"Do you remember how we danced that first night? We were so far from this plane, this reality, dancing so fast, so intently, shaking and spinning around. Your hair flew about your face like strings of laughter, bouncing in your currents. I remember feeling infinite. And I knew that I couldn't say it that night. Not while I felt like that, not while you were so beautiful and free.
The next morning I wanted to tell you, but you were busy feeding me delight by the spoonful, and your eyes were all electric. I was enchanted by you , so I didn't ruin the moment.
And then we rented those bikes that we rode for miles along the coast. I might have said it over dinner that night, but we had mussels. You were such an adorable sight, tearing the shells apart, that I stayed silent. We had ice cream for dessert: green tea with grapefruit. You had said it sounded so strange that we had to try it. It was delicious.
So here we are and I still haven't told you, because every moment was just too perfect to change. See, the thing is, we can't go home. Don't look at me like that. I gave the cat to our neighbors, and I prank called your boss, my boss, the landlord and the police. I also sold our car and furniture. I told all our friends that we were only pretending to like them, and asked them not to call. We can never go back. We're free! So, no, I'm not going to pack."
I've felt this urge to write more, but I have no idea what to write about. So I'm going to start posting blurbs, essays, vignettes, from prompts that I come across. Enjoy.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Fresh baked bread and an argument for selfishness.
My dad wasn't around much when I was little, but when he was he liked to make breakfast. I remember standing on a chair in front of the stove watching him make fried apples. That was what he taught me, fried apples and tomato sauce.
I learned how to cook intuitively from my mother. She taught me that if things smell good together they probably taste good together, that lemon is a good substitute for salt, and that baking soda and yogurt make for a really good pancake batter. But I still consider most of what I know about cooking to be self taught, through exploration, trial and error. What my mother really taught me was how to bake. She helped with cookies, cakes, muffins and quick breads. And when I was ready she walked me through making my first yeasted (is that even a word?) bread. I don't remember how old I was, probably somewhere around twelve. She taught me to poke the dough before I punched it down, not to just assume that it was done rising; showed me how to roll the edges of the dough under so that the top of the loaf would be seamless. She taught me that a thoroughly baked loaf will sound hollow when you tap it. I'm nineteen now, and not much has changed. When I decided that I wanted to try making sourdough breads I called her up. She described to me the process of making a starter, and how to maintain it. And, of course, when I pulled my first loaf of sourdough out of the oven I called her immediately. That was just a few weeks ago. I made a large loaf of sourdough rye with dill, thyme, and fresh cracked pepper in it. The bread was very sour, like any good sourdough. But I didn't care for the consistency. It was dense and didn't toast very well. It was most defiantly a beginner's loaf. So yesterday I decided to try again.
I mixed up a good sponge with whole wheat flour this time, and let it rise for almost nineteen hours (sourdough needs a longer first rising time). By the morning it was beautifully puffy and bubbly, with little wheat germ ringed holes where air bubbles had burst. After mixing in more flour, olive oil, eggs, oats, sunflower seeds and millet I realized that while I had enough dough for two loaves I only possess one loaf pan. Here were two perfectly (well, almost perfectly) formed, crunchy, multi grain loaves, and I only had one pan to put them in. All I had were muffin tins. No house needs as many muffin tins as my house has. So I ended up sliding one loaf pan and one tray of roll filled muffin tins into the oven.
And I just pulled them out. This batch of sourdough is much better than the last. Not as sour as I would have liked, but both the bread and the rolls have a good, thick, crunchy crust and they're all light and fluffy inside. And, it would seem, the Jewish mama gene is going pretty strong. As soon as the rolls were done I started calling people over to eat them. This has always been a goal of mine: cooking and giving. I don't care who eats it, only that someone does and that their day is a little brighter for it. I love feeding people good food. And knowing that it's good because I made it and there's nothing in it that I don't know about. This high I get from nourishing people, that's why I've been so careful with my money; so that I can do it forever some day. It's so beautiful, giving people comfort and happiness and nourishment from something so small. And it's so little for me to do, you know? To do something I love and that makes me happy. But that it also makes the people I touch happy? That's amazing. It is amazing that all I have to do, all anyone has to do, to make myself and other people happy is to do these things I love. Which sounds almost trite and silly. But imagine a small warm coffee shop in a rainy college town. It has all sorts of cast off, miss matched coffee tables. Some are low to the ground and have cushions around them, and others are higher up with colorful assortments of chairs. There are bookshelves along one wall, and the corners have old easy chairs. There are photos on another wall of places and people, and drawings from some of the kids who drop by. The whole place is in reds, browns, oranges and yellows. It smells like fresh bread and coffee. How happy would I be, to be making that bread and coffee? And how happy would you be, to stumble upon it one day? Maybe it's just a normal day, or maybe it's raining and you're just a little down. Maybe it's the worst day you've had in a while. In any of those cases, can you tell me that the warmth you'd find wouldn't leave you just a little happier?
