Archive of ‘desserts’ category

TARDIS Blueberry Scones and How The Doctor Helped Me Beat Cancer

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I have never been a big television person. Friends, The Sopranos, Parks & Recreation, Breaking Bad – I’ve watched all of these televisions shows at some point, but they never stuck. I’d start out loving them, but as the weeks went by, I’d lose interest. I did manage to spend several months following Mad Men, but I think that’s just because of Jon Hamm and his slightly scary penchant for going commando.

not mating with me sunshine

I’d like to pretend that my lack of zeal for most televisions shows is because I am intellectually superior to regular television watchers. That reasoning breaks down when you know that I surf the shit out of the internet, like an 80′s Wallstreeter pursues coke.  I do spend quite a bit of potential TV time reading books. As much as I’d like to pretend that these books are written by authors such as Dostoevsky, they’re much more likely to be about Harry Potter . So yeah – I can’t take the moral high ground here. And I don’t want to.

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I’m actually jealous of people who have their show – the TV show they look forward to watching all week, the show they discuss with hashtags on twitter or the show they used to post rabidly about at the now sadly defunct Television Without Pity. I wanted a show like this. I wanted to have a show where I would watch previous episodes so much, that I got all the inside jokes. But nothing kept my interest, and I thought I’d just be stuck reading about a boy wizard for the 8 millionth time while everyone else thrilled to the latest episode of House of Cards.

harry potter who

Then I found The Doctor.

hello the doctor

Marcus had been exposed to Doctor Who much earlier than me. He grew up watching old Doctor Who shows on the local PBS station. I’ve never been a Sci Fi kind of girl, and I thought Doctor Who friends were mainly pudgy, glasses wearing nerds who also spent a lot of time playing Dungeons and Dragons. I want to make it clear that I’m not insinuating that my husband was a ginormous nerd.

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I’m telling you he was a ginormous nerd. But adorkable nerds aside, I had no desire to watch an old British Sci Fi show, especially one that was in fuzzy black and white. Then last year happened.

cat nun

A little over a year ago,  I got so sick with gastroparesis that I lost 23 pounds in 3.5 weeks. You need to understand something about this. I never get nauseous. Ever. And when I do, I’m still hungry. Marcus and I once got food poisoning at the same time. I would puke, pull my head out of the garbage can, and declare how hungry I was. At one point, Marcus couldn’t take it any longer. “What the hell is wrong with you? How can you be hungry? How can you want food? I never want to see food again, you freak!”

I dealt with the pain and exhaustion of cancer treatment as best as I could, most days only whining a little. But the persistent feeling of nausea was a whole different ball game. At most, I was only getting about 500 calories a day, most of those coming from Cream of Wheat. I was constantly dizzy because my inner ear was so messed up, and horribly depressed.

happy now sad later

My brain was so fuzzy that I would look at a page of text, read it, and realize I hadn’t comprehended any of it, not even any of my beloved Tamora Pierce Books. So, I went down a rabbit hole of Youtube videos. I got hooked on watching TED talks.

brilliant doctor

I’m kidding. I didn’t watch a single TED talk. Instead I watched X Factor, but not normal X Factor. The US version of X Factor was for peasants. I only watched the CLASSY versions of X Factor, namely the UK and Australian versions. (Let’s not talk about any other reality shows I may have watched last year, ok?)

dalek regret

It wasn’t all bad. I found the boy band that I wish I could have worshipped in junior high. I got to be horrified by Cheryl Cole’s butt tattoo. I got to watch the Minogue sisters take passive aggressive digs at each other. I began to understand that Louie really is useless, and why Gary Barlow was crush worthy and seemed to be the only judge with any credibility. (Call me, Gary!)

gary barlow

But I found myself reading the Mirror UK, trying to find out if Matt Cardle and his dulcet tones were still going out with Sporty Spice. I wanted to know what latest dick move James Arthur had done in his quest to prove himself a giant asshole. I knew I had hit rock bottom when I found myself reading an article that discussed whether the love between Perrie from Little Mix and Zayn from One Direction would endure.

kylie and the doctor  One out of two Minogue sisters recommend The Doctor

Luckily, The Doctor saved me from adding to the revenue stream of the deep V-neck wearing, tangerine colored, manboobed pelt that is Simon Cowell. I’ll always be grateful to The Doctor for that.

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How did my Who obsession start? With this video:

Marcus and I own a rowing machine, and we bribe ourselves by watching certain shows on Netflix while we row. Marcus had run out of Archer episodes, so he started watching the new reboot of Doctor Who. He really enjoyed it. He knew I was bored out of mind and thought I might like the show. He showed me the above video.

ohimready

After he explained a little bit about Doctor Who and who River Song was, I watched a few more YouTube videos. Then I realized I really liked this show. I really did.

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And I was done. The conversion to Whovian was complete.

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I watched a couple of season seven episodes online at a site that is totally and completely legal. Thank god for Netflix. I started at the beginning and got sucked in.

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Before I go any further, let me answer some questions for those of you who already watch Doctor Who:

  • How can you consider yourself a Who fan if you haven’t watched Classic Who? I’m a fraud. Now run along and play Magic: The Gathering.
  • Who’s my Doctor? The Eleventh, but I like all of them.
  • Who’s my favorite companion? Donna Noble. Forever.
  • Which character would I most like to have sex with? Captain Jack, of course. And Paul McGann’s doctor from The Night of the Doctor. Preferably at the same time.
  • Do you ship Ten and Rose? I’d like to kill that shipping with fire. And then kill it again, just to make sure it doesn’t pull a Rory and come back.
  • My favorite episode? This is always changing, but right now it’s Silence in the Library and Forest of the Dead.
  • How much do you hate Stephen Moffat? Sometimes I feel like I’m the only Moffat fan out there, but most of my favorite stories have been written by him.

