Ladies, if you've had work done on your chest

bring your hands further apart. 

Moments like this remind me that I live in Los Angeles. And that I love living in Los Angeles. If you can believe it, this phrase was heard through the bumping speakers, over blasting tunes reminiscent of jock jams by the extremely perky instructor of my 9:30 am advanced cardio barre class, photographed above. For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about – not in general, but regarding this issue, in the simplest form – cardio barre is ballet on crack. Having danced through high school, the movements of this class come much more naturally to my body than any activity involving weights or machinery of any kind. But I said the movements came more naturally, not that they are natural in any shape or form imaginable. Because kicking your leg back over your head isn’t natural for anyone. If they tell you it is, they are lying. Or they are in Cirque du Soleil. But even then, they are probably lying. 

Not only do I love living in LA, but I love working out in LA. Not because I love working out, but because only here will you hike Runyon Canyon and pass people on their cell phone with a coffee in hand, or fight over a space in a class with a rejected contestant from America’s Next Top Model, or in my case – share a barre with the cheerleaders from Glee, while being offered modifications based on certain surgical enhancements. Tendu-ing and plie-ing to the latest remix of the new Britney Spears track – which I’m obsessing over, by the way – and sweating through layers of lululemon is becoming something of a routine. And because Southern California has completely skipped Spring and is in full force Summer, it needs to stay a routine, as I was once again reminded by the milfs at the pool this afternoon. And if my eating habits are any kind of indication, physical fitness needs to be a top priority. Because if nothing else, I simply can’t afford to buy fat pants. 

In case you were wondering, the exercise requiring modifications were plank push ups, with your hands on the barre and pushing away. Wider hands for those with enhancements. And I can honestly say, at least half of the class widened their arm positions.

In semi-related news - how darling is this little ballerina? I wish I could tell her I know how she feels. Poor thing. Thanks for sharing, Joanna.

The Tragedy of First Position

Santa Barbara

You can buy me this poster here.

I don’t know about you, but I plan my days around food. I plan my schedule around what I’d like to eat, when, and where. Can you imagine how jam packed a weekend can be with so many of my favorite places, with so little time to eat them all? Multiply this problem by 27 billion when I find myself home for holidays in the Napa Valley. Opting in for a last minute trip to Santa Barbara, my schedule was completely full with sushi, sandwiches, cupcakes, and cocktails.

If you’ve ever spent any time in Santa Barbara, or Ilsa Vista for that matter, there are certain places you just need to go. Bagel Café is just one of those places. Why are bagels always so much more delicious when someone else is toasting them for you? I like to think it’s the same reason your hair never looks as good as it does when a hairdresser styles it. Some things just need to be left to the professionals. Bagels are one of those things. Throw in some kind of cheap, greasy burrito with French fries and sour cream and I’m a happy girl.

However, now that I’m so old and mature, these IV spots aren’t the only things on the menu. Enter Cold Spring Tavern.  Just off the 154, this old stagecoach shop feels like another planet. Or Frontierland. Or a stop on the Oregon Trail. I can’t decide. In any case, this is the Sunday Funday place to be for anyone with a motorcycle, fringed leather jacket, or impressively tangled facial hair. I obviously fit right in. Our one common bond – love of tri tip. And you can only find these bad boys – the sandwiches, not the bikers – on Sundays. I’m pretty sure the bikers are always there. Walking out to the smokey outdoor grill, you’re handed slabs of tri tip smothered between the most deliciously toasted bun. I opted out of bbq sauce, and instead loaded up with horseradish and a spicy fresh salsa, as per the scary samoan bbq grill master. And seriously, who wouldn't take advice from that guy? He looks like he knows what he's doing. If I weren’t so afraid of the beer bellies that hung over most of the middle aged biker's chaps, I could very well do this every Sunday - dining outside, on tree stumps and picnic tables, cold beer in hand, sandwich remnants all over my outfit, listening to the musical stylings of the Gary Foshee Band. If only I drove away on the back of a motorcycle. How cool would that have been? And I’m thinking next time, I should be wearing these badass boots. Maybe I should add them to my birthday list.

