Bunnies Eat Banana Bread

marbled loafs and shaky toes

Did you know that i cannot take photos at dawn. My eyes are too bleary. They refuse to focus no matter how earnestly i will them to. After a flash fear of the possibility of an eye-malady, i realized that at 5am it was not only the image, but the numbers on the screen that were blurry. Crap. time to call Nikon. eff my life. What the devil am i doing up at 5am mucking about with photos? When you find the answer please share it with me. Perhaps it's just fatigue then. Fatigue and the mountain of neuroses i have accumulated over the past few weeks (months, years?) maybe.

have you ever done something that seemed so perfect, so sensible (in a nonsensical way,) so overwhelmingly right that the consequences (no matter how gruesome the later loom in speculation) seemed to at the time not matter? why are the easiest things simultaneously the hardest. it becomes omnipresent. you begin to fold it over like a never ending 200 thread count cotton sheet in your subconscious, bending it into a swirling tide of self doubt. it is always a challenge to dress a bed, the sheet stretches one way and pulls up another, and even more the devil is the one that grows as it is spread--it began as a twin, now a double, then from queen to king, it magnifies into emperor and then god size; why attempt the impossible. so why is it that the one something you've wanted more than anything you can ever remember wanting before becomes the most sickeningly terrifying. So five am pre-dawns are the result; as beds, pillows, and night slips the enemies--no sleep for the anxious. no sleep for the crazies. Bake a bread. Drink a tea. Stir the glass. Five. Ten. maybe 12 times. clink. clink. clink. metal on ceramics. morning as the bell tolls to six. ding. ding. ding. So look through the lens: blur. Nothing is right. half closed, half alive; the photo gods will focus it for you, if you plead with them in desperate whisper for help. we all need help. but you must ask. Easter loaves at 5 am, for the long drive to Seattle. A long weekend. Let's get some sleep shall we. But first, a quick easter loaf--humble banana bread, and during the therapy baking session, maybe i will start to remember that we choose to act or not act. and we have to live with the result. what comes comes. you'll always be scared. but that's a given. and if you glaze and top the loaf before it is cool, it will not set and run off the sides in thin streaks. but if you run out of time and miss your chance as the morning draws on, then you will have no bread to take at all. so which will it be. but right now. please. focus. eyes shut. lens, focus. snap. perfect. on y va.

What to take home for easter. wine. duh. but eggs? if you want eggs i suggest you glance for but seven seconds at foodgawker and you will have all the eggs you need. so it turns that you really have no need for me in that. Instead how about something a bit simple, a bit average, a bit ordinary. A banana loaf. An innocent banana loaf. Marbled, perhaps like the bunny's eggs. Chocolate and banana marry together in perfect match of spring as do peanut butter and crumbled toppings. Easter bunny will be pleased. Egg salad sandwich? well hmmm, perhaps you should stick to wheat or white for that. But a scoop of ice cream never hurt anyone.

marbled chocolate banana bread with peanut cream and crumble topping:
ingredients (for one loaf) 2 cups flour ~ 2 eggs ~ 2 or 3 bananas ~ .25 cups cocoa powder ~ 1 tsp baking powder ~ 1 tsp baking soda ~ pinch of salt ~ pinch of cinnamon ~ 1 tbsp (+ maybe a little more ~ 1 packet vanilla sugar ~ 1 stick butter ~ 1 cup sugar 6 oz dark chocolate ~ 1 tbsp peanut butter ~ 1 cup powdered sugar ~ dehydrated banana chips

method: 1) cream butter, add sugar. 2) in a separate bowl, mash bananas with milk. 3) in yet another separate bowl, combine flour, powder, soda, salt, and cinnamon. 4) add eggs to butter mixture, add banana mixture. Add flour mixture. 5) divide batter into two, add cocoa powder and chocolate to half of the batter. 6) in a buttered loaf pan, spread the two different batters one cup at a time on top of each other, squiggle around if you want for a more marbled effect. 7) Bake for an hour or until done at 325. 8) in a small sauce pan heat powdered sugar, peanut butter, and milk until a thick little glaze 9) paint onto cooled bread loaf, and then cover with crushed banana chips and chopped chocolate.

Mes amies, please have a marvelous Easter holiday, i will enjoy the salty-gray Seattle sky that looms through the bay-size windows of the dentist office waiting room i currently write to you from, as i await dear S as she dances with the drill. Join us for a drink afterward? We will save you a seat. well, for a conversation with me, you will need one. For the blury camera this morning, well, all it was, in the end, was the adjustment switch next to the view finder. nothing to worry about afterall. it was all in my head. Until next week,

a bientot

Fun Fetti: I Challenge You to a Duel!

rainbow in a can? never dear sam i am.
just watch how high my nose can fly. Intimidation, undoubtedly, is not a good thing. Why in my psychology class just the other day we discussed the chapter on sexual psychology: women don't like short men. ok fine i can see that. Women like the outgoing types. yeah ok. Men don't like intimidating women. uh oh. Men like women who can cook. Well hey now, what if you are an intimidating cook? Does a tear in the universe occur from such a double negative? If it does you must find some other pansy to sew it up, for i am no seamstress. I don't find myself very intimidating in most things. Ok maybe just a little. hmmm. well. damn it.

Look at my three housemates; i have scared them into never attempting the act of baking, even a simple cake or cookie. Why? because they know somehow i would be watching and it scares them. Ahk! I would not judge you! i reply in my defense, innocent until S reminds: "remember when i made chocolate chip cookies? You sat like a buddha monk criss-crossed on top of the stove commenting here and there- you don't need to use that attachment. your butter isn't soft enough. you really don't need to use a kitchen aide for something like cookies. are you sure you want to put that in?" well. oops. i need to work on that.

Maybe it was a tuesday. A thursday probably. Her rowing team came over one night for a team spirit dinner of frozen lasagna. mmmm. someone must send Marie a thank you note. One of the lady's made dessert. A small wire cake tier suddenly appeared on the counter covered in box-cake fun fetti cupcakes glopped over the top with neon-blue dyed fun fetti frosting. my god what a horror, i thought as i walked by. When the broad shoulders had all gone home for the night (ooh my what a rotten cretin i have become!) S asked, "aren't these cute cakes?" of the dozen left over. I turn to her, hmmm, no. She frowns. "Come on, sometimes you just have to every now and then have a good fun fetti." I reply, um, no, no you don't. That is a betty crocker creation. And they look like something from the Cat in the Hat. "So you would never make a fun fetti?" Is that a challenge? Well, you are on. I will show you a fun fetti. Just you wait. There will be fun. there will be fetti. you will like it. now sit down and eat it! on y va.