I learned how to cook intuitively from my mother. She taught me that if things smell good together they probably taste good together, that lemon is a good substitute for salt, and that baking soda and yogurt make for a really good pancake batter. But I still consider most of what I know about cooking to be self taught, through exploration, trial and error. What my mother really taught me was how to bake. She helped with cookies, cakes, muffins and quick breads. And when I was ready she walked me through making my first yeasted (is that even a word?) bread. I don't remember how old I was, probably somewhere around twelve. She taught me to poke the dough before I punched it down, not to just assume that it was done rising; showed me how to roll the edges of the dough under so that the top of the loaf would be seamless. She taught me that a thoroughly baked loaf will sound hollow when you tap it. I'm nineteen now, and not much has changed. When I decided that I wanted to try making sourdough breads I called her up. She described to me the process of making a starter, and how to maintain it. And, of course, when I pulled my first loaf of sourdough out of the oven I called her immediately. That was just a few weeks ago. I made a large loaf of sourdough rye with dill, thyme, and fresh cracked pepper in it. The bread was very sour, like any good sourdough. But I didn't care for the consistency. It was dense and didn't toast very well. It was most defiantly a beginner's loaf. So yesterday I decided to try again.
I mixed up a good sponge with whole wheat flour this time, and let it rise for almost nineteen hours (sourdough needs a longer first rising time). By the morning it was beautifully puffy and bubbly, with little wheat germ ringed holes where air bubbles had burst. After mixing in more flour, olive oil, eggs, oats, sunflower seeds and millet I realized that while I had enough dough for two loaves I only possess one loaf pan. Here were two perfectly (well, almost perfectly) formed, crunchy, multi grain loaves, and I only had one pan to put them in. All I had were muffin tins. No house needs as many muffin tins as my house has. So I ended up sliding one loaf pan and one tray of roll filled muffin tins into the oven.
And I just pulled them out. This batch of sourdough is much better than the last. Not as sour as I would have liked, but both the bread and the rolls have a good, thick, crunchy crust and they're all light and fluffy inside. And, it would seem, the Jewish mama gene is going pretty strong. As soon as the rolls were done I started calling people over to eat them. This has always been a goal of mine: cooking and giving. I don't care who eats it, only that someone does and that their day is a little brighter for it. I love feeding people good food. And knowing that it's good because I made it and there's nothing in it that I don't know about. This high I get from nourishing people, that's why I've been so careful with my money; so that I can do it forever some day. It's so beautiful, giving people comfort and happiness and nourishment from something so small. And it's so little for me to do, you know? To do something I love and that makes me happy. But that it also makes the people I touch happy? That's amazing. It is amazing that all I have to do, all anyone has to do, to make myself and other people happy is to do these things I love. Which sounds almost trite and silly. But imagine a small warm coffee shop in a rainy college town. It has all sorts of cast off, miss matched coffee tables. Some are low to the ground and have cushions around them, and others are higher up with colorful assortments of chairs. There are bookshelves along one wall, and the corners have old easy chairs. There are photos on another wall of places and people, and drawings from some of the kids who drop by. The whole place is in reds, browns, oranges and yellows. It smells like fresh bread and coffee. How happy would I be, to be making that bread and coffee? And how happy would you be, to stumble upon it one day? Maybe it's just a normal day, or maybe it's raining and you're just a little down. Maybe it's the worst day you've had in a while. In any of those cases, can you tell me that the warmth you'd find wouldn't leave you just a little happier?
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Happy Eating
Coffee
Yogurt and Rye Ganjacakes with Blueberry Sauce
Tea
Collard Greens
Ham
"Dressin' "
Tea
Curry Spiced French Lentil Soup
Rolls
Mashed Potatoes
String Beans
Hot Buttered Rum
Pumpkin Pie with Vanilla Ice Cream
Two Buck Chuck
...all in all a very successful Thanksgiving.