I'm surprised I even waited long enough to snap a picture of this sensational sandwich before chowing down. Thanks for thinking of snapping the atmosphere, Betty. I was obviously to busy eating and drinking. 

I love birthdays.

Could you just die for this party? As featured in Rue Magazine. This could be me and my pals. 

My birthday. Your birthday. I love all birthdays really. I mean, who doesn’t love a good reason to gather friends, celebrate, and eat cake? Not me, or anyone I’d want to party with for that matter. The aging part, I’m not so crazy about. I’ve been a lover of birthdays for as long as I can remember, however turning twenty four in less than a month, I’m feeling a bit of birthday anxiety. Even typing the word twenty four sucks.

I knew this day would come eventually. Those older and wiser tried to warn me. Nothing cool happens when you turn 24. No milestones. No new privileges. Nothing. When you turn 16, you drive. Or 16 and a quarter, if like me, it takes you a few tries. At 18 you can vote. And buy cigarettes. And lotto tickets. Turning 21 is the best – especially when you have parents like mine who send Patron, a saltshaker and a bag of limes in a package labeled to be opened at midnight. But it’s all down hill from there. 22 might as well be 25. Soon enough you’re 30 and 30 might as well be 40. Can you understand my anxiety? I thought I had combated the birthday blues with awesome twenty second and third birthdays, but something about twenty four is different. Twenty four is just one short year away from twenty five – a quarter of a century.  But I’m getting ahead of myself. And I think I just aged 17 million years in the process. Twenty four can be fun, right? I haven’t tried it myself, but I really loved twenty two and twenty three. Maybe I’m like a fine wine – and get better with age? Just saying that makes me feel old. And embarrassed I even used that expression. My bad.

To get back in the spirit, I’ve initiated the birthday preparations. It seems to be working quite nicely. Not only have I started a rather extensive wish list, but I’ve begun the planning for what ought to be a rather fabulous occasion. A spring time birthday lends itself nicely to tea parties, brunches and soft pastel color pallets, so I’ll start there.

Starting in the top left corner and circling around. 1. How darling is this cake? I’m so obsessed with the simplicity. It’s called cake bunting. Obviously my name isn’t betty, but I could easily change that. And you can purchase the adorable banner on etsy. I think i just might. But with my own name. 2. I normally associate delicate tea parties with mornings or early afternoons, however I am so over the moon about this soft, outdoor, evening setting. And that says a lot, because I'm not the biggest fan of the wilderness. 3. This very well could just be everything I ever dreamed a lovely spring tea party could be. Thank you, Birthday Girl. The table linens are so shaby chic. The individual pink lemonades are so sweet. Stunning, right? Such perfection. 4. I love the idea of a dessert table – because, well, I love desserts. Something about it is just so enticing. There's bound to be something for everyone. I like the idea of people being able to take treats home with them. And the flowers add such a natural decor. So effortless. 

Ok, I'm excited. These ideas sound a heck of a lot better than sleeping all day, pretending it didn’t happen, and carrying on as a twenty three year old. And I kind of want to have a party.  

So twenty four it is then. I’ll see you soon. Ugh.

Better safe than sorry.

As a former traffic patrolman and office fire marshal, whistle and all, I take safety very seriously. Living in Los Angeles, on the third floor of a building located in a tsunami hazard zone, you can imagine how the recent news of an impending earthquake on the west coast could effect my beauty sleep. Better safe than sorry, I spent the better part of my day putting together my very own emergency kit. Just in case.

After sending in my W-2, putting the finishing touches on a few belated birthday cards and painting my finger nails a lovely shade of putty – Commander in Chic, specifically, I made my way to Target. And seriously, what is it about Target that makes you entirely forget your purpose, browsing the aisles for hours, filling your cart with things you didn’t even know you needed? Maybe that’s my problem – the cart. Next time I won’t grab a cart. In any case, after trying on everything in my size celebrating five years of designer partnerships, I set out to tackle the task at hand. As I knew this would happen, I came equipped with a list, grabbed a coffee and refocused my attention.

