As many of you know, my fella recently moved to the other coast. I could call it the "wrong" coast, the presumption being that the coast I'm sitting on is the "right" one. But ... um ...
Yeah, that's really tempting. Wrong, but tempting.
He's been there for a couple of weeks now. I know this because his status on Facebook the other day said, "Week 2," and not because I'm keeping track or anything. Because I so totally would not do that.
And in fact, if you look carefully, you'll notice a quiet, bloggy gap right about the time he moved. That's because I went with him. Not to stay, of course. Just to help.
I'd say I ignored the mom guilt, packed my kids into a shipping crate, stamped my parents' address on the side and shipped 'em off for a week, just so I could go to San Francisco. But we all know that's not possible. Mom guilt doesn't allow for shipping crates. Plus, my kids would do each other serious injury if I left them alone together for that long without their electronics.
But I've got fabulous friends. Deeply, lovingly fabulous friends who get both mom guilt and the importance of giving a newly long-distance relationship the proper send-off.
So when my fella got word of his move, my friends listened and commiserated. They mixed gin and tonics and fed me Thai food and let me talk. Pretty much endlessly.
They quietly arranged a handful of playdates and sleepovers (even when their own kids weren't around), so my fella and I could enjoy a few last evenings together.
And they invited my kids to the beach. For four days. With my amazing au pair.
Even the ex helped. He took the kids on vacation, then brought them from his vacation directly to theirs.
And so my fella and I had a week together in San Francisco. We had friends there, too. Friends who put us up and treated us like royalty. Friends who gave us list after list of things to do so we wouldn't spend our days all mopey and maudlin. We ate pretty food, saw pretty art and pretty trees, and walked the pretty, hilly streets.
We also bought a big down comforter. It is yummy and warm and, well, comforting. Basically, it's a hug in the form of a household good. Because if I can't be there to hug the man in person, he should at least have a hugalicious comforter to take my place.
We said good-bye. I flew away. And then another friend picked me up at the airport. She put up with my overtired, drugged and mopey self, put me to bed and let me sleep. For a very long time. And then she drove me home. Which was really far away.
This is how fabulous my friends are.
Now, mind you, I have many fabulous friends. What happened here, it's just a snippet of fabulousness in a great big sea of fabulosity. But it was a very well-timed sort of fabulous. And the kind you can't repay. So you say the biggest possible "thank you" you can muster, and then you bake a cake or two. For the kids. Because, as it happens, sugar and chocolate compensate beautifully for mom guilt.
(Well, I'll be damned. I think that last sentence just summed up the whole premise of this blog.)
Showing posts with label cakes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cakes. Show all posts
August 10, 2010
June 6, 2010
Lemon Jell-O Cake, or Why I Love My Sister
I like cake.
You're shocked, I'm sure. Because I've only blogged about cakes and cupcakes like 83,000 times. (And yes, I'm exaggerating. But not by much.)
My aunt makes a cake she calls Better Than Sex Cake. And there was a time when I might have agreed with her. You should make this cake. It may not be better than sex, but it is better than a great many other truly wonderful things. Including chocolate. I kid you not.
Good as this cake is, however - and it is extremely good - it is not the best cake ever.
The best cake ever is the stuff of memories. It's the cake my mom made for my birthday every single year growing up. It's baked in a Bundt pan, coated in a simple powdered sugar glaze, moist, with a blaze of lemony flavor that just zings through your mouth. We call it the Lemon Jell-O Cake.
I have not had that cake in nearly 30 years.
My mom's been ill for a very, very long time. When all that first happened, her brother kindly stored her things in his basement. There was a flood, though, and much was destroyed. Baby clothes she'd made by hand for me and my sister. Her original artwork. Mirrored pillows and other items from her travels to India.
And books. Many books. Including her cookbooks, and the recipe for the best cake ever along with them.
I spent years searching the interwebz for that Lemon Jello-O Cake. I never found it. I found cakes that stole the name, easy cakes, light and lemony. But not one was right.
And then, my sister's birthday came. I was pondering how best to help her celebrate and decided to get her thoughts on her cake. I gave her a couple of options. First up, the tiramisu cupcakes I wound up making (awesome!). The other was Martha Stewart's lemon curd cupcakes, for the lemony memories.
