Paging Mr. Kurtz

You ever have those days when every culinary and/or yarn creation you can think up is at least moderately diabolical if not actually toxic?  Today we visit this heart of darkness because, well, just because.  Also I haven't blogged in a while, so why the crap not?

Last weekend (was it last weekend?) I got a little nostalgic for gin rickeys and thought cucumber-lime pie was a good idea.  The less said about that, the better.

 This time was more of a bet, really.  I got into a discussion with a friend about unusual ingredients that work surprisingly well together (well, doesn't everyone?), and somehow ended up with the Iron Chef ingredients of garlic and chocolate.  Don't be fooled: while they may look pretty in their wax paper and foil, these truffles got bite.  In fact, I'm a little frightened.  This may be the first dessert I've made (including cucumber mush disaster) that I haven't been even a little bit tempted to sample.  Recipe, you ask?  Well, don't say I didn't warn you....

Garlic Truffles:
1/2 cup heavy cream
8 oz semisweet chocolate (chips, chunks, or chopped)
2 tbsp unsalted butter
3 tbsp cocoa powder
1 tsp coarse sea salt
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
freshly grated parmesan, for coating

Line a loaf pan with wax paper so that paper overhangs the sides.
Bring cream to a simmer in a medium bowl over boiling water.
Melt in chocolate and butter.  Remove from heat.
Add cocoa powder and stir until completely dissolved.
Add salt and garlic and stir until just combined.
Pour into papered loaf pan and refrigerate 2 hours or until set.
Cut into squares and coat with parmesan (I find this works best by tossing a couple squares at a time in a bowl full of cheese, but a bag a la shake and bake probably works fine too).

Makes about a dozen to 20 truffle squares.

As for how it tastes, I defer to the person whose name will go on these truffles if I have anything to do with it.  Because WTF???

Things to do on holiday...

Well, yes, I know it's been ages, as usual, but I do have a day job these days. Except when I'm on vacation. Then it's time to break out the "things I've been putting off" list and take a nap. Or, you know, live a little 'cause I'm in New York and I'd better act like it. So...what does one do on holiday, you ask? Prepare the lists (and the debates on proper spacing and the Oxford comma), grab a caffeinated beverage (hey, it's not 5 o'clock here for another 10 minutes!) and your favorite knitting needles, and hop on board!

1. Bum around Central Park with a cupcake.

Can't have mine, though. These babies are from the Sprinkles cupcake ATM (that's right, they dispense these things like the friggin' Jetsons) at 61st and Lex. And in time for Passover, they've got these gorgeous, rich, dense, utterly sinful (but possibly kosher?) flourless chocolate guys, complete with fondant Star of David. And when you're already halfway there, why not wander west a couple of avenues, hit up the park, listen to a jazz band, absorb a little Vitamin D, and then stop by the Strand kiosk and blow 10 bucks on half-price paperbacks on the way out? I know that's how I like to spend a sunny Monday afternoon in my dreams.


2. Troubleshoot washcloth patterns.

Have another wedding to knit for? Can't come up with ideas? Really just want to play around with LOTR motifs and see what emerges? I'd done a version of these for Comrade's wedding a couple years back, but couldn't be bothered to transcribe the charts, so this time I thought I'd try retracing my steps and seeing what comes out. So far the Tree of Gondor (the Aragorn part) is officially spreadsheet charted. Elven Leaf (Arwen) is still in paper form, but at least I know what to type into Open Office Calc when the time comes. Ravelry patterns to come...eventually...

3. File your taxes. Uuuuugggggggghhhhh!

4. Take the in-training (RISE) exam for your residency program. Sort of. We're allowed to take these at home (yeah, I know, WTF mate???), so guess who took hers with several cups of tea and while singing Regina Spektor songs and disturbing the neighbors?

5. Bake for Passover.
When Comrade asked me to bring dessert to Seder, I jumped at the opportunity (nothing says "I love you" like inflicting sugar and calories on one's friends and family, after all). And then I realized exactly how restrictive the no-flour, no-leavening, how-kosher-does-this-actually-have-to-be rules can get. Hazelnut torte (not shown here 'cause I forgot to take pictures), drawn from someone's granny's recipe, turned out a success, but oy vey the hazelnut flour costs an arm and a leg! We also won't mention the milk in the semisweet chocolate, right? Damn you, Hershey!

