B. on a Whim

2013-03-24T22:30:00.001-05:00

"Excuse me, sir... Is there marijuana in your salsa?"

Two tables over, a gray-haired man and his wife poke curiously at their half-empty ramekin.

"I'm tasting a very distinctive herb here. And I can't quite place it."

Our waiter (also their waiter) tries desperately to squelch a smirk.

"How awesome would that be if there was."

Ah, brunch in Park Slope. Our initiation to Brooklyn.

A borough I kind of, sort of, accidentally might adore.

Food. The theme of the weekend.

Arthur on Smith.

Where Bjork simultaneously dined on the same codfish dish as Cara. "Bjork, as in Swan Bjork?" "Yep. That one." "She was here?" "Right in that corner." "And we didn't recognize her?" "She had on normal clothes." Sipping on Tito's (the only vodka stocked) and devouring warm oatmeal-crusted bread smothered in honey butter and sprinkled with sea salt, a love connection was made. Via Twitter. "You guys, my future is becoming clear. Joe, the owner, is NOW FOLLOWING ME." A real-life screenplay waiting to unfold. And when it does, we're casting adorable 1990s Meg Ryan and Anthony LaPaglia as the leads.

Buttermilk Channel.

Where I questioned the idea of cornmeal cheddar waffles until I ordered them, drowned them in syrup and realized they made SO much sense. Without a stroller in tow, we were definitely the minority. Trending in Carroll Gardens? Toddlers. (So hot right now.) Go after noon and you will wait. Worth it.

Al di La.

Where old friends and new friends oooh'd and aaaah'd over decadent Italian (after examining the menu with an iPhone flashlight app, extensively) until we shut the place down. Three of four women wanted to procreate with our gorgeous singer/song-writer/artist/magician/server, Brett. ("He could be gay?" "Don't care.") Ricotta frittelli with fresh whipped cream and chocolate sauce happened. As did the creation of hash tag #JESUSBROOKE.

ABC Kitchen.

Where we nearly paid forty five dollars for a black truffle burrata. ("Ten grams, shaved right in. Served bubbling hot.") Got free drinks after a west coast waif knocked mine over with a gargantuan handbag that weighed more than she did. ("I can tell you're not from New York because you're not screaming at us," mused her Dodgers-capped date.) Highlights included a near-perfect charcuterie plate (piles of prosciutto) and roasted broccoli/pistachio/sweet potato salad. Decided my future home should be decorated identically to this gorgeous space in Union Square. Also decided: we're really, really good at eating.

2013-01-09T12:30:00.001-06:00

Customer service.

It's the manifestation of integrity in business.

Incidental misfortunes happen... like a leak in the bedroom ceiling.

The cause? A crack in the chiller pipe. The solution? Temporary fix until a contractor can permanently repair.

A week and a half later - a mold-addled chunk of sheet rock had been removed. In its place? A shoddy trash bag patch job and a lone disposable shoe cover. (Ehem, previous post.)

A maintenance work order was hardly enough to illicit a resolution.

To their credit, a few phone calls and a frustrated email to management inquiring about "the gaping hole in my ceiling" did result in repair... at least to my eyeballs... paint splatters and crack in my armoire aside.

Fast forward four months and an out-of-pocket holiday stint. Return home to that familiar drip. Budding water stains wave hello.

"Hey, Brooke in #8449 again. Looks like there's a leak in my ceiling. Again. Yep. Same room. Same spot. No I don't have pets. Alright. Appreciate that. Will do. Thanks so much."

Faux empathy is tough to stomach. But I gave Carla the benefit of the doubt. She'd send someone up right away, she said. Have a contractor in first thing Monday to inspect, she said. She'd keep me posted, she said.

Monday passes.
Tuesday passes.
Wednesday the heavens unleash their liquid wrath upon Austin.

Intermittent droplets become incessant trickle. I shove furniture out of harm's way and resign to the couch.

I get roughly two hours of sleep. I want to smash my fist through the wall. I savagely tweet that no one should ever live here. EVER.

Ah, the power of social media.

A man with a wrench crawling through my roof AND an apologetic phone call from the front office pre business hours? Impressive.

A knock fills me with hope. Will I be greeted with news of a solution?

