Baking Kate's

A change of pace...

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 13 Feb 2010 07:45:00 +0000

...um, I hate that my last post was related to Rick Rolling. So perhaps you should check out my new blog, right here, featuring a lot less food and a lot more mediocrity. Now doesn't that sound like fun?!

I like to think "Meep meep meep" translates to, "You got Muppet Roll'd, bitch!"

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 19:00:00 +0000

Saving you the shame

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 00:37:00 +0000

So it's Roommate's birthday, and her boyfriend oh-so-sweetly buys her a carrot cake from Whole Foods, and everyone's sitting around and you are offered a slice, and you think, "Hey - it's got carrots, it's organic, one tiny piece of cake can't hurt..." So you take the slice, and it's pretty f-ing good as far as carrot cake goes and you think nothing of it.

And then Other Roommate calls you the next day from work and fills you in that the said measly piece of last night's cake contained...wait for it...wait for it...830 CALORIES, 67 GRAMS OF FAT, AND 92 GRAMS OF CARBOHYDRATES.

And then you realized that the thunder you heard this morning despite sunny skies was not an impending bout of inclement weather, but simply you walking down the stairs.

Photo from WholeFoods.com, Disgusting and disheartening calorie count from TheDailyPlate.com.

It hurts so good

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 04 Aug 2008 04:00:00 +0000

After downing a half-smoke (like a chili dog, but better) and fries at the Nationals game today, my digestive tract was feeling a little less than stellar so I needed something light for dinner. I'm a big fan of both soup and Asian cooking these days, so I turned to this Wok cookbook I bought on a whim from Ikea. (It was clearly translated from Swedish, and features such poetic instructions as, "Gut the shrimps. Wash the shrimps. Dry the shrimps.") The few recipes I've made from it have turned out pretty bland, so I usually have to significantly doctor the results to make them tasty. The additions I made to this soup resulted in a soup rich in flavor but light enough to not wreak havoc on my already-taxed tummy.

Spicy Shrimp and Asparagus Soup

Serves 4

1 quart (4 cups) chicken stock or broth

8 oz. baby asparagus

8 oz. raw shrimp, peeled and deveined

4 shallots

1 tbsp. vegetable oil

1 tbsp. cornstarch

2 tbsp. fish sauce

1/2 tsp. chili bean paste (can be found in Asian foods section)

pinch of Chinese 5-spice powder

1 egg

salt and pepper, to taste

1. In a small pot, bring the chicken broth to a boil. While waiting for it to boil, wash the asparagus, trim off any woody ends, and cut into inch-long pieces.

2. Cook asparagus in boiling broth for 3 minutes, then remove with a slotted spoon and set aside. Turn broth down to a simmer.

3. In a wok or other large pot, heat oil and saute shallots for a minute or two, then add shrimp. Cook shrimp for 2 minutes, then add broth and asparagus to wok.

4. Stir in chili bean paste, 5-spice powder, and fish sauce and bring to a simmer.

4. Mix cornstarch with 1 tbsp. water in a small bowl. Stir into soup in wok until it thickens slightly.

5. Whisk egg in a small bowl, then stir egg into soup vigorously until threads appear (like egg drop soup.)

6. Salt and pepper to taste, then serve.

August

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 03 Aug 2008 22:43:00 +0000

new Mac, new (FREE!) iPod touch and hence, the demise of my social life
law school orientation
mugginess and constant beads of sweat on upper lip (why does that HAPPEN?)
getting back on track, in every sense of the phrase
singledom, happily
kickball Thursdays
trip home
outdoor concerts
the end of constant takeout meals

Lighter fare

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 12:59:00 +0000

I'm forever having difficulty picking out the perfect gift for people, but Outblush has been helping me immensely as of late. It's got unique fashion, beauty, and home gift ideas, and even has a companion website for guys. Big fan.

Remember that other shoe? Well, yeah. It dropped.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 03:29:00 +0000

I remember having a conversation with my mother a couple of months ago, right after I found out I got un-waitlisted at the law school I most wanted to attend. I told her that everything in my life thus far had been so nearly close to perfect that I felt perpetually nervous, as if something bad must happen soon, just because no one should have it easy all the time. I mean, I'd always accomplished what I set out to do, my family is only very mildly dysfunctional, nothing had ever really been withheld from me, and even the small slips and stumbles only managed to make me a better person. This scared me shitless. No one's supposed to have it easy all the time, right?

