photo friday: and points new year o’clock

I’ve never been one to run around from party to party (well, except maybe in college), particularly on New Year’s Eve (because I like to drink myself into the new year in one place) (lest I forget where I am and what year it is). But for those of you who will be party hopping tonight, please be safe. Don’t drive drunk, and for God’s sake, don’t boat drunk either.

Seriously, if you’re party hopping by ship, watch out for icebergs, salmonella at the buffet, and Leonardo Di Caprio. Though if you see the latter, please tell him I loved him on Growing Pains.

 

caution does not reside here

Note: When cutting frozen butter, slice away from the laptop. And then immediately look on Craigslist in hopes of finding an apartment with a kitchen bigger than the size of your fist.

 

wherein i am a repeat offender

Due to the traveling, the holiday melee, and now being knocked down a notch by a cold, I almost forgot to tell you all about something rawwwthah exciting…..

Head over to Sarah’s blog, Glass Cases, and you can read my second publishing on her blog, To the Hot Guy at 5:30 Mass.

Enjoy. And thank you to Sarah for publishing the essay! Because missives about hitting on guys at mass should not be kept under wraps.

 

 

 

by the chimney with care

Merry Christmas to you and yours from me and mine. May Santa bring you everything your Christmas heart desires, including peace, goodwill toward men, and either a Whirlypop or some new perfume.

 

 

the missing piece

The girls and I, we have this…thing…that we do. At a typical Tuesday Night Dinner, there is so much chatter that is just so loud and all over the place, so many topics that need to be discussed, so many quotes that need remembering, that we take to the whiteboard.

We bought it years ago, and it’s come in handy more times than you would think. It’s true. By the end of the night it’s covered with quotes, crossed out discussions, doodles and drawings. And it usually stays that way until the next Tuesday Night Dinner, when I erase away the quotes so we can start anew when the girls walk in the door. But not before jotting down whatever is on the board on a piece of paper for remembering the good times at a later date.

For example, from one TND, I laugh my self silly at: “I think it sounds something like: ‘EngeMnnnnnMeh-Mehhh….” I laugh because I love my friends, and I laugh because I love our good times, and I laugh because I have no fucking clue what this quote was in reference to. But it was obviously funny at the time.

The whiteboard, when not in use for a TND, stays at my house, with the collection of various colored dry erase markers, and in a perfect world, I would remember to bring it with me whenever the five of us get together to record more hilarity that we won’t understand later.

But this isn’t a perfect world, so last week when we were tremendously busy stuffing our faces and embarrassing our waiter at Woodberry Kitchen, we had to make do with what we had, and I jotted down quotes and notes on the back of a pilfered specials menu Lindsay had tucked in her purse.

By the time we rolled ourselves out of the restaurant, that skinny piece of paper was filled, filled with memorable sayings (to us, anyway), most of which wavered on vulgar, a few that may have been prosecutable, and all of which were inappropriate.

We wished our waiter well, and thanked him profusely for putting up with us. He smiled and nodded, and I dare say he will never have another table quite like ours. Though hopefully he will get to know us a little better, and maybe even become part of our group, because I left a note on my receipt telling him that two of my friends thought he was cute, and wrote down their numbers.*

As we drove away from the restaurant, fat and happy, I informed my friends that I’d left their numbers on my receipt. They of course flipped out until I explained that yes, I may be an asshole for doing that, but hey, that’s what makes me fun. I think they may forgive me by our next Candles & Prayers outing, but in the meantime, I distracted them by reminiscing our notable quotables from the evening, and they sat back, content, letting a split second of silence come over the car. Until I broke it by staring intently inside my purse then asking:

“Umm, you guys? Who has the paper with all the quotes on it?”

And mayhem broke loose once again.

We debated calling the restaurant, to see if they’d mayhaps saved that piece of paper when they were clearing the table. We went through the pros and cons of our waiter reading what we’d written. I say he’ll be impressed and find us funny and witty. And therefore he will definitely call their numbers. The girls could do little more than cover their eyes and shake their heads.