Nope. Just a large custodial bucket to replace my jury-rigged stew pot, now brimming with mildew water.

"Brought this to get you through the day."

How thoughtful.

"One more thing..."

Go on.

"Could take a couple of days. Turns out, it's hard to get access to the roof. Because of all the rain, you know."

Of course.

2012-09-12T00:10:00.000-05:00

Woke up to the wet thud of water pooling above me and plummeting down to the carpet.

Towel, towel... I need a towel.

Semi-coherent, I jump the soggy spot and stumble into the bathroom.

Something exotic scrambles out.

It's scaly and horrifying and grazes my foot, darting across the hall and under the closet door before I can scream for help.

Instant replay is made for moments like these. Forty-three-inch-Clyde-Drexler vertical, brought to you by sheer reptilian terror.

A panic-fueled "large beige lizard species of central Texas" Internet search narrows it down to lethal or endangered. Which begs the question - if I don't die before contacting maintenance to moonlight as exterminator, are we both going to jail?

I phoned it in. (No mention of the new mascot).

"Is this an emergency?"

"It's a leak."

"Water pouring from the fixtures?"

"No..."

"Then we'll get to it this afternoon."

And they did... taking with them chunks of mold-addled sheet rock and leaving behind a shoddy trash bag patch job, a disposable shoe cover and - most unfortunately - a bearded Mexican Gila Monster.

2012-09-09T23:33:00.000-05:00

Football is back.

Which means Sunday and Monday are the new Saturday and Sunday.

I didn't join a fantasy league. (Already regretting it). Because gambling stresses me out. As do chopsticks. Different story, different time. Sport-related strategy and fine-tuned motor skill... neither a strong suit.

Ah, well. Less time setting rosters. More time swirling Nutella and taking naps on the balcony.

I've reached the pinnacle of weekend productivity.

*Notable off-season acquisitions include a Broncos rooting interest. I know.

{Nutella Swirled Blondies Recipe}

2012-09-06T22:31:00.000-05:00

"Go ahead and pop off your contacts. The doctor will be right in."

Enters a blur of a man with a blur of a clipboard.

Or something square and white. I can't tell really. I can't see.

"Says here you work for... ESPN?"

"Yessir. Well, actually, the Longhorn Network."

"What does ESPN have to do with the Longhorn Network?"

"It, um, owns it."

"Those guys?"

"Yes?"

"Well I got to tell you... I'm not real happy with either of them. Not many people are."

Here we go.

Rant city.

He takes me on a winding journey through carriage and distribution and exclusivity rights. A crescendo of passion and deprivation and non-violent threat. (In a dim examination room).

I nod at a featureless face. (Still without contacts here).

I politely interject. (Five times is probably borderline impolite).

"Business negotiations are far above my pay grade."

"Yes, but... c'mon. Someone should've thought it through before launching a network to no one."

Air your grievances, good sir. But not so close to my face. And might I add, your knowledge of the cable industry is truly outstanding for an optometrist. NOW STOP TALKING AND MEASURE MY EYES.

And the next time a form asks for Employer, I'm writing down "nail technician."

2012-08-26T20:18:00.002-05:00

Three minutes left in the spin cycle.

He bellows through the door. Tall. Maybe six-and-a-half feet. A hulking ginger.

"Looks like they're remodeling around here."

"Yep." I don't look up from the pile of towels I'm folding.

"Maybe they'll add some more washers and dryers."

"Maybe."

"How much longer on that one?"

"Almost done." I bend down to unload pillowcases and sheets. I catch a glimpse of his socks, pulled shin-high under slip-on sandals. Both stamped with an A&M logo.

"Lived here for long?" he asks.

I'm not one for small talk. And I don't know how to politely explain that to a grown man in an authentic Fightin' Texas Aggie football jersey with matching maroon shorts. So I turn, grab my makeshift laundry bag - a duffel with a giant Longhorn monogram - and reply with one foot out the door...

"Have fun in the SEC."

2012-08-11T14:19:00.002-05:00

The delivery slip says I have two boxes in the front office. (Oscar signed for both. I'd missed them by an hour).

"Anyone here?"

A girl peeks her head around the corner. Begrudgingly. Probably a leasing agent on weekend duty.

