Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I know you are very busy this time of year, but I am not writing in request of any toys (although, I wouldn’t be opposed to an ice cream maker, nor a nice, new fluted pastry wheel….with which I could make you a delicious linzer tart).  I am writing because I imagine that you must be the world’s utmost cookie expert.  I would like nothing more for Christmas than your insight. 

I expect with worldwide traveling and children leaving you cookies wherever you go, you consider yourself to be quite the cookie connoisseur and while, I’m sure you must enjoy cutout cookies decorated in your likeness (because who wouldn’t like a cookies made in their likeness?), what is you favorite cookie?  I am partial to the Peanut Butter Blossom, although I’m not sure why those are associated with Christmas at all.  I believe they should be an all occasion cookie. Thoughts? 

What is the most interesting cookie you’ve ever tasted?  One time, I made a chocolate chip cookie with potato chips in it, but I don’t think I’ll make them again and certainly won’t subject you to them on Christmas night.  The chips turned soggy….and chewy.  It was not one of my most successful culinary experimentations.  Then again, I was twelve years old. 

Does Martha Stewart leave you cookies?  If so, what does she leave you? How do they compare to my cookies?  Perhaps there is a Santa Privacy Clause, which contractually restricts you from divulging that sort of information.  Anyway, I digress.  These questions are neither here nor there.

Hypothetical:  If one were to open a bakery, what cookies should the owner sell to best guarantee financial success?  My guess is a bangin’ chocolate chip cookie… Can I use the work bangin’?  Is that a naughty list word?  I apologize if it is.  The word “bangin’,” has become a qualifier of exceptional deliciousness at Corporate the Giant that has unfortunately slipped into my lexicon.

I would love to hear your thoughts and certainly hold your cookie insight in very high regard. 

Respectfully yours,

Marissa

25 Pounds of Butter

The other day I made a batch of buttercream icing that required 25 pounds of butter.  I then mixed it with about 13 pounds of shortening.  That’s a lot of fat to watch paddling around in a bowl.  I watched it all mix together in a greasy mass, fearing as I added the fifty pounds of powdered sugar that perhaps an 80- quart-mixing bowl might not hold all its contents. Imagine your average cookie recipe.  With this much butter you could make about 50 batches of chocolate chip cookies.  

A batch of buttercream this size will last about a week at Corporate the Giant and the high demand for this greasy load is to due, or course, to the new Cupcake Shop.  Still, the gluttonous quantities hold a grotesque beauty.

Peering into my vat of fat mixing about, I find myself falling deeper and deeper in love with Butter.  In fact, my personal favorite icing at Corporate the Giant is our Brown Butter Icing, where we simply brown some butter, and add THAT butter to the already butter loaded buttercream, giving it a wonderfully nutty and….buttery flavor.

It is that deliciously, greasy, smooth, rich butter, which acts as the backbone to almost all of our delicious desserts, and foods for that matter.  In Molly O’Neills article, “Butter: A Love Story,” featured in Saveur magazine, she articulates the simple magnificence of butter’s purity and terroir that elevates, “ordinary life to epicurean adventure.” 

Unlike, shortening or margarine, butter is the straightforward result of bonding fat globules through the over-whipping of some cream.  Yet, minutia can be found in its flavor.  Flavors vary based on what cows have been grazing, and thus elements derived of the land where it was made.  Flavor also depends on when cream is churned (allowing for a sweeter or tangier flavor).   In short, butter is more than just a fat.  It is the essence of flavor.

“‘Tis the Season of Pie” or “I Live the Life of a Delirious Elf”

From Thanksgiving until Christmas, bakeshops both big and small fill flaky crusts with apples, pecans and pumpkin.  No matter the size of the kitchen, how much oven space one possesses, or how many helping hands there are, the word “Bulk,” comes to mind during the holidays.  The pie and cookie consumption seems never-ending and I begin to wonder why ingredients aren’t sold by the ton, rather than the pound. 

I also acquire a sudden sympathy for elves. 

While others have time off from work, they hammer away building dollies that talk and that go for a walk for Janice and Jen and those Hopalong boots and pistols that shoot for Barney and Ben.   And I imagine them working those long shifts where by the end of the day they begin to go slightly delirious, laughing hysterically and crying all at once, while simultaneously painting increasingly deranged faces on dolls.   