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I love that I’ve actually signed up at an online forum that discusses the show. And I love that when I told my husband I had not only signed up, but chosen a very Whovian username, he looked at me and said “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore. By the way, did anyone there read/watch the leaked episodes? Did they like them?” WONDER NERD POWERS, ACTIVATE! Form of a sonic screwdriver! Shape of a fez!

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I love that people discuss the merits of each Doctor. I love that the fellow Whovians among my friends rejoiced when Rose & The Tenth Doctor’s budding love was dashed, but still cried when they were separated. I love that most of them think Donna is the best companion ever, and that Amy is only at her best when Rory is traveling with her.

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I love the the statue in my garden now scares me a bit. I love that there is Doctor Who nail art. I love that we have a crack in our plaster and that Marcus and I are pretty sure it’s a crack in time and space. I love that I’ve started a Doctor Who Pinterest board. I love that this summer, Marcus and I rewatched all of the episodes so we could be ready for the premier of The Twelfth Doctor.

cake crack in time and space

I love the debate over whether or not the New Doctor, Peter Capaldi, will be any good. In my opinion, any man who’s been in Dangerous Liaisons and can swear as brilliantly as Malcolm Tucker is going to be fantastic.

So what will I be doing tonight? I’ll be at the movie theatre, watching the premier for the new season of Doctor Who. I will not be wearing a bowtie or sonicing the popcorn machine with my screwdriver. If I had a fez or Jammy dodgers, I’d bring them. But I will be bringing scones.

I hope the TARDIS is ready.

team tardis

When I was trying to figure out what I could make to celebrate Doctor Who, I had several options (This tumblr full of ideas is amazing!). I could have made homemade Jammie Dodgers. I could have made anything with a banana in it. I could have made fish fingers and custard. There are even Doctor Who cake pops! Bless. Instead, I decided on scones. Blueberry scones to be exact. Tardis blueberry scones to be even more exact.

Notes: These make scones that are on the more biscuity side of scones. I prefer these rather than dryer scones, but keep that in mind. If you’d like them dryer, use less fresh fruit and cook a bit longer. I think the amount of sugar is fine for plain scones, but if you want to add a glaze or sprinkle them with sugar before baking, use only 1/2 cups of sugar. I don’t have A/C in my kitchen, so in order to keep these from being a sloppy mess, I put my butter in the freezer for a couple of hours, and use chilled bowls when mixing.

Tardis Blueberry Scones
Loosely adapted from Epicurious
Yields 12 scones

3 cups flour
1 1/2 tablespoons baking powder
3/4 teaspoons salt
1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
3/4 cup (which is 1 1/2 sticks) chilled unsalted butter
1 cup blueberries
1/4 – 1/2 cup dried blueberries
1 cup buttermilk
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 tablespoon heavy cream (not vital, but good)
2 tablespoons finely grated lemon rind

Make sure the oven rack is in the middle of the oven. Preheat to 400 degrees F. Line two large baking sheets with parchment paper.

Using a whisk, mix flour, baking powder, salt and sugar in a large bowl. Add to large bowl of food processor.

Mix buttermilk, vanilla, cream and lemon rind in a small bowl. Place in fridge.

Cut butter into 1/2-inch cubes. Place in food processor. Pulse just until the flour and the butter are in pieces about the size of small peas. Pour mixture into a large chilled bowl. Add fresh and dried blueberries and toss to coat.

Make three wells in dough. Pour the buttermilk mixture into each well. Stir just until the dough begins to form. That means some of the flour will not be incorporated into the dough. That’s ok.

Flour your work surface and transfer your dough there. Knead about 8 turns. Divide ball of dough into half. Re-flour your work surface and form each dough half into a disk about one inch high. Cut each disk into six wedges.

Place six wedges onto each prepared baking sheet. Put one baking sheet in the fridge until first batch is done baking. Bake scones until they’re golden brown and toothpick inserted into the middle is clean. This takes around 15-20 minutes.

IMG_2274  This is what the flour mixture should look like after pulsing. Enjoy!

Raspberry Blancmange, Boob Pudding & Biopsies

This is a cautionary warning. If you are offended by crayon drawings of boobs or pudding shaped like boobs, please stop reading now. Also – never pick up a copy of National Geographic again. Sometimes there are real boobs in them.

Note: All of these pictures have been taken with an iPhone  This week has been stressful enough that I was not about to even attempt Lightroom or futzing with my camera.

This is my boob:

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These are my boobs with possible cancerous nodules on them:
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The above shape of my boob was drawn at my request by a young child who I will not identify, so none of you who take yourself too seriously will call CPS on his/her parents. The picture was also not drawn to scale or in any realistic way at all. And I put in the weird areas. Even I’m not twisted enough to have a kid do that.

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Last week, I alluded in my post that I was dealing with a scary medical issue. On Thursday afternoon, I will be having a mammographic stereotactic biopsy. This whole process does not seem real. This was supposed to be a a checkbox on a list of things I needed to do (pap smear, vaccines, dealing with other health issues) to be healthy and live a healthy life.

On the 14th, I went in for a screening mammogram. Since I have a family history of breast cancer, a base line mammogram is a good idea. As I get older, these x-rays will be something that will be used to compare later mammograms to.

I come home and work on stuff around the house. Little flutters of anxiety flit in and out of my head. It was like that when I waited for a pap smear test to come back. Around 3:30, I get a call. A very calming, reassuring voice tells me over and over that there’s no reason to be scared, but I need to come back in for a follow-up mammogram and ultrasound.