She digs around a storage closet lined with shelves and packages and hands down a white cardboard box. A small one. Inside, dozens of plastic coffee pods. French Roast and Breakfast Blend.

"There should be another one..."

A round of apathetic searching.

"Maybe they left it on the truck? By accident, you know. I'd call the number on your slip."

"Says right here, both were signed for. By Oscar. Barely an hour ago." I point to the timestamp.

"This happens all the time. Why don't you call FedEx and I'll talk to Oscar. I'll let you know what I find out."

A chat with the local shipping center confirms my increasing frustration.

"We spoke directly to the driver of the truck. He left all deliveries, including yours, with a short, dark-headed man at the front office."

"Oscar?"

Homeless.

Multiple (scathing) calls to management, one to APD and the swipe of a neon highlighter across line A.147 of my lease later... we'll gladly accept yo' shit, but we're certainly not liable... I never got the second box. (A Keurig coffee maker). Or an apology.

I swore up and down I'd be moving out the second my contract was up.

That was twelve months ago.

This week, I re-signed for six more.

Because I've chosen not to hold a grudge, you know. Forgive and forget.

And I've moved once a year, every year, for the past seven. Why make it eight unnecessarily?

And - karma postscript - the entire management staff was fired in June.

2012-07-31T00:23:00.000-05:00

July.

2012-07-28T14:06:00.000-05:00

"Gimme S'More Cupcakes"

Ingredients

1 1/2 cups crushed graham crackers
1/4 cup brown sugar
5 Tbsp butter, melted

Bag of mini chocolate chips
Bag of mini marshmallows (optional)

1 box chocolate cake mix, batter prepared according to package directions

1/2 cup butter room temp
8 oz cream cheese (or one cup or one brick)
1 jar marshmallow fluff
2-3 cups powdered sugar
2 Tbsp heavy cream (or milk)

For the Cupcakes

Preheat oven to 350°

Line 2 muffin tins with cupcake liners, 24 cupcakes

In a medium bowl combine graham cracker crumbs, melted butter and brown sugar. Drop a tablespoon or two of graham cracker mixture into each liner and press down to form crust. Bake the crusts for 5 minutes and transfer to wire rack.

(Want an extra, drool-inducing dose of awesome? Once cool, sprinkle each crust with a mini chocolate chips and a pinch of sea salt before filling with cake batter).

Prepare cake mix according to package directions. (Folding in more chocolate chips is certainly not discouraged here). Fill liners 2/3 full. Bake 15-18 minutes, until cupcakes are set.

For the Frosting

Mix butter and cream cheese on medium speed. Slowly add in powdered sugar... Mix. Add heavy cream/milk... Turn up speed... Mix. Add entire jar of Fluff - it's going to be sticky - and mix (again) until smooth.

Last, But Never Least

After frosting the cooled cupcakes, make 'em pretty...

Sprinkle with crushed grahams & chocolate chips. Let the people know they're about to partake in a ridiculously decadent cake version of the campfire favorite, for heaven's sake. If you have a kitchen torch - I'm a pyro, so I do not - you could even roast some mini marshmallows.

Also, refrigeration is a good call. Unless you want 'mallow fluff dripping down the sides. Either way, they're kind of impossible to nosh without making a spectacular mess.

{Recipe adapted from Cookies & Cups}

2012-07-22T18:45:00.000-05:00

This is how you play refrigerator Tetris after a handsome farmer's market haul.

Bundle of summer squash - incoming.

Bag of baby carrots - you gots to go.

Into a tub of hummus? Nope. Cupcakes. (Don't act surprised).

Grate 'em up. Dump 'em in. Question who ever thought root vegetables belonged in dessert.

I used Paula Deen's Best Ever recipe - the irony - but left out all traces of raisin, pecan and pineapple. (Sorry about it, traditionalists). What I'm saying is, even if you hate carrot cake... you won't hate this carrot cake. Especially after adding a dollop of Salted Caramel Cream Cheese Frosting.

After the homemade caramel has cooled, add half a cup - more, less, more - to the cream cheese frosting. Give it a whirl in the KitchenAid. To thicken, add powdered sugar. To thin, heavy cream. Eyeball it. Go with your gut. If you can spread it on a cupcake, you're golden.

Bonus points: You'll be seeing 20/20 in no time.