The answer is, "ya damn right." While I would in no way classify the past month as anywhere near catastrophic and is only a minor grievance compared to what many people deal with, it has been, in my world at least, a doozy.

I found out that my boyfriend of a year (The Brit) actually was leading a double life, and had multiple other girlfriends and a fiancee back in England the entire time he was dating me. He's actually a textbook sociopath.

If I went into detail about all the messed up things I learned about the person I thought I knew and loved, we'd be here all day, so I'll spare you the details. And while I normally wouldn't share this much personal info with strangers, I felt since I was missing so long, if anyone bothers to check this thing, they might be looking for an explanation.

I was putting myself back together. And applying to go on Oprah.

Dilemma.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 03:20:00 +0000

Just bought this beautiful dining table (accessorizing my new condo and relentlessly searching Craigslist for bargains has taken the place of cooking for the time being.)

Alas, it does not come with matching chairs, and I'm at a bit of a loss, because I don't want to go too matchy-matchy. (It's black, by the way.) Internet people, what kind of chairs would you suggest pairing with this table?

Pretty much sums up dating in the District

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 19:27:00 +0000

The Old Tomato

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 16:48:00 +0000

Message sent to the Brit:

The Top Chef finale is on at 7:30 p.m. tonight.

That means, if you want to see me at that time, and possibly ever again, you must TiVo it.

Since you forgot to do it last night because you were "out," and having "fun." Sigh.

The Brit knows there are no compromises when it comes to Top Chef.

St. Malo

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 16:41:00 +0000

What I can't stop eating. Also some tidbits about my life that probably are of no particular interest to anyone.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 15:10:00 +0000

Sea Salt and Rosemary crostini and seaside cheddar cheese from Whole Foods.

Also, I'm moving to what can best be described as a baller condo in Clarendon. Woohoo! But that's kind of why I've been missing for oh, a month - lots of stuff to sort out.

Oh! And I'm going to the best law school ever, in my opinion and trying to figure out how to finance it without having to sell my body to strangers on Friday and Saturday nights.

But there are good things coming, so stay tuned!

Acute sinusitis is as fun as it sounds.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 21 May 2008 22:47:00 +0000

I have the mother of all sinus infections.

It may be a while.

(France was cool, except for the whole, you know, being deathly ill in a foreign country thing.)

Gift

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 10 May 2008 04:05:00 +0000

Above is a set of three pouches/make-up bags that my neighbors gave me in honor of my graduation. I don't really know why I put it on here, I just really love the way they look. So yes, on Sunday, I will be graduating from college, which is so absolutely surreal and accompanied by such a bizarre barrel of emotions that getting into them would only bore you.
Bottom line, I'm moving on to bigger things. I'll be staying in D.C., although I'm not entirely sure yet what I'll be doing (I've gotten a job offer, and I have to decide whether or not I want to take a year off and defer my law school acceptance.) So within the next week, I will have to make some Big Girl Decisions. I'm also, uh...going to Paris on Monday, which I hesitate to say because it makes me sound like a spoiled brat. I mean, Paris, twice in a month? What the haystacks, as the five-year-old I babysit says.
I'm going with my mom, and we are pretty much going to drink wine and eat pastries until we pass out, so it should be good fun. We're also going to St. Malo, which is a small town on the Brittany coast that I can't wait to show her.
So, I won't be around for a bit. Take care, and I'll see you in a week and a half.

How about just spit in my eye and call it a day?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 05 May 2008 19:46:00 +0000

I frequently get J. Crew e-mails that are titled, "Spring Dresses!" "Fun, Uber-Preppy Summer Clothes That Are Right Up Your Alley!" but should really be entitled, "Too Bad You Are Poor And Cannot Afford Anything In This E-mail!" "Maybe When You Graduate You Won't Have to Shop At Target and Dollar Tree!"

And I usually browse them and send links to my mom in the hopes that she will really be missing me that day and may pop over to the mall on a whim and see the adorable dress/skirt/blouse I just so happened to send her in said e-mail and say to herself, "Bah, it's only money. Let's refinance the house so Kate can have the wardrobe she wants."

It's true, I love everything J. Crew and/or sickeningly preppy, and it's partially her fault - I come from a family that takes portraits in matching khakis and white polo shirts, whose men all have the same "Republican Swoop" hairdo, and whose women wear Lilly Pulitzer on a daily basis to the country club in the summer. Without irony.

