Bakery/Pastry

    LET’S FILL THAT BOWL ON THIS SUPER !!!

    IN THE NAME OF SPORTS, IT’S TIME TO EAT OURSELVES TO A CELLULITE-D IMMOBILE PULP

    Right, let’s face it. Who are we kidding? The only thing sporty about me is that I could, maybe, jump over a puddle if my life depends on it. But that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t want someone like me at the party this Sunday – while the gang rouse up above a borderline-patriotic roar towards the flatscreen, beers blazing and testosterone bursting – who sinks into the couch giggling at her phone whilst watching French bulldog puppies on youtube. Why, because my friends, I’m the one who’s gonna bring the kool-Aid. It doesn’t even matter if you don’t like sports, nearly everyone watches the Super Bowl. It’s such a huge sporting event, and many people often host their own viewing parties, which is what I’m attending. I don’t have a favorite team or anything, but it’s still fun to go to these Super Bowl parties. Some of my friends take this sporting event extremely seriously though. They usually use sports betting Indiana apps to place their bets on which team they think is most likely to win. By doing this, they could win some money. So many people place bets on these big events, so it’s important to bet whilst the odds are still good. Whilst some of us will be betting, others will just be watching the game and having fun at the party. That’s what I’ll be doing, and I’ll be bringing some food.

    So let’s hit it. For God and country, in the name of sports, and beefcakes clashing and tight muscles fluttering in slow motion… let’s eat ourselves to a cellulite-d immobile pulp and call it the spirit. Man… gotta love this day.

    Here’s the game-plan.


    First, what’s a football party without some sliders? These 2:1 sliders with charred green chili mayo, with patties that are 2 parts meat and 1 part cheese, browning and melting all over the place, is the one that you’re looking for.

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    LET’S CATCH-A-PURI

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    MY THOUGHTS STIRRED, AS THEY STIRRED,

    INTO A TANGIBLE STRINGY MESS OF RESTLESSNESS.

    I thought long and hard about how I should talk to you about this.

    I thought about it when I saw it glaring at me, all too long ago, from Tasting Table on their grinning newsletter.  I thought about it when I laid sleepless at night, combing through the mental steps of how, and when, I would realize this absurdity in my own kitchen.  I auditioned my blunt vocabularies, while pushing the apathetic shopping cart through the even-less agreeable cheese-section in my grocery store… gruyere (gooey?), gouda (gooey-er)?… mozarella (gawh, fuck it…).  And speaking of words, I ought to find out how this khachapuri is pronounced… catch-a-puri, catch-a-puri, kah-tch-a-puri?  Georgian, is it?  I thought I should probably google Georgia, right, I totally should, a place where I felt utterly disconnected from emotionally, and even more so, geographically, as I sank my palm over and over into the quiet, warm, springy dough.  I thought, given that it was unquestionably  non-traditional, about how I could explain the heightened savouriness and sharpness brought by the added black olive tapenade, as I smeared it across the supple dough.  Oh people should definitely hear how tall these cheeses mounted, yes, definitely, how promisingly they talked back through the folded window… reassuring.  Most of all, I for sure thought about it when I sagged myself over the hot vent of the oven by the handle, witnessing the yeasted dough puffed and browned, damming an increasingly fluid and active pool of melted cheese, I thought, and sagged, but I promise it was mostly thoughts.  Then, when that raw glistening yolk, that damn raw and glistening yolk that slipped over the hot cheese, and touched the cheeks of a chunk of topping butter… my thoughts stirred, as the pool stirred, into a tangible stringy mess of happiness and restlessness.

    How, do I talk to you about this…?

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    CHOCO-COLATE MUFFIN TOPS

    MOISTER THAN A COOKIE, CRISPIER THAN A MUFFIN, LARGER THAN THE FACE OF CHESHIRE CAT AND GOES DOWN FASTER THAN THE LONGEST SLEEP I’VE RECENTLY ENJOYED

    OK… I who haven’t had more than 4 hours of continuous sleep for the past few weeks, am talking to you in between my loose grip of consciousness, and my looser grip of consciousness, and then… oh look! it’s my unicorn-pony who helps with my dishes~    Uh whadat?  Oh yeah.  I was saying, how about, we take these double chocolate-y muffin tops, yes, just the tops because I couldn’t even trust my hands-and-eyes coordination to drop the batter into the molds (but it’s really because I was never fond of the bottom half of a muffin so I thought why bother), and slip into The Lady’s Wonderland to catch up?  These muffin tops are warm and melty, moister than a cookie, crispier than a muffin, larger than the face of Cheshire Cat, and goes faster than the longest sleep I’ve recently enjoyed.

    So come, we could all use a fall down a tree-hole once in awhile.  Tell me about that time when you showed up in school without pants and your braises fell off.

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    MINI BRIE + JAM PIE EDIBLE GIFT

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    TO CLOSE FRIENDS, IN HEART, AND IN DISTANCE.

    I guess it isn’t so out-of-place during the holiday season, but the other day, I started thinking about friendships.

    Since the age of 17, I have been living in separations from all my best friends.  Some, separated by lands, but most, by oceans.  And even if when old ones came, or when new ones were made, soon after, was another almost destined departure.  After a certain number of years, I got used to the danger of not having any, and the jealousy for those who do.

    So this year, when the question of “edible gift” came, I started thinking about what I’d wish I could give.  If you are one of those lucky humans who enjoys close proximity of friendships, I think you should tell them, “I’m so glad I’m not too far away to give you this”.  Whole mini brie and jam wrapped in flaky, buttery pie-pastry.  Just like and therefore perfect for those whom this is made for, it doesn’t travel far.  It’s time and temperature-sensitive.  It’s warm, sweet, gooey and most importantly, immediate.