2012-07-21T16:11:00.000-05:00

Putting an immediate and insatiable need for caaawfee on hold, I shed my 'creature of habit' tendencies for a breakfast date down south.

La Boite. The Box, if my shaky French is to be trusted. (Which it's not. High five for translator apps). Named for the repurposed shipping container in which it's housed.

What this atypical cafe lacks in space - 160 itsy-bitsy square feet - it makes up for in ridiculously authentic pastries.

Macarons. Palmiers. Flaky chocolate croissants.

Pair them with a seat on the shaded lawn and an iced Americano. Lick buttery crumbs off your fingers while a vigilant bird guilt-trips you for not tossing a few his way. Or... drop by for a dozen to-go.

They swear by keeping it local. But you'll swear your taste buds are on Champs-Élysées.

2012-07-15T14:17:00.001-05:00

It's like this speck of subculture, off a busy Burnet Road in the heart of central Austin.

The self-proclaimed "honkiest, tonkiest beer joint in town."

If you've driven past, you've seen the steeple. But what's inside... well, I wouldn't call it holy.

Through an old orange door, a wall-mount AC unit (held together with duct-tape) chugs. Yellowed pictures peel from the wall and hot dogs boil in a corner crockpot atop a card table. Free for those who show up on a Sunday afternoon. Surrounded by bowls of chili and cheese. A stack of paper napkins.

People from all walks line the long bar that Ginny still mans. It is her namesake, after all. Ginny's Little Longhorn.

A genuine jukebox advertises Willie... George... Jimmy. Handwritten placards, housed together in loopy scrawl. Trapped behind dusty glass as the band sets up in the back.

Regulars say it's the two dollar Lone Star and live music.

"Have you seen the inside? The dance floor's about the size of a postage stamp."

But the growing crowd isn't piling in for cheap longnecks.

They're lining up for the winning ticket.

Out back, tucked past a pair of vintage Chevy pickups - the main attraction. In a chicken wire cage.

Ginny herself plucks Penny, the hen, from the coop and escorts her across the tiny parking lot, where the party has spilled outside. A grand procession for a one-in-fifty-seven shot atop a plywood-covered pool table.

Patrons clutch their numbered squares... the first few chords of a steel guitar wail... and off she goes.

Pecking at feed on 17. Pausing at 9. Shuffling between the corner of 43 and 44.

The crowd gets louder and so does the band.

Until Penny settles on 2... scratches... and squats.

Bingo. Of the chicken shit variety.

The jackpot? One hundred fourteen bucks.

"If you win… it’s real nice if you buy everybody a beer."

Longtime friend Rocky Slay doesn't play much anymore. He comes for the hot dogs. And the spectacle. ("Old cars, motorcycles, tattoos and piercings. Bizarre people.")

But one thing he's learned... "You cannot make chicken salad out of chicken shit. I've tried for years."

2012-07-14T13:45:00.002-05:00

Cookies are my currency.

Nabbed an HBO GO subscription for a couple cups of flour, a bag of M&Ms and an hour in the kitchen.

Either I've got really generous friends or these cookies are that good.

Plowed through an entire season of Girls. (I don't care what you think about the show - love it, hate it, secretly love it but say you hate it - the music is spot on).

Now I'm onto Newsroom. Kind of/sort of my (work) life in a nutshell. Minus the actual news part, a level of seriousness and obvious control room gaffes. (Producers aren't hand-typing graphics to smite talent ten seconds before hitting air. They just aren't). Either way, plugs the gaping Sunday night programming hole.

YEAH BARTERING.

{Recipe: Mini Rainbow M&M Cookie Sandwiches with Peanut Butter Buttercream Filling via Sally's Baking Addiction}

2012-07-11T00:36:00.002-05:00

2012-07-01T00:08:00.000-05:00

Evening exercisers often do so because they want to be “tired out” by the time they hit the sack. However, the thermal effect of exercise is the same at any time of day; body temperature rises during and after physical activity. So the body will be "alert" when you're trying to sleep. Working out close to three hours before your bedtime can disrupt the body's circadian clock and may affect your ability to fall asleep and stay asleep.

THIS. This is how these cookies came to be. Thanks a ton, circadian clock.

