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(RE)MODEL BAKERY’S ENGLISH MUFFIN

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Oh I don’t feel bad telling you this… I don’t.  In just 2 days, I will be packing my bikinis, loading up the sunscreens and dragging my waxed legs across the Pacific to the realm where no toxic fume blackens my lungs and shameless line-cutter haunts my footsteps!  Aloha~ HAWAII, here I come!  Gimme a hug gimme a hug please!  Oooh I can almost taste the air of freedom… where real earth should feel like… where I don’t fantasize plotting the murder of anyone… of every day… of every minute… (Hear that?  The dude who spitted next to my feet in the restaurant dies-dies-dies so gruesomely it sounds like an unicorn-pony lullaby…).  Where I can be the non-mental me again you see?!!  Oh please do it now!!  Eject me out of China right now!  Cannonball me outta here!

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X’MAS MORNING JERK-SPICED PORCHETTA

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I recently took a class from Harvard called Science and Cooking.  I did it without ever taking an SAT exam or having an IQ above 140, all while wearing my slouchiest PJ and tucked in the comfort of my bed with a can of soda and a tub of gummy bears on the side, and burnt through 5 lectures straight in 1 week…  Oh God bless bootleg DVDS.  I was once again basted in the youthful hunger of my tender college years when hope was alive and the world was shiny…, as well as the exact reason why… I slept through half of it.  Dude, there’s something about the echo? bouncing off the lecture hall?… that’s 10x more potent than sleeping pills on the deepest cellular level and sends me into a baby-state coma.  But relax, I still overheard something in between my wee-wee breaks to share with you all.

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FAKE CHOCOLATE CAKE + REAL BANANA BUTTERCREAM

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Last few days were a nightmarish montage of my extended kitchen-agony.  Three whole days covered in a choking dust of flour with smudgy grease from a beastly amount of butter and sugary stickiness haunting my finger tips.  Electrical outlets being pushed to a near brink of melt-down and an unprepared dishwasher running past its adrenaline threshold into a disoriented state of ecstasy.  After three nights of stress-induced binge eating, two stone-tough should muscle groups and one extremely cranked neck which all ended in a final coma that took place in a dark and questionable foot-massage parlor, despite nature’s best effort to stop me, I said I’d make a cake.

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STAINED GLASS NOODLE

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Ahum… so.  I was totally going to unveil my-first-time-ever… ground-shaking… storm-wieldingSALIVA-BURSTING TWO-TIER CELEBRATION BAKE that’s, gonna, rock, your, world!

But I fucked it up.  Yep.  Just, you know, the typical shit that happens to all of us, the cake batter crashing… buttercream breaking… bananas being bananas and the entire cake wiggling in a funky move like it was the 80’s and finally steadied itself in a very unattractive slant.  I’m not sayin’ this with disrespect cuz I’m angry and all… but seriously, you bakers out there are fucking crazy.

Thus, brings us to this.

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spicy cheesy. gochujang spaghetti

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The wee-light of early morning started seeping in through the curtain, adding to my sense of unease particular to someone who knew she had done wrong and was most certainly about to get caught.  Jason’s morning-siren promptly started barking at 6:30 (no, really, the alarm is a dog barking…) and was ignored for 5 minutes as usual until eventually, he turned over and witnessed my crime scene.  Like the most gasping moment in a horror movie, an unsightly picture of an irresponsible grown-up, holding her i-pad with an earphone giggling like an idiot, secretly pulling a marathon on… a new-found television series.  ALL NIGHT and 18 episodes in, not even of something socially excusable like Game of Thrones, or House of Cards to demonstrate depth, but a retarded high-school version of True Blood with a name too embarrassing to even pronounce… VaVampire Diaries!  God!  Just hang me by the neck!

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insights to your shrimp dumplings

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There are days, you know,  not everyday, but days when I really… hate this.  I mean, what is this anyways?  A self-published “web-blog” about me making dinner.  Talk about being a loving sponge when it comes to self-absorbing not to mention a shameless evasion from unemployment.  Oops, did I not mention that?  As many more dignified others who might do this as a hobby aside, I on my other sorry hand, just do this.  No other self-sustaining professions at day, heck or even a non-profit charity to excuse myself of, it’s a testimony of prolonged immaturity and chronic, explicit laziness, hardly anything to be carved on my tombstone.  So yeah, as this self-absorbing continues, sometimes I really hate this.

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The nuttiest profiteroles

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I of all people, know how intimidating it can be to play with ingredients that are completely outside of the comfort zone.  You see, it’s for the exact same reason that I seriously hate poker games with complete strangers, with unpredictable displays that I have absolutely no talent of reading, or in knowing that if I went all-in with my last stick of butter, would I be left with no chips… or anything for that matter on the table.  But you know what, sometimes… well, most of the times actually, these ingredients are just little fuckers who lie!  And that if you just call their bluff, you’ll find that the pot is totally worth it.

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pizza alla carbonara

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You’d think that for someone who weeped slightly while watching SATC the-Village-wet-dream in her Vancouver apartment 15 years ago, and now replays movies like You’ve Got Mail the-Upper-West-Side-porn to ease her New-York-home-sickness, if now given the chance to move back to the city, would of course choose Manhattan in a heart beat.  Well, almost.

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