL that he offered to come back again the next day to help me. Once I squared things away at work I took the rest of the day off and he and I powered through the closet and the master bedroom, guest bedroom, and even part of the living room. And we even went on a fruitless, hour-long search for our silverware, until I gave up and called my neighbor in NY and asked her to check the kitchen--and of course she found our silverware right in the drawer where it's always been. Sean had to go back for business, and you can bet your bottom dollar the TSA searched <em>that</em> suitcase when they saw all the silverware rolling through their checked bag x-ray.<br />
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And then I burnt out on unpacking and nearly two weeks later we're still in kind of the same spot, but that's neither here nor there.<br />
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In fact, I got so far along with Little BIL's help that I moved on to unpacking decorative stuff, which is normally the last thing I worry about. I excitedly opened our brand-new, never-been-unpacked standing mirror, completely oblivious to the two "handle" holes in the cardboard. It wasn't until I pulled the cardboard off that I realized those weren't handles.... two identically-sized, evenly-spaced holes had been punched straight through the frame. <br />
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Entry wounds on one side, exit wounds on the other. And a very nice set of Little BIL legs in the reflection. It takes a very special kind of person to run a pallet lift all the way through a mirror until it punches out the other side, and then <em>not say a dang thing.</em> I saw my stuff loaded on the truck, and I saw it unloaded, and the Great Mirror Massacre happened in neither place. I know they transferred our goods somewhere in the middle, so that must have been when it occured. And this is only the big damage. I'm not even talking about all the little stuff we've found so far. We've never had a professional move be this bad. <br />
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Right about when we pulled the cardboard off and saw this damage is about the same time that I threw in the towel and took Little BIL out to dinner, where I had a vodka gimlet and a burger, came home, took a shower, and collapsed into my bed, which--of course--was on the floor, because, you know... <em>no hardware.</em> And then I had to get up and creak and totter and shuffle my way to the bathroom like an invalid because there was just <em>so much pain</em>. I fell asleep exhausted and unhappy and dreading the next morning, but I woke up to this, cuddled right up next to me:<br />
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And suddenly, the rest of the day just didn't seem that bad at all.Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-73690944548318395052013-07-05T23:12:00.002-04:002013-07-05T23:12:56.194-04:00Mmmm, Yummy! This cake tastes like...Styrofoam?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I once heard my sister describe what it was like to complete her first Iron Man race (yes, first. She's a glutton for punishment like that), and I often think that making wedding cakes is the same way. While you're in the process of doing it, all you can see and feel is how heinous and difficult it is. It's completely unenjoyable, and you tell all your friends and family to remind you of how much you hated every second. But then you get done, and you think "Hey! That wasn't so bad! I feel pretty good! Let's do it again!"<br />
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Remember how in the last post I said that I had a wedding cake in progress? Yeah. What I didn't say was that I finally broke down and decided that God gave me talent in certain places--and house cleaning isn't one of them. So I had a cleaning crew come in. They swarm my house like cleaning ninjas--except they're hardly stealthy. When's the last time you saw a ninja sneak up on someone while running a vacuum? Anyway, they swarm like LOUD cleaning ninjas and are out of here in an hour or less. Only this last time, they saw the cake-in-progress on the table, with the black fondant layers covered while the other two were still just naked styrofoam. The first reaction from cleaning lady #1 to #2 was, "Oh, wow!" The reaction from cleaning lady #2 to #1 was, "Yeah, but see this black fondant and how hard it is to get totally smooth and not wrinkly? That's why I did buttercream."<br />
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Speaking of "totally smooth," cleaning lady #2, that wasn't. Nope. Not smooth at all. <i>I could hear you, you know.</i> As criticisms go, that's hardly harsh. But it still irked me. And it's not easy to get fondant smooth and perfect when a) you don't work with it much, b) you have hades-level heat going on, and c) 70% humidity. But anyway, I digress.<br />
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I got the cake done! Woohoo! And it even looked <i>good!</i> I mean, sure. It's <i>waaaaaay </i>easier with styrofoam. No leveling, no baking, no filling. No crumb coat, no chilling. Just carefully, <i>carefully</i> roll out that fondant, wet the styrofoam, say a prayer, and hope the fondant doesn't tear. Then when it DOES tear, you sigh, grab the shortening, knead it all together, roll it out, say another prayer, make sure the styrofoam is still wet, and drape the styrofoam with the fondant <i>ever so carefully.</i> And when it tears again you stifle a curse, grab <i>more</i> shortening, knead it all together, roll it out, wet the styrofoam again, <i>say another freaking prayer</i>, and drape the fondant on the dummy layer.<br />
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When it tears AGAIN, you stop stifling the curses and swear like a sailor, causing your husband to come to the kitchen in alarm and then back out slowly when he sees you armed with a rolling pin and <i>spitting mad</i>. That's when he'll ask--from out in the hallway--if there's anything he can do. And that's when <i>you</i> shoot him the narrow-eyed look that says, "I'm about 30 seconds from a homicidal rage. There's nothing you can do, my sweetie, my one true beloved, but duck and cover--because when I blow my lid, <i>there will be collateral damage.</i>"<br />
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It's really amazing how one look can say so much.<br />
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So then you mumble your <i>final prayer,</i> because if it doesn't work this time, to hell with it and you can buy them a cake at WalMart on your way to the wedding. And the prayer is sincere, even though you're spitting it out through gritted teeth and it's littered with f-bombs and pent rage. You're up to your elbows in shortening now, just trying to get this $#@& fondant pliable enough to drape. And you roll it out, keeping it as thick as you possibly can while still having enough to cover the dummy layer. Then you carefully, carefully--<i>carefully, dammit!</i>--drape the fondant again, holding your breath, massaging the little cracks back together, cutting the excess weight as soon as you can, and then---<i>and then--</i>praise be, it holds!<br />
<br />
Your husband hears your sigh of relief and comes creeping back into the kitchen.<br />
<br />
"Got it now?" he asks.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, finally," you reply. Then <i>he</i> sighs with relief and offers you a glass of wine. And as he hands it to you, you think, "Lord, I love this man."<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8pROLPehIOg/UdeGYh_oFuI/AAAAAAAAATM/wPesaj4mXCA/s1600/IMG_0791.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8pROLPehIOg/UdeGYh_oFuI/AAAAAAAAATM/wPesaj4mXCA/s320/IMG_0791.jpg" width="240" /></a>Anyway, you get the point. This is turning into another novel of a post. But look at the cake! Look at it! It's so pretty! I thought about titling this post "The Cleaning Lady Can Suck It," but that just seemed mildly inappropriate. And again, my grandma reads this blog. And no, I <i>totally</i> didn't ask my husband to stand outside on the porch holding a wrinkly bedsheet up behind the cake while I took a million photos. I mean, who would do that?<br />
<br />
I had made the fondant flowers throughout the week, and I sat down Thursday night and wired them all while I was in a nearly zombie-like state with a cold. Then Friday my good friend V came over and helped me make three giant sheet cakes for serving. She had to leave before we were nearly done, but she will never truly understand how grateful I was to her. I kept plugging away for the rest of the day, and I used some of the scraps to fill in part of the bottom dummy layer that I had cut out. This was the part of the cake that the bride and groom would cut for pictures and tasting.<br />
<br />
So of course that meant that I had to cover one more layer--the largest--with fondant. Expecting the worst, I held my breath again and gave it my best shot...and for whatever reason it worked <i>perfectly</i> the first time. Whatevs. I'll just be grateful and pour myself another glass of wine.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3wIT9AdiWJs/UdeGgsI4D_I/AAAAAAAAATY/Bs8CkYDf240/s1600/IMG_0795.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3wIT9AdiWJs/UdeGgsI4D_I/AAAAAAAAATY/Bs8CkYDf240/s200/IMG_0795.jpg" width="150" /></a>I carefully stacked the cakes, aligning them all to the back in a more contemporary style, and then I used needle-nose pliers to stick each flower into the cake. I mourned the loss of many a flower whose delicate petals decided to wuss out on me (I could have blended in gumpaste with the fondant to help with that, but I didn't because I liked the final look of the fondant better for this cake. That's why I made 6 billion extras, anyway).<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S0V3z0qCnxs/UdeGg2XY7HI/AAAAAAAAATc/oOvYKQF_jJU/s1600/IMG_0790.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S0V3z0qCnxs/UdeGg2XY7HI/AAAAAAAAATc/oOvYKQF_jJU/s200/IMG_0790.jpg" width="150" /></a>Then I stood back, eyeing the cake critically, beckoning my husband over to look for gaps or issues. I even pulled out my phone and took some pictures, because I've discovered that sometimes you can see flaws in pictures that you can't see in real life while you're standing two feet away. I don't know why that is, but it works for clothes in the dressing room, too. You think you look all hot when you look at yourself in the mirror, but then you take a picture and realize it's more <i>hot mess</i> than <i>hot damn.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Anyway, with a little flower there and a wee tweak there, I had the presence of mind to stop and be done, before I ruined it by adding far too many.<br />
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The great thing about the styrofoam is that it was unaffected by the heat and it was a dream to travel with it in the backseat of my car for the hour-and-fifteen drive to the wedding.<br />
<br />
And the bride and groom loved it, which was the important thing. Sure, the cake might not have been perfect, but it was still one hell of a wedding present, no?<br />
<br />Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-1944417670376230042013-06-24T20:51:00.000-04:002013-06-24T20:51:34.525-04:00It's a Queso Emergency.Holy cake balls, batman... it's been a heckuva long time since I posted. I'm surprised I haven't received butt-kicking threats from my posse of about three loyal fans.<br />
<br />
And the title of this post? Yeah, nothing to do with anything. It's a total <i>non sequitur. </i>It's just that some days, I feel like I'm really losing the rat race. And on those days, I feel like this guy:<br />
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Yeah. My whole life right now is a queso emergency. Guess what's happening, people... <i>guess what's happening...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
We're moving. Yup. <i>Again.</i> Do you know anyone who wants to buy a townhome? We happen to have a great one on the market right now.<br />
<br />
While this move is a bit of a surprise (honestly, we would never have bought this place if we knew we'd be packing it up in a year), at least we were able to engineer the end destination of this move a bit. We're moving back to Idaho! Woooohooo! Puttin' down roots in Boise.<br />
<br />
Now, that being said, I'm getting <i>really </i>sick of questions like the following:<br />
<br />
"Idaho? Why the hell would you want to live in Idaho? What's there besides potatoes?"<br />
<br />
<i>Sigh.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
So much to answer there, but social convention means that I need to be polite. Ok, I guess that being known for potatoes isn't the most exciting thing in the world. It's not the worst, either. But it really bugs me when people bash places they've never been. I'm sure I've done it before, but I really am trying to be better. Once you've spent a bit of time in a place, you earn a bit of a right to bash--as long as you realize it's all subjective.<br />
<br />
To answer all the haters out there, why am I excited to go back to Boise? What makes it better than Albany, NY (at least in my eyes)? Here we go:<br />
<br />
The cost of living is lower.<br />
Boise is old, but vibrant. It's had a complete renovation. It's full of life.<br />
It's cleaner.<br />
It's safer.<br />
It has a ton of great restaurants.<br />
It has a vital downtown with farmer's markets, pubs, restaurants, coffee houses, and boutiques.<br />
There's a TON to do outside.<br />
The hiking.<br />
The dry heat.<br />
The truly authentic Mexican food.<br />
The art, the funk, the parks, the museums, the live music, Whole Foods, WinCo, and Costco.<br />
<i>Class dismissed.</i> <br />
<br />
And for all the people that say Albany is the same as the above, it just ain't so--apples and oranges, folks. But I respect your right to love this area as much as you choose--just don't step on my right to love somewhere else just as much.<br />
<br />
Anyway, all of my Idaho angst aside, I've been busy. Like, crazy busy. Like, trips out to Boise to look at 20 homes in two days busy. Like, I just got back from a week in Anchorage for work busy. Like, we had a garage sale and a clean-out busy. Like, we had four showings and an open house in one week busy. Oh, and like, we spent a weekend in Montreal, busy. And with all the moves I've had, you'd think that I'd be able to <i>just go with it.</i> But I've noticed with every big change in my life, my tolerance for ambiguity gets lower. If I'm in a new situation and I don't have a plan, I <i>stress the heck out</i>. And since the plans are only now falling into place (the move date is three weeks out), I've been doing a LOT of <i>stressing the heck out.</i><br />
<br />
I've still been baking, though. As a matter of fact, I've been giving lessons to a young girl and her mom. She's come a long way, that 13-year-old girl. We started with basics, and on her last lesson we graduated to fondant. Want to see her first-ever fondant cake?<br />
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Isn't it cute? She did a great job. She even made the marshmallow fondant by hand.<br />
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And no, your eyes aren't deceiving you. Those are <i>sparkles</i> you're seeing. Aw.<br />
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I've had some other orders, too. And when I have orders when I'm hella busy like I am now (oh, yeah, forgot about the overtime at work, too), I try for ways to accomplish the most impact with the least effort. And since my piping skills are severely lacking, I tend to go for cutesy fondant stuff.<br />
<br />
Like this cake I made for an office baby shower, for a woman who was expecting a little boy. See the little fondant booties? So cute! Velvet cake with cream cheese frosting and a couple of 10-minute booties. I call them 10-minute booties because, you know, they took 10 minutes to make.<br />
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See the laces? They never even look like booties until you put in the laces.<br />
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And this week I have a wedding cake for Saturday. Luckily, the bride is content with most of the display cake being styrofoam. Since it's supposed to be crazy hot and humid this weekend, that's a load off my shoulders.<br />
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Here's a sneak peak at the cake, with what I have done so far. Ignore all the crap in the background, <i>mkay?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Yeah, it's a black-and-white wedding. And yeah, two of the layers are still styrofoam. But I don't have pictures of the sugar flowers hanging out on my kitchen counter. Or my new (<i>squeeeeee!) </i>6-qt, high capacity, 14-cups-of-flour capacity kitchen aid mixer. Yup, for all the sheet cakes I'm making to serve at the wedding, my new mixer (and my old mixer) are going to get a heck of a workout.<br />