But I still have faith. It’s been a week since our visit to Woodberry Kitchen, but I’m thinking that our waiter is just playing hard to get, and is pondering our witty and inappropriate quotes, trying to decide which one he really appreciates the most. I’m thinking that it will be the, “There is pork juice on my knee” quote that will really seal the deal for our waiter, will really show him how great these girls are, and how lucky he’d be to date them.

I’m expecting him to call one of the girls any day now.

Aaaannnny day now.

 

*No, I’m not kidding.**

**What? He was a cute guy. I would have left my own number, but I have a feeling The Swede would frown upon me doling out my number to other guys.

 

csb december: cranberry cake

Sadly, this month’s baking adventure does not feature the orange mixer. It does, however, feature the million dollar question of why I bought a brick of cream cheese when this recipe does not in any way, shape, or form call for cream cheese?

Hard to say.

Let me start out by noting that I had to borrow a springform pan from my friend Ashley in order to make this cake, because hey, turns out I don’t own one. There are a lot of baking items I don’t own, and you know, that’s okay, because I don’t think there’s any room in my shoebox kitchen for any more pots, pans, or for that matter, breathing.  As it was, I had very little counter space to work with while making this cake, seeing as how I’d had the girls over the night before for a Tuesday Night Dinner (pasta with tomato, butter, and onion sauce and a Tuscan pork tenderloin), and had to essentially use, then wash, every pot and pan that I own. And at the time of baking, all of said pots, pans, dishes, etc, were drying, seeing as how the only dishwasher I own is me.

Wait—have I ever shown you the exact smallness of my kitchen? Let me show you, so you can have a better visual of what This Girl was working with:

That’s one counter, there on the left. And those are some of the dishes. I had to put others away so I could perch my laptop on the counter (thankfully not precariously like last month), and thought mightily how handy an iPad would be in this situation. Or maybe replacing the ink in my printer so I could print out the recipe. No, I think just getting an iPad would be easier. Yes. Yes, indeed.

This is the other counter, and that small space in front of the coffee pot (which is not there for me, it’s there for The Swede, since, TRUTH: I don’t like coffee. I know! It’s amazing The Swede and I have lasted so long.) is the space I had to work with. You’re probably thinking, “Molly, that’s stupid. You should have used the other counter where your laptop is.” Oh, dear Interweber, YOU WOULD THINK. Unfortunately for This Girl, the electrical outlet is on this tiny counter, tucked behind the microwave and coffee pot, and since I had to plug in the mixer…well, you get the idea.

And if you don’t get the idea, let’s put it this way: Hot. Mess.

I should probably just move.

It would make my baking and cooking life so much easier, to have a kitchen that is bigger where I can fit stuff because I’m too lazy to work with the space I have and move things around.

Yes. Moving is the answer.

Since the directions of this cake are pretty self-explanatory, I won’t bore you with a step-by-step, but I will say that I can’t help but love any cake that starts off with butter, almonds, and brown sugar.

Oh yes. And it just gets better from there, my Interweb friends. I think it’s because there’s so much f-ing butter in this recipe.

Are we sure Paula Deen didn’t put this one together? Huh. No, there’s not a pound of cheese or any bacon in it anywhere, so I guess Paula stayed out of this one. I’VE GOT MY EYE ON YOU, PAULA.

To be honest, while I liked the streusel, I wasn’t sure on the overall cake. I prefer my cranberries in jellied form with can-shaped ridges on the side, thank you very much. But in making the cake, and lopping it all into the pan, I will fully admit that it’s a beautiful looking cake.

And the batter was delicious.

I may have sampled some.

I have no regrets.

TRUTH: The springform pan I borrowed from Ashley was 9 inches rather than the requested 10 inches. I vaguely wondered if this would have a large affect on the cake, but dismissed the thought since I A) was still wondering where the cream cheese fit in at this point, 2) realized in folding in the flour that I’d only measured out a cup rather than two cups, then when folding it in lost track of how much I’d put in and just sort of guesstimated and crossed my fingers that the cake would turn out fine, and III) was kind of nervous working with a springform pan. I feel I’m rather prolific in the kitchen, but I’d never used one of these pans before, and for some reason always viewed them as somewhat intimidating. Like if I popped the latch on the pan too soon the cake would come flying at me like a goddamned jack-in-the-box. Or spew forth like a pressure cooker. Which, if you know more than I do (which isn’t hard, really) you know is just not…even…possible. At all. But there you have it, a glimpse into my overactive imagination.

