Hi everyone! Sorry for any inconvenience, but I’ve moved my blog to here.
I was a part of the BlogPeoria network, but it came to my attention that the proprietor can (and did, at one point) exercise the ability to ban someone from viewing all BlogPeoria blogs (including mine).
The cause? A petty dispute over a blog post that had nothing to do with my site.
This made me really uncomfortable, as I could actually be banned from my own blog if I upset the wrong person.
Thus, I have moved my blog to WordPress, where I can be in charge of who can see and comment on my blog.
So don’t piss me off.
(Just joking! I have never deleted a comment that wasn’t spam!)
I’ll be spending the next couple of days updating my blogroll, so, please, let me know if I leave off your blog.
I heard a rumor today, that our blogger bashes are sorely in need of some new blood; in that spirit, I’d like to extend my sincerest invitation to:
The Mimes and Mummers Alumni Association
Furries for Obama
Members of the National Funeral Directors and Morticians Association
Everyone I’ve friended on Facebook
All used car salesmen in the area (We’d love to hear about the LOW, LOW payment! And, certainly, we want the warranty.)
Of course, many of these people probably don’t ACTUALLY have (or comment on) blogs, but I guess that’s no longer really the point of a “blogger bash.”
I just wonder, why the focus on attendance to an event that charges no admission, raises no funds, and has no focus other than chatting about blogging?
It’s a given:
1. If “Napoleon Dynamite” is on TV, I’ll watch it.
2. When I drop off the kids at school in the morning I will say “Have a great day. I love you!”
3. And they will respond “Yah, whatever.”
4. If I’m a passenger in your car I will say “SLOW DOWN!” (To which my fifteen year old recently replied, “I’m going SEVEN.”)
5. And, if there is cake, I will eat it.
Even if it might be salmonella-tainted from undercooked frosting.
Oh, and I’ll even feed it to my family (and family friends, the lucky ducks!)
I guess this post should be entitled “A Tale of Two Cakes,” or maybe, “Bakers with Malfunctioning Mixers Get the Poos Blues.”
To make a long story short, I bought a cheap stand mixer at Walmart. This mixer:
If you are tempted to buy this clearance mixer, do not do so! Otherwise, you, too, will be telling the tale of “_______ and the No Good, Very Bad, Possilby Lethal Whisk Attachment.”
I tested out my new appliance making this weeks “Tuesday’s with Dorie” pick, Devil’s Food White Out Cake, suggested by Stephanie of Confessions of a City Eater.
This is a great recipe, yet my first attempt at this cake was not a success.
First I forgot a key ingredient in the cake-the boiling water, and my cake came out a bit flat. Tasty but flat. (I think that’s probably also how my husband describes me to his co-workers, LOL.)
Then, attaching the whisk to the mixer I added the 242 degree simple syrup to the egg whites and beat it for about five minutes. This is where the mixer earned it’s FAIL status, as the syrup pretty much solidified in the bottom of the bowl, because the whisk wasn’t long enough to reach the bottom inch of the mixing bowl. (Um, yah, and that also solves the mystery of the slow beating egg whites.)
I’m pretty sure the un-mixed-in simple syrup was unable to heat the egg whites to the point of being technically safe to eat. But, somehow this didn’t strike me until AFTER we ate the cake and I had a stomach ache. (And a stomach ache on Valentine’s Day is quite the romance killer!)
I guess the crumbled cake topping covered up the fact that my icing was basically whipped egg whites!
Yesterday I remade the cake remembering the boiling water and it had a wonderful, light crumb and great chocolate flavor. Plus, it was surprisingly easy to cut horizontally and stack without breaking.
And the frosting was a dream, marshmallow-y, amazingly light, white, bright and fluffy. Of course, I did have to beat it with my hand mixer for an incredibly long time, but it was worth it.
Devil’s Food White Out Cake, now “Salmonella Free!”
Friday night, serving a cookie to my son, I asked “How is it?”