If you’d also like to sufficiently freak yourself out while educating yourself in the case of a natural disaster, I’d suggest checking out this site. Or this one. Or this one. While to me, those emergency kits sound more like crime scene investigation materials, if you’d like to follow my lead – my emergency kit consists of the following, all packed neatly in a clear storage tub hidden beneath my nightstand.

·      flashlight

·      bottles of water

·      chewy granola bar variety pack

·      first aid kit

·      sparkly band-aids

I figure if the time comes when an emergency kit is necessary, I’d like something to cheer me up, and I think that sparkly band-aids could do just the trick. I just hope I don’t use them in the mean time, or eat the granola bars.

UPDATE: granola bars consumed - 5

photo credit - red cross logo

Kiss me, I'm Irish.

Well, probably. I’m not quite sure. With adoptions on both sides of my family, a lot is left up in the air. But with more luck than a leprechaun and enough freckles to play connect the dots, I’d say Irish is a pretty good bet. But how about I’ll make it easy on all of us. 

Just take me here and I’ll kiss you. Settled. How was your St. Patrick's Day?

Irish or not, I was most definitely wearing green on Thursday. Not only because I can’t afford to be pinched – I happen to bruise like a peach – but also because I wanted an excuse to wear this dress, weather permitting. Maybe next year. I also most definitely consumed vast amounts of stout beer and Irish whisky, in the form of these devilish treats. Nothing against corned beef and cabbage - I actually happen to have an unnatural love for cabbage - but perhaps separating St. Patrick’s Day from all other holidays are the beverages. And the fact that they can take the shape of a tasty chocolate treat. That I have been eating for every meal since Thursday. And will continue to eat until they are gone. At the rate I'm devouring them will most likely be very soon. While I doubt the patron saint of Ireland was quite the lush this holiday has embodied, I don’t doubt he never knocked a few back with his pals. And for that, I toasted to his honor. With plenty of cheap beer dripping with green food coloring. I'm sure he appreciated it.
Maybe next year I'll be toasting with with a Hot Nutty Irishman. Calm down Mom, it’s a drink – not a person.

My friends are the best friends


Loyal, willing and able.

Now let’s get to drinking!


All glasses off the table! 

Bon Appétit

If you enjoy carbohydrates, you need this.
It will be your bible. 

While I may be new to kitchen appliances like ovens, stoves and food processors – seriously, why do they make the top so hard to screw on? And why can’t I conquer the childproof lock on the side? I can’t possibly be the only one facing this issue - I am no stranger to blenders, pitchers and beverages of all kinds, umbrellas or otherwise. Joining friends for dinner, my participation this time around came in the form of vino, or wine for those of you who don’t speak Italian. As that was the theme for this gathering, I felt it was only appropriate to speak the language of love. Or is that French? In any case, I would never say no to pasta, cheese, tiramisu or vino, regardless of language barriers.

To prepare my portion of the evening, I headed straight for Trader Joe’s. I recently heard that people conscious of their diets shop the perimeter of the grocery store, avoiding the processed foods in the middle. This worked out perfectly for me, as wine consumes two entire walls at this Trader Joe’s. Also perfect, because I walked through the doors at 5:30 pm. Usually grocery shopping at this time will put me in the most foul of moods. Always packed, dodging carts pushed by the elderly and trying not to step on crying children throwing tantrums on the floor in front of the limited ice cream selection will usually do that to you.  This TJ’s however, has found the perfect solution to this problem, keeping customers like me happy. This simple solution, my friends, is called Happy Hour. The Trader Joe’s in Newport Beach knows what’s up, inviting me to the wine tasting bar to experience, you guessed it – flavors of Italy. Helping me select two perfect bottles, that I obviously don't remember the names of, both reds - one more robust to be paired with dinner, and a lovely lighter option to enjoy while cooking. Having already grabbed a bottle of moscato for dessert, all of the bases were covered. 

While I wish I could, I can’t share with you the most delicious recipe for the dozens of canolis I devoured. Partially because it is a friend’s top secret family recipe, and partially because I don’t know it. I do, however, know the recipe for the incredible fettucine carbonara with fried eggs I inhaled without looking up from my plate, participating in conversation, or breathing. With a picky eater on our hands, we switched out the broccoli rabe with asparagus, equally as delicious.