Yogurt and Rye Ganjacakes with Blueberry Sauce
Tea
Collard Greens
Ham
"Dressin' "
Tea
Curry Spiced French Lentil Soup
Rolls
Mashed Potatoes
String Beans
Hot Buttered Rum
Pumpkin Pie with Vanilla Ice Cream
Two Buck Chuck
...all in all a very successful Thanksgiving.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
I broke my glasses, and when I fixed them the world looked different.
Every person is God in disguise. Or whatever you want to call him/her/it. God, Goddess, Adonai, the Force, V.A.L.I.S., Dee, whatever. Those are a lot of words for the same thing. The point is that we all carry it within ourselves, always. I am God, you are God, every person I serve coffee to at work is God. Serving coffee becomes sacred because it is being done by God, for God. What you do is holy, because it is being done. Here. Now.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Space Cakes and Time Travel
About two hours after ingesting the butter (by way of toast), I found myself downstairs in my room. I wasn't sure exactly when I had left the living room, but it didn't really matter. What mattered then was that I was sitting, cross legged, in the center of my room. The lights were off and something really trippy was playing in the background. The more I fell back into myself the more details became clear to me. I realized that I had been sitting there for about twenty minutes, which seemed like a very long time. I sat for a few minutes more, absorbing the sounds, the feeling of my muscles as a began to move them around. Then I got up, put on a coat and went out to the back porch. I sat down in the rocking chair and light a cigarette, my fingers all trembly from the cold. I rocked and smoked for about five minutes until I had to put out the cigarette. I couldn't stand to hold it any longer. As I continued to rock I realized that not only was the chair creaking, I was anticipating the creaks. Very softly I explained to myself that I needed to stop waiting, and just let those creaks happen. "Stop anticipating," I said. "Just be here, now." And I rocked. And each moment in the rocking chair turned into the first time I had experienced motion. Each moment was brand new. It was the first time I had heard wood creak, the first time I had rocked back and teetered on the edge between falling and rocking forward. I sat in that chair for eternity and experienced everything for the first time, over and over, at every moment.
That paragraph is from the first time I infused THC into butter and ate it. It wasn't unpleasant, as some people say it can be. It was very, very intense. Time and reality started doing back flips and contortionist stuff that belong only in Cirque du Soleil. It was interesting, but I wasn't sure that I'd ever try it again. Well, Saturday night my neighbor came over bearing a large plastic shopping bag. It was full of trimmings: stems, leaves, everything but bud. He gave it to us, saying that he had no use for it. We didn't really think that we'd get anything good out of the bag. Smoked it wouldn't have done anything at all. But butter....So yesterday I went to the store and bought a half pound of butter. Since we figured we were working with half-assed stuff we changed the proportions. Normally, it seems, you use an ounce of cannabis per pound of butter. So we used an ounce per half pound. After three hours of simmering water, butter and weed, the entire house smelled like pot. But we had a lovely bowl of bright green liquid. So I cooled it, skimmed the butter off the top and proceeded to make some really yummy cookies. And once again, time stopped.
Mmm, Cookies!
Basically, take your standard chocolate chip cookie recipe. Mix up your green butter, sugar and eggs. Add flour, vanilla, baking soda, whatever it calls for. But use really good chocolate chips, and add dried fruit (I used raisins and cranberries) and a lot of nuts (pecans, almonds and walnuts went into mine). Your batter will be a very light shade of green. And it might taste a bit like grass. But once baked all the other goodies in your cookies will overpower that taste. Enjoy.
But please, be careful. Eat two or three and wait a bit. You will want to munch on something, but make sure it isn't laced with THC as well. Eating too much will totally mess you up. Make sure that you really need another cookie before you eat one. I had a lot, probably around seven. I think five would have been sufficient for a good trip. So, yeah...just keep that in mind.
