Sunday, May 13, 2007
Today, I have failed you as a food blogger. I’m not proud. I cooked and cooked, we and our loved ones ate like kings, there was not a single recipe that shouldn’t be archived and returned to and yet, in the whirl of things we forgot to pick up the camera. (Hangs head in shame.) You get no photographic evidence of the shredded hash browns, chive biscuits, egregious amount of thick-cut maple-cured bacon, baked almond-orange French toast, insanely spicy bloody marys, plain yogurt I flavored myself with real vanilla and just a pinch of sugar. You’re just going to have to trust me that it was grand.
Since we’ve been together Alex and I have twice taken our mothers and those dudes they married for Mother’s Day brunches. I’m not going to say that we haven’t had good meals, but we’ve never had a great one. No matter who cooks it (and really, it’s always a short order cook; the chef with his/her name on the menu isn’t called in six hours early just to flip eggs), in the end most brunch menus look exactly alike and with the prices jacked up for the holiday, you’ve got to question the sanity of a $50 over-cooked egg. I don’t overcook my eggs, do you? And yet I’ll pay someone else to, and to serve bacon that’s never quite crisp. My bacon is always crisp.
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Friday, November 3, 2006
The things I do for you people! Well, okay, I do them for me, and rather transparently most of the time, but sometimes, sometimes like perhaps during season in which one is upping the ante on output and is concerned about this ante’s effect on quality, I’m fairly certain I’m going a little further than I typically would. What I mean is, on Sunday night, as excited as I was about this new cookbook we purchased and pleased with the outcome of our lentil stew, I couldn’t quit while I was ahead and also baked the orange cranberry scone recipe, to bring to work on Monday. Yes, I spoil my coworkers rotten.
But… I don’t… I didn’t love the results. One, they were heavy; heavy, and pretty dried out by the next morning. Now, I know scones aren’t supposed to last forever, but I expect to get at least twelve hours out of them. Call me picky. Second, they weren’t sweet enough, but for this, I will take some blame. I don’t really care for a sticky, saccharine breakfast pastry, and while I understand this to be de rigeur in coffee shops, I just can’t handle that kind of excess first thing in the morning. So, when Ina called for a glaze on top, I skipped it, opting instead to increase the sugar amount in the scone by one tablespoon. It didn’t do the trick, and in the end, I resented a recipe that required a glaze or it just didn’t come together. My third point of contention with the scones was that they tasted of baking powder, like a biscuit, but with none of a biscuit’s charm or bright buttermilk flavor. Finally, they were still in a container on my desk on Wednesday, which as we all know among ravished cubicle-dwellers – who sop up leftover, processed corporate-catered pastries as if those lemon-poppy mini-muffins tasted anything but rank – is the ultimate nail in a baked good’s coffin.
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