Fettuccine Carbonara with Fried Eggs, courtesy of Bon Appetit Magazine 

Bon Appétit is right

8 large eggs

2/3 cups grated Parmesan cheese

1/3 grated pecorino Romano cheese

2 cloves garlic, minced

½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

4 ounces thinly sliced pancetta, finely chopped

12 ounces egg fettuccine

1 medium bunch broccoli rabe cut into ½ inch pieces

Whisk 4 eggs, cheeses, garlic, and ½ teaspoon pepper in a medium bowl; set aside. Cook pancetta in large nonstick skillet over medium heat until crisp, about 7 minutes. Using slotted spoon, transfer pancetta to small bowl. Reserve drippings in skillet.

Cook pasta in large pot of boiling water until almost tender (about 3 minutes less than package directions); add broccoli rabe. Cook just until broccoli rabe is crisp-tender and pasta is tender, about 3 minutes longer. Drain pasta-broccoli rabe mixture, reserving ½ cup cooking liquid. Return hot pasta-broccoli rabe mixture to pot (off heat). Immediately add egg-cheese mixture, pancetta, and ¼ cup pasta cooking liquid; toss to combine, adding more cooking liquid by tablespoonfuls to moisten as needed. Season to taste with salt and more pepper. Cover to keep warm. Heat skillet with drippings over medium heat. Crack remaining 4 eggs into skillet; sprinkle with salt and pepper and cook until whites are opaque, about 2 minutes. Carefully turn eggs over; cook just until whites are set but yolks are still soft, about 1 minute longer. Remove skillet from heat.

Top pasta with fried egg and serve.  Serves 4, with leftovers. 

Casa Rubino, off the Amalfi Coast

Can someone please take me here? The next time I attend an Italian themed dinner party, drink Italian wine, or any wine for that matter, I'd like for it to take place here, at Casa Rubino on the cliffs of the Amalfi Coast. This charming villa sleeps eight, complete with a full staff and a personal waiter. I swear, I'd be the best travel companion. I can be ready in a moments notice. And I'd love you forever. 

I know you wanna do the Jane Fonda.

Let me start by saying, as I lift my iced soy latte at Coffee Bean, my arm is shaking. My body is in agony. The kind of agony, my friends, caused by none other than an intense workout at the gym. The kind of agony that can only be cured by a 90 minute deep tissue massage – if only that was the deal of the day on groupon, as opposed to the ½ off tamale making class I just purchased.

If you haven't caught on, I love delicious treats like these, these, and these. Let me also say, I think working out and losing weight in the cold winter months is unnatural. Bears don’t do it. They hibernate. Cavemen didn’t do it either. It’s called a winter coat for a reason. And I for one, hate being cold. While I hear tales of snow and downpours of rain elsewhere in the country, it’s been a gorgeous 80 degrees here in Los Angeles and I have the sunburn to prove it. And let me tell you something else, nothing will shatter your self-confidence more than prancing around the pool in your bright blue polka dot bikini – only to see a mother of two, wearing the same one. And looking better in it. Needless to say, I’ve now been working it out at the gym.

There was once I time when I was very active. Then I became one of those I have a job, and I’m so exhausted after working all day I can’t go to the gym kind of people. It got even worse when I became one of those I don’t have a job, and I’m so exhausted from eating Coco Krispies all day I can’t go to the gym kind of people. Well my friends, and the mom who’s too old to be wearing my polka dot bikini, those days are over.

My dear friend Heidi, who’s skills in the kitchen are only matched by her dedication in the gym, has been dragging me with her at 6:30 in the morning. Different from me, Heidi is one of those I have a job, and I’m so exhausted after working all day I can’t go to the gym – so I go before work kind of people. I know, it freaked me out at first too. I bet she was regretting bringing me as her gym buddy the second my face turned as pale as a ghost and I nearly collapsed to the ground, only to be resuscitated by Gatorade.  Picture my face on the neck of one of those brightly colored T-shirts worn by contestants on The Biggest Loser, puking into a garbage can. Or don’t. Because that’s kind of gross. You get the idea. Don’t worry, I have been back a few times since. I'm not surrendering to beach cover-ups that quickly. So thanks, Heids, and thanks Uncle Jesse too – Heidi’s trainer who threatens to upload video footage of me on YouTube if I ever run for the trash. I should probably say he really isn’t anyone’s uncle, but associating him with a loveable guy from Full House is the only way not to punch him in the face when he turns up the speed on the treadmill.