In the end, I increased the baking time to about an hour and 35 minutes, because the knife came out still goopy at an hour and 10 minutes. Whether the inch less made a difference (a thicker cake, longer to bake) or I’m just an ass is again, hard to say.

Seriously, we could go either way on this one.

When I finally took the cake out of the oven, it looked divine, if I do say so myself. And since this is my blog, I will say so: The cake looked divine, with the streusel browned and crunchy, the cake moist (sorry, I hate that word too, but there’s really no other word to describe it). And while I didn’t have to do battle with frosting for this cake, the worries crept in that I might have to do battle with that instead. Which did not excite me, because it’s one thing to go head to head with heavy whipping cream and powdered sugar. It’s entirely another to face off with a metal ring. Literally.

I let the cake cool as directed , then carefully popped the latch. Nothing popped out at me. Nothing spewed forth. The metal ring slid off easily, leaving me with a cake that I now had to somehow get from the metal bottom to a glass plate. I mean, I guess I could have left the cake on the metal bottom, but Ashley would probably be upset if I only returned half of her baking instrument to her with a cheery note saying, “’K great, thx! Will bring back the rest of the pan when I’m done stuffing my face and no, I didn’t save  a slice for you ‘K byeeee!” Plus, Mom gave me a couple lovely serving platters at Thanksgiving after I writhed around on the floor for awhile lamenting my lack of serving trays. She claimed she didn’t use the trays very often, but I think she really just wanted to shut me up. And no, I don’t blame her.

If ever you’ve seen me make pancakes or fried eggs (which is kind of weird, because hi, were you spying on me through the window? Ew.), you know that while I can pretty much handle anything a recipe throws at me (and if I can’t I have no qualms about making shit up as I go along), my skills at maneuvering a spatula in order to flip or dish out a serving of something can sometimes be lacking.

So it was with slow, careful movements—which was not easy to do considering I had a potholder on one hand since the metal bottom was still quite warm—I successfully transferred the cake from baking bottom to platter.

Ta-Da!

And then I promptly did NOT follow those bullshit directions of “letting the cake cool completely” before slicing a piece off for myself.

I mean, I waited a good, like hour or so, and I think that’s good enough. Well, maybe not good enough if you’re talking how nicely the slice stayed together at the tip, but whatever.

Nobody’s perfect.

Happy holidays, you delicious saucy (but not like that) (yes, I mean in the deliciously naughty way, not like, the Thanksgiving way) (what?) cranberries, you.  Cream cheese…well, happy holidays to you, too, even though you had nothing to do with this recipe. I still love you and will eat of your creamy cheese goodness heartily. Just…not right now, apparently.

December’s Cake: Cranberry Cake
(Recipe from Cake Keeper Cakes by Lauren Chattman)

Makes one 10-inch round cake

For the Streusel
1 cup sliced almonds
2 tbsp unsalted butter, melted
2 tbsp light brown sugar

For the Cake
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
¼ tsp salt
3 eggs
2 cups granulated sugar
¾ cup (1½ sticks) butter, melted and cooled
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 bag (12 ounces) fresh cranberries

Method – Streusel
Heat the oven to 300F. Grease a 10inch round springform pan.
Combine the butter, almonds and brown sugar in a medium bowl. Work the mixture between your fingers to form large crumbs. Refrigerate until ready to use.

Method – Cake
Whisk together the flour, baking powder and salt in a medium bowl. Combine the eggs and granulated sugar in a large mixing bowl and beat with an electric mixer on medium high speed until the mixture is lightened and increased in volume, about 5 minutes.
With the mixer on low speed, add the butter in a slow stream. Turn the mixer to medium speed and beat for another 2 minutes. Stir in the vanilla.
Gently but thoroughly fold in the flour mixture, half a cup at a time. Then stir in the cranberries.
Scrape the batter into the prepared pan, smoothing the top with a spatula. Sprinkle the streusel over the batter. Bake the cake until it is golden and a toothpick inserted in the centre comes out clean, about 1 hour to 1hour 10minutes.
Let the cake cool in the pan on a wire rack for 10 minutes. Release the sides of the pan and use a large spatula to slide the cake from the pan bottom onto the wire rack. Cool completely before cutting into wedges and serving.
Store uneaten cake in a cake keeper or wrap in plastic and store at room temperature for up to 5 days.

photo friday: a regular miracle on 34th street

A couple of the girls had never experienced Baltimore’s Christmas street. Since we had time to kill before eating our faces off at Woodberry Kitchen, we took a quick tour down 34^th Street to show them what it’s all about.