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Oh! And Mac is wearing a little tux, because he's an honorary ring bearer. You know how excited he is about that?<br />
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<i>So excited!</i><br />
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Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-24035237182081087272013-04-11T21:48:00.001-04:002013-04-12T22:32:50.848-04:00Stop and smell the....cake? Swirled Rose CakeLife is tough sometimes, folks. It really is. As they say in the best movie of all time (Yes, I am of <i>course</i> referring to <i>The Princess Bride</i>), "Life is pain. Anyone who says differently is selling something."<br />
<br />
My life right now is...tumultuous. Stuff is happening, and it's happening fast. Too fast for me to catch my breath or paste a sunny smile on my face. There's pretty much constant uncertainty, occasional anger, a dash of excitement, and quite a few tears. Don't worry, friends. No one is dead, we're not getting divorced, we're all perfectly healthy, and it's all first-world problems.<br />
<br />
But still. They're the kind of first-world problems that lead me to fantasize about wine <i>all day long,</i> starting at about 10 a.m. I don't give in.... I just spend the next 9 hours daydreaming about pouring myself a big, fat glass of spicy red as I cook dinner. Then dinner comes and I pour that big, fat glass...and it takes me two hours to finish it. Ah, well. Better that it takes me two hours to finish a glass than two hours to finish a bottle.<br />
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And though it's wrong and I shouldn't rely on food to ease my pain and sugar shouldn't be my emotional crutch, sometimes the only thing that makes me feel better (besides wine) is a good hit of sugar. And--as you have no doubt guessed by now--one of my favorite sugar delivery systems is via cake. And it's more than just the sugar... it's about the process of <i>creation</i>. It's about the art. It's the kind of art that everybody loves, is not subjective to personal taste, and doesn't sit around cluttering up someone's shelf until they've let the two years of guilt go by before they can sell it/re-gift it/take it to the dumpster at 2 a.m. Really. When is the last time you've seen someone upset that you made them a cake? Sure, they might be on a diet and hate <i>you</i> for tempting them. But hate the <i>cake</i>? Never.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ieHQ6bAZo6s/UWdiTbBP9gI/AAAAAAAAAQg/vnMd5Tcne5M/s1600/IMG_1674.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ieHQ6bAZo6s/UWdiTbBP9gI/AAAAAAAAAQg/vnMd5Tcne5M/s640/IMG_1674.jpg" width="480" /></a>That's what I love about this cake. Armed with buttercream, food coloring, a pastry bag, and a jumbo closed-star tip (2D, if you want to try your hand at this cake yourself), you have a beautiful, easy, classy cake fit for celebration, commiseration, or just because.<br />
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This is actually three shades of orange--darkest on the bottom, mellower in the middle, and creamy on the top.<br />
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Cakes like this make me wish several things:<br />
- I wish that I finished them during the day so that I could photograph them in natural sunlight.<br />
- I wish I had somewhere in my house that magically provided a wonderful neutral backdrop.<br />
- I wish I had a schmancy camera to take uber-nice photos.<br />
- I wish I had the skills with which to take uber-nice photos with even my iPhone. (yes, all the pictures on this blog are from my iPhone. Some of them are quite good--and those are all thanks to natural sunlight. It's a vicious circle, my friends.)<br />
<br />
This is the first time I've ever tried the "swirled rose" technique, so of course there are some goof-ups. But really, it's remarkably easy. Simply cover the cake of your choice in a crumb coat of tinted frosting (a crumb coat is a thin layer of frosting--just scrape it on. You should be able to see the cake through it. Then you put it in the fridge to let it set), and then you just start your tip in the middle of the swirl and work your way out to create the blossom. Start on the bottom row and work your way up, finishing by covering the top. And on the top, start with the blossom in the middle and work your way out to the edges, overlapping a bit. This also looks gorgeous in all one color--white, purple, pink, chocolate, whatever you want.<br />
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When you're done, you can step back and look at the art that you created and realize that you've just taken a time-out from life. You stepped back from the hustle and bustle, you quieted your soul, and you created for the sake of creation, or as a physical symbol of your love for another, or as an emotional balm. You stopped to smell the roses, so to speak, even if those roses are made of a wickedly delightful combination of sugar, butter, and cake.<br />
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Here's to beauty even when life gets dark. Happy creating, my friends. And happy eating.Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-73594867751779912492013-03-24T18:15:00.000-04:002013-03-24T18:15:34.371-04:00No More Banana Bread, Please (or what to do with your uber-ripe bananas)...Banana Oatmeal Fritter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So, in church this morning, I found myself pondering how exactly I was going to use the seriously over-ripe and darn-near-soupy bananas that I had cut up and frozen last week in order to stop their march toward sugary rot.<br />
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Yes, yes, I know, I should have been paying attention to the priest. I was, I promise! I was totally engrossed in the whole thing right up until the end, when three babies/toddlers around me started wailing and cooing and yelling and I couldn't hear a Pete's-blessed thing... so instead of fuming self-righteously about the lack of parental discipline in church these days, I decided to focus on my banana issues instead.<br />
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Banana bread is, of course, an old standby. But I really didn't want to make banana bread--or bananananana bread, as Dimetri Martin might say. I wanted something different. A blog-friend of my sister's posted an awesome-looking recipe for <a href="http://www.10thkitchen.com/2013/03/banana-hazelnut-and-cinnamon-scones/">banana hazelnut scones</a>... but I had too many bananas, and they were way too ripe for individual, non-smooshed chunks in the scones. Plus, I didn't want to do a quadruple recipe and I had no hazelnuts... so that recipe is still on a back burner for now, until I can do it right.<br />
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Instead, I found myself pondering my grandma's donut recipe. I thought, "hey, I wonder if I could work bananas into Grandma's recipe?" And then I thought, "I don't want to roll and cut the donuts. It seems like bananas would work better in fritters. If my <a href="http://www.wherethecookiesare.com/2011/11/27/leftover-sweet-potato-fritters/">sister can do it with sweet potatoes</a>, I can surely do it with bananas." And <i>then</i> I thought, "I wonder if I can work oat flour in." Then church was over and I had to wait for a few minutes before I was safely in the car on the way home and could ponder how best to accomplish this banana fritter business.<br />
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"I just need to change this, and this, and this," I thought to myself, tapping my hand restlessly on my knee and making my husband nervous. "And add this and this. Oh, and this. And it will be a wet dough, so it will need to chill before I fry it...."<br />
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And when I got home, the experimentation began.<br />
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I started by creating "oat flour" by pulsing old-fashioned rolled oats in my food processor until it resembled coarse flour--but I intentionally left some haphazard, almost-whole oat chunks in. I mixed the buttermilk in with the oats so that they could hydrate while I mooshed the bananas well with a fork and incorporated their freezer-thaw liquid. Then I added them to the buttermilk/oat flour mix and set it aside for the flavors to percolate.<br />
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I prepared the rest of the ingredients and then mixed and tasted, adjusted and added. Once I was satisfied, I put the batter in the fridge to chill for a little while to make it easier to work with when I was ready to fry.<br />
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And then came the sacred moment. I reverently broke out one of my most prized possessions-- a deep fryer my grandma had given to me for Christmas a few years before she passed away-- a deep fryer that my mom grew up frying donuts in every fall--a tradition that mom and Grandma kept up with us grandkids-- a deep fryer that we think came to my grandma as a wedding gift way back in 1945... and now, a fully-functioning antique.<br />
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When we moved the last time, I had it set aside on the kitchen counter. The movers were sweeping through the kitchen, wrapping up dishes and plates and china. When the packing-man laid his hands on the deep-fryer, I stopped him.<br />
<br />
"Be careful with that," I told him. "Everything else you're packing is replaceable. That's not. It's a family heirloom."<br />
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He started to laugh, but then could tell from my face that I was serious. He just nodded and quadruple wrapped it and packed it in a box of its own.<br />
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Anyway, it's a big deal to me when I bust out Grandma's fryer.<br />
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My first fritter was too big... it was tasty, but raw in the middle. So I sized it down to my smallest disher. I suppose it's probably between one and two tablespoons. I ran another test, cooked it to the far side of golden, and waited for it to cool before I tossed it in cinnamon and sugar. <i>Perfect.</i><br />
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The way the fritters kept disappearing from the "finished" pile before I could count them, I know that Sean felt the same way.<br />
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And as an homage to my grandma, who left us just over a year ago, I have decided to <i>actually post the recipe.</i> I know. Incredible, huh?<br />
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Here you go... <i><u><b>Banana Oatmeal Fritters</b></u></i>--Grandma style.<br />
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2 cups oat flour<br />
3 cups all purpose flour (plus or minus)<br />
2 tsp baking powder<br />
1/2 tsp soda<br />
1/2 tsp salt<br />
2 tablespoons freshly grated nutmeg<br />
2 cups mashed bananas<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cPKsp84boY4/UU9sb_Qx3rI/AAAAAAAAAQE/3YSDTUWnw9k/s1600/IMG_1657.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cPKsp84boY4/UU9sb_Qx3rI/AAAAAAAAAQE/3YSDTUWnw9k/s320/IMG_1657.jpg" width="275" /></a>1 cup buttermilk<br />
3 eggs<br />
1 cup sugar<br />
1 tbs vanilla<br />
2 tbs vegetable oil<br />
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Mix the oat flour, buttermilk, and bananas in small bowl, set aside to hydrate. Mix the rest of the dry ingredients together in another bowl. Meanwhile, beat eggs, sugar, oil, and vanilla together in the bowl of a stand mixer fit with the whisk attachment on high speed until light lemon color and slightly frothy. Switch to the paddle attachment. Alternate adding the dry ingredients and the wet ingredients, starting and ending with the dry flour. It will come together in a wet, sticky dough. When you scoop it with your spatula, it should cling to it, but still drip off veeeeery slowly, in a kind of stretchy way (if that makes any sense). If you're worried it's too wet, add a little more flour.<br />
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Put the dough into the fridge to chill for at least 30 mins.<br />
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Heat several inches of oil to 375 degrees or so. Prepare cinnamon sugar mixture in a large zip-top bag.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fsjpHoNdA60/UU9sby8GkeI/AAAAAAAAAQI/8auuBiEH6u4/s1600/IMG_1660.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fsjpHoNdA60/UU9sby8GkeI/AAAAAAAAAQI/8auuBiEH6u4/s320/IMG_1660.jpg" width="240" /></a>Drop a tablespoon or so of batter into the hot oil (like I said, I used a small disher, ice-cream scoop style). Turn occasionally, fry to the far side of golden. Remove with a strainer or slotted spoon. Let cool on a cookie sheet lined with paper towels and test when cool enough to eat. If it comes out all right, start frying fritters in batches, careful to not overload the oil--let the fritters have space.<br />
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When mostly cool, shake in the cinnamon sugar... and enjoy! It should be dense but moist, doughy but cooked, and entirely delicious!<br />
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<br />Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-8732060241042064242013-03-19T23:07:00.000-04:002013-03-22T14:27:57.393-04:00Happy Frickin' Spring<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So. It's spring. Yeah, right. Spring is far away somewhere to the south, huddled in a cave, shivering and rocking while she mutters to herself, "the only person who has power over me is me. The only person who has power over me is me. The only person who has power over me is me. Winter can't keep me down! I'm strong! I have power! The only person who has power over me is me." And then she mixes herself another drink and keeps on rocking.<br />
<br />
I put a wreath on my door with magnolia blossoms and lavender, trying to force the issue along. Look, it's spring! It can't be winter! I took down the frosted pine boughs and holly berries! Winter has no hold here!<br />
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Unfortunately, the issue refuses to be forced. It snowed 8 inches today. 8! But I'm starting to realize that we have awesome neighbors. This morning after Sean left for work, the neighbor on our left "shoveled" our driveway with some sort of electric shovel-slash-snow blower contraption, and he did our walk. Four inches of snow later, our neighbor on the right used his snow blower to do our driveway and shoveled our walk again. I didn't even have to lift a shovel. Considering when I shoveled two weeks ago I was so sore I was walking hunched and bent, I did a little happy dance when I realized what was happening--upstairs, behind closed curtains, so that my neighbors couldn't see and decide they'd never shovel my walk again.<br />
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So, nice neighbors or not, winter remains. This weekend I have big plans to drive around town and shake my fist in anger at homes who have yet to take down their pine boughs, Christmas lights, or red-bowed "kissing balls." If that doesn't work, I'm thinking about taking out a hit on Punxsutawney Phil. I'll try to keep you updated on that.<br />
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The annual outbreak of spring fever has a record number of victims this year. The infection is nearly palpable. We're desperate here, people. <i>Desperate</i>. Desperate people do desperate things. Like eat cake.<br />
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I had grand plans for these cakes. I did. They were going to be magnificent and chic and pretty and <i>Martha Stewart Living-</i>worthy. Lightly Lemon Cake with Almond Cream frosting, they were going to bring a whiff of spring and give winter a sock in the nose and a kick in the arse. Instead, I ended up with "cute." I suppose it's still fine. Cute is better than "hellishly trapped in an endless cycle of winter." Cute can embody "thank you," and "keep up the good work," and "chin up. I know life sucks right now, but eat some cake! It will be better!"<br />
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All of those were the goal of these cakes for Sean's team... thank you, keep up the work, chin up. Spring will come. We'll form a ritual circle and eat cake and perform frosting sacrifices until she comes. <i>She WILL come... </i>as soon as she finishes that drink.<br />
<i><br /></i>
