A Blithe PALATE

No clue.

I compulsively take photos of food.  Not necessarily for the blog, just because.  And when I do it of food I've made, I know it's not always for artistic reasons (read:  narcissism).  But on occasion, my ADS (Asian Documentation Syndrome) is a good leveling agent for hubris.

Witness, stage right.

This photo was taken a year or so ago.  Not only did I never write about this particular dish, I'm not even sure what the hell it is.

And if you look carefully, I don't think we even ate it.

Guesses anyone?

The Sweetness and the Heartbreak...Finale.

It's August.  Their stories always happen in the fall.

_______________________

When darling G. first saw J., he was with his then girlfriend.  They were all at a mutual friend's party and G. noted how J. carefully leaned in to listen to his girlfriend, the attentiveness on his face, the careful way in which he held her hand, proffering his rapt attention as she spoke.

That, G. decided, is what I want.
_______________________

Warm chocolate chip cookies.  In ten years of friendship with D.,  these are a mainstay.  What distinguishes his cookies from other variations is the Callebaut milk chocolate.  Sometimes with a dash of nutmeg.  During the hard years when he struggled through a failing marriage, I'd routinely drop a plate of these in front of him when he came over to hang out with Hubby, to seek advice, to drink a beer, to watch a UFC match, to be a friend, to be with a friend.

Later, when the Beautiful One enters his life, he tells me about her over trays of warm chocolate chip cookies.  Tells me he can't stop thinking about her, can't wait to talk to her every night.  Marvels over the similarities in their lives. Admires her stoicism and independence.  Appreciates her insistence that he never stop pursuing his dreams even if it temporarily discomfits and disrupts their life together.

This girl, with whom he was so consumed, with whom he confessed to falling for so quickly, so deeply - well, this girl was The One.  In the early days of his campaign to win her over, his fears, his uncertainties that perhaps this was moving too quickly, that perhaps he was thinking about it too much; ah...well, all those concerns were swept away when it became clear to him that this girl -- well, this girl was The One.  The Beautiful One.

Of course they have drama and difficulties.  All relationships must.  But they also complete each other.

One night, when they are staying at our home, he tells her, "I want you to remember this night.  It'll make sense to you another time but I just want you to remember this moment and this night."

That night was significant because - though she did not know it then - he had that morning picked up the ring with which he would propose to her two months later.

It took them nearly two years after the engagement to wed; there were extenuating circumstances during which time D. achieved a lifelong career ambition; and they had a child.  But the end result was the same.  They married on a crisp fall day, both stunningly gorgeous and filled with hope for a lifetime together.

Said he to me, "This is everything I've wanted."

Happy endings.  Nothing like them.

_______________________

When G. and J. met again, he was free.  Over the course of a weekend they were thrown together by social circumstances and mutual friends.  It was snowing hard one night when she departed a friend's house for her own; J. insisted on walking her back to her apartment.  When they arrived, a blizzard was piling the streets with snow and ice.  Snowbound that evening, they stayed up and talked and talked and talked.  And the attentiveness she noted that first night - not only did he listen, he heard.

And in the ensuing weeks and months, he continues to listen and to hear.  G. blooms.

When Hubby and another friend meet J. at a baseball game G. has organized, both are reasonably impressed with J.  And they warm to his obvious affection and consideration for G.  She laughs when I tell her Hubby made sure J. understood that his limbs and life are forfeit if he hurts her.

"I'm willing to take that risk," she tells me with a wide smile.

New beginnings are a state of bliss.

_______________________

Why can't happy endings last longer?

I thought when I wrote about D. again...it would be about his marriage and his happy ending.

Men of war are unique creatures; and those at the tip of the spear tend to be even more singular.  A few years ago, before he left for a deployment, Hubby and I gave D. a copy of Frank Miller's graphic novel, 300.  In this aphorism D. firmly believed:  Ē tan ē epi tas. It is Greek; it means, "With this, or upon this." It was the phrase uttered by Spartan women to their men as the hoplites departed for war.  Simply put, come back victorious with your shield; or die in battle and be borne home upon it.

