In lieu of a breakfast smoothie, check what i made myself this morning: so easy, you can do it, too!
In an oven-safe bowl, I poured one cup of PLAIN yogurt. I added a drop (one DROP) of vanilla. Then I dumped in about half a cup of frozen, pitted, tart cherries. Sounds good, right?
THEN I stirred it and popped it into the oven until it was nice and hot. Added a pinch of cinnamon.
There are no eggs, it’s gluten-free and it tastes like the küchen my grandmother used to make.
Filed under Cooking, Food
Oh, my goodness.
Have I mentioned that I’m off yeast and gluten, which means no yummy toast? (Note that I said “yummy,” because as near as I can tell, the yeast-free, gluten-free rice flour “bread” I broke down and bought because it was just too painful to be without toast? SO not toastable. Also, it tastes like vinegar. Blech. Bring back my whole wheat.) So sad.
However, I am a giver, and so I give you this awesome piece of shiny kitchen delightfulness: The NYT Toaster! Imagine! Sitting in your pjs doing the crossword while eating toast emblazoned with the instantly recognizable T from the logo!
Would-be over-the-shoulder-puzzle-helpers won’t even try to crowd in on your Acrosses and Downs, ur so smrt, obvs.
Toast from the New York Times – Slashfood
Miles wants this cake. I saw the instructions and went, “Dude, I am not an artist.”
“But you’re a baker,” he countered, “you can bake anything.”
Not this, Young Skywalker, not this.
Many of you know that my favorite food is toast. I’m admittedly not that keen on bread, but dry it out a bit in a warming device and lightly brown and crisp the outside? Then put stuff on it?
Toast, along with my second favorite food, crackers, is awesome because it’s a clever delivery vehicle. I think toast can be served with just about anything and in my house, it usually is. Well, it is since I replaced my toaster, which fell victim to the Marcus Visits Madeline Rules Scandal of 2005.
It was dicey going without toast for a spell. Sure, I made due with the oven, but not being an Englishman in New York or anywhere else, I like my toast done on both sides.
(Sorry, Sting. Tell Trudi I say hi. After the tantra. Right, bye.)
I like openfaced tuna sandwiches on toast. Toast under a slice of ham, poached eggs, asparagus spears and hollandaise sauce. Chipped beef on toast (shut up, motherfuckers, it’s comfort food), toast with rosemary and garlic butter sitting jauntily on the side of my salad bowl. Tohhhhhhhst!
I’m putting this on my Amazon Wish List:
I need it. I need it more than anyone I know, and I will love it as only I can love a cookbook devoted to dry bread and its endless culinary possibilities.
I should have known something was wrong when I met Jen and her husband for lunch (my birthday, their treat) and despite not having eaten since dinner, I couldn’t finish a cup of soup and half a sandwich. Then later I turned on the oven to preheat and set to mixing the final batch of cupcakes for our party last night, scorching the two dozen vanilla and red velvet cakes I’d put there for safekeeping.
My head hurt.
I had one cup of coffee this morning at Joe’s place. Maybe it’s caffeine withdrawal.
I made a big cup of coffee and took acetaminophen. Dark chocolate orange cupcakes baked. I dressed, ignoring the complete control this headache had taken over my neck and skull and my eyes, my eyes, ow.
Stirring hot cream into bittersweet chocolate pieces for the ganache I reasoned, it may just go away.
I didn’t eat much today; I’ll go to the party and eat and feel warm and I won’t drink, except for tea. Tea will be good.
As I coated the cakes with shiny chocolate a thought hit me. I refused to acknowledge the possibility. On the drive over a wave of nausea struck.
I walked gingerly up the steps, cleared of the recent snow. I opened the door and saw all my friends. The box of (twelve, not thirty-six) cupcakes was taken from my hands and five minutes later, after saying quiet hellos to people I love and shaking my head at the offer of a plate of food, I gathered my small and thoughtful gifts (the best kind) and drove home.
I closed the door to my bedroom, pulled on pajamas and opened the window a crack to let in the 20-degree air.
Go away, please go away.