Happy Frickin' Spring.Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-47416296816800841592013-03-12T11:52:00.001-04:002013-03-12T13:30:20.820-04:00Coffee, Love, and Hope<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Just this weekend, I commented to my husband that I feel like the fundraisers are out in force. Our doorbell rang in the evening with a young man selling candybars for...something, I don't even know what. Another boy was selling magazine subscriptions. Young girls and boys on cheer and atheletic teams are standing in busy intersections in the malls, pleading with puppy dog eyes for you to support their team, their club, their association. Cashiers are asking you to buy paper shamrocks or hearts and plastering them on windows and walls in stores. <br />
<br />
So, when my sister sent me an email with the subject line "A shameless plea for some help," I sighed and clicked, expecting her to be asking me to buy something for my neice and newphew's school. Instead, she was telling me about something very different.<br />
<br />
My sister is an amazing--and amazingly busy--woman. She's a pediatric physical therapist, a mom, a professionally-sponsored cyclist, a coach, a mentor, a sister, a friend, an aunt... and she's deeply connected to her cycling "family". <br />
<br />
Last week, a couple members of that family suffered a tragic accident in Hawaii. Mark and Sarah Bender were celebrating their 15th anniversary with a special vacation--they left their four sons at home. On the last day of their trip, they went for one last dip in the ocean, just before they had to go to the airport. <br />
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On that last dip in the ocean, Mark had a horrible accident in the surf. In a catastrophic injury, he broke his neck. They rushed him to surgery, and he's currently recovering in ICU at a Hawaiian hospital--he'll be there for at least two weeks before he's stable enough to try and be transferred to a hospital at home. <br />
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As of Saturday, Mark had no feeling from his chest down, but Sarah--his wife--sends out regular updates to her friends. This is what she wrote on Sunday:<br />
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<em>“Day 4 report…what can I say but wow! Mark said it was a hard day but a good one. After a rough night . . . he started the day tired but ready to tackle whatever he needed to do. His theme verse was Neh. 8:10, <strong>“The joy of the Lord is my strength”</strong>. . . . The greatest victory of today though has been huge. Everyone sit down….</em></div>
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<em>his legs responded to touch. . . Not once but multiple times throughout the afternoon and evening. I don’t know what to say but keep the prayers coming. We are believing that [Mark's] miracle story is just starting.”</em></div>
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Prayer is what she's asking for. I believe in the power of prayer. I also believe that each of us has the power to be the <em>answer to prayer</em>. <br />
<br />
Mark and Sarah are parents to four boys, community leaders, active church members, and passionate cyclists. But I can't begin to imagine the challenges that face them. Life is already hard without astronomical medical bills, or having to quit a job, or handling the daily ins-and-outs of life while caring for a family member, or being forced to come to grips with the fact that life will never, ever be the same again. <br />
<br />
And while money can't buy happiness, it sure can buy security and blessed relief for a family in need. <br />
<br />
I thought for a long while before I decided to post this. I know we all have priorities, and sometimes supporting someone you don't even know isn't high on that list. But then I got to thinking...if this were ME going through this, how uplifting, how overwhelming, how AMAZING would it be to suddenly know that a massive group of family, friends, and strangers banded together to help me--for no other reason than helping someone in need is just the right thing to do? I talk about wanting to make the world a better place. I can't pass up an opportunity to do so when it falls into my lap.<br />
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So now (of course), I'm asking you for your help. My sister and her cycling team's sponsors, <a href="http://www.domacoffee.com/index.php">Doma Coffee Roasting Company</a> and <a href="http://verticalearth.com/">Vertical Earth</a> in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, are holding a<em> La Bicicletta</em> coffee fundraiser. I'll let my sister's words take it from here: <br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;">From today until <strong>April 30th, 2013,</strong> Team REP, along with the generous support of our team sponsors, <a href="http://www.domacoffee.com/" title="Doma Coffee Roasting Company"><span style="color: #f3304d;">Doma Coffee Roasting Company</span></a> and <a href="http://www.verticalearth.com/" title="Vertical Earth"><span style="color: #f3304d;">Vertical Earth</span></a>, is holding a </span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><strong>La Bicicletta</strong></span><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"> coffee fundraiser.</span></i></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"> </span></i></b><b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;">All proceeds from every $12.50 bag of coffee we (Team REP and Vertical Earth) sell will go directly to the Bender family.</span></i></b></div>
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La Bicicletta was a blend that Doma created for the women’s team of Team REP back in 2008. Proceeds from the sale of this blend, nationwide, have gone to support women’s cycling here in our local community. But because the people at Doma are so FREAKING AWESOME, they are working crazy hard to get this coffee out to y’all, and we are shifting the money to the The Bender family.<br />
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Sell it to your neighbors, your friends, your coworkers. Ask them to do the same. [Forward this post, send an email, "Like" this post on your FB page]. Put on a crazy costume and sell it on the corner. Whatever floats your boat (although I assume no responsibility for the corner scenario).<br />
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<em> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">Doma is a locally owned roaster in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. Owners Rebecca and Terry firmly believe in women and our power to positively affect our families, our workplaces, and our communities. It’s a perfect partnership.</span></em></div>
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If you want to help, but don't really want coffee, you can go <a href="http://www.adventurecommunitychurch.com/Benders.htm">here</a>. The Bender's church has set up a donation page to help them out. If you want to buy coffee, simply go to <a href="http://www.domacoffee.com/index.php">Doma</a> and click on the Bender Family Fundraiser link.<br />
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Some of you reading this are cyclists or know cyclists...what a fun gift for your bike-loving, coffee-drinking friends! Some of you love coffee. Some of you just love doing good. <br />
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Regardless of who you are, thank you for taking the time to "listen." We're all in this messy, hard world together... we might as well try to help each other through it.Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-77435320333103685412013-02-13T22:58:00.000-05:002013-02-13T22:58:34.329-05:00Amateur Hour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's been a busy time, folks. Busy enough that I forgot my vow to try to post something every two weeks or so. I took a two week trip around the holidays, so that was excuse #1. Then my day job got a lot busier, so that was excuse #2. There are excuses #3 and #4 too, but the truth of it is that when I wasn't busy, I was just lazy.<br />
<br />
And have you ever noticed that when it rains, it pours? I went from having relatively few engagements and obligations to having far too many in a short period of time.<br />
<br />
My church set up a committee meeting on Wednesday. No big deal. Then Sean asked me to make a cake for someone that he works with who's retiring, for a meeting on Thursday. Ok, tricky with the church meeting and work, but workable. Then my writer's group meeting (which is always scheduled on the same day every month but which I somehow forgot about) was scheduled for Tuesday night. Ok, starting to get into overload mode here.<br />
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And then one of Sean's teammates contacted me on the down-low, because a bunch of executives were going to be in town and they wanted to throw a little surprise bash to celebrate Sean's recent promotion--and they wanted cake. So when they came to the teammate and asked him what kind of cake Sean likes, he asked, "Why don't we just have his wife do it?"<br />
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Why not indeed. So I told this plucky teammate that if I could get the day off of work for my regular job, I would be happy to bake cupcakes for 115 people. I got the day off. Sean had no idea.<br />
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So I'm booked enough now that I know I need to be careful. I need to be smart. I have a grandiose plan for the retirement cake. It will be stacked, round bottom, square top, chocolate bark on the edges. I figure I'll make the chocolate bark on Monday, not worry about it on Tuesday, and bake the cake on my lunch break and stack and frost it after the church meeting on Wednesday. Then Thursday I'd bake my little tootsies off in the morning and have all the surprise cupcakes delivered by 3:30. Easy-peasy, right?<br />
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Well, Monday and the chocolate bark went exactly according to plan. Check.<br />
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Tuesday night, I'm leave my writer's group meeting at 8:45 and call my husband. He sounds antsy.<br />
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"Is something wrong?" I ask.<br />
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"Uuuh, well, maybe. I think I might have made a mistake," he replies.<br />
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"A mistake? What mistake?"<br />
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"What day did I tell you I needed that cake for?"<br />
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Long pause.<br />
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".........Thursday. Why?" I ask, squinting my eyes in a "oh, HELL no" look that he can't see over the phone, but I know he can <i>feel. </i>And my voice sounds dangerously icy, even to my own ears.<br />
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"Well, um..."<br />
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"You need it for tomorrow, don't you?"<br />
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"Yeah, I told you the wrong day. But I can just buy something."<br />
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"No," I say. "No, it's ok. I promise I'm not upset, or angry. I'll throw something together when I get home. I'll just have to use cake mixes. Will you pull out 8 eggs and three sticks of butter?"<br />
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I wasn't as efficient as I could have been when I got home, I admit it. But I took out a vanilla cake mix and a chocolate cake mix, and tweaked them with some added ingredients and substitutions (coffee instead of water in the chocolate cake, for instance), and popped them in the oven to bake. Then I made some coffee buttercream frosting and pulled out my damask cardboard cake rounds and my cake carrier, pulled the cakes out of the oven.... and waited.<br />
<br />
And waited.<br />
<br />
Even in the fridge, waiting for cake to cool enough before you can frost it is mind-numbingly slow when you're on a timetable and would much rather be in bed. Soon enough the time passed, and I gave both layers a sloppy "homestyle" icing. I broke up the chocolate bark by hand and layered it on the sides of each tier as quickly as I was able. I placed three pieces on top as kind of an artistic statement.<br />
<br />
I stepped back.... and I hated it.<br />
<br />
"Ugh," I said.<br />
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"It looks good," Sean said. "What's the matter?"<br />
<br />
"I had much bigger plans," I said. "This just looks like <i>amateur hour</i> to me. I should have done it better! I should have taken more time. The top layer should be smaller. The chocolate should be on better. The icing should be smooth."<br />
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"I think it looks fine," Sean said.<br />
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"You mean that?" I asked. "It won't bother me if you'd rather go buy something more professional. I'm not going to spend any time trying to fix it."<br />
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"I promise," he said. "This is going to be way tastier than something I'd buy at Price Chopper, and it looks better, too. You worry too much."<br />
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So, too tired to care, I took a few lousy photos on my phone and boxed it up for transport the next day.<br />
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Sean came home and told me that everyone loved the cake--the same team member that recruited me for the cupcake extravaganza on Thursday even sent me a text message to tell me it was awesome. And the guy who was retiring--who was actually a client--sent an email the next day telling the team that he'd miss them and that their best asset was "Sean's wife's baking ability."<br />
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And what really cracked me up? People were asking Sean what the flavor was on the cake, because it was just so <i>tasty.</i> Sean, who knew perfectly well that it came out of a red and yellow box with a few tweaks, just gave a little laugh and a shrug and said,<br />
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"Well, I know there's something special in there, but I'm not quite sure what it is."<br />
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<i>Bless that man.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Unfortunately, I didn't take any photos of the 150 mini cupcakes I made (Mocha, Classic Vanilla, and Red Velvet). Really, once you've seen a few mini cupcakes, you've just about seen them all. But I do have to say--the red velvet ones looked <i>quite</i> smashing with their triangles of stripey chocolate bark. Waste not, want not, my friends.<br />
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And Sean never had a clue, until he saw my pink bakery boxes on the table and his team announced that I brought the cupcakes.<br />
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He called me afterwards.<br />
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"So, did you enjoy your day off?" he asked.<br />
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"Why yes. Yes, I did."Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-13692236223672478132012-12-17T23:59:00.001-05:002012-12-17T23:59:53.893-05:00Cookies and Wreaths! It's Christmas time!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ah, Christmas. The time of year for family and friends to come together, share good food, fun, and cheer--and for people to <i>stress the heck out</i> right before everyone comes together to share good food, fun, and cheer.<br />
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I've mentioned several times that Sean and I have moved <i>a lot </i> over the past 6 years or so. This seems to have an adverse impact on the amount of time we spend decorating. When we moved to Alaska we knew it was temporary, so we only brought up our tree and left our tubs and tubs of Christmas decorations in storage.<br />
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When we moved to our renovated loft apartment in New York, We put up the tree and a few knick-knacks here and there...but neither of us felt like trying to rent or buy a ladder to hang garlands, and there wasn't much surface area for porcelain Christmas villages and stuffed snowmen and the like, so we just let it go.<br />
