The Art of Cake Poppery

These are not my cake pops, but
Bakerella's. My pops looked JUST like
these except cross eyed and missing feet.

Cake pops. Ever heard of ‘em?  Here is what they look like, from the Bakerella website. They are adorable, right?  A confection so perfectly formed and delicately constructed you could just about poke your eyes out with that stick because you will never again see anything so devastatingly precious? Yeah, and they’re delicious too.  Now, before you lose yourself in the overwhelming cuteness that is cake pops mania, let me tell you a little story.  Several years ago, I decided to make cake pops as a birthday treat for my mom. Her birthday is in Spring, so I chose these Spring Chicken pops, figuring they were perfect!  They don’t require a ton of detail work (a skill which I lack), they are yellow (her favorite color!) and well, they’re cake!  On a stick!  Covered in chocolate!  Yes PLEASE!!   I was still living in Virginia at the time and my family was set to arrive soon for a visit.  I wanted the cake pops to be perfectly perched on the kitchen table when my Mom walked through the door, the perfect start to her birthday trip!  

The list of required ingredients included cake, frosting and candies of various shapes and sizes.  I thought to myself, “beyond the cake and frosting, the rest of this should be a breeze to find and acquire!” Because I procrastinate, I didn’t have time to order from Amazon as Bakerella  recommends.  The next thing I know, it’s three days later and I’m in the parking lot of a specialty baking store.  I  just about maxed out my credit card on  food  ink pens, three jars of three different candies, paper sticks, and something called Paramount crystals.  Now, I’m a food person. Spending time and money on the pursuit of food is not new to me. I will gladly spend $35 on a tiny jar of olives from the south of France. I will eat that jar of olives with the runniest, stinkiest cheese I can find and I will wash it down with wine recommended by my girl Bridget.  (side note: I’m also happy eating hot dogs in a parking lot.)  But when the clerk in the speciality baking store gave me a sideways glance and asked me what I planned to do with Paramount crystals and I didn’t really have a good answer, I questioned the task at hand. I think my response sounded something like this, “Um...they are for melting? With chocolate? For cake pops? Right?”  When I got to my car and looked at my receipt totalling $60, I blanched but I decided to forge ahead.  I love my Mother.  I love baking.  I love a culinary adventure!  TOWANDA!  Or whatever it is they say in Fried Green Tomatoes. I was all in!  
 Ok, supplies procured, now came the “fun” part. I baked the cake, crumbled it , mixed with frosting, rolled into balls, inserted sticks, dip into melted chocolate, let the whole batch set and decorated.  Simple enough!  SIX HOURS LATER  I was sweating profusely.  Chocolate was in my hair.  Some of my cake pops looked..nice.  Others looked, well, meh..  A few looked down right busted.  They were falling off of their sticks with the wildly expensive candy pieces refusing to stay stuck.  The food ink pens wouldn’t write on the pops’ chocolate shell.   I wanted to shut it down and cry...cry the sobs of a broken woman whose dreams of cake poppery came crashing down around her like so much broken glass.  Well, maybe that’s a bit strong.  But I definitely wanted to just regular cry. I threw myself in bed, exhausted and overwhelmed.  In the morning, I got the pops looking semi presentable, cleaned my ravaged kitchen and paced around my apartment till my family arrived.  I cursed myself for not baking a pie (or Stoner Pie!) or getting DC Cupcakes or doing anything other than cake shaped like birds on a stick.  I feel I should stress that I think that Bakerella is fabulous and her creations are genius.  It’s just that my decorating skills aren’t the sharpest and I didn’t give myself enough time.  What’s that thing they always say, “Haste makes paste?”  

In the end, I need not have ever worried.  My mom is proud of everything her children put their minds to and these cake pops were no different.  As soon as she laid eyes on the cake pops and learned that they were A.) cake and B.) made especially for her, she began squealing/screaming in a manner I have never heard before or again.  Imagine, if you will, the highest pitch, squeakiest, squeal that you ever heard.  Or that a dog has ever heard.  And she just kept going. Quoth my mom, “EEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEeeEEEEEEeeeEE!!!! They’re Cakeeeeeeeeeeee!”  If you have ever seen me react to something with great joy ( a wedding announcement, news of a pregnancy, a KitchenAid) her reaction to these cake pops was quite similar but squeakier and with less jumping.  We all began laughing so hard, tears were streaming down my face. I cried twice in 24 hours over these damn cake pops but at least once was the result of a hysterical laughing fit.   It was the best reaction any of my baked goods has ever received and I imagine ever will. So, what did I learn from my cake pops adventure? 1.) Never stress over a baked good for my mother.  She will love anything I bake for her, anything baked with love.  If it’s dipped in chocolate and shaped like a small bird, even better.  2.) SImple is not the same as easy. 3.) I still don’t understand Paramount crystals.  Enjoy the pops everyone!  

