Why So Sour, Martha?- Lime Flowers! -270 eggs, 199 3/4 cups of sugar, 202 sticks of Butter, and 251 1/2 cups of flour used so far- 16 recipes to go!

Martha's Lime Flowers

André's Lime "Flowers"

As a child, I always loved the cookies called, Lemon Coolers. They were a simple lemon-flavored cookie dusted with confectioner’s sugar. They were delicious, light, and refreshing. I don’t even know if they make them anymore since I haven’t bought manufactured cookies in years, save the Girl Scout cookies. (I’m a sucker for the Girl Scout sales tactics. In fact, I think we could save the real estate market by lowering the legal age for licensed realtors to seven.)

Martha’s Lime Flowers were quite reminiscent of this childhood favorite. Buttery, light, crispy, with just a touch of citrus, my co-workers and I enjoyed these tremendously. I, however, didn’t have and couldn’t find a decent flower-shaped cookie cutter that wasn’t less than six inches in diameter. Honestly, who needs a cookie that’s a half-a-foot wide? Instead, I used a star-shaped cookie cutter and cut the hole in the center with a cannoli mold I had purchased earlier last year to make Brandy Snaps.

The dough for these cookies was just a basic sugar cookie concoction of flour, sugar, butter, egg, vanilla, salt, with the addition of lime juice and  lime peel. After all the ingredients were combined, the  dough was then refrigerated until stiff enough to be rolled and cut into the appropriate shapes. After baking, the cookies are given a generous dusting of powdered sugar and allowed to cool completely.

Not a terribly interesting cookie to write about, I’m afraid. But certainly a terrific cookie to enjoy. The recipe yields much more than what Martha indicates, so if you’re looking for a cookie that serves a large group of folks, this might be the one for you.

It’s a cold Saturday morning in Bloomington. Last evening, rain fell down on the frozen ground turning every sidewalk, every road, every inch of town into a large, treacherous ice-rink. I dined with a friend and emerged from the restaurant onto the street where we were only able to take tiny, baby steps towards the car parked a block-and-a-half away. We shuffled slowly and awkwardly lest we slip and fall onto the cold, hard bricked walkway. I drove us back, gripping the wheel, white-knuckled and cursing as I skidded and swerved through the slush.  We passed many ambulances in the downtown area where emergency workers were tending to, not stranded motorists, but pedestrians who’d slipped on the icy pavement, breaking bones and tearing ligaments.

Needless to say, I am not venturing out of my hotel room today, but rather, wrapping myself in a warm blanket with a cup of cocoa and watching bad cable while writing this post.  There’s a clanging sound just outside my window emanating from the frozen nylon flags knocking against the steel pole in the frigid breeze. I find the sound fairly serene. I see the highway patrol cars motoring down the highway just a few hundred yards from my frosted window, probably on their way to deal with the umpteenth accident the morning.  No, I won’t be venturing out. I’m sure there’s still plenty to see in Bloomington, but not today. Not in this wintery mess.

I had a friend request come through on Facebook recently that knocked my socks off. It was from someone who made quite an impression on me as a uniformed, pre-adolescent student at Saint Thomas More in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. The request simply came from someone named, Mirna Stomes. At first I didn’t know who this person was, that is until I opened the request and saw her photo. Time had changed her very little, and her exuberant smile had grown even more so over the years. It was my sixth-grade religion teacher, Sister Mirna. I didn’t even know she had a last name. We hadn’t spoken in over thirty years, although I thought of her fondly all this time and, suddenly there she was again. Of course I accepted her request and sent her a rambling email that basically asked, “What have you been doing for the last thirty years?” She responded that after her time at Saint Thomas More had ended, she was transferred to a convent in Michigan where she cares for the elderly nuns in residence. Her email was sweet and sincere, just as Sister Mirna had always been. Her words glowed with thoughtfulness and love, just as her words always had. Although, her answer could’ve been summed up in two words- “Serving Him.”

I’ve known a lot of Catholic nuns in my life. I’ve certainly written a lot about them. Mostly, humorous observations. I’ve had two Sisters in my family, both passed away in 2011 within months of each other. A lot of nuns get a bad rap. Many deservedly so. I’ve certainly had negative experiences with a choice few. Not Sr. Mirna, though.

As a non-practicing Catholic, and a skeptical and sometimes cynical agnostic, I struggle with the notion of holiness. I don’t believe one can refer to the bible as being divinely inspired unless we look at every other literary work and ask ourselves the same question- “Where did this inspiration come from?”  Those of you that read my rambling posts will recognize I include a lot of quotes from various authors. I think these quotes are inspired because if they weren’t how could they inspire me? Perhaps the same divinity, the same muse, the same genius that inspired the apostles to put pen to paper, did the same for other  secular souls?

I struggle with religion because I don’t believe in objective moral truth. Life has too many fuzzy edges filled with ambiguous situations. I’ve tried turning to the bible in troubled moments for guidance, but too often the advice is misleading or irrelevant. It was, after all, written for a different time, for people whose lives were shorter and whose problems were more dire. It’s difficult for someone like myself with all my first-world problems to relate to rules written to maintain order in the chaotic ancient world. I have, however found comfort in other texts. I imagine this is not unique to my understanding. So, in my thinking, there are others who have been, what I would deem, divinely inspired.

Like I said, I struggle with the notion of holiness. I don’t think Sister Mirna ever has, though.

I remember a Spring afternoon in 1979. It was recess. I stayed behind in the classroom while the students played out in the courtyard. I was weeping in the empty room, the lights turned off so no one would see me sobbing. One of the boys had punched me in the face, egged on by another boy as they were on their way out of the classroom. The teacher hadn’t seen it. It was a random act of cruelty. Like climbing a mountain, he did it simply because I was there. My nose bled and I held a handful of tissues over my face in an effort to stop the bleeding. I sobbed quietly, stopping every now and then to blow out the blood filling my head into the soaked tissue. Sister Mirna walked in to prepare for her class. She saw me in the corner. She said nothing. She didn’t have to. She didn’t ask what had happened. She didn’t need to. She didn’t tell me to suck it up and be a man, like so many of the harder edged nuns would’ve. No, she simply put her arms around me and pressed her cheek against my brow and whispered a soft, sweet prayer. She did what she believed was right. She comforted me.

For someone who doesn’t believe in the notion of holiness, I believe Sister Mirna has a heart that is divinely inspired.

While I don’t believe in objective moral truth, I do have on caveat. Love. Love is truth and Sister Mirna lives her life in its service and I am humbled by, and thankful for all she is.

So, I have a nun-friend on Facebook and I get little message from her every now-and-then. Mostly requests for items in one of the many games she plays on social media. A slot machine on Slotsville or a chalice in Casteville. I imagine she has to fill her time in the long lake-effect winters of Michigan.

I had posted a status update on Facebook. It was a quip I exchanged with a fellow hotel resident here in Bloomington. The traveler asked me, presumptuously, “Where do you worship?” I responded, “At Crate & Barrel.”  The traveler didn’t appreciate my irony. Many friends commented on this status, Sister Mirna included. She simply commented, “I would’ve said, ‘In my heart.’”

I wish I had the spiritual fortitude of this remarkable woman.

Maybe she knows the secret to that elusive notion of holiness?

Maybe I should send her that chalice after all.