Mr. Picky replied, “Ugh, not very good; I don’t like marshmallows.”
“Taylor, those aren’t marshmallows, those are white chocolate chips.”
He proceded to eat four more.
The mind is a powerful thing.
Or:
A brain is a terrible thing to taste?
I know it’s something like that.
Recalling the marshmallow/cookie rejection, I decided not to tell my daughter that Shari’s “TWD” pick for this week, Floating Islands, are meringue, as she’s a meringue-hater.
Instead I told her “it’s a dessert with a creamy base, a floating island made of beaten egg whites and sugar, topped with strands of hardened caramel.”
I’m really surprised that she didn’t pick up on that, as one of the questions she got right last year in Scholastic Bowl was “What are the two main ingredients in meringue?” (Egg whites and sugar.)
My daughter might not know:
“What personal pronoun is subjective case, first person singular?” (No clue, I don’t even know what that means!)
or
“What scientist was the first to use the telescope for astronomy?” (Galileo?)
But she knows her ingredients! (Her other SB strength is Harry Potter facts; I’m sure that’ll help her on the ACT.)
Saturday night I made the creme anglaise, bringing milk to a boil in one pan, while whisking egg yolks and sugar in another. I carefully tempered the eggs with the milk, stirring the concoction over medium-low heat until it reached 180 degrees.
Which took TWENTY minutes!
Twenty minutes is a LONG time to continuously stir.
Okay, honestly, my twenty minutes went more like this:
Stir!
Unload top rack of dishwasher.
Stir, stir!
Read over the recipe.
Stir, stir, stir!
Pop some tea in the microwave.
Stir, stir, stir, stir!
Drink some tea. (Burn tongue.)
Stir, stir, stir, stir, stir!
Unload the bottom rack of the dishwaser.
Stir, stir, stir, stir, stir, stir!
(You know what? “Stir” no longer even looks like a real word!)
Load the top rack of the dishwasher.
Stir, stir, stir, stir, stir, stir, stir!
Pet the dog. (Wash hands)
Stir, stir, stir, stir, stir, stir, stir, stir!
Drink some more tea (Darn, now it’s cold!).
Stir, stir, stir, stir, stir, stir, stir, stir, stir!”
Finally 180 degrees! My creme anglaise was fairly thick but still rather yellow.
It didn’t look quite like the picture in the cookbook.
Hmmm….. “dog-pee-in-the-snow” colored creme anglaise. (Which was not helped by the addition of vanilla.)
What’s a girl to do?
I strained it into a ceramic bowl and refrigerated it overnight.
Sunday night I made the islands, beating room temp egg whites with a pinch of salt and a quarter cup of sugar until it held stiff peaks.
Once the meringue beaten egg whites and sugar were ready, I gently used an ice cream scoop to drop the white blobs into a pan of simmering milk, cooking three or four at a time for about a minute and a half per side.
Weebles wobble but they won’t fall down.
Meringue quivers but it won’t flip over.
I set the islands on waxed paper and then refrigerated them until they were ready to serve.
After positioning a beautiful white island in the center of each pool of snowy dog urine creme anglaise I went about preparing the strands of caramel.
I used a small skillet, rather than a sauce pan, and brought water and sugar to a boil. Luckily caramel should not be stirred (or the sugar might crystallize) because my stirring arm was still pretty tired from the night before. (And that’s why I DID NOT rock at Wii bowling, yessirree.)
Excuses, excuses.
Anyway, the sugar water took a long time to come to a boil and I kinda got distracted. (Yes, I was unloading/reloading the dishwasher AGAIN! (brief aside: Um, whose dish month is it anyway?))
And my caramel, well, let’s just say it had “charred undertones.” It was also pretty darn thick, so I added a touch of heavy cream to thin it.
I used a fork to drizzle the caramel across the top of the islands and distributed one to each member of my family. Even to the lackadaisical dishwasher.
Taylor said “What is this?” And then wouldn’t taste it.