Tear Down This Wall

So, it will surprise exactly none of you that I had put up some pretty high emotional walls.  One looong, bad break up combined with several lousy dating experiences equals a very strong need to protect one’s heart from any further emotional tomfoolery, perceived or otherwise. And while it’s true, I was safe from further emotional devastation, I wasn’t really open to making a “love match” so to speak, despite what I otherwise thought.  Enter the Farmer.   

The Farmer approached our blossoming courtship with a kind of gusto I have NEVER experienced.  He was so smart and sweet, so earnest and funny, that I was overwhelmed.  I practically had no way to process all of the sweet and lovely information coming my way.   My walls had never before encountered a threat so intense.  I would come home from dates shaken to the core--how could I both get to know this person AND keep up my guard?   It eventually became clear that I couldn’t do both.  I had to choose one or the other--the chance to open up, or the certainty to stay alone.  My walls had been my companions in heartache for several years now (how uplifting!) and while I knew they were reliable, they wanted to keep me in at night and not out with potential suitors.  Also, my walls made want to vomit every time I dressed for a date.  I longed to get ready for a night on the town without downing a sleeve of saltine crackers. Super sexy.   And so, slowly but surely, like Regan demanding of Gorbachev, I made the decision and conscious effort to tear down my own walls.  It was hard and it was scary, but for the first time since my big, bad, break up I was letting someone in and it felt really good!  For about ten minutes.  

Turns out the Farmer had walls of his own.  I learned after making this leap and letting go of my walls, that the Farmer had a big, bad break up of his own, one A LOT more recent than mine.  He had thought he was ready to jump in but wasn’t. We made the decision not to see each other any longer.   It was terrifying to feel that I had let down my walls for someone who wasn’t ready and of course it made me sad.  Sad to think I wouldn’t see him anymore, but also sad because I knew where he was.  I had been there myself.  It’s a long, hard road to recovery, to feeling like yourself again, to feeling like you can share yourself again.  But then I started to think about all that I had accomplished.  That recovery stuff is tough but I had done it and I’m a much happier, stronger person! To quote my dear friend Shaun’s blog, I’ve done some shit.  I know where I’ve been and where I’m going.  So, yeah, this was sad and scary but guess what, I let down my walls, got hurt and kept moving.  My walls are staying down.  

To Fondue or FonDon't

There is something weird going on. Just truly bizarre.  Dating, of late, or what has passed for dating in my world,  has been just plain odd.  There are ups and downs, and friends, we are in a seriously odd valley at the moment.   Statements such as, “my interests are Los Angeles and tattoos” are floated in my general direction.  (Do you mean getting tattoos? Are you a tattoo artist?  How can Los Angeles be one of your interests?  I need more information.   On second thought, no I don’t.)  

Then there was this message I received on the dating site I’m currently using, Plenty of Nothing.com.  It’s super awesome.  This message was unsolicited.  In his profile picture, our hero is wearing a jaunty fedora and what my Grandma used to refer to as “swim trunks.”  I’m sure he thought he was quite adorable. I’m bringing this message to you here, unedited except for a name change, so that you too can enjoy its hilarious weirdness.  It reads:

After a rigorously brief overview of your profile I wanted to let you know I have already married and divorced you in my mind.
Thanks for all the wonderful imaginary memories! You will always have a special place in my heart.

Your ex-hubby,

Big Head Bobby

P.S.
You can keep the dog and Spice Girls CDs, and I will keep the house in Hawaii and the pink Ferrari =)

My immediate thought was, “Shit, what kind of lousy divorce lawyer did I have?!  All I got was the dog and some CD’s, he got the house and a car?!”  And then I regained consciousness.  What the hell was that? I think it was an attempt at humor, and it sure did catch my attention, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say he missed the mark. By a wide margin.  

To think, all this could have been mine

And then there was Mr. FonDon’t. (Like instead of Fondue...FonDon’t, get it...Oh, the charm!  The WIT!!) We exchanged a couple of messages and texts and then he asked me out to dinner.  He seemed sweet, open and charming so I accepted. He suggested fondue, which I found curious because no one had ever suggested that in the past, but when you think about it, it’s a pretty good date.  It gives you a task/activity rather than staring at each other awkwardly if conversation runs dry. The fondue also lead me to believe that he was rather green at this whole dating thing, which I didn’t so much mind, but it was interesting.  I mean, fondue rather than coffee on Elmwood?  Who is this guy?  