Gesundheit, Martha!- Lebkuchen! -270 eggs, 198 3/4 cups of sugar, 201 1/4 sticks of Butter, and 249 1/2 cups of flour used so far- 17 recipes to go!

Martha's Lebkuchen

André's Lebkuchen

A tender, caky cookie filled with only a bajillion ingredients- that’s how I would describe Lebkuchen (Lehb-Coo-Chen).  A traditional Christmas cookie from Nuremberg, Lebkuchen is gifted among friends and family across the German nation as a long-standing holiday tradition. I’d never heard of them before, but I’m not German and , honestly, I don’t get out much.

This was one of those recipes in Martha’s book I had been dreading. The list of ingredients filled the page which made me think this was going to be another fussy Martha cookie. I had plenty of candied orange and lemon peel in my cupboard, having made a copious amount for the Marsala cookies in my last post.  It was also Christmastime. I didn’t really have an excuse to put off baking these any longer.

To begin, let’s take a look at this list of ingredients, shall we?:

• all-purpose flour
• baking powder
• salt
• ground cinnamon
• ground ginger
• ground mace
• ground cloves
• blanched whole almonds, toasted
• blanched hazelnuts-toasted
• candied orange peel
• candied lemon peel
• Medjool dates
• almond paste
• apricot jam
• eggs
• light-brown sugar
• confectioners’ sugar
•  whole milk

Mise en Place which is just a fancy French culinary term, literally translated to Putting in Place, was the longest step in baking this recipe. I had to blanche the whole nuts in order to remove their skins, and then they needed to be toasted. The spices had to laid out and the dry ingredients measured and set in place. Every inch of my counter space was covered in prep dishes. Once everything was prepared and laid out, the actual combining of ingredients was quite simple. Using a food processor, I pulsed all of the ingredients together into a thick paste-like consistency and then transferred the batter to an airtight bowl. I then placed the bowl in the fridge and let it stiffen up overnight.  To bake these cookies, I simply had to dig out the batter with an inch-and-a-half scooper and drop them onto a parchment-lined cookie sheet. I then placed a whole, toasted, blanched almond on top of each one and baked them until just browned around the edges. Once removed from the oven and placed on a wire cooling rack, I brushed them with a glaze of confectioner’s sugar and whole milk.

Were they worth all the hard work? Surprisingly, yes! These are absolutely delicious cookies that taste precisely like what a holiday cookie should taste like. Sweet and citrusy with the distinct flavors of almond and winter spices. These cookies have a smoother taste than their German cousin, gingerbread. The flavors are more bright and less smokey. They’re beautiful, too. The glaze makes them shimmer with promises of inviting yumminess. The sweetness of the cookies wasn’t overpowering, thoug, since they’re only sweetened by dates, apricot jam, and a touch of light-brown sugar.

I baked these for my partner, Dan to gift to his co-workers where they were quickly and appreciatively consumed. I also reserved a dozen to serve at our holiday party where folks enjoyed them thoroughly.

Would I bake them again? Probably. They are an impressive cookie, and once all the ingredients are procured and combined, all one needs to do is add heat. Plus, they yield quite a lot, perfect for gifting to friends and family. So get all crazy-German next Christmas and bake up a big, bad batch of Lebkuchen, the delicious cookie with the funny name.

Do not assume that I am what I was; for God knows, I have turned my back on my former self, and I will do the same to those who were my companions. 

- Prince Henry- Henry IV pt. 2 – Act V sc. 5- William Shakespeare

This quote is from one of the final scenes in the second part of Shakespeare’s history play, Henry IV. It is spoken by the young Henry V as he leaves to assume the throne after his father’s death. Henry had essentially been reared by a group of morally ambiguous hedonists, led by the corpulent clown, Falstaff. Young Prince Henry (Hal) had lived out his youth selfishly and without consequence among thieves and scheisters when, suddenly, the people needed him to lead with wisdom and maturity far beyond his years. It was time for him to become a man and accept who he was meant to be. He turns to the crowd, fully aware that his closest friends, Falstaff included, are in attendance. He delivers this address and banishes those who had always been closest to him , sending them off with enough money so they don’t fall into the evils that poverty, so often, brings. He tells them that when, or if, they choose to lead a more virtuous life, they will be welcomed in his court. Falstaff, of course, never does redeem himself. He goes off to the hamlet of Windsor where he engages the merry wives in comedy, later dying alone and repentant in Henry V.  

I just spent the weekend in Indianapolis where I lived ten years ago. I was a young Hal there and many of my Falstaffs still reside in the city. I’ve written about the events that led me to Indianapolis in the past, but to briefly recap, I had spent the Summer of 2001 in Maine and Montréal teaching music to over-privileged children. I worked with many Polish, Czech and Slovak counselors, hired by the organization because they were hard workers, racially non-threatening, and cheap. At the end of the Summer I returned to New York City where I was about to sign a new lease on a large apartment in Harlem. About twenty-five of my new Eastern-European friends were in the city as well, enjoying sight-seeing and discount shopping along Canal Street before returning to their distant homelands. I had found two cheap hotel rooms for them to stay in across from the World Trade Center. I planned on signing my lease and then leaving to visit Eastern Europe  for a month spent exploring Prague and Bratislava. Then two planes, as part of a terrible terrorist plot, slammed into the Trade Center. Twenty-five Eastern Europeans were stuck in my Harlem apartment with no way to get home. We made the best of it.  Feeling less than confident about remaining in New York City after the attack, I decided, once the last of the Europeans was able to get a flight home, to use the funds I’d reserved for Europe to join my sister and her husband in their new home in Indianapolis.

I was a stranger in a strange land but went to work quickly. Using my newly acquired skills in email and the internet, a technology that was still relevantly new in late 2001, I was able to locate the names of key contacts in the local professional theatre circuit in Indianapolis and scheduled coffee chats on top of coffee chats.  Within a month, I was able to buy a car, lease an apartment, and audition for every major theatre company in Indianapolis. I was cast by two of the largest producing companies in the area. One in a production of Dirty Blonde,  a strange three-person play about the life of three people: Mae West, a middle-aged introverted female, and a heterosexual closeted cross-dresser. Guess which character I played?  I was also miscast in the title role of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar (I thought that at 33, I was far too young) at the Indiana Repertory Theatre and I was appointed to the Indiana Arts Council’s official roster of resident artists, conducting frequent workshops in acting, voice work, Shakespeare, and clowning at local schools, community centers, jails, and detention centers.

Things were going well. People knew me. They knew my work. They liked what they saw. In fact, after only living in Indy for a little over a month, I was able to have an apartment-warming party with over fifty people in attendance. I had charmed the pants off the theatre and arts community of Indianapolis and was perfectly poised to  make a real life for myself there.  I even made an announcement to form my very own theatre company called, The Project e.t.c. (experimental theatre company), complete with a press release and a formal reading of the first script to be produced. I even received a $5,000 grant from the arts council to start work while the incorporation and 501c3 application for not-for-profit status was under review. Everyone wanted me to be that guy, the one who would swoop in with unbounded energy and intellect and inject the local culture with an innovative vision and exciting new things to see and enjoy.

There was a problem, though.

