Bake and Shake

"They look like little...Caramel Burgers!" Also known as Alfajores

"This time, the Alfajore. Next time, Grandpa's leg. I don't want your brother in the house, Phil."

I found this recipe on lovely Patricia's site, and divided the work up between two days a few weeks back, right before life turned it up. The cookies, by themselves, are strange, the cornstarch definitely loud and clear. But pressed cheek to cheek with dulce de leche and dusted with soft, feathery drifts of powdered sugar and left to sit for a bit, they soften and meld into a confection worth cupping your chin for, to catch the falling sugar but even so there's no doubt you'll get a little on and in your nose, and endure coke jokes from friends and loved ones. Most likely no, though, because your friends and family are classy, delicate people, like the mom and dad in 'Home Alone'.

Why are you doing this: Chocolate torte with salted caramel, ganache and fleur de sel

The first of the two salty desserts I tried a little while ago was this one, which reminded me of a Fran's Gold Bar, sans nuts. A thick, rich chocolate base, with salted caramel and a thin layer of ganache on top, all sprinkled with nuggets of salt*. How better to kill the ones you love?

The caramel is intense, salty and almost coffee-tinged (this results from cooking the sugar until amber, rather than a mild, palatable honey) -- the smoky bitterness plays nicely off of the salt and the chocolate from the cake and ganache, which soothes any worries you might have about the salt. My original base, a chocolate cake that had no flour, but lots of whipped egg whites, was sponge-y and too delicate, it flounced and flaked off brittle shards rather than projecting majestic density.

So I did what I should have done in the first place, which was use Molly's Winning Hearts and Minds cake. That, combined with a simple ganache, the briny caramel, cajoled what was an intense but not necessarily solid dessert into something that will kill you. It will kill you.

Men love this cake. I think most men love all cakes, but the party I took this to was filled with men, from your Bros and Dudes to the Free Hugs! type, and all of them fell silent in reverence. Last night I had to leave after making this refined version of the original, and wasn't home when it was sampled by the current male in residence. He apparently shook his head and said it was like candy, bad candy, and then had some more.

It is a masculine cake, and the rich strata of browns reminds me of a library, snifters of brandy, silk robes, clipped cigars, infidelity and impotence. Mild racism and a love for horse racing. This cake isn't racist, but it will remind you of every man over seventy who has randomly said something you weren't sure was legal to say in public, in America today. Welcome to 2008. I'm a nice girl, not a nice brown girl. I'm glad you enjoyed talking to me on the bus today.

Scintillating.

I would suggest serving this with a nice red wine, and either in tiny slivers, cold from the fridge (sprinkle the salt on last minute, as a finish) with a plop of sour cream just hinted with sweetness, some orange zest or maybe a bit of coffee liquor. Or you could remove it from the fridge an hour or two prior to serving, and set out as part of a cheese and fruit course (split figs, plums, tipsy cherries, dark grapes, kumquats or seville oranges, a nice oozy blue and rich double or triple creme, and some flaky Parmesan) -- the caramel will ripen and bloom like the cheeses, and begin to dribble. Have a pot of espresso or strong coffee waiting to finish, and cleanse the richness from your palate.

Then go take a nap. In your library. And say some mildly racist things. Fifty on Old Jack Sprat! Why are women allowed to wear pants these days?

Cake
(Adapted from Molly's recipe)
8 ounces chopped semi-sweet chocolate
7 ounces European salted/unsalted butter
1 1/3 cups granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
5 eggs
1 Tablespoon AP flour

Preheat your oven to 375 degrees, and butter a parchment-lined springform pan (mine is 9 inches, which resulted in a thinner cake, I would use an 8 inch if you have it). Set aside.

Over a pot of simmering water, melt the butter and chocolate, stirring until smooth. Add in the sugar, stir well, then crack in the eggs one at a time, stirring well after each. I love cakes like this, how the batter tugs at your spoon and feels slightly springy. Stir in the vanilla, then the flour, and pour into your prepped pan.

Bake for 25 minutes, and remove from the oven - a bit of sinking might occur, but that is perfect, because that bit of a rim will hold all the decadence that is to come. Run a knife around the perimeter, and pop the ring loose. Allow the cake to cool completely, then turn upside down onto a plate, remove the bottom of the pan, the parchment, and turn right-side up on to another plate or stand. Set aside.

Caramel
(Adapted from Elise's recipe)
1 cup granulated sugar
6 tablespoons European salted butter (I use Lurpak or Anchor, or even Challenge)
1/4 cup + 1 TBS heavy cream (or, real half and half)
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 teaspoon fleur de sel or sea salt, plus more to taste

Have your ingredients portioned and measured, mise en place style before even starting this step. Elise suggests wearing pot-holders. I didn't, but not because I'm somehow too smart to avoid caramel burns. You might want to have a bowl of ice water at the ready, to soothe you and the caramel if things start getting too crazy -- plunge the bottom of the pot in it if things get too dark too fast, or your appendages if you're spattered. But as long as you have things at the ready, some faith in yourself, and no attachment to the top layer of dermis on either hand, you should be fine.