I really did envision the need to use a fondue
fork as a shank in the restaurant parking lot.

This is where things get weird and really, really annoying. Cut to two days later, him texting me at 7 AM.  Yep.  7 AM.  Just to say "GOOD MORNING!!!!" With multiple exclamation points, just like that. Bitch please.  I’m a morning person, so perky I can annoy a Barista, but that is a whole new level of wtf.  Then he said he was going to change me to make me like hockey, (???)  then he said he wanted to take me to New York to see a baseball game.  Then he asked me to help him pick out a cat.  Boy, I sure do wish I were kidding about that last one. Please bear in mind that I had not yet met him. Before the cat comment,  I kept asking,  “Isn’t this kinda weird? Do I really have to go out on this date?”  and people around me kept saying, “Maybe he doesn’t do this much. Maybe he’s just a nervous texter. Just see what he’s like in person.”  Then the following conversation took place and I knew all bets were off.  It’s a text conversation between Mr. F and me, interspersed with comments from my dear friend Danielle.  Danielle is my friend most likely to tell me to open myself up to JOY!  And she means it!  She is very encouraging and always wants people to try new things and experiences.  Go meet that new guy!  Try that new hobby!  Go ROLLERSKATING!!!  The second she was fed up with Mr. F, I knew it was O-V-E-R.  The whole thing went something like this:
Mr. F: Do u have any pets??

Me: No, not for a while, though I love dogs.  Do you have pets?

Mr. F:  I’m thinking of getting a cat.  

Me to Danielle: I don’t care about this.  Why am I still talking to him.    

Danielle: You are still talking to him because maybe he is nice in person. And you are a nice person. The real question is why is a single guy getting a cat?  What bachelor pad has a cat? Can you picture a bachelor pad with a cat?  This is odd.  

Me to Danielle: Yeah, I guess, I don’t know that many single guys with cats. I mean, there’s that one guy...

Me to Mr. F: Wow, a cat.

Mr.F: I’m making a pro/con list about whether or not to get a cat.

Me to Mr.F: What are the cons?

Mr.F: There are no cons. That’s it, it’s decided on Saturday I’m going to the SPCA to pick out a roommate.

Danielle: Nope, now I want to punch this guy in the nuts. You know this dude is trying to ask you to help him pick out a cat.  

Me to D: Dear God...

Mr.F: So, I don’t think I’ll be much good at picking out a cat...

Me to D: I’m not responding to this, I may never respond again.  

Following this conversation came more weird comments asking if I was going to have an emergency phone call set to interrupt our date the next day.  How does one respond to this kind of message? I chose to not respond, which I hate doing but really, what do you say?  Yes, my Sicilian cousins will be in the corner ready to tear you limb from limb? No, no one loves me and or cares that I’m out with a stranger from the Internet?  

This person was not doing himself any favors.   It was as if he was just text bombing me with every random thought that came through his mind.  It occurred to me that if he had behaved this way BEFORE asking me to dinner I would never have accepted, so I made the decision to cancel our date. We hadn’t even met yet and I was fielding cat requests and 7 AM texts?  It was all just too much.  He was probably a nice guy, but I don’t think we would have been a match.  In hindsight, I should have shut it down a lot sooner.   Could it have been a magical evening with my soul mate?  Maybe.  Did I save myself from an uncomfortable evening where I  would steal a fondue fork as protection for the walk back to my car.  Possibly.  We will never know.  What I do know is that instead of having fondue with a complete stranger, Danielle and I made fondue, or what we were calling Fun Do, because we’re cool like that and it was delicious. Melted cheese and bread is perfect for a chilly winter’s eve when you are escaping the weirdness of the world. It's better than a stranger's cat any day!  

Cheese Fondue
½ lb Emmenthaler cheese, shredded
½ lb, Gruyere cheese, shredded
2 tablespoon cornstarch
1 clove garlic, halved crosswise
1 cup dry white wine
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 tablespoon cherry brandy
½ teaspoon dry mustard
Things for dipping: bread, apple, broccoli, carrots, cauliflower, or cubed ham.  

Toss shredded cheeses and cornstarch in ziploc bag and place in freezer.  Rub inside of medium sauce pot with garlic then discard.  Bring wine and lemon juice to slight simmer on medium heat. Ever so slowly, add cheese to wine and stir in zig zag pattern, to prevent it from seizing and balling up.  Do not let cheese boil.  Once it is smooth, add brandy and dry mustard.  Transfer to a fondue pot and serve with dipping items on the side.  Enjoy!  Serves 4.   

