Bake. Laugh. Eat. Repeat.
We had our first haboob of the year here in the Valley of the Sun yesterday. So who do you think decided it would be a good day to run the trails of our fair city?
This girl!
Who do you think is still shaking dust out of the nooks and crannies on the front of her face today?
This girl!
Who do you think would like to casually change the subject to that of some luscious pound cake?
This girl! This girl! This girl!
Sometimes things will come onto your radar and stay for just a little while: legwarmers, high-waisted jeans, Garbage Pail Kids trading cards, New Coke…
And then sometimes things will come into your life and stay for a long, long time. You’ll make space for them in your dresser, tuck them away in your wallet, and create special shelves for them inside your fridge.
I’m no longer trading Phony Lisa for Scotty Potty and I’ve (thankfully) hung up my high-waisted jeans. But from the moment I first tasted Sriracha it was love at first bite, and the Red Rooster has taken up permanent residency in my kitchen.
I’m convinced it’s the successful marriage of savory & sweet, flavor & heat, and consistency & color that makes Sriracha so dang addictive. I put it on anything and everything and I’m not ashamed to say so. I put some Sriracha on my New Coke yesterday in an attempt to make it taste more like Old Coke. It didn’t work, but the New Coke did taste a lot better.
This post is about love. This post is about life. This post is about cake.
Let’s get into it.
Have you read this book?
If you like love you’ll like this book.
If you like to laugh you’ll like this book.
If you like food you’ll like this book.
If you don’t like any of these things… um, what are you doing reading this blog?
I absolutely adore Like Water For Chocolate – I’ve read and reread it more times than I can count.
So it was a natural that, when the right time came along, I would bake my way through it.
And I couldn’t help but start with this wedding cake that appears early on in the book.
Now before the literary purists in the crowd go all Mr. Hyde on me, I want to stress that this is my own interpretation of the Chabela Wedding Cake. Like Water For Chocolate relies heavily on magical realism to tell its tale, plus the original cake was intended to serve 180 people – the recipe calls for 170 eggs.
Given that I don’t have a hen house in my backyard, I adapted the recipe to suit my own needs.
Following is a 5-point plan for achieving total self-humiliation in a public place. Stick to the instructions closely and your success is guaranteed!
Step 1: Show up at your local farm garden wearing yoga pants and sandals.
Fantastic! We’re off to an excellent start! It’s only 104° in the shade and you’re about to wade through rows of crops – you might as well be wearing a sign around your neck saying ‘I’m an indoors girl.’
Step 2: Be sure to stand directly underneath each plum tree that you’re shaking to loosen the fruits.
Perfect! We all know that tree shaking is the proper way to harvest fruit, so why not stand directly underneath the heavy fruits as you’re shaking?
And those plum pieces will definitely come out of your hair eventually, right? No worries.
Step 3: No water. No hat. No harvest bag. Rock star shades! ‘Nuff said.
Bizcochitos are sweet, buttery and flaky.
Bizcochitos are slightly zesty, spicy and tart.
Bizcochitos are the state cookie of New Mexico, and this is a title that I strongly support.
I mean, really. These are serious times - people need to know what’s what.
And information is king.
Perhaps you’re considering a move across state lines. Or you’re thinking about taking a job in a different time zone. Maybe your son or daughter is contemplating heading off to college on the opposite coast.
Wouldn’t you prefer to be making these life-altering decisions armed with the knowledge of what types of cookies you are transitioning to and from?
Let’s say that you are choosing between a move to Georgia and a move to Alabama. Doesn’t this decision become infinitely easier if you know that you’re choosing between a gorgeous, peachy-keen, sugar-dusted cookie and a fruitcake-like, slightly stale confection? (No offense to Alabama -I think we know who’s who here- this example was merely for illustrative purposes.)
College in Connecticut versus New York might be an extremely difficult choice, but it’s a breeze once you know that you’re picking between a nutty, soft, caramel cookie and a lumpy, dry, oatmeal, thing.
A job in Kansas versus a job in Missouri becomes a no-brainer when you replace Kansas with chocolate butterscotch drops and Missouri with dried prune cookies.
Duh.
I think you can see where I’m going with this.
So much critical information missing from so many crucial decisions.
It’s time to start fighting for our rights!
I’ve always considered myself to be someone who follows the rules.
I mean the important ones. I’m totally OK with ripping the tags off of my pillows and wearing gobs of white after Labor Day.
But the important ones, yes. I guess that’s just how I was raised.
The down side that I have found in following the rules is that you come to expect that everyone else is doing the same. And when someone breaks the rules, it can catch you by surprise. Making that face. That ‘I totally can’t believe he/she just did that’ face.
My neighborhood has a rule that dogs must be walked on their leashes. Maybe your neighborhood has a rule like this.
So there I was yesterday afternoon walking in my little neighborhood with my little dog at the end of a little leash.
All of a sudden, a streak of pink lightening flashed and I found myself staring down the muzzle of an extremely vocal, unattended Yorkie.
She was adorned in a coordinated series of little pink bows.
She had better hair and nails than I have.
She was coming after my poor, leashed doggie and I.
I was so surprised by this development that I snatched up my dog (he has requested to remain anonymous for reasons that should be eminently clear) and began backing into the flora lining the sidewalk.
The pink bows were advancing.
I was retreating.
And my back was up against a row of cacti.
I will refer you to the seat of my yoga pants for confirmation.