Which is when she told me about her wonderful gift. She'd rescued my mom's old, water-logged Fannie Farmer Cookbook from the flood. And inside it, hand-written and just a little smeared, was my mom's Lemon Jell-O Cake recipe. (Which is apparently Paulette's recipe, only we don't know who Paulette is.)
My sister read it to me over the phone, because she is just that awesome.
I made it last weekend. It is every single bit as good as I remembered. And given how much flavor hindsight and nostalgia add, that's saying something. Still not better than sex, but definitely getting closer.
Enjoy. And remember to send a great big thank you to my sister.
Paulette's Lemon Jell-O Cake
1 package Duncan Hines Lemon Supreme cake mix
1 3 oz package lemon Jell-O
4 eggs, slightly beaten
3/4 cup oil
3/4 cup apricot nectar (my store didn't have it, so I used pear nectar instead - still yummy!)
2 tbs lemon extract
Mix all ingredients together and pour into a buttered and floured Bundt pan. Bake at 350 for 45 minutes minimum, usually longer. (45 minutes did it for me, but my oven is dead-on accurate.)
Glaze
2 cups powdered sugar
1/4 cup lemon juice (fresh-squeezed, please!)
Mix and let stand. Pour over cake when it comes out of the oven. (I poured it along the inner and outer edges of the pan ... oh stars, but what that does to this cake ... you'll just have to find out for yourself.) Leave in the pan until it cools. Eat it.
Giving credit where credit is due: my mom once told me that this recipe came off a box of Duncan Hines Lemon Supreme cake mix. I've been all over their site, though, and couldn't find the recipe. I did find a similar recipe here.
You're shocked, I'm sure. Because I've only blogged about cakes and cupcakes like 83,000 times. (And yes, I'm exaggerating. But not by much.)
My aunt makes a cake she calls Better Than Sex Cake. And there was a time when I might have agreed with her. You should make this cake. It may not be better than sex, but it is better than a great many other truly wonderful things. Including chocolate. I kid you not.
Good as this cake is, however - and it is extremely good - it is not the best cake ever.
The best cake ever is the stuff of memories. It's the cake my mom made for my birthday every single year growing up. It's baked in a Bundt pan, coated in a simple powdered sugar glaze, moist, with a blaze of lemony flavor that just zings through your mouth. We call it the Lemon Jell-O Cake.
I have not had that cake in nearly 30 years.
My mom's been ill for a very, very long time. When all that first happened, her brother kindly stored her things in his basement. There was a flood, though, and much was destroyed. Baby clothes she'd made by hand for me and my sister. Her original artwork. Mirrored pillows and other items from her travels to India.
And books. Many books. Including her cookbooks, and the recipe for the best cake ever along with them.
I spent years searching the interwebz for that Lemon Jello-O Cake. I never found it. I found cakes that stole the name, easy cakes, light and lemony. But not one was right.
And then, my sister's birthday came. I was pondering how best to help her celebrate and decided to get her thoughts on her cake. I gave her a couple of options. First up, the tiramisu cupcakes I wound up making (awesome!). The other was Martha Stewart's lemon curd cupcakes, for the lemony memories.
Which is when she told me about her wonderful gift. She'd rescued my mom's old, water-logged Fannie Farmer Cookbook from the flood. And inside it, hand-written and just a little smeared, was my mom's Lemon Jell-O Cake recipe. (Which is apparently Paulette's recipe, only we don't know who Paulette is.)
My sister read it to me over the phone, because she is just that awesome.
I made it last weekend. It is every single bit as good as I remembered. And given how much flavor hindsight and nostalgia add, that's saying something. Still not better than sex, but definitely getting closer.
Enjoy. And remember to send a great big thank you to my sister.
Paulette's Lemon Jell-O Cake
1 package Duncan Hines Lemon Supreme cake mix
1 3 oz package lemon Jell-O
4 eggs, slightly beaten
3/4 cup oil
3/4 cup apricot nectar (my store didn't have it, so I used pear nectar instead - still yummy!)
2 tbs lemon extract
Mix all ingredients together and pour into a buttered and floured Bundt pan. Bake at 350 for 45 minutes minimum, usually longer. (45 minutes did it for me, but my oven is dead-on accurate.)
Glaze
2 cups powdered sugar
1/4 cup lemon juice (fresh-squeezed, please!)
Mix and let stand. Pour over cake when it comes out of the oven. (I poured it along the inner and outer edges of the pan ... oh stars, but what that does to this cake ... you'll just have to find out for yourself.) Leave in the pan until it cools. Eat it.
