Pound cake with chocolate glaze

Once upon a time, probably in 2009 or something, I bought a box of pound cake mix. I probably had plans for it, an idea that slipped away and has long since been forgotten. It sat in the pantry in not one, but two kitchens, as different boxes and bottles of ingredients around it were routinely used, finished off and replaced. Last night, it was finally pulled off of its shelf.

In all honesty, it almost ended up in the garbage, because … guys, I’m a little embarrassed about this … its “best by” date was almost three years ago.

Raspberry cheesecake bars

While I don’t have much of a sweet tooth (I’ll take a bag of chips over a pint of ice cream just about any day), there are a few desserts that I absolutely love. Chocolate is one of them. Cheesecake is another. And on the rare occasion that I get a craving for something sweet … that craving just won’t quit ’til I stuff some sugary goodness right in my gob.

A rant about cliches, and a cliche recipe.

On my commute to work every morning, I am fortunate enough to be able to listen to a really great public radio station. I think we can all agree that most morning radio shows are the absolute worst – lots of people babbling on about pop culture nonsense, peppering their banter with obnoxious sound effects. For a long time, I wouldn’t even dream of listening to the radio in the morning – but then the adapter for my iPod/phone broke (first world problems), and because my car is, oh, 12 years old (and will continue to keep on kickin’ for a long time, knock on wood), there’s no little port where I can just plug in my iPod and let it stream without having to fiddle with the radio stations, hoping for a signal and clear feedback. Also, my car is new enough to not have a tape deck, which means I can’t hook up my new-fangled gadgets that way, either.

(This is probably entirely too much information, but please stick around – I made cookies and I’m getting to that.)

So I got tired of my (and Colin’s) CDs and decided to suck it up and just listen to the radio.

There was a pretty good college radio station that had good reception on my old commute, but once I started working at my new job, that station would crap out about .2 minutes into my drive. So I did some channel-surfing, and found a really great public radio station that plays an awesome variety of music, pipes in NPR News hourly, and even has A FREAKING TRIVIA GAME in the morning. Where you can win prizes. Ugh, I love trivia so much. And while the two morning hosts occasionally break in with some banter and weird news stories, they’re endearing as opposed to obnoxious. Like, I kind of want to be friends with them, as creepy as that sounds.

But every once in awhile, they sneak in a song that is just downright terrible. I’m not talking Tiny Tim’s “Tiptoe-Through-the-Tulips” or Richard Harris “MacArthur’s Park” terrible (sorry, Dad, I know you love it), but just something that is an insult to the musical industry – one that, unfortunately, many people might find pleasant or enjoyable. Usually I’m able to just change the station and forget about it, but it’s been a couple of weeks since I heard this song and I’m still furious about it. It’s called “I Don’t Miss You” by some guy named Sharif, and it is literally the most insipid, infuriating song I’ve ever heard. If this song was a person, I’d want to hit it in the face with a shovel, just after I finish bludgeoning every character in Something Borrowed.

Salted caramel brownies

Originally posted February 2013.

I moved out of my parents’ house, the house I spent my entire life in, in August of 2009. I don’t count college, because although I lived on campus at a school about an hour away from home, I still had a room at my childhood home. I still had a bed there, collages and photographs on the walls, clothes in the closet, and I returned there many weekends, and every single winter and summer break. While I lived away for the majority of the year, a dorm was never my “home,” no matter how comfortable it was or how much fun I had. Home was the place where I’d spent my entire childhood, learned how to ride a bike, thrown an oversized pink-and-purple softball against the wall with the steadfast hope that my female-equivalent-of-Little-League softball coach would let me pitch just ONE game. When I think about it, that house will always be home, in some way, although literally within 24 hours of moving out, my sister high-tailed it into my bedroom and painted my once soft yellow walls pumpkin orange. So…there’s that.

I’m getting sidetracked. In August of 2009, I moved into a two bedroom apartment about 20 minutes way from my childhood home with one of my best friends. We lived there for two years and, in spite of the wildebeests living above us, we had a great time. Chelsea is kind, funny and easygoing, and I’m thrilled that we meshed as well as roommates as we did as friends.

However, in the summer of 2011, I moved in with the love of my life, and while I couldn’t be happier with the life we’re building together, I do miss hanging out with Chelsea several times a week, watching 30 Rock (good GOD, Lemon!) and Parks & Rec every Thursday, curling up on the couch to plot our own killer sitcom, and lavishing attention on our her petulant, adorable bunny rabbit, Mr. T. We did make a pact to have date nights at LEAST once a month, and in spite of our crazy schedules and job changes, we’ve managed to adhere to that pact pretty well, which makes me really happy because I’m generally terrible at keeping in touch with people. Seriously, if I lived in an age where Facebook wasn’t a thing, I’d probably be a hermit.

When am I gonna need to cook tiramisu? Am I gonna be a chef?

Originally posted November 2012.

I hope you guys had a fantastic Thanksgiving. I know I did. Even though we celebrated a day late because my sister’s father in law is a firefighter and had to work on Thursday, we all had a blast up at Katie’s place in the North Country. Seriously, it’s like, Arctic-north up there. It’s freezing and you can get Canadian stations on the radio. They’re very amusing. Everyone speaks with slight accents and there are commercials about curling. Really.

There were seven humans and five dogs in a two-bedroom apartment, so it was a cacophanus (that’s not a word, is it? I’m making it one. I decided.) holiday weekend-of-sorts. I say “of sorts” because the festivities ended Friday night (for us, at least), when Colin and I, bellies full of turkey and stuffing and tiramisu, embarked on the nearly-six hour trek home. The drive was totally worth the company, though, and it beats the hell out of the 14-hour drive to Savannah, where Katie and Craig used to live. (I’m still a little bummed we never got to visit the Forrest Gump bench, though, and I do miss Tybee Island more than I should.)

A love letter to chocolate cookies and KitchenAid.

Originally posted April 2012.

Hmm?

What’s that?

 

Oh, I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you over the dazzling beauty of my KitchenAid mixer. It’s red, people. RED! 

I’m a bit in love with this stunning little deceptively heavy baby, which, I’m embarrassed to admit, was procured from a former neighbor looking to get the thing off her hands for a fraction of its market price at least two months ago, and I only broke it out for the first time yesterday. 

 

To be fair, I rarely bake. I think the last time I baked was…Christmastime. When I made…these exact same cocoa thumbprints.

…I’m giving myself the trademark Moore ‘Look’ right now.

Eating your feelings

Originally posted in October 2010.

I’ve never been one of those people who “eats her feelings.” Which is surprising, considering my penchant for preparing and consuming lots of delicious (usually unhealthy) food. But whenever I’m truly distraught, I’m one of those “can’t-eat-can’t-sleep” types. However, it has been a particularly un-awesome week, with the icing on the cake (ironic foreshadowing!) happening this afternoon, and I find myself in the kitchen once again, measuring and dicing and mixing to take my mind off of things.

Some people do really admirable/powerful/kickass things to pull themselves out of a funk. Like running. Or kickboxing. Or writing a killer song or poem. I used to do some of those things…sort of. In high school, I used to write until my arms cramped up, which was cool in an angry, Sylvia Plath kind of way. Or beat the hell out of my drums, which was cool in an obvious kind of way. As I got older, I would take long walks or go to the gym to blow off steam — which was probably sensible, as an outlet for all that excessive adrenaline and what not. Plus, it was healthy.

But right now, I am pulling myself out of a funk in the lamest, unhealthiest, least badass of ways — by baking a cake.