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At THIS house, though, I was full of plans and dreams. We got our tree up around the first weekend in December. I put a wreath on the door. When my mom shipped me a <i>better</i> wreath, I put that one on the door instead, with plans to put the matching garland up. I went to Michaels and bought some new stuff.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--REz9MiKLRM/UMyzn7ZvRsI/AAAAAAAAAOE/3FmrM_nQTl4/s1600/IMG_1544.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--REz9MiKLRM/UMyzn7ZvRsI/AAAAAAAAAOE/3FmrM_nQTl4/s320/IMG_1544.jpg" width="240" /></a>And..... nothing's up. And now we're faced with the fact that we really only have about one week left before we take off to visit family and come back in January. So... the odds of it happening are slim now.<br />
<br />
BUT. I blame my lack of decorating on another Christmas tradition. Baking. It's becoming somewhat of a tradition that Sean brings in baked goodie boxes for his team. And I, like a fool, cheerfully volunteer each year. So, this year for his 10-person team, I made t<a href="http://www.wherethecookiesare.com/2012/02/10/salted-chocolate-toffee-pretzel-bark/">his salted chocolate toffee pretzel bark</a> (which is freaking <i>amazing </i>and amazingly simple), peppermint bark (also amazingly simple), spiced rum balls, cut gingerbread cookies, and --by their one request-- red velvet whoopie pies.<br />
<br />
And of course I didn't remember to take pictures of <i>any</i> of it until literally everything was all boxed up and all that was left were these "reject" gingerbread cookies. And I want to get something straight... these snowflake cookies look all pretty and I'm proud of them and they were <i>dang tasty</i>...but they were also a ROYAL pain in the keister. Each of those arrow-head holes is made one-by-one with a cutter. So yes. If you're feeling particularly artsy--by all means! Be my guest! If you're trying to mass-produce an insane number of cookies for 10 treat boxes, you may wish to stick with the smaller flakes or choose a different shape. And your husband might want to go grab you a beer after he hears you muttering in frustration when the dang <i>itty bitty triangle </i>jams up with gingerbread <i>again</i>. And that's before you even <i>frost</i> the suckers. He might want to bust out the vodka for you on that one.<br />
<br />
Speaking of frosting, I don't really like royal icing. I think it's gritty and has a strange bitter sort of taste to it. However, I really wanted something with a fluid enough consistency that it could drip through the cracks of the snowflake, and I wanted it to have the side benefit of being hard or crusted. I had plans of piping each cookie with buttercream, but it only took me about three cookie cut-outs to realize <i>that</i> was never going to happen.<br />
<br />
I stumbled upon <a href="http://www.sweethopecookies.com/glaze-glorious-glaze-part-one/">this recipe for glaze</a>, and I tweaked it a bit. I'm sure it's tasty just the way it is in the link, but I added an egg white (even though I don't like it in royal icing) in order to make the glaze crust faster, and then I also added more water until it reached the consistency I wanted. Then I just dipped and flipped the cookies and set them on racks to dry.<br />
<br />
For the glaze:<br />
1 lb of powdered sugar<br />
1/4 cup light corn syrup<br />
1/4 cup water, give or take for your desired consistency<br />
1 egg white<br />
Vanilla/almond/lemon/orange/mint extract--whatever you prefer<br />
Coloring gel, if desired<br />
<br />
Basically, add everything together in a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Start with a lesser amount of water and add more by the tablespoonful until the desired consistency is reached. If you want multiple colors from your glaze, divide it out into separate containers to color. Pipe, dip and flip, or pour the glaze. <i>Et voila!</i><br />
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And <i>then</i>, as though 10 treat boxes weren't enough, Sean volunteered me to make a dessert for a holiday potluck party at his office. Granted, he knows that it's a pretty safe thing to volunteer me for--and everyone pretty much expects/hopes for a dessert from me anyway.<br />
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I wanted something classy that didn't require a TON of effort, so I decided to go with a variation of the winter wreath that can be found in the popular cookbook <i>What's Up, Cupcake?</i> Simply melt some white chips, white melties, or white vanilla-flavored candy coating and use your finger to smooth it on mint leaves. Set the leaves aside on a wax paper-lined cookie sheet and put in the fridge for a few minutes, until set. Slowly and carefully remove the mint leaves from the chocolate. If the chocolate isn't too hot when you slather it on and if you're careful when you peel back the leaves from the chocolate, you can use the leaves to make multiple chocolate molds.<br />
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The wreath above is actually two rows of mini cupcakes, but you can do it with regular sized cupcakes. And to tell you the truth, I really ought to have more leaves, but I was too lazy and decided to leave well enough alone. Use M&Ms, Cadbury Holiday Chocolates (pictured), or other candies for the red berries. The wreath also looks pretty with a ribbon or fondant bow.<br />
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By the way, this post took me nearly three days to write because, you know, all the <i>stressing</i>. And the baking, and the packing, and the cleaning, and the shopping, and the dog trimming. Maybe that last one is just me.<br />
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Merry Christmas, and happy baking!<br />
<br />Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-75951758990880450322012-11-16T00:19:00.004-05:002012-11-16T00:30:26.111-05:00A-touristing we shall go....<br />
Touristing with Sean and I really ought to come with some sort of warning label.<br />
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"CAUTION: Touristing with this couple may cause your feet to fall off."</div>
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Or maybe, "WARNING: Proceed with tourist activities with Sean and Jillian at your own risk."</div>
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Or, "DANGER: These two individuals are not your standard tourists. If you have any injuries which may preclude you from running a marathon, the Surgeon General of the United States advises against proceeding further."</div>
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Sean's friend flew out from Phoenix, and we met him in Washington D.C. for a long weekend (yes, it was a long jaunt for him, but Southwest Airlines fare sales are not to be ignored). </div>
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Now, Jeff is no fool. He visited us in Japan when we lived there, and we warned him to bring his most comfortable shoes because we were going to be walking to the back of beyond--and back again. He kind of grinned at this statement at first, but dag gum it...we walked that grin right off his face.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WDwDP_BSAqA/UKXKBrynBqI/AAAAAAAAALo/z74C_ph16I4/s1600/IMG_1463.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WDwDP_BSAqA/UKXKBrynBqI/AAAAAAAAALo/z74C_ph16I4/s320/IMG_1463.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Washington Monument. Smithsonian Castle on the left.</td></tr>
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I've gained quite a bit of weight since returning from Japan, but because of the wonder that is Crocs (no, not the fugly ones that look like clogs--and "fugly" is not a typo, don't ask me to explain it--but the cute ones that look like mary janes or ballet flats or sandals), I can still pull off 6-10 mile days without too much pain. Or so I thought. I always bring my two most comfortable pairs of walking shoes, which fit differently. That way, if one rubs me and gives me blisters on one day, I switch it out to the other pair the next to give myself a break--or sometimes I carry the secondary pair with me. And I always load up on a bunch of band-aids and pass them out like candy to everyone in our party.</div>
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We met up with a friend of mine who lives in DC and had a relatively easy first evening. We probably only logged 4-5 miles. It would have been less, but we got off at the wrong metro stop. We viewed the Washington Monument and the Capitol at sunset on the way to the hotel, and then in full dark on our walk back to meet with my friend. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HkMlPfNXZR4/UKXKDLCvfrI/AAAAAAAAALw/xXp9MCG90B0/s1600/IMG_1469.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HkMlPfNXZR4/UKXKDLCvfrI/AAAAAAAAALw/xXp9MCG90B0/s320/IMG_1469.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Capitol Building</td></tr>
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The next day.... well, the next day felt fairly epic. Being in DC on Veteran's Day is an experience in and of itself. We started out in Arlington National Cemetery and walked as far as we could, even though the whole place was on relative lockdown due to Secret Service security before the President came to lay a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldiers. We looked at the crowds gathering to take the shuttle up to the Tomb and decided that as cool as it would be to see the President at the ceremony, we didn't feel like being jammed in with 5,000 of our closest friends for nearly 3 hours for a 20-minute ceremony. Instead, we walked as far as they would let us before we felt moderately intimidated by an MP squad of Marines in full dress blues. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l91lZ_pdmPs/UKXKNbR6zZI/AAAAAAAAAME/cYYXgbEpdoU/s1600/IMG_1475.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l91lZ_pdmPs/UKXKNbR6zZI/AAAAAAAAAME/cYYXgbEpdoU/s400/IMG_1475.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arlington National Cemetery</td></tr>
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Then we walked back down through Arlington and crossed the bridge to the National Mall and Mr. Abe Lincoln himself. Right about then is when we saw the Presidential Motorcade whipping through the streets. We were talking about it later, and it really probably would have been cheaper to have the President come in on Marine One rather than shutting down the motorcade route and pulling the Marines, the Police, and the Secret Service into the mix, but then we realized there's really nowhere in Arlington to land a helicopter. </div>
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We took in the crowds around the Vietnam Wall and decided to hit it later, then squeezed in to see Lincoln with our fellow patriots. Sean had gone for a six-mile run around the Mall in the morning around dawn, and he convinced us that doing the Mall and the Tidal Basin at dawn meant that we'd be sharing the monuments with four of our closest friends, not 4000. Not being a morning person, I really didn't want to consider the dawn jaunt...but then Sean showed me some pictures on his phone from the run, and I decided he was right.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pw9Jp4vIVcE/UKXKOvff3FI/AAAAAAAAAMM/dn8F0INEAG8/s1600/IMG_1487+-+Version+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pw9Jp4vIVcE/UKXKOvff3FI/AAAAAAAAAMM/dn8F0INEAG8/s400/IMG_1487+-+Version+2.jpg" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Washington Monument at dawn </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Washington Monument pre-dawn</td></tr>
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So, we trekked to the nearest metro station--which happened to be named Foggy Bottom, isn't that cool?--about two miles away, to meet up with my friend again in Friendship Heights for lunch. After another long walk from the metro station, it's a darn good thing Pete's New Haven Style Pizza was as tasty as Kirstin promised. At this point, we're about 5 miles into our day.</div>
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And then the conversation went something like this:</div>
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Sean - "How far away is the zoo from here?"</div>
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Kirstin - "Close-ish. Just a couple of metro stops. Did you want to walk, or take the metro?"</div>
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Sean - "I'm always up for walking. Let's walk."</div>
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Jeff and I exchange loaded looks of foreboding and doom. </div>
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Somewhat reassured by Kirstin's statement that the zoo was "just down the hill," we began trekking in the general direction. Kirstin kept us moving on mostly level or downhill areas, so that was good. And she took us through some really scenic neighborhood. But one and a half miles in, I was starting to wonder just how far "down the hill" is. And then we came to another metro station, and the conversation again went something like this: </div>
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Kirstin - "Do you guys want to keep walking, or take the metro?"</div>
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Sean - "How far away is it?"</div>
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Kirstin - "The entrance is between two metro stops, so it depends on which one you want to go to. So just one or two more stops. It's close-ish."</div>
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Sean, after looking at Jeff and I - "Let's walk."</div>
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Jeff and I shift painfully from foot to foot and exchange glances of foreboding and doom.</div>
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A mile later, and Kirstin says we're "close-ish." By this time, we're starting to razz her. We figure our breakdown in communication lies in our relative understanding of the distance between metro stops. Sean and I--being used to NYC subways--figured two stops would be something like a mile, maybe a mile and half. Not three. One mile = close-ish. Three miles = take the metro.</div>
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And by now, Jeff is lagging a bit but trying not to show it. I'm lagging a bit and trying not to show it, but Sean must have a radar, because he drops back to ask me how I'm doing. At this point, my right foot is radiating pain into my toes, and the pad of the foot feels like I'm walking on bone, not muscle and skin. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-I_8QgJVSPe8/UKXKR7dP60I/AAAAAAAAAMc/wc2v5cbBSeU/s1600/IMG_1489.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-I_8QgJVSPe8/UKXKR7dP60I/AAAAAAAAAMc/wc2v5cbBSeU/s400/IMG_1489.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tien Tien, the male panda</td></tr>
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"I'm mostly fine," I say, "but do you have any Advil in your bag?" He doesn't. I say that it's fine, I'll power through anyway. But another block down, and the pain is excruciating. I went from legitimately being "mostly fine" to feeling like I have to amputate my foot. Luckily, there's a Walgreens, so I go in and buy some pills and a soda and dope myself up. I <i>never</i> dope up on pain meds of any kind, so that in itself is a signal of severity.</div>
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Then it's half a mile to the zoo. Then it's walking around and around the zoo. I'm trying not to limp. For whatever reason, it's just my right foot. Sean swears he's a little sore, too, but ironically he's doing the best out of all of us--even after his 6 mile run. Jeff is starting to sit down on any benches that present themselves when it appears that we're going to be stationary for more than 30 seconds. I'm afraid to sit down, because I don't know if I'll make it back up.</div>
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We finally call it quits in the zoo and hike back up the hill. Jeff suggests eating at the frozen yogurt place across from the entrance. I don't think anyone was very hungry, but I readily agree because <i>I. am. in. so. much. friggin'. pain. </i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Washed-out White House</td></tr>
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We take our time at the yogurt shop and end up sitting for close to 40 minutes. At this point, we're on mile 9 or so. The pills are kicking in and the sitting has done me good, so when we get up, <i style="font-weight: bold;">I'm</i> the one that suggests we walk to the White House. I ignore Jeff's look of foreboding and doom. </div>
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Half a mile down the road, and I'm fantasizing about chewing off my foot at the ankle. But I'm the one that suggested this trek, so I'm gonna suffer in silence, dammit. We make it to the White House and "ooh" and "ahh," then make our way back to the Mall. We stop in at a Cosi for coffee and the bathrooms, and Jeff again sacks out on a chair. After limping back from washing my hands, I join him. Sean is already there.</div>
