Nobody Knows Anything

You forget to tape the Oscars.

And you’ve seen more than half the nominated movies this year. I mean, when’s the last time that happened?

I wanna grow up to be Adam Felber. Well, except for the part where I’d be him and not me and stuff. Nevertheless, he is laugh-out-loud funny and whilst I am in this black, blacker, endless funk and not in any mood to write here or anywhere else, you can go read him. I just need to say that “Those who do not seek enlightenment are going DOWN, muthafucka!” is my new mantra. Peace.

The likelihood that the person referred to in the previous entry as having become a total stranger to me is you is nil. I don’t think that person reads this blog.

You know what hurts? Realizing, after you’ve mixed the mix and baked the cupcakes, that the recipe calls for self-rising cake flour and Softasilk isn’t self-rising and what you now have are not so much cupcakes as flat, tasteless little cup-cookies.

(Yeah. Again with the self-rising flour. Only this time it’s self-rising cake flour. Would it have killed Nigella to include the measurements for non-self-rising cake flour and baking powder and salt?)

You know what hurts worse? When the daughter you’ve made said cupcakes for says, “The bakery makes better cupcakes.” Okay, sure, she’s right, but it still hurts.

(Btw: Sophia is going to be FIVE tomorrow. FIVE. I cannot believe this. Didn’t I just bring her home from the hospital? Best saying I’ve heard on this phenomenon of life with kids: “The days are long and the years are short.” Boy howdy, is that the truth.)

When designing the logo for your store, choose wisely. (Warning: contains objectionable language. For those of you that have squeaky-clean workplaces and/or minds.)

Ever have one of those weeks when everything seems off to you, when you get annoyed by everything, where people you’ve known for a million years seem to be absolute strangers, when you want to correct everyone’s behavior and explain to them the psychological underpinnings of what they’re doing (and not in particularly flattering ways, either), when you just feel as though you can’t do anything and if you try to do something you’re doomed not just to failure but to Massive, Spectacular Failure?

Nah. Me neither. But if I were having one of those weeks, this would be it. Urk. I should go make some hot chocolate.

I have drunk the bread-making Kool-aid so thoroughly that I have signed up at my local Sur La Table for their bread-baking class, which is taught by a baker who is also the retail operations manager for Beckmann’s retail bakeries—Beckmann’s is the brand of sandwich bread I buy at the market, so this seemed like a good sign.

I’m hoping I can get a handle on this before I’m asking Darin if we can take our next week-long vacation in Vermont.

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Rob and Laura came over this morning so that we could make brunch together. My first batch of dough for cinnamon rolls did not go well, and so I did not have rolls waiting for them when they arrived. Laura—who has done so much baking she has evidently flirted with the idea of starting her own baking service—helped me whip up another batch of sweet dough for cinnamon rolls (using the recipe out of Domestic Goddess) and showed me some ways of how to tell when the dough is done.

The rolls were pretty tasty when they came out even if, as Sophia complained, they didn’t have frosting on them.

Laura, by the way, who has baked far, far more bread than I have, loves Beth Hensperger’s books, including and especially The Bread Lover’s Bread Machine Cookbook, which she uses all the time. In fact, she has inspired me to take the book out of the library and try to make some bread doughs in my machine again.

On Thursday, home with the kids all day, it was time to make bread again. I’ve made it three times now, each time with a different recipe. I like something about each recipe, although I haven’t been wildly thrilled by any of the bread I’ve made so far. (Although Sophia continously asking for a piece of “the homemade bread” has made me quite proud, let me tell you.)

This time I used Beth Hensperger’s Bread Made Easy. The book has a basic introduction to breadmaking, with what you’re doing for each step and what the bread’s doing during each step. The book contains eight basic recipes with seven or eight variations on each: batter bread, egg bread, white bread, whole wheat bread, holiday sweet bread, flatbread, country bread, and coffee cake.