Begin by pouring the sugar into a heavy-bottomed, light-colored pot (dark ones make it hard to gauge the color of the cooking caramel). Heat over medium to medium-high heat (medium will take longer, but give you a little more reaction time), stirring with a wooden spoon until the sugar begins to melt. It will slowly turn clear, then clump up into sandy little rocks and boulders, just keep moving it around with the spoon until a light golden pool overtakes the little clumps, which should dissolve. Once the sugar has melted, stop stirring and swirl the pot gently. Once the sugar reaches a pleasing dark honey color (Elise's original recipe has great photographs depicting the color you want it to reach), stir in the butter, whisking well. It might take a moment for the caramel, which will sputter and gurgle, to 'drink in' the butter, but just keep stirring and eventually everything will come together. Then remove from burner, hold your breath, and slowly pour in the cream -- prepare yourself for a sputtering geyser for a few seconds. Stir until combined, then add the salt and vanilla extract. You've done it. You've just made caramel.

Allow the caramel to cool for five or ten minutes, until you feel comfortable tasting -- you're checking the salt level. Salt until you feel it sing on your tongue, and don't worry about the crystals dissolving completely. Moisture within the caramel and cake will continue that process. Let cool completely, stirring every so often to keep it loose, and once that occurs, pour over the waiting cake. Hot damn. Hot damn.

Ganache
3/4 cup chopped semi-sweet chocolate
1/4 cup heavy cream
Sea salt, to finish

Melt the chocolate and cream together over boiling water, or use the microwave (which is what I do), heating for thirty seconds at a time until cream is steamy, and chocolate has begun to melt. Whisk together with a fork until smooth and shiny, and let cool for five or ten minutes. Stir again, and pour, then gently spread, over the caramel layer. Let set for thirty minutes, then transfer to the fridge and chill until solid -- cover with plastic wrap or foil if not serving within 3 to 5 hours, or if your fridge has off smells.

Just before serving, remove from the fridge and let sit at room temp. for 20-30 minutes, or longer if you want the caramel to really ooze. Sprinkle with sea salt, cut into cautious slivers, and serve.

*The first time I made this, I sprinkled the (baked) cake with 1/2 a cup of toasted, roughly chopped (and left a few whole) toasted pecans that I had dashed with table salt. I think this is a fine, fine addition, but didn't have pecans on hand when I was tweaking the recipe. Hence, this neutered, nut-less version. It is still a masculine cake. Don't judge it.

Drunken Fruit Science

So I did it. I haven't tasted them yet, we still might all die of some horrifying mistake I made during the process, but let's hope we don't, because I think these are going to be really, really good.

After researching, coming across articles and information beyond my wildest, I decided tonight was the night to at least try some business out. I wasn't too worried about my lack of supplies, beyond cherries, because almost every single recipe was for non-sealed cherries, with directions pointing out that basic sanitation and the cold, dark shelves of a calibrated refrigerator were more than enough to keep your boozy little lushes happy for at least three months, and on and on according to a few user comments and blog entries I read. While almost all recipes called for Cognac, or another decent brandy, I found a canning website that mentioned other liquor combinations and trusted this completely, like it was a Girl Scout Troop Leader, or a grandma who knows how to lie really well.

"Um, right. 'Liver Spots' mean truth, in several different languages and at least one local dialect."

Here's where I point out that the only alcohol, besides Kaluha, Baileys, red and white wine that we had was a half bottle of Jose Cuervo. So I was basically turning Google out, until it showed me what I wanted. Yeah, yeah. LIKE THAT. Tequila. Great. Excellent. Who knew!

Earlier, I had gone through my fridge and emptied out 3/4 scraped jars of jam and a large bottle of Maraschinos, because and I will state this again and again, I did not plan on sealing my jars and therefore didn't need to worry about reusing lids. If you do plan on sealing your jars, please follow all proper, sanctioned guides and food safety rules. I am absolving myself of all responsibility, seriously. We're totally of age here, and if you're not, if you're ten and wandering around the internet searching for 'Cherries' and 'Alcohol', this is not the website your parents hope you don't find.

After sterilizing them in my dishwasher, lids too, and the tongs I planned to use, I swirled together the following over medium-high heat.

1/2 + 1 TBS granulated white sugar
1/2 cup water
2 cinnamon sticks
6 whole cloves
Seeds and pod from 1/4 vanilla bean

Once it was clear and bubbling, I added the cherries. I was dumb, and didn't measure -- I worked off of what I thought would fill my two chosen, small-ish jars. I would say maybe 3 or 4 very heaping cups (to work with the proportions of syrup listed above), which I washed (do this in a bowl, to see if any float, a website I looked at pointed out that floaters could be hiding worms), and trimmed the stems slightly. But I did not pit.

The cherries bubbled for five minutes, maybe a little less. They should be just burnished and glossy, but not soft or mushy. Then, using tongs, I dropped them one by one (along with a cinnamon stick, inserted halfway, and a few cloves for each jar) into the jars. Once they were filled, I poured the hot syrup 'evenly' between the two, filling each one to their halfway mark. The jars were topped off to the brim with tequila, lids screwed very, very tightly on, turned upside down once or twice and left alone to cool. Even if the lids re-seal or ping, I have to plead with you to not trust them, keep the cherries in the fridge despite this false security.