That paragraph is from the first time I infused THC into butter and ate it. It wasn't unpleasant, as some people say it can be. It was very, very intense. Time and reality started doing back flips and contortionist stuff that belong only in Cirque du Soleil. It was interesting, but I wasn't sure that I'd ever try it again. Well, Saturday night my neighbor came over bearing a large plastic shopping bag. It was full of trimmings: stems, leaves, everything but bud. He gave it to us, saying that he had no use for it. We didn't really think that we'd get anything good out of the bag. Smoked it wouldn't have done anything at all. But butter....So yesterday I went to the store and bought a half pound of butter. Since we figured we were working with half-assed stuff we changed the proportions. Normally, it seems, you use an ounce of cannabis per pound of butter. So we used an ounce per half pound. After three hours of simmering water, butter and weed, the entire house smelled like pot. But we had a lovely bowl of bright green liquid. So I cooled it, skimmed the butter off the top and proceeded to make some really yummy cookies. And once again, time stopped.
Mmm, Cookies!
Basically, take your standard chocolate chip cookie recipe. Mix up your green butter, sugar and eggs. Add flour, vanilla, baking soda, whatever it calls for. But use really good chocolate chips, and add dried fruit (I used raisins and cranberries) and a lot of nuts (pecans, almonds and walnuts went into mine). Your batter will be a very light shade of green. And it might taste a bit like grass. But once baked all the other goodies in your cookies will overpower that taste. Enjoy.
But please, be careful. Eat two or three and wait a bit. You will want to munch on something, but make sure it isn't laced with THC as well. Eating too much will totally mess you up. Make sure that you really need another cookie before you eat one. I had a lot, probably around seven. I think five would have been sufficient for a good trip. So, yeah...just keep that in mind.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
The Fountainhead; Section Three, Chapter 14, Pages 660 through 670*
[Peter] Keating lifted his head. He sat at a littered table, bent under a squat lamp that gave poor light; he was doing a crossword puzzle...
"Hello Ellsworth," he said, smiling. He leaned forward to rise, but forgot the effort, halfway...The smile went, not quite completed. It had been an instinct of memory.
"Hello Ellsworth," he repeated helplessly.
[Ellsworth] Toohey stood before him, examining the room, the table, with curiosity.
"Not very talkative these days, are you, Peter? Not very sociable?"
"I wanted to see you Ellsworth. I wanted to talk to you."
Toohey grasped a chair by the back, swung it through the air, in a broad circle like a flourish, planted it by the table and sat down.
"Well, that's what I came here for," he said. "To hear you talk."
Keating said nothing.
"Well?"
"I'm so tired Ellsworth...I'm glad you came."
"Think you can get away with it? ...The hermit act? The great penance?"
"What do you want?"
"...I'll just tell you the truth...You make me sick. Can't you take the truth? No, you want your sugar-coating...You're a complete success, Peter, as far as I am concerned. But at times I want to turn away from the sight of my successes."
Keating stood by the dresser, his shoulders slumped, his eyes empty.
"You make me sick," said Toohey. "God, how you make me sick, all you hypocritical sentimentalists! You go along with me , you spout what I teach you, you profit by it-but you haven't the grace to admit to yourself what you're doing. You turn green when you see the truth. I suppose that's in the nature of your natures and that's precisely my chief weapon-but God! I get tired of it."
"What do you...want...Ellsworth?"
"Power, Petey."
Toohey was smiling, almost indifferently.
"You...always said..." Keating began thickly, and stopped.
"I've always said that. Clearly, precisely and openly. It's not my fault if you couldn't hear. You could, of course. You didn't want to. Which was safer than deafness-for me. I said I intended to rule...I shall rule."
"Whom...?"