I wasn’t being honest with myself. I didn’t want to live in Indianapolis. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to do theatre anymore. On top of that, I wasn’t feeling great. I was falling into a deep, dark depression. I was drinking too much. I was taking any drug I was offered. I was smoking weed from the moment I woke up till I went to bed. I was putting on weight. I was promiscuous. I was selfish. I was often arrogant and boisterous. Many people, who only a month earlier, I’d charmed the pants off, began to avoid me. This made me start to despise Indy. In drug-fueled moments of frustration, I sent  mass emails railing against the community and their lack of vision and opportunity. I began to burn bridges… and then I was diagnosed with testicular cancer and within a week I was in surgery. Only a few friends stuck around to check on me. Many didn’t know or care I was ill. Rightfully so. I had, after all, bitten many hands that fed me support.

I, for unconscious reasons, became my own saboteur.

It was the deepest part of Winter. The snows were heavy. My sister was newly pregnant and on the other side of town. I kept my distance so as not to upset her in her delicate state. The roads were treacherous and I was recovering from surgery. I cocooned myself in my apartment, wearing unwashed pajamas and feeling sorry for myself. I fell into an even darker depression. More depressed than I’d ever been. I felt ashamed and lonely. Something needed to change. I had to do something to save myself.  I stopped self-medicating and enrolled, under my doctor’s suggestion, in group day-therapy.  Everyday from early-morning till early-evening, I met with a team of therapists, psychiatrists and fellow depressed souls who chatted in manic states about being sad and wanting to die.

Within just a few months, I’d gone from being on top of the world, celebrated by the local arts community and press, to a fetal mass of suicidal, self-pitious jelly. Without hope of every recovering and a couple of feeble suicide attempts, I committed myself to the State mental hospital where after a long and humiliating admissions process which included a strip and body cavity search, I was given a semi-private room with a morbidly obese gentleman who was kept strapped to his bed and wheeled out every morning at five for electro-shock therapy.

I realized, locked in that room, with regular visits from an orderly who’d tap on the window, indicating that I show my wrists and exhibit signs of coherence, I’d hit rock bottom. A few days later, I met with my social worker who sent me to chat with the psychiatrist. I told the nice lady in the white coat that I didn’t need to be there. I was no longer a threat to myself. I explained the story of Prince Henry and Falstaff’s merry band of misfits. I told her how I’d grown up in an abusive and secretive household. I told her of the events that led me to relocating to Indy. I told her that I never allowed myself to stop, reflect and reassemble myself. I told her I was broken into pieces, part Prince, part Falstaff, part adult, part child. I told her  it was time for me to start banishing some of those pieces and assume the throne. She smiled and agreed, that while she’d not heard a patient describe their situation in those terms, she thought I was on the right track. She signed my release form and sent me off with a pat on the back and a piece of advice- “You are remarkable,” she said. “Do remarkable things.”

I only stayed in Indianapolis for a few more months after that, taking a job as a loan processor for a mortgage company on the north side of town in an effort to make enough money to move on to my next adventure.

Shame kept me from contacting many of the friends I’d made in Indianapolis. I felt I’d let a lot of people down. Everyone had high hopes for me and what I’d do for the arts community there, and I just left without a word like a rude and reckless guest.

What they didn’t understand was I had to banish myself. I had to go somewhere to become who I was meant to be.

Just this weekend, I saw three of the former friends who believed and supported me, and who I ultimately disappointed. None of them remember me leaving a negative impression. They said they were shocked that I just suddenly disappeared without a word. I explained what had happened and we picked up exactly where we left off.

It felt good. It felt like closure on the darkest, saddest, most shameful chapter of my life.

I was banished.

I restored my virtue.

I returned not as who I was, but something better…

…and they happily welcomed me, once again, to their court.

No Butter? No Sugar? What Gives, Martha?! – Chocolate-Almond Marsala Cookies! -267 eggs, 198 cups of sugar, 201 1/4 sticks of Butter, and 248 3/4 cups of flour used so far- 18 recipes to go!

Martha's Chocolate-Almond-Marsala Cookies

André's Chocolate-Almond-Marsala Cookies

Lumps of cat poop. That’s how my partner, Dan’s coworkers described the visual appeal of this surprisingly flavorful cookie. Not a great endorsement, but at least it’s an honest one. Martha has a tendency to include at least one ingredient in each of her recipes that no one has ever had in their pantry – ever! In this case, the elusive ingredient was candied orange peel. I searched several regular supermarkets for it and could only find orange candied chunks, you know, those gummy chunks of candy-like fruit one finds in cheap holiday fruitcake? Finally, a run to Dean & Delucca paid off. They did indeed have candied orange peel, and like everything else in Dean & Delucca, it was priced at $8.00. I’ve learned that just about everything is $8.00 at D&D.  I think perhaps that should be their new slogan- Dean & Delucca- Where everything is $8.00! 

I am, at my core, a very cheap person. Well, not really cheap. There are some things I’m willing to pay more for- coffee, for example (I’m an outspoken coffee snob). I was not prepared to pay $8.00 for a half-a-rind of an orange covered in sugar. I decided to make my own instead. The process is pretty simple. I bought three oranges for $1.00. I split them into quarters, removing the pulp. I then split the peel into long manageable strips that could lay flat on the cutting board. I then carefully laid my very sharp knife flat and slowly separated the white, bitter pith from the bright orange skin. I then cut the skin into very thin strips and placed those strips in a saucepan filled with equal parts water and sugar. Once all of the skins were in the saucepan, I turned the heat to medium high until the mixture began to boil. I then reduced temperature to a simmer and let the liquid reduce to a fourth of its volume. The aroma was terrific. The kitchen smelled of pure concentrated orange. At that point I decided to get a little crazy and did the same with a few lemons since I knew I’d need them for a future Martha recipe. My kitchen never smelled so fresh.

Once the liquid had reduced, I poured the contents into a sieve discarding the liquid and placing the orange peels into a bowl of granulated sugar. I moved the peels about, coating them thoroughly, making sure they did not stick together. I then placed the peels onto a parchment-lined baking sheet, keeping them separated. I placed the sheet into a 200 degree oven and let them dehydrate for an hour or so.  Voila! Candied orange and lemon peel. I made enough to take me through quite a few holiday seasons. Not only that, the homemade candied peels are of a higher quality than anything you could buy at the store and can be eaten and enjoyed in baked goods or as is. Best of all, I was able to make what would have amounted to thirty-four-dollar’s worth of candied citrus peel at D&D for less than two bucks.

Martha’s Chocolate-Almond Marsala Cookies are a dense and crisp cookie, not unlike biscotti. It primarily tastes of citrus from the candied orange peel and the shot of Marsala wine with almond and chocolate in a supporting role. Marsala is a region around Sicily that produces this wine. It is similar to port as it is fortified. When Marsala and Port were first created, alcohol was added to the fermented grape juice so that it could survive lengthy export trade routes. Many developed a taste for these stronger, sweeter wines and thus, the Marsala and Port industries were born.

The unique feature of these cookies is their lack of butter and sugar from their list of ingredients. The cookies are sweetened by the wine, the orange peel, the semi-sweet chocolate morsels and just a touch of honey. The dry ingredients are bound together by egg and while the end result is not an attractive cookie, it is delicious, although not very sweet.

I baked these for my partner, Dan to bring to his coworkers where they were enjoyed and renamed, “Cat Poop Cookies,” since that’s pretty much what they resemble. Next time I bake them, I’m serving them in a clean litter box.