Giving credit where credit is due: my mom once told me that this recipe came off a box of Duncan Hines Lemon Supreme cake mix. I've been all over their site, though, and couldn't find the recipe. I did find a similar recipe here.
October 17, 2009
Inner Grossness
Eleven years ago today, I became a mom.
My lovable, sports-obsessed Aspie arrived on Day One of the 1998 World Series, just in time to catch the opening pitch of what would become a Yankees sweep of the San Diego Padres. Smart kid. His dad has him convinced he's a Reds fan, but I know the truth. My boy was born under the pinstripes, and someday he'll remember that.
Being a mom, though, it's not something that happens in an instant. Seems like it should. You push and you push, you bring that little human into the world, and you hold it, warm and squirmy, in your arms. And that's it. Snap. You're a mom.
That is so not how it works.
When my oldest was born, it was this magic thing. He was covered in goop and a little blood, with perfect, slimy little hands and a bright red face with an angry V of blood vessels embossed on his forehead. His wail was tiny and furious and it made me laugh and melt into a puddle all at once. I loved him instantly, goop and all.
And still, I didn't feel like a mom.
I think most women don't get that, actually. You're caught up in the love and the joy and the utter physical exhaustion of childbirth, and you don't realize that there's something missing. But I did. I realized it when, 12 hours after my little fella was born, the doctors figured out that he was sick. They wheeled him off to the NICU in the wee hours of the morning. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to help him. I didn't know how to be his mom.
It's kind of like being a grown-up. That's not something that happens the moment you turn 18. Or 21. Or 30. It happens over time. And then, one day, you wake up and you realize you've done it. You've grown up.
Being a mom is like that.
My mommy epiphany happened when my guy was maybe 18 months old. We'd stopped at McDonald's for dinner and brought home a cheeseburger. Next to spaghetti, McDonald's cheeseburgers were his favorite food. He ate half of his burger and then, oddly, stopped. We kept handing him more. He closed his mouth tight and refused to eat another bite.
And then he started projectile vomiting all over the kitchen.
Poor kid. He was sick, screaming with fear, covered head-to-toe in smelly ick.
And what did I do?
I hugged him. I picked up his stinky, icky little vomiting self and held him close until he stopped throwing up and stopped crying and realized he'd be okay. I had vomit in my hair and all over my clothes. I smelled to high heaven. And I didn't even notice.
I was a mom.
You fight for your kids. And you love them. You love them straight through the bad days and the temper tantrums, the grossness and the ick.
My tiny, angry, beautiful baby is 11 years old today. He asked for a cell phone, a comic book store and "total world domination" for his birthday. (He got a big fat "no" on all three.) And he's embraced his inner grossness as only an 11-year-old boy can. By his request, we celebrated his special day with a radioactive nest of mutant spiders that I carved out of cake, covered in icing and "dirt" made from crushed cookies, then drizzled with pistachio pudding for the nuclear waste and dotted with spiders made from malted milk balls and little chocolate icing legs.
Clearly, I've embraced his grossness too.
But then, I'm his mom. That's what we do.
(Oh crap. I've gone and written another post about vomit. I promise, this is not a theme!)
My lovable, sports-obsessed Aspie arrived on Day One of the 1998 World Series, just in time to catch the opening pitch of what would become a Yankees sweep of the San Diego Padres. Smart kid. His dad has him convinced he's a Reds fan, but I know the truth. My boy was born under the pinstripes, and someday he'll remember that.
Being a mom, though, it's not something that happens in an instant. Seems like it should. You push and you push, you bring that little human into the world, and you hold it, warm and squirmy, in your arms. And that's it. Snap. You're a mom.
That is so not how it works.
When my oldest was born, it was this magic thing. He was covered in goop and a little blood, with perfect, slimy little hands and a bright red face with an angry V of blood vessels embossed on his forehead. His wail was tiny and furious and it made me laugh and melt into a puddle all at once. I loved him instantly, goop and all.
And still, I didn't feel like a mom.
I think most women don't get that, actually. You're caught up in the love and the joy and the utter physical exhaustion of childbirth, and you don't realize that there's something missing. But I did. I realized it when, 12 hours after my little fella was born, the doctors figured out that he was sick. They wheeled him off to the NICU in the wee hours of the morning. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to help him. I didn't know how to be his mom.