Has that damn Mickey Avalon song been stuck in your head since reading this title, too? No. Just me? Ok then. Five, six, seven now. If you don’t know lemme show you how. To work it out, work it little momma. I know you wanna do the Jane Fonda. 

But seriously, how fabulous does she look? Grab my legwarmers and sign me up.

Fat Tuesday

Beignets. Courtesy of The Cajun/Creole Cookbook. 

Margaritas and enchiladas on Cinco de Mayo. Irish car bombs and corned beef on St. Patrick’s Day. Beignets and beads on Fat Tuesday. Obviously. Now, I could easily get away with putting fat in front of any day of the week. Take yesterday for example, Fat Monday entailed finishing the last of the Thin Mints - that were oh so much better after freezing them, while sitting through two hours of catfights in cocktail dresses on The Bachelor, loving every second of it. But today is something special. I can actually get away with it today, because different from last Tuesday, everyone will be celebrating Fat Tuesday. And who doesn’t love a good reason to celebrate? Isn’t that why Sunday Funday was created? Although I didn’t celebrate Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but rather a festival in Long Beach complete with masks, beads and beer galore, I have eaten my way through the French Quarter. Dinner at Commander’s Palace, alligator cheesecake at Jaques Imo’s and beignet’s at Café du Monde. Stuffing my face with these fried pillows of heaven on Saturday, I forgot everything I had learned in New Orleans. I was reminded the second we erupted in laughter.  Avalanche of powdered sugar. All over our dark jeans. And black t-shirts. Regardless, I couldn’t have been happier. Be it at Café du Monde, or a fairground parking lot in Long Beach - surrounded by friends, a mouth full of fried food, covered in powdered sugar, wearing the most ridiculous masks - I highly recommend it. Except maybe next time I'd suggest wearing white.

So for you, I share this recipe, in hopes that all of your Tuesdays are fat. I know mine will be. 

Beignets, courtesy of Paula Deen. 

Ingredients:

•       1 envelope active dry yeast

•       1 1/2 cups warm water (approx. 105°)

•       1/2 cup granulated sugar

•       1 teaspoon salt

•       2 eggs, beaten

•       1 cup evaporated milk

•       7 cups all-purpose flour

•       1/4 cup shortening, softened

•       oil for deep frying

•       powdered sugar

Preparation:

In large bowl, sprinkle yeast over the warm water; stir to dissolve and let stand for 5 minutes. Add sugar, salt, beaten eggs, and evaporated milk. Whisk or use electric mixer to blend thoroughly. Add 4 cups of the flour; beat until smooth. Add shortening; gradually blend in remaining flour. Cover with plastic wrap and chill at least 4 hours or overnight. Roll out on floured board to 1/8-inch thickness. Cut into 2 1/2 to 3-inch squares. Deep fry at 360° for 2 to 3 minutes until lightly browned on both sides. Drain on paper towels and sprinkle generously with powdered sugar. Serve hot with coffee.

Dough can cut and frozen, separated in container with waxed paper.

Makes 4 to 5 dozen.

Perhaps, why we were laughing. Go ahead, it won't hurt my feelings. 

Dear Abby

Ann Landers and Dear Abby, respectively. 

Some situations require a second opinion. Big decisions, for example. Big decisions like major purchases, drastic changes to your hair color, or selecting my birthday presents – which would hopefully also fall in to the category of major purchases. On the other hand, some situations don’t require another’s opinion, as the mere fact that you think you should ask, should be answer enough. For example, if you must ask if your outfit is unflattering, or if your boyfriend is a douchebag, the answer is most likely yes. A tricky situation, however, in that these particular situations won’t always give you the most honest of answers. Obviously, we entrust friends and family in these instances, but what about someone impartial, people who do this for a living? Like Dr. Laura. Seriously, how cool would that be? To have people all across the country seeking your help. Wondering what you think. Wanting your advice. What qualifications would that require? I should find out and add that to my list of dream jobs.