It’s been a while since I last sat down to write a post. I apologize. As I mentioned in my last post, my workplace needed me to take a six-month assignment in Bloomington, Indiana. The day after New Years I set out in my rental car after tearfully saying my goodbyes to Dan and the kitties. I set the cruise control to the legal speed limit (I put that in just in case any of my superiors at work are reading this)  and coasted down I-70 towards Indiana. Everything was fine and I made terrific time until I reached the Illinois/Indiana State line. I was greeted by a sudden and thick snow flurry. The semi truck twelve cars ahead of me swerved and jackknifed when he hit a particularly icy part of the interstate. I sat in line with the snow pouring down for the better part of an hour, moving only inches at a time. I finally was able to pass the wreckage and take my exit which was completely iced over. What should have been the last hour of my journey took nearly three as I passed wreckage after wreckage. The roads were terribly slick and I could only maintain a speed of thirty m.p.h. or less.  With ten miles left before I reached Bloomington, the snow pouring down and the light dimming as twilight approached, I was greeted by a road block. A State trooper was turning all incoming traffic around. He informed us there was an impassible, multi-car accident ahead and that we’d have to bypass it by taking the barely-paved farm road. One-by-one, we slowly made a U-turn and headed onto the narrow and bumpy farm road which led  to a long, narrow, rickety, one-lane, wooden bridge. I gripped the wheel tightly, my heart was pounding. Anyone who knows me, knows how much I hate to drive, particularly in the snow… and in the dark… on an unfamiliar road… over a dilapidated bridge…  in the middle of nowhere. I began to worry if this were all some sort of omen. Would this be a prelude to what Bloomington had in store for me?

Did I mention I really needed to pee through this whole ordeal?

I was finally able to get on the main road which was just a hop, skip and a jump to my hotel. I parked, ran past the lobby desk, yelling over my shoulder to the clerk telling him I was checking in, while jogging towards the bathroom, which of course, was occupied. I then ran over to the dinner service area where I poured myself a large glass of wine which I gulped in hopes it would calm my nerves. It did. So I had another.

That evening, after finally being able to pee, check in, unpack my few belongings, call Dan to tearfully tell him I arrived and how much I already missed him, after all of that I changed into my pajamas and laid restlessly on the ridiculously large, king bed. Sleeping alone in a king bed only compounds ones feelings of loneliness. I looked about, scanning the taupe walls, the taupe carpeted floors, the dark wood furniture,  and thought to myself- This is your new home now. Better start liking it soon. And you’d better fall in love with the color taupe.

I don’t remember making a conscious effort to fall asleep. I do remember listening to the telephone conversation through the thin wall behind the headboard. It was a man speaking with his wife. Every word was clear as day.

“Yes, honey…  I’ll call you in the morning…  Kiss the kids for me…  I’ll be home in just a few weeks… Yes, honey. I miss you, too… Wish I were there, too…  Love you, too.”

As I drifted off, the tension of the day lifted in a cloud of wine-soaked exhaustion. I thought about the man on the other side of the wall. I thought about all the other souls in the hotel, and how so many of us were not necessarily where we wanted to be, but where we needed to be.

The self-pity and angst I had been feeling all day dissipated and when I opened my eyes again, it was morning and I was living in Bloomington.

I’m glad to be writing these posts again. Its been a week now in my little hotel room. I won’t be baking cookies while I’m here since my kitchenette does not have an oven. In preparation for this, I baked many of Martha’s recipes before I left, giving me plenty to write about while here in B-town.

So until I post again, Happy New Year!

and

Don’t even think about calling me a Hoosier. (What the hell is a Hoosier anyway?)

Many Happinesses with Martha… In Bed!- Fortune Cookies! -265 eggs, 198 cups of sugar, 201 1/4 sticks of Butter, and 247 1/2 cups of flour used so far- 19 recipes to go!

Martha's Fortune Cookies

André's Fortune Cookies

Three of my co-workers and friends recently retired. Every quarter our department has a pot-luck breakfast followed by a meeting. I wanted to do something special for these very talented friends, each a gifted writer and thinker. I had been putting off baking Martha’s recipe for Fortune Cookies. They looked like slow, tedious, pain-in-the-ass cookies to bake.

If you’ve read many of my previous posts, you’d know how I feel about tuiles. Tuile is a French word which means Tile. Supposedly these cookies are called tuiles because they resemble the clay roofing tiles you see throughout France and the Mediterranean. They are paper-thin cookies that, while still warm and pliable, are shaped into some sort of structured design. I believe this step is necessary so the cookies don’t resemble novelty barf.

Fortune Cookies, which, by the way, are not Asian in origin but completely an American invention, are French tuiles made mostly of egg white, sugar, flour, butter and vanilla,  with an added paper treat inside. They can only be baked three at a time, otherwise you cannot shape them fast enough since they cool into a hard, crispy cookie very quickly. That’s the other issue I have with tuilles- you burn the hell out of your fingertips!

I filled each of these with quotes from my three colleagues procured by their friends through the years. It was a nice and tasty tribute to three fantastically talented ladies as they start the next and happiest chapter of their lives. I wish them nothing but the best with hope they’ll always stay in touch.

Speaking of new chapters, I promised news in my last post, so here it is. I was approached at work a few weeks ago about taking a temporary assignment with one of our subsidiaries in another city- Bloomington, Indiana.

Even though Dan and I have our wedding fast approaching and a million things to do, this opportunity seemed like a smart career move, and my company really needed someone to step in and hit the ground running with little training. After a long discussion with Dan, we agreed that we could deal with living apart for six months.

I just got back in town after training this week in Bloomington at our subsidiary. I’ll be living in a long-term stay hotel with a lovely kitchen but… wait for it… NO OVEN!

It’s very hard to bake cookies without an oven.

With only a few cookie recipes left in this challenge, I am going to attempt to bake as many of them before I leave as I can, photograph them, and then write about them from Bloomington.

I’m a bit sad that Dan and I will be apart. We’ve not experienced prolonged absences from each other since we first met and continued the relationship long distance between Kansas City and Jersey City.

I have an agreement with work allowing me to come home one weekend a month, and  a two week allotment  for the wedding, but still it’s all quite bittersweet.

I leave at the very beginning of the year so I have a couple of weeks to get through the 16 recipes I’ve yet to tackle.

So, that’s my big news- I’m going to be a hotel dweller for six months just like a bald, middle-aged, gay male version of Eloise.

Let’s move on from that subject now, shall we?

Here is the last installment of a series of poems I’m calling Dear Santa.

These poems are based on stories friends shared with me in response to a request I’d made for their recollections of toys or gifts they asked for or received from Santa when they were kids. The stories were marvelous and plentiful. I received over 40 responses and wrote these pieces to honor what my friends had shared. The poems are short and not necessarily very good. They are essentially little wordy stocking-stuffers. Pieces of fluff, for the most part to put a smile on the readers face.

Thanks to all my wonderful friends for sharing these memories with me. Memories are precious things. The older I get, the more I understand their value.

So, without any further ado, here is the last installment of Dear Santa.

Little Patty wanted…

a Maxi-Coat!

I have a desire,

deep down in my core,

to own a wool coat

that just skirts the floor.

Black and white houndstooth?

Perhaps chevron stripe?

A maxi coat works

for my body type.

Little John wanted…

a Riviton set.

This toy was recalled.

Is this some sort of joke?

The parts are too small

and could cause one to choke.

My Christmas is ruined

’cause some kid from the South

thought the components

belonged in his mouth.