My husband was lying facedown, possibly dead or maybe just listening to the radio. (”You know how I know you’re gay? How? Because you like Coldplay.”)
Reagan and I sat down to eat ours.
Creme Anglaise? YUM YUM YUM YUM.
The Meringue? YUM YUM.
The Caramel? I think I pulled out a filling.
Some of the blogs I read participate in “Grace in Small Things;” the bloggers list, each day, five small things that make them thankful. I’ve adopted the habit whilst I wile away the early morn in bed (rather than on my treadmill, where my ass really should be!)
I made a rule for myself, no easy outs, no being thankful for my family or my friends, those are too obvious. Instead I try to come up with five new small things each day.
So far I’ve been thankful that I’m not that tree-wart-virus guy from the Discovery Channel and that I don’t have eight (or fourteen, for that matter) kids and a bitchy wife.
But I’m finding that the exercise is backfiring as being thankful, oddly enough, brings out the anxiety gnomes and the stress hobgoblins.
For example:
1. “I am thankful for my RAV4. It’s been a wonderful car and has 190,000 miles on it and never needs repairs.”
“Hmmm.. but 190,000 miles, that’s a lot. It’s sure to break down soon. What if it does? We can’t afford another car. Shit!”
2. “I’m thankful that my kids have been getting along very well lately.”
“Is that really good? What if Rea starts hanging out with Tay and being nice to his friends and one of his friends gets a crush on her and she gets pregnant and instead of being a lawyer she ends up dropping out of school and having many a bairn?”
3. “I’m thankful that we have healthy food.”
“But, really, is it healthy? Is all the Splenda I consume causing cancer, right now, maybe in my pituatary gland? What about the four pounds of butter I purchase a week, for baking? Maybe my arteries are already clogged.”
4. “I’m thankful for my casual workplace, which I love.”
“What if I get laid off? I’ll have to get a ‘regular’ job. One that precludes the wearing of flip flops, and possibly mandates the wearing of heels. I hate high heels. Plus, what if I can’t find ANY job, even one that requires dreaded footwear?”
5. “I’m thankful for my kids’ good grades.”
“But, really, they don’t spend much time doing homework. Just an hour a day so maybe they are learning a bad lesson, not much work + good grades = extrinsically reinforced laziness. And Tay, he has a 3.75 GPA but is only ranked 16/54. That’s not even in the the top quarter of his class. What if he doesn’t get into college? Or does, but doesn’t qualify for any scholarships?”
It’s not pessimism, so much as superstition; there’s a little part of me that honestly believes, “If I worry about it, it won’t happen.”
Crazy, I know.
And, yes, I have discussed this with a medical professional. Who prescribed anti-anxiety meds.
However, the thought of not worrying filled me with worry. I worried that if I didn’t worry, I might not worry about something I SHOULD worry about and it would have possible (ta-dum!) worrisome consequences.
(Hmm.. I guess my husband, in counting his blessings, can’t include “mentally healthy wife!”)
This weeks Tuesday’s with Dorie recipe is “Word Peace Cookies.”
They are quite delicious, no matter what my son with the unsophisticated tastes says. He thought they were “too salty.” But then again, he doesn’t like guacamole or grilled cheese. He’s a weirdo.
Poo on him!
And on my boss who told me recently that she “leaves the salt out of most recipes.”
I love salt.
In fact, a world without salt would be quite tasteless. (Heee heee)
I made the dough on Sunday, sifting the flour, cocoa powder, salt and leavening into one bowl and beating butter til light and fluffy in another. Granulated and brown sugar were added to the butter, followed by vanilla and then the dry ingredients were briefly beaten in and the chopped chocolate was mixed in via wooden spoon.
For the chocolate I used a mixture of Nestle semisweet mini-chips and Scharffen Berger 70% Cacao Bittersweet Chocolate that I finely chopped.