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Coffees in hand, we head back out to the Mall. We walk down the length--which is pretty long on its own. We hit the Vietnam Wall, and I don't even want to walk the length of it--I say it's dark and I've seen it before, but the truth is, I'm still fantasizing about cutting off my foot. We're on mile 10, easy. Possibly even 12.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k37ae_ifiNs/UKXKVleeQEI/AAAAAAAAAMs/alGuf_NibGU/s1600/IMG_1496.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k37ae_ifiNs/UKXKVleeQEI/AAAAAAAAAMs/alGuf_NibGU/s400/IMG_1496.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Washington Monument at dark</td></tr>
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Then we cruise over to Lincoln and see him again at night from a distance, and take some awesome pictures of the Washington Monument. This is when Sean starts saying that it's really worth it to come in at dawn, and I'm starting to believe him, just because I don't want to walk the rest of the way. Then Jeff says that he's game to walk it all tonight AND tomorrow if we want to... he'll be fine.</div>
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So we cruise on over to the Korean War Memorial, then across the street to the Tidal Basin to peek in on MLK. We stop at the restrooms, and Jeff sacks out on a bench. It's obvious that he's in a lot of pain, and I'm cycling in and out of it. In the restroom, I tell Kirstin that I think we need to cut it short and find out where to eat dinner. When we get outside, Sean and I do one of those silent communication things that only married people on the same wavelength can pull off, and he agrees. So, we go see MLK since he's right there. As we're walking, I realize that I'm doing this as much for me as for Jeff, because <i>dammit</i>, <i>pain is not supposed to spike up my toes like this</i>. </div>
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We see MLK and accidentally photo bomb some people, then head back to the far side of the Mall to try and find dinner. Halfway through, we give up and try to find a taxi. We finally find one, ask the driver to drop us off at a usually busy intersection, and when we get to the intersection to find food.....everything is closed. Sunday night off the Mall on Veteran's Day, and not an open eatery to be found--for under $60/plate. So we walk for four more blocks before we dive into an open joint. It's not even 7:30, but it feels like midnight. Jeff is dead on his feet, and just wants to go to bed. He encourages us to stay out, but none of us want to, either. As much pain as I'm in, I'm somewhat used to it. If he's on Phoenix time and just wants to go to bed, I know he's in <i>serious</i> pain.</div>
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So, though the metro stop is legitimately close (the joke of the weekend became adding "-ish" to the end of words to sarcastically indicate the opposite... "close-ish" for really far, "fun-ish" for misery, etc.), we hail the first cab we can find and ride it back to the hotel. We rationalize that splitting the cab fare three ways actually ends up cheaper than three metro tickets. </div>
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Jeff heads up to the room immediately while Sean and I stop in the sundry shop for something sweet and some drinks. By the time we get up to the room, he's ready for bed and just waiting to climb in. 8:30 PM in Washington DC, and he's out like a light. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wVZ6_w9GlZE/UKXKXVDsxBI/AAAAAAAAAM0/YqEC0SkUZfY/s1600/IMG_1497.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wVZ6_w9GlZE/UKXKXVDsxBI/AAAAAAAAAM0/YqEC0SkUZfY/s400/IMG_1497.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Washington Monument at dawn, day 2</td></tr>
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I end up being awake the longest. I beat both of the boys by more than an hour, and am ironically the second one up before dawn--Sean, of course, was first. We take a cab back down to Lincoln and walk the mall at dawn. I just have to get out of the car and see the sun starting to rise, the empty mall, and smell the fresh air to think, "<i>this is </i><b>so </b><i>worth it."</i></div>
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So anyway, you're getting the point, I'm sure. We walk Lincoln and Korea and MLK and FDR and Jefferson and back to our hotel. And after Jefferson, it's becoming obvious that my right foot is fine, but now my left foot is spiking pain. But I say that walking back to the hotel is fine, even though we're already on two miles, and it's at least two miles back. I tough it out because it's a gorgeous day, but by the time we get back to the hotel, I can't hide my limp. </div>
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So after all this walking, and the laps we did of Union Station and the Baltimore airport, when I was no longer trying to hide the fact that I was in pain... I'm feeling pretty low about myself that I'm wussing out after all this walking.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Reh8yKLwKDI/UKXKbbRlFOI/AAAAAAAAANE/Z031fbQWEgk/s1600/IMG_1508.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Reh8yKLwKDI/UKXKbbRlFOI/AAAAAAAAANE/Z031fbQWEgk/s640/IMG_1508.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jefferson Memorial at dawn on the Tidal Basin</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ryv5LSMxxvM/UKXKd8myMHI/AAAAAAAAANQ/dmYpLlj9Ivg/s1600/IMG_1517.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ryv5LSMxxvM/UKXKd8myMHI/AAAAAAAAANQ/dmYpLlj9Ivg/s400/IMG_1517.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tidal Basin at dawn</td></tr>
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Well, it turns out it's a legit problem, and not just because I'm out of shape. Apparently there's some sort of nerve bundle in that part of my foot that might need some form of surgery--so good news that I'm not just a wuss, but bad news on the whole nerve bundle thing.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IzxyTc3IQyI/UKXNqXYX_DI/AAAAAAAAANo/VR2aALAI2TM/s1600/IMG_1504.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IzxyTc3IQyI/UKXNqXYX_DI/AAAAAAAAANo/VR2aALAI2TM/s400/IMG_1504.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial at dawn</td></tr>
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Kirstin texted me that she could feel all of our trekking in her hip the next day--and we were 5 miles in before we met up with her. Jeff was still recuperating himself. He spent a good deal of time rubbing his knee. The only person that appeared mostly unscathed was Sean. Of course. </div>
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In fact, he just came to say goodnight, and peeked over my shoulder.</div>
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"You have me intrigued by your warnings at the top," he said.</div>
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"Yeah, I figured they're pretty accurate," I replied.</div>
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"Did you tell them about '<i>close-ish'?</i>" he asked.</div>
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"Yeah, I did," I said.</div>
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"What about <i>Marriott coffee</i>?" </div>
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I shuddered. "No, I didn't tell them about <i>Marriott coffee</i>. The post is getting really long, and besides.... it's not supposed to be a horror story."</div>
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He laughed. "True. Are you coming up to bed?"</div>
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"Soon-ish," I say.</div>
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Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-42883210787648065702012-11-04T15:12:00.000-05:002012-11-15T20:28:51.152-05:00OMG! That's an iPhone cake? LOL!A couple of months ago, a friend at work sent me a link to a picture she had found on Pinterest (believe it or not, I have never been on Pinterest. I also don't have a Twitter account, and I barely check my Facebook. Oh, and I still don't know what tumblr is. Yeah. I guess I'm "lame" like that). It was a bunch of cute-as-a-button iPhone cupcakes, arranged in a grid against a patterned background to suggest it was the screen of an iPhone, and each cupcake was a little app. If such technology could be cute, it was cute.<br />
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So that got me thinking that I wanted to do an iPhone cake for Sean's birthday. I looked online and googled iPhone cake images, and I was disappointed in the number of cakes that used edible paper and food-grade ink to just <i>print</i> the iPhone screen and lay it on top of fondant. I mean, I could rally on about how such cakes don't use artistry or skill, but really, it was more the fact that I don't have one of those printers, edible paper, or food-grade ink. So I <i>totally</i> couldn't do that even if I wanted to. Which I didn't. Even though it would be easier and more accurate than hand-shaped apps. Meh. Actually, I'm kind of glad that I don't have edible paper and food-grade ink. I might have caved to temptation.<br />
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I did find a couple that made little app buttons out of fondant, so I knew there was hope. <br />
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The truth of the matter, though, is that after a week of intense baking <i>and</i> my day job (not to mention that it was also a week of intense baking <i>failures</i>), I had kind of lost all enthusiasm for baking the cake. In fact, I might have backed out if I hadn't already sneakily arranged for Sean to be booked in a "meeting" at work with his team so that I could pounce on him with the cake and embarrass him with an off-tune chorus of "Happy Birthday".<br />
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For once, I used regular rolled fondant instead of making my own marshmallow fondant. I just didn't have the gumption. Because I work from home, I was able to make the cake and have it done and cleaned up before Sean got home--but only because it was a slow day at work.<br />
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And man alive...I honestly feel like this is my favorite cake to date. Really. I love it. First cake that I didn't want anyone to cut.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iRQmWOWJ9kM/UJbHfuYLOWI/AAAAAAAAALU/z47q3EBt0yE/s1600/IMG_1454.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="457" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iRQmWOWJ9kM/UJbHfuYLOWI/AAAAAAAAALU/z47q3EBt0yE/s640/IMG_1454.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Cool, right? So cool, it's like I wasn't even the one to make it. It's got the Settings app cog wheel! Maps app! The Safari compass! Volume buttons on the side, the headphone jack and switch on top, and the charging point on the bottom! C'mon... if you have an iPhone, please tell me you can recognize a lot of these!<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TTh4_gJiE28/UJbHcWEsBxI/AAAAAAAAALM/DPOvER7N_4w/s1600/IMG_1449.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TTh4_gJiE28/UJbHcWEsBxI/AAAAAAAAALM/DPOvER7N_4w/s400/IMG_1449.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
Oh, sure. There are things I would do differently. I would make the background a lighter color of grey. I would use less water to clean the powdered sugar off the fondant so that it wasn't so shiny (though it WAS less shiny after chilling out all night. These photos were taken approximately 30 seconds after completion).<br />
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And Sean was surprised, so that part of it was a success. He figured something <i>might</i> be going on when his team asked him to come into the meeting, but he didn't expect me there, or the iPhone cake of Awesomeness.<br />
<br />
He gawked at it for a little bit, afraid to cut it--and gawking was fine, because everyone was crowding in to get pictures before it was destroyed.<br />
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"Well," he said, once he finally took the plunge, "at least it makes for good portion control. Who wants what app?"<br />
<br />
(I got the photo album sunflower.)<br />
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I wonder if there's a niche market just for iPhone cakes...<br />
<br />Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-31344574552263932662012-10-31T20:05:00.001-04:002012-10-31T20:09:20.120-04:00Hap-bee Halloween!When I was little, I LOVED Halloween. I would drag out the big box of decorations from the hallway closet and decorate the house. We lived in the country, though, so we never got trick-or-treaters...and mom always shuttled me into my grandma's neighborhood, or one down in town.<br />
<br />
As I've gotten older, I don't have the same love of Halloween as I did when I was little. I HATE slasher movies (hate, hate, hate, <i style="font-weight: bold;">hate</i> them), don't really like supernatural/spooky movies (kinda hate them, too), and roll my eyes a little bit when I drive past the houses with miles of fake spider webs and a whole graveyard in the front yard.<br />
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I do love autumn, though, and I feel like a little celebration of Halloween is always fun. So, earlier this week, I carved this:<br />
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Not a traditional jack-o-lantern, but I had fun making it. I used an X-acto knife, a $2 pumpkin knife from Michael's, and--believe it or not--a jumbo open-star frosting tip.<br />
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And then I made this:</div>
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mmmmmm......<i>braaaaaiiiiiiiins......</i></div>
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And this:</div>
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Mummy!</div>
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Some cute, non-scary Halloween-themed cupcakes for my husband's Halloween-themed office party.<br />
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And then, I dressed up my long-suffering dog like this, and told him to <i>bee</i> a good dog:</div>
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Aw! So cute!</div>
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Hap-<i>bee</i> Halloween!<br />
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Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-8196842431041155742012-10-27T11:37:00.001-04:002012-10-27T11:40:17.557-04:0060 Sucks...the Epic Fail ResolutionSo, remember how in my last post I was writing it at 2:30 in the morning because I had the epic fail of awesomeness with the stacked cake, so I was going to make a sheet cake?<br />
<br />
Well, the sheet cake was also an epic fail. The client wanted half chocolate, half vanilla together in one cake. And I knew... I KNEW as soon as I started frosting that it wasn't going to work. When the chocolate cake started pulling apart during the <i>crumb coat</i>, not the actual frosting... I knew I was doomed, but I tried to persevere, anyway.<br />
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And the weird thing is that on both the sheet cake and stacked cake, it was the chocolate cake that failed. The vanilla was fine. So, apparently, I need to revisit that particular recipe.<br />
<br />
So, at about 3:30 in the morning, I finally broke down, searching through my pantry in tears for magical Option #3. When I came across the marshmallows, I knew I had it. I made marshmallow fondant, and after a few failed attempts to make badges for cupcakes with NY Mets colors of orange, white, and blue, I finally dyed the fondant orange, and used white icing to pipe "60" and blue icing to pipe "Sucks!"<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b2K9gIaAJg4/UIv9Ls_4NDI/AAAAAAAAAKA/bV6lPNUHZ-w/s1600/IMG_1419.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b2K9gIaAJg4/UIv9Ls_4NDI/AAAAAAAAAKA/bV6lPNUHZ-w/s400/IMG_1419.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
See, it was a surprise 60th birthday party, and they wanted "60 Sucks!" with a bunch of lollipops as a cake topper. Tongue-in-cheek cute, right? Or maybe back-handedly insulting? Either way, it was a close group of people, and they thought it would be hilarious. I ended up sticking a blue and orange Tootsie Pop mini sucker (with white writing on the labels! Mets colors!) on the top of every cupcake, so they looked like this:<br />
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I had gone to bed at 5:30 in the morning with the plan to sleep until about 8, but then, ironically, I couldn't really get to sleep. At 8, I texted the client, telling her that the cake gods were really, really angry with me.<br />