Little Christy wanted…

a brunette Barbie doll.

Yeah, blondes have more fun,

or so they say.

But every brunette

will have her day.

The jokes will be mean,

and blondes will disdain ‘em.

Just as soon as

a brunette explains ‘em.

Little Charla wanted…

a bride doll.

Working through the quiet hours of the evening,

gentle, loving hands fashion

an exquisite dream

in white.

A young girl’s wish fulfilled, not by fictitious elves

but by one who knows her heart.

With each loop of the needle,

two hearts are

stitched together…

in memory…

in tenderness…

in love…

Little Susie wanted…

a kitchen play set.

I’d prep and serve

like a perfect miss

and revel in

sweet domestic bliss.

I’d serve hors d’oeuvres

of carved polished pine

with a big mug

of my play house house wine.

Martha Roasting On An Open Fire!- Butter Cookie Sandwiches With Chestnut Cream! -261 eggs, 197 cups of sugar, 200 1/4 sticks of Butter, and 246 1/2 cups of flour used so far- 20 recipes to go!

Martha's Butter Cookie Sandwiches with Chestnut Cream

André's Butter Cookie Sandwiches with Chestnut Cream

So, sticking to Martha’s rules, I had to go on another scavenger hunt to procure an ingredient not commonly found in the Midwest- Chestnut Cream (AKA Crema di Marroni).

I started at one Italian specialty store where the owner, a full-blooded, first generation Sicilian looked surprised when I asked him, “Crema di Marroni?”. He immediately began to rattle off in Italian while I nodded politely inserting a gentle, “Scusi mi, Signior.” I explained that, “Crema di marroni” and “Scusi mi, Signior” were the extent of my Italian. He responded, “Non! No crema di marroni! You try Dean & Delucca!”  Why is it that when I hear Italian or German I feel like I’m being yelled at?

The gentleman was right. Dean & Delucca did have chestnut cream at eight dollars a can. Why is everything at least eight dollars at Dean & Delucca?

I brought it home and began baking. The cookie part of this recipe is a simple sugar cookie cut-out requiring multiple chillings of the dough. The filling was a combination of chestnut cream, butter and confectioner’s sugar. Not only that, it only called for a few tablespoons of that eight-dollars-a-can chestnut cream. (I saved the rest to make    macaron fillings with.) I hate you for this, Martha.

The cookies were baked, filled and then dipped in melted chocolate.

How were they?

Well, I like to think I have a discerning palate, but chestnut is an a very subtle flavor- sweet and slightly nutty. It is, by itself, just a syrupy, goopy, jam without much else to offer. The result was a buttery filled cookie with an unremarkable filling. The chocolate coating, at least, was a treat.

I baked these for a fiery, red-headed, former boss and shoe-diva who retired months ago. I’d promised her cookies and needed to make good on my promise. I dropped by her home unannounced to leave them for her. She had just gotten back from church and was wrapped up in a warm robe. It was the first time I’d seen her wearing flats. I always had a suspicion she owned a pair or two.

I felt bad that I hadn’t called first but she still seemed happy to see me… I think.

I was, however, disappointed she wasn’t wearing a turban. If anyone could bring turbans back into fashion, and I wish someone would,  it’d be her.

By the time I got home she’d sent me an email.

It read:

“I ate the first cookie before you left the driveway. Yum! Thanks for being so thoughtful and a good cook!”

So, there you have it- Butter Cookie Sandwiches with Chestnut Cream. Not the shortest title for a cookie, that’s for sure. And not really worth traveling across town in search of Martha’s mystery ingredient. Still, it’s a good cookie and best of all, it was appreciated.

Here is my next installment of bite-sized poetry based on childhood memories friends and family shared with me about the gift they wished Santa would bring them. If you’re just reading this for the first time then go back a few posts to see what this is all about.

I’ll probably have only one more installment in this series I call, Dear Santa… .

Also, check back soon. I have some big news to share. Nothing that’s going to change your life in any meaningful way, but it’ll change mine quite a bit… at least for a few months. But I ain’t telling. At least not just yet.

Happy Holidays, Folks!  Enjoy these seven “poetic” stocking stuffers.

Little Adriane wanted…

Star Wars Action Figures

A long, long time ago

in a theatre far away.

I went to see a film

on a boiling hot summer’s day.

With a sudden blast of brass

the screen filled up with stars.

Shakespeare set in space?

Lucas’ Celestial Wars.

Little Sarah, Little Maureen, and Little Renée wanted…

a Pony

I want a pony!

I want it now!

A knight on top, of course.

If it’s too much work,

forget the knight,

I’ll just take the horse.

Little Nicole wanted…

a Mork from Ork doll

Maybe I’m just crazy,

or a Prime Time TV dork,

Still, “Na Noo Na Noo” thrills me

from my plastic Mork from Ork.

Little Stephanie wanted…

a Toy Cement Mixer

Most girls like dolls but  a small percent

would rather mix and lay cement.

Another Little Stephanie wanted…

one of Santa's Reindeer

Dear

Santa Claus,

Just one of eight…

is that too much to ask for?

A bit of Christmas magic to call my own.

To feed, to care for and to ride into the night sky,

a part of those amazed smiles, a messenger of happiness,

of Peace,

of Love,

of Joy.

Little Morgan wanted…

a Go Go - My Walking Puppy

 I want a puppy that go-go-goes,

a fuzzy poodle or a pug.

I’ll give him baths and clean up when

he doodles batteries on the rug.

Little David wanted…

a Daisy BB Gun

Despite my dear parents’ warnings,

and their little white lies,

I  loved my Daisy BB Gun

and still have both my eyes.

Tuile We Meet Again, Martha!- Tuile Leaves! -260 eggs, 195 1/2 cups of sugar, 198 3/4 sticks of Butter, and 245 cups of flour used so far- 21 recipes to go!

Martha's Tuile Leaves

André's Tuile Leaves decorating a Pumpkin Roulade

Again with the tuiles, Martha? I’ve decided that any recipe with a French name simply indicates it was written by an a**hole.

Tuile Leaves are a crisp, delicate, paper-thin cookie that requires working with a very thin, pancake-like batter and a self-made stencil of a leaf. I hacked up an old plastic milk carton to make my stencil which I placed over a silicone lined cookie sheet. I used an offset spatula to spread a very thin layer of the egg-white based batter over the stencil, painted it on, really. I repeated this four times per sheet, then placed the sheet in the oven to bake for approximately ten minutes until the cookies turned golden around the edges. I then had to work quickly to remove them from the sheet, making sure to burn my fingers each time, and place each cookie over a rolling pin so that it would curl into a fresh-fallen leaf shape.

This process took the better part of ninety minutes as each step had to be repeated ad nauseum.

How do they taste?

Well, they’re not terribly flavorful, with only a drop or two of almond extract in the batter to give a faint taste of wedding cake in each bite. They’re also not terribly substantial and so there’s no real sense of having eaten a cookie when biting into one.  The crisp cookie shatters and dissolves immediately much like the Catholic eucharist if it tasted like wedding cake instead of Jesus. Since these cookies really aren’t for enjoying, they do make a fancy garnish for a more substantial sweet- and that’s just what I used them for.

I baked a pumpkin roulade with a cream-cheese and candied ginger filling and these were the perfect decoration for this Fall-weather treat. So, if you’re looking for a cookie that’s more style than substance, that brings the fancy and not much else, Martha’s Tuile Leaves are for you.