So there we go. A little spice for your evening. Next, with my remaining jars, I plan to repeat this but with brandy and some strips of orange zest, a whole vanilla bean, and a thicker syrup. The trees outside are dripping with little Italian prunes, and pears are ripening in this ridiculous heat (broken today by flat grey skies and thunderclaps that split sleep in two, waking me up at seven on the dot), so I'd like to experiment with those backyard fruits. And as fun as this was, I'd like to try some real canning, before summer is over, and if it isn't already too late for most fruits. I know nothing about this area of food, but it makes me really, really excited to learn.

In the style of Suzanne Vega*

I made Deb's Caramel Cake today, with a vanilla bean, and poured the last few spoonfuls of caramel over a tiny glass (really) of Vanilla Gelato, then sprinkled some sea salt on top. Do the same. Peer Pressure doesn't result in bad decisions all the time.

*No, it won't do at all.

"The Haaah-tub" or Creme Brulee

"I got to second base with dessert, bro."

I've always had an issue with various lists of "Sexy Food". Oysters and caviar on ice, champagne, whipped cream and strawberries, creme brulee. Spiced lamb shanks.

For one, they're not, to me. There have been too many pre-highschool dance party memories where parents serve strawberries and whipped cream, too many bottles of warm Andre at parties, too many Hotel banquet desserts featuring creme brulee and too many hot tubs, with Jimmy Fallon, Rachel Dratch and Will Ferrell to truly find carnal pleasure in any of those foods.

Now, with the rise of sensory food writing, so many foods beyond the contents of Elizabeth Taylor's Mini-Fridge are 'sexy' or sensual. I get it, I understand it, I've had meals and eaten things that I've quietly thought "Nice" about, but I don't think I could handle comparing something I've just digested to sex in lengthy terms. "This mollusk reminds me of the time your Uncle and I had a rendezvous down at the docks, among shellfish and kelp. I still have scars on my back from the barnacles. How's college going?"

Because food and sex are both primal, both a little taboo when talked about too much in front of people you don't know well, we all have our own private rituals associated with both, I understand the natural link. But it still makes me a little wary, a little uncomfortable when people go too 'big' with their descriptions. However.

I made creme brulee last night, for no real reason other than I wanted to know what it would taste like if fresh nutmeg showed up in the custard. Drunk and shameful, wearing someone else's pants. And this afternoon, when I broiled the sugar and photographed it, I saw what the producers of eighties sitcoms saw. When I tasted it, I understood. You crack it, and then you kind of slide in and it's gorgeous, just all slippery cream, dark from the nutmeg, with a faint tobacco smoke in the background from the caramelized sugar. It tastes like 'On Call' by Kings of Leon sounds.

To me, anyway. It may taste like 'Strokin' by Clarence Carter to you.

Vanilla Bean and Nutmeg Creme Brulee
Adapted from Nielsen Massey

1 1/2 cups Heavy Whipping Cream
1/2 cup milk
4 egg yolks
1/4 + 1 Tablespoon granulated sugar
1 vanilla bean, split and scraped
1 1/2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

Demera, turbinado or granulated white sugar

Put a kettle on to boil, and line the bottom of a round, 9-inch cake pan or 8x8 square pan (depending on how many vessels you'll be using -- I used four custard cups, and it worked out perfectly. Adjust up or down depending on the size of your custard cups or ramekins) with a kitchen towel. Place the dishes you've decided on on top of the towel, and set aside.

Preheat your oven to 300 degrees F. In a small bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and vanilla extract until pale yellow and liquid. In a medium saucepan, heat the cream, milk, sugar, vanilla bean pod and scraped seeds together for around 5 minutes, until heated through, steamy and sugar has dissolved. Add the nutmeg, and remove from heat.

Pour a 1/4 cup of the cream mixture into the eggs, whisking well to 'temper' the yolks and bring them up to a similar temperature. Once warmed, pour the egg yolks into the cream mixture and whisk well. Strain into a pitcher or Pyrex measuring cup (at least a 2-cup measure), and pour into ramekins, dividing equally. Place ramekins/pan on oven rack, and then carefully fill, around the edges, with hot water from the kettle until it reaches the halfway point.

Bake for 20-30 minutes, or until custards are set but jiggle nicely when shaken gently. Remove, cool until tepid and then cover tightly with plastic wrap and transfer to the fridge. Chill for at least eight hours, or overnight, and when ready to serve sprinkle with an even layer of your desired sugar -- demera, brown or granulated white and either broil for 2-3 minutes (watching closely) or caramelize with a torch until golden brown and crackly. Remove, and serve immediately* with fresh fruit, whipped cream, Vaseline.

*If your broiler takes a particularly long time to caramelize the tops, like mine did, shove the pots back in the fridge (once cool enough to handle) and let them firm back up. The sugar topping shouldn't suffer too much.)

"It's Coook-EEEEE TIIII-uh-MMMME!!": Chocolate Striped Oatmeal, Almond and Toffee cookies

"You come down right now. RIGHT NOW. Just like your father. Avoiding things by climbing water towers. Christmas will be back next year, DON."