Apply this image to a bakeshop setting and you’ve got yourself a pretty accurate picture of Christmas cheer in Pie World, except that the dolls are gingerbread men and uniforms are not red and green, but starchy and white (So really, on the Crazy Bus, bakeshops are one stop closer than the North Pole to resembling a mental institution.)

We bake, bake, bake away with pie tins flying here and there and batters beating on their mixers, and in a way, the scene is truly reminiscent of childhood fantasies of Santa’s Workshop.  We work diligently behind the scenes, helping to create festive treats for the season, hopefully making our culinary endeavors appear effortless and in a sense, magical.

Bakeshops may be having their busiest workdays during the holidays, but in the end, despite moments of temporary chaos, great satisfaction can be found in understanding the mysterious way of elves.  Knowing that your magic with a bit of butter might bring little more joy, cheer and certainly some added sweetness to people during Christmastime makes every pie worth it.

Meet Miss Meyer Lemon

I’ve become slightly obsessed with a Dwarf Meyer Lemon tree.  The tree came into my possession when my wonderful friends from home bestowed the tree upon me as a birthday gift back in September.  Little did they know I’d become completely mesmerized by everything about it (or perhaps they did and thus why they gave it to me).   It was an incredibly thoughtful gift.  Not only does it make the room feel brighter, filling it with an aromatic citrus aroma, but the Meyer Lemon lends itself beautifully to baking. 

The plant first arrived at my doorstep in a large, upside-down, cardboard box, which had been shipped across the county.   I opened the box to find the plant looking haggard and weak (as anyone might be after a long flight upside-down in a dark box).  Leaves were shriveling and beginning to fall off, and there was certainly no sign of lemon growth.  Had it not been for the label, for all I knew about plants, it could have been a dying begonia   I’ve never been a gardener nor had much experience with plants and was sure I’d killed her before I’d even started.  But, extemporaneously determining the gender of this small tree and suddenly feeling responsible for the life that had been placed in my care, I was determined to turn its health around. 

The basis of my plant knowledge revolves around knowing that one should talk to their plants.  I’m not sure when or where I first learned this, but it is, by far, my favorite detail about floriculture.  Also, classical music helps plants grow. (This fact, I do remember where I learned and it was from an 8^th grade science fair project…although, my Meyer Lemon seems to have taken well to Simon & Garfunkel.) 

 

Anyway, this is the foundation of my gardening knowledge.   Also, of course, a plant’s need for sunlight and water.  So, I’ve been rotating Miss Meyer Lemon around my room to various windowsills, ensuring she gets optimum sunlight, and also moving her far from the windows at night, so she isn’t affected by the cold.

My techniques are appearing to work because Miss Meyer Lemon soon recuperated from her rough travels and buds began to appear!  The buds blossomed, fell and have left behind small, green, oval growths, getting larger by the day. 

Although, full, ripe lemons may be a long way off, I’ve already made delicious plans for them (perhaps this is why they are so eager to grow).  Thanks to Chef David Lebovitz’s elegant book, “Room for Dessert,” Miss Meyer Lemon has a recipe for a Meyer Lemon Semifreddo waiting for her arrival.  I can’t imagine a more perfect application for my homegrown lemons than a recipe from Chef Lebovitz’s book, where a dessert’s beauty comes from the featuring of fresh ingredients being served in a straightforward and gracefully simple way. 

Miss Meyer Lemon and I see many jars Meyer Lemon curd in our future…  

Cherry Merry Muffin and Me

Ever since Corporate the Giant opened its new cupcake shop and I was crowned The Cupcake Queen, I’ve be unintentionally thinking about cupcakes all the time.  I am surrounded by them, they’ve entered my subconscious, and I even dream cupcakes.   Frosting flavors, cake batters, and sprinkles dance through my head, and throughout these cupcake pontifications I’ve rediscovered something amusing about my past. 

 

Let’s take a sentimental journey back to 1991.   During this peculiar period of yesteryear, when not occupying my time roller skating to Paula Abdul, or sporting my neon green and hot pink tracksuit while watching Chip and Dale Rescue Rangers, I entertained much of my time with dolls. 