I would not, could not, in a box.
I could not, would not, with a fox.
I will not eat them with a mouse.
I will not eat them in a house.
I will not eat them here or there.
I will not eat them anywhere.
I do not eat green eggs and ham.
I do not like them, Sam-I-am.

Once upon a time T.S. Eliot told someone that, immature poets imitate; mature poets steal. Well i am not a poet, but i like to borrow all the same. when appropriate, of course. haughty discourse right now on April's cruelness would probably be a bit much for the present topic. However i feel the rightness to bring forward with this the mention of Dr. Seuss. I could conjecture that perhaps 43% of you who are reading are neither American or Canadian, and have never heard of Dr. Seuss. Or maybe you have and I am wrong. tut tut. The truth is it never occurred to me that there may be humans on this planet who had never heard of Dr. Seuss. That is my American egocentricity showing through again. Well I was talking with my editor, what about i can't quite recall at the moment, but it was some type of argument, and he made something rhyme to which i spat back ahh no i will not eat green eggs and ham! he-what? me-sam i am i won't! he-what on earth are you talking about, ham? me-green eggs and...Dr. Seuss, child's book author, you don't know Dr. Seuss? he-never heard of him. me-ahk! not only is that sad but damn it i sound like a whacko and my entire point is lost! The point is that there is no point for that story. Rarely do i have a point. But perhaps the only point is that i am now reminded of Dr. Suess's narrator and his refusal to eat Green Eggs and ham in a box, with a fox, etc. The plot continues after he snobbishly turns his nose until pestered to the cracking point he eventually gives in to try them and realizes he is quite fond of them. Our story here has nothing to do with that. Yet at the same time it does. Fun Fetti i turn my nose against you, but perhaps if we dressed you up a bit, turned you around, took you out of the box, saw you not as regular eggs and ham, but instead turned you green we could scream:

I do so like

green eggs and ham!
Thank you!
Thank you,
Sam-I-am!

To Salty Cod-ify Fun Fetti; One fish two fish red fish blue fish (that would be another quality title of a Dr. Seuss book) see now we are back to fish, one thing leads to another. it's our jingly jangly chains. We're all looking up at the same writing in the sky, but reading it differently. Toffee. No. Fish. I always read it as fish. So it is going to be a cake that has absolutely nothing to do with the classic other than the fetti. Could we have it any other way? No.

My fetti is undoubtedly the small minty pastel chips bought in bulk termed non pareils. S went on a mission to scout them. and she won. Freddy's and Safeway--you are dead to me. These pretty pastels are mint, however, so the cake must match. Chocolate cup cakes. But square instead. Mint. Thin Mints. Girl Scouts. Mint fudge layers with crushed chocolate cookies in between. The Fat Mint Fun Fetti Cake. Only on sale at the Salty Cod.

Fat Mint Fun Fetti Cake
cake
ingredients: 3/4 cup flour ~ 1 1/2 cups sugar ~ 1/2 cup cocoa powder ~ pinch salt ~ 2 eggs ~ 1/2 cup butter ~ 1/2 cup milk ~ 1 tsp baking powder ~ 1/2 tsp baking soda

method: cream butter and sugar. add eggs. add mixed dry ingredients. add milk. then. bake at 350. take it out. cool it. and cut it.

fudge: mint extract, 1 can condensed milk, 18 oz dark chocolate. melt it. stir it. and that's about it.

Fun Fetti frosting: 1/2 cup butter ~ powdered sugar ~ cream ~ chopped non pareils
beat butter, add sugar, add cream, add specks, pretty much just make it a thick buttercream to pipe.

*i bought classic chocolate waffer cookies to crumble and layer in between the fudge and cake, they make excellent for sandwich cookies with the left overs.

F said, as she sat in the African -Squiggle director chair perched in the corner of the kitchen, oh god. this is, wow, you've definately kicked fun fetti in the ass. Our job here is done. And my oh my what cute easter colors as well. The last thing to ask is could you would you with a goat? Well of course you could. If the goat liked mint, of course.

a bientot.

A Cookie. For the Absence.

they call it archive
I've not died. However there are thunder storms, flash floods, and sudden sun breaks lighting up the mud puddles. I'm measuring my life with coffee spoons at the moment. but only for the moment. Therefore i'm doing something that many other bloggers pull off quite nicely--the archive photo of laziness. So i pick the poulet cookie captioned the cookie laid an egg because for some reason it pulls the most feedback from my photography portfolio. go figure. well, it's one of my favorites anyways.

I shall return from Tibet in a few short days. Until then adieu, and we'll eat cake and pretentiously contemplate the meaning of life soon.

a bientot

PS. The winner of the Salty Sweet competition (as it will ALWAYS BE) is the SAME winner as drawn and posted over at 5 Types of Sugar. The point is that the winner reaps the same but different award from both Seattle and Melbourne. And the winner was Judy.

Salty Sweet : The Brewed Debut

Mocha Bagels with Kahlua Cream~ and a giveaway

I have measured my life in coffee spoons.

This is the start of a new game, will you play with us? The critically acclaimed pastry artist, writer, designer, photographer--not to mention colleague and good friend--Christy from Five Types of Sugar and I will be doing a series of themed posts together every now and then on a chosen ingredient or cultural notion to compare their weight--a Melbourne v. Seattle thing. We begin the series with coffee, so stay here to read my ramblings on Coffee culture in Seattle, and visit Christy to find out about Melbourne. We will post a recipe we've each created around the theme--obviously Walter, what else do we do?--as well as "relevant" interview questions because we are both so incredibly hot, young, interesting, and talented in this industry and can't imagine why you would want to waste your time doing anything other than getting to know us through our thoughts on war, the inner psyche, chaos, how tightly to tie your shoes, drugs, love, sex, the fine pastry arts, camera lenses, the meaning of the universe and human existence, fish species, and of course, for today--coffee.

There's one more catch to the Salty-Sweet series; a prize for our favorite (though randomly chosen) reader who comments on BOTH of our sites. We have noticed that people are more prone to visit when there is something in it for them. Shame on you. But, as we wish to be the most popular girls in school, we're going to bribe you because we love you. This episode the winner will receive coffee both from Seattle and Melbourne, so if you would like a chance to win our coffee, you must visit us both. And do not despair over where in the world you are or what your customs regulations may be. Salty is a customs agent slayer. on y va.

Coffee. It's a drug. Everybody's doing it, come on, give in to peer pressure and take a hit. I've had coffee in every city i have been in. Undoubtedly there is never enough space in a montage...however, i do not make it a point to take a coffee wherever I go, but rather it just happens to occur. You see, being born in Seattle, i view coffee obsession as my birth right, and am lured to the taste by my genetic disposition. Naaaaaaahhhhhh, that's a load of bull. It took me a long time to like coffee, and even now i still do not like the classic American drip very much, and would you beleive that if offered the choice i would take milky black tea first? whaaat? Didn't all Americans dump that shit in the Boston Harbor? But that is not to say that i do not like coffee, on the contrary. I love a petite espresso after a meal, and i love a foamy cappuccino or steamy late on a cold day or an early morning, and i would never say no to Starbucks anywhere, ever.