I can't even talk about it. I am so lame right now, that it is blowing my mind. The point where you go "Seriously, what is it going to take," where you're playing Camp Counselor to your own brain, and then that part of you that reminds you of that one girl in the Unicorn shirt back in tenth grade who was always crying to teachers in the hallway about nothing, really? And then entering stuff in the art show? Shows up. I'm able to say that I was not fond of that girl, she made me uneasy like coyotes make me uneasy, meaning during the day you could probably get away but at night it's a whole different reason to leave the house with a cheese grater and corkscrew, and so when my brain acts all "I just really need to talk to you, Mrs. Levert" I am freaked out and sickened on two different all-beef patty levels.

Do you know what fixes that? Kid Nation fixes that. RIGHT UP.

Besides Mad Men, I don't watch a lot of television. I'll catch The Hills in morning-after reruns, and I like it when Diddy forms a sweatshop song-and-dance gang, I will watch Giada De Laurentiis wherever she goes (I have this intense adoration of her clothing, precise and yet sometimes incorrect adjective use and that she is kind of Lifetime Movie intense about how many bites of food she actually puts in her mouth). I also watch the news, and sometimes "Katie and Peter" but then I get sad about Harvey. "He's blind and has a disease and a mirror fell on him and I think he was also scalded by the bathtub taps. I'm serious. He's also three."

So I don't know what that says about me, that I like stylized melodramas and British breast implants? Thinly-veiled food issues and choreography learned with the aide of threats and sleep deprivation? Add this: Every time Anna Nicole's part shows up when I'm listening to "New Workout Plan" I do the sign of the cross. And then, top it off with this confection -- I wanted to have a child the minute one of the eight year olds began to cry on "Kid Nation" tonight.

Here's the thing: I read "Baby Island" maybe fifteen times in my youth. Then I read that BSC Super Special where Dawn and Claudia and baby JAMIE NEWTON are stranded on one of New York's many uninhabited yet accessible islands, and they collect water in old juice boxes and catch tiny fish. Fourth and fifth grade, I had this whole idea that somehow my crush(es) (Justin B and Justin K, Drew and this kid named Nathan who I drew portraits of and dreamed of starring in a remake of Amy Grant's "Every Heartbeat" video with) would end up in a situation where we would be in charge of infants and surviving/avoiding death and also, wearing swimsuits the whole time.

So when I heard about Kid Nation, and the ages of those involved I was like "This is going to be crazy, those baby girls have been dreaming about this since they finished Little House on Plum Creek and Farm Boy." All Bolts of Calico and Oxen and boys named 'Manzo. Horehound candy (Hard in the middle!). Patty pans. You know? Pa nailing tarps to the walls and Mary with her un-calloused fingertips embroidering with silk threads. CARRIE'S SO DELICATE! Carry her slate.

The show did not fake me out. When the 10 and 11 year old girls, too old to cry in daylight and too young to care about impressing the 15 year old guys in the Peruvian ear-flap hats with braces, squealed over running a store my throat jumped, a little. They were so excited to be in charge of the rock candy and sour balls. Who wouldn't be.

But what was worse, or better, were the 8 year olds. One little guy had a single front tooth, maybe his first adult tooth so it looked like someone shoved a chunk of white chocolate up in his gums. He was very serious, all the time. Another little girl did nothing but "Woo-hoo" during her interview, and she wore a kerchief all the time. She was as tall as your thumb and put a hand to her heart when she walked into the store for the first time. And this other little man? With the curly moppet hair and conviction, and need to go home to a parent who would make sure he was changing his pants and knew it was pretty important to do so on a regular basis? Broke my heart when they found him behind a building, crying.

In a shameful way, too. I found myself wondering why no one had taken the youngest ones under their wings, and when that did happen I did the single, clenched-throat clap like men who used to run track or have strong opinions on javelin do during the summer Olympics. I wanted them to be warm, to have enough food in their bellies ("He didn't get a PANCAKE!") and be kind to one another. I also wanted the 11 year old with the black cowboy hat on the council to shut his blustery, pre-pubescent mouth in a fierce way, where I was wondering how many times I could be forgiven for hoping someone punched him. When the older boy, of the Peruvian ear-flap hat, stared him down and then put a finger on his chin I was awestruck. I was so impressed, by that move and my dislike of both of them. You know the older kid has had that done to him before, by someone taller, older, who didn't care and found it all hilarious. Either that or he is every foe of "The Mighty Ducks", come to life and formed in human flesh with underbite issues.

I have revealed too much about myself in this entry. Go now. Seriously. You can make these cookies, which are delicious and really nice, but just go. Turn out the light and leave me here, thinking about figure skating and the Troop Beverly Hills cookie concert. Let's all wave cash at the 12 year old in the Tina Turner Wig. Babies need money tonight.

Chocolate Striped Oatmeal, Almond and Toffee cookies
Adapted from Torie Hallock/Martha Stewart

Cookies
1 1/2 cups rolled oats (not quick-cooking)
1 1/2 cups AP flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 pound (two sticks) just-softened butter
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup packed brown sugar
1 cup granulated sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
1 egg

1/2 cup sliced almonds
1 heaping cup of roughly chopped chocolate-covered toffee candy (I used Daim candies, from IKEA)

Chocolate Drizzle
3/4 cup semi or bittersweet chocolate chips
1 teaspoon heavy cream

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees F. Cream together the butter and sugars with a stand/hand mixer until fluffy. Crack in the egg and add the salt, vanilla and almond extracts and mix just until combined. Add the flour, baking soda, mix until incorporated and then add the oats, almonds and chocolate-toffee pieces. You may need to switch to a wooden spoon if you're using a hand mixer. Fold in the oats, almonds and candy until distributed evenly throughout the dough, then scoop out balls of dough with a tablespoon measure, or an ice cream scoop for saucer-sized cookies. Plop on a parchment or Silpat lined sheet pan and bake until edges are golden brown and middles just set, anywhere (depending on size) from 10 to 17 minutes. Check after ten.