And don't ask where I got that scientific nugget. (Cough. AskMen.com). Yep. Answers that sound factual enough to regurgitate, but I wouldn't put money on the factual part. Like, beef-cake Wikipedia.

Also. Can I just say... hiccups on the treadmill are deceptively hazardous.

And mini chocolate chips are adorable.

And if you know a chocolate fiend, it'd be a disservice not to mail them a batch.

{Chewy Triple Chocolate Cookie Recipe via Annie's Eats}

2012-06-26T00:06:00.003-05:00

You got the peaches?

I got the cream.

It's too doggone hot to bake. (Yes, I said doggone. Emphatic twang). Too hot to do anything really. (Decided after the steering wheel left char marks on my right palm).

But I had these ripe peaches and they were hanging out on my counter...

I didn't have the heart to toss them. So I cranked the oven to three-seventy-five.

(Musical intermission, anyone?)

Buttery, tangy, sweet, juicy. And perfectly portable.

These cobbler/custard/crumble bars have a lot to offer. Except shade.

Peach Custard Bars
{Recipe via Savvy Eats}

For the crust:

1/2 cup light brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 cup (1 stick) cold butter
2 teaspoons lemon juice
Pinch of salt

For the filling:

1 14 ounce can sweetened condensed milk
2 tablespoons vanilla bean paste or vanilla extract
1/2 cup all-purpose or whole wheat pastry flour
1 teaspoon lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
4 medium peaches, thinly sliced

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees and grease a 9×9 baking pan.

Stir the flour, sugar, baking powder, salt and lemon juice. (It'll fizz. Like an old school science fair volcano). Cut the butter into cubes, and work it into the flour until the crumbs are pea-sized. (If, like me, you're not a fancy person with a fancy food processor, a pastry cutter or two knives will do the trick).

Press the dough into the prepared pan. Bake for 20-25 minutes, or until the edges begin to brown and pull away from the sides of the pan.

While crust is baking, slice the peaches. Stir together the sweetened condensed milk, vanilla, flour, lemon juice and cinnamon until smooth. (At this point, I was all "doesn't this need an egg or something?" Baked up just fine and passed the taste test without one).

Pour the sweetened condensed milk concoction over the crust. Press peaches into it. (I made a pretty design, but no one's judging you for haphazardly heaping them on. Especially because, if you save a little crust mixture, you can throw it on top crumble-style and the peaches disappear underneath).

Bake for an additional 15-20 minutes, or until the top is slightly firm. Allow to cool for at least 15 minutes before slicing and serving. (A la mode perhaps? I'm not saying you need vanilla ice cream, but c'mon... you need vanilla ice cream).

2012-06-25T00:24:00.000-05:00

- Summer peaches, begging to be baked. In a custard crumble. And yes, recipe is on its way.

- Enamored by banjos and big hair? Dirty River Boys at Antone's.

- Hey, those aren't tulips!

- Racking up the early-morning, backroad mileage. Coffee called shotgun.

- Boats and hoes.

- Lunch in Luling. City Market burnt ends have my heart.

- Getting more than I bargained for at Jo's. Leslie print in the corner speaks volumes.

- "Oh, you want to drink milk straight from these?"

- Trail run in triple digit heat. I make no apologies for the state of my front seat.

2012-06-21T02:09:00.001-05:00

The hull of a prop plane, long-defunct, juts from an empty field. As if it took a nose-dive into the red dirt years ago, and its rust grew roots.

A left at the lone blinking light and a right onto CR 112 until it butts into Bug Tussle, where pavement gives way to gravel.

A trailer painted like the Texas flag, parked in the corner of a dusty arena. A Sorrel horse, galloping under the guidance of a gentleman who tips his hat in our direction.

He waves our miniature production fleet through the gate.

I extend a hand and praise for the best set of directions I've ever received.

I'm allowed to say so, he nods, because I found the place.

He slings the rope with the precision of a scientist. It writhes gracefully in midair before jolting to life with a snap.

A patch of shade under the tin roof is prime property for watching Pat Ivey work.

He doesn't miss. Not once.

Ivey's skill is coveted by many, mastered by few. His pupils are a grab-bag of ages and ethnicities and backgrounds. City slickers. Aspiring cowboys. Retired professionals. Ladies. Little kids. Even a Londoner.

"London London?"