The Seattle "stereotype" of nature-y musical coffee guzzlers does not exist because of Starbucks, Tully's, Seattle's Best, or any of the others, but because Seattleites, along with (evidently) the vast majority of the world enjoy the taste, and that is why the world has grown up into this coffee culture, it is not a fad, it is part of our culture, our world coffee culture.

And now for the best part, being interviewed (psychoanalyzed) by the Sweet~

Sweet: * What is your favourite coffee drink?
Salty: My favOrite (hehe) used to be an Americana because they were the cheapest and I could make them quite easily on my own. But now Starbucks has the Espresso Truffle Late, and well, I now have romantic dreams about it.

* How did you two meet? (you and that cup, not you and a certain gentleman friend)
Hmmm...oh you are referring to salted codfish, well, i don't really know. Cod just swim around in big groups you see. swim swim swim. and i wasn't fishing or anything, but somehow this one decided he wanted to start following me. so I salted him in order to take him with me on long voyages like the Portuguese. Now everywhere i go i smell like salted fish. Anyways, what was the question? coffee-- I grew up in a small town across the Puget Sound from Seattle, that is, you have to take the ferry boat for 30 minutes to get anywhere, and it undoubtedly, like Seattle, is a coffee town. My parents are addicts. I remember a very large framed poster print on the wall of our kitchen of the Starbucks Siren (Mermaid logo) drinking an espresso, so I have always associated coffee as being feminine and kind of mysterious, and well, she is a beautiful mermaid so, drinking coffee is sexy! Haha, no, but since my parents drank drip like psychopathic fiends—or rather zombie robots in the morning who b-line to the coffee pot, I first thought it a “grown up drink.” So, as a child with Starbucks parents, I got to know hot chocolate very well first.

* When are you coming to Melbourne to have a cup of coffee with me?
I am coming to Melbourne on the ____ day of ____ month. But ____ happens to be rather soon! In seven weeks I will be graduating from University and then pretending to start a life. So anything, anything after those next seven weeks is possible. The world will be my toaster (coffee pot? You know Mallory makes both) to go anywhere, providing funds and a desire are there. And Melbourne is very high on the list. So is Tibet and the Azores. And Jamaica. For dancing purposes, naturally. And back to Portugal of course, the Algarve this time. And there's that one place that i know you are waiting for me to say, that one place that i feel like i've already lived in, and that i visit every time i turn my head toward a window, but in real reality, it's just in my head. maybe someday.

* If there was a ‘Mallory’ coffee drink available, what would it be? And why would people go crazy for it?
A Mallory would have to have fruit in it. But fruity coffee... im not sure how that works out. My favorite fruit flavor is mango, so maybe a late...hey wait I know, i've had coffee with cachaca, so why not a real Mallory coffee drink—cold coffee with port wine! Let's do it.

*Do you make your own, or buy your coffee?
A Starbucks (and everywhere else) grande late with tax comes out to about $4.10, so I try not to buy them very often as I am a very poor college student with debt up to my eyeballs. Usually I will reserve them as treats if I am meeting someone for a cup or if someone is taking me out for one. Other than that, I buy a $7.50 bag of ground Vienna roast.

* Brewed or Espresso?
Espresso. I don't even own a brewer. I own one of the cute little espresso pots that you put on the stove. And after living in Europe I started to really just enjoy the small little espresso after meals. And actually, i love crunching on chocolate covered coffee beans. A lot. I'm a biter.

* Dark or fair? (milk or no milk, that is. No, not your preference of the male species)
You know this is the second sexually suggestive question so far in this interview, coffee is the new oyster. or maybe we're just dorks. But you see reader, Christy has an incredibly good looking boyfriend imported from Portland (yeah whatever I can say that, psshhh think I forgot those pizza tossing photos?) where as I do not have a boyfriend here despite what everyone says, and therefore am a sad wandering loner, isn't that how it goes? But let's assume the question is meant to imply that she is collecting Melbourne men so that she can entice me to alter the answer to question number three by luring me in with their sexy Australian accents. But now coffee, white or black...hmmm. neither. So it's clear; what I want is a shade in the middle.

* Which of the following do you do when you are alone in a coffeeshop? Read/surf the net, or conspicuously gawk at good looking people?
I would try to stare at good looking people, but probably just end up staring out the window or at a wall with a crazy look on my face. I also love to eavesdrop into other peoples' conversations.

* Which do you prefer, coffee from Seattle, or from halfway around the world?
If given the choice I will always run, I mean fly, away.

* How many cups do you drink on an average day?
I usually don't drink too many, couple times a week, and always in the evening and not the morning, i'm an obsessive runner, and coffee more than anything seems to really dehydrate me. So it's a love-hate relation, but a treat after a long run.

* How would you characterize a good cup of coffee? (Tall, dark, warm and Italian, for example….hmmm….)
Before becoming a pastry chef/fashion designer/photographer/writer, Christy took her college degree in Psychology and now practices clinical study on the side. Anyways. I would characterize it as--sweet milky English breakfast tea.. Ahk!

Christy's answers to my fantastic interview questions are over at her house. So get your butt over there. After you finish with the rest of MY stuff here of course.

Alright. Now for a coffee recipe. What to make for this...our one rule was tiramisu is off limits. I always think of Kahlua when contemplating coffee desserts, so something with Kahlua cream. hmmm. What do people eat with coffee...coffee cake, boring. Biscotti? nahh that's the easy way out. Cookies? no that's for the tea party. Well, bagels--yes! Bagels! True coffee and a bagels seems more the New York thing to do, but Seattleites love Bagels, and i have never made them before, so chocolate coffee bagels with Kahlua cream? Hell yeah! The quint essential Salty Sweet bagel. So let's get our coffee on.

This baking day landed on the first day of Spring according to the calendar. Now spring in Spokane follows the kindergarten jibe of in like a lion out like a lamb, and the weather lately has been snow flurries, spotted with clear red skies, followed by door busting wind storms and flash hail falls that then end with bird chirpings. Charming. But when the Vernal Equinox arrives, Spokane listens, and for the first time since November, the mercury rose above 50F (10C). What does that mean? It means everyone is outside playing! But i have bagels to bake. But i could not pass up the first day of spring, i may be a dummy but i would never go as far as missing that--you see it's our tribal triumph over having lasted the winter. In your face nature! We won! So in between baking and photographing, my very good buddy E (who from now on will be known as Nixon, though i'm not exactly sure why) and I decided the best thing to do was climb trees and skip river stones. Next we will be playing Pooh Sticks. So, happy spring to you all, a beautiful season of possibility. Tree climbing makes you very thirsty though, so naturally the place to go, is, Starbucks. Coffee in any season. Now eat a bagel.