Here is how my white bread came out:

I like the color on this one, and I like the effect of the eggwash on the top. However…I haven’t had as much luck with breads two and three getting them to rise high enough. This isn’t so much sandwich bread as almost-sandwich bread. I think the problem this time was using 9×5 pans (which Hensperger recommended) instead of 8.5×4.5.

Also, a big problem for me with Hensperger’s books (I also checked out The Bread Lover’s Bread Machine Cookbook ) is that she gives the ingredients by volume instead of weight. I am firmly in the weight-measurements camp—what’s hilarious is, if on the first of this year you’d asked me to describe what in hell the difference was, I’m sure I could have stammered something out, but I wouldn’t have known what I was talking about. But now? Now I am all about the weighing. Especially for a beginner, weighing your ingredients is vital. When I weigh out my flour, I know I’ve got exactly what the recipe calls for. Measuring by volume…maybe I’ve got the right amount of flour, and maybe I’ve compacted a few extra ounces in my cup than the recipe actually needs. No way? Weigh!

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After dinner I needed to entertain the kids a little, so I said, “Let’s make a cake!” (Yes. I am turning into Weird Mommy. So sue me.) I decided to use Clotilde’s recipe for Yogurt Cake. I asked Sophia if she wanted to put some frozen strawberries in it, and she said yes, and then she asked if she could eat some frozen strawberries…and she now has a new favorite snack. I am hoping to sneak frozen peaches by her in this matter.

The cake is exceptionally easy to make—it’s no wonder kids can help make it: add the ingredients together, stir, stick in pan, cook.

I thought the cake came out quite well:

The strawberries more or less collapsed during the baking, though, leaving strawberry-tasting spots behind: those reddish spots are areas where strawberries used to be. Is there anything I could have done to avoid that? Or is that the cost of using frozen fruit?

The other interesting development was that the brown sugar we used was clumpier than I thought, and no matter how much Sophia stirred it or I attacked it, there were rocks of brown sugar. The finish cake had pockets of melted brown sugar throughout. This did not affect the taste, except for the better.

(My cake came out of its pan with no problem! Several people on Clotilde’s page, including Clotilde, mention having problems getting the cake out!)

Unfortunately the cake finished too late for us to actually eat it, so I put it under foil until the morning, at which point we all had a piece (or possibly two) and declared it the best cake ever, especially since the kids had made it.

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While I’ve made bread three times—the second time was a recipe from The Bread Baker’s Apprentice by Peter Reinhart and the bread tasted great; it just didn’t rise high enough—I’ve made dough four times. The fourth time was a disaster: I made a starter per Alton Brown’s directions in I’m Just Here For More Food and got down to business making his “Everyday Bread.” I added the ingredients to the bowl and started the machine kneading. It was a wet dough. It was a very wet dough. When I added at least an extra cup of flour and it was still a wet dough, I gave up. Obviously I’d done something horribly wrong.

I need more successes with direct doughs before I can figure out what happened here.

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My friend Michele asked me, “What’s up with all this baking?” I said, “It’s a way to be creative with the kids around.” I cannot concentrate on my writing when we’re all together, and I’d like to interest them in cooking, if at all possible, since I’ve come to it rather late, myself.

I think I’m also particularly interested in baking (as opposed to cooking in general) because it’s not something Darin knows particularly much about. He’s not interested in baking; he hasn’t read tons and tons of baking-specific cooking books. It’s nice to carve out my own little niche in the kitchen.

Also: excuse to have extremely tasty food around. “I had to bake the cookies! Had to try that recipe!”

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I am up at this ridiculous hour because I decided to make chicken stock tonight and I have to wait for it to cool down in the cold water bath in the kitchen sink. I have lost my mind. I know this now.