So for round 2, i.e. baking for my classmates who are not on holiday at the moment, I drew inspiration from Monday's cupcake adventure and went flourless chocolate. The lift in flourless desserts, according to the Food Network, comes from the eggs, usually separated and lightly beaten. Carefully. Underbeat and the thing doesn't rise at all (that's what she said). Overbeat and it rises like crazy in the oven, only to fall flat before its time (oh dear, that's what she said). Fantastic, I love beating eggs (no, seriously, there's something weirdly therapeutic about whipping a batch of yolks and whites into fluffy creamy shape, I admit I have a problem)! So imagine my surprise and dismay when none of the recipes I subsequently click on mentions separating the eggs! "Fuck it," she says, and decides to improvise.

The recipe on which my cupcakes are based can be found here. My version is this:
4 eggs, separated
1/4 cup plus 1 tbsp sugar
pinch of (kosher) salt
8 oz semisweet chocolate chips/chunks/chopped up bar
1 stick butter, chopped
cocoa powder for dusting

1. Preheat oven to 350F and line a 12-muffin tin with muffin/cupcake papers.
2. Beat egg yolks, sugar, and salt together until pale and creamy.
3. Melt chocolate and butter over a saucepan/double boiler.
4. Gently fold chocolate mixture into yolk mixture until combined.
5. Beat egg whites until they form soft peaks. Gently fold into chocolate and egg yolk mixture until combined.
6. Pour into muffin cups and bake for approximately 30 minutes until a toothpick comes out clean or you get tired of waiting and are willing to eat a little goo.
7. Allow to cool, and dust tops with cocoa powder.
Makes 12 cupcakes...give or take a mutant screw-up or two.

By the way, if anyone's paying attention, your resultant batter is...chocolate mousse. I'd eat that shit raw. Have done so by the teacup-full, in fact. Any recipe that starts with "make a chocolate mousse then stick that fucker in the oven" is a winner in my book. And the souffle-cakes that end up coming out of the oven? Horrific to transport (see dime bags pictured here and imagine the slightly sat-upon end products of subway travel), but better than sex. Not too sweet, airy on top, decadent on the bottom. I should replenish my whiskey supply and make some...additions. But only for off-hours and not during religious holidays.

6. Pet yarn.

I have lived in New York for almost 10 months and just set foot in Purl Soho. I am a disgrace. But making up for lost time, apparently I stumbled in just in time to locate their 40% off table. Now, any local yarn shop worth its salt is full of beautiful top-tier yarns arranged by color and weight, helpful staff, and quirky customers. Not every local yarn shop causes me to drop over 40 bucks on positively scrumptious yarn on my first visit. But there was this...this single 300-ish yard skein of mohair-silk deliciousness the exact color and texture of fresh-spun cotton candy. I didn't--and don't--have a clue what to make with it. Something floaty and girly, yes (do I even do floaty and girly???). Well, no, what I really wanted to do was take it home and stash it and pull it out when I'm feeling blue and pet it.

But to make it feel less lonely, I purchased a couple of skeins of 100% merino in a shade of peacock that might well be a disaster with my skin tone but will look gorgeous on probably everybody else in existence. It will become some sort of upper body covering. Cowl or hood or shawl or something. I honestly haven't thought beyond "I love that color," "Oh, how soft it is" and "40% off!"

Which is probably about what Raiden thought (minus the 40% off bit) when I opened my bag of goodies. Better that than "Mommy, what the hell have you been doing cozying up with a large black poodle on your trip to Soho???" But we won't speak of that.