Mocha Bagels with Kahlua Cream
Ingredients: (for 12 bagels) 6-8 cups flour ~ 1 tsp yeast ~ 3 tsps finely chopped coffee beans ~ 2 cups lukewarm water ~ 1 tbsp salt ~ 3 tbsp sugar ~ 4 oz shaved or finely chopped chocolate ~ 1 tbsp oil

method: 1) dissolve yeast in water, and then add the sugar, salt, oil, and 6 cups of the flour and mix. after a couple minutes add the chocolate, coffee, and eventually the rest of the flour if needed. 2) once the dough pulls away from the sides of the mixer bowl, use a dough hook attachment for 12 minutes. i kneed by hand because i'm cool like that. The dough will be incredibly tough and will make you very sore, but kneed it until smooth. 3) grease a bowl, roll it around, and cover and proof for 1.5 hours (try a warm oven) 4) turn oven to 500F and start a pot of water to boil. cut up dough and roll out into strips (should make 12) and wrap around your hands to form the right size, dip your fingers in water to seal the ends of the dough overlapping by at least an inch. massage it until it is all the same thickness and seems are nearly invisible. 5) by the time you're done with them all the first ones you shaped will be ready to boil. 6) boil bagels until they float, remove, drain, and lay on a parchment covered baking sheet and sprinkle with chopped coffee beans and chocolate 7) bake for 15 minutes with a baking pot of water on the lower rack of the oven.

For the Kahlua cream, all it is is whipped cream, whipped cream cheese, sugar, and Kahlua mixed together.

Coffee, like most things that make me smile--such as colonial architectural patterns-- is a mark of human connectivity. i mean look, beneath all the different names, foams, sugars, creams, cups, syrups, and labels, it turns out that we all grind the same bean. And for that, even if only slightly, you can feel at home for.

Remember we both have coffee (don't worry, not a bagel or a tart) for one of you dear readers--so if you would like to receive a fun package both from me and from Christy, then leave a comment to both of us, and we'll close our eyes and pick a winner. It's a card game of luck, are you lucky? And if we have not frightened you away, we look forward to seeing you again next month. for the next one. on the next theme.

a bientot

(ps. as if i couldn't get anything more into this post, climbing tree made me think about wood, the exceptionally difficult theme for this month's Click food photography contest. above is my entry)

Portuguese Bolas de Berlim

Ich Bin Ein Berliner

President Kennedy said it best, we're all a bunch of jelly doughnuts. That we are indeed. However, as with most things in life, i like the way the Portuguese do things better. So when thinking about what little morning pastry delight i could bring in to my tuesday morning senior history seminar on the day of first draft submission, the choice was clear. After all, my classmates and professor do call me Portuguese girl. on y va.

Bolas de Berlim are traditional Portguese Berliners found in nearly every single pastelaria from Valencia to Sagres. Plump little ovals of fried dough--white flour tanned by the ovens heat, sit piled up one on top of the other in windows staring out at you almost as if from a cats eye; for these bolas are not the traditional center-filled berliners, but are slashed down the side and filled with a custard that oozes out like a scorn maple tree bleeding of its sap. These have been on my mind since the day last May when my virgin eyes fell upon them; it was in a small pastry shop with a rather unpleasantly kept exterior down a small dirty ally in Oporto where i found myself wandering lost with a poorly drawn map from a flight attendant. Blech, i thought as i scrunched my nose at the rows of shabby shop exteriors, the Portugese know nothing about presentation, this pastry shop could never exist in Paris. Though as i crept closer to the window, the magical little bouncy bolas seemed to glow brighter as i stared, dissolving away the glamour-less exterior to where my eyes could see nothing but the natural brown and white hues of the bolas and the mountains of pastéis de nata that flanked either side. Whoa....what the hell are those?

Apparently i appeared as lost as i was, for as i was leaning tete a tete against the shop window with my little red suitcase, blue leather bag, and very large camera, a man approached and asked if i was lost. He then went on to warn me that i should be careful hanging around that area else i might be mistaken for a prostitute. The Portuguese are very kind people, they are always looking out for others. The stranger helped me find my way after laughing at the miss marked map with the circled location that ironically did not exist, and offered to get for me one of the cream filled pastries he referred to as bolas. Thank you but i'm allergic to wheat, erm, eu sou allergico de trigo, do trigooo?...how the hell do you say this...esto doente! Oh screw it. Yes please i'll take one! After cuddling it for a few minutes, it found its new home inside the stomach of a mangy cão (that's dog for you unintelligents out there) but i had been bought. These are Salty Cod doughnuts indeed. Apparently i promised myself that some day i'd make these. And this day, i did.

I must say, this was the first time i have fried a dough. First time i have made a classic pastry cream. First time in revisiting my first time in Portugal in pastry form . A lot of first times in my life non? First times are tricky, they can either be the greatest and most memorable of all experiences, or they can be painstakingly frightening, or they can be laughable and learnable. First times in the pastry world are always the later; laughable and learnable, You're right, learnable is not a word, but it should be.

The entire first batch was a dud. Ce n'est pas grave, pas grave! it's ok, i'll just try it again. I fail continually at things, and usually feel the role of the dejected criminal failure at the end, but not with baking. With baking i muck up a first try at something 70% of the time, but for some reason this type of failure is the only type i do not burst a spleen over and crash to the ground in pathetic tears of romantic tragedy. No, i just, fix it, and do it over. So the second time decided to actually kneed the dough, and maybe use a recipe that didn't involve fresh yeast (yeah there's a difference, oops) and maybe boiling oil is a little too hot. But i learn. And guess what; sucesso.

Bolas de Berlim:
ingredients: 1 cup milk ~ about 4 cups flour ~ .3 cups butter ~ 1 packet yeast ~ 1 tsp salt ~ 2 eggs ~ .5 cup sugar ~ .25 cup lukewarm water

method: 1) dissolve yeast with water in a small bowl, set aside 2) heat the milk in a sauce pan until bubbling 3) in a separate bowl dump sugar, butter, and salt. when milk is ready dump over it and mix 4) add 1 cup of flour and mix again, then add the yeast water 5) add another cup of flour, and mix until smooth. add the beaten eggs and the rest of the flour 6) kneed, yes kneed the dough. i can not tell you how long, kneeding is a feeling. you will know when it's ready when you know 7) put the kneeded dough in a ball in a greesed bowl, oil the top of it, then cover and let it rise in a warm spot until doubled. then punch it down, let it rest on the counter 5 minutes 8) shape into balls/ovals, and let sit covered on a floured towel for 30 minutes 9) fry em up baby.