When the cookies are done, remove and cool (on the sheet) for five minutes, then transfer one by one, or just slide the sheet of parchment, cookies and all, onto a wire rack to continue cooling completely. If cookies crack or break apart, gently nudge them back together -- they'll crisp up and rejoin as they cool.

In a microwave safe cup or small bowl, melt the chocolate chips and cream, stirring every 20 seconds until smooth and "pipeable" -- you want to be able to drizzle or pipe the mixture over the cookies. Transfer to a parchment cone, small piping bag, or plastic sandwich bag with the corner chopped off -- make the point smaller than you think you should, as chocolate will ooze out with no reservations. With a steady hand, drizzle the chocolate over each cookie, back and forth or in any other design that you desire. Cool until set, then enjoy.   

Tara Mae Sue

"Three decadent layers of cotton balls soaked in iodine."

On Saturday I was so nervous that I could not stop walking around the house. My body was kinetic. I was mentally prepping myself for something that I was convincing myself I wasn't going to do, so that when I did it, I would have already cleared that mental hurdle, that gulp that's waiting for you to slide down inside, the trapdoor to wallowing and pussing out like a champion.

So I cooked, and I let my mind race around, and I made Tiramisu which is the greatest mix of busywork and repetitive movement and soothing smells, steps to indulge in. By the end of it, I was dipping my hair in the leftover espresso, my cheek pressed to the countertop and my fingers tracing lines in the streaked mixing bowls. Just like Nell.

That was what I kept my mind on as the afternoon and evening passed. "Tomorrow when it is this dark you will be eating this, you will be done, it will be over, you can do whatever you want." So I went to bed and got up Sunday morning, which had been marked in my head and on my agenda for almost three weeks, with a purpose. My teeth were sharp and fingernails clean, my hair behaved itself and I did what I needed to do and then I got there and realized that I was 24 hours and 15 minutes late, instead of 15 minutes early. My phone was dead and I was too distracted to check it yesterday, even after it charged, so I missed the voicemails and questions and I felt like an idiot. I e-mailed, begging for mercy in restrained tones and I haven't heard back.

There is nothing to do but feel like a dope. And then go thrift shopping, and come home to good news on other fronts and laugh about it but not really, then eat that promised tiramisu, ingest the bribe. This morning when I woke up I felt a little worse than yesterday, a little shaken and so I ate a little more. Whatever it takes.

This is not a traditional Tiramisu, but I am not up for trying to defend it beyond saying that it is delicious, that Mascarpone cheese is expensive and I don't mind forgoing it, opting for available-everywhere cream cheese. And when you fold in the whipped cream it kind of recreates the texture you're aiming for, cutting the rich, savory edge that cream cheese has. My only sticking point is to plead that you use the best quality of each ingredient for a dessert like this -- I used free-range, veg-fed eggs and whipping cream with no stabilizers or added ingredients. Use a cream cheese that you enjoy the taste of, and the same goes for your coffee/espresso of choice. The chocolate is a garnish, but provides a definite bite. I used a Green & Black's Espresso bar.

You could use Pine Bark.

Tiramisu
Adapted from Nobody's Grandma

4 large egg yolks, room temp.
1/3 cup granulated sugar

2 8-ounce packages of slightly softened cream cheese
1/3 cup granulated sugar
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon pure almond extract

3/4 cup heavy cream, chilled

1 cup lukewarm espresso or triple-strength pressed coffee
3 Tbs Starbucks creme liqueur
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 packages of Savoiardi (hard ladyfingers)

Bittersweet chocolate

Chill the bowl and whisk/beaters of your stand mixer, or a large glass bowl if you're going to prove to go Ma Ingalls on us and do it by hand, or with an electric mixer. I stash mine in my freezer for at least fifteen minutes, or as long as it takes for me to forget about it and then when I find it, an hour later, I feel like some kind of champion. Brain champion.

Pour the cream into the chilled bowl and whip until medium-stiff peaks form. Set aside, transfer into another bowl even. In the same bowl you whipped the cream in, beat the eggs and 1/3 cup of sugar until light, thick and pale, pale yellow -- do not stop until they resemble a thick hollandaise or lemony nacho cheese sauce. You want to "cook" the yolks with the sugar and inflate them with air. Otherwise, you'll be a little grossed out.

Add the cream cheese, the other 1/3 cup of sugar (you can use less, depending on your personal tastes), vanilla and almond extracts to the egg yolks and beat until completely combined. Now, with a spatula, gently fold in the whipped cream in an over-under fashion, making sure to rotate the bowl and swab down the sides until very few, if any, light streaks of cream remain visible. Set aside.