More curious than my mother’s sailor themed pants suit, I have noticed a trend with the dolls I played with and how remarkably relevant their theme is with my current life.  An oddly overwhelming percentage of my dolls looked like cupcakes, or else, their fictional personas revolved around the baking of cupcakes.

Beyond BonBon, the cookie baking My Little Pony, or Strawberry Shortcake, a recently re-popularized iconic toy of the 80’s, there were others, equally as odd and twice as pink.  One doll, called a “Cupcake Doll,” was a sort of ill-proportioned, female Transformer.  The doll’s rubbery skirt flipped inside out and over her head to become the ridged cupcake wrapper.  While the doll sank down into her skirt, her large brimmed hat creatively played the role of icing.  Instantly, through 1990’s magic, your doll converted into a plastic, sparkly, sprinkled, cherry-on-top cupcake.  There was something vaguely avant-garde and wonderfully frightening about the entire process.  Even then, I remember not being entirely sure how to play with the toy in cupcake form, due to the fact that I knew there was a hidden person inside and pretending to eat it seemed cannibalistic.  Even to the imagination of a seven year old.  

 

Another dessert themed doll was Cherry Merry Muffin, who wore an entire cupcake as a hat upon her head and came fully loaded with scratch and sniff recipe cards (all of which I used, experimenting on my family with simple concoctions of strawberries on frozen waffles, and ice cream and ReddiWhip atop packaged chocolate cookies.)  Cherry Merry Muffin had many very merry friends, including Chocolottie, Betty Berry, Apple Amy and Banancy.  They all baked, were scented, sparkled and contained some level of pink.  Extraordinarily, I can also be in descried this way. 

 

With the guidance of Cherry Merry Muffin and The Cupcake Gang, it is no wonder I’m cup-caking away here at Corportate the Giant.  I played with cupcakes then, I play with cupcakes now.  This is less plastic involved and my cupcakes don’t magically birth dolls, but perhaps not much has changed since 1991.
                                                                                        

“I have tinkered with the originals, however -so no one should use this novel for a cookbook”

I’ve been reading Kurt Vonnegut.  I’ve specifically been reading, Deadeye Dick, the satirical tale of Rudy Waltz, who, as a child, commits accidental manslaughter, the obliteration of a town by the detonation of a neutron bomb and the wry observations of the unrelenting allotment of life’s disasters.   

 

Amidst the social commentary and death and life and other little happenings, Vonnegut peppers his story intermittently with recipes.   The preface describes these recipe asides as “musical interludes for the salivary glands,” and their effect is close to genius.   Some of the recipes include, “How to make Mary Hoobler’s barbecue sauce,” “Eggs a la Rudy Waltz (age thirteen),” and “Haitian Banana Soup.”

 

Eggs a la Rudy Waltz go something like this…

            ”Egg a la Rudy Waltz (age thirteen): Chop cook and drain two cups of spinach.  Blend with two tablesoons butter, a teaspoon of salt, and a pinch of nutmeg.  Heat and put into three oven-proof bowls or cups.

Put a poached egg on top and each one, and sprinkle with grated cheese.  Bake for five minutes at 375 degrees. 

Serves three: the papa bear, the mama bear and the baby bear who cooked it – and who will clean up afterwards.”  

 

Like a new innovative form of punctuation, the recipes suggest comical pauses throughout the central character’s journey.   Juxtaposing a murder, as well as life’s more simple tragedies, such as Rudy pursuing pharmacy rather than a passion for writing, literary snack-time feels absurd, sarcastic and, at times, inappropriate.  That is why they’re so completely brilliant.  Like any meal, not only do they have the keen ability to act as distinguishing markers in our lives, but they allow us the opportunity to sit a while, reflect, and momentarily break away from a tiring day.

 

On account that I am not a literary scholar, nor do I hold the profoundly satirical intellect to presume what Vonnegut had intended, I will not make any psychic projections.  What I do know, is that in the face of whatever life presents, like Rudy Waltz, I hope there will be something flavorful to nourish me along the way.  Perhaps, it is not so absurd, nor inappropriate, to contemplate food in the face of tragedy.  In fact, no matter what might be happening, if you’re feeling haggard, or if life’s got you down, perhaps the best solution is to go make a sandwich.  After all, we must eat.