Pastry Cream (real bolas de Berlim are made with a very dark yellow cream, but i could not find a recipe for this, and it's called creme pasteleiro, so why not just make a regular pastry cream)
ingredients: i cup half cream half milk ~ 1 packet vanilla sugar ~ 3 egg yolks ~ .3 cup sugar ~ 2 tbsp cornstarch
method: heat milk in a saucepan till boiling, while in the meantime whisk sugar, egg, and cornstarch till creamy. when boiling, pour half oer mixture and mix with enthusiams! then pour back in the pan and cook for a minute with even more enthusiam! then when thick pour in a bowl, cover with plastic, and refrigerate until cold.

I don't know what it is about Portugal that draws me in so tightly and makes me feel so at home. Everything she touches, i seem to fall in love with. Evidently it's enough to push me into a senior history thesis on Portuguese colonization. But whatever it is, i don't think it's a coincidence, you see the salt cod is the national dish of Portugal and her former colonies. Yeah i know im not Portuguese girl, i'm just a silly american. But Atlantic cod is not an indigenous peixe to Portuguese, Azorian, Brazilian, or East Timorian waters, yet he finds himself
at home in these places. He's a foreigner, but he fits. And he loves to eat cream filled doughnuts, and letters in the mail. so watch out for that little bugger.

a bientot

PS. in Brazil they are named Sonhos and are for all purposes, the same thing. thank you to everyone who explicitly made that clear to me in the comments. hehe. the ironique thing is though, if you think i sound obsessed with Portugal, then just wait until you get me started on the subject of Brazil.

Apropos the Gems and Jewels

glittering coconut, chocolate, & pear tartelettes

11 is a magical number, you won't be 11 again until you are 22, and then not again until you are 33, and so on. Yes you read right, you won't be 11 again until...a 22 year old is quite the 11. I remember my 11th birthday, that is, i think i do. I beleive there was a bicycle involved, or perhaps that was my 12th birthday...either way, my 11th birthday was a time shrouded in misery and despair, for at the time of my 11th birthday, about twelve years ago, there did not yet exist in this world the best party guest possible, what tragedy is this that i speak! Yes the first twelve years of my life should be forgotten, for they precede the coming of the most precious gem in my immediate family--the last little baby of my five siblings, and today is her birthday. And, as per usual, i am unable to be with someone i love on their birthday, so, as per usual, no ordinary birthday cake will suffice. Ergo, for a precious gem one must make coconut mousse tartelettes layered with chocolate ganache and a cinnamon pear compote topped off with stain glass candy and chocolate jewels. on ya va.

Big G is the baby of the family. Why big G? Because I swear she is nearing the same height as me and i'm 5'9" (175 cm)! Well all that height comes in handy when you are an uncommonly gifted soccer star. Who said bragging was reserved for moms. Little girl your other sisters and i were (are) your mini-moms; we did your diapers, we helped shovel squashed carrots into your drooly beak, clapped our hands and cheered at your first step, we bounced you ad nausium through hours upon hours of episodes of the colorful teletubbies and their giggling sun. I remember vividly the seven of us crowded around you at the hospital deciding whether you would be G or J, and when you decided to come home with us, you finished our little big family. But what's a fifth really mean when you've four already? I will tell you--a fifth means the world. Think how truly wonderful it is to have a sibling, and then multiply it by five. That is how much luckier i am than the rest of the world.

The dessert for G's big one one did not come as easily to mind as i usually brag the ability for, instead it took a weeks worth of scribbling until it finally just came into its own. Tartelettes are baby tartes, G is a baby sister. As her name is Gem, there is a que for decor; candy jewels of some sort. There will be chocolate, for i would never do anyone the disservice by omitting the edible allegory of delight. Now something that's a bit me to go in the mix--coconut mousse. And a fruit compote, but why pear? Why not pear. Pear deserves.

I have not made tartelettes since August 2007, oh la la, i made that? Quelle horreur. Either way, we are due. This recipe for the tartelette shells and base for the mousse is borrowed from Helen of Tartelette--yes the other Helen of Troy. Though i have no scales, tartelette molds, nor pastry weights, we were yet somehow able to create quite the dainty little tarts from muffin pans and a bag of pinto beans. Le systeme D, i have mastered quite well. Being in want also of a candy thermometer, candy, as usual, was a trifle difficult. Third time is the charm. Bake blind, or as we (yes we) photographers say; shoot a hail Mary--hold the camera up above your head, pray to the virgin, and hope for a miracle focus.

Chocolate Sable Shells: 1 stick butter ~ 0.25 cups sugar ~ 0.25 cups cocoa powder ~ 2 egg yolks ~ 1.5 cups flour ~2 tbsps cream ~ pinch of salt

method: using paddle attachment 1) cream butter, sugar, cocoa powder 2) add egg yolks one at a time 3) gradually add flour followed by cream one tblsp at a time--should be a very thick dough. 4) plastic wrap and refrigerate one hour 5) roll out flat, and cut out circles to fill the bottom and side of you mold (or muffin tin) no need to greese anything, pat tightly into mold with fingers 6) place cross strips of parchment paper and fill with pastry weights or beans, bake at 350 until they are done. cool completely.

Coconut Mousse: 1 cup heavy cream ~ 1 cup whole milk ~ .25 cup sugar ~ 1 egg, + 1 egg yolk ~ 2 tbsps corn starch ~ .333 cups dessicated coconut ~ 1 packet vanilla sugar ~ 1.5 tsps gelatin ~ 1 tbsp cold water

method: 1) mix gelatin and water in a small dish, let sit 2) in a bowl, whisk eggs, corn starch, and sugar 3) in a saucepan bring milk to a boil, slowly add it to the eggs, then return to pan and cook over medium until very thick, and add coconut 4) immediate add gelatin and stir vigorously until dissolved 5) cover with plastic wrap and let sit until room temp 6) whip cream and vanilla sugar, and fold into creamy stuff.

assemble: 1) make a chocolate ganache from dark chocolate and hot cream to coat the tart shells 2) layer with a fruit compote (here is used pears, cinnamon, and corn syrup) 3) using a pastry bag, pipe in the mousse. Garnish as you please (i made chocolate coins and stain glass candy)

A birthday tartelette, what could be better. How about actually eating it. I promise to make this for you G the next time we are together. I left you when you were seven, and what has always been on my mind is: who remember anything from when they were seven? My sister won't have grown up with me like all the others (+ brother) so will she ever know who i am? Well, i should never have worried, for i remember those seven years, and the Christmases, and summer holidays sprinkled in here and there--the moral is that you don't have to be near someone to be close to them.

