Everybody's doing it

Blogging about food. It might have inspired a little jealousy, based in the fact that I cook once or twice a month. I'm more of an eater, but there was a time when I used to bake.

Growing up, I'd clamber onto the counter tops, opening cabinets and using their doors as step stools for a boost. Mixing together flour, baking soda, water, syrup, food coloring, and salt in the hopes of creating an edible delight instead of the glop that usually resulted from these explorations. Several years later, I discovered recipes, and became an amateur chef, baking cookies from a roll of Pillsbury. I've come to specialize in sweets: brownies, cakes, puff pastries. I tend not to bake that often, though, because I'm not so diligent about getting to the gym as I am when it comes to adding extra chocolate and butter.

Why don't I just pick healthy meals to cook? you might wonder (or not). Most of the reason why I don't cook is because my boyfriend is a control freak in the kitchen. We have a gadget for everything, and instead of taking the time to learn its proper use, I am intimidated; the kitchen is his thing, so rather than get excited about going to Williams-Sonoma, I tend to criticize his obsession with potato ricers, mozzarella slicers, microplane graters for lemons and ones for parmesean, flavor infusers, bamboo steamers. Seriously. We have all those things.

So I recently jumped on the bandwagon, since I've been getting some flack for doing my nails while Jer cooks (I don't even want to help clean up! Ungrateful, I know). I've started my own collection of kitchen utensils and appliances: an apple slicer for my daily breakfast of apples & peanut butter, a Cuisinart food processor, cute plates from Crate & Barrel, table linens, a glass pitcher, stemless wine glasses, etc. I realize that these "utensils" are more decor related, but it's a start. Especially now that I have a beautiful new Kitchen Aid Artisan mixer, courtesy of my wonderful executive chef.

I tested its performance by making chocolate chip cookies, which some of you at Georgetown had the privilege of trying. After that, I made these delicious chocolate heart cakes in the spirit of Valentine's Day--a pseudo-holiday for which I just realized we have no plans. How anti-romance! We're trying to find reservations and looking at Komi, so I'll let you know how it is provided we can get a reservation.

The chocolate heart cakes were delicious, and I'm really pleased with my silicone heart muffin tray that I absolutely had to have. The recipe includes instructions for a ganache that was easy to make and rewarding--when served warm, the cakes are fluffy and moist, but the ganache melts and acts as a molten chocolate cake would, flowing from the center like liquid velvet. I topped with ice cream and strawberries, but I think Crème Anglaise would suit it better next time.

The recipe is for six, and I ate four of them. Make extra if you're having guests over.

Chocolate Ganache Heart Cakes

Ingredients:
Cocoa powder for dusting
6 oz. bittersweet chocolate, chopped into small bits & pieces (I used Valrhona, some of the best baking chocolate, which you can get from Trader Joe's for 3 bucks a bar; Scharffen Berger is also good and available there for the same price)
1 Tbs. heavy cream
3 Tbs. unsalted butter, cut into small cubes and softened
2 eggs plus 1 egg yolk
1/4 cup sugar
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1/8 tsp. salt
1 Tbs. all-purpose flour
Freshly whipped cream or vanilla ice cream for serving (or Crème Anglaise recipe to follow)

Directions:

Position a rack in the center of an oven and preheat to 400ºF. Grease a 6-well heart baking pan and dust with cocoa powder. In a heatproof bowl, combine 2 oz. of the chocolate and the cream.

Set the bowl over but not touching simmering water in a small saucepan and melt the chocolate, stirring occasionally, until smooth and blended, 1 to 2 minutes. Transfer the ganache to a small bowl and refrigerate until firm, about 20 minutes.

In another heatproof bowl, combine the remaining 4 oz. chocolate and the butter. Set the bowl over the saucepan of simmering water and melt, stirring constantly, until smooth and blended, 2 to 3 minutes. Remove from the heat and let cool for 10 minutes.

In a bowl, combine the eggs, egg yolk, sugar, vanilla and salt. Using a handheld electric mixer or a balloon whisk, beat until thick ribbons fall from the beaters or whisk and the mixture is nearly triple in volume, 5 to 6 minutes. Sift the flour over the bowl and gently fold until just blended. Add the chocolate mixture and gently fold together until smooth and blended.