I have been really enjoying writing these little poems, these little, wordy stocking-stuffers based on my friends’ holiday wish lists from when they were kids, the stuff they remembered asking jolly old Saint Nick for.  If you want the backstory on what these writings are all about, go back two posts to read how this little exercise got started. I imagine there will be at least two more posts based on this exercise since I received almost fifty stories from friends and readers.

I am under no illusion that any of these poems are terribly inspiring or really any good for that matter, but I’ve been enjoying writing them. Hope you get a kick out of reading them, too.

Here’s the third installment of a collection I’m calling, Dear Santa…

Little Leea wanted…

...a pink bike with a basket

Freedom is a new pink  bike,

  a basket on the bars.

I’d peddle through the heavens with

my basket filled with stars.

Little Michelle and Little Nicole wanted…

... a Cabbage Patch Doll

Moms, and aunts, and grandmas fought

to own your swollen smile.

They’d maul each other in the mall,

carnage in every aisle.

Like fabled Helen you inspired

this retail sparring match.

I curse whoever dragged you from your

goddamned cabbage patch.

Little Danielle wanted…

... a doll with adoption papers.

Don’t touch my doll!

You have no right

to fondle or to move it.

This doll is mine!

So, back off bub!

Legally, I can prove it!

Little Helene wanted…

... a Polaroid Camera

Click! Snap! Buzz!

A ghostly image appears.

I shake to resuscitate,

to revive,

to resurrect that moment in time

so it can, once again, live.

Mine to hold forever.

Little Kelly, Little Mary, and Little Joy wanted…

... an Easy Bake Oven

I’d like to be the one who makes

the most delicious mini-cakes.

The envy of my friends at school.

Inspiring all I meet to drool.

I’d bake each cake with love and care.

Martha Stewart had best beware.

Little Brandi wanted…

... for all of her presents to be donated to the poor.

But she still received one gift, …

... a garnet ring

If I only wished to do the right thing,

then why the hell am I dinged with this bling?

Little Susan wanted…

... a Go-Kart

 I wrote about Go-Karts once before.

Ah well,  I guess I could write one more.

Mom and Dad’s worry can be endured.

Just be heavily insured.

Look for the next post later this week. Have fun decorating for the holidays!

Rolling Your Own With Martha!- Cigarette Russes! -259 eggs, 195 1/4 cups of sugar, 198 1/2 sticks of Butter, and 244 3/4 cups of flour used so far- 22 recipes to go!

Martha's Cigarette Russes

André's Cigarette Russes

I have a friend named Russ. If you look to the right at the Links to My Friends’ Sites, you’ll see his. Russ is my smoking buddy. We feed each others’ bad nicotine habit while complaining about our lives almost every workday morning. I knew that I’d eventually bake this recipe just for him. After all, Cigarette Russes? How deliciously ironic is that? Russ had a bit of a health scare a few weeks ago and was whisked from work in an ambulance. The poor guy had an inner-ear infection and his equilibrium was shot for a few days. It scared him. It scared a lot of us who care about him, too. Upon his return, I presented him with an antique tin filled with these cigarette-shaped treats.

Cigarette Russes are technically tuiles. If you’ve read my previous posts about tuiles, you’d know I despise baking them. They are fussy, paper-thin cookies that can only be baked in batches of three-or-four at a time. They have to be shaped while they are still warm and therefore you WILL GET BURNED. In the case of these cookies, they had to be first poured onto the baking sheet with a teaspoon, thinly spread with an offset spatula and baked into a flat oval which then had to be removed while still warm and pliable from the finger-searing baking sheet and wrapped around a chopstick to dry. They are then trimmed on each end so they are uniform in size and then dipped in melted chocolate and rolled in toasted, chopped almonds. They are a lot of work.

I have to say, though, out of all the tuiles I’ve baked, these have been the most satisfying and delicious and  I’d probably bake again in the distant future when I’ve forgotten how much I hate baking tuiles.

Russ was worth it, though and he is back to his old sardonic self.

Now, here are the next seven poems based on the stories friends submitted to me about their childhood holiday wish list. If you are just joining this blog or you haven’t seen the last post, go back and read it so you know what this is all about. Thanks, as always, to the friends who sent their stories to me and look for the next seven very soon. This exercise should take me through December, which is terrific because I’m doing a lot of baking this month.

Again, these are not intended to be brilliant pieces of though-provoking art, but rather, little snippets, word candies to chew on. If you don’t like it, spit it out and move on to the next one. I’m sure there’s a funny cat video out there on the internets that will make you smile.

Anyhoo, here ya’ go!

Little Nickole wanted…

A Play Cash Register from the J.C. Penney's Catalogue

Mother Commerce wants to play.

She sneezes her little Ka-chings,

promises of  future prosperity.

Deregulated child’s play,

unmarred, uninhibited,

and, for the time being, untaxed.

Little Stormy wanted…

A Barbie...

...and a Fire Truck

A girl should live in a world of pink.

At least that’s what I’ve been told to think.

I wonder if those girls, when they’re dead,

wished they’d lived a day or two in red.

Little Gretchen wanted…

a Go Kart...

...and a Strawberry Shortcake Watch

The wheels went zoom.

Then I went Boom!

Then spent the day

crying in my room.

It broke our hearts.

My watch, in parts.

“Go” stands for “Gone”

when it comes to karts.

Little Sara wanted…

a Barbie Dream House

I want that house! The one in pink

with molded plastic walls.

A place where I can store my boon

of eighteen Barbie dolls.

A fifteen year adjustable rate

at three-point-five percent

sounded good five years ago.

My dream house came and went.

Little Sarah wanted… 

a Record Player

Before the age of MP3s,

a million years ago,

there was a spinny, scratchy thing

that set our hearts aglow.

It spun in every bedroom

the rhythm of a race

and suddenly the world was changed.

This sound soon grew a face.

Little Helen wanted…

a Mimi Doll

I want to teach the world to sing

in perfect harmony.

I’d like for all the heads of State

to hug the bourgeoisie.

Together we’d sing songs of change

from Wall Street to L.A.

Have faith all those who “Occupy”

Mimi’s on her way!

Little Rebecca wanted…

a Teddy Ruxpin

In the dark cloak of evening,

past any reasonable bedtime

I  tiptoed past the gentle snores in the tiny lavender room.

Mr. Ruxpin and I stood face-to-face.

A freshly recorded cassette in hand,

I worked quickly and with silent precision.

The deed was done.

One need only wait.

I awoke to a most lovely strain

 of a sibling’s horrific screams.

Teddy gleefully admitted his thirst for human blood.

The punishment?

Totally worth it.

Check back soon for the next seven entries. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Getting Wrinkly With Martha!- Prune Rugelach! -255 eggs, 193 1/4 cups of sugar, 197 1/4 sticks of Butter, and 243 1/2 cups of flour used so far- 23 recipes to go!

Martha's Prune Rugelach

André's Prune Rugelach

Rugelach, which has about a zillion different spellings, is a pastry from medieval Jewish ancestry rooted in the German region of Europe. It’s a traditional pastry rolled into a crescent around some sort of filling. In this case, a prune filling with a cream cheese dough. The actual name is a Yiddish derivative meaning, little twists, although there seems to be some debate about which form of Yiddish would be appropriate for a more concise translation. Anyhoo, they’re delicious. I first encountered rugelach in the coffee shops in NYC as a student in the late eighties. Delectably dense and moist, these little treats are the perfect accompaniment to a steaming cup of coffee or tea. Making them, however was a bit of work.

