Sweets

almond byproduct tart

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If you hoard much.  You know, unable to let go trunks of junks that’s jamming your life, and aren’t quite sure what the normal reaction is when you look down on a shampoo bottle where the shampoo is long gone (hi Jen) , or that your loved ones take great pleasure to be on a reality show as the world watches you being eaten away by your own shame.  Yeah, hoarders.  You keep everything.  It’s a disease and I’m your new BFF.  Because I let go of possessions beautifully.  I trash donate things with a clean swift cut-throat almost artful peeerfection (someone needs this cheetah-print denim more than I do).  And I extend my virtue to touch those in need around me – may or may not be with consent – by trashing donating their shit for them, too.  They’re welcome.

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almond tofu x 2

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I stare at the blinking cursor on my screen and completely blank out.  My mind is sucked dry from a trip to the veterinarian, and as my 13-year old Dumpling lays in the hospital with a tube down his throat and a three-day-hospital-stay ahead of him, the last thing I can gather my mind to gush about are these monotone desserts.  But let not the frosted land of sugary world be soiled by real-life shit that come our way, because it isn’t the desserts’ fault, no.  The  almond tofu is innocent, and we’re going to talk about them even with my mind absent.

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accidental strawberry pot pies

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I’m mega-watt sick guys.  Really.  STAY AWAY on the other side of the computer and try not to touch the screen I am highly contagious!  This is like the 100+ times I’ve gotten sick since I moved to Beijing because my unevolved Canadianess is no match for China’s uber-advanced virus.  My further disrespect for it led me to go out for a night of harmless chatters over my favorite Sichuan face-torching/throat-choking dishes, which left me MUTED after I came home.  MUUUTED, people.  Paralyzed and powerless even when I saw a lift of a leg at the sofa across the apartment (!!!!…!!!!….!..).  ZIP!  I am Ariel without a fairy tale… well plus… a couple other things but you get my point.

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quitter’s mango sauce cake

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I am a quitter.  Yup, I am.  My life has been a progression of consecutive quitting and frankly I’m surprised I haven’t ended up a… (uh wait… maybe I have…).  And this is not some clever rhetorics people use as a prelude for self-flattery that usually come sneaked in the subtext.  No.  Really.  I major quit.  So the other day when I had a hunch about a cake but it came out just about as palatable as my high-school photos, my natural instinct urged me to stab my hunch in the back and return to my couch with my bag of cheetos and my romance with being a quitter (legs shaking and all).

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Vietnam-has-best-Coffee Pudding

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* Information revised.

What’s the one picture you put on facebook that attracted the most attention?  If I ever cared (and who cares…?), it would be that one innocent shot I took in Paris with my two lovely morning-cups of venti Starbucks sitting leisurely on the bridge minding their own business.  Yup.  Not any of these painstakingly-orchestrated-to-appear-unorchestratedly-beautiful shots of my humble creations (Guys guys look!  Sauce is reacting to GRAVITY on my donuts!).  Neither are shots of my unpretentiously handsome dogs keeping it real in their typical unorderly formation (Totally unlike any of the ones on pinterest whom I suspect are wax-models, because mine are totally NATURAL).  And sadly with reasonable doubt, probably not even a bikini shot of myself could surpass (Guy.  Half-nakedness here~  Somebody’s half-NAAAKED!)(… scroll right through it.  Nice).

But.  It was the venti Starbucks in Paris.

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Fauxnut holes

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There’s nothing more unappetizing to start this conversation by saying that these days when I sit down, my tummy-folds can sort of touch my thighs…  Nothing more unappetizing…  Not even a fart-joke can top it.  I know that.  So instead, I’m going with a different approach to explaining why I came up with these unbelievably, OUT-of-your-MIND-ly delicious “fauxnut” holes on my table without making you subconsciously touching your gutt while reading.

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Elvis The Criminal

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Dear juries if I may, truth is I wasn’t planning on baking something for Valentine’s Day.  Clearly as you can see beyond the deceiving cuteness, these muffins have no place near the category of Romantic V-Day offerings unless the need of a relatively presentable figure wasn’t on the agenda for the end of the night…   In fact, it was nowhere on my mind when I was scheming on a compact delivery system for a sandwich come to be known as – the Elvis, a criminal creation of peanut butter, banana and bacon in between two slabs of toast.  But it turns out, there is something sweet to come to my defense.

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