For five deployments D. came back with his shield.  Three and a half weeks ago, he was borne home upon it; and last Wednesday we buried him at Arlington National Cemetery, amongst his brothers-in-arms, as his newly married wife and now newly minted widow; his elder daughter; his siblings; and his parents watched and grieved. And those of us who were his friends - we stand by with gaping holes where once our hearts beat.

_______________________

B. sent G. a text message.

"I behaved terribly and did not deserve you. I understand what a true friend you were and are.  I want you know that if you ever need me, you need only say so, and I will be there."

"Wow.  He beat my prediction by four years," I tell her.  About two years ago, I told B. without rancor that he would be useless as a man for at least another six years.  He understood and agreed.  "He matured faster than I thought he would."

"I never expected an apology," G. says.

"What do you think?"  Read:  what happens now?

G. shrugs.  "We'll see.  It's a start."

Some endings can be a precursor to a new beginning.

_______________________

It's August again.  Their stories take place in the fall. But never in the last four years of recording them did I ever imagine that I should write a finale.  I thought, foolishly perhaps, that I'd have decades left in which to put my observances to paper.  It is incomprehensible to me that D.'s story is finished, that the bookends are now complete.  Impossible for me in a year already marked with loss that I should have to say good-bye to yet another whom I loved.

When Hubby flew to Dover to escort D.'s casket back to Ft. Benning, he took with him a bag of chocolate chip cookies.  Such cookies which made their way into D.'s casket along with coins from the units in which he had served without peer; and with which he led the way; a Cuban cigar; a flask of favored Scotch.  Chocolate chip cookies I promised he should have in endless supply when I rested my hands on his casket at the gravesite to say goodbye.

_______________________

Make every day as sweet a beginning as you can; because some endings...are heartbreaking in their finality.

The Buttercream: A Eulogy for my Father, Part 1.

When I made the buttercream, my father was still alive.

It's an Italian buttercream, made with the egg whites separated from the yolks that went into the French buttercream which decorated Lulu's birthday cake and cupcakes.  There's an entire tub of it left in my mom's fridge.

I made it on a Sunday morning, when I still thought Dad was coming home.  He had been in the hospital since the Wednesday previous.  We knew he would not be present for Lulu's birthday party that day but we expected to have him home the next day to finish out the Memorial Day holiday with us. 

But the next morning, the nurse on duty, unable to bear our continued ignorance, finally broke down and told us what his attending physician lacked the balls to do:  she told us that our father had weeks, not years remaining.  And Tuesday morning the prognosis was that he had but days.  The reality was actually two days.  Thursday evening, he took his last breath, but not before opening his eyes one last time to look at my mother, me, and my younger son, who is his namesake; a final, corporeal exchange before slipping into the ethereal.

__________________________

When I danced with my dad at my wedding, the song I chose was Edith Piaf's Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien.  It's a love song, but I've always considered it an anthem to his life. His was a larger than life kind of life.  A son born into privilege in Vietnam in 1932, his mother died when he was only a year old, her role subsequently fulfilled by an older half-sister and an aunt; his father passed away when Dad was 15.  Shortly thereafter, Dad left home and went to Hanoi after a dispute with the wife of his elder brother regarding money that had been set aside for his education.  He made his way in the world by himself and achieved for himself much success.  But my father always considered his greatest success was raising us to be productive and reasonably sane members of society. 

In Vietnam he had been a senior member of the intelligence community.  In Vietnam, he had been a Lt. Colonel.  When his country fell, with it went every security he had previously enjoyed:  position, wealth, a future.  He came to the States as an immigrant, considered his options, and decided that his future, the one he had planned for himself, was a thing of the past; the only future(s) on which he wanted to focus, was ours.  The CIA wanted him to come work for them; but he demurred.  That wasn't his life anymore. 