Swirl or whisk together the coffee, liqueur and vanilla in a shallow bowl or what I use, Pyrex pie plate. With your chosen serving dish (depending on the size, depth and length, you'll have enough of the cream mixture for two to three layers) at the ready, gently dip both sides of each ladyfinger in the solution, then arrange with brisk, no-nonsense force in a single layer over the bottom of the dish, breaking some in half or thirds to fit any gaps. It doesn't have to be perfect, but if you like, you can do a practice run with the dry biscuits. Top with 1/3 or 1/2 of the cream cheese mixture, and spread to cover and fill in any gaps. Now repeat 1-2 more times: Dip the ladyfingers, arrange, cover and spread. Once you reach your final layer of creamy goodness, shave or grate bittersweet chocolate all over the top, cover tightly with plastic wrap and chill overnight. Eat with shame, tonight and tomorrow.

"So you think you can eat your way out of San Quentin": New, this Fall from FOX.

"That's great, Frank. I'm just of the mind that when someone leaves cream filling on the couch, they clean it up."

Wow, this past weekend I went Thrift shopping and found myself eighty years old. Like a Hallmark Channel movie that was released in 2005 but shot in 97, so everyone's wearing prune colored lipstick, metallic bubble jackets, baby barrettes and silver eyeshadow, because that was what the future was, slightly gangster prostitutes. I aged right in the aisles.

I have NO love for people who can't handle themselves among overpriced glassware and fifteen copies of "White Oleander" and "My Friend Leonard". Treasures like a DANSK dutch oven (which sounds like something some dude who spent some time in Amsterdam tries to convince you of on a Saturday night, on the hide-a-bed in his friends studio, I'm speculating, all the dudes I know went to Spain. "This is called the Saffron revelation.") and a DVD copy of "Blue Crush" (which I already own but I need one for my purse. So I will never be without my generation's finest, motivational "You can do a pro football player AND be a surfer and poor and live right on the water in Hawaii" surfing drama ever made) went untouched, while I limited my acquisitions to a set of squat, speckled creamy salt and pepper shakers with aqua and light green rims. Very seventies. I like them. A single, amber glass because I love them. And another thin, smooth-sided glass beaker with a wide mouth and cork topper that is probably available at Pier 1 right now, but I like finding all different sizes at various Goodwills and speculating on what someone used them for before me. Right now, I think one was used for Quinoa and another for Crack Rocks.

A tiny bit ago, I wrote a simpering entry on building a bomb shelter with my sisters, because End Times must be coming -- we're all home for the summer. Well, the seal has broken and we're all beginning to scratch the screens out. Like with our toenails. Rustic.

We were planning a brief vacation this weekend, but it fell through and so we decided to grill at home, to honor those who were spending time near an actual water source. We ate wet carrots swabbed with white-bean and garlic dip, sharp with lemon and parsley, while chicken rubbed with paprika, garlic, black pepper and kosher salt smoked in the Weber. I made baked macaroni and cheese, vinegary slaw and for dessert, Whoopie Pies.

I haven't been baking a lot, because of So You Think You Can Dance. Watching 18 year olds (and I am finally old enough to recognize the slight difference between an 18 year old, lifetime dancer and myself, all of waning 24 years old) writhe around in chemises and rhinestone-spangled illusion mesh fabric is kind of not awesome when it comes to self esteem. I asked Father the other night when I could stop wearing his flannel shirts and work jeans, and maybe buy some of that flowery shampoo the other girls use at school and not the soap made from rendered bacon fat he melts himself, in old soup cans, but he told me that he needed another bone toothpick, and so I had to go find one in the trash pail.

Not really, but I did decide to make myself a WWSYTYCDD? bracelet, and so far I think it involves not eating bullshit. Literally.

But it was needed, baking, and so I did it. Whoopie Pies, like their southern cousins Moon Pies, have been on my to-make list and unlike the Moonies, which I had plans to deconstruct and glamorize, I wanted to try Whoopie Pies for the first time as they are. The recipe I used produced fine results -- they were beautiful, and after the first batch of smaller ones, I knew to take them out right before they were done. They can dry out fast, but even if you don't overbake them, they're unremarkable on their own. It takes a plop of light, airy filling (originally shortening-based), and a slight smush to make these into something else. Something dangerous.

They're fun to eat. Pinkies raised, filling oozes out the sides and tongues flick, catching it at the corners and top of lips. You can edge the filling back between the cookies, or lick it immediately and make up for it later.

The recipe used was the unadulterated vision of Tish Boyle, available over at the fine Leite's Culinaria. A few notes, though:

1.  The batter, when I was done with it, was too loose to "form into balls and shape" with my hands. I used scoops, a large one at first, and when that batch came out larger than an infant's skull ("Find a baby. Find a baby so we can document it. You could make a baby wear that, one of those. Like a cap. JAUNTY."), I switched to a smaller "cookie scoop" I bought at Target. You could also probably buy that baby, for testing, at Target.

2. What world do we live in where any recipe makes the stated amount. 28 sandwiches, Tish. Really. Really. I got 14 small ones, and three huge ones, which are scheduled for "Maury" on the 5th. Check your local listings.

3. I changed the filling. My recipe is below, and while it is a completely bastardized version of what I've heard whoopie pie filling actually is (marshmallow/egg white base, or Crisco), it was light and beautiful and made the unremarkable cookies much more.