Note the swoop. Oddly enough, John Edwards is a Democrat. How did that happen?

It's pretty sick.

And all this was well and good, until I moved out into what most people call "real life," and realized that things cost money. I subsequently concluded that J.Crew is actually pretty fucking ridiculous in terms of what they charge for say, a t-shirt, but I always held a soft spot for it and even occasionally blew a paycheck or two or three on shopping sprees there.

Until today.

They unveiled their yoga collection, and sent me an e-mail announcing it. And I was all, oh sweet, I'm gonna save up and get me some yoga gear. And then I looked at the price, and get this, friends - a CAMISOLE is $40. Now, unless this camisole is not only going to help me do a Downward Dog for 20 minutes without my arms and legs even feeling it, but make me look like I have washboard abs, and curb my appetite between meals, J. Crew can go suck it.

I'm taking my $40 elsewhere...like Dollar Tree...where I can by 40 pieces of crap I don't need, but where I at least know they won't overcharge me for a polka dot scrunchie.

Just about the only thing my house has going for it...

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 05 May 2008 01:01:00 +0000

...is our azalea bushes. Our house just went up on the market (and by our house I mean the house my roommates and I rent in Bethesda.) It has been a great house for our purposes, despite the ceiling caving in at one point, but there are so many things wrong with it that I can't imagine anyone actually buying it from the owners. In any case, this means we have people coming in and out of our house every day. The shutters may be falling off, our white picket fence may be peeling, but at least we have beautiful flowers!

It's nice to be nice to the nice

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 03 May 2008 22:42:00 +0000

My friend T. is participating in the Avon walk for breast cancer today and tomorrow. Over the course of two days, participants walk 39 miles. To participate, they also have to raise at least $1,800, which means that the event generates huge amounts of money for breast cancer research and prevention. Circumstances being what they were, I wasn't able to participate this year, but in my book doing something like this where you not only raise money, but connect with people in a show of overwhelming support for those that you are helping is generosity of spirit at its finest.

T. has been working really hard for the past few months to train for the walk (39 miles is far, people) and raise money, and I couldn't be more proud of her. Tonight all the participants in the walk will be camping out in a park in Bethesda. To show my support, I put together a little care package that I'm going to drop off to her tonight. I included these muffins, which are made with quinoa, a grain that is full of protein and lends a really interesting, nubbly texture to the crumb of these muffins. I think these will be perfect for a morning energy boost before another day of walking, and they travel really well, too.

Quinoa Muffins

Slightly adapted from "Everyday Food" Magazine

Makes 12 muffins

1 cup quinoa, rinsed

1/4 vegetable oil

2 cups all-purpose flour

3/4 cup packed dark-brown sugar

1 1/2 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. salt

1/2 cup raisins

3/4 cup whole milk

1 large egg

1 tsp. pure vanilla extract

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a saucepan, bring quinoa and 2 cups of water to a boil. Reduce to a simmer, and simmer for 15 minutes until quinoa is tender and water has been absorbed.

2. While the quinoa cooks, spray a 12-cup muffin tin with cooking spray.

3. In a large bowl, whisk flour, brown sugar, baking powder, salt, and raisins together. When the quinoa is done cooking, spread it out on a large plate or cookie sheet to cool. When quinoa has cooled, add 2 cups of the cooked quinoa to the dry mixture and stir until incorporated.

4. In a separate bowl, whisk together oil, milk, egg, and vanilla. Add it to the flour mixture and stir until just combined. Divide batter among muffin cups.

5. Bake muffins until a toothpick inserted in the muffin comes out clean, about 25-30 minutes. Let cool.

Note: The muffins can be stored in an airtight container for up to 5 days.

Like, maybe you could look at this. If you have time in your "busy" schedule, that is.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 17:13:00 +0000

This website has been cracking me up as of late, if only because the whiteboard on my fridge is filled with passive-aggressive notes daily. I suppose it's inevitable - putting six girls in a house, all of whom have varying definitions of "clean" and "respectful behavior" and "communal living space," all of whom detest confrontation, and it is inevitable that the main means of communication will be handwritten notes berating no one in particular, even though they are very usually directed at one specific individual.

For example, what should my note read today? Today, it will be directed at the roommate who took my last clean bath towel without asking me, because hers were dirty, forcing me to re-use another towel instead of being able to have a nice, clean one when I got out of the shower. Instead of confronting her directly - because I am a girl, because I am non-confrontational, because I am chicken shit - I will probably just write a note on the board: "Hey y'all - if you could just ask people before taking their stuff, that would be great. Okay, love you!"