My Soul is a Deranged Cupcake

I embarked on my project by lining up hundreds of quarter-sized macaroon cookies. They were in fact a canvas of dormant little heads waiting to be actualized with wee eyes and wee mouths.  The blank cookie faces first received white, Lilliputian-worthy eyeballs.  The challenge here involved proper spacing and size.   A slight misstep of pressure of the index finger on the piping bag resulted in an instant Cyclops, and Halloween had already passed.  The final faces would be placed atop cupcakes, with halved marshmallow pillows, and cozy, fondant blankies. 

I continued by dotting each white eyeball with an even wee-er dark-brown pupil. I quickly discovered that the minutest spatial differentiation resulted in an infinite spectrum of facial expressions. (The goal for this particular face was “frightened,” as the final product would be holding a book that read “Ghost.”)  “Frightened,” was best achieved when the pupils were very small and in the dead center of the whites.  This, unfortunately, was where they landed only fifty percent of the time.  Sometimes the pupils crossed a bit.  Other times, one turned out to be slightly larger than the other.  In both cases, the little people look deranged, at least.  Other times, the pupils spread, dilating the eyes and generating shocked, or stunned clones of little, cupcake people. 

The eyebrows added an equal level of emotion to the faces.  A frightened macaroon head could become a very angry little macaroon head with the variation of a simple angle or exaggerated arch.  At the end of the day, the majority of the little faces appeared to be “bewildered,” more than anything else.  They seemed to innocently look up and say, “Why am I here? And why am I so absurd? Tell us please, Creator?”

 

As a final feature, they all received a head of spiky, bright orange hair (only enhancing their already crazed and deranged tendencies). 

Chef was working on her own set of faces.  In contrast to the deranged set, of orange-haired muppet creatures I had turned out, she was creating hundreds of sweet, sleeping little boy people. Some holding teddy bears.  Each had happy, closed eyes and beautifully peaceful smiles.  They were, in fact, Ideal.

The contrasting demeanors of our little people lead me only to suppose that our bakeshop creations must reveal a window to our true natures (Yes, I may, or may not, be saying that those little deranged creatures resemble the workings of my mind).  Or, perhaps more attractively said, what we create with our hands, we make from our hearts.  

Ding Dong the Dough is Dead

As a wee one (and into my awkward middling stages), I played with sculpey clay.  For hours.  In the basement.  Even on bright summer days when I should have been frolicking in the sun.  I’d sit in my lair, molding bizarre little people with spaghetti looking legs, unidentifiable creatures or the deep, and even took on the project of sculpting every character from L. Frank Balm’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (This endeavor not only included known and normal characters like Dorothy and Toto, but decidedly weird and unknown characters such as “Princess Ozma,” “The Gump,” and “Woggle-Bug.”  If you feel so inclined, you should do a bit of research on these character and become increasingly terrified, by not only the true oddity of the now accepted Wizard of Oz story, but also by my childhood amusements and pastimes.) 

Anyway, I sculpted lots of little things.  In fact, some avid collectors of my art (most my Nana and my good friend Theresa) still display these timeless pieces upon dressers and bookshelves. 

Although these hobbies carried the potentially high risk of defining me as middle school social outcast, it is strange how some childhood fascinations and hobbies become unexpectedly useful down the line.   This past week at work, Chef asked me to assist her on creating a showpiece for the upcoming Thanksgiving festivities.   It was to be a bread display, made of “dead dough” and sculpted to look like a floral, tree-like centerpiece. 

First, I made all the dead dough, which is close relative to the much beloved play-doh.  This recipe contains no yeast, but only rye flour and a thick, sugar syrup, creating a malleable and solid medium for sculpting.   Using all natural ingredients to create color, powdered beets turned dough rich purple, dried spinach was used for green, turmeric for yellow, chili powder for red, and cocoa powder for dark brown.  During the mixing process, co-workers passed my workbench with plugged noses and “what the heck are you making back here?” faces.  Beets and spinach do not mingle well with people of the baker variety, who generally prefer the sweet aromas of baked cake and cinnamon.  Despite the unwelcomed smells, the natural seasonings produced vibrant colors fit for a radiant display. 

 

Next, we sculpted individual components of the showpiece.   This meant making lots of roses, big flowers and twisting vines. (This is also where my Oz-obsessed clay days came in handy).  I found the process of forming the petals soothing and the familiarity of shaping them with the tips of my fingers made the work come naturally.  While I molded roses, Chef also made some acorns and ears of corn to incorporate some elements of a November theme.  It was a Thanksgiving showpiece after all. 