At this point the dough looked like small pebbles so I was a bit worried. Nevertheless, I scooped it out into two piles on seperate pieces of waxed paper, picking up the edges of the paper, sling-like, I used the paper to press the dough into shape, easily forming two cohesive logs.
I sliced the chilled dough into 1/2″ rounds and baked it, a cookie sheet at a time, for 12 minutes. I did end up with a bit of crumbling during slicing, but the dissassembled pieces were easy re-attach, nevertheless, I ate most of them!
Upon removal from the oven, the cookies were sprinkled with salt. I couldn’t find the recommended fleur de sel in my area, so I used large grain sea salt, sprinkling four to five grains on each cookie.
You can see the salt in this picture:
Oh, and make sure you note the terribly “ungreen” foam plate.
Fancy!
Yes, these are salty cookies-in a good way. Very chocolatey with a wonderful sandy texture. I can see why they are named “World Peace Cookies.” Thank you so much Jessica of cookbookhabit for your excellent selection.
This is my baby:
He’s four.
OKAY. OKAY! I know he’s not. He’s 15, exactly the age on his Learner’s Permit. Yes, my skinny chicken-legged child who has vomitted twice on my feet, who had night terrors for years, whose dad used to hold in one hand, football style, can now legally drive a motor vehicle. A multi-ton vehicle on the actual road.
Yes, on the streets you and your family traverse!
(Of course, only if you live in the greater Peoria regional area!)
I drove him to the nearest DMV office, about ten miles away. My husband, Chris, came along, as did Taylor’s friend J. who had “accidentally” missed the bus.
I think he just wanted to play Tay’s X-Box 360.
Anyway, on the drive there I suggested that his time in captivity (i.e. in a vehicle with his parents) should be spent discussing serious issues, his changing body, sexual intercourse and the Scopes Monkey Trial.
He didn’t think that was a good idea. In fact, he threatened to jump out of the moving car. I reminded him that when you die “Everyone Poops.”
Ten minutes later I pulled up to the DMV which (luckily) happens to be next door to a bar/bowling alley. Chris suggest we go have a drink or two while Taylor went into the license facility.
I suggested that first we verify the law. He has to drive with someone twenty-one or older, but is it okay if that person is intoxicated? If so, WOOOHOOOO instant designated driver!
Really, there have to be SOME perks to the expensive teenage boy auto insurance.
He quickly acquired his permit and we headed to the bar.
To bowl, not to drink, of course!
Heady from all of our recent Wii bowling, we stepped up to the lanes and quickly descended into bowler’s remorse. Those balls are WAY heavier than a Wii Remote. My husband was the only one who broke a hundred.
Leaving the bowling alley, I suggested that Taylor should drive. He was hesitant, nervous I think. But we prevailed upon him to give it a try. After adjusting his seat and mirrors he asked “So, do I put my left foot on the one pedal and my right foot on the other?”
Um.. that made my heart flutter with worry. He didn’t know the names of the pedals or what each one did. Chris explained and told him to put the car in reverse.
He didn’t know his foot had to be on the brake to shift!
Crap, I guess much like bowling, driving in real life is much different than in a video game!
Jake, Chris and I all heartily laughed at his lack of knowledge.
No, really we didn’t! Actually, I was beginning to feel slightly (more) terrified, wishing I was at home with a bowl of alphabet soup, helping Reagan with her homework.
Math is much less dangerous than driving; if she forgets the Pythagorean Theorem, well, we can look it up. If Tay forgets which pedal is the brake, we could end up in a ditch. Or dead.
And pooping.
Yes, I’m cheerful like that. No anxiety problems here, no sirree.
Heading down the road, Tay had to turn at a corner, undercorrected and almost hit a minivan. Shit. Then Chris accidentally lead him into an alley rather than a side street, which required some super fancy backing up action. (Boy, that sounds dirty!)
Finally, onto the highway back home. I sat in the backseat, noticing how really narrow the lanes are and how fast everyone drives and how close by passing cars really are.