"You. The world. It's only a matter of discovering the lever. If you learn how to rule a single man's soul, you can get to the rest of mankind...The soul, Peter, is that which can't be ruled. It must be broken. Drive a wedge in, get your fingers on it-and the man is yours. You won't need a whip-he'll bring it to you and ask to be whipped. Set him in reverse-and his own mechanism will do the work for you. Use him against himself. Want to know how it's done? See if I ever lied to you. See if you haven't heard all this for years, but didn't want to hear, and the fault is yours, not mine. There are many ways. Here's one. Make man feel small. Make him feel guilty. Kill his aspiration and integrity. That's difficult. The worst among you gropes for an ideal in his own twisted way. Kill integrity by internal corruption...To preserve one's integrity is a hard battle. Why preserve that which one knows to be corrupt already? His soul gives up it's self-respect. You've got him. He'll obey. He'll be glad to obey-because he can't trust himself, he feels uncertain, he feels unclean. That's one way...Here's another way. This is most important. Don't allow men to be happy. Happiness is self-contained and self-sufficient. Happy men have no time and no use for you. Happy men are free men. So kill their joy in living. Take away from them what is dear or important to them. Never let them have what they want. Make them feel that the mere fact of a personal desire is evil. Bring them to a state where saying 'I want' is no longer a natural right, but a shameful admission...Unhappy men will come to you. They'll need you. They'll come for consolation, for support, for escape...Empty man's soul-and the space is yours to fill. I don't see why you should look so shocked, Peter. This is the oldest one of all. Look back at history. Look at any great system of ethics...Didn't they all preach the sacrifice of personal joy? Haven't you been able to catch their theme song-'Give up, give up, give up'?...We've tied happiness to guilt...Of course, you must dress it up. You must tell people that they'll achieve a superior kind of happiness by giving up everything that makes them happy. You don't have to be too clear about it. Use big words...Internal corruption, Peter. That's the oldest one of all. The farce has been going on for centuries and men still fall for it. Yet the test should be so simple: just listen to any prophet and if you hear him speak of sacrifice-run...It stands to reason that where there's sacrifice, there's someone collecting sacrificial offerings...The man who speaks of sacrifice speaks of slaves and masters. And intends to be the master."
...Keating had sat down on the floor, by the side of the dresser; he had felt tired and simply folded his legs.
"Peter, you've heard all this. You've seen me practicing it...You have no right to sit there and stare at me with the virtuous superiority of being shocked. You're in on it."
"Ellsworth...you're..."
"Insane? Afraid to say it? There you sit and the word's written all over you, your last hope. Insane?...Can't you see past the guff?...Give up your soul...give it up, give it up, give it up...My technique, Peter. Offer poison as food and poison as antidote. Go fancy on the trimmings, but hang on to the main objective...Kill the individual. Kill man's soul. The rest will follow automatically."
Keating sat on the floor, his legs spread out. He listed one hand and studied his finger tips, then put it to his mouth and bit off a hangnail. But the movement was deceptive; the man was reduced to a single sense, the sense of hearing, and Toohey knew that no answer could be expected.
Keating waited obediently; it seemed to make no difference...
Toohey put his hands on the arms of the chair, then lifted his palms, from the wrists, and clasped the wood again, a little slap of resigned finality. He pushed himself to his feet.
Keating lifted his head. His voice had the quality of a down payment on terror; it was not frightened, but held the advance echoes of the next hour to come:
"Don't go Ellsworth."
Toohey stood over him, and laughed softly.
"That's the answer, Peter. That's my proof. You know me for what I am, you know what I've done to you, you have no illusions of virtue left. But you can't leave me and you'll never be able to leave me. You've obeyed me in the name of ideals. You'll go on obeying me without ideals. Because that's all you're good for now....Good night, Peter."
*vastly edited.
"Hello Ellsworth," he said, smiling. He leaned forward to rise, but forgot the effort, halfway...The smile went, not quite completed. It had been an instinct of memory.
"Hello Ellsworth," he repeated helplessly.
[Ellsworth] Toohey stood before him, examining the room, the table, with curiosity.
"Not very talkative these days, are you, Peter? Not very sociable?"
"I wanted to see you Ellsworth. I wanted to talk to you."
Toohey grasped a chair by the back, swung it through the air, in a broad circle like a flourish, planted it by the table and sat down.
"Well, that's what I came here for," he said. "To hear you talk."
Keating said nothing.
"Well?"
"I'm so tired Ellsworth...I'm glad you came."
"Think you can get away with it? ...The hermit act? The great penance?"
"What do you want?"
"...I'll just tell you the truth...You make me sick. Can't you take the truth? No, you want your sugar-coating...You're a complete success, Peter, as far as I am concerned. But at times I want to turn away from the sight of my successes."
Keating stood by the dresser, his shoulders slumped, his eyes empty.
"You make me sick," said Toohey. "God, how you make me sick, all you hypocritical sentimentalists! You go along with me , you spout what I teach you, you profit by it-but you haven't the grace to admit to yourself what you're doing. You turn green when you see the truth. I suppose that's in the nature of your natures and that's precisely my chief weapon-but God! I get tired of it."
"What do you...want...Ellsworth?"
"Power, Petey."
Toohey was smiling, almost indifferently.
"You...always said..." Keating began thickly, and stopped.