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She replied, "Fire and brimstone angry?"<br />
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I explained the situation as succinctly as I could, aided in large part by sending her the photo of the epic fail. Then I told her that cake #2 also failed, so I made badges for cupcakes (sent pic) and was willing to provide 24 to 36 cupcakes for free, and lend her any cupcake display equipment that I had. She was okay with that--even insisted on paying me anyway--and so I got up, went to the store for eggs, shortening, and cocoa powder (somehow I had run out during the night, imagine that), and got to work baking.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MLxxbvnInb0/UIv9SUWVFoI/AAAAAAAAAKI/WxCB_Xb4dJY/s1600/IMG_1420.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MLxxbvnInb0/UIv9SUWVFoI/AAAAAAAAAKI/WxCB_Xb4dJY/s400/IMG_1420.jpg" width="300" /></a>For once, everything turned out fine--and worked the first time.<br />
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She sent me a photo from the party, and said that everyone loved the cupcakes. I think cupcakes are kind of more fun at casual parties anyway--but of course I would think that after the night that I had!<br />
<span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: left;">Early in the Evening of Failure, before things started to go bad, I had told Sean that my sister texted me to tell me that she thought the Sweet 13 post was hilarious, because she could imagine Sean trying to duck and cover. </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: left;">"She asked if you minded being the comic relief," I said.</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: left;">"And what did you say?" he asked.</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: left;">"I said that you didn't mind because you never really read my blog, but I had told you that you were the comic relief, and that sometimes you peek over my shoulder at what I'm writing. And I only (mostly) tell the truth, anyway."</span><br />
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"Mostly?"</div>
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"Yeah, well, in the football helmet one I posted a hypothetical conversation where we were talking about football, and since I root for the perceived underdogs, I asked you which defensive line was smaller, and you said, 'what's a defensive line?' "</div>
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He just kind of looked at me.</div>
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I said, "I know, I know, that's probably unfair. You know what a defensive line is. Probably even better than I do."</div>
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He said, "Yes. It's a line. They get very defensive. They really don't take criticism very well."</div>
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I started laughing so hard I was crying, and then <i>he</i> was laughing at <i>me</i> laughing so hard that I was crying, that <i>he </i>started to cry. I kept trying to stop and get control of myself, but then would say, "they don't take criticism very well! <i>Haaaaa!</i>" and I would snort and be off laughing again. The whole thing lasted for about 10 minutes.</div>
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So in case you didn't know what a defensive line in football is, it's a bunch of big, angry men, all lined up--who happen to not take criticism very well!</div>
Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-76304463307890555752012-10-26T02:42:00.002-04:002012-10-26T02:42:45.680-04:00Ugh. Epic Fail.Ugh.<br />
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Do you ever have one of those days where people ask you how you're doing, and you don't even want to expend the effort that it would take to answer in actual words?<br />
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That's how I feel. It's a grunting kind of night. Morning. Whatever.<br />
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Here's the deal. It's 2:30 in the morning and I'm writing a post because I'm waiting for cakes to cool.<br />
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Why am I waiting for cakes at 2:30 in the morning? Why didn't I have them done earlier?<br />
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Well, I did, you see. I had a <i><b>lot</b></i> of them done earlier. And then this happened.<br />
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Ugh.<br />
<br />
Yeah. That's three layers of cake awesomeness. And by "awesomeness," I mean "awesomely horrible and catastrophic to a degree that there are no words to further describe it."<br />
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It's supposed to be a stacked, three-tier cake with berry filling. Although now that bottom layer kind of looks like a pile of diseased poo carnage.... aren't you glad I just put that image in your head?<br />
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I was plagued with problems from the beginning, and the thing is, I <i>can't even figure what went wrong</i>. Besides <i>everything</i>, I mean. Obviously, <i>everything</i> went wrong, but what was the crucial first step? My stacked cake the other day turned out fine. The wedding cake that I stacked this summer turned out fine. I would say "WTF" right about now, but I'm pretty sure my grandma reads my blog, and I'm not sure I want to say "WTF" knowing that she'll see it.<br />
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I nearly broke down (a couple of times, actually). But I have my TobyMac music on in the background as loud as it can be with my husband sleeping upstairs, and Toby's keeping me tear-free and bee-bopping around the kitchen. It's another one of my "worst is relative" moments... if this is the worst thing that happens to me this week, I'm ahead of 99.8% of the world. I can handle that.<br />
<br />
So, right now I have sheet cakes cooling. I've made the frosting, I have the filling ready. I'll post pictures of the finished--and much downsized--final product tomorrow. Hopefully the client (who is a new one, ironically enough) is chill and won't mind a sudden change in plan--and hopefully nothing goes wrong with the sheet cakes. I could do this tomorrow, but I still have a day job that expects me to show up and put in my time... slave-drivers.<br />
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And yeah, to my friend who always lets me know what she thinks of my blog posts--you know who you are--I realize that Sean did not make an appearance in this entry. Hopefully there's enough comedic relief without him.<br />
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Oh, and I suppose the day wasn't a <i><b>total</b> </i>cakey waste. I had a lot of leftover goods from the masterfully epic fail of awesomeness above, so I made this cake for my neighbors in about 15 minutes to thank them for all the yard work they've done for us. I didn't tell them that my writing/scrolling icing also failed. Or that it was made of leftover bits from the other cake. Or that the chocolate leaves have been in our fridge for a while because they were from an aborted birthday cupcake batch. Not my best work, but--as I'm reminded as I look at my kitchen island right now--it's nowhere NEAR my worst.<br />
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<br />Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-10737220737978076692012-10-21T14:41:00.003-04:002012-10-21T14:43:27.265-04:00Sweet...13?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">So, I have to admit to an embarrassing truth. Nearly all of my official orders come from one woman. She works with Sean and has a fairly large family, so she usually dials me up for birthdays or other important gigs. I'm grateful for her business, but part of me wishes that I could expand more easily. Wait, what? You're telling me I have to do things like advertise and market and stuff? Oh. Okay. Never mind, for now. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">Anyway, this uber-loyal customer contacted me for her daughter's 13th birthday. As we stood in the parking lot near our cars when I delivered her son's New York Giants helmet cake, she told me that she thought she should make sort of a big deal of this birthday, because it was her 13th. When I commented that I didn't have a big deal made of my 13th birthday--or even my 16th--she agreed with me. But she still wanted to go all-out. Who was I to deny her?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">She said that she wanted a stacked cake with zebra print and a funky neon green bow on top, and left the rest of it up to me. I'd never done a fondant bow before, but the online how-tos seemed pretty easy. I got the whole cake done fairly easily, using sugar sheet zebra print to save time (and thus money) for the zebra motif. And the bow I made out of marshmallow fondant. About three of my bow loops cracked and died a premature death before I could get them on the cake. I got the whole thing done and stood back to take pictures, zooming in from different angles. When I looked at the pictures to see how they turned out, the bow was wonky and...stupid. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">Something about pictures makes the subject more objective. Like, looking at it on the little digital screen allowed me to see flaws that I couldn't necessarily see when I was up-close and personal. I turned to my husband across the room.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">"This bow sucks, doesn't it?" I asked, already irritated and oozing <i>be careful what you say</i> vibes. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">"What do you mean?" he responded. "It depends on what you're going for."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">I stood there, simultaneously gaping at him, tamping down irrational anger, and shooting him a venom-laced look of death.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">"<i>What I'm going for?</i>" I hissed in a (reasonably) restrained voice. "What do you mean, <i>what I'm going for?"</i> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">He looked at me, suddenly aware that he was on thin ice. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">"Well, uh, I mean, if you're going for the super-deluxe, luxurious, 5-layer bow, then it's not. But if you're just going for a funky bow, it is." His eyes were wide as he looked back at me, waiting to see if he needed to duck and cover or if he could stand his ground.</span></div>
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I continued to glare at him, and then realized how foolish and how stereotypically <i>hormonally female</i> I was being. I willed myself to GET A GRIP<i> </i>and decompress.</div>
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"Could you see how deep you were shoveling that hole of yours the more that you kept talking?" I asked him with a (hopefully) self-deprecating smile.</div>
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"Yeah" he said tentatively, obviously still unsure if he was still skating on thin ice. "That's why I decided that I had just better shut up."</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y2liWaRMjZ4/UIP-aONid2I/AAAAAAAAAI4/7Nc4K3Swd_c/s1600/IMG_1405.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y2liWaRMjZ4/UIP-aONid2I/AAAAAAAAAI4/7Nc4K3Swd_c/s320/IMG_1405.jpg" width="209" /></a>I let him escape in relief as I tweaked the bow a bit by pushing some parts in, pulling some parts out, and yada yada yada. It turned out fine. After all, I wasn't going after a "super deluxe, luxurious, 5-layer bow." All I needed was "funky." Mission accomplished. </div>
Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-12884465486839821462012-10-16T22:27:00.002-04:002012-10-16T22:40:39.151-04:00Give me an N! Give me a Y! What does that spell? Football!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When people ask me if I'm a Broncos fan, or a Cowboys Fan, or Steelers fan, or whatever, my usual response is, "Uh, I don't really follow any sports, but I can be if you want me to be." When pressed, I'll say that I'll root for the Patriots, generally--because it makes me feel patriotic. Or the Ravens, because of that movie <i>The Blind Side</i>. But really, the only time football is on in my house is normally as background noise in the fall, because it reminds me of my dad. If I have to root for <i>someone, </i> I usually just choose whoever's defensive line looks smallest, because they feel like the underdogs.<br />
<br />
My husband, bless his soul, cares even less about sports than I do. For instance, if I said, "Hey, do you know whose defensive line is smaller?" his reply might be something like, "Um... what's a defensive line?"<br />
<br />
He has many other redeeming qualities, though. To illustrate: last weekend we took a day trip to look at foliage and hunt down some covered bridges in Vermont. We went to lunch, then walked into a co-op art gallery downtown with my parents. The long-haired, bearded, tie-dye-garbed guy behind the counter squinted at Sean for a few seconds, and then said, "Hey. Has anyone ever told you that you look like Ryan Gosling?"<br />
<br />
Sean looked startled for a second, then looked at me, then laughed and said, "Actually....yes."<br />
<br />
The first time it happened, it was a little old lady at the grocery store or somewhere. So when I told him that of course <i style="font-weight: bold;">I</i> always knew he was good looking, and even strangers agreed with me, he was able to shrug it off and say that she probably needed new glasses.<br />
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Hard to come up with that excuse for the young tie-dyed hippie man behind the counter, though.<br />
<br />
"Or a little bit like Ryan Reynolds, too," hippie man said. "Like a famous Ryan combo!" Sean and I squinted at each other. Ryan Gosling, ok. That's rooted in truth. But Ryan Reynolds? Not so much.<br />
<br />
And my dad really helped. As we were leaving, he said, "Who did that guy say Sean looked like?"<br />
<br />
"Ryan Gosling," I responded.<br />
<br />
"Who is Ryan Gosling?" he asked.<br />
<br />
So anyway, to recap--I just said that my husband's passing resemblance to Ryan Gosling is a redeeming quality for not caring about sports. That both suggests that not caring about sports is something for which redemption is necessary, and that I am shallow enough to accept good looks and relative hotness as said redemption. I don't really feel like either is true, but meh--it makes a good story. (Plus, I've been told by a regular reader that I can't publish any more posts without including Sean as comic relief--so that's naturally going to result in some non-sequiteur stories.)<br />
<br />
My original point was that I'm so out of touch with sports that when someone asked if I could make a flat cake shaped like a New York Giant's helmet, I had to do a Google image search and check out the logo first, before I gave an answer. When I saw that the logo was a simple NY on a blue helmet with a red stripe, I said yes.<br />
<br />
I printed the logo out on regular paper, then cut it out on top of marshmallow fondant with an Xacto knife. With the exception of the NY, everything else is buttercream. To get the smooth effect, I did the classic coat, chill, and smooth with a Viva paper towel. It works, people. It really works.<br />
<br />
I would really love to post the picture of the birthday boy enjoying his cake, but it's against my morals to post other people's kids on a public blog. Let's just say that the little boy was SMEARED with blue, and had to make an immediate trip to the bathtub before he turned smurf-like. You <i>know</i> frosting is kid-rated good when it turns your mouth (and your hands, and your face) blue!Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-24015418831809268762012-08-29T22:01:00.000-04:002012-08-30T01:41:05.959-04:00Spicing up Autumn! Cake Mix Tweak #3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I took our pooch for a walk today. It's happening, folks. Autumn is coming. It's not yet cool enough to need a jacket--in fact, we might get hit with some burning-hot Indian Summer days yet--but you can smell it in the air. The leaves are trying to decide if they want to turn. Here and there you can catch a glimpse of red on the traitorous tips of the oak leaves.<br />
<br />
I love fall. Every year, I try to decide if fall or spring is my favorite season, and I usually come out on the side of fall. I just love the crispness, and the apples, and the harvest festivals, and the fairs, and leaves, and the chilly air that makes you want to spend time outside and then come in and have some hot apple cider or stew and snuggle up on the couch watching your favorite movie.<br />