Whoopie Pie Filling
1 stick softened salted butter
2 1/2 cups sifted, powdered sugar
2 oz cream cheese
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 1/2 Tablespoons heavy cream

Powdered sugar, for sifting

Cream together the butter and 1 1/2 cups of the powdered sugar. Add more sugar by the quarter cup, until you like the consistency -- the cream and vanilla will thin it somewhat, so don't worry about it being too thick, or "crumbly". Add the vanilla, and cream, and whip until smooth. Now add the cream cheese, and blend until completely combined, and no lumps remain. At this point, if the filling is too thick, add a little cream, too thin, a little more powdered sugar. You want it significantly lighter than a cupcake frosting, and very "whippy".

Plop a decent amount of filling on the underside of half of the cooled, overturned cookies -- I used a small scoop, you could use a Tablespoon with no issues besides mild dryness of the mouth and liver failure. Call your doctor if either of these symptoms persist. Top with the other army of darkness/cookies, and sift gently with a tablespoon or so of powdered sugar if desired.

Whoop, there it is.

"I didn't give any of these to my dog, don't worry. Dad."

"Baking means Avoidance in Sanskrit."

There are few words to describe the pasty twenty-four hours, during three of which my dog went from normal face to "Marlon Brando circa late 90's" face. We thought she was better, after lapping down pumpkin to cure the assumed constipation and digestive issues, and suddenly I was wondering if it would be like TV, and I'd have to puncture her breathing tube with a ballpoint pen to allow air inside. Instead I calmly called my mom (Hey, big ups for coping like a 12 year old) and we were on our way to the local twenty-four hour "luxury" Animal Care hospital. I say luxury because it now butts up against some of the newer, nicer developments in Northwest Portland, and everyone who works there wears Danskos and has some form of a mullet.

It's like a Starbucks, for pets, only the people serving you are actually smarter than you, they don't just think so. So they can be as arched and slightly bored as they want. But you are so thankful.

On the way there she shook and wheezed and barked, and when she barked it was such a squeak of sound that everyone in the car turned and looked at one another and immediately started using KINK voices, the Adult Contemporary station that makes you both relaxed and enraged with the passive chuckles the hosts use during the Morning Commute. It was time to stay calm, and her little heart beat against my chest and I stroked her back and ears and thought about things, important shallow things like what I was wearing. The outfit included an Old Navy v-neck shirt that kept falling off my shoulders, a long camisole and long gaucho pants. My hair looked like a Jackson's on his or her first solo album cover. Probably Rebbie or Jermaine.

So we got there, the dog was admitted (She's a family dog, no matter how possessively I refer to her) and we sat on the bench and watched the other dogs and their people. One woman, who was insane, came in and after dropping the craziest story about a dog who had killed five cats and attacked hers to the point of near death, could she press charges at the hospital or did she need to call the actual police, etc. was told that there were no dog bites anywhere on her cat. The cat's leg was crushed, but that was most likely because the cat had been the victim of a car, or something had fallen on it. The woman looked at her attending with space-filled eyes and said "But she doesn't leave the (Fenced) yard." The guy stroked his ear plugs, adjusted his barista glasses and calmly explained that again, there were no dog or animal bites evident on the cat. "I'm still going to call the county." She said, and sat outside where she couldn't see me staring at her.

Another woman, who was probably around my age, worried that her dog might be dealing with the effects of a newly introduced all-raw diet. The professional who was dealing with her could barely keep the contempt out of her voice as she began to discuss microorganisms and their effect on small dogs who's feeding regime was radically changed and most likely not properly prepared. I felt for her, this girl and her fancy athleisure shoes and cropped jeans. And wondered why she was feeding a 12 pound dog raw sirloin.

There were so many dogs and cats, so many people worried about these animals. The saddest though, was a woman who wandered out from behind the door, well-dressed with a baby strapped to her chest. She was weeping and sniffing, drawing a hand repeatedly across her face. She was asked in hushed tones if she wanted to take care of things now, and she said she needed to take a walk and call her husband and she'd be back. So she left, one hand on her baby, the other wiping her face and her mind on her other child, who was not taking this walk with her.

My dog, my 10 pound Marlon Brando, had been whisked away. My mom went in once, and came back with words like Biopsy and Cancer and lymph nodes and so on and there was a point where I covered my mouth and nose, tepee style with my hands and stared at the cats kept on premises to be blood donors. My sister moved closer to our mom, and we all decided to talk about American Idol.

An hour went by, and then there was more news. No Cancer, nothing recognizable. The fluid pulled from her neck was clear, not lymphatic fluid. She had an infected salivary gland. Her stomach, which we believed to be the original problem, was soft and fine and the pumpkin fed to her earlier would probably pass anything through within the next few hours. She was just full of spit.

So they gave her back, and we paid the smaller than expected bill and I took my dog home. She was blazed, by the way. She was higher than anyone you've ever seen, with dilated eyes and the inability to walk in a straight line. They shaved her neck, too, so this morning, as she finally came down off of the meds they gave her she looked like she had just staggered in from a night under the overpass with that guy with the van and some friends who had some stuff they said would make the freeway sound like Burning Man and they all shaved their necks as a sign of solidarity and did she have some stories for you.

My dog is fine. I am thankful. So thankful.