"I've always said that. Clearly, precisely and openly. It's not my fault if you couldn't hear. You could, of course. You didn't want to. Which was safer than deafness-for me. I said I intended to rule...I shall rule."
"Whom...?"
"You. The world. It's only a matter of discovering the lever. If you learn how to rule a single man's soul, you can get to the rest of mankind...The soul, Peter, is that which can't be ruled. It must be broken. Drive a wedge in, get your fingers on it-and the man is yours. You won't need a whip-he'll bring it to you and ask to be whipped. Set him in reverse-and his own mechanism will do the work for you. Use him against himself. Want to know how it's done? See if I ever lied to you. See if you haven't heard all this for years, but didn't want to hear, and the fault is yours, not mine. There are many ways. Here's one. Make man feel small. Make him feel guilty. Kill his aspiration and integrity. That's difficult. The worst among you gropes for an ideal in his own twisted way. Kill integrity by internal corruption...To preserve one's integrity is a hard battle. Why preserve that which one knows to be corrupt already? His soul gives up it's self-respect. You've got him. He'll obey. He'll be glad to obey-because he can't trust himself, he feels uncertain, he feels unclean. That's one way...Here's another way. This is most important. Don't allow men to be happy. Happiness is self-contained and self-sufficient. Happy men have no time and no use for you. Happy men are free men. So kill their joy in living. Take away from them what is dear or important to them. Never let them have what they want. Make them feel that the mere fact of a personal desire is evil. Bring them to a state where saying 'I want' is no longer a natural right, but a shameful admission...Unhappy men will come to you. They'll need you. They'll come for consolation, for support, for escape...Empty man's soul-and the space is yours to fill. I don't see why you should look so shocked, Peter. This is the oldest one of all. Look back at history. Look at any great system of ethics...Didn't they all preach the sacrifice of personal joy? Haven't you been able to catch their theme song-'Give up, give up, give up'?...We've tied happiness to guilt...Of course, you must dress it up. You must tell people that they'll achieve a superior kind of happiness by giving up everything that makes them happy. You don't have to be too clear about it. Use big words...Internal corruption, Peter. That's the oldest one of all. The farce has been going on for centuries and men still fall for it. Yet the test should be so simple: just listen to any prophet and if you hear him speak of sacrifice-run...It stands to reason that where there's sacrifice, there's someone collecting sacrificial offerings...The man who speaks of sacrifice speaks of slaves and masters. And intends to be the master."
...Keating had sat down on the floor, by the side of the dresser; he had felt tired and simply folded his legs.
"Peter, you've heard all this. You've seen me practicing it...You have no right to sit there and stare at me with the virtuous superiority of being shocked. You're in on it."
"Ellsworth...you're..."
"Insane? Afraid to say it? There you sit and the word's written all over you, your last hope. Insane?...Can't you see past the guff?...Give up your soul...give it up, give it up, give it up...My technique, Peter. Offer poison as food and poison as antidote. Go fancy on the trimmings, but hang on to the main objective...Kill the individual. Kill man's soul. The rest will follow automatically."
Keating sat on the floor, his legs spread out. He listed one hand and studied his finger tips, then put it to his mouth and bit off a hangnail. But the movement was deceptive; the man was reduced to a single sense, the sense of hearing, and Toohey knew that no answer could be expected.
Keating waited obediently; it seemed to make no difference...
Toohey put his hands on the arms of the chair, then lifted his palms, from the wrists, and clasped the wood again, a little slap of resigned finality. He pushed himself to his feet.
Keating lifted his head. His voice had the quality of a down payment on terror; it was not frightened, but held the advance echoes of the next hour to come:
"Don't go Ellsworth."
Toohey stood over him, and laughed softly.
"That's the answer, Peter. That's my proof. You know me for what I am, you know what I've done to you, you have no illusions of virtue left. But you can't leave me and you'll never be able to leave me. You've obeyed me in the name of ideals. You'll go on obeying me without ideals. Because that's all you're good for now....Good night, Peter."
*vastly edited.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Wendi's Mini Blackbottom Birthday Cheesecakes
Try saying that ten times fast!
So...I've been on quite the baking binge this week. Tomorrow is my co-worker Wendi's birthday, but I'm working at my other job tomorrow. So I decided to bake something and bring it to work with me today. I've never made cheesecake before, which was kind of bothering me. So I decided to give it a shot. I looked through a bunch of yummy looking recipes, but didn't find anything that I really wanted to make. So I did a little brainstorming and came up with these. They were really yummy. The mascarpone insured that they weren't too sweet and the chocolate crust was complimented nicely by the raspberry sauce on top.