Something About a Skirt

Well, hello there!  It's been a while.  (Cue Barenaked Ladies' "One Week"?  My brain comes with its own soundtrack.)  That said, it's time for another edition of weekend knitting adventures, or misadventures as the case may be.  Because I have no other choice.  You see, I'm two days out from Happy Hour with my classmates/co-residents, and still "enjoying" the after-effects of a large sangria.  I suspect tequila was involved.

c.f. Douglas Adams' "My Favourite Tipples" if you really want a fun run-down of alcoholic beverages, but suffice it to say tequila and I don't get along and never have.  I remember tequila from my foreign study days in France when I was nineteen.  "Remember" being the operative word.  I have never made it to floor.  Unless you count giant margarita of doom (from the same restaurant, now I think of it) which had some other interesting players hiding in the mix.  No, tequila is the supernatural bitch of the liquor world, but instead of making me mystical (or unconscious), it creates the unfortunate combo of just uninhibited enough to act on regrettable impulses and just cogent enough to regret those actions.  Sometimes immediately.  And reach for other tipples to drown my guilt.

My mixer of choice is rum.  Rum is basically fermented sugar.  Coke is basically colored corn syrup.  The result is a sugar high that renders me incapable of acting older than about five.  Which is all right, I guess, if you're into birthday cakes and pin the tail on the donkey?

Vodka is a spirit.  Vodka mixes in everything.  I have nothing against vodka, but it's like the invisible robot server that disappears into an alcove unless you want to order something.  You can't have a proper conversation with it unless you really really try.  After a lot of vodka.

The less said about gin (and vermouth), the better.

Bourbon is my Southern gal at play.  I can't so much as imagine fruit pies, especially peach, without making for the Maker's Mark.  (Bourbon peach?  Pear "Waldorf"?  Well, I do declare.)  The only problem with bourbon is I can't drink it.  Highballs are tolerable but make me feel like a Steel Magnolias character.  And straight or on the rocks it's like consuming a mine shaft dripping with rain water. Um...yum?

On the opposite end of the whiskey scale is Scotch.  Ah, Scotch.  Smooth single-malts with names invoking peat bogs and Celtic ceremonies and who knows what else.  Scotch reminds me of my favorite ex-boyfriend: smart, complex, gregarious, a born storyteller with an accent equally at home in an old boys' club or a candle-lit bedroom.  Therein lies the problem.  I don't care if the colors do call up kindling or woodsmoke, an old flame is not the ghost you want haunting your liquor dreams.

Beer is fine.  Beer and I are friends.  Bros, if you will.  We don't go deeper than that.

Which is why I usually fall back on my old staple of wine.  Red, white, sangria (hey, the fruit adds antioxidants, amirite?), whatever we got.  I like the swirl of colors in the glass, the ceremony of drinking it, the complex flavorings you flatter yourself you've got the palate to pick out.  The only thing I don't like about wine is that if I don't pace myself judiciously with a glass of water between each trip to the bottle, I will get a migraine.  Immediately.  At least the water keeps me sober enough to knit and stay out of trouble, though, so nobody should complain.

Which brings me, finally, back around to my latest knit-with-a-glass-of-wine project.

This, friends, is Carnaby.  You may find the pattern (from knitty.com) here.  The yarn was a sort-of-birthday present from a classmate who actually had no idea when my birthday was but happened to own two skeins of bright red alpaca that reminded her of me.  Might've been the cherry-red wool coat I tended to sport in early winter before I gave up and went sleeping bag like everybody else.  #%*^ winter!  I'll shave my legs for a sight of greenery and a warm breeze.

In any case, the yarn was duly bestowed with a warning to avoid heavily textured patterns that might overshadow the natural beauty and softness of the alpaca.  But I was scarfed and cowled and hatted out, and I saw this beautiful skirt that called for pure wool, and I couldn't resist.  It even promises to work with the pills that will be forming on my proprioception-challenged bottom.

So far I've only been able to work on it while either nursing a glass of wine or suffering the after-effects of unexpected tequila.  But once anyone I may have offended starts talking to me again (...?), it's anyone's guess whether this gets put on the back burner.  There is also transcribing of washcloths to be done, because I have another wedding to craft for.  No, not my own, thanks.  Can't teach an old maid new tricks.  And seriously, read Douglas Adams.  "The Salmon of Doubt" is hysterically, thought-provokingly funny and doesn't have to try like I do.