"He bought a roping dummy over there, believe it or not. Drags it out to the forest to practice. His friends give him a real hard time."

"How'd he find you?"

"Same way you did, I suppose."

No horse, no boots, no Texas citizenry required?

"Just bring your tennis shoes and a twenty-five dollar bill and we'll rope."

(If you can find the place).

2012-06-19T22:37:00.003-05:00

"Go ahead and rip up that order. He won't be able to afford it."

Stevie Ray Vaughan's mother, calling on his behalf, phoned Manny Gammage to let him know.

Before the record deals, the Rolling Stone write-ups, the half-dozen Grammys - Vaughan was just a seventeen year-old kid who wanted a fancy cowboy hat.

Gammage's wife, Norma, knew that.

Instead of trashing the ticket she'd just penned, she operated on stubborn faith.

And a young Vaughan, his first hand-crafted high-roller in hand, found a special message stamped inside...

Made especially for SRV.

The gesture wasn't buried in Vaughan's memory, or his fame.

Nearly two decades later (and two months before his untimely passing), he'd tell Leno - and the world - about Manny Gammage and his custom cappers.

Manny's youngest daughter, Joella Gammage Torres, recalls that story with particular pride. Though celebrities and politicians are a dime a dozen at Texas Hatters.

The walls, drenched in proof, do the bragging... Ronald Reagan. Robert Duvall. Penelope Cruz. Hank Williams, Jr. Willie Nelson. George H. George W. Chuck Norris. Colt McCoy.

Her father's apprentice until his passing in 1995, Joella now runs the family business alongside her husband, David, and son, Joel. Sewing, cutting, steaming, shaping. Second-nature for the third generation master-hatter, who's as quick to whip out nicknames as she is a tape measure.

"Seven and a quarter? Long Oval. Six and seven-eigths... that'd make you Skinny Egg. My son, oh, at least you don't have his! He's Bullet Head."

It's had a few different names, moved a few different places... Pasadena to Buda. Austin to Abilene.

"You're never gonna move outside of Texas, Dad. So why don't you just call it Texas Hatters and you'll never have to change it again."

One savvy piece of advice and ninety-something years later, this hatting legend - now right off Hwy 183 in Lockhart - remains a Lone Star treasure. And should be for generations to come, says Joella. The Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise too high. A Gammage family mantra.

2012-06-09T15:39:00.000-05:00

When there's an opportunity, take it. When there's not, create it.

I don't know if I read that on a coffee mug or heard it from a professor once or made it up entirely... but I'm putting a lot of confidence in those two sentences this week.

Enough so that I felt compelled to bombard Twitter with them.

And then I remembered that Twitter is reserved for snark, social commentary and obnoxious pictures of my baked goods.

I had a moment.

I'll make it up to you with two bits of useful information.

All good?

1) How to open a stubborn jar.

I eat jalapenos like candy, plow through a jar a week... and believe me when I tell you, these spicy beauties were trapped. (In a glass case of emotion?) No amount of twisting and turning and sweating and swearing... the lid was not budging. I got desperate. Dug through my cutlery drawer and drilled in with the first sharp, shiny object that caught my eye. POP goes the weasel. Multi-purpose magic.

2) How to make no-fail brownies.

And dispose of a leftover sleeve of Oreos that calls to you from the pantry shelf in late-night moments of weakness.

Homemade brownies are my nemesis. Jiggly in the middle, edges burnt to a crisp. I never had the mojo to get them just right.

Then Came You (not be to confused with the fantastic Dionne Warwick ditty)...

INFALLIBLE BROWNIES
{Recipe via Confessions of a Cookbook Queen}

The original is a German Chocolate version. I borrowed the brownie base and free-balled it from there.

1/2 cup salted butter, melted and cooled
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 cup granulated sugar
2 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
1/2 cup all purpose flour
1/2 cup semi sweet chocolate chips

You could skip out on the extras, but I wouldn't:

Oreos (Double Stuf'd, if you're smart)
1/2 cup peanut butter
1/2 cup chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350. Line an 8×8 pan with foil and spray the foil thoroughly with nonstick spray.

