Bakery/Pastry

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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Deathly Scalloped Potato Pizza

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It’s barely spring and the apartment isn’t even warm yet, but these days every root vegetables in my kitchen seems to be in a hurry to grow up.  There’s a pot that my cleaning lady set by the window with green stalks surging so high that I almost thought she was bribing me back (aww, you shouldn’t have…).  No, the bottom lies the shallots I bought a few weeks back.  And there’s those deceiving heads of garlic cloves each hiding inside its white jacket, only to be exposed when smashed open that they were secretly stretching out mini antennas to listen in on my conversations with my doughs (puff now, my little one… hush hush).  Then there’re these baby potatoes.  Oh my potato-babies… how it hurts me that they are in such hurry to grow up and leave my loving nest.

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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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Who Took the “Gua” out of “Bao”?

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Everybody, Happy CNY!  Yes, only 2 months after Thanksgiving and 1 month after Christmas comes our very own Annual-eat-ourselves-senseless Day.  And you think you’ve got difficulty shedding pounds before Valentine’s Day (“Honey, your gut has never looked more sexy!”)?  So I thought… in the spirit of Asian festivity and so on, that it’s good timing to honor our newly uprising social icon, one of our most successful cultural ambassador yet to date (and when I say “our” I mean Taiwanese…) – the Brits have Kate Moss and we have this guy.  The infamous, the notorious, the little bite of heaven brought to fame by Momofuku, (drumroll) the~~ Taiwanese GUA BAO!  ……………………….   Oh wait, that’s right.  You don’t recognize him.  Perhaps because he’s mistakenly known as “the pork bun” or just… “bao”.  Phoooph… can you believe it…

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The Wicked Black Forest

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Is it too late in our relationship to declare that I’m not into chocolate?  Should I have said that on the first date along with things weighing the same importance like “I have 10 children”… or “I have herpes” (just for argument sake… I totally don’t btw).  Well, to me the thing with chocolate is that instead of being mystified with grand illusions like “indulgent”, “decadent”, “sinful”, “love~” (more?) “AMOoUUR~~” or whatever, it just tastes sort of… bitter to me.

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