This recipe makes about 24 little cakes.
Crust
6-8 oz chocolate graham crackers, crushed
1/2 cup (1 stick) chilled unsalted butter, cubed
mini chocolate chips
Filling
16 oz cream cheese
8 oz mascarpone
3 eggs
3 tbsp flour
3/4 cup sugar (I think I used slightly less)
splash of vanilla
Raspberry Sauce
10 oz frozen raspberries
2 tbsp water
2 tbsp sugar
Here goes...
Heat oven to 350
Prepare muffin tins by adding those silly little paper cups. I kinda hate these things, but it makes getting the cakes out in one piece much easier.
Mix crushed grahams with butter. Do it with your hands the way you would mix pastry dough. Once it's all clumpy and mixed up, press mixture into the bottoms of the prepared muffin tins. Just the bottom, not the sides! Bake these for about five minutes and set aside to cool.
In an electric mixer (or by hand, if you prefer) mix cream cheese, mascarpone, flour, sugar and vanilla until smooth. Add eggs one at a time, beating after each addition.
Sprinkle the mini chocolate chips into the cooled muffin tins. Not too many! Just enough that you have a thin layer. Spoon the filling on top. You should have enough to fill each tin just about to the top.
Bake for 15-20 minutes. I recommend checking them every five minutes or so. They're ready to come out of the oven when the centers are still a bit jiggly. Place them (still in the tins) in the fridge to cool for at least an hour.
Meanwhile you can make your raspberry sauce.
Combine raspberries, water and sugar in a small saucepan and simmer until the mixture becomes slightly jelly-like. Remember to stir it every minute or so. Cool this in the fridge as well.
Once your cakes are cooled you can take them out of the tins and (carefully) peel the paper cups off. Put a spoonful of your raspberry sauce on top and they are ready to eat!
So...I've been on quite the baking binge this week. Tomorrow is my co-worker Wendi's birthday, but I'm working at my other job tomorrow. So I decided to bake something and bring it to work with me today. I've never made cheesecake before, which was kind of bothering me. So I decided to give it a shot. I looked through a bunch of yummy looking recipes, but didn't find anything that I really wanted to make. So I did a little brainstorming and came up with these. They were really yummy. The mascarpone insured that they weren't too sweet and the chocolate crust was complimented nicely by the raspberry sauce on top.
This recipe makes about 24 little cakes.
Crust
6-8 oz chocolate graham crackers, crushed
1/2 cup (1 stick) chilled unsalted butter, cubed
mini chocolate chips
Filling
16 oz cream cheese
8 oz mascarpone
3 eggs
3 tbsp flour
3/4 cup sugar (I think I used slightly less)
splash of vanilla
Raspberry Sauce
10 oz frozen raspberries
2 tbsp water
2 tbsp sugar
Here goes...
Heat oven to 350
Prepare muffin tins by adding those silly little paper cups. I kinda hate these things, but it makes getting the cakes out in one piece much easier.
Mix crushed grahams with butter. Do it with your hands the way you would mix pastry dough. Once it's all clumpy and mixed up, press mixture into the bottoms of the prepared muffin tins. Just the bottom, not the sides! Bake these for about five minutes and set aside to cool.
In an electric mixer (or by hand, if you prefer) mix cream cheese, mascarpone, flour, sugar and vanilla until smooth. Add eggs one at a time, beating after each addition.
Sprinkle the mini chocolate chips into the cooled muffin tins. Not too many! Just enough that you have a thin layer. Spoon the filling on top. You should have enough to fill each tin just about to the top.
Bake for 15-20 minutes. I recommend checking them every five minutes or so. They're ready to come out of the oven when the centers are still a bit jiggly. Place them (still in the tins) in the fridge to cool for at least an hour.
Meanwhile you can make your raspberry sauce.
Combine raspberries, water and sugar in a small saucepan and simmer until the mixture becomes slightly jelly-like. Remember to stir it every minute or so. Cool this in the fridge as well.
Once your cakes are cooled you can take them out of the tins and (carefully) peel the paper cups off. Put a spoonful of your raspberry sauce on top and they are ready to eat!
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