These are the brownies I made yesterday, right before the adventure. They are a really good brownie, not my favorite ever but nice and thick and dense, with a deep flavor and just right for binge eating in times of crisis.

Thick Brownies (My Dog Didn't Die Brownies)
Adapted from Martha Stewart

 1 stick of butter, diced
1 1/4 cups of chopped semisweet chocolate
3 eggs
1 1/4 cups granulated sugar
1 cup AP flour, dip and sweep method
1/4 cup cocoa powder
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 tablespoon hot prepared espresso or strong coffee
Powdered Sugar (optional)

Preheat oven to 350° F. Butter an 8x8 square pan, and line with parchment paper (Trim to fit -- only two sides need to be covered, and there should be some overhang so you can pull the brownies out easily), then butter the parchment. Set aside.

In a glass or heatproof bowl over a smaller pan of simmering water, melt together the chocolate and butter until smooth and liquid. In another, larger bowl sift together the flour, salt, cocoa powder and baking powder. Once the butter and chocolate have melted, whisk in the sugar, then the eggs one at a time whisking well after each. Add espresso and vanilla to the chocolate mixture, stir and add the dry ingredients -- use a wooden spoon or rubber spatula to fold the two together, stirring just until incorporated. Pour into prepped pan, smooth and bake for 45-55 minutes, checking after 40. No liquid batter should cling to a toothpick, knife or skewer when inserted, only fudgey crumbs. Top should be smooth and have a parchment crust. Remove the brownies from the oven and cool in the pan for twenty minutes, then use the parchment paper "handles" to remove the block of brownies to a rack or smooth surface and allow to cool completely.

When ready to serve, pull parchment down, trim sides if you like, and cut into squares. Sift with powdered sugar, serve and try not to make any cocaine jokes. You've had enough crisis for one day.

Next, I'll try cats

"Well, we're fraternal. So I mean, we're not exactly alike. I didn't need braces."

Sometimes I find myself trying out recipes that have nothing to do with what I think is good, or might taste nice. I've never been fond of bananas, though I recognize that they're a crucial part of the experience that is Banoffee Pie, coming to Universal Studios this fall.

So when I said I was making banana pudding, straight-up, classic banana pudding people wondered aloud what was wrong, what had happened. I don't like bananas, but I follow them to their locker, basically. They beckon me, then wonder why I'm hiding behind a trash can.

Besides the bananas, this dessert is kind of like the time a friend brought jars of baby food on a road trip, as one of his snacks and offered them up for tasting. I was 16 or 17 and sure, this is great, I'm eating strained peaches. This is GREAT. TASTY. I'm teething again. Someone change my pants.

It melds into this blissful, inoffensive but intensely vanilla mush -- a little slippery from the bananas, a little muted crunch from the Nilla wafers. It is hard to be offended by bananas in this form, but I'll keep trying.

Banana Pudding
Vanilla Pudding recipe adapted from Mark Bittman

1/2 cup sugar (I used vanilla sugar, like I use in most recipes. This is just granulated sugar stored with split, used vanilla beans)
2 cups milk
1/2 cup heavy cream
3 Tbs cornstarch
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
3 large eggs, room temperature
3 teaspoons vanilla extract, divided
1 vanilla bean, split and scraped of its seeds (optional -- I use a vanilla extract that has seeds in it. You could also use vanilla bean paste)

1 box Nilla Wafers
1-2 large, ripe bananas
Juice from one lemon

Nutmeg
Whipped cream (optional)

Whisk together the cornstarch, sugar and salt in a medium saucepan. Set aside.

In a large mixing bowl or measuring cup/jug, whisk together the eggs, milk, cream, vanilla bean seeds and 2 teaspoons of the vanilla extract until smooth and pale yellow. Turn the burner on, medium to medium high heat (I used the '5' setting on my electric range, if that means anything) underneath the saucepan and carefully whisk the milk mixture into the sugar/cornstarch mixture. Stir to break up any lumps, and continue to cook, whisking often, until the pudding thickens and comes to a soft, gloppy simmer. Turn heat down if scorching becomes a worry -- this whole process, according to Bittman and it took almost this long for me, should take around ten minutes. But what you want, is a thick, lump-free mixture that smells divine.

Remove from heat, count to ten and add the final teaspoon of vanilla extract. Whisk one last time.

Now, depending on what kind of pudding you want (individual or family style), you can totally freestyle this. Like that guy who is always beatboxing after three drinks. What you want to do is layer the warm pudding, Nilla wafers and banana slices in a style that compliments the dish(es) you've chosen to use. I used these small, tapered cocktail glasses -- one wafer fit perfectly in the bottom of each. But you can use bowls, a cake pan, a bedpan, whatever allows you to sleep at night.

Slice the bananas thinly, and toss with lemon juice, which will prevent them from browning. Starting with the wafers, work in the following pattern: Nilla wafers, Pudding, Bananas, Nilla Wafers, Pudding, Bananas, so on and so forth. You go. You're such a big kid, now.

Once you reach the final layer, feel free to decorate. For one dish, I ended with pudding and sprinkled a bit of nutmeg on top. For another, I added a Nilla wafer and banana slice to the top. If you like whipped cream, chill a bowl and whip some up.

Serves however many people you want it to, but really 4 or 5.

Senior Citizens will probably love this.