So I hear there’s a football game happening around here this weekend? Terrific. Can someone come get me when all the sports-ing stops interrupting the Katy Perry Show? Thanks.
I realize it makes me totally un-American and very unpopular, but I really don’t understand the excitement of the Super Bowl, no matter how hard I try. But I can get behind the thrill of Big Game Day snacks. Particularly snacks that involve cheese, are terrific with booze, and offer something beyond a bag of chips.
Like I said a couple weeks ago, I think it’s high time we all put a few new zingers into our bags of culinary tricks. Let’s delve further into making 2015 the year we discover the inner Heloise in all of us, with a few more a-ha! moments this week.
Can I get a little deep with you for a brief moment? Because I feel like I need to talk about a fear I’ve been having. My fear is that we’ve forgotten about the beauty of simplicity when it comes to dessert. I feel like we’re getting taken over by the new, the now, the Pin-worthy. A world where a baked good is deemed a bore unless it’s a Frankenstein hybrid of three other desserts, or has, like, four candy bars shoved into it (ahem, I’ve totally done it), or has a racy name that should probably come with a Parental Warning.
Although there’s rarely a time when I’m not unnaturally interested in Bundt cakes, my love for this effortless, humble comfort food has reached a fever pitch in recent weeks. Maybe it’s the comedown from the flurry of fussy, frosted, and sprinkled holiday baking, or maybe, too, it’s because we signed off on the final-final edits for Real Sweet just a few weeks back and I’m no longer (technically) allowed to obsess over the recipes in that book (although there’s a lovely Bundt coming your way in those pages, too). At any rate, the no-frills, no-frosting-required beauty of a Bundt has been high on the list of things that excite me these days. (I know, you should see when I really get down to party. Woot, woot!)
I have a new Bundt recipe from a baking legend coming for you very soon, but in the meantime, if you Like Big Bundts and You Cannot Lie, I thought maybe the following might be as inspiring for you as it is for me.
When it comes to writing cookbooks, one thing I’ve learned from those who have come before me is NEVER READ THE ONLINE REVIEWS. Nine times out of ten, I resist the urge to peek. Nine-and-a-half times out of ten, when I do peek, the reviews are relatively positive and thoughtful and an affirmation that at least I sort of know what I’m doing and throwing my creative self out to the wolves isn’t all bad. Nine times out of ten, naturally I will obsess about that half a time in which a review is less than glowing. And within about half of those, I can find the constructive criticism that might actually improve my work. I feel like this is a pretty good record overall, considering that readers and reviewers are humans with all kinds of expectations and thoughts and feelings and so am I.
In my childhood, my mom was The Queen of Garage Sales. For a certain number of years, I spent many a summer afternoon “going sale-ing” (get it?), treasure hunting in the more affluent Chicago suburbs. Sometimes we’d go with friends, making a day of it, a bunch of kids crammed into a van, driving to the North Shore, as our mothers drank Tab and gossiped and squealed and high fived over their finds. Other times it was just my mom and sister and I, and I’d bring a handful of small change and singles hoarded from found stray money around the house and playing mother’s helper for the family across the street for three dollars an hour–just in case I found something that I thought was interesting, then I wouldn’t have to beg for it.
In case you’re wondering how weird of a little kid I was, one of my favorite finds was an old Heloise Hints paperback, thin and worn with a yellowed, curled cover, for a mere ten cents. But I found the contents absolutely fascinating–basically a MacGyvering guide for the modern housewife (or enterprising 10-year-old girl, as the case was). I skimmed the bullet points daily, and spent the rest of the summer dropping knowledge wherever I could, telling my Gramma to boil a cup of vinegar on the stove after she stunk up the place making corned beef and cabbage, and advising mothers of friends to light a birthday cake’s candles with a long piece of dried spaghetti at parties. I’m sure this wasn’t annoying at all.
My love of “why didn’t I think of that?” tips continues to this day. Anything that makes life in the kitchen a little snappier and re-purposes what’s already around gets bonus points, in my book. In fact, I’ve bookmarked some for years. And then I thought, why am I not spreading this goodness? So now I’ll be doing just that occasionally from here on out. Here’s a round-up of some of my favorite culinary tricks.
It’s become increasingly obvious to me that there are entire periods of my life where I couldn’t tell you exactly when certain things happened. I mean, the births of both my kids? Pretty solid on those. But the personal questions, like say, the kind that you have to answer at the doctor’s office? Lord, help me. The week of my last Lady Moment? Let me check my phone and two calendars and probably ask my husband for confirmation. When did I have that appendectomy? I remember recovering while watching a Barbara Walters interview with Angelina Jolie when she was still in her vocal bi-sexual phase, so let’s Google that. (Answer: July 2003. Thanks, internet!)
I like to blame all these brain-made-of-oatmeal lapses on two things: geography, and of course, the children. Having lived in relatively seasonless California for close to 12 years now (!), I often feel like these dozen years have been a smear of life moments with no defined edges.
As a native midwesterner, I grew up marking time by recalling the weather at the time when something occurred, or maybe even what I was wearing (Shorts and bug spray? Wool coat and hat?) to indicate a moment’s position on my life’s timeline. That obviously can’t happen when 45 degrees is considered frigid, 75 is sweltering, and I can often wear flip flops in November with no issues. Lack of metrological evidence, coupled with a mother’s brainspace (read: some of the synapses up in here will never fire again, and I accept that), it’s a miracle if I can even just pin down where I set my coffee ten minutes ago, let alone when I last had my teeth cleaned.
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