Happy Birthday G! And to the rest of you--you'll be seeing her come 2016 playing for team USA.

ps. congrats brother on making the soccer team as a freshman! (while i'm at it let's do the whole family ring shoutout) Kaitles you better be having fun with R at Holyoke for your holiday, don't break into any campus churches...not that i have...cough...and my one big sis M, come to Spokane for your spring holiday!

a bientot

What is this Mardi Gras and Who is this King?

Salty's Not-So-New Orleans King Cake

I don't celebrate Mardi Gras, Carnival, or anything that has to do with the Tuesday prior to Wednesday's ashiness. I dunno, I just never have. There isn't much ado about the whole thing in American culture, Louisiana New Orleans culture yes, but American culture no. Catholics celebrate Mardi Gras as the last big hurrah before lent. I do not participate in Lent. Ergo i have never participated in Mardi Gras. Quelle tristesse je sais. The Louisiana Mardi Gras image; boobs, beeds, and beer. Oh how i have been missing out! And we could have baked a box of Zataran's for dinner! I paste my sarcasm here, though i harbor no disrespect for the culinary creole culture of the great South, on the contrary--i am quite eager to sample it. Someday. But, today I happen to live with a New Orleans (well she thinks she is) girl. And when pouty eyes ask for a cake--pouty eyes receive. on y va.


No, i'm busy, i'm not making you a "king cake" there is no "cake" in my mid-week schedule, i have homework and magazine work to do, and journals to edit, talk to me on the weekend! I spat at S. Ok sorry Mal, perhaps tomorrow then... she muttered in gallant defeat as she went out the door to work. Mardi Gras cake, i grunt, bah humbug. Twenty minutes later sitting in French class "listening" to a presentation, i begin to think, how cruel am i!? I have been asked to produce a cake and denied the good soul who is of the utmost important in recipe sampling for this blog? Quelle bete! So i start sketching; damn it i am making a king cake after all. But a king cake is a yeast cake, i have no time for blasted yeast! Something different, then, oh merde must it be those ruddy purples and greens...at least there's yellow. Layers, Salty loves layers...what the hell is New Orleans besides beads...diamonds...harlequin...ahah! I have it! Oh finish your blasted presentation already, i have a cake to bake!

Salty's Harlequein Tuesday Cake
Sour Cream Almond Pound Cake (in honor of the South)
ingredients: 3 cups flour ~ 6 eggs ~ 2 sticks butter ~ 1 tsp bs ~ 3 cups sugar ~ almond extract ~ 1 cup sour cream
method: cream sugar and butter, add sour cream 2) add eggs and flour mixed with bs alternately, then add extract 3) divide into three bowls and dye 4 ) spray and line 3 loaf pans with parchment and then bake at 325 for ~40 minutes. let cool completely on rack 5) groom/shave/carve and then cut out a hole for your plastic baby 6) layer with Cream Cheese Frosting (in honor of what's in the fridge) but not on the top--on top cut out paper diamonds and then sprinkle with powdered sugar around. Decorate with jewels or silver sprinkles. fini!

The baby...the baby...no baby. But, a Jesus pencil topping will do just fine. And all this too before S came home from work. Time for a party! Quick whoever finds the Jesus is the King! He's arisen, and early too! The cake has now turned into Lisbon/Rio. Now i've done Mardi Gras? No, now i've done a cake. A king cake? No, a Salty Cake. Happy Mardi Gras S.

Thank you for reading this Salty Cod mid-week hiccup, now, get back to your Lenting.

à bientôt

Faces of Photojournalism

The Set Up vs. The Set Out
SPOKANE-WA, a premise for a story. If i were to claim one field of photography as preferred above the others, undoubtedly it would be that of the styled studio setup, aka food photography. there's a shocker. But the word preferred (obviously) implies the notion of preference and not of exclusiveness. What's your favorite food? I like it all. What's your favorite music? I listen to everything. How was your day? Good. Don't you hate those people. But here, let me add--when it comes to photography, there is no genre which i despise. Studio photography is night and day to field work. wait--is it? Is the photo of a flower really so different from a photo of a sleeping child? Of a styled cake? Of a swimming duck? Of a wounded soldier? Of rubble and fire? Of a foot in the goal? Of a model gazing through the lens? I really don't think so. I don't think so at all. A chef can prefer to prepare the duck, but that does not mean that he does not also love the rhythm and feeling of steaming rice, of stirring soups, or of poaching pears. on y va.

Mallory, the girl laughed, you are the perfect photographer; you're a creeper, and apparently that's what it takes to press a button. Those words have stuck with me, and often i ponder their validity; am i really a creeper? Hey wait do i actually deserve the term "photographer"? Every time i return to these questions, my thoughts return unappetizingly toward my high school photography teacher, Mrs. AA, who at the time instilled within me the greatest detestation for all things aperture, pin lighting, film speed, and film rolling. Do you know how many days straight i rolled the same practice negatives? over and over and over again until every little peg caught every tooth just right, and yet no matter how many hours extra i remained in the dark room after school hours had closed, squinting my eyes and chemically burning my hands to try and reach the 15th print of perfection, nothing was ever good enough for her. I hate photography, i remember telling my mother, this evil woman is a failed professional and wishes to take out her angst on destroying the pristine grade point averages of the non-artistic types--that would be me. But to show her who would win this battle, i challenged this detestable medium to a duel of mind versus matter. I'll show you photography. Who would have ever thought that out of detestation i could find a love. Do I owe Mrs. AA something? Nahhh. It was, like she said--a love for photography starts in the darkroom, and things develop from there.

I do indeed walk around with my camera draped around my neck, rhythmically bouncing on my chest, permanently bruising that hearty section of ribcage. Mallory do you have to have that thing out? we look like tourists. But, i stammer, but i always have it, i am naked without it, you wish me to be naked? At least i am not traipsing about in a hawaiian shirt for pete's sake. If i am awkward stumbling into a room, i no longer feel lit. Awkward? I muse, well you cannot be shy, if that's what you mean, particularly when subjects need names; hi i work for the bulletin, i just took a bunch of photos of you stuffing your face full of barbecue, would you mind giving me your full name please? Wait--the scene from Spider man comes to mind; you know the one, he's staring at the attractive receptionist with that goofy look on his face, camera swinging around his neck, and with the utmost of grace manages to blurt out "hi, i'm a photographer!" Oh no--is that, is that me? Am i spiderman? Let's not go that far. But i recall a monday morning history class--professor asks; hey i saw you crawling around up in the balconies at the church yesterday with your sniper lens, you work for the paper? Me, camera perched as per usual front and center, yes, i reply, i'm a photographer. Spidey senses away!