<br />
But there is one inescapable fact about fall: it comes right before <i>winter</i>.<br />
<br />
I like winter, too, more or less. I mean, I don't hate it. But in my perfect little world, it would be fall until about December 12th or so, then it would be snowy with winter until about January 12th, and then spring would sweep in and we'd be all done with the snow and the cold and the ice. We had a really mild winter last season...but that doesn't mean that I want to repeat it so soon!<br />
<br />
Anyway, like usual, I digress. To me, fall also means the return of pumpkin and spice and apple flavors. And that brings me to Cake Mix Tweak #3--White Spice. I've got about three different cake mix tweaks up my sleeve relating to spice flavors, but I figure I won't spill them all now. For now, I'll just concentrate on White Spice.<br />
<br />
Many of the box mixes for spice cake that you can buy at the super market are dark, heavy, and overly sweet. While I think there's definitely a place for dark spice cakes, I tend to prefer a gentler hand with the spices. For the times that I don't, I have --of course-- a darker spice tweak.<br />
<br />
Anyway, start out with your favorite white cake mix. Mix as directed. And then--and disclaimer here, folks, I don't really measure the spices when I dump them in, so these are all just guesses--add a tablespoon of cinnamon, two teaspoons of ginger, a teaspoon and a half of cloves, up to a teaspoon of allspice, and grate in half of a nutmeg. If you don't have freshly grated nutmeg, you should get some. But seriously, if you can't get fresh nutmeg, I would guess that half a nutmeg is about 2-3 teaspoons. Mix well, and bake according to box directions.<br />
<br />
Now, if you don't have some of these spices, don't panic. The major taste players in spice cake are cinnamon and nutmeg--and this is <i>your</i> cake and <i>your</i> taste, so do it however you want. Just remember, if you taste the batter, the finished product is going to taste more subtle than the batter does, so don't be afraid if it tastes a little strong.<br />
<br />
And if you <i>really</i> want to bring the spice flavor home, you can mix a smaller ratio of the same spices into your canned frosting of choice--though I do think that vanilla, white, or cream cheese frosting is a MUCH better choice to be spiking with spice than chocolate or, say, funfetti.<br />
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If you want to impress everyone, you can make little chocolate and caramel "acorns" to top them with, too. It was difficult for me to find the packaged caramels, because we're a tiny bit out of season, but I did find the "caramel bits" near the chocolate chips and they worked fine. If you're using individually-packaged caramels, use a whole one for regular-sized cupcakes or full cakes, and cut it in half for mini cupcakes. If you're using the caramel bits, use one to six little balls.<br />
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Zap the caramel in the microwave on low heat for 5-10 seconds or just until it's malleable. Quickly roll it between your palms to create an acorn shape. Set it aside on wax or parchment paper until all acorns are complete.<br />
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Heat some chocolate chips--or better, chocolate "melties" available at candy and craft stores--in the microwave until melted. Dip 1/4 to 1/3 of the top of the acorn into the chocolate, and immediately dip and coat the chocolate tops in chocolate "jimmies"--or the chocolate sprinkles that you never knew had a name. Set aside on wax paper until set. Refrigerate if needed. Use melted chocolate (in a ziploc bag with the corner snipped off) to pipe the stem, or use chocolate or brown-tinted icing, if preferred.<br />
<br />
And there you go--a shockingly easy, delicious, beautiful presentation for autumn-themed cupcakes--and no one ever needs to know it started in a box!<br />
<br />
(For those of you who prefer cakes from scratch, you can still add spices to your white cake for a new flavor--it's one of my favorite kinds of cake!)<br />
<br />
Happy baking!Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-91450172824087895592012-07-29T23:40:00.000-04:002012-07-30T00:04:14.219-04:00Toddler Mutant Ninja Turtle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm dating myself, here. I grew up in the era of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. They were pretty cool, right? Patrolling the city's sewers, fighting foes with their awesome martial-artsy skills. It wasn't until I was in college that I really examined how <i>strange <i></i></i>the concept of the whole show was. I mean, just listen to the title. Say it out loud. Slowly. Word by word. <br />
<br />
Teenage<br />
Mutant<br />
Ninja<br />
Turtles. <br />
<br />
What the ... ? <br />
<br />
Can you imagine how that studio pitch meeting went?<br />
<br />
"Hey Bob, I've got a <em>great</em> new idea for a kids' cartoon."<br />
<br />
"Oh yeah? What's the premise?"<br />
<br />
"Well, there are these turtles who live in the sewer in the big city. Never know what might actually be in sewers in the big city. Might be alligators. Why not turtles?"<br />
<br />
"...Turtles?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah! <em>Mutant</em> turtles!"<br />
<br />
"Okay...."<br />
<br />
"And they all learn martial arts from a wise old rat."<br />
<br />
"A mutant rat?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah, a wise, old, mutant rat. And they all have these really cool, educated, artsy names. Renaissance masters. Like Michaelangelo."<br />
<br />
"All of them?" <br />
<br />
"Um, well, maybe. We're working on that."<br />
<br />
"Okay.... so, uh, what's the point?"<br />
<br />
"Oh, yeah. They go around fighting evil. Basic super hero stuff. But they're not supposed to exist, right? Because they're mutant turtles. So they have to stay in the sewer and fight on the down low and eat pizza and learn from the rat."<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
Awkward shuffle.<br />
<br />
"Uh, did I mention that they're teenagers? Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles."<br />
<br />
"By God, Mike, why didn't you just say so in the first place! It's brilliant! It's fan-freaking-tastic! We'll start story boards on Monday!"<br />
<br />
<br />
Come on. Give me a break. It can't have been THAT easy, right? I mean, it sounds like something a college pothead came up with at 2 a.m. for his visual arts class. And yet look at it! It took the world by storm! Swept across the U.S. in a flurry of backpacks and lunch boxes and figurines and lousy live-action movies. I don't remember a whole lot of parents saying "boo" about it. But then again, I probably wasn't paying much attention. <br />
<br />
Anyway, none of this has anything to do with cake. The reason it's on my mind is because I was asked to do a cutesy turtle cake for a second birthday party. When I told my friend about it, he asked if it was going to be a TMNT cake. I laughed and said no, and that the 2-year-old was WAY too young to even have ridden on the TMNT revival bandwagon. But as I was frosting the cake, my husband wandered by and said, "So cute! All he needs is a little bandanna mask and nun chucks!"<br />
<br />
I snickered a little bit and said, "but he's way too young for the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.* Just two. So wouldn't that be more like the Toddler Mutant Ninja Turtles?"<br />
<br />
He just kind of looked at me and shrugged.<br />
<br />
Regardless, I ended up with a cutesy turtle cake frosted in buttercream. I didn't want to waste a bunch of excess or carve the cake, so I baked the "shell" in my largest Pyrex* bowl, and the head and feet are made from trimmed cupcakes. I put him in the fridge, and when he came out I used a smooth paper towel, placed it against the cake, and rubbed it gently to give the buttercream a smoothed look--being careful that the heat of my hands didn't make it gooey (and looking at the picture, I really should have done his legs, too). This only works with "crusted" buttercream--and any texture from the paper towel will transfer over. This opens up a whole realm of possibilities (some paper towels have really cool quilted patterns--you can put them on wedding cakes!), but for the "smooth" look, you need something like Viva*. I've had people talk about dipping spatulas in water while you're frosting, too, but you just gotta do what works for you. With something with so many nooks and crannies like this little turtle dude, spatula work was too fine for me. <br />
<br />
I free-handed the shell pattern, which you can probably tell, but I thought he looked pretty cute. <br />
<br />
Maybe the toddler will grow up, love the third revival of TMNT, and in six years I'll be asked to make a bust of Leonardo. The mutant turtle--not the painter. You never know, right?<br />
<br />
*None of these people/businesses/corporations sponsor me or anything. Promise. They're just what I've found that works best. Well, except TMNT. I don't really <em>use</em> them for anything. Just comic relief. But the other stuff--now they're handy. Come to think of it, <em>shouldn't</em> they be sponsoring me??<br />
<br />Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-31191214844795208062012-07-22T01:35:00.001-04:002012-07-22T01:40:17.690-04:00Dear Ikea<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dear Ikea--</div>
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I know that you're a company that strives to keep things inexpensive, and thus some things are cut from your daily operation--like having pre-assembled furniture or people to help you move 100-lb boxes onto your flat cart that is never truly controllable because it has those stupid gliding wheels, so you spend half the time hauling against it with all your weight so that you don't crash into the poor, little old lady wandering through the picking area with her cane. </div>
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I understand that you've built a reputation of quality, inexpensive furniture designed on principles of minimalism and customization. I get it.</div>
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And having always lived in various places where there was never an Ikea, I looked upon your store like a home-design mecca, overwhelming in its glory and stymieing plethora of items. </div>
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But here's the deal. You have a lot of choices. I mean, a ton. If you were to create some sort of computer algorithm, I bet a person walking through Ikea with the intent to purchase a boat-load of stuff would face the possibility of a million decisions or more with colors, doors, configurations, items, additions, whatever. So we did our research, my husband and I. We figured out what we wanted to buy, and bookmarked some stuff we wanted to see on the floor so that we could decide. It turns out that a lot of the stuff we wanted was in your "Besta" line. And we have compact cars, so no way was that going to work to haul all the stuff we wanted to buy all the way back home. Here we were, so dedicated and excited to deck our house out with Ikea goods that we woke up at the crack of dawn, drove 2.5 hours into New Jersey (I mean, <em>Jersey! </em>Do you have <em>any</em> idea what the drivers and the highways are like in Jersey? It's terrifying!), rented a UHaul cargo van, and showed up an hour after you opened. </div>
<br />
We had a list. We had a plan. This was going to be easy. <br />
<br />
So Ikea, imagine our chagrin, if you will, when <em>every single item</em> on our list that was <em>not</em> related to a closet was "temporarily over-sold." The desk. The shelves. The entertainment center. The cabinets. So we looked at other things we thought we could use as Plan B. Oversold. Oversold. Oversold. <br />
<br />
And, now that we're feeling so under-slept because we woke up so early to get that UHaul and make it to your store at opening time, imagine how we felt when we couldn't find <em>anyone</em> to ask about this mysterious plague of overselling. After three laps of the sofa/wall unit/ kitchen departments, we finally found someone--who told us that she has no idea about this "oversold" thing, and that we should go back to wall units. Which we did. And when we still couldn't find anyone, we stalked some other poor Ikea employee to the office section and asked him for help. He was actually quite nice, and called the people in the wall unit section and told them that we were coming. So we went <em>back</em> to the wall unit section for the third time. <br />
<br />
Guess what? Your Besta line had quality issues, so you couldn't sell it. In any color. And it's been this way for at least a week. And guess what? Your web site still said that you had all these things in stock, which is <em>why we drove for 2.5 hours at the crack of dawn to get to JERSEY</em> to buy this stuff. We stood <em>in the store</em> and checked the website again, and it <strong><em>still</em></strong> said everything was in stock! Is it too much to ask, Ikea, that <em>maybe</em> you could have put a note on your website letting people know? And I know she meant well, but the lady that told us to call the wall unit department before we came "next time" was <em>really </em>unhelpful. You're just lucky that my husband can recognize the signs of impending uncontrollable rage and steered me away before I could do something I would later very much regret. I mean, is it too much to ask to offer to ship this stuff? Or make some sort of accommodation? I know you're a busy kind of place, but surely you can spare some effort for us.<br />
<br />
It's okay, Ikea. We came up with a different plan. We could get over the fact that nothing that we had checked on your website or had planned on purchasing was going to work. In fact, maybe what we came up with as Plan C was even better than Plan A, now that we think about it. Score for you!<br />
<br />
But I have to say that you lose points on efficiency. We would have paid you to pick our stuff for us. We were exhausted. Our blood sugar was low. We didn't want to play "Frogger" with the carts. But you couldn't do that. Nope. Can't pick orders for people unless you're going to deliver it... even if they're willing to pay the "local" delivery price...and even if <em>another</em> employee of yours (who happened to be in the wall unit department) said that picking was one fee, and delivery was another--we could pay for one or both. <br />
<br />
And you lose major points for customer flow. Can you explain to me <em>why,</em> when there are 12 closed checkouts, and a wait time of more than 15 minutes at each open register, that you don't open <em>more</em> checkouts? And <strong>what is up</strong> with those cramped check-out lanes, anyway? You do realize that people are coming through with gliding flat carts that they can't control, stacked high with hundreds of pounds of disassembled minimalist Swedish decor, with old ladies with canes wandering through at random intervals, right? Why make it more challenging for people by putting over-sized pallets of stuff in the way, so that the customer feels like they're negotiating a game of Pac Man just to be able to <em>pay</em> <em>you</em> for the chance to go home and try to assemble this furniture with instructions that have no words?<br />
<br />
Oh, but I did enjoy the free lunch. Thanks for that. After the four wardrobes, and the mirror, and the entertainment center, and the bed frame, and the canvas painting, and the nightstands, and the office chair, and the dishes that we bought, that ten bucks of meatballs was appreciated.<br />
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I'm sorry, Ikea. I'm being snarky. And bitter. Really bitter. I really do appreciate the free lunch. In fact, over lunch, my husband and I repeated over and over again how lucky we were that we were able to be able to get all this furniture in the first place. And that our plates of meatballs were more food that a lot of people would see in a week. For a while, reapeating this mantra of blessings helped us to be much more Zen about our experience while we were visiting you. But you see, then our second gliding cart in a row was broken. And we couldn't get through that damn check out line without banging into people. And we had to pick one load, check out, load the van, and go back in and pick another load, check out, load, and be gone. But some of your stuff is "full service," and we really couldn't figure out the logic behind which is which. So after our second time loading, we accidentally drove away without realizing that we had forgotten a chest of drawers that you had to pick for us as a "full service item," and which we paid for. In fact, we didn't realize it for 170 miles. And then you put us on hold for 15 minutes when we called to see if we could refund it, before you transferred us to a new department where we were on hold for another 15 minutes, and then your employee--who was really trying to be nice, I'm sure--says something like, "whoa! Why is this so expensive?" And really, that's simply not what you want to say to someone who has just spent 6 hours in your store, trying against all odds to buy enough stuff to fill a cargo van.</div>