His first job in the United States was as a fry cook at Long John Silver's.  Because he was competent, because he was focused, because he was timely, because he never complained, he was promoted to assistant manager.  He earned $2.10 an hour.  To supplement his income, he took another part time job, as a hotel security guard.  He had a wife and five small children.  He was proud but never TOO proud; or prideful.  Just quiet, capable, professional.  If ever he looked back on the life he had had...we never knew it because he never referred to it.

He moved us to Arlington, Virginia because he thought it offered us so much more than the quiet college town in which we were then ensconced.  And he became a cashier at a local grocery store where for 27 years, he never missed a day of work and was late only once - but that was because he had to walk the five miles in 3 feet of snow.  He even had his massive heart attack during the week he took vacation.  If I took a picture of my father and titled it, "Work Ethic," everyone who knew him would agree.  And they would also agree with this other epitaph:  "Great Father."  At this job, where during his healthiest and most profitable year he cleared maybe $43,000, my father achieved the singular feat of putting five children through college.  Hello financial aid, second and third mortgages and everything else he had to put on the line to secure our futures; he considered education our birth right.  We never knew we had an option to not attend college.  He was in debt until the age of 73, when he happened to catch a lovely real estate crest and sold his home for enough money to clear out all his debts.

____________________________

Dad suffered from Parkinson's the last seven years, during which time it robbed him of his facility with life (though it never took his zest or zeal for it).  But that's not what took him from us.  It turns out that the prostate cancer which had afflicted him fifteen years earlier (oh did I mention earlier that he never took time off from work even during chemo and radiation treatments?) had actually metastasized into the bone approximately five years ago, but none of us knew this...not even Dad.  How such momentous information could have slipped us is at once staggering...and a blessing.

Let me share with you what happened in the last five years:  Dad moved from Arlington to Orlando; he visited me several times in Georgia, visited my siblings in New York and Santa Monica; and saw the births of three grandchildren. 

What I'm trying to say is that Dad lived his life fully and richly.  He didn't spend it in treatment for the bone cancer.  He didn't suffer through more chemo or radiation.  He didn't live with a death sentence hanging over him, with hopelessness marking his days.  Instead, he simply lived, taking every day that came along as a treat.  And we did too.  Because none of us knew he had advanced bone cancer.

____________________________

I took his shirt from the hospital bag, the last one he wore, the only one that still smelled like him.  The scent is fading and every day it smells less like him.

____________________________

I can say with all certainty that my father died without regrets; and while we are stricken to have lost him, we have no regrets where he is concerned, either.  I would gladly have another hug, another kiss, another moment to talk.  But I had this throughout my life and even to the end, he still kissed us, or tried to; so I don't feel that I missed out on anything with Dad.  What I do miss...is Dad himself. 

I miss him so much I wonder how this yawning emptiness will ever be filled again; I wonder how I can meet the next five or six decades of my life with this huge gaping hole inside.  I wonder how I manage to wake up every morning and function in a world where my dad no longer exists.

____________________________

Children should love their parents.  If they're really lucky, they're in love with their parents.  Guess what category we put ourselves in?

____________________________

Before I left my mother's house, I cleaned out the fridge.  But the tub of buttercream sat there.  I couldn't touch it. 

Because when I made that buttercream, my dad was still alive.

Totoro and Lulu

My niece Lulu turned one on June 1. 

Our entire family was gathered at our parents' home and when my sister asked if I would make Lulu's birthday cake, of course I could not refuse.  She had a couple of requests:  buttercream.  And Totoro.

Buttercream I could do.  But...

"What," I asked, "is Totoro?"

She looked at me, stricken.  "WHAT'S TOTORO?!"

Okay, so there's an entire back story to my failure with Miyazaki movies.  It's too long to go into now, but suffice it to say, it's an inexcusable reason for not having watched any of Miyazaki's movies.  Totoro is the main character in My Neighbor Totoro, a seriously cute woodland magic creature.