And then I will go upstairs and punch my pillow until the feathers fly out.

Summer barbecue menu

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 15:44:00 +0000

I love to entertain, and tonight I'm having some friends over for a barbecue. Here's what I'm making, and I'm pathetically excited:

Strawberry salsa (from the Gourmet cookbook) with cilantro-lime tortilla chips (the chips are from Whole Foods and they are fucking delectable)
Grilled pork tenderloin with roasted raspberry chipotle sauce (I roasted it in the oven before, but it's better grilled!)
Potato salad
Prosecco and summer fruit terrine

A sauce of a different color

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 18:36:00 +0000

I love to barbecue. Everything tastes better just a little bit charred, wouldn't you agree? I tried this sauce recipe from my favorite cookbook of all time, The Gourmet Cookbook, and like every other recipe I've ever made from there, it was delicious. If you're looking for the classic tangy-sweet of a traditional barbecue sauce, stay away from this one - it's really rich, and a little bitter from the coffee, but delicious nonetheless. I ate mine with chicken; it's apparently equally good with steak or pork.

Coffee and Whiskey Barbecue Sauce
Mildly adapted from the Gourmet Cookbook
Makes 1 cup

1 cup strong brewed coffee (I used instant chicory coffee)
1/2 cup of whiskey (I used Jack Daniel's, the original recipe called for bourbon)
1/2 -3/4 cup packed light brown sugar, depending on how sweet you want it
1/2 cup soy sauce
2 tbsp. white wine vinegar
1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce

Combine all ingredients in a heavy saucepan and bring to a simmer. Simmer uncovered, stirring occasionally, until sauce has reduced to one cup and thickened slightly, about 15-20 minutes. Don't be alarmed if it tastes like crap when you first mix it together - once it simmers something magical happens and it ends up all delicious and stuff.

If you grill some meat and want to put this on it, wait until closer to the end of grilling, otherwise the sugars in it will burn. Which would be gross.

Put. the French. Down.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 02:05:00 +0000

That I enjoy this so much is proof that I have well and truly gone over the edge at this point, or that I've just spent waaaaay too much time working on my thesis. (Which involves French translation, although, sadly, nothing as delightful to the ears as "Ou est la piscine?")

Spring!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 20 Apr 2008 19:39:00 +0000

The BNF: where sanity goes to die.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 15:48:00 +0000

Loosely translated, this says, "Intellectual pain and suffering, THIS WAY."

There's not too much to tell about last week's trip to Paris, only because the majority of my time was spent in a building that sucked out parts of my soul that I'm just now starting to get back, a week later. I'm speaking, of course, about the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, or the BNF. It is only now that I can recall my time spent there without wanting to crawl under a blanket and die, or stab myself in the eye with a fork.

"How can it be that bad?" you ask. It's just a library, right? Wrong. It is so much more than a library. It is an institution designed specifically to inflict an immediate inferiority complex on anyone who dares step through its hallowed doors, while aesthetically offering up feelings of impending doom and crushing despair.

Alright, enough with the drama. It's not the worst place in the world (I imagine Guantanamo is marginally less enjoyable), it's just that I don't think it has ever in its existence given someone the warm fuzzies like so many other places in Paris are wont to do. I mean, look at this thing:

It's a beast. I imagine the architect who designed it was simultaneously tripping on acid and reading Orwell's 1984 when he came up with the concept. The library consists of a wooden rectangular platform with four glass skyscrapers, one on each corner. The middle is hollowed out and filled with a bizarre forest of evergreen trees, that, so help me God, are CHAINED INTO THE GROUND. In an effort to spruce it up, they also put various shrubbery around the platform, and then enclosed it in mesh wire cages to you know, give it a home-y feel.

The reading rooms are located ten stories underground, naturally, and the interior is primarily decorated in what I would term "industrial chic": lots of concrete and metal, a bit what I imagine a stalag looks like. To even get to the reading rooms, however, you have to endure a demoralizing interview with a librarian so that she can determine whether you are worthy enough to put your grimy American paws on a single volume of French sagesse. You must present various documents to prove your worth as a human being, such as a letter from your university, a doctor's note confirming your blood type, and four years' worth of tax returns.