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And when we looked online to see if we could just <em>ship</em> the stupid chest of drawers to us, the shipping cost <em>more</em> than the drawers! More than it would be for us to drive another 5 hours round trip, with tolls and gas. Really, Ikea? You're going to charge us $300 dollars to ship a chest of drawers that we're buying--that we really already bought--because <em>all the other stuff we wanted to buy was </em><strong>oversold</strong> and you couldn't help us out with any alternatives?</div>
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Look. I'm sorry. You don't deserve this. Really, you don't. I shouldn't even be writing this, but it's really late and my better judgement is gone. You're busy. You serve a lot of people. And I had just made a resolution to be more grateful about things like this in my life. I mean, when you really think about it, this whole scenario is quite a first-world problem, isn't it? I mean, really. I'm writing a diatribe to a furniture store, for Pete's sake. Life could be much worse. This letter just makes me sound like a bitter, entitled, self-righteous person--and I guess that right now, I'm okay with that. Sarcasm aside (and I do mean that seriously), thank you for providing me so many opportunities to count my blessings. It's really only my own fault that I wasn't able to more successfully overcome my frustration and just be <em>grateful</em>. You're still home-design mecca. I just won't have the energy to visit you for a while.<br />
<br />
But seriously, Ikea? <em>Seriously? </em>Throw a girl a bone, here. Or at least some free shipping.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
Bested by BestaJillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-79245542903168302802012-07-22T00:29:00.000-04:002012-07-22T00:30:03.555-04:00"Worst" is Relative<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bpYGVLT6Vys/UAuBQH1rySI/AAAAAAAAAHc/p6mWIIj1Jz4/s1600/stealth+Mac.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bpYGVLT6Vys/UAuBQH1rySI/AAAAAAAAAHc/p6mWIIj1Jz4/s400/stealth+Mac.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our little white dog practices his stealth camouflage <br />
skills in a pile of white packing paper.</td></tr>
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So here's the truth. I haven't yet figured out what I want this blog to really <em>be.</em> I like to write--a lot--but I also like to bake. It was supposed to be a place to showcase my baked goods for potential customers. But every once in a while, I just want to write something and know that <em>someone</em> out there is reading it--even if it was only an accident. So I suppose I'll settle for 90-10 or 80-20.... 90 percent baking, 10 percent random musings (or there about).<br />
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If you've read my earlier posts, you know that we've just moved. We're no strangers to moving. We've been shuffling our stuff all over this vast expanse of a nation, and even globally once or twice. But the thing is, most of the time the move is work-related, so my husband's company chips in for some of the relocation. Usually we're (I'm) a little bitter and disillusioned with the process when it happens, so I don't really touch much of anything before movers come. That means that we've been moved at least twice and I haven't culled anything out. Well, that's not strictly true. I got rid of some stuff when we moved to Alaska. Kind of a lot really, but just the easy stuff. My husband hadn't really sorted through much, either.<br />
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This time it was our choice to move, so no movers--just us. It took us so incredibly long to pack, mostly because 50 percent of the time was spent <em>unpacking</em> stuff that we hadn't even looked at in years in order to either get rid of it or re-pack it.<br />
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Through Craigslist and donations, we got rid of a small UHaul's worth of <em>stuff.</em> That is a lot of <em>stuff</em> to get rid of. I felt pretty good about it and about us. We were making progress. It felt cathartic. I have a friend who works on a farm, and she recruited some of her friends to help us move. We stayed up until midnight the night before the move to make sure everything was as organized as it could be. We were good. It was going to be hard, but should flow well. And we got rid of a whole <em>truck's worth</em> of junk. And UHaul swore that our 26-foot truck would move a 3-4 bedroom house, and we only had 1.5 bedrooms and an office. We were golden!<br />
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Oh, my. How far the righteous can fall. <br />
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We got up early to move things from our storage unit to the freight elevator and the loading dock, and were immediately stymied by locked doors and passenger elevators that weren't working. And <em>then</em> the freight elevator wouldn't work, but by happy coincidence we caught the weekend maintenance man as he was walking in. By then we had gotten nearly nothing out of the storage unit, but it was time to back the truck up and meet the crew that was going to help us--who all showed up right on time.<br />
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One thing maybe I haven't mentioned is that the apartment we were moving out of was in an old, renovated cotton mill that was originally built in 1870. At the time, it was the longest continuous manufacturing/mill building in the world, which means it's about 3-4 blocks long. We lived on the far end of it, as far as you can get from the loading dock. Delivery men have told me that they called our unit the "apartment at the end of the hallway from <em>The Shining."</em> Everything we moved, we had to shuttle two blocks, inside, down a hallway to the elevator, from the elevator to the dock, and from the dock to the truck. And we had a fridge and a stove and a washer and dryer, and furniture, and an upright piano... anyway, this post is getting really long, so I'll try to wrap it up.<br />
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The apartment wouldn't let us reserve the dock for more than 3 hours. 3 hours is not <em>near </em>enough when you're traipsing your stuff two blocks down a hallway. UHaul lied. No way in heck that truck was going to take all our stuff in one go. The freight elevator broke down. The fridge turned into the fridge from hell, because it wouldn't fit through any of the doors without severe jimmying, bending, pushing, huffing, puffing, rolling, cursing, and high blood pressure. We got kicked out of the loading dock--while all of our stuff was still scattered around it. It was one of the hottest and most humid days of the summer. We made trip #1 to the house, and while backing into the driveway I put a nice set of deep, muddy ruts in my new neighbor's still-growing lawn. We unloaded most of the truck and then we released the farm helpers, and our friends stayed on to help us. We went back to the loading dock. We couldn't get the elevator. We finally got the elevator. We packed up the truck with round 2. We got all the easy stuff off the truck. We couldn't get the piano in the house. We left it in the garage. We got the fridge into the house... barely. We couldn't fit the fridge in the kitchen. At all. The kitchen that was <em>built</em> for this fridge. We couldn't maneuver it around the island. We messed with it for about 2 hours. I have begun to hate that fridge. We ran to Lowes 15 minutes before closing and picked up a cheapo garage fridge/freezer that I'll use for baking.<br />
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We finally said goodbye to our loyal, loyal friends at about 11 pm--who had shown up promptly at 8 am and live an hour away--and who wouldn't take payment. We were tired, and cranky, and for about the fourth time that day I felt like breaking down in tears. Except for the tears part, Sean felt the same. The whole thing had taken about 3 times longer than we thought, we weren't even able to get everything in the house <em>with help,</em> and we couldn't even feel like we'd accomplished anything, because now it was time for all the unpacking. We decided that we'd run to the store to get a very, very, very late dinner, and treat ourselves to a soda and a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone at McDonald's. <br />
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McDonald's was out of chocolate for the chocolate-dipped cones. And they were out of diet soda. <em>That</em> was the moment that I think Sean wanted to burst into tears. "This whole day should just be called <em>The Day of Disappointment,</em>" he said (with quite a bit of passion, I might add).<br />
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I had to agree. The next day I woke up tired and achy and cranky and just generally no fun to be around, and I told my mom that the move day had been my worst day in recent memory. But at some point I had a major change of heart. I don't know what triggered it, but it's amazing how my outlook changed.<br />
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We are lucky enough to be moving into a <em>new house</em>. Poor us. We are lucky enough that when our massive fridge didn't fit in the kitchen, we could go <em>buy</em> another one, just because we didn't want our food to spoil--<em> </em>which also means that we had food and more to spare. We have jobs. We live in a free country. As a woman, I enjoy equal rights with men. I have education. I have freedom of religion. I have the right to vote. I don't have to worry about being killed like that poor woman in Afghanistan who was filmed as she was executed for <em>alleged</em> adultery. I don't live somewhere with a horrible regime like Syria. I can go to the grocery store, with its aisles and aisles of food and fresh produce and get whatever I want. I don't wake up each morning and wonder how in the world I'm simply going to survive. On my <em>worst</em> day, 98% of the world would still envy me. "Worst" is very, very relative.<br />
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It's amazing how trivial your problems become when you stop to count your blessings.Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-73116082471620141412012-07-18T20:16:00.000-04:002012-07-19T09:29:48.833-04:00A Zoo of a Baby Shower<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm pulling stuff out of ancient history here, people. Because of the move, I don't think I'll have anything brand-spankin' new to post very soon, so--in order to try and stick to my promise to try and post every week or two--I pulled these photos off my computer from nearly two years ago.<br />
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A little-known fact about women (at least little-known by those who <em>aren't</em> women--namely men and small children) is that sometimes we <em>just don't like baby showers.</em> We don't! We don't know anybody else there. We're <em>starving</em> and all there is to eat is itty-bitty quiches and cucumber sandwiches. We really <em>don't</em> want to play the game where someone melts a bunch of candy bars onto diapers and we all have to guess what kind of candy bar now looks like it squirted straight from a baby's bottom. (Snickers, anyone?) But we go because we feel a sense of duty to the mom-to-be. Or because when it's our turn, we want people to show up, too.</div>
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Oh, don't get me wrong. Some women enjoy baby showers. Sometimes even <em><strong>I</strong></em> enjoy baby showers. I like the ones where I know all the people and we eat chips and salsa and drink beer (except for the mom to be) and eat cake and tease each other mercilessly. I even enjoy the mini quiche and cucumber sandwich soirees, but not always. And let it be known that I have nothing against itty-bitty quiches and cucumber sandwiches. I happen to like both of them--just not when I'm so hungry that I'm <em>this close</em> to putting a few dashes of hot sauce on my arm and chewing it off--but I have to be polite and reserved and only eat two mini quiches instead of two dozen. Don't pretend like it hasn't happened to you. We both know it has.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RurN_2mj4Bo/UAdRcrPMTYI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/bunJkiur9yU/s1600/animal+cupcakes+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RurN_2mj4Bo/UAdRcrPMTYI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/bunJkiur9yU/s320/animal+cupcakes+2.JPG" width="320" /></a>So when the mom of a friend asked if I would make cupcakes themed to "Baby Animal" for her daughter-in-law's baby shower... well, I said yes. I had to, right? </div>
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These cupcakes were based off of and inspired by the hit cupcake cookbook, <em>What's Up, Cupcake?</em> I made a few changes, but it's generally the same. Using breakfast cereal, mini M&Ms, pull-n-peel Twizzlers, some chocolate melties, and food coloring, I created this little baby shower zoo. </div>
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Then I went to the shower, set up the cakes, and examined 6 different diapers full of melted chocolate poo--and won. Oh--and they had guacamole, so it wasn't so bad, after all!</div>Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7744087913601396291.post-73204230596390977302012-07-10T11:01:00.000-04:002012-07-10T20:10:40.778-04:00Four-letter words<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm moving, folks. Again. This is why, despite my new-found blogging dedication, I haven't posted anything for about 4 weeks. I should work on another cake mix tweak or something.</div>
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I've moved a lot. I should be used to it. This one is a relatively simple, local move. But I still hate it. While I look forward to settling down in our new place--I'm in love with it--I really, really hate the process of getting there. My mother-in-law always says that "move" is a four-letter word, and she's right. It doesn't have the hard, staccato consonants and harsh syllables of traditional cuss words, but in my mind, it's the worst of them.</div>
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In random updates, I got feedback from the bride that she loved her cake, and that she got compliments during the reception that it was the tastiest wedding cake some of the guests had ever had. She also ended up with a whole sheet cake left over (I forgot how tiny the waitstaff tends to cut slices), and she brought in the leftovers to work THREE WEEKS after her wedding, and still got compliments. When I heard that she brought it in three weeks later, my first thought was, "Dear Lord, I hope no one dies." My second thought was, "Still getting compliments? Either someone is lying through their teeth, or there is a large percentage of people in this world who have been deprived of good cake." Turns out she had actually frozen it for a while. But still. </div>
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And speaking of good cake deprivation, I bought a slice of red velvet cake from a schmancy bakery on a whim on the Fourth of July. I was going to make my own "Red Velvet and Blue Suede" cake, but with the packing and the moving and all, I lost my gumption. So I thought, "Huh. This is supposed to be good...I'll just pick up a slice."</div>
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Man. What a disappointment. It wasn't bad, it just wasn't great. It was overly-schmancified. Sometimes, good old-fashioned comfort food flavors just need to be left <em>alone</em>. Ah, well. I've learned my lesson. And let's get this straight: I'm not the Goddess of Cakes, here. Not even close. Some store-bought or bakery-bought cakes are wicked tasty. I can think of a particular chocolate fudge one right this minute... but sadly, a lot of them aren't. I'm just on a life-long journey to discover what things I need to make on my own, apparently.<br />
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Up soon: a 3D turtle cake for a 2-year old's birthday party! <br />
<br />Jillianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675803369446108963noreply@blogger.com1