 
After the assembly, the result was extremely satisfying.  Tropical flowers and leaves, attached to elegant roses and giant-sized acorns.  Although at a second glance, the theme of the display may seem disjointed, it carries a whimsical, magical feel.  Like something out of Oz.  

The Cupcake Coup

Cupcakes, cupcakes and more cupcakes.  To the terror of everyone involved, the launch of a new cupcake shop looms in the future of Corporate the Giant.  This means that each day, we conjure up bucket loads and bucket loads of cupcakes. In fact, mini-muffin cups and icing ooze from our pores as we sweat. 

Last week, I accompanied the Pastry Chef to an off-site catering event, where we exuded copious amount cupcakes in promotion of the new shop.   For days before, we baked tray after tray, while the seemingly innocent cupcakes accumulated in cooler.  Multiplying day-by-day in the dark of the cooler, some believe they were raising an army for a cupcake coup.  First, they took over the rack where we store the cookie dough.  Who could tell where they might strike next?  Like rabbits, it seemed they would copulate, and, perhaps less like rabbits, appropriate (Unless, of course they were particularly aggressive rabbits). 

I was at the helm of the cupcake genesis.   In fact, if it was indeed an army, I was the main recruiter…the Chef being, of course, General.  Each day, I baked and eventually frosted.  With a shortage of cupcake pans, we developed an almost scientific system of rotation and consolidation.   It was the process of frosting that took the most time, and despite their deceptively small size, used gobs of icing.  Naturally, the frosting also increased the height of each cake baby, making it progressively more difficult to find storage space.    

Eventually, we me our cupcake number goals for the promotional event.   There, we acted as a cupcake dispenser and in a few short weeks, the shop will open and we will have a permanent outlet to unleash cupcake armies upon the world. 

Until then, I will be hidden in the bowels of Corporate the Giant, plotting, baking, and icing away…

 

Candy Soup

I’ve been making soup.  It was trend first inspired by the stunning variety of colorful squash this time of year, which quickly transformed into a sort of self-imposed, internally competitive, frugal, spending game.  They are gargantuan, army-feeding pots of soup, on which I exist throughout the entire week.  There has been butternut squash soup, parsnip soup, carrot soup, and basically anything else I can puree with my nifty, new emersion blender.  Basically, give me a root or squash and I will emersion blend the bejesus out of it.  

 

Last week, as I entered the automatic grocery store doors, with my environmentally friendly shopping bag slung from the nook of arm, and the wheels of my soup possessed brain turning, I saw the massive pile of yams being highlighted under glistening sale sign.  Clearly, the grocery store gods were helping me on my mission.  Without another thought I put five kitten-sized yams in my sack and headed for check-out.  Thus far, I’d been doing so well with my spending challenge and making-due with minimal ingredient buying, that I decided I needn’t buy anything else on that trip, but would simply make due with whatever my cupboard contained.    

 

I opened the cupboard.  Scanning its contents, I could see oatmeal, onions, garlic, red pepper, cooking sherry, vinegar, dried figs, cinnamon, three tootsie rolls, and six maple candies. 

 

I took out my soup pot and began sautéing the onions and garlic, chewing on a tootsie roll while determining what to do next.  I opened the wrapper of a maple candy and was about to pop that in my mouth as well, when impulse seized me and I threw it into my pan.  Chink.  The hard sugar hit the pot and slowly melted while its aroma enhanced the sweetness of the onion.  Naturally, I unwrapped and threw in the remaining candies.  “Heck,” I thought, “While I’m cleaning the pantry, I’ll add some red pepper and cinnamon too.”  

 

Once the yams, liquids and such had been added to the mix, I waited for them to become tender and pulverizable.  Yes, pulverizable.  I then emersion blended to my heart’s content and finished the soup off with a garnish of dried figs. 

 

Somehow (magically), it’s the best soup I’ve made so far.  It was balanced with sweetness and spice, had depth and a pleasant silky texture.  I believe there are important lessons to be learned from this experience.   First, good things happen when you don’t take yourself too seriously in the kitchen, and play instead.  Second (and most importantly) candy is always, always a positive addition to any well-rounded meal.