So, the question is, what's important to take a shot of? Is it all, worthy? The most powerful images our eyes inhale are those that strike for emotion; the photographers whose works display in such publications as the New York Times, National Geographics, and Time magazine time and time again kindle attraction through depiction of sometimes harrowing, sometimes heartwarming, images of humanity--of us, always of us or the impact of us. Photojournalists working in dangerous fields risk it all. Captors of poverty, of sufferance, of toil, of crime, of violence, of death, of heartache, and of pain are no less life preserving than say an open heart surgeon is. Living is not a requirement for preservation. Robert Capa swam with the soldiers on D-Day at Omaha Beach, French photographer to Vietnam Henri Huet lasted the war longer than any conscripted soldier--twenty years longer to be exact. Dorathea Langue waded through dust in order to capture the faces of the Great Depression. Genocide photographers such as Lynsey Addario, Pep Bonet, Colin Finlay, Ron Haviv, Olivier Jobard, Kadir van Lohuizen, Chris Steele-Perkins and Sven Torfinn traveled to Darfur to provided images to the world of travesty that no one dared to peer into the face of. Could i? Could i stare into the face of a starving child knowing full well that perhaps his last breath has been forever trapped in the circular maze of rings that form the lens of my camera. could i? Could i, like those who click for National Geographics, spend hours and hours in tick infested forests hungry and tired yet determined to capture the faces of villagers and warriors that time has forgotten; to live for the purpose so that others can see?

I then look down at my own work, is this even photography? Well, yes of course, but does it mean anything in the greater scheme? Photographing for a university newspaper is not exactly Nobel prize winning material. Your assignments range as follows: we need sunday mass photos, could you get a shot of the new security guard? Students passing in the hall please, make sure you get names. There's an article on stealing food from the dining hall--make it work. New art gallery opening down town, and there's a piano concert, we need shots of the winter play. People standing around collecting books. Students sleeping in the library. Muffin sales. The freshman picnic. Army rifle training in Idaho. And my favorite, the six am call for a shot of a sleeping homeless man, preferably under the I-90 overpass. But trumping all other calls at the university paper is that for sports. Sports. There is an event every day. Far off golf courses, five am riverboat crew sailing. Baseball. Tennis. Track meets. The volleyball court. The soccer pitch. Look at me how special and important i am with my little press pass for court access to the basketball game, what a stud. But, again, what is important enough to be photographed? All of it?

In my small town world my subjects smile back at me. They smile back at me for now. Should i not be grateful? To share their happiness instead of their grief? Would Capa have gladly traded places? I would never compare myself to the greats, in photography there is no commonalities, only eyes. I photograph what i see, and again what i don't see. Trivial perhaps in comparison to life caught by others, but that is life is it not? You cannot take anything other than what is living and given around you. Yes i am lucky for that which surrounds me is full of smiles, and dances, fashion, and games. Of course there is heartache and toil at times, and perhaps when i leave here my surroundings will change; but for now i am content with the smiles they give.

Be it a happy little cake winking back through sparkles of sugar, a baby beaming up after gigglies with her dog, or the sun sending down low golden threads on the sleepy spires of the chapel, what matters is not what you take a photo of, but how you take it.

a bientot

Eu Sinto: 224

The three little Gossip Girls and the big bad baker

There's this show; perhaps you've heard of it--the life and times of rich, snotty, self absorbed, sexually promiscuous, cellphone addicted "teens" who all happen to be uncommonly gorgeous and on track for Yale and Brown while in the midst of the most heart-wrenching love quadrangles of their lives. Why yes, don't we all look like top models in real life and get into IV league with an impressive 2.0 grade point average. The image of the modern MTV generation is that of reality gone terribly wrong. Curse you beautiful people, it is because of you that i waste the many precious hours of my life every week ironing my hair to that grill-cheese flat sensual state of silky smoothness; will i never be loved with just this curly mess! But, in all fairness to the marketing geniuses that are the writers/producers of prime time television drama, they wouldn't write it if it didn't sell--and how oh how does it sell.

Now, dear reader, before you start wondering how i of all people could reference precious edibles to such a hoity toity monstrosity of plastic materialism, you must remember that we at the Salty Cod beleive that everything deserves a second glance, even that which produces the desire to gouge out one's own eyes. It is from this introduction that i announce the television program of Gossip Girl; a Monday night teeny-bop drama to replace that which was once Laguna Beach, was once the OC, was once god-what-have-you. I am a critic, i will not lie. A cynic, a nose turner when i walk in the room; why do you watch such garbage? I question my three little roommates, my three little gossip girls, this is nothing but empty stereotypical trash that devalues what is good and idealizes all that is wrong. Yes, we know, they sing, but that is what is great about it; we know it's trash, that's why we watch it. Who wants to entertain in reality, no for real drama we have life, for escape we have those whose lives are filled with glamour and beauty, for the treat is when we realize we would nor could ever wish to emulate such pathetic disproportional drama. Alright, alright--watch your show, but make sure it's flipped to the Travel Chanel afterward, Bourdain is on at ten, and if i have to miss it for this crap i'll start a rumor on you--oh that's the thing, the Gossip Girl, she texts in rumors on everyone and everything to stir up trouble. So here is one of my own--meet my roommates of 224, S, F, and A; housemates even the gossip girls would have trouble making look bad. on y va.

What do a business major, an art student, a psychology major, and a history major have in common--surprisingly enough. We have polar opposite interests from each other in our respective fields of study, in our tastes of cuisine, in movies, in men, in dress, and in music--yet we congregate under the same roof by our choosing. A doesn't like coconut, F can't get near the thought of coffee, and tapioca and beets send shudders down S's spine, yet we manage to coexist in this cozy little cottage of white walls and wooden floors. One bathroom does pose perhaps at times a problem, though our rainbow array of soaps and shampoos lining the shower wall signals that harmonious chord of crowded comfort. We met Freshman year, the four of us stuck in the same rotten dorm; and here we are three years later each profoundly changed, matured (huh?) but yet the same. The truth is, one of them eats far too many pickles and leaves on all the lights, one is a human beat box and sadly loves top ramen, and one turns off the lights and only drinks soy; but i would not wish it any other way. We are so strangely different, yet find the smallest things to bind. An enchilada and margarita from Jose at Rancho Chico's, a rousing chorus of Ireland's rugby fight song, a "boyfriend's gone home" hot dog at Costco, kitchen chatter on nostalgic cartoon characters, and of course, of course macarons.