At first, I had it in mind to make an actual 3-D Totoro.  I had some ready-made gumpaste (no time to make my own) and made a little Totoro model. Too bad he looked like a fat, misshapen mouse.  That went into the trash.  The second 3-D Totoro...not any better.  Looked 100 percent like a mouse.  Also trash bound.

So...Totoro in 2D -- success!  He was actually cute.  Lulu's cake was a vanilla cake with  French buttercream.  The cupcakes were piped inside with buttercream - as I described it to my sister, "A high end Hostess cupcake."

The amazingly gifted Lyndsay at Coco Cupcakes made a brilliant set of cupcakes of the woodland sprites that I had to copy -- they provided a sweet little counterpoint to Totoro lounging amidst the flowered cupcakes.

Happy birthday sweet Lulu!

The First Cookbook

There it is on the shelf, nestled among the other French cookbooks.  But this one is special.  It was the first cookbook in what has since become a devoted library of culinaria. 

It was a gift to a sixteen year old girl from a French woman who - at that time - was the same age I am now: 40 (in her case, -ish). Being French, she was effortlessly chic and so, ageless.  She's been gone nearly a decade, her life cut too short by the malingering neurological illness from which she suffered.

I haven't opened this book to read in a long, long time.  It hasn't been my go-to book for anything really.  Many of the recipes therein I know by heart, or have variations taught to me by the French friends who have wandered in and out of my life. 

But I thought about her recently.  Because of an animated film.  Pug is  enamored of Pixar's Ratatouille...which made me think about her - because the first time I ever ate ratatouille was at her home in Grenoble - which made think of this book.  I made confit byaldi recently - the haute cuisine version of ratatouille that Rémy serves Anton Ego.  And like Ego, tasting the dish -- the combination of garlic, eggplant, squashes and tomatoes - it brought me back to my childhood, to being sixteen, to living in the south of France that summer, to being at the cusp of all things possible because I had all my life ahead of me.  And here I am now, in a satisfied middle age, having earned these stripes and these years -- and I think of Michèle.

She was the great amour of her husband's life; so much so that when he woke and found that she had passed away in the night, he held her for a few hours in their bed, before he was ready to call the ambulance.  I told this story to a friend; she said, "That sounds creepy."  But it didn't to me.  It sounded perfectly normal.  After a lifetime and two children together, I could understand that he would want those last few hours to hold her before he had to let her go forever. 

She took me out to eat at fancy restaurants.  She took me to mountains.  She took me to Aix-En-Provence and other French towns I would never have otherwise visited.  She made blue jeans look formal.  She was the quintessential, classic French woman.  She did not laugh when I told her that some day I wanted to live in a chateau.  You have to understand:  I was sixteen; and at the cusp of all things possible.  I truly believed that some day I would live in a chateau (privately I still do).  And she went right along with it.

I had forgotten this particular, peculiar wish until I saw the inscription in the cookbook again:

I wish I had had an opportunity to see her again after that summer in 1986.  I wish I'd been able to cook for her.  I think she would have found my kitchen a grand place to eat.  It's not the chateau I envisioned; but it is my castle.  She would have understood that.

And she would have understood too, why I don't use the recipe for Ratatouille Niçoise on page 151.  Why should I? 

I have her recipe.

Cookbook Spotlight Roundup: Seasonal Fruit Desserts

Whenever I gather a group of passionate cooks around this event, I am always amazed and inspired by what our participants choose to make.  I'm also awed by the stunning food styling and compositions.  Our latest entry in Cookbook Spotlight is Deborah Madison's gorgeous new book, Seasonal Fruit Desserts.  Her Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone was a watershed addition to my collection of cookbooks - before this book, I'd never really considered how fantastic vegetarian cooking could actually be.  Likewise, her latest book focuses on the luscious bounty of fruits straight from farms, orchards and fresh markets; but she doesn't stop there:  she has recipes that give a nod to fruits but are not themselves fruit-based desserts.  As always, I was so fortunate to have enthusiastic, imaginative and very gifted participants who produced some mouth-wateringly beautiful desserts!