Divide the batter among the wells of the prepared pan. Remove the ganache from the refrigerator and form into 6 teaspoon-size balls. Place 1 ball on top of each cake and press gently. Bake until the cakes pull away from the sides of the wells and the tops are just firm, 9 to 11 minutes. Transfer the pan to a wire rack and let cool for about 5 minutes. Invert the cakes onto the rack and transfer to individual dessert plates. Serve warm with freshly whipped cream or vanilla ice cream (or Crème Anglaise, below).

For the Crème Anglaise:

1 cup milk
1 cup half-and-half
4 egg yolks
2 eggs
1/3 cup sugar
1/8 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. vanilla extract

In a saucepan over low heat, combine the milk and half-and-half. Heat to just below boiling. In the top pan of a double boiler, whisk together the egg yolks and eggs until just blended, then add the sugar, salt and vanilla. Gradually whisk in the hot milk mixture. Place over the bottom pan of boiling water and cook, stirring constantly, until the mixture is thick enough to coat the back of a spoon, 2 to 3 minutes. Do not let it boil. Immediately remove from the heat and let cool slightly to thicken.

Feeling like a freak on a leash...?

This morning at my 9 to 5, while chilling out in my J. Crew button-down and Uggs and drinking my coffee, I glanced around my shared office and smiled. I'm pretty happy about where I work: I can show up in jeans, throw my hair in a bun, walk around in socks. Some coworkers elect to tread barefoot, and some even wear socks with Teva's (not mentioning any names). Aside from an unhealthy obsession with Apple, I'd consider it a relatively conservative environment. Upon relishing the conventional bliss, I came across several (for lack of a better, non-discriminating term) "interesting" concepts.

The first item is the Medusa "object." Technically, Oakley markets the "object" as a hat. However, it struck me that either I am sheltered beyond the point of assimilation into modern culture, or American past times have taken a turn for the worse. What would one possibly use this $500 hat for? I imagined. Aside from thinking, "Sweet, I'm dressing up as Ricky Williams for Halloween," my mind was blank. "Robbing banks/murdering families," a cohort suggested. And actually, that seemed like a viable alternative. I was planning on forwarding the link to Alon, a friend with an uncanny ability to discover other anomalies. When I visited his page, I came across the second object: people leashes.

Alon found an article about a goth couple who were kicked off a bus because the guy led his girlfriend in tow via a chain around her neck. Apparently, it wasn't the complaints from the passengers that got them kicked off; the bus driver felt that in the event stopping short, slamming on the brakes could pose a threat to the girlfriend's neck. I tried to remain open-minded about people leashing; after all, I've seen parents strap their kids into harnesses with bungee cord leashes (and have proceeded to point, laugh, and take pictures). I can't remain impartial with this. Who allows herself to be led around by her boyfriend? On a CHAIN? Granted, he claims to love her, and even implies that the leash is necessary: "She's very animal like, she's kind of like a pet, as well as a partner." Aside from that haggard look on her face, I guess she kind of does look like a minx.

Jeremy and wondered about the use of a lead, as well as other devices. "What is that fetish called where you wear a saddle and fake hooves and a bridle?" he asked.

Umm. Sexual deviancy. Seriously, does that shit exist?

Sadly, yes. Or, happily, yes, depending on whether you prefer being the dom or the sub. It's called Pony Play, and Trigger, the Human Equine, is just one patron of the fetish. Horsing around aside, he devotes his time to saddling up and trotting around with mistresses on his shoulders. He writes about first discovering Pony Play after Elvis died, a time that caused him to read a lot of magazines (awkward segue not my fault). Anyway, he came across an article about women in upstate New York who kept men and women as slaves, using their faces for seat cushions and the like. This notion turned him on, and soon he became a slave himself, calling himself a "pony slut." Jumping around in assless chaps with a broad on your shoulders whipping your behind doesn't seem like a horse-load of fun; all things considered, though, Trigger maintains a healthy sense of humor. He lists mistresses who've ridden him in the past, but is quick to mention that he's not diligent with his record-keeping; mistresses are sometimes reluctant to give their names. "And if I did get the name," he says, "remembering it is even harder (horse sense = no memory LOL)." I swear I didn't add that last part.