It's kind of like being a grown-up. That's not something that happens the moment you turn 18. Or 21. Or 30. It happens over time. And then, one day, you wake up and you realize you've done it. You've grown up.
Being a mom is like that.
My mommy epiphany happened when my guy was maybe 18 months old. We'd stopped at McDonald's for dinner and brought home a cheeseburger. Next to spaghetti, McDonald's cheeseburgers were his favorite food. He ate half of his burger and then, oddly, stopped. We kept handing him more. He closed his mouth tight and refused to eat another bite.
And then he started projectile vomiting all over the kitchen.
Poor kid. He was sick, screaming with fear, covered head-to-toe in smelly ick.
And what did I do?
I hugged him. I picked up his stinky, icky little vomiting self and held him close until he stopped throwing up and stopped crying and realized he'd be okay. I had vomit in my hair and all over my clothes. I smelled to high heaven. And I didn't even notice.
I was a mom.
You fight for your kids. And you love them. You love them straight through the bad days and the temper tantrums, the grossness and the ick.
My tiny, angry, beautiful baby is 11 years old today. He asked for a cell phone, a comic book store and "total world domination" for his birthday. (He got a big fat "no" on all three.) And he's embraced his inner grossness as only an 11-year-old boy can. By his request, we celebrated his special day with a radioactive nest of mutant spiders that I carved out of cake, covered in icing and "dirt" made from crushed cookies, then drizzled with pistachio pudding for the nuclear waste and dotted with spiders made from malted milk balls and little chocolate icing legs.Clearly, I've embraced his grossness too.
But then, I'm his mom. That's what we do.
(Oh crap. I've gone and written another post about vomit. I promise, this is not a theme!)
August 3, 2009
The Numbers Game
This weekend was all about the numbers.
4 The new age of my youngest child, who celebrated with Lucky Charms for breakfast, pizza for dinner, and SpongeBob cake for dessert. It was also a rare opportunity for him to be sole proprietor of the Center of Attention. Good day for him.
3 The age my youngest child insists he is. No amount of cajoling or bribery has convinced him otherwise. He's in total denial.
70 My dad's new age, as of February this year. Unlike my little guy, he admits to it.
30 The number of years he and my beloved step-mom have been married.
Together, those two numbers add up to 100, a good, round number and a phenomenal excuse to host a family reunion.
At the reunion this weekend, representing both sides of the family: 14 aunts and uncles (including my folks), 11 first cousins & their spouses, my 3 kids, and 7 significant others and treasured family friends. That's 35 members of our clan gathered in one place, at one time. (And given the high proportion of math geeks in that crew, I'd darn well better have gotten those numbers right.)
3 generations attending. We represent states from Alaska to Massachusetts. We were born all over the world, from Indonesia to Washington, D.C., from Bangkok to Toledo. And we were born in every decade straight through from the 1930s to the 2000s. Except for the 1970s. Slow time for us, I guess.
And the reason why this was such a big, huge deal?
52. That, my friends, is the number of years that have passed since my father, his sister, and their three brothers have been in the same room together. 52. Five full decades. And then some.
This reunion, it was a bit of history in the making.
The bonus?
0 The number of times I put my kids in time-out, took away privileges or even got stern with them during two full days of reunion events. Yes, they were that amazingly good.
I'm a very proud mom. Though it's kinda cool to also be a proud daughter, sister, cousin and niece.
My family rocks.
4 The new age of my youngest child, who celebrated with Lucky Charms for breakfast, pizza for dinner, and SpongeBob cake for dessert. It was also a rare opportunity for him to be sole proprietor of the Center of Attention. Good day for him.
3 The age my youngest child insists he is. No amount of cajoling or bribery has convinced him otherwise. He's in total denial.
70 My dad's new age, as of February this year. Unlike my little guy, he admits to it.
30 The number of years he and my beloved step-mom have been married.
Together, those two numbers add up to 100, a good, round number and a phenomenal excuse to host a family reunion.
At the reunion this weekend, representing both sides of the family: 14 aunts and uncles (including my folks), 11 first cousins & their spouses, my 3 kids, and 7 significant others and treasured family friends. That's 35 members of our clan gathered in one place, at one time. (And given the high proportion of math geeks in that crew, I'd darn well better have gotten those numbers right.)