Just like all cats are gray in the dark, all mothers freak out a bit when their babies reach a new milestone. Similar to learning to walk, learning to drive brings a tremendous amount of independence, and unlike the mommy of a toddler, I can’t hover above the car, waiting to catch him if he crashes.
This weeks “Tuesdays with Dorie” recipe is a “Fresh Ginger and Chocolate Gingerbread” cake, selected by Heather of Sherry Trifle.
I made this cake on Saturday night.
Because my life is exciting like that.
Other TWD bakers said this cake tastes better the day after baking and I wanted to take it to my book club the next night. Nothing like foisting cake upon a group of women, many of whom are watching their weight! Oh, and I brought a previous TWD concoction, the pear tart, with me, too. Boy, my family was sad to see that pear tart head out the door.
In an effort to make this cake more appealing to my family of rascally chocolate/pear tart lovers I added a tablespoon of sifted cocoa powder to the flour mixture and used semi-sweet mini-chocolate chips for the stirred-in, unmelted chocolate. The mini-chocolate chips tend to disburse evenly, melting and pretty much absorbing into the batter. Additionally, instead of mincing the fresh ginger I used my rasp grater and grated a piece about an inch long.
I fear I may suffer from ADD because whenever I reach a point in a recipe that requires a break, for example, in this recipe, while the melted chocolate cooled, I start another recipe. That’s how I ended up also making the components for the pear tart. Later, while the cake was baking I also made Leche Quemada (burnt milk candy.)
Now, I’ve never actually tasted Leche Quemada, which posed a bit of a problem. My recipe gave me time frames, no color guidelines to watch for, no temps to reach like most candy recipes. Thus, every step of the way I wasn’t sure if it was progressing as expected.
I was a little nervous to bring it into work Monday, as both my co-workers are familiar with the candy. But they said it was perfect, even with the foodie touch of sprinkling the top with a little sea salt to give the taste a boost.
See, I told you I have attention deficit issues! My post has
(d?)evolved from TWD to my everyday cooking adventures.
I baked the cake for exactly 40 minutes, allowed it to cool and made the frosting.
Frosting or Icing? Here in IL, at least in my family, we say frosting.
For the “fricing” I cut up three ounces of Sharffen Berger 70% cacao bittersweet chocolate and melted it over simmering water, added a dash of coffee, whisked in the butter, stirred in the powdered sugar and allowed it to set for ten minutes before icing the cake.
I am AWFUL at decorating cakes. I just can’t make things look pretty. (Accept for my daughter, of course, she’s awfully pretty!)
In fact, if I ever own a bakery it will be called “The Fugly Bakery.”
Any investors out there?
The motto will be “Ugly, but delicious!”
Anyway, the “iceting” spread amazingly well and tasted really rich and chocolate-y.
I also made the ginger infused whipped cream that’s mentioned next to the cake recipe. I brought heavy cream almost to a boil, added eight slivers of ginger and allowed it to steep overnight in the fridge. The next morning I strained out the ginger and whipped the cream, adding confectioner’s sugar to taste and a teeny-tiny pinch of ground cinnamon.
Secret Server REALLY liked the whipped cream. I did, too, and felt it was the perfect accompaniment to the cake.
If you like gingerbread, you’ll really like this cake, it’s incredibly flavorful. Thanks, Heather, for picking such an interesting and delicious TWD recipe! (Oh, and if you want the Leche Quemada recipe, leave me a comment and I’ll post it or email it to you!)
This morning I incredulously watched our governer, Rod R. Blagojevich, on the news, comparing his arrest on corruption charges to Pearl Harbor. He was quite defiant, only apologizing about his use of foul language, noting, however, that when he used such language on the phone he was never speaking to a lady. WTF? What about your cat-raping thundercunt of a wife who was heard in the background?
And, really, I don’t think what Rod needs is a change in lexicon, but a change in the rubicon, because, really, cussing in front of a lady is verboten, but attempting to sell a senate seat to the highest bidder is fine?