With a list of more than one hundred women, there seems to be a demand for pony play. Honestly, after watching CSI episodes about Furries and mascot sex, I shouldn't be surprised that something like Pony Play exists. I don't want to imagine what's next, because I have a feeling the next picture up on Trigger's web page will feature the Medusa hat and a chain leash. God knows some Brazilian already tried making pornos about shit-eaters. I'll just stick to my Jack Johnson-listening, apple-and-peanut-butter eating, prefer-to-be-on-top routine. Doggy-style is as adventurous as I'm gonna get for now.

Something useful

I found this article to be helpful when wondering how the hell I could keep pushing despite extreme fatigue.

Clay

The picture's old, and it reminds me of a worse time. The smile's fake; I was having a hormonal crisis in Utah two years ago when that picture was taken, on vacation with my family and just beginning to unravel the reason why I felt so depressed: birth control.

Still, thinking about how a) I haven't visited my own blog in such a long time that my picture was still captioned "Automne," 2) I missed skiing, and d) that I've come far in the span of two years--all of this should make me happier. It does, to some extent. To another, however, it made me interested in how I've evolved.

For instance, do you know the kinds of women who feel the need to assert themselves? I was one of them. I needed everyone to know that there were unique and confusing nuances to my personality, and that I was okay with them, that I embraced them. I let everyone know that I was messy but also meticulous about not leaving dirty dishes in the sink; I only write with black pens; I don't keep best friends or secrets; I am afraid of being a bad mother.

In hopes that these quirks would ward off potentially unfit suitors, or that they would endear me to another, I broadcast them for several years. The process was exhausting. In fact, I'm sure it stopped sometime around the point when I met Jeremy, and got too tired of trying to push him away with my flaws (that conveniently doubled as positive attributes).

So why is it that as women we are compelled to define ourselves for everyone? In a lot of my single friends I'm finding this need, the compulsion to assert and maintain our identity, the "I will change for no one, I'm perfect in my imperfections?" I'm not implying that these statements are untrue or unimportant; rather, why do we need to assert them? It should be recognized by others, men and women alike, that we are unique; that we as women, vulnerable and strong, coarse but gentle, still, in the very same instant--that these are the very qualities that make us attractive. In defending these characteristics, it implies that others have waged war against our moodiness and sensitivity; our assertion that these qualities are wonderful and intact and treasured intimates that they are not perceived in this light by others.

Aesthetically, it's similar to the notion of "gaps" in language. For example, words refer to ideas that we, as readers, have implicit or explicit attitudes toward. It's these attitudes that gives the words we read meaning, whether we find them as valuable or not. When I read proclamations from women that tend to elucidate their flaws, such as "I'm messy, not perfect, and somehow that's still perfect," it's like looking at a painting without a caption; I don't know what to make of it, and it's left open for interpretation. Since our experiences are what give words/feelings meaning, I fill the gap with my own experiences. In watching women assert themselves with such force, it makes me wonder when the last time it was that I felt the need to assert myself that way in such a public forum as Facebook.

Maybe it's just me, but I feel like calling attention to one's desire to be accepted would only make your insecurities about it that much more visible, whether they are founded or unfounded. A lot of individuals who are anxious about being accepted are hypervigilant regarding acceptance in the first place: they are aware of how often they are outcast, but often disregard the times they are accepted. It's a pathology, something that stems from an event in their early developmental stages that makes them so acutely aware of being an outcast. Think of Freud: he would regard a problem in a relationship, such as something like sexual dysfunction, as a result of something that happened to the individual earlier on in life, an unconscious response to a previously experienced trauma. Maybe as children, as teenagers, some stupid boy made fun of these girls; maybe their parents weren't present; maybe they need more love, and this is what has made them call attention to their flaws and demand that they stay protected; maybe they think these "flaws" are what has kept them from being loved in the first place, and they are tired of trying to change them in order to find a mate.

Maybe others find this assertion normal; maybe it's part of maturation. It feels like evolution, though, warming clay between your hands and shaping it into something; maybe I've sculpted myself, and what I'm reacting to is just watching the process of another's becoming.