In a medium bowl, combine melted butter and cocoa powder, stirring until the cocoa powder is dissolved. Add the sugar and mix well. Add eggs one at a time, stirring well after each addition. Stir in vanilla. Add flour and stir only until you can no longer see flour in the batter. Gently fold in chocolate chips. Pour batter in prepared 8×8 pan and smooth the top with a spatula. Press Oreos (as many as you can cram) into the batter.

Bake brownies for 25-28 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out with only a few crumbs stuck to it. Cool on a wire rack to room temperature.

Here's where things get out of hand:

Melt peanut butter and chocolate chips together. (Zapped mine for 30 seconds in the microwave. In a microwave-safe bowl). Spread it on top of the brownies. Hit it with some Oreo crumbs. Hit it with some extra chocolate chips. Get artsy and drizzly with whatever is left of the peanut butter/chocolate mixture. And prepare to be berated in CAPS LOCK by co-workers who claim you're making them fat.

2012-06-05T22:39:00.000-05:00

When you hold up a sign that says ANYTHING HELPS... I take it to mean anything.

I offer a bag of Sour Cream Baked Lays leftover from lunch. Get hit with a dismissive 'thanks but no thanks' wave. Feel unjustifiably snubbed. Like sticking your hand out for a high five that never comes. Waiiiit for it.... But don't. Because it's never coming. And now you look like an idiot.

Forgive my callous heart, but cheeseburgers, petty cash & lotto tickets were not specified. Look down. Your piece of cardboard says a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g. Yes, I see you have no teeth. You're hungry enough, you find a way to gum down a bag of artificially-flavored potato crisps.

(Steps off soapbox and fast forwards to Tuesday).

Morning drive. Same intersection, different guy.

This one's juggling.

I'm intrigued.... for long enough to forget what happened the first (and last) time I (sort of) tried to help the homeless in this EXACT SPOT.

How do panhandlers determine spots? Is there a panhandling hierarchy? A calling of dibs? A ferocious three rounds of Rock/Paper/Scissors? This is me being genuinely curious. Not an insensitive bourgeois betch. And you know why I'm allowed to ask?

Because I did the math.

Let's say the stoplight at this particular intersection changes 30 times in an hour. (That being a generous underestimation). Let's also say one Good Samaritan passerby each traffic cycle forks over a dollar bill. Just one. Juggles pockets thirty bucks... in an HOUR. If he's hustling and puts in a full eight, he banks $240 a day... $1200 a week... $57,600 a year. That's with a month-long vacation.

You're living that large while spending your days shirtless on a tumped-over bucket - I can't even blame you for not taking my Baked Lays. You should be buying me a bag of Baked Lays. And I should be learning how to juggle.

2012-06-04T18:52:00.000-05:00

He squints, inspecting the flimsy plastic bag.

"Do you know what kind of apples these are?"

"Granny Smith...."

He scans strawberries and cherry tomatoes and a case of Diet Coke before pausing again.

"And these are...." He holds up two ripe avocados.

I gave him a free pass on the apples. (C'mon, buddy. Granny Smith green. Like the Crayola). I'll let him sweat this one out. Pulling a three-ring binder from behind the register - clearly under duress - he pages through plastic sheets of pictures and more pictures and bar codes.

"Plums?"

I half-scoff, half-laugh. (Sclaugh?)

"No?"

Oh. Oh no. I will never again be the a-hole who refuses to weigh and label my produce accordingly.

But I will drown it in olive oil and roast it within an inch of its life.

{Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Drizzle with a few teaspoons of olive oil. Sprinkle with salt & pepper, if you're feeling feisty. Toss to coat. Pop in oven for 25-ish minutes. Boom. How to roast... pretty much anything.}

2012-05-28T22:44:00.000-05:00

Brilliant ideas sometimes... aren't.

Like chucking your keys off the fourth floor balcony.

"Toss them...."

"I'll come down and and let you in..."

"No. Toss them. But toss them hard so they don't land in the neighbor's lawn."

Don't tell a competitive person to toss anything hard.

You get a screaming, four-seam fastball at the face... and a slightly cracked gate clicker that now works forty percent of the time, every time.

(In hindsight, a gentle basket toss would've sufficed).

But then backwards ideas sometimes are. (Brilliant, that is).

Like ice cream for dinner.

"South Congress around 5? New place called Lick?"

"Lamar?"

"YES. That one. Been there?"

