Well, okay, I am generally unafraid to tackle just about any recipe, no matter how complex, how insane the ingredients, and how difficult the technique. I like to go to great lengths to bake and cook for others. Part of it is just to see if I can and part of it is, I admit, vanity.
But let me tell you about the other 99% of the time when, in the necessity of having to feed myself…continuously…until I die…my cooking techniques, discerning tastes, and effort extends only as far as whatever in my refrigerator that is about to expire.
It’s embarrassing. I will never share with you what I eat on a day-to-day basis when the only person I need to impress is myself.
(Except lots and lots of eggs, that is).
It’s taken me a few weeks to really soak in just one of the many amazing cookbooks I recently purchased. First up: Momofuku Milk Bar, which is a super attractive book on a purely aesthetic level, but the story behind Momofuku Milk Bar‘s origins and Christina Tosi’s voice throughout is wry, evocative, and sheer engaging. There’s something delightfully appealing about all the trashy/delicious eats unapologetically served up here. Recipes like Compost Cookies and Crack Pie, with their reliance on things like potato chips, chocolate chips, and pretzels, are practically a stoner’s wet dream.
Grapefruit is not for everyone, sure. But, it really, really does it for me.
This recipe started as me wanting to get more use out of grapefruit, a fruit which I adore. Since I am pretty much convinced that grapefruits can only be eaten in the morning (I don’t know why I think this), I thought, why not muffins? Muffins, too, make a delightful breakfast item. Coincidentally, I can only eat muffins in the morning as well. It was clearly meant to be.
I was thinking of adding a nutmeg milk infusion when I happened to have an amazing drink of black iced tea infused with grapefruit. Suddenly, it was really, really important just then to add black tea to my working muffin recipe, because then it would be like all the best things of breakfast in one muffin. Woah.
Naturally, when I’m not baking or working, I’m usually drinking with my best gal, J. It starts, as it usually does, with one making an overture to the other. “Care for a drink?”
One drink. We could do this! We are totally committed. It is a work night, after all, and we are industrious little ants.
And maybe it was the heavy use of figurative language a client had used in a survey I was reporting on, because suddenly I was feeling poetic, which, led to us breaking the number #2 cardinal rule after Do Not Drink and Drive: Do Not Drink and Go on Facebook.
I’m overdue for a post. I know, I know.
Unfortunately, life has other plans, and those plans have taken shape in a big fat head cold that has knocked me on my ass. Runny nose, stuffy head, and sinus pressure so intense, it was literally making my eyes water endlessly.
I went home early yesterday and stayed home today. I thought maybe I could use my convalescence to experiment with a muffin recipe, but instead spent the day in bed amidst a sea of crumpled tissues, zoned out on Nyquil because Dayquil stuffed my head up so much it was impossible to breathe through my nose, mainlining season 2 of Downton Abbey, Captain America, Young Adult (identifying too strongly with main character…) and Winter’s Bone through a soporific haze.
After a somewhat wild night this weekend (in which I was lured by the promise of an excellent all-male Lady Gaga cover band who were, in fact, little better than your average garage band escapees with extra eyeliner and a disturbing habit of pulling out skinny black combs to touch up their heavily gelled hair), I am:
- Missing my new $50 umbrella, which I managed to leave at the club after using it for less than a day. A few (too many) drinks can make one forgetful, and
- Massively aching and severely bruised along my left hip, ribs, and arm from another tumble down a set of wet stairs in the same pair of dependable hiking shoes that I wore to traverse slippery, perilous rocks in Iceland when standing next to the massive Gulfoss waterfall where one slip could have resulted in icy death. The bruise from that previous fall, mind you, has not even fully healed yet. I am starting to look like a domestic abuse victim and can you imagine how that conversation would go? “What happened?” “Uh, I fell down the stairs.”
- And, as embarrassing as it is to admit, I am unable to fully recover from an all-nighter in less than 24 hours, with over a third of them spent sleeping.
Two words: cookbook overload.
It’s an overwhelming glut of new information to absorb, and even during the long holiday weekend, I’d find myself no sooner cracking the cover of one of them when I’d be called off to do something else. Bake this. Go to that martini party. Drink all this gin. My life is so hard. Boo hoo.
For all my love of cooking and baking, I’m not a kinetically talented nor handy person. The numerous faded scars and cuts from the tips of my fingers to my elbows are a testament to this particular fact.
A girl can dream, though, of being the second coming of Martha Stewart (or, more in my vein, Nigella Lawson). My bedroom, the only real space that I truly inhabit in my roommate’s pretty already-fabulously furnished apartment, is kind of a design disaster but I never seem to do much about it save for collecting things I’d one day like to showcase in some fabulous design plan that still exists, nebulous and half-formed, in my head.
There are about as many DIY projects I’d love to start as there are dishes I’d like to cook — if I ever had the time, money, and space. But unlike those things created in the kitchen, I can’t seem to rouse the ambition for any craftier, non-food tasks.
I love this video.
But I like this cover better.