First, dried prunes had to be reconstituted in brandy overnight. Meanwhile I prepared the cream cheese dough made from sugar, butter, flour, cream cheese and salt. Once these were combined into a pliable dough it needed to be chilled overnight in two discs. The next day I prepared the filling by removing the prunes from the brandy and placing them in a food processor with bread crumbs and sugar. The dough was then rolled out into large discs and the filling was thinly spread on top with a generous sprinkling of breadcrumbs and sugar. Using a pastry wheel, I cut the discs into 16 wedges and rolled each wedge into a crescent. Each of these were given a sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar then returned to the fridge to chill before baking.

While baking, the house filled with the most amazing aroma. I brought these to work for my colleagues to enjoy, and enjoy them, they did.

So, if you’re looking to get a little fancy in the kitchen, try a batch of these delicious Jewish treats.

In my last post and on my Facebook page, I sent out a request to friends and readers in hopes they’d send me a simple story about a memory. What holiday gift did they ask for when they were a child? Did they get it? Do they still have it? I asked them to be as descriptive or as plain as they’d like with the promise to turn these stories into something.

I’ve received almost forty stories and have loved every single one. Some have made me laugh while others were quite somber and sad. Nostalgia is a funny thing and as I get older I find myself falling into its moments with increasing frequency.

I recently completed a short course in poetry at work with a really terrific teacher along with some fantastically talented co-workers. I am not a poet. I’ve written very little poetry but it is a form of writing I’ve been wanting to explore a bit more.

So, below you’ll see seven short pieces of poetry inspired by the items and/or stories provided by friends and readers. I will be continuing this exercise until I’ve  included each of the wonderful stories people were so generous to share. The poems are just short bits of word play, quick first impressions thrown down on paper (or in this case the internets). They are not intended to be great art, but rather, little snippets of memory. Little stocking stuffers for the holidays. If you contributed and don’t see your item or story, keep checking back. There will be more posts to come.

So, without further ado, I present the first in a collection of poems I call, Dear Santa… .

Little Danny Wanted…

Hugo- The Man of a Thousand Faces

A thousand faces.

How nice that would be.

A face just for them.

And one just for me.

Little Gilda Wanted…

A Baby Girl

A perfect vessel for a young girl’s heart,

molded in plastic, swaddled in pastels.

A reservoir for tenderness.

The first lesson in squeals, and spitting up,

and stolen peace in the wee, dark hours.

Soon replaced by a perfect vessel for a young girl’s heart.

Little Greg Wanted…

An Atari 2600a

A flicker of impending doom,

the mechanical “Zurp! Zurp! Zurp!” of the relentless invaders.

With the tapping of a thumb, humanity is saved once again.

There are extra lives yet to be lived.

The stick of joy awaits.

Little Ann Wanted…

White Patent Leather Go-Go Boots

You say that you’d like

the boots that Go-Go.

“No daughter of mine!…”

The answer’s No-No!

Little Linda Wanted…

Chatty Cathy

After too long a silence,

young women found their roar.

Being the smallest of all,

she, too, spoke her mind.

“Please take me with you!” she said.

Little Julie and  Jessica Wanted…

A Bean Bag Chair

All I ask for is a bean bag chair,

a throne for my dainty derriere.

Keep your fur-lined coats and Jordache jeans,

all I desire is a bag of beans.

Little Katherine Wanted…

A Real Guitar

Tiny fingers seek out the note.

The fret.

The string.

The sound.

Stretch to reach a desired chord.

A pluck.

A strum.

A smile.

Thanks to everyone who contributed their stories. Look for more of these later this week. I still have plenty of these to write.

This has been a fun exercise!

Martha Gave Me a Swirlie!- Coconut Swirl Brownies! -254 eggs, 191 cups of sugar, 195 1/4 sticks of Butter, and 241 1/2 cups of flour used so far- 24 recipes to go!

Martha's Coconut Swirl Brownies

André's Coconut Swirl Brownies

Brownies are always a fan favorite for those with a sweet tooth and a mild-to-outrageous chocolate addiction. Martha’s Coconut Swirl Brownies certainly don’t disappoint. The brownie mixture is typical of most, melted chocolate, vanilla extract, butter, flour, eggs, salt, baking powder and sugar come together in a thick chocolatey batter. In a separate bowl, shredded unsweetened coconut flakes, condensed milk, sugar and egg whites are combined to make the coconut swirl element. Once the brownie batter has filled an eight-inch square baking pan, lined with parchment paper with a few inches of the paper extended over two sides for easy removal of the brownies later, tablespoons of the coconut mixture are plopped on top and then swirled into the batter with a butter knife.

Once baked and allowed to cool, the brownies can be cut into squares and served.

How do they taste?

They have the flavor of an Almond Joy candy bar- very chocolatey and very coconutty- also very, very delicious. I know not everyone is a big fan of coconut. I, however, am. If you are looking for a recipe that puts a fun and delicious twist on the usual plain brownie, I suggest keeping this recipe in mind.

People have been asking me what I’m going to do with myself after this cookie blog is done, which will hopefully be early next year. Well, here’s what I’m thinking:

I’d like to have some sort of fundraiser for the last cookie. A gathering of friends sharing milk & cookies and perhaps a few readings from some of the past posts. This blog was born out of an idea to raise funds for local charity and it would be nice to put it to bed doing exactly that. As far as pursuing any sort of book deal or memoir, all I can say is maybe. It seems to me that the publishing market is currently drowning in memoirs. I will take some time to extract the cookie-stuff from the stories so Martha doesn’t sue me and rearrange them into some sort of narrative, try to find the story arc in these random posts.

That said, I have other writing endeavors I want to pursue in the next year. I have a fiction I’d like to begin writing based loosely on a gruesome murder in Baton Rouge when I was in my early twenties. I had briefly dated the prime suspect prior to the killing and therefore I was privy to details I wish I hadn’t known. The suspect I had been dating was released and never charged due to lack of evidence but part of me has always remained suspicious.  That’s as far as I’m willing to tip my hand on that project.

Beyond these two ambitious projects, I have a life and a career to focus on. I have a wedding in April to plan- I’m not very good at this whole wedding-planning thing.  I am also in the midst of a DIY remodel project to my upstairs in which I am planning on losing a finger-or-two to a power-tool accident. It’ll hard to type without all my fingers but I will surely prevail.  I also have a children’s theatre musical  about childhood obesity I’ve been commissioned to write with the first draft due at the end of the year and the final draft due in early February. (Going between the writing of a cookie blog and a play about childhood obesity is what is known as delicious irony.)

So, what am I going to be doing when I finish this blog? The same thing I’ve always done… overcommit myself to a bajillion things and then complain about them to anyone willing to listen.

I know this is a pretty short post but I plan on doing a fun one tomorrow.

You can help!

Use the comment box to tell me about the one holiday gift you remember wanting as a child. Did you receive it? If so, how long did you keep it? Still have it? Be as descriptive or as plain as you’d like. I am going to turn these into something tomorrow. What I turn them into remains to be seen but it’s just the thing I need to put me in the mood for the holidays.