 It’s not until later that evening that a scene clicks into my head. I can see it in my mind like I’m watching a movie. Earlier that day, this beautiful Indian woman and I were brought back to the dressing rooms and given our little tie front robes. I was directed to the waiting room on the right. She was directed to the waiting room on the left. My sign said “screening”. Hers said “diagnostic”. I burst into tears so heavy that I make my t shirt damp. I wish I could have gone back in time and hugged her. She flits in and out of my mind every damn day, and every time I think about her, I ask God to help her, to get her through this, to help her family get through this.

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I sat in the diagnostic waiting room with my mom when I went back for a follow up mammogram. My first series of mammograms was fine. I mean, it’s not a breast handling technique I want my husband to learn, but it was more uncomfortable than painful. The very last x-ray done makes me dizzy with the pain. It’s like my boob was a zit that they were trying to pop. These mammograms still show suspicious issues, so an ultrasound is done. There is nothing like having your boobs lubed up and pressed firmly with something that feels like a giant computer mouse for a good time. The food scene from 9 1/2 weeks flashes through my head, and I remember that I was never very turned on by the honey scene even when I was 23 and stupid. I still think of how many ants that would attract and what a mess it would be to clean up. After that, a very nice doctor tells me that I have two areas of concern on my right breast. One is merely suspicious. The other is very suspicious, and I’ll need to have a biopsy where actual tissue is removed using a special tool that will collect larger fragments of tissue and uses a vacuum. In my head, I imagine one of the prize toy claws with a Dyson attached to it.

 After this visit, I go home and curl up on my bed for a few hours. I make myself get up, put on a black dress and go to the funeral of my friend’s 46 year old sister who died from complications from Type 1 diabetes. This was a woman who did everything she was supposed to do to manage her diabetes. This was a woman who was deeply loved by her entire family, but especially her brother. I hear a sermon telling everyone not to be sad, that this woman is in a better place. I feel my husband grow rigid beside me because this is the kind of thing that broke his faith for a while – this “be happy” approach without much regard to the grief and the sadness that all of those who loved her will be going through. Yes – they’re all relieved she’s not in pain anymore. But they’re really going to miss her.

I spend the next few days trying to make it through with black humor. I horrify my mom by telling her that I’ve never been felt up by so many different people since my junior year in high school. I tell Marcus that he has to scoop the litter boxes because he should feel guilty that I might have cancer. I find out I might have a titanium marker left in my boob, and I ask my husband if this makes me part Gobot. Someone leaves a bitchy comment on the Facebook page for this blog, and I totally want to reply “Man – you are going to look like such an asshole when you see my post on Tuesday.”

And then I burst into tears and scare the cats.

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I worry about my Mom. No one who had to endure the hell she went through with her two battles with cancer should ever have to worry about their daughter going through this. I worry about my dad. He keeps his emotions locked in very tight, but when my mom tells me he stayed up until 11:30 cleaning the night we found out I needed a biopsy, I know he’s trying to wrestle whatever control or solution or approach he can over this situation. Everyone hugs me more and holds me longer.

I worry about my husband. Helpful support from his family is pretty much a pipe dream. He has my family and his friends to lean on, but he’s also been beaten down by life in the last couple of years. He is terrified of losing me. He wants to fix this, to make it better, and he can’t.

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I worry about me. The thought of have successive needles stuck into me, so they can vacuum actual tissue out has caused two actual panic attack and brought me to the verge of others several times. Despite a phobia of needles that set in when I was 13, I have gotten much better through the years and have dealt with the last few blood sticks like a boss. I was doing so well. I got a flu shot a few weeks ago and didn’t flinch. The nurse gave me a hug, a sticker and a lollipop. I got a cortisone shot in my back two weeks ago, and while I was nervous, I got through it fine with only one reminder from my mom “Those are really good deep breaths you’re taking. Try taking them slower.” Now I feel terrified and ashamed that this irrational feel has taken control over me again. I made an appointment with a doctor for guidance on how to deal with this on Thursday. Easy answer – I will be gorked out of my mind on Thursday. Marcus is hiding my iPhone so there’s less of a chance I will “drunk” tweet. Sometimes he’s quite the killjoy.

Some quick tips if you have a friend that gets an abnormal mammogram or has to have more extensive testing done. Don’t tell them not to worry, or that they’ll be fine; that lots of other women have had this done and it’s nothing. Seriously - don’t do that, especially if you’ve never had this happen to you. Internet statistics are not what your friend needs. Your friend is scared. Let her be scared. Hug her. Let her cry. Let her rant. By insisting that everything is going to be OK, you minimize her fears and experiences, and you have no right to do that. After they’ve cried and freaked out a bit, then it’s OK to remind them that it is very likely the outcome will be OK, but that you also understand why they’re so scared.

Another tip – you have no idea what a person going through this brings as baggage on this shitty, shitty roller coaster ride. You may have had an abnormal mammogram and a needle biopsy and yours turned out just fine. That’s truly wonderful for you. But for other women it stirs up so much emotion that they feel swept up in a tidal wave of fear and déjà vu. Maybe their mom wasn’t at their wedding day because she died from breast cancer. Maybe they watched a friend fight and fight and fight and eventually had to watch her succumb to the disease. Maybe they’ve had to watch their sister go through chemotherapy and have seen how awful the process was for her.

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I have a mom who made it through two occurrences of cancer. The first one almost killed her. The second one was no walk in the park. And the phrase “Hopefully, the chemo kills the cancer faster than you” comes to mind. She has nerve damage and when it’s not causing her pain, she experiences times where she can’t really feel her feet and hands. She’s fallen down and knocked herself out. She’s broken her ankle. Every time I’m with her I make sure to follow her up the stairs and go first down the stairs. I know it annoys her, but I will never not do it.