3 generations attending. We represent states from Alaska to Massachusetts. We were born all over the world, from Indonesia to Washington, D.C., from Bangkok to Toledo. And we were born in every decade straight through from the 1930s to the 2000s. Except for the 1970s. Slow time for us, I guess.
And the reason why this was such a big, huge deal?
52. That, my friends, is the number of years that have passed since my father, his sister, and their three brothers have been in the same room together. 52. Five full decades. And then some.
This reunion, it was a bit of history in the making.
The bonus?
0 The number of times I put my kids in time-out, took away privileges or even got stern with them during two full days of reunion events. Yes, they were that amazingly good.
I'm a very proud mom. Though it's kinda cool to also be a proud daughter, sister, cousin and niece.
My family rocks.
July 9, 2009
Martha's Cupcakes
Next month - in fact, on the very first day of next month - it's my little guy's birthday.
He's very keen on the idea of his birthday. I think mostly that's because he wants presents. And he wants to be the center of the universe, even if it's just for a day. With three kids in the house, trust me, that doesn't happen very often.
So every night he asks me if it's his birthday tomorrow. He knows August is coming, but he doesn't quite get the when.
And this year his birthday is a little more complicated than usual. That's because this year, for some reason, my little guy is refusing to age.
I've tried to explain to him that he will turn four on his birthday. He says no. Vehemently, with full on pouty face. "I'm not gonna be four," he grouches at me. "I'm gonna stay three again!"
It's hard to disagree with him. I'd have been perfectly happy to stick at 32 for a decade or so. Not possible, of course. So I'm trying to convince him that older is okay. And I think I've found the perfect bribe.
Cupcakes.
I decorate cakes for fun and frolic. My kids' birthdays are a special treat because I get to pull an all-nighter, run a Harry Potter marathon on the portable DVD player, and get crafty with fondant, colored nonpareils and run-in sugar. Few other things make me as happy.
The kids love the cake thing, too. At least once a week, they will pull out all my many cake books and create fantasy celebrations in their heads. It reminds me of the Sears catalog, back in the day. My Oma used to call it the Wish Book (I think everyone else's grandmother did, too), and my sister and I would spend hours building a wished-up life complete with furniture, glamorous outfits, and - um - tools.
My little guy, though, is less about the cakes of late. Nowadays he's all about the cupcakes. He loves Dede Wilson's Baker's Field Guide to Cupcakes (oh, and I do, too - her Italian meringue buttercream is lightly sweet, all natural and utterly delicious). He'll sit with that book for an hour at a time, flipping the pages and sighing with cupcakey joy.
But today - oh, today! I have found the Holy Grail of cupcake books. I was at BJ's, doing the warehouse thing. It's tedious and annoying, so I treat myself to book browsing while I'm there. This evening I was rewarding myself with a fruitless hunt for the new Nora Roberts novel when I spotted it ... Martha Stewart's Cupcakes. Oh oh oh oh oh!! Gorgeous. Tasty. Inspired. Now, I can make my own chocolate faux-bois! I can make little fondant monkeys! I can create a tiny cupcake forest of meringue mushrooms! It's a cornucopia of cupcake creativity.
I think it'll be enough to convince the little guy that he does, in fact, want to turn four. Because if he turns four I will make him any cupcake he wants. In fact, I will make him two dozen of them. And I won't make him share.
I'd turn four for Martha's cupcakes. Wouldn't you?
PS: For kicks, check out the Cake Wrecks blog link on the right. Daily posts of absolutely abysmal cakes, with occasional highlights of a few stunning concoctions. If you're serious about your caking, try 52 Cupcakes.
He's very keen on the idea of his birthday. I think mostly that's because he wants presents. And he wants to be the center of the universe, even if it's just for a day. With three kids in the house, trust me, that doesn't happen very often.
So every night he asks me if it's his birthday tomorrow. He knows August is coming, but he doesn't quite get the when.
And this year his birthday is a little more complicated than usual. That's because this year, for some reason, my little guy is refusing to age.
I've tried to explain to him that he will turn four on his birthday. He says no. Vehemently, with full on pouty face. "I'm not gonna be four," he grouches at me. "I'm gonna stay three again!"
It's hard to disagree with him. I'd have been perfectly happy to stick at 32 for a decade or so. Not possible, of course. So I'm trying to convince him that older is okay. And I think I've found the perfect bribe.
Cupcakes.