 

 

Café Au Martha!- Mocha Shortbread Wedges! -250 eggs, 190 1/4 cups of sugar, 194 1/4 sticks of Butter, and 240 3/4 cups of flour used so far- 25 recipes to go!

Martha's Mocha Shortbread Wedges

André's Mocha Shortbread Wedges

“It didn’t look like shortbread, but I loved the shape (and size of the cookie!). It’s definitely a variation from the traditional shortbread that I LOVE.  But what isn’t better with the addition of chocolate.  It had a bitterness at first bite, then the sweetness and meltiness of true shortbread.  It’s a winner!”

This is the last review I’ll be posting from the elusive Baroness Von Shortbread. This is, after all, the last shortbread recipe in Martha’s book still needing to be tackled. I’m closing in towards the end of this endeavor and what an endeavor it’s been. But, first things, first. I need to write a bit about Martha’s Mocha Shortbread Wedges.

Traditional shortbread is an eggless and sandy cookie made from butter, sugar and flour. Martha’s Mocha Shortbread Wedges are really no different except for the addition of espresso powder and Dutch processed cocoa powder. The ingredients are combined into a dough and spread along the bottom of a round baking pan. The dough is then baked at a low temperature until the cookie just begins to brown. In the case of a dark chocolate shortbread, it’s difficult to determine if the cookie is browned. I kept an eye on the cookie and when the top appeared to wrinkle up a bit like brownies tend to do while baking, I figured they were done. Once removed from the oven the pan is placed on a wire rack to cool for five minutes or so. While it is still warm, the cookie is carefully removed from the pan and cut into twelve wedges with a serrated bread knife. The trick is to cut the cookie while it is still warm and a bit pliable. Shortbread doesn’t really crisp up into it’s crumbly state until it’s cooled completely and allowed the moisture from the butter content to evaporate. Once this happens, it’s virtually impossible to cut without breaking the cookie into unattractive pieces.

I happen to agree with the Baroness’ assessment of these cookie. The bitterness of the espresso powder and cocoa hits the palate first but it is soon followed by the warm, melty sweetness one would expect from a shortbread. My partner, Dan did not care for these. In his opinion, they looked a bit like brownies but don’t have the warm gooey texture brownies promise. Eating a Mocha Shortbread Wedge was like biting into a bagel, thinking it was a donut. The disappointment was a turn-off.

Still, I liked them and so did the Baroness, and the Baroness ain’t easy to please.

Many posts ago I promised to expand a bit on a story from a past gig I had in Saint Louis, Missouri. It was 1990 and I was at the School for Über Serious Actors and struggling to make ends meet. I worked on the weekends at a dinner theatre of sorts called The Royal Dumpe and then at 11:00 after the evening show, I’d drive over the Mississippi River to East Saint Louis, Illinois to play piano in the Koala Room nestled in the basement of a morally dubious gay establishment named, Faces. 

The club was a converted department store in a run-down ghetto. The bar offered three-stories of hedonism. The main floor was a marble tiled dance floor. Above it was an over-the-top drag theatre with such notable performers as Charity Case, Anita Douche, and Bebe Gunn.  In the basement was an area called the Men’s Locker Room. Women were not allowed in the basement, and any woman who would want to enter there would have had to have been out of her mind. The Locker Room was a seedy and dark bar with several television monitors scattered about playing hardcore pornography. To one side of the Locker Room was a dark room where gentlemen could disappear and do ungentlemanly things to one another anonymously in the dark. On the other side of the Locker Room was the Koala Room, named so for being placed “Down Under.” It was in this room I’d play piano from 11:30 P.M. till 5:00 A.M. flanked by two screens of porn blasting such favorite titles as The Sexorcist and The African Queen (not the one with Bogart and Hepburn.)

I made a lot of money doing this. Most gentlemen who hadn’t found their Mr. Right, or at least their Mr. Right Now by 2:00 A.M. were going to drown their sorrows and sing show tunes until the wee hours of the morning. I don’t think anyone’s really lived until they’ve sung The Man that Got Away with twenty other fifty-year-old men.

Things were going well between me and the management of Faces. The bar was owned by a group of gentlemen who were rumored to be part of a gay mafia, whatever that is. All I know is that on Thursdays I’d go to a small room in the back of the bar where a guy wearing a loud-print, blouse-like shirt with gold chains hanging down to his scrotum over a thick mat of chest hair would be waiting behind a fold-out table covered in stacks of cash. He’d check my name off a list, take a hit or two off of the joint sitting neatly in an ashtray next to a dusty mirror, a straw and an empty longneck. He’d then reach over and pull out a stack of cash, mostly singles, fives and tens. He’d throw the stack at me and say, “There ‘ya go! Now Getouttahere!”

It was on one of these Thursday afternoons when I was given a new challenge by Señor Pothead from across the money table. He checked my name off the list and paused. “You’re the piano guy, right?” he asked. I nodded. “I caught your act last weekend. It was good but, ya’know, you’d make a lot more money if ya’ wore a dress.” Hmmmm, I thought. It hadn’t occurred to me to step into the world of drag. The pothead went on, “Listen, my cousin, Vince is upstairs. Go talk with him and see if he’ll help you find a dress.”

I headed up the stairs and was greeted by a tiny slip of a blonde boy futzing with several wigs. I introduced myself and told him that his cousin downstairs sent me to get dragged-up. Vince just giggled at the thought of being called ‘cousin.’ “Kissing Cousin is more like it!” he roared. I didn’t want to know what he meant by that and so I didn’t ask. Vince then told me how important it was for me to develop a character, a persona for my drag self. Once I did that, he’d know what to pick out.

I was currently working on a play at school called Charlotte Sweet. It was a musical melodrama about a group of singers procured from mental institutions into a Victorian performing act called The Circus of Voices. Each performer’s psychosis was reflected in the way they sung. For instance there’s Cecily whose mother abused her and washed her mouth out with soap so often that she developed an intensely fast vibrato. There was Skitzy who would sing duets with her other personalities.

I thought this was a fun idea. What happens to a performer who snaps one day? At that moment I created my drag persona, Latrina Bidet, an aged and struggling actress who after one too many gigs in Dinner Theatres across the nation snapped and ended up in the gutter. The only job she’s fit to do anymore is play piano in the basement of a sleazy bar in East Saint Louis where she pops nostalgically in and out of past roles she’s performed.

As Latrina I made a pretty penny. She was just the edge I needed to go from merely performing to being a star performer. I learned a lot about how to play off an audience, a violently drunk and rowdy audience for that matter. Pretty soon people were coming to see Latrina. For the first time, people stopped looking at the porno screens in the room, enough so that management removed them to make space in the room that was quickly filling to capacity.

I began to bring in props and costume pieces, a nun’s habit for my turn at The Sound of Music, a squirt gun for West Side Story, a top hat for Sweet Charity. The crowd loved it. Sure it was base and tasteless and ridiculously sophomoric, but it was fun and silly and I was making good money.

It was also short-lived. I left Saint Louis less than a year later to work as an improv comedian at Busch Gardens in Tampa, Florida where the jokes were clean and the paycheck was steady.

I still think of those months as Latrina fondly. There’s very little of her left in me. As I’ve grown older I’ve allowed myself to become a bit more reserved, more inhibited. Still, it’s nice to know that she’s in me somewhere, lurking in my soul-gutter, waiting to take stage with her tribute to Cole Porter-potty.