A friend who was diagnosed with cancer in her early 30s was with us when Marcus and I got engaged. I remember her having to keep her intravenous port above water in the hot tub at the cabin. She read our favorite passage at our wedding. I see pictures from our wedding with her in them, and I cry. She fought cancer. She fought it hard.  Cancer won. A couple of weeks ago, my husband got all choked up and said “I really miss April. The world is worse off without her here”.

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And then I sit here and think about the state of healthcare in this country, and I am filled with rage. I rarely bring politics onto my blog, but there is something indecent, immoral and un-Christian about a country that lets people die because they don’t have health care. Those of us without healthcare? Very few of us are the lazy bums some people like to think we are.  Some of us have tried for years to buy insurance. Some of us have been told that it’s obvious that after seven different agents and applying for the same companies over and over again because our papers keep getting “lost”  - that we’re being illegally discriminated against, probably because of familial history. There’s no point in suing because we don’t have the money or teams of lawyers that insurance companies do. Some of us are uninsurable. Some of us don’t have the money to pay for insurance coverage because of the cost, while the insurance companies’ CEOs are being rewarded with millions in salary and millions in bonuses. Please don’t bother arguing with me about this in the comments. You’re entitled to your point of view. I have lived through this, and you will not bring me around to your way of thinking because of a comment left on my blog.

Sure – there are some programs for those who can’t get insurance. Good luck navigating your way through them. It’s taken us two years to be able to get affordable general health care. It’s taken eight cancelled visits to try to access a state program that is supposed to help women with cervical, ovarian & breast healthcare. It took so much time that my mom told me to just go ahead and schedule a mammogram, and she would pay for it. I’m glad I didn’t wait to get the mammogram done through this state program. A very kind woman at the center where I got my mammogram done cuts through the red tape. I have to sit in an office and be told “Now I don’t want to offend you, but God is there with us through every step of the way, and you need to remember everything is a part of God’s plan”. I am Christian. If I had not been, her words would not have brought me to Christ. This woman works in a government office and holds a lot of power over what kind of cancer screening I’ll have access to. I find the fact that she had decided to talk about God with me, when she had no idea what religion I may or may not have been, abhorrent. On the way out, this same woman tells me to look for the silver lining in this black cloud. I’m lucky that if I have breast cancer, I’ll be able to get on TennCare. Other cancers are not covered, and you’re shit out of luck if you have them and don’t have insurance. After subduing the strong urge to punch her in the throat and tell her that I was glad Allah was there to guide me through this journey, I quickly thanked her and left. photo (7)

Right now I want to take my boobs off, put them in a box for safe keeping and take them out for special occasions, like our wedding anniversary or Marcus’ birthday. It would be even better if I could send them out for repair and maintenance.

I chatted with a friend last night. After she pretended to be aghast with me when I said I just wanted to have a normal, boring life, she put it into perfect perspective. I want to be beige. I want to have a beige life for a while. I’ll still wear fuchsia because I look horrible in beige, but a beige life sounds wonderful right now.

I realize that the outcome from this biopsy has a very good chance of being a good one. But I am 39 years old. I should not be going through this. No one should be going through this. Fuck Cancer.

photo (11) My pimp hat seemed appropriate for this picture.

I have wonderful friends and a wonderful family that have been hard at work keeping me busy and diverting my attention away from Thursday. One of my friends who I have given the alias, SchmArin, brainstormed with me on ways we could make boobs out of food. Cupcakes seemed way overdone and not much of a challenge. Plus a 3 year old frosts cupcakes better than me. I also thought about rice krispy treat boobs, but they seemed to be too lumpy for my comfort. He’s been cooking his way through the pudding section of the The Essential New York Times Cookbook, so we pondered pudding options. He thought blancmange (A sweet dessert commonly made with milk and/or cream and sugar thickened with gelatin) would work best. He had breast shaped bowls, so I planned to go over to his place to make this magic happen. Raspberries seemed like our best bet for nipples.

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First, I ran to the closest grocery story and our local food co-op. Neither place had raspberries. I called SchmArin and asked him “Would strawberries work as nipples if we just used the tip?” He told me that was the strangest question he had ever been asked. I told him I was sure it wasn’t the strangest question I had ever asked, but it was up there on the list. We decided to make our blancmange first and then worry about nipples later.  SchmArin went off on a weird tangent about doing some kind of raspberry center or drizzle. After a few minutes I was able to convey that while I wanted these puddings to look like my boobs, I wanted them intact and not portrayed as they would be during the biopsy. I have very little shame, but that seemed too much even for me.


Please forgive me for flipping the video the wrong way. I’ve been a little nervous.

We followed the recipe from the cookbook pretty closely. We decided to flavor the blancmange with a little bit of raspberry jelly. I’m pretty pale but not vampire pale. We thought the jelly would be nice with the lemon and would warm up the color a little. We had a very scary grey stage at one point, but the addition of a tiny bit more jelly got us back into flesh colored territory very quickly. We poured them into the bowls. We wanted to make them a little fuller, so we had enough blancmange for 5 1/2 bowls. We threw the boobs into the fridge and went out in search of nipples.

After perusing many fruit options, raspberries still seemed like best idea. I tell you, there’s nothing that makes me feel more like a locavore than buying fresh raspberries in March in East Tennessee.

