Jumbo cupcake!
King size cupcake!
Tiny cupcakes won’t do, but 25 times bigger feeds the whole crew!
Cupcakes are tiny cakes, yes? But for some reason, the logic doesn’t feel right the other way around. There’s no such thing as a giant cupcake. There’s just not. It’s a fucking cake.
Good god. Thanksgiving is a week away and I’ve yet to come up with some fresh ideas. Dad Gansie will take care of the bird, but I need to thrill our guests with sides.
Here are some recipes I’ve spied and might try. Please add in your favorites or new recipes you’re giving a spin around the stove this year.
Beet Carpaccio
Would make for a fab presentation.
[NYT/Minimalist]
Carrot, Olive and Feta Salad
Feta!
[Make It Naked]
Cauliflower and Parmesan Cake
I needed one egg dish in there.
[Smitten Kitchen]
Fried Brussel Sprouts
At least one dish wouldn’t use butter.
[The Food in my Beard]
By: joyinhome
[Mule of the World]
You are an acquired taste
Which came later for me.
A quiet cup with today’s news
Or during a frenzied drive into work-
You give me what I crave.
Oh how I missed you during my maternal hiatus!
Whether dolled up for the holidays
Or brewed
Plain and simple
You are my, um…second favorite
Morning pick me up.
And not to mention your glorious color.
Photo credit: Flickr user DeaPeaJay
I am on a lifelong quest to catalogue all things bagel. I’ve seen a lot in the world of bagels. Actually, it’s been quite a personal journey. I used to only eat plain bagels, then cinnamon raisin, then everything and now pumpernickel bagels. There’s been bagels in Arizona, bagels with seeds in the dough, and get this: I spied one in the shape of a fucking turkey.
Anyway, all of the bagels, regardless of seed or grain, have been the same shape (well, besides the turkey). Until this past weekend. I was introduced to Thomas’ Bagel Thins.
The bagel is more like toast. It has some of the characteristics of a bagel, where there is a dome crust instead of an outer crust, but it’s as thin as toast. It’s interesting from a portion control angle, but I’d still rather have the density of a regular bagel but stop at eating a half. It’d probably be the same carb effect.
God I love talking about bagels.
The New York Times smacked down the USDA this past weekend. In While Warning About Fat, U.S. Pushes Cheese Sales, Michael Moss insinuates that while the Department of Agriculture urges Americans to choose healthier foods, another arm of the department, Dairy Management, pushes consumption of cheese, aka saturated fat, into Americans’ stomachs.
Food news junkies ran with the story, including bar food expert Scott Reitz, on Young & Hungry, declaring he wanted less cheese on his bacon cheeseburger.
But not so fast! (Although, yes, one slice of cheese should be enough for a burger.)
While there is a connection between the USDA and Dairy Management, it may not be as sinister as NYT claims. Bloggers are continually bashed for being uninformed, unscrupulous non-writers, however, there’s been some deep digging on this side of the internet.
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I don’t know why Eve was blamed for the sins of the world. I don’t know why Mary couldn’t fuck to create her own son. And I don’t know why the Japanese wouldn’t allow women to brew sake.
I do know, however, that when a woman is granted permission to make sake it can taste light and sweet and refreshing.
Thank you Zentan, for inviting me to dinner and showing off the Ichishima Family (circa 1790) sake, Karen “Coy.”
photo credit: Niigata Sake Selections
“You still have tomatoes?” I whispered to Julia as I scanned what was left at the Mt. Pleasant Farmers’ Market.
She knew I wasn’t referring to what produce was available a mere 30 minutes before closing, but rather that tomatoes still graced the market the first Saturday in November. “They’re from the hothouse, I think,” she whispers back, eyes squinting out of secrecy.
“They’ve all been picked at this point,” Julia guesses, as she only works the stand, not farms the land. (Not that selling vegetables—and making change without a calculator!—is easy on a weekend morning.)
I didn’t try one of the last quarts of tiny yellow tomatoes. I’ve made peace with summer produce. I’ve said my goodbyes. I bought the last of my tomatoes two weeks ago, roasting them in a low and slow oven, and letting them linger in my fridge for just a few more weeks.
Using them sparingly at first—a few in an egg scramble, a few right to the mouth, a few on toast—I now must act fast before mold wins them over.
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