Taken from the car window while rolling down the street.

And what it’s all about is every house on the block decked out in mad electrical gaudy awesomeness.

Happy birthday, Baby Jesus.

candles & prayers: the eating

Once the choir has died down, and the carols have ended, and we’re able to get Scalzo (known in some parts as the Mayor of Loyola) to stop glad-handing and schmoozing with students and alumni and get her to put her coat on and actually out the chapel doors, it’s time to eat.

To be honest, it’s rarely ever not a time to eat, but on Candles & Prayers day, eating is a big part of the ritual. We start the day at Miss Shirley’s for a late breakfast/lunch.

Then there’s the hangout time at the student union on Loyola’s campus, while Scalzo rehearses with the rest of the choir. New this year! Starbucks on campus. Very exciting. There’s also crossword puzzle-doings while in the student union, which doesn’t have anything to do with food, but it certainly works up an appetite.

And then there’s the whole, ya know, reason for the season and all, what with the candles, the prayers, the songs, more prayers, a Christmas tree, presents for needy kids, more songs, some sing-a-longs, and then it’s over.

And then.

THEN.

It’s really time to eat.

Every year we pick a new restaurant to try. Last year it was Clementine. The year before it was Rocket to Venus. The year before that it was a wine and cheese reception on campus. And the very first year it was Papermoon Diner followed by drinks at The Belvedere Hotel’s 13^th Floor.

But this year.

It was the fifth anniversary of our C&P excursions. So it had to be special, of course.

Which means that there’s no shame in making dinner reservations in August.

Which is what we did

For Woodberry Kitchen.

If you live in/near Baltimore and you like good food, you just fell out of your chair at that last sentence.

If you don’t live in/near Baltimore, and could give a crap about food, you probably have no clue why other people might have just fallen out of their chairs. Was there an earthquake or something in Baltimore? you might be asking.

No. Not unless you mean the earthquaking of my soul.

Okay, that doesn’t even make any sense.

Woodberry Kitchen is a restaurant in Baltimore. Kind of near the Hampden area. It’s been popular since the day it opened, a runaway success. Getting a reso there on short notice is fucking near impossible, especially if you have more than four people in your party.

Hence why we made our reservation back in August. We just wanted to be sure. (Also because last year we had a snafu with a certain restaurant that shan’t be named, that I’ve tried to go to a couple different times, but keep getting the shaft.)

You’d think, after stuffing ourselves on grits and pancakes and eggs and bacon and grilled cheese and whathaveyou at Miss Shirley’s, we wouldn’t even be hungry for dinner. But bear in mind, dear Interwebers, Miss Shirley’s was seven hours prior to dinner.

And that’s a long time for this crew to go between feedings.

Woodberry Kitchen was bustling and busy and just….swamped…the minute we walked in the door. We got drinks at the bar, then waited for our table to be ready, happy to wait, seeing as how we showed up 15 minutes before we were due, and our cocktails were so lovely. In actuality, we waited another 15 minutes past our reservation time, which normally would make me furious*, but which this time I barely noticed, and things were handled so smoothly that I would have even waited an extra 15 minutes after that.**

Crab pot. Pumpkin flat bread. Both arrived at the table almost immediately courtesy of the restaurant, along with another apology from the staff—manager included—for making us wait past our reservation. It was so well-presented, well-handled, and then turned out to be so delicious, we all knew at that point we were in for a treat that evening.