Claudia at Honey from Rock lives in Hawaii (lucky!) where fresh fruit is abundant (more reason to be jealous) - but, as she notes, everything is between seasons so she made the Almond Corn Cake and dried fruits; but couldn't resist trying the Souffléed Pancakes -- batter over carmelized mangoes, which substituted in a pinch for apples that are no longer in season.

Rachel, the Crispy Cook went the same route as Claudia, electing to use dried fruit, nuts and preserves to make this beautiful Walnut Torte with Blackberry Preserves.  Her blog is a lovely repository of gluten free dishes; this recipe called for potato starch and egg for the torte, along with blackberry preserves.  Violets from her garden finished off this lovely cake.

Beth Anne, like many participants, was swept away by the book and made seven (yes, seven!) desserts, including the Broken Jellied Wine with Summer Fruit.  Quite apropos as her blog is The Seventh Level of Boredom.  Seriously, how do I get an invitation to her table?  Seven desserts!  I can totally get behind that.

Jamie's life is about her Adventures in SF - the latest of which is a broken oven which has been a nightmare of epic proportions, particularly for as avid a cook as she; but she is determined to overcome this obstacle and has already decided on a list of dishes to be made once her kitchen is back in working order.  On the list, I'm particularly interested in showing up to try to the Persimmon Pudding with her...(hint, hint, Jamie!).

Bake, says Joanne at Eats Well with Others.  That is her life lesson #246.  And bake she does, in defiance of an upcoming exam and in exemplary daughterhood for Mother's Day.  She made the Coconut Rice Pudding Cake with Raspberry Compote.

Deb is another lucky lady who lives in Hawaii.  From her Kahakai Kitchen, she made the Yogurt Swedish Cream with Warm Berry Sauce.  This wasn't her first choice:  she started thinking about Right Side Up Cake before healthy choices made her consider Quinoa Pudding with dried fruit; but the warming days in Hawaii persuaded her that something "cool, smooth and creamy" was needed - and this panna cotta-like yogurt based dessert was the right way to go.

Emily at Tomato Kumato tried two recipes - simple desserts that nevertheless managed to be phenomenal with their flavor combinations, including the Pineapples with Basil Syrup.  Her sister helpfully marked other recipes to try with Post-It Notes; it sounds like more testing is needed, Emily!

I love Peabody and her fabulous Culinary Concoctions.  Living in Western Washington, there are plenty of farmer's markets and road stores from which to choose a plethora of fresh fruits.  For this event, she decided on a tart - and in this case, the Cream Tart with Black Raspberries.

Holly is the Phe/Mom/enon.  Look at this ridiculously beautiful Huckleberry Cream Tart!  Why this recipe?  Well, the tart dough was apparently like nothing she had ever read or heard about - processed into a thick batter that somehow coalesced into the silky tart you see before you...

Barbara Bakes; and she decided to make two desserts - the Mangoes with Minced Strawberries, and the Quinoa Pudding with Dried Cherries and Cranberries; this isn't just for dessert - consider, as Barbara does, this a great way to start the morning.  Dessert for breakfast?  Sign me up.

So the book isn't all about fruit based desserts - and here is vivid sugary goodness for proof.  Susan, Ms. Doughmesstic - made these Hazelnut Chocolate Chunk Cookies - all butter and hazelnut oil.  This is perfect for those in-between weeks of waiting for the fruit season to really kick into gear...

Over in the Daring Kitchen, Becky at Thirty Dirty Fingers, got a produce box from her local CSA laden with rhubarb and tart storage apples.  Three dishes emerged from her daring kitchen including this No Worries Apple Galette...

I'm so grateful that Ivonne, Cream Puffs in Venice, never turns me down when I come running to her with the latest cookbook I'm reading through for which I must absolutely throw a Cookbook Spotlight or an Edible Word.  She's as much in love with cookbooks as I am; and she never fails to astonish me with her choices.  They're far more exciting than anything I'd choose to make - witness this Baked Rhubarb with Vanilla, Orange and Clove.  I hope you heed the call forever Ivonne!