On Sunday, we unmolded the first halfway filled bowl (stick the bowl gently in hot water until it unsticks a bit from the sides) and plopped it out on a plate. Marcus, SchmArin and I dug in. We all agreed; my boobs were pretty damn tasty. They were a little too see through around the top area. If we ever make boob pudding again, we’ll use more cream for part of the milk (and I made the adjustment in the recipe posted here). For some reason, SchmArin decided to toast some almond bits and add them to the top of the boobs. I think this makes my boobs look dusty, but it made SchmArin happy, so I went with it.

This is the way I cope. The more I can laugh at a problem and the more that I can mock it in a ridiculous fashion, the better I feel about the whole thing. Thankfully, I have a husband, family and friends who indulge me when times get tough. No matter how everything works out, that is one thing that I will always be grateful for.


This is my husband. You should feel sorry for him because this is one of the least embarrassing things I’ve made him do.

 

New Jersey BlancMange
Serves 6
Adapted from The Essential New York Times Cookbook

3 cups whole milk with a layer of cream or use half milk & half cream
5 tablespoons sugar
2 1/2 teaspoons gelatin
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
Grated zest of 1 lemon
5 teaspoons raspberry jelly
3/4 teaspoon almond extract
Optional – toasted almond crumbs and/or fresh raspberries

In a medium saucepan, combine the milk (or half milk, half cream), sugar, gelatin, salt, zest and raspberry jelly. Bring this slowly to a boil, Making sure to whisk so that the sugar and gelatin dissolve. If your jelly seems clumpy, use the whisk to push down on the clump. When bubbles form on the milk, remove from the heat. Strain through a fine seive (the one we used wasn’t fine enough). Stir in the almond extract.

Pour the liquid into six 1/2 to 3/4 cup bowls or ramekins. Chill until firm – that took about 3 hours for us. Dip the bowls in warm water to loosen and unmold onto plates.

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Oscar Drinking Game

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The Oscars are this Sunday. I know there are many people that delight in the glamour, the splendor and the honor that winning an award brings to the actors, actresses, directors and producers in the movie business.

But I hope you all know me well enough to know that what I’m looking forward to is the opportunity to drink cocktails, eat fattening food and snark on the whole ridiculous charade of the event. What better way to do that than with a drinking game? And let’s all make sure to drunk-tweet using #oscarsnark.

You can choose some of these options or all of them (make sure you don’t have to go into work the next day). You can make bingo cards with the various choices. I’ve made sure to list some tasty snacks to help you soak up the booze.

Cocktails:
The Classic Negroni from The Boys Club
Red Carpet from Creative Culinary
Pear & rosemary martini from Hedonia
French Quarter 75 from A Healthy Life for Me
Red Grapefruit & Rosemary Brown Derby from When Harry Met Salad
Kiss of Light Margarita from Magnolia Days
Tommy Gun from Married With Dinner

Savory Bites:
Fig, Walnut, & Maple Crostini from Cooking with Books
Mascarpone and Crab Stuffed Mushrooms from My Kitchen Addiction
Shrimp and Black Bean Wontons from Bon Appetit Hon
Smoked Salmon Cracker and Cream Cheese Appetizer from Michiana Eats
Spicy Maple Pecans from Tea & Cookies
Pimento Cheese Balls from Food for the Thoughtless
Savory Cheesecake Bites from Spinach Tiger

Sweet Bites:
Dulce de Leche Cheesecake Squares from Brown Eyed Baker
Lemon & Thyme, Olive Oil Cookies from Une Gamine dans la Cuisine
Blood Orange Curd Bars from Local Kitchen
Easy Tiramisu Trifles from My Baking Addiction
Two-Bite Coconut Cream Pies from Dessert For Two
Mini Turtle Cheesecakes from Amanda’s Cookin’
Chocolate Bouchons, Gluten-Free from Art of Gluten-Free Baking
Pie Pops from Bakerella (Don’t be shocked by this. Still not a fan of most cake pops, but these sound delightful)

Now on to the drinking game options. Luckily, I have a lot of friends who still delight in drinking games. Those delightful boozehounds helped me immensely. Here are the rules:

  • Drink every time someone gets played off the stage by the orchestra while giving their speech.
  • Each time you see Anne Hathaway cry, drink.
  • Take a drink if someone copies Sally Field’s ‘You like me’ speech.
  • If Sally Field gives that speech, finish your drink.
  • Drink when you get the first glimpse of John Travolta’s hideous toupée.
  • Drink every time the camera cuts from Ben Affleck to Jennifer Lopez to Jennifer Garner.
  • Each time the camera cuts to anyone from the entity I like to refer to as JenniJustPittAngel, drink.
  • Take a drink each time Joan River’s face moves. Expect to not be taking a lot of drinks for this.
  • Drink every time Nicole Kidman’s face moves.
  • Take a celebratory drink if Keith Urban is spotted, because the highlights in his hair are a work of art and should be celebrated as such.
  • Whenever a guy flubs a designers name (Except for Versace), drink.
  • Drink each time Ryan Seacrest mentions his “girlfriend” Julianne Hough in his effort to appear heterosexual.
  • Every time the camera cuts to Joaquin Phoenix, and he is sulking, drink.
  • If a British actor gets an award and is too important to show up to claim it, drink.
  • Take a drink each time a side boob or underboob is sighted.
  • Take two drinks if butt cleavage shows up.
  • If Jon Hamm shows up and is obviously letting the python in his pants go commando again, all the ladies should toast to it and finish their drink.
  • Drink each time the mani-cam is used. (I did not know this existed and I wish it had stayed that way.)
  • When the camera pans to Taylor Swift, drink.
  • If Zooey Deschanel wears a twee manic pixie dream girl dress, drink while adorably spinning in a circle.
  • Every time the camera pans to Daniel Day Lewis and he looks “not impressed”, drink.
  • If you’re a seasoned drinker, each time someone uses the word amazing to describe a script, another actor, or anyone else involved in movie making, drink.
  • Drink each time Seth McFarlane makes an off-color joke, and the camera pans to the subject of said joke.
  • Roll your eyes and drink anytime someone makes a reference to their “craft”.
  • If Helena Bonham Carter wears some outrageously crazy dress that just makes you happy, toast her crazy ass and drink.
  • Each time the camera cuts to Tom Cruise, and he is grinning manically, drink.
  • If Bjork shows up in an outfit that tops the Swan costume, you have to eat the worm at the bottom of the tequila bottle.