We ordered. Insane amounts of food—roasted pork shoulder, rockfish, spelt noodles, steak—and two bowls of popcorn. (Yes, they have popcorn on the menu. And it tastes like each kernel has been individually buttered and salted to the perfect amount.) (Great, now I want popcorn. AGAIN.) Our waiter was incredibly patient with our gaggle, even though we made him blush a couple of times with our bawdy tales and aptitude for yelling out incredibly appropriate things like, “It’s okay! We can have sex and I won’t hold you to it!” just as he approached the table to see if we need another round of drinks.***

(The answer was no, we didn’t.)

(But we ordered them anyway.)

My friend Linds and I ended up splitting an entrée. But before you go thinking that I’m one of those girls who’s all, “Oh, I’ll just have this half of a carrot and one grain of rice, gee, so delicious I’m full!” bear in mind that the entrée we split was a 22 ounce strip steak on half a garden of roasted vegetables.

A food runner elegantly presented us with the dish, plated in a thick crockery baking dish, a chunk of herbed butter (presumably) melting deliciously on top.

“This is Ramseys,” he told us. “He came to us earlier this week.”

The girls and I looked at each other, then at the food runner.

Oh my. He was serious. This steak’s name really is (was?) Ramseys. File away another string of love in my heart for Woodberry Kitchen.

Not the best picture, the lighting was for shit.

He took Ramseys away, explaining that they were going to slice it up in the back—easier for us to split that way—and it would come back out with the rest of the entrees. When our waiter later came back to check on how our entrees tasted, I replied, “You know, his name may have been Ramseys, but tonight his name is Delicious.”

Dessert is another story. Five girls, five different orders. Almost—but not quite—one of everything on the dessert menu. It was gluttonous. It was unnecessary.

It was wonderful.

I regret nothing.

I will never be the same again.

Candles & Prayers may never be the same again.

But if you’re going to do it up, do it up big.

Ramseys, I loved you. Every bite of you.

Amen and hallelujah.

 

*Listen: I worked in the restaurant industry for 15 years, and I can be pretty lenient when it comes to a lot of things, because you just never know what’s going on behind the scenes and in the back of the house. But typically one hard and fast rule I have is if I make a reservation at your restaurant, and I am not seated within five minutes of my arrival, I’m going to be PISSED. Why the fuck did I bother to make a reservation if you’re going to make me wait anyway? Unless Jesus Christ Himself is the reason for the delay, I don’t care. Just fix the seating issue and fix it fast.

**Okay, maybe not 15 minutes, seeing as how we were getting pretty hungry, but at least another 10.

***I read these things that I write and I realize that it’s astounding that—TRUTH—we have never been kicked out of a restaurant.

 

candles & prayers

Last Friday was our annual Candles & Prayers excursion.

It’s actually Lessons & Carols, but way back when we started going, when it was just something we did that year, before it got to be the yearly event involving massive amounts of food as well, before it got to be five years in a row that we did all of this, my friend J could never remember the name, tripped it up, and always referred to it as Candles & Prayers.

Which makes sense, when you think about it. There are candles. There are prayers. (Both spoken and sung.)

It has since also been referred to as Candles in Paris, as my friend HO misheard me when I said Candles & Prayers.

Pre-concert, as the choir rehearsed

Candles & Prayers, Lessons & Carols, Candles in Paris…whatever. It’s probably my favorite holiday-related tradition I’ve established since moving out to DC.

Other favorite traditions include the Falltacular, Crab Days, Tuesday Night Dinners, Sunday Family Dinners, and shopping at the new Wegman’s.

People have commented to me before that my friends and I seem to do an awful lot of things in the name of “tradition.” I blame J. That girl is always looking for an excuse to throw a party and/or eat food.

Not that I’m against any of that.

What?

Never mind.

All you need to know is that I’ll tell you more about our C&P excursion throughout the week.

And that I cried during the Ave Maria.

It’s not my fault I’m a sap.

Okay maybe it is.

Don’t judge me.

photo friday: wine and dine

On the Friday after Thanksgiving, The Swede, his two sisters, and I took his mom to a cooking class to celebrate her birthday. I’ll tell you more about it later, but know that we now even stellar-er cooks than before, had an excellent group of participants (besides, us, of course), about 15 in all, and there were massive amounts of food.

And knives.

And you can bring your own wine. As much as you like.

Thankfully, we all walked away with all of the fingers and toes and appendages we entered with.

Along with a new fondness for using bricks as cooking utensils.