Steph was skeptical about the organic agenda - but even she concurs that the recipes are simple and scrumptious.  See the Berry Galette she made for her in-laws - which they polished off in two days!  And in a brilliant bit of synchronicity, they got a copy of Deborah's book as a gift from a family member!

A great big thank you to all the lovely and passionate participants in this round of Cookbook Spotlight! 

And the winner of our giveaway book - Barbara at Winos and Foodies!  Barbara, Pug drew your name from the box so he will expect a kiss when he sees you next year.  :-)  Thanks to everyone who submitted their names - I'll have some more books to give away soon!

Giveaway: Deborah Madison's Seasonal Fruit Desserts

Deborah Madison has a new book out! 

Seasonal Fruit Desserts is her take on delicious sweets that begin with lush, farmer's market fresh fruits.

I have a brand new copy to give away -- send an email to me at: ablithepalate (AT) gmail (DOT) com by noon PST on Friday 7, 2010 if you are interested and I'll randomly draw a name.  Or I'll have Pug do it.

Watch the following week as we feature the book in our latest edition of Cookbook Spotlight.  I can't wait to see what my cohorts have prepared!

Update:  I've had several questions from readers about shipping and eligibility.  The giveaway is open to everyone.  I'm happy to ship to you whether you're in the States or in New Zealand!  :-)

Words Fail.

Some of my favorite posts were written in a state of high emotion.  I've frequently used this blog as an outpost to examine life, death and love and how they revolved around food, and the visceral memories associated with a particular meal or a dish or a drink.

I lost a friend recently.  Someone too young to be gone.  Someone who left behind so many things, so much still yet to do, and most of all, so many beloved ones.

I think of her as I down a cup of tea and a few macaroons from my favorite baker.  She was one of those who understood and loved the comfort of high tea.

I know the words will come.  It's just too fresh, too raw and too near to write about now.  I want to honor her but words fail.  There aren't enough superlatives to describe her; and I'm overwhelmed with too many synonyms for sadness.

Let her eat cake!

I'm not going to even pretend the cake is pretty or aesthetically pleasing. 

I have a whole host of excuses ready:  I didn't bring my baking/dessert toolbox with me to Florida; Mom's baking and decorating supplies are sorely lacking; there wasn't enough time; blah blah blah.  I was even going to blame E4 and his lack of decorating skills, but as he didn't eat dinner, he wasn't allowed anywhere near dessert, which fact he took with strange stoicism for a 3 year old. 

The simple matter is, the cake was a last minute decision.  And the more relevant truth is that Marni doesn't care what the cake looks like...because it's CAKE. 

Marn has Celiac's, which means her life is gluten free.  She's learned to live well and eat well even with these constraints; although last night when she arrived at Mom's house for dinner with her fiancé, John, my brother met them at the door with an empty box and said, "Hey Marn, here's what you get to eat since you're allergic to wheat!"  Sigh.  My brother.  Funny man. Cruel, but funny.

Mom made her usual medley of amazing food (summer rolls with a Hoisin/ peanut dipping sauce, and spicy Bun Bo Hue) for dinner.  Vietnamese food is relatively GF friendly as we don't use much in the way of flour, distilled white vinegar or soy sauce but Mom was still nervous about what Marn could eat and couldn't eat.  She kept asking me, "Can I use this [ingredient]?"  And just when I thought she finally "got" it, she said, "Oh hey, we have cake, should we serve that for dessert?"  Sigh.  My mother.   Occasionally airheaded.  Unintentionally funny.