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If anyone pronounces Versace like Ver-sayce, turn the TV off and immediately do 5 shots of whatever bottle of booze is closest. There’s no way anything else at the Oscars can top that.

I do want to warn you that this is the first year that the Academy is using an electronic voting system. Get ready for hanging chads, or make sure you’re prepared for  a 6 hour show that consists of only a Guy Fawkes mask on your TV screen.

And I am posting this for no other reason than it’s awesome:

 

Black Bottom Banana Cream Bars and Remembering Lester

I’m on a brief blog hiatus for the next little bit, so I thought posting some of my favorite posts from the past would be a good way to fill in until I got a new blog post up.  This post is from May 27, 2011

Tomorrow, it will be a year since my Father-in-law died.  A year that’s been full of watching my husband go through the hardest struggle I’ve ever had to watch him face.

It’s one thing to think about the inevitable event in the future – the fact that everyone at some point will lose a parent.  Several of my friends have already been through this.  But if you haven’t experienced it yet, it’s something you ruminate over late at night. You think about that day and what it could mean for you.

A wise person once told us that anticipatory grief never takes the place of actual grieving, and they were right.  No matter how much you try to prepare yourself, it still is a sucker punch to your gut.  As you watch your husband’s dad lay there getting sicker and weaker by the day, then the hour, you tell yourself that surely nothing could be worse than this.  But there is something much worse than this.  You just don’t know it yet.

First, the relief that they’re out of pain overtakes you.  You’re grateful for that.  You’re also grateful for the fact that you don’t have to watch them hurt anymore.  Because. That. Is. Awful.  The see-sawing back and forth hoping that the rattle of each breath will be the last one but knowing that a last breath means that they’ll finally be out of reach, out of reach of pain, but out of reach from you forever.

When the end finally does come, you’re so damn grateful.  And then the men from the funeral home come and carry his body out, and you tell yourself that he’s not there anymore, and it doesn’t matter.  Except it does.  Because now he’s really gone and he’ll never be in the house ever again.

Hospice comes and breaks down the hospital bed, and you’re so freaking glad to get that sad piece of furniture out of the house.  Except – you realize this is the sad beginning of the process that you’re about to go through, a process that will slowly strip the person you love and reminders of them out of your life.  Pills get picked up, and his dress uniform comes back from the cleaners.  And you feel relieved because that death rattle is gone, but the house seems strangely quiet.  You go outside and see the first firefly of the season and realize that the last time a firefly made you cry, you were seven and had left them in a jar overnight, and they had died.  You see the look of hopelessness on your husband’s face, and your heart wants to explode from grief.  Surely, you can make it through this and things will get better.

And it does in a way, but it doesn’t.  Casseroles come rolling into the house.  Fried chicken arrives.  The only thing green that shows up is a broccoli casserole, and that doesn’t count because it’s covered in Velveeta and buttered Ritz cracker crumbs.  You smile faintly when you realize that you’re with people that consider macaroni and cheese a vegetable.  You’re grateful that when people don’t know what to say, they try to help in any way they can so they cook.  Cans of cream of mushroom soup get opened, and they find their way to the house in casserole dishes.  You look at potatoes made five different ways and feel comforted.

You head to the farmers market because you need to do something that feels normal.  You cry when Dave from VG’s bakery fills you up a box full of pastries, gives you a hug and charges you a pittance.  You’re so grateful for small kindnesses, because when your heart feels so sore, these small kindnesses remind you that there is something out there beyond pain. You go down to the river and watch your husband burst into tears, because he will never fish with his dad again.  Then you both eat a cinnamon roll.  You feel exhausted and numb and sad.  You run the rest of the day fueled by carbs and caffeine.

Then the memorial service happens.  You wait in the receiving line for hours.  You meet many people who you do not know.  You hear stories about your husband as a child.  You hear stories about your father-in-law as a child.  You feel like you are serving no purpose, and you realize that’s just because you feel empty inside.  You feel guilty because the hug you get from your own dad feels so comforting, and it makes your heart hurt for your husband even more. You have never felt more strongly in your life the desire to scoop up someone’s pain and carry it for them.  You hug your friends that are there, and you realize that you’ve never felt more grateful for them.

The next day, you get up and feel like a zombie.  You meet at the funeral home.  You watch the little kids skip merrily around the fire engines that are there to travel with you to the grave site.  You get in the car to travel to the cemetery and on the way there, you see a bum on the side of the street with his hand over his heart.  You wish you could get out and hug him.  You watch your husband watch his dad be buried.  You listen to the horns play “Taps” and feel grateful that the people that are playing are good horn players.  The last thing you want your husband, a French horn player, to be subjected to at his father’s burial is crappy horn playing. You look at your husband, and you both smile because you know you’re thinking the same thing.  You feel grateful for soft Kleenexes.  Bagpipes are played.  You think of an ex-boyfriend who played the bagpipes, and you’re so grateful that the man next to you now is named Marcus.  And the funeral is over.  And having to leave that grave site is one of the hardest things you’ve ever had to watch your husband do.  Again, your heart feels like it can’t contain your grief.