    To close friends, in heart, and in distance.  Happy holidays.

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    BREAKFAST SAUSAGE BISCUIT GRAVY CASSEROLE

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    I know that you know how it feels, to be nagged by your tireless other half on executing tasks that the difficulty of which, he/she has absolutely no idea of.  This is no doubt an important subject that touches the very fabric of the marriage establishment, a possible and perhaps convincing argument made by the anti-commitment party, as one of the many fears that they don’t want to be trapped with.  But for the rest of us, I’d like to say I, I know how you feel…  To elaborate on such subject more personally, I’m once again, reminded that there’s a crucial member behind Lady and Pups whose profile, you may not have been properly introduced.

    Jason, this is everybody.  Everybody, Jason my husband.

    Jason my husband, who thinks it would be tremendously cool, you know as a side-hobby of this nocturnal creatureto invest every possible weekend-mornings on the driving-range together on his visions to become… the couple who golfs.  Jason my husband, who thinks it would be only fitting as our retirement blueprints, for me to finally open and run a restaurant/his personal whisky bar, and simultaneously, without saying of course, raise a whole ranch of organic kettles on the side.  Jason who doesn’t cook, but for the life of him, cannot understand why this house doesn’t serve freshly baked bar nuts.  Jason who thinks, since I already bake cookies and make pies, why not start producing, from scratch…

    … our very own sausages.

    THE KIND THAT WOULD TURN MY KITCHEN INTO DEXTER’S WET DREAM,

    AND ME, THE THINGS HE STUFFS INTO PLASTIC BAGS.

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    MOLLY YEH’S WEDDING PIE

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    CONGRATULATIONS, MOLLY.

    YEH!

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    “your pie”

    lyrics adapted from bernie taupin

    it’s a little bit lovely, this filling inside
    i’m not one of those who can take just one slice
    i don’t have much money eggboy, but what I will do…
    I’d move to this Dakota farm house, just for you

    if i was a domestic goddess… but then again, no
    or a woman who makes potions on a food-network show
    i know it’s not much but it’s the best i can do
    my gift is my pies and this one’s for you

    and you can tell everybody this is your pie
    it may be quite simple but now that it’s done
    i hope you don’t mind
    i hope you don’t mind that i put down in slices
    how wonderful life is now you’re in my world

    ~

    hair smelled like hummus and feet white in flours
    i made many messes the day you… made me one promise
    the snow will be falling when i make this pie
    and i’ll too be in white on my sweet twenty-five

    so excuse me forgetting, but these things i do
    you see i’ve forgotten if they’re… one cup or two?
    anyway the thing is you’re what i choose
    a sweet oh quiet farm boy… the day i saw you

    and you can tell everybody this is your pie
    it may be quite simple but wait till you try
    i hope you don’t mind
    i hope you don’t mind that i put down in slices
    how wonderful life is now you’re in my world

    ~

    i hope you don’t mind
    i hope you don’t mind that i put down in piiiieees~
    how wonderful life is…
    now i’m in your world

    for molly
    the closest thing to sunshine a stranger can be

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    LIDDED OATMEAL W/ CHOCOLATE GINGER SHORTBREAD

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    18 INNOCENT YEARS OF UNSUSPECTEDLY CONSUMING THE SAME WEIRDNESS, CAN GROW INTO POWERFUL, LIFELONG BRAINWASHER

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    WE are all cursed with weird, nonsensical foods that we’re obsessed with eating, for absolutely no other explanations but the mere fact that… we ate them growing up.  They were often times the legacy of our great mothers who one day, out of desperation, whipped it out of a dirty kitchen sink and thought she shall repeat, for however long until the day we broke free for college.  Beware, that on top of the obliviousness that such “foods” were not nearly considered legit one step out the front-doors, 18 innocent years of unsuspectedly consuming the same weirdness, can grow into a powerful, lifelong brainwasher.  Mommy-to-be should take note.

    I have, about a mile-long-list of such things.  A list that should worth a new segment called, The Stuff I Eat When I’m By Myself (stay tuned).  And rest assured, it ain’t pretty.  But Jason, on the other hand, has but one, one single childhood nonsensical food-fetish that has long menaced his reasonable adult-life.  And that is, a congealed tub of dead-cold… stiffened cadaver of something, that once in its previous life, was perhaps a barely sweet, borderline-edible plain oatmeal.  Yes, laid bare… it’s gotta be cold.  It’s gotta be stiff.  It’s gotta… make no fucking sense.  Yuuum?… well to him it certainly is.  He could eat a whole tub of that shit…

    So by my manipulative caring nature, I thought, for the second instalment of the shortbread-marathon I’m preparing for Food52, that this presents a perfect opportunity to redirect his relationship with dead oatmeals, into a more… socially acceptable scenario.  But first, speaking of shortbread cookie-doughs, I should point out how utterly amazed I was at how straightforward, fuss-free, versatile and most of all, failsafe they are – and for the same exact reasons, under-appreciated.  No confusing science behind baking powder/soda, nor is there any factors left to chances, I mean there’s none but one rule, just one simple rule to ensure you that at the end of a short amount of time, something crumbly and exceedingly buttery shall parade triumphantly out of your oven.  The rule being, a stern ratio between 2 parts solid fat (often butter) and 3 parts dry ingredients (could be a combination of various flours), by weight.  READ MORE

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