I made French macarons for the first time in this house, with my roommates as the first tasters. Not only were they my first macarons produced, but also their first macarons consumed. It is always evident the look of a first timer; (you should have seen the face of my bartender at my sushi place tonight, hehe. oh K we love you) the face is caught between surprise, ecstasy, and felicity; what is this, this creature! Since their first appearance here they have continually been on request. Alright alight, i give in--i promise i will make some for valentines day, only the best for my gossip girls. But what in a macaron do gossip girls covet--house rules peanut butter, and dark chocolate, no doubt. Pink, well of course, and a gossip girl xoxo in white; damn this was too easy. Glamour and style; aside from champagne and caviar French macarons are the girliest edible beauties possible. The Marie Antoinette cookie; perhpas this show offers us just some silly frillyness, well, let me offer some of my own--and even better, we can eat it.

Gossip Girl Macarons
shells: 110g (3/4 cups) ground almonds ~ 200 g (2 cups) powdered sugar ~ 3 egg whites ~ 1/8 cup sugar ~ food coloring
method: please see Helen

Chocolate Peanut Butter Ganache
ingredients: .5 cups heavy cream ~ 8oz dark chocolate ~ .5 cup peanut butter
method: boil cream, and pour over chocolate to melt, add peanut butter. when cooled whip until desired consistency.

white chocolate ganache: same as above, but with white chocolate and no peanut butter. no way! and make quite a bit less.

All in all, F, A, and S deserve macarons every day of the week. They are my physical shoulders to cry on, my comrades to laugh and to smile with, and my constant reminders that it is always the unexpected that provides the greatest treasures. While you never complain from the constant flour coated counters, the crazy make shift dining room table photo-set ups, and the thousand other oddities i proffer, i beleive it far past due to give a proper mention of gratitude to these girlies who mean more to me than what is ever said. Gossip Girl ends each episode with a line of XOXO, precisely my point. I mean what can i say besides eu sinto, i feel 224; the three little gossip girls, and the silly baker in her flowery apron stuck right in the middle. Maybe a little gossip is ok every now and again, so ladies--xoxo.

a bientot

Letters to the Editor:

dichotomy of the perfectly lousy birthday cake

A dichotomy, in Salty terms, is a division in distinction between the thought and action in reference to the same object or event. For example, the dichotomy of the French Revolution, the action: terror reigned, heads rolled, and royalty dethroned. the thought: liberté, fraternité, égalité! The dichotomy of waking up in the morning, the action: shower, eat, dress (unquestionably in that order). the thought: must be presentable for work, to make money, to survive. Action sans the other is futile; nothing but robotic mimicry of movement. What is the point without a purpose? My point exactly, a playground of p's, a circular logic that speaks for itself. But touché around the other coté, for thoughts without action produce nothing but poetry, day dreams, and CNN broadcasts. Ergo one cannot exist without the other. Volition amounts to nothing if there is no result of product. And so, where my round table adjectives will eventually lead, is to the simple fact that a cake is never just a cake. Just, being the most pathetic adverb in the English language--will never do. In cake, as opposed to in life, there is always method to the madness. A cake is never just a cake; a cake is an action and a thought. A cake is my cake, the cake, your cake. our cake. on y va.

What of this cake then; let us dichotomize. Part one, action: a chocolate almond flour sponge cake rolled with a swirl of dark chocolate and port ganache to form a pinwheel jellyroll which is then tightly rolled in red marzipan and covered with white marzipan polka dots, all of which is then placed on a raspberry and port syrup reduction. chouette non? can you breath? Part two, thought: wherefore cometh this here cake of mine? Today is my best friends birthday, and this is his cake. Yes you heard my little kid cliché right, my bestest friend, who also happens to be the perfectly lousy editor of this here blog, grabs twenty five candles today--a quarter century! Ahk! it's all down hill from here buddy. That being said, let us embarrass all members involved and faire une discussion sur le gateaux stream of conscious style. You're awfully fond of roll cakes (this i actually know) so hooray we have the frame. Almond flour, of course so i can eat it. The filling, let us see, chocolate (who doesn't like chocolate) and hmmm porto do vinho ganache (don't worry not that bottle!) Excellent, now all rolled up, but oh so ugly atop. Marzipan--do you even like marzipan? Well i do, so that's what counts. And oh how you love red with white polka dots! Attends-- i suppose that is me forcing red with white polka dots on you yet again. But pas grave. Not enough port i agree, so some more; a syrupy sweet bed for our petite baby cake. Et voila! A cake just for you, though it looks half like me, mais tout est bien! So Joyeux anniversaire! Eu só agora percebi que eu fiz soar como se tívessemos tido um bolo bebê juntos - qual seria o nome dele?

And that is how you make a cake, and--in the word's of my 11th grade poetry teacher--tie it to a chair and beat it with the garden hose of analysis.

Poulet Pinwheel
cake ingredients: 1 cup (100 g) ground blanched almonds ~ 0.25 cup (50 g) corn starch ~ 4 eggs ~ 0.5 cup (100 g) sugar ~ .75 stick melted butter ~ pinch salt ~ 0.25 cup cocoa powder

cake method: preheat over to 400F/200C 1) beat 3 egg whites and salt until stiff 2) meanwhile whisk the yolks plus the 4th egg and the sugar, add corn starch and almond powder, add cocoa powder, and then the melted butter. Gently fold in the whipped egg whites 3) grease a cookie sheet or tray with at least .5 inch sides, line with parchment (not wax) and spread cake batter evenly 4) bake for 8-9 minutes, do not over bake or it will not roll. 5) immediately after you take it out sprinkle a clean towel with powdered sugar and then transfer (cover and flip works) to a flat surface and slowly peel off the parchment 6) using the towel, roll the cake slowly like you would roll sushi, but roll the towel with it, and then let it res for 30-60 minutes to cool.

dark chocolate port ganache: 1 cup heavy cream ~ 8 oz good quality dark chocolate ~ .5 cup port wine 1) boil cream in a saucepan and pour over chocolate in a bowl, mix until fully melted, add port, and let cool to room temp 2) when ready, whip in mixer or by hand until thick and creamy.

to assemble: once cake is mostly cool, slowly unroll, spread chocolate ganache, and then roll back up. To make the marzipan cover, sensually massage food dye into almond paste until the desired color is achieved. to roll flat, place marzipan between two layers of wax paper and then roll, your life will be so much easier. Wrap around and cut, or cut then wrap around. Make polka dots out of undyed marzipan, and attach.

Am i silly? yes, you would have a plausible case in such an argument. Do i like to make dramatic cakes for people who are sadly a world away only to feed them to my neighbors, roommates, and visiting vagabonds? yes. Would i do it for you? prolly not. Do i have the best editor in the world? Sim meus bons amigos, sim. For I have something that is better than a dog, and dearer than a horse--i've never actually understood what that means, and neither do i think did Tennyson, but i have always liked the ring of it, and whatever it does mean, i am sure that i have it--a something that is perfectly lousy.

happy birthday dearling!


a bientot