Fuck that noise!
Nevertheless, despite our governor being a complete and utter douche bag, a circle jerking cabron, a gaffe-spewing gobshite, I must admit, when he’s wearing his running clothes (like the day he was arrested), he brings the hottness.
Yesterday was Dr. Martin Luther King Junior Day and, instead of marching in a parade, my dear friend Secret Server came over to our house to bake a cake. A “Berry Surprise Cake” picked by Mary Ann of “Meet Me in the Kitchen.”
(This reminds me of a Dr. MLK, Jr, Day in the past, when I took the kids bowling. The next day my composition teacher had everyone write an in-class essay about how we celebrated the holiday.)
“I have a dream of my two children, one day, being able to knock down pins without using bumper guards.”
Okay, back to baking, we whisked the flour with the baking powder and salt; whisked the warm eggs with sugar and then beat the egg mixture for five minutes. At this point our eggs should have been able to hold a ribbon for about ten seconds.
They (we?) failed.
So we beat them for a couple more minutes, then sifted half the flour mixture over the eggs, folded it in, added the melted butter, folded that in, sifted the remaining flour, folded it in, then added the cake batter to the pan.
We baked our cake in a nine inch springform pan (the recipe specified eight inch, but I was unable to find one) and estimated it would take about twenty-five minutes.
While the cake was baking we made the syrup, bringing sugar and water to a boil; we accidentally added the framboise a bit early, but it tasted fine.
After about twenty minutes I turned on the oven light and was surprised to see that our cake was dimplier than my thighs.
At twenty-five minutes we took it out. The appearance was, well, interesting. It also smelled a bit like vanillla-y scrambled eggs.
We set it aside to cool and made the filling, a delicious cream cheese, sugar, vanilla and whipped cream mixture.
Returning to our cake we decided not to follow the assembly directions due to its sunken mien. Instead we brushed the syrup on the top, followed by a thin layer of filling, sprinkled on blueberries and strawberries, covered the berries with more filling and whipped up the whipping cream and used it to frost the cake.
We decorated the top of the cake with diced strawberries and blueberries and put the cake in the fridge to sit for an hour.
While we waited we played Wii and danced to my new favorite tune, “The Naked Song.”
“We were naked in my bed
one swing, no strings
moving all around the room
chicka chicka boom boom
and then we did it on the floor, against the door
upon the sink where we did it some more
sun was hott but we were both burning red
we were naked in my bed”
Do you think the Bill Martin knows his famous children’s book title is being used in a teenage booty call song?
After embarrassing my daughter mightily with my singing (into a Wii remote, hair-brush style!) and dancing (Pee Wee Herman style), we headed back to the kitchen and made the rasberry coulis.
SS happily cut and plated the cake:
And we called the kids in, eagerly anticipating their comments.
“It’s chewy” was the predominant observation.
Extemporaneously explaining our Sponge Cake FAIL I said “Oh, it’s a sponge cake, it’s supposed to be chewy, you know, like a sponge.”
(I don’t think they believed me!)
SS and I sat down to partake in the cake, finish off the Framboise, and pose for pictures. Reagan, obligingly, took many a photo, due to my constant criticism (of my appearance, not of her photography skills!).
“Ugh, in this one I have rolls.”
My reminder of “good posture” lead to this lovely picture:
For some reason this brings to mind the old chant of “I must, I must, I must increase my bust!”
SS and her family had to head home, but later than evening Reagan and I made another go at Sponge Cake. Ours was slightly less chewy, but still not exactly right; I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong. I’m going to spend some time reading other TWD posts and researching “chewy sponge cake” in an effort to pinpoint the problem.
I’m determined to make a tasty sponge cake. In fact:
“I have a dream that one day even my sponge cake, a cake smelling of scrambled eggs, with the scent of vanilla, suffering from a leathery texture, will be transformed into a masterpiece of airiness and wonder.”
jenjw4