I decorate cakes for fun and frolic. My kids' birthdays are a special treat because I get to pull an all-nighter, run a Harry Potter marathon on the portable DVD player, and get crafty with fondant, colored nonpareils and run-in sugar. Few other things make me as happy.
The kids love the cake thing, too. At least once a week, they will pull out all my many cake books and create fantasy celebrations in their heads. It reminds me of the Sears catalog, back in the day. My Oma used to call it the Wish Book (I think everyone else's grandmother did, too), and my sister and I would spend hours building a wished-up life complete with furniture, glamorous outfits, and - um - tools.
My little guy, though, is less about the cakes of late. Nowadays he's all about the cupcakes. He loves Dede Wilson's Baker's Field Guide to Cupcakes (oh, and I do, too - her Italian meringue buttercream is lightly sweet, all natural and utterly delicious). He'll sit with that book for an hour at a time, flipping the pages and sighing with cupcakey joy.
But today - oh, today! I have found the Holy Grail of cupcake books. I was at BJ's, doing the warehouse thing. It's tedious and annoying, so I treat myself to book browsing while I'm there. This evening I was rewarding myself with a fruitless hunt for the new Nora Roberts novel when I spotted it ... Martha Stewart's Cupcakes. Oh oh oh oh oh!! Gorgeous. Tasty. Inspired. Now, I can make my own chocolate faux-bois! I can make little fondant monkeys! I can create a tiny cupcake forest of meringue mushrooms! It's a cornucopia of cupcake creativity.
I think it'll be enough to convince the little guy that he does, in fact, want to turn four. Because if he turns four I will make him any cupcake he wants. In fact, I will make him two dozen of them. And I won't make him share.
I'd turn four for Martha's cupcakes. Wouldn't you?
PS: For kicks, check out the Cake Wrecks blog link on the right. Daily posts of absolutely abysmal cakes, with occasional highlights of a few stunning concoctions. If you're serious about your caking, try 52 Cupcakes.
June 14, 2009
The Blogroll
I'm a surprise blogger. Always wanted to try it, and now that I have a vehicle, I find that I actually have something to say. Had no idea it was in there. Surprise!
What this means, though, is that I never stopped to set the context. I'm betting that, as a result, you have no idea why I chose to put those random bits and pieces on the right side of the page. So I'll do a few posts over the coming weeks to give you the 4-1-1 (and yes, I feel silly even typing that).
We'll start with What I Read ... more commonly known as the blogroll.
First up is DivaSpeak, which I've been following since its inception. It is creatively crafted by a good friend who knows her pop culture cold (she blogs on Lost and Heroes, among many other things). She also has a knack for finding brilliant, off-beat content. My most recent guilty pleasure from the Diva: "I've dreamed about it ... have you?" It's one of those things you can't stop watching. Not that you'd want to. Dive into her archives. She keeps me entertained. She also has phenomenal taste in shoes.
The Bloguscript is my how-to-live-vicariously blog, because it's written by a friend who actually leaves his house. I read this and want to go do things and see things and hear things. His tunage is interesting, his grammar is spot on, and he's got a sense of humor just this side of snarky, as evidenced by his "You Might Not be a Redneck" post. He's been teaching me to blog, for which many thanks and a batch of banana chocolate chip bars - or at least a lasagna - are likely in his future.
If my friend iClipse is providing the mechanical bloggy know-how, the Yarn Harlot is providing the inspiration. I knit. I write. The Yarn Harlot knits. The Yarn Harlot writes. She makes me want to knit and write and then knit some more, because you realize, reading her, that knitting and writing are what life should be about. I want to knit a sock. I don't even like socks. And then I want to write about it. And take its picture. I think that means I am an honest-to-goodness fan.
Cake Wrecks is a new find. I've been decorating cakes for 12 years. Started with this stunning creation that I copied out of Colette Peters' first book, Colette's Cakes, for a dear friend's baby shower. It was a giant bib done in multi-colored buttercream loops, lacy swags of royal icing, and pastel animals piped with run-in sugar. It tasted like sawdust, but oh, was it pretty! My cakes taste better now and mostly come out to play for birthdays and special family events. This blog makes me laugh out loud. Often.
Eat Like Me is on the roll because I think I should want to read it. A nutritionist chronicles her day in food. Not 100% sure I'm there yet, though I do check in sometimes. And knowing this blog's here does seem to make me eat better ... I'm officially down 15 pounds since I started blogging in January.