"No, but I hang out at the bar next door." (If only we could answer all life's questions that way).

So.... Lick. Delicious double entendre.

Their mission? Thrill patrons with inventive flavors crafted with local ingredients. They've been doing it (and doing it well) since October, so says thick black frames with the scoop. (I renege the 'new' adjective tacked onto initial reference).

Small, simple, pure. (Batches of artisan ice cream and storefront alike). Blackberry Lemon & Basil. Caramel Salt Lick. Spicy Coconut & Peanut, with a cayenne dusting. Like a karate kick to the throat.

Me on the left. Two Scoops McGee. Homemade waffle cone, blow-ing-my-mind...

Ice cream for dinner. Like white after Memorial Day, totally acceptable. And even when it's not, it is.

2012-05-27T16:56:00.001-05:00

They call it the Texas Stop Sign.

That retro red emblem stamped with giant, white block letters.

But I'd bet a steak finger basket it's not the signage that's got you flipping the blinker for the next exit.

Nope... the siren song is of the soft-serve variety.

(The only "restaurant" in my mom's tiny West Texas hometown for years... she'll tell you all about summers worked, swirling & dipping cones).

A rule of thumb - the smaller the population, the greater the odds a Dairy Queen falls within county lines. (Doing the math in my head. Inversely proportional... right, nerds? Somebody dip back into eighth grade geometry and confirm that for me).

But there's this one... this stray urban locale, a few blocks down the street...

I motor past it twice a day. Don't give it much thought. Until two days and three words ago.

Confetti.

Cake.

Blizzard.

Flashing before my eyes, in red neon lights... Blizzard of the Month, you minx. I want to spoon you down. Every last bite. And the only thing stopping me... is 127 grams of sugar. (If nutritional calculators could suck fat like they suck fun, we'd be in business).

What's a sweet-toothed, sometimes-sort-of-health-conscious citizen to do?

CUPCAKE ADAPTATION. That's what.

Eat one. Eat two. Because look at how many sugary calories you're not ingesting.

Stealth rationale. Turning Confetti Cupcakes into health food.

How you like them sprinkles?

One-Bowl Confetti Cupcakes

1 box yellow cake mix
1 cup sour cream
1/3 cup vegetable oil
1/4 cup water
1/3 cup sugar
1/3 cup flour
3 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup rainbow jimmies (er, sprinkles)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Line your cupcake pans.

Mix all the ingredients together in the bowl of a standing mixer with a paddle attachment. Beat on low speed for 2 minutes. Scoop batter into cupcake liners (about halfway full) and bake for 12 to 14 minutes. Cool in the pan for a few, and then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely. Frost accordingly.

{Basic Vanilla Buttercream Recipe}

2012-05-21T22:35:00.001-05:00

A dessert with no name.

I unhinge the lid of the impenetrable cupcake carrier I'm lugging around, soccer-mom style.

"What are those?"

I shrug.

Chocolate and cookie dough and more chocolate.

(And chocolate chips).

(And peanut butter).

"Well, what do you call them?"

I shrug again.

A fudge-y, cake-y, cookie dough-y triple decker orb?

"I want the recipe for... those.... those things."

That, I can do.

With a tip of the cap to Love & Olive Oil and the Cookie Dough Lover's Cookbook - the Bible for those who dive greedily into dough and subscribe to the "oven optional" theory. (Un-furrow your brows and clink your beaters, salmonella-phobes. This recipe is egg-free and safe for bowl-licking).

Eggless Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough

1 stick unsalted butter

1/2 c. granulated sugar

1/2 c. light brown sugar, packed

2 tablespoons milk or cream

1/2 teaspoon vanilla

1 1/4 c. flour

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/2 c. mini semisweet chocolate chips

In a large bowl, beat butter and sugars on medium speed until light and fluffy, 2 to 3 minutes. Mix in milk and vanilla. Stir in flour and salt and mix on low speed (or by hand) until incorporated. Stir in chocolate chips. Refrigerate up to three days.

{Chocolate Whoopie Pie Recipe, via Love & Olive Oil}

{Chocolate Peanut Butter Glaze Recipe - A jumble of ingredients and odd steps. Trust the process. It comes together to form the most ridiculous, satiny glaze}

*Some assembly required.

**And if you concoct a clever name, holler.