You go back home and eat more casserole.  You go back to your house and surround yourself with cats.  You both sob because last Memorial Day is the day that one of the furbabies you referred to as your firstborn died in your arms.  You get back in the car the next day and get some of the flowers from the grave site to put in your compost heap.  You know Lester would have liked to know that his funeral did something to improve your tomatoes.  And you feel like you never will feel normal again.

It’s after all this happens that you feel so alone.  I’ve found that people in the South (and probably anywhere) are wonderful in the immediate aftermath of death.  You couldn’t feel more cared for.  It’s later when your body is consumed with rage and fury that they don’t  quite know what to do with you.  They don’t want to hear the mixed bag of emotions you’re feeling, because they’ve got theirs locked down tight.  Truth has no place there, because truth is ugly.  And it makes you feel even more alone.  Because the father that my husband buried was a good man.  But he had his faults, and his pride and anger caused him to leave this earth too soon.  And sometimes my husband wishes his dad was still alive just so he could tell him how angry he is at him.  And then he realizes that it would have had the same effect it did when he tried this when his dad was alive.  And all the sadness that made your heart feel like it would explode?  Anger replaces it, and again your heart feels like it would burst from the fury that pulses out of it.

It’s one thing to be aware of the stages of grief and how people deal with it.  It’s another to be caught up in them.  One minute my husband feels like he might be at peace with his dad.  The next minute, he’s so filled with Rage that it doesn’t even feel like his body can contain it.  Then Sadness slinks in, makes itself at home in your house and drinks all your beer.  It belches loudly and wonders out loud if he can bring his good friend, Depression, to sleep on your couch for a while, because he’s a little down on his luck at the moment and just needs a place to crash.  Guilt flits in and out, leaving the door open so the cats get outside.  Acceptance says he’s going to stop by, but the party’s almost over. You realize that Acceptance won’t be stopping by, and that he’s as full of shit as he always was.

Grief is a thief in the night that whispers in your husband’s ear while he sleeps “You have no father” so that the refrain plays over and over in his head during the day.  It’s the voice the tells you both that if you ever have kids, they will never know one of their grandparents.  Your husband tells you that what was even worse than burying his dad was burying the hope he had.  The hope he had that he could find some way to break through the resentment his Dad felt towards him and find a way to make their relationship stronger.  This grief is as acute as it was the day his dad died, even almost a year later. So I tell him to write his Dad and tell him how he feels.  That we’ll burn that letter and sprinkle the ashes on his Dad’s grave and tell him goodbye again. And I feel cheesy and trite and useless for having such a simplistic idea.  But I pray with every fiber of my being that it will help.  Because this is a good man who hurts, and I love him more than I ever thought possible.

A year later you’re out for a walk and see the first fireflies of the year.  You realize that every time you see a firefly for the rest of your life, you will be grateful, and your heart will hurt.  And then you hug your husband.

Right before Marcus’s Dad got too sick to eat, we brought over soup beans, cornbread and Black Bottom Banana Cream Bars.  I knew his dad was a fan of banana pudding but I wanted to do something a little different.

My dad has always been a fan of banana cream pie – it’s his “birthday cake” every year.  One year I added a layer of chocolate to the pie and loved it.  So I definitely wanted to use chocolate.  A few years ago I had a banana bread pudding with a whiskey sauce, and it was wonderful.  So the next time I made banana pudding, I added Irish whiskey to it and loved the combination.  Pie crusts aren’t hard, but people can be intimidated by them, so I went with a graham cracker crust.  I like it better than a regular crust in this, because it mimics the vanilla wafers in banana pudding without getting soggy.  The butteriness of the crust mixed with the bittersweetness of the chocolate is perfection.  Every time we make these bars, we think of Lester.

Black Bottom Banana Cream Pie Bars
Makes 9 good-sized servings

1 1/4 cups graham cracker crumbs (about 15 crackers)
1/4 cup butter, melted (1/2 stick)
1 1/2 tablespoons brown sugar
3 ounces semi-bittersweet chocolate
2 tablespoons heavy cream
1 1/2 cups whole milk
4 large egg yolks
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup flour, measured and then sifted
pinch of salt
3 tablespoons Irish whiskey
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2-3 ripe bananas
1 cup whipping cream
1/4 cup superfine sugar

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Place the graham cracker crumbs in  a medium bowl, mix with brown sugar and pour in melted butter.  Stir well.  Place this crumb mixture in an 8×8 baking pan and pat it evenly into bottom of pan.  Bake for 7-10 minutes or until edges begin to brown.  Let cool.

Melt the chocolate with the 3 tablespoons cream in the microwave on medium power until the chocolate begins to melt. Stir well and microwave until the chocolate and cream are a smooth liquid.  Pour over crust and smooth over it so that the chocolate completely covers the crust.  Place in freezer and let cool for at least ten minutes.

Over medium-high heat, heat milk in a saucepan until it’s warm.  Set aside and let cool. You want it to still be warm but cool enough to touch without burning yourself.  Place a strainer over a medium mixing bowl and set aside.

In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and sugar.  When the mixture is thick and smooth, whisk in the flour and salt.  Slowly pour in the warm milk, whisking constantly. Transfer back to the saucepan.

Cook this mixture over medium heat.  You need to stir this mixture constantly because you don’t want the bottom to scorch.  It will begin to thicken so that it looks like pudding.  Large bubbles will begin to appear.  Taste the pudding mixture (Do this carefully so you don’t burn yourself!) and see if you can detect any taste of flour.  If so, cook for another minute or two and taste again.  When you can’t detect any taste of flour, remove from heat.  Whisk in the Irish whiskey and vanilla.

