Extra-browns Browned Butter

Not double, not triple, but ten, twenty-times of (salty) browned bits. You've never known browned butter this way.  You'll never want to know it any other way. [ezcol_1third] The other day, two hours after midnight while I was peeling through the dense jungle of Amazon's available silicone microwave popcorn makers to be exact, something hit me like a lightening slitting down a tree. Browned butter. A glorious thing, absolutely.  But what is wrong with browned butter?  No, no, let me rephrase.  What is missing with browned butter?  It's a beautiful thing that is butter made even more beautiful by letting the remaining traces of milk - an inevitable remnant from the process of making butter from cream - slowly caramelize into speckles of browned bits that, I want to argue, is the unsung hero that truly gives browned butter its celebrated nuttiness and deep, rich aroma. So here I ask again, as attractive as is, what is missing with browned butter? [/ezcol_1third] [ezcol_1third] I say, not enough browned bits. Yes, think about it!  Think about how sick browned butter could be if it is accompanied by not double, not triple, but ten, twenty-times the amount of browned bits that separates browned butter from being a component to a stand-alone,

FAKE CHOCOLATE CAKE + REAL BANANA BUTTERCREAM

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. Well

The Perfect O

(简体)(繁體) My tormenting yet bittersweet affair with eggs has been nothing short of a Hollywood love story.  It began as mutual loath in early years, but turned into a passionate obsession overnight  in adulthood.  Then six month ago at the height of our oblivious happiness, we were torn apart and forbidden by authorities without warning or mercy

Rise baby Rise!

Cuz I don't brown up nice in the oven.  NO!  I meant I can't bake!  I'm paralyzed in the field of baking because I'm innately handicapped in following instructions.  But I, too am a mere mortal who's powerless against the calling of fresh-out-of-the-oven pastries.  And I have a thing for biscuits. For one, it is one of the few pastries that doesn't need egg (ok, I LOVE eggs but can't have them.  That's a Ginormica sob story for another time).  And plus, they're just endlessly versatile.  They are the personal escorts,  the Emporors Club of the pastry world.  They will play any role you want them to play for the day, breakfast, lunch, dinner or dessert!  Fantastic!  If one could just be a gentleman, invest in a little courtship beforehand to get to know the biscuits well, to help her reach you-know-what.   What? It's the RISE, baby!!! Make the biscuit happy, and she will return the favor.  And all that biscuit ever wanted, is to rise.  Since the birth of biscuits, how many of us amateur bakers' tears were shed over the walking-dead who didn't

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