God forbid you forget your passport and only have your driver's license and your student ID as well as four different credit cards on you as a form of identification. But I don't speak from experience.

Once the librarian decides you aren't a British robot come to steal secrets, she will take your grainy picture at an inopportune moment (when you are wiping away tears of frustrated exhaustion, most likely) and paste it on your card. You then thank her profusely, because she has done you a huge favor by allowing you to descend into the reading rooms, or what I like to call the Pit of Despair.

You then must go check your coat and put all of your belongings into a bizarre plastic see-through messenger bag, that will slap against your hip loudly if you move, and swing around to hit fellow pilgrims in the temple of knowledge when you walk by. This wins you many friends.

Once you ride fourteen escalators down to the P. of D., you must register for a place in a reading room, which are designated by letters of the alphabet and separated by subject matter. Again, God forbid, you want to research overlapping material, like I don't know, history and biographies. YOU MUST CHOOSE ONE, CRETIN. And choose carefully, because you can't access books from another room if you are not assigned a seat there.

To actually access books you must make online catalog requests, and wait an average of 3 hours before a notice will alert you that your books have been brought down out of the glass towers. You then go pick them up at the desk that serves the location of your assigned seat. (This system exists so the proles will not walk in and wreak havoc by picking up books and looking at them freely. This is a library, after all.)

Additionally, you must scan your card when you log onto a computer, walk through a set of doors, or use the toilets, so that Big Brother knows where you are at all times. I'm not even kidding. Every hour on the hour he comes on a huge screen and you have to cheer loudly.

Meanwhile, you struggle and stammer as you try to communicate your research needs to the librarians in French. They will make no effort to speak to you in English, so don't even try. This is no conversation with the waiter or the taxi driver. This is serious stuff, so bring a French dictionary so you can go back to your numbered seat and furtively look up the obscure words that you will no doubt need. (Do this hunched over under the table if you want to maintain your street cred, obviously.) Again, clearly, I don't speak from experience...

And then embrace that feeling of utter incredulity, when, on your very last day after countless hours of pathetic babbling in French, you hear the announcement over the loudspeaker of the quintessential French institution of academics, the storehouse of all French knowledge that would never dare to be anything but the Frenchiest, saying, "Ladies and gentlemen. The library is about to close. If you wish to reserve books for tomorrow, please let your librarian know."

In English.

Are you KIDDING ME?

And that was my time at the Bibliothèque Nationale de France. The end.

Journal Entry, Day 1

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 01:48:00 +0000

"Go to Paris as soon as possible, and remember it as best you can." -Betty Stanley

Everything about one's arrival in Paris seems designed to disappoint. The airport (Charles de Gaulle or Orly, it doesn't matter) is depressingly drab and anticlimactic. It is inevitably cold and drizzly, regardless of the season, as if the weather is purposely trying to dampen your natural American inclination toward overenthusiasm. Calm down, the rain says. Don't expect perfection.

The cab ride into the city is never much better. I have a theory that Parisian cab drivers take secret delight in driving Americans through the grittiest parts of the city. Meanwhile, I imagine nearly all Americans have the same reaction: "I just dropped a thousand big ones to fly over here, and it does NOT look like the movies. Shitballs."

It's easy to worry, on your first visit (for you will never have just one visit to Paris), that Paris won't live up to your expectations. If you find yourself disillusioned after the mandatory battle at the airport to regain your luggage and find transportation and understand just what in the hell people are SAYING, and a bit disappointed in your postage stamp-sized hotel room with the twin beds pushed together in the French version of a king-sized bed, do this. Go to the Metro stop St. Michel, and don't worry about the smell of the underground. Yes, it's urine that you smell, with maybe a little sweat and burnt rubber thrown into the mix. You'll get used to it. Once you emerge from the station, go to the cafe on the corner, Le Depart. Yes, it's a little touristy, but the food is delicious and the waiters will take pity on you for being American. Sit at an outside table, order a carafe de Bordeaux and people watch. You'll see tons of Americans (easily identifiable by their fanny packs and nasal screams - "CARL! The Eiffel Tower is THAT WAY.") But you'll also see tragically hip twenty-something Parisians, homeless people, families, people from every possible walk of life. And if you sit there for an hour, and occasionally peek around the corner to take in Notre Dame in all its ridiculously magnificent glory not two blocks away, I guarantee you will begin to fall in love with a city that, while not perfect, comes pretty damn close.

Des petites mignardises de Paris

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 18:14:00 +0000