Snark appeals to me, which is why I keep a link to Diary of The Food Whore and get her RSS feed delivered to my iGoogle page. A snarky caterer. Loves food; not so fond of people. Brilliant.
52 Cupcakes is - duh - another cake blog. Some of her ideas are a little off the beaten path: to wit, the Bisquick Bacon Cupcakes with Maple Syrup and Bacon Frosting. But she's unfailingly creative, and that works for me. I actually want to try those the next time I make breakfast for dinner with the kids.
What this means, though, is that I never stopped to set the context. I'm betting that, as a result, you have no idea why I chose to put those random bits and pieces on the right side of the page. So I'll do a few posts over the coming weeks to give you the 4-1-1 (and yes, I feel silly even typing that).
We'll start with What I Read ... more commonly known as the blogroll.
First up is DivaSpeak, which I've been following since its inception. It is creatively crafted by a good friend who knows her pop culture cold (she blogs on Lost and Heroes, among many other things). She also has a knack for finding brilliant, off-beat content. My most recent guilty pleasure from the Diva: "I've dreamed about it ... have you?" It's one of those things you can't stop watching. Not that you'd want to. Dive into her archives. She keeps me entertained. She also has phenomenal taste in shoes.
The Bloguscript is my how-to-live-vicariously blog, because it's written by a friend who actually leaves his house. I read this and want to go do things and see things and hear things. His tunage is interesting, his grammar is spot on, and he's got a sense of humor just this side of snarky, as evidenced by his "You Might Not be a Redneck" post. He's been teaching me to blog, for which many thanks and a batch of banana chocolate chip bars - or at least a lasagna - are likely in his future.
If my friend iClipse is providing the mechanical bloggy know-how, the Yarn Harlot is providing the inspiration. I knit. I write. The Yarn Harlot knits. The Yarn Harlot writes. She makes me want to knit and write and then knit some more, because you realize, reading her, that knitting and writing are what life should be about. I want to knit a sock. I don't even like socks. And then I want to write about it. And take its picture. I think that means I am an honest-to-goodness fan.
Cake Wrecks is a new find. I've been decorating cakes for 12 years. Started with this stunning creation that I copied out of Colette Peters' first book, Colette's Cakes, for a dear friend's baby shower. It was a giant bib done in multi-colored buttercream loops, lacy swags of royal icing, and pastel animals piped with run-in sugar. It tasted like sawdust, but oh, was it pretty! My cakes taste better now and mostly come out to play for birthdays and special family events. This blog makes me laugh out loud. Often.
Eat Like Me is on the roll because I think I should want to read it. A nutritionist chronicles her day in food. Not 100% sure I'm there yet, though I do check in sometimes. And knowing this blog's here does seem to make me eat better ... I'm officially down 15 pounds since I started blogging in January.
Snark appeals to me, which is why I keep a link to Diary of The Food Whore and get her RSS feed delivered to my iGoogle page. A snarky caterer. Loves food; not so fond of people. Brilliant.
52 Cupcakes is - duh - another cake blog. Some of her ideas are a little off the beaten path: to wit, the Bisquick Bacon Cupcakes with Maple Syrup and Bacon Frosting. But she's unfailingly creative, and that works for me. I actually want to try those the next time I make breakfast for dinner with the kids.
Cool Links: Divorce Cakes
Was totally not going to blog today. At all. Doing too much of it lately. But I found this link in the "Cake Wrecks" area on Facebook. The concept is utterly brilliant, and I had to share. Just disappointed these creative cakers came up with the idea of divorce cakes before I did.
Don't know how to do this in any kind of cool way without pulling someone else's copyrighted images into my blog. So it's straight-up links today. Visit the Sun-Sentinel's photogallery ... it's only five photos but they are gorgeous and funny and worth two minutes of your time. Additional handful of images available on the site of the bakery, Elite Cake Creations, in Pembroke Pines, Florida.
I should not be enjoying these nearly as much as I am.
Don't know how to do this in any kind of cool way without pulling someone else's copyrighted images into my blog. So it's straight-up links today. Visit the Sun-Sentinel's photogallery ... it's only five photos but they are gorgeous and funny and worth two minutes of your time. Additional handful of images available on the site of the bakery, Elite Cake Creations, in Pembroke Pines, Florida.
I should not be enjoying these nearly as much as I am.
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