Initially I was going to make a cream-based dessert, like a mousse or a crème brûlée.  But recalling the last time Marni had dinner with me, and her delight when I presented her with gluten free brownies, I thought, why not cake?  Like organics, gluten free foods have become mainstream and are now accessible in grocery stores.  The night of a dinner party is probably not the time to start experimenting with something as precise as gluten free baking.  As it is, I'm already slightly handicapped when it comes to baking - I don't always follow the recipe as written, which in cooking is not a big deal; but in baking, can be disastrous.  Enter Bob's Red Mill chocolate cake mix, which produced a lush, super moist chocolate cake.  Mindless.  Pour into a bowl and beat with milk, water, lemon juice, eggs, put it in the oven for 20 minutes and voilà:  insta-GF cake.  For the frosting and icing I modified Karen DeMasco's white chocolate cream cheese frosting recipe from last week's birthday fesitivities, increasing the cream cheese portion for a creamier texture and the white chocolate for a sweeter counterpunch to cake's pleasantly cocoa-y, not-too-sweet flavor.  Mom, who doesn't particularly care for cake, declined a slice; but upon trying a bite from my plate, made off with my portion.

Marn, of course, was happy.  John told me that when I informed her we were having cake for dessert, she danced a jig.  I get that.  How sad would I be if my diet restricted me from having the goodness that is cake?

Let her eat cake, I say.

Trains and Monuments

"You don't write anymore."

It's as much a question as an admonishment.  I know.  Not at all since last December.  Which coincided with Hubby's deployment to Afghanistan.  I'm in denial about it all.  I focus on the positive things going on and avoid thinking about those out of my control.  The blog lies more or less dormant because with one quarter of my little family gone, part of the purpose of cooking is gone.  More than nourishment, food is love and comfort for me.  It's hard to throw myself into cooking when I'm distracted; and it's hard baking when I'm not inspired. And  writing sometimes feels burdensome.

But there are some things that must be celebrated; Hoss' first birthday in December, and Puggle's third birthday this past week were two such events for which manic party planning and all-morning cooking and baking were apropos and welcome.  Having two boys, I'm aware that my time for over-the-top parties is finite; and I fully intend to indulge myself.

Pug's first birthday involved block cakes in the spirit of the alphabet blocks cake from my baby shower; his second birthday was all about rockets; and given his obsession with all things train related, we went the choo choo route.  Hoss, who turned one in December, got a circus theme.

I'm still enamored of cupcakes despite recent sentiment that cupcakes are passé.  Pug loves a  moist and rich and not too sweet cupcake.  (He'll hand back overly sweet desserts more often than not.)  My current favorite recipe is a vanilla bean cupcake; and it was a toss up between buttercream and cream cheese frosting.  Ultimately I wasn't in the mood to make a vat of Italian buttercream so the cream cheese won out.  But as it happens, I had a new baking book I've been reading,  The Craft of Baking by Karen DeMasco, the former pastry chef at Craft and its sister operations, which has a lovely recipe for white chocolate cream cheese frosting.

I have a great recipe for sugar cookies but tried her recipe which yielded fantastically buttery cookies that my parent and Pug devoured.  Not having my icing recipe handy, I used hers - and it was a little more sugary than I would have liked; as a result, I ended up icing only the railroad crossing cookies; I outlined the train cookies but left them un-iced (I'm not keen on a too sugary sugar cookie).

Maybe I should have made the effort to properly decorate the train cookies because my sister pinged me a few days later and the following conversation ensued:

Her:  "What were those cookies that you made?"

Me:  "Sugar cookies."

Her:  "No #$%^.  I meant, what were they supposed to be?"

Me:  "Oh.  Trains."

Her:  "They look like Moab Utah Monuments."

Me:  "What?"

Her:  "Yeah.  Those look nothing like trains. I seriously thought you were trying to make a national park landscape birthday theme party. That said, Monument Valley and Moab are my two faves."

Should I be insulted or complimented that she thought I would take on a theme like national parks for a birthday theme?  I mean, I'm nuts but that's certifiable.  Although the idea of a Mount Rushmore cake is interesting.  Hmm....

You decide.  Trains?  Or Monument Valley?