Pour the pudding into the strainer to catch any lumps.  You’ll want to have a spoon handy to gently stir the pudding in the strainer so make sure all usable pudding is in the bowl.  Let cool for 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, slice bananas and place over chocolate crust in a single layer. Pour the pudding over the bananas, using a spatula to scrap sides of bowl and even out the pudding in the pan.  Let the bars chill for at least four hours in the refrigerator.

Before serving, whip cream until soft peaks appear.  Add sugar, stir and let sit for a few minutes and then stir again.  You have two options to serve this. You can spread the whipped cream across the entire surface of the bars.  If you do this, let chill for a couple of hours before serving.  Or you can simply top each bar with a dollop of the whipped cream.  Serve.

Note: Do not store bars in a metal pan and make sure they are wrapped well so they don’t pick up off odors in your fridge.

Buttermilk Chess Pie & Celebrating National Pi Day with John Boehner & the Pentaverate

I’m on a brief blog hiatus for the next few days, so I thought posting some of my favorite posts from the past would be a good way to fill in until I got a new blog post up.  This post is from March 14, 2011

Last week was a horrible week.  It’s been rough on a very personal level – bad news was in the air and I’ve had to watch people I love get put through the wringer.  My mind has been inundated with images of human devastation and suffering that has made my heart ache.  It’s hard to feel so powerless to help others.  When I start feeling overwhelmed by the misery, I remind myself that I am one person so I do what I can (Red Cross, Doctors Without Borders), tell the people that matter to me that I love them.  And then I retreat into the kitchen.  I cook for the ones I love and try to find reasons to laugh - usually by mocking the absurd and ridiculous which helps me cope.  That’s what this post is about.

I love food holidays like National Pi Day.  First of all, the act of making pie on Pi day seems more credible to me than most other food holidays.  So many of them seem absurd.  Like a group of politicians got together, got drunk, and started trying to figure out how to save the world with the kinds of plans that seem to make so much sense when you’re under the influence of alcohol – you know like the time that I was sure that if we just could give the world a Coke and teach them how to sing in perfect harmony, we could all live in peace together.  Except I thought that rum and Cokes would be more appropriate because that’s what I was drinking and I sure as hell felt peaceful.

Anyway – I like to think that food holiday discussions go something like this:

Scene: Secret GOP Meeting where the margaritas & salsa are present in copious quantitites.

John Boehner: You know what will create more jobs?  A tax cut for the manufacturers of sunless tanning products.

Mitch McConnell: Dude – You & Lindsey Lohan keep them in business just with your purchases alone.  Joe!  Quit hogging the margaritas!

Joe Biden: S’up.

Mitch McConnel: Joe – seriously, you are the only person I know who gets quieter when they drink. And why the hell is he here?  This is a secret GOP meeting.

John: Everyone knows that Joe makes the best margaritas.

Mitch: Noted.  Alright people – we need to figure out how to solve the budget crisis.

John: Screw the budget crisis.  You know what I love?  Marshmallow fluff.

Rand Paul: {passes out in bowl of salsa}

Mitch: Somebody needs to cut Rand off.  Anyway – what we were talking about?

John: Making tomorrow National Marshmallow Fluff Day. That will stimulate the economy.  Marshmallow fluff for all!

Mitch: Sounds good to me.  March 16 is now National Marshmallow Fluff Day.  Joe – pass the margaritas.

Joe: S’up.

Mitch: Dude – you’re freaking me out.

This type of scenario makes perfect sense.  To me, at least.  For example – March 10 is Blueberry Popover day.  Obviously the Blueberry Popover lobby is a strong force to reckon with.  And March 24 is National Chocolate Covered Raisin Day.  When the Pentaverate is finally exposed for the evil, power-hungry organization that it is, we’ll finally find out that CEO of Raisinets has been cloistered away with the Colonel (with his wee beady eyes) and that they plan to take over the world using a gum wrapper, fried chicken and candy that looks like rabbit turds.

I’m also a fan of Pi day because I am married to a man that can recite pi to 15 places without batting an eye.  And he’s wearing his pi shirt today.  Any day that makes nerds happy makes me happy.

Mainly though, I like Pi day because it gives me an excuse to make a pie.  And pie is made of awesome sauce.

The buttermilk chess pie in Nancy McDermott’s book, Southern Pies: A Gracious Plenty of Pie Recipes, From Lemon Chess to Chocolate Pecan, caught my eye at first glance.  I love southern pies, mainly because they take the mundane, everyday ingrediants that Southerners would have on hand and turn them into something elegant and delicious.  It doesn’t hurt that I have ready access to Cruze Farm’s Buttermilk.  Ten out of ten people agree that it comes from happy cows and angels.

I’ve been testing quite a few different pie crusts lately, looking for my holy grail recipe.  This is going to be a long process so I can’t award any winners yet, but I’m very fond of the recipe for a butter/shortening crust that I tried from Nancy’s book.  I’d love to be able to use leaf lard for my crusts but I haven’t found a local source.  Until then, I’m going to stick with butter.  I like this crust recipe because it’s predominantly made with butter but has just enough shortening to up the flakiness factor.

The verdict on this pie?  I put a forkful in my mouth and sighed.  This pie is so good that it could end scary partisan rhetoric and balance the budget.  This pie is so good that it could create a world where Joe Biden could mix margaritas with John Boehner, Mitch McConnell and yes – even Rand Paul – all while crooning in a peaceful harmony.

This is a damn fine pie.  Eat a piece, hug the ones you love and donate if you haven’t already.

 

For some reason, my recipe wouldn’t transfer over and rather than drive myself crazy, I’m providing a link to the original post. Recipe is at the bottom.

 

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