I am currently reading the entire archives of Prepare to Meet Your Bakerina, the blog of one Jen McAllister, a baker who revels in all things foodie. She also has a fun, arch writing style, describing herself as “the Biggest Baking Nerd in the World” and working on a history of the egg in baking for a fellowship in Arkansas. (I haven’t gotten to the entries about how the fellowship went, yet.)

I have mentioned before that I am not a fan of faux populism, the idea that haute is automatically inferior to bistro, which is automatically inferior to home. (Granted, I *do* tend to favor home-cooked food, particularly the kind known in France as “cuisine de mere;” it is what I’d prefer to eat and certainly what I’d prefer to cook, but I believe that you can love your grandma’s beef stew without spitting all over the daube at your local four-star.) But if I don’t like faux populism, I absolutely, positively hate faux gourmandism, the idea that a high price tag justifies splashing about expensive ingredients hither and yon without considering basic principles of taste and balance. If my Italian local is lucky enough to procure fresh white truffles in season, I have no problem with ordering a plate of spaghetti dressed with nothing but butter and a few shavings of those white truffles, and I understand that those shavings are going to put some serious additional change on the bill. But I don’t want those truffles on every damn dish on the menu. Nor do I need foie gras in a burrito, or ground Kobe beef in a hamburger.

Most of all, I don’t need caviar in a frittata. I haven’t had too much exposure to caviar, but I’ve had enough to know that if you’re shelling out big bucks for beluga or sevruga, you don’t want to gunk up those little pearls with cream or meat or vinaigrette or chopped hard-boiled egg. (Why this compulsion to serve egg with egg? Why?) Apparently, though, someone at the Parker Meridien, one of the most expensive hotels in Midtown, has decided that what their frittata special really needs is caviar. And lobster. And cream sauce, plenty of cream sauce. Thus it is that the P-M openly, freely and without shame, invites you to order this on your next visit.

The hotel’s general manager, Steven Pipes, has admitted that he doesn’t anticipate too many takers on this frittata, that he and the executive chef came up with this dish as a way to keep the menu from getting too “stale” (I still dream of the day when this sort of food fashion, “is it in or is it out?,” falls out of fashion), and that the whole thing is just a bit of a joke. I agree that it’s a joke. But it’s not funny. What it is is a waste: a waste of a good lobster, a waste of almost ¾ pound of caviar, a waste of butter and heavy cream, a waste of six eggs, all in pursuit of a stunt we should have got over playing 30 years ago.

She mentioned the book The Taste of America often enough and in enough intriguing ways that I actually went ahead and ordered a copy. (Dudette! Get an Amazon ID! Get recognition of the American sort when your recommendations are followed up! Although, I have to admit, in the case of Taste of America, I ordered off of Alibris, where the copies were much cheaper.)

Downside: not enough recipes! She mentions making incredible edibles but then mutters about “copyright” and “permission to reprint.” But…but…this is the Web! We have Fair Use! (Until such time as the Administration can repeal it, and believe me, they’re working on it.)

Since I’ve been on a baking tear of late, Jen’s writing about baking, the history of baking, and what she’s been baking are of extreme interest to me these days.

I need to become one of Bakerina’s best friends, so I can her to mail me some of her goodies…

(Btw, Jen: if you do open your own bakery, forget about calling it “Baked Goods”—it’s “Bakerina” all the way!)

From Americablog, the blog that brought you the Jeff Gannon scandal:

According to my source, Gannon’s insider tidbits were always on the mark. “Gannon’s stuff was always golden,” the producer says. My source says they kept asking themself, “how does this small news outfit get this info?”

Now, I’m not going to get into this story (for one thing, Americablog has been all over it; for another, I can’t believe we have to debate whether or not hookers should have White House press passes under fake names), other than to say: The problem with our current press corps in a nutshell!

“How does this small news outfit get this info?” How, indeed? Why, it’s so puzzling, someone oughta get right on it, do some investigation, figure it out!

Too bad we don’t have anyone around capable of, say, taking an extremely puzzling question and, you know, trying to find the answer.