A Vision in Goat Cheese

As many of you know, I lost my grandfather this past week.  He was an incredible person and I will miss him terribly.  I am working piece about him, but in the meantime, I wanted to post something that is a break from the sad.  I hope you enjoy!

The Farmer’s Market is my happy place. Weather permitting, I try to go as often as I can and I have my favorite stands. So much culinary potential! One of very favorites sells a PHENOMENAL goat cheese.  To tell you the truth, I liked, but didn’t love, goat cheese until I tried this particular goat cheese and I will tell you why.  There are two reasons.  The first I can’t remember.  The cheese maker/proprietor explained his methods to me but I wasn’t really listening because of the second reason.  The second reason is that he is an extremely good looking goat farmer who makes cheese.  Additionally, he has a brother is A.) also good looking and B.) also raises goats and makes cheese.  It was almost too much for me to bear.  

I don't care what you say,
goats are cute.

I should point out that I was standing there next to my mother, who is a wonderful woman but a lousy wingman, as any good mother should be.  The first time I saw him and walked away with my first 2 oz, $6 container of smoked paprika goat cheese (smoked paprika! Was he reading my diary?!) I began concocting a fantasy about myself ALSO living on a farm and becoming a cheese maker.  This would not be the day I sealed my fate as Mrs. Goat Cheese Farmer (GCF).  Aware that I had not started off on the most alluring foot with my future husband, the goat cheese farmer, as I could not stop staring and saying, “Yummmmm cheeeeese” and my mom was doing the same, (we’re some classy broads)  I knew I needed a fresh, mom-free, start.    

Anyone who knows me well knows that farmer/cheese maker has always been one of two or three dream jobs I like think about from time to time—the others being food writer, chocolatier and a lazy Martha Stewart.  Well, maybe not actually Martha Stewart, more like I could have my own cooking/lifestyle empire but without the minions.  Can you have an empire without minions? I don’t know, I’m getting off topic.

Have I mentioned that I love
smoked paprika?  Because I do. 

It turns out that the first time I saw my GCF also happened to be the last (so far, though my fingers are crossed!)  A few weeks later, I made my triumphant return the market.  Wearing my fabulous new aviator sunglasses that made me feel like a cross between Gloria Steinem and Carrie Bradshaw, I was ready to hit the cheese stand. When I arrived, lips perfectly glossed, hair bouncing in the morning sun, I flashed a grin, looked at the cheese selection, and looked up into the eyes of a 60 year old woman.  Who in the hell was this and where was my goat cheese farmer?!?  I put on lip gloss, dammit!!  I stood there for a few moments, pretending to ruminate over the choices (as if I was going to walk away with anything other than smoked paprika, please) hoping he had just run to the car.  But no, this lady was the cheese reality, dashing the hopes of my cheese fantasy.  I should have asked where, oh where, had the cheese stud gone but I lost my nerve. Feeling deflated, I wandered over to the Butterwood Bakery stand, bought a pastry the size of my head, and ate my feelings.  I still gloss my lips to go to the Farmer’s Market, even if it’s just for me, the 60 year old cheese lady and some beautiful Swiss chard.  Because, hey, why not look your best for some of the finest produce in Western New York. 

Picking out a recipe for this entry was tough.  It should, of course, be goat cheese related, but I find I never have the chance to cook with this particular stuff because I end of eating it straight on crackers or with my bare hands.  Classy.   Instead, I decided to go for a tried and true favorite that would demonstrate the lactose wonderland cheese can create.   I present to you a most favorite grilled cheese sandwich, Gruyere and Apple Grilled Cheese.  It’s the perfect combination of fancy and rustic and it showcases cheese perfectly.  

Here is what you will need:

2 slices of good white bread—think Italian or fine sandwich bread

2-3 very thin, peeled apple slices, preferably the Pink Lady variety.  I like something sweet/tart but something all the way tart would be delicious too

3-4 thin slices Gruyere cheese. This is all a personal preference, depending on how cheesy you like your sandwich.  I like mine very. 

And of course, butter

Heat a frying pan on low heat.  Butter one side of each slice of bread.  Lay butter side down of one slice bread onto warmed frying pan.  Layer apple and cheese, top with second slice of bread, butter side up.  Cover pan, wait about three minutes.  Flip sandwich.  Bread from the bottom should be toasty and brown.  Cover and wait an additional 2-3 minutes, or until the second slice of bread becomes sufficiently brown and toasty. 

Serve and enjoy, preferably with beer.