Usually, when sought after for advice, it pertains to a particular outfit choice, dining option or sweet treat – regarding any of which, I’d be happy to help, and am more than qualified. Now I’m no Doctor Laura, or even a Doctor Phil, and on no planet should I be allowed to offer legitimate advice on any a range of topics. But let’s face it, neither should Doctor Phil or Doctor Laura, and that doesn’t seem to stop either one of them.  Carrie Bradshaw and I may share the same passion for Pucci, but what about the Dear Abby types? Maybe even an Ask Ann Landers – who happens to be Dear Abby’s estranged twin sister. It sounds like the only qualifications they needed were awesome pen names, a power suit and the most hair sprayed blow out known to man kind. I realize both of these examples may be a tad out dated, however I was mortified to see Kris Jenner’s advice column as a weekly feature in Life & Style Magazine. I’d prefer to stick with a classic, the old tried and true. On second thought, about Kris Jenner - something should be said of a matriarch who turned a sex tape in to an entire culture of spray-tanned dolls, wearing head to toe Bebe, with plenty of junk in the trunk, addicted to quick trim. Hmmm.

In any case, with the right pen name, a bottle of hairspray, and a pair of Manolo Blahniks, my dream jobs are currently as follows. Kardashian, Dear Abby, Carrie Bradshaw or otherwise. 

1.     Zac Efron’s Girlfriend

2.     Iron Chef America Judge

3.     Advice Columnist

I absolutely hate ice breakers.

Randomly, this is me.

I think I look just like my

dad here. And I'm guessing

he dressed me. 

I cannot stand them, and will boycott participating at all costs. It’s not that I don’t enjoy meeting new people. I love meeting new people. It’s one of my favorite things. I don’t, however, enjoy forced awkward situations. Having to hug five people I don’t know, form groups based on favorite colors, and introduce myself by not only name, but also what I had for breakfast makes me so uncomfortable. No thank you. I just won’t do it. Once the ice has been broken, I’m all for games. Like this one. My won
derful friend Linzay writes an equally wonderful blog, Broke Runner. I can relate to part. I’ll let you guess which. Linzay was kind enough to mention me in her post and I’m happy to play along. So here you are, 7 random facts.

7 Things.

1.     I put salt on my toast. Dissolving in the warm butter, I could eat this greasy, salty treat everyday. I say greasy, because I also think toast should only be used as a vessel for butter.

2.     Sometimes, when watching something I’ve previously taped, I get so wrapped up in hilarious commercials I forget to fast forward. For me, a funny commercial is like gold. Call me easily amused, but convincing me to do something or buy something in 30 seconds takes skill. And I appreciate it.

3.     I love when characters in movies have my name. Better when the actress playing Samantha is cool. Best if her love interest is hot. Take the movie The Mexican for example. Julia Roberts plays Sam and Brad Pitt is her boyfriend. I mean.

4.     If I could, I would wear the same thing everyday. Actually, I won’t even pretend that I don’t already. A pair of Current/Elliot jeans, specifically these, that I've completely worn out, complete with authentic tears in the knees and under the back pockets. And a Nation Ltd. T, most likely this one, in white. Or navy. I’d like to consider it my uniform for life. Both so comfortable, with such an easy sense of style. Perfection.

5.     I don’t like animals I don’t know. If I’m in public, I’ll pretend that I do. But I don’t. This may sound cold, but believe me; I’ve come a long way. My only pet being Regis, the bell imitating parakeet whose life was far too short, I was never an animal person. Cats are another story. I’ll never like cats.

6.     Kevin is my favorite Backstreet Boy. Or technically was as he unfortunately left the group. Though my love for him knows no bounds, Justin Timberlake’s FutureSex LoveSounds tour is the greatest concert I have experienced. Only to be matched by Kevin’s performance in Chicago. Obviously.

7.     I write things I’ve already completed on my to-do lists, simply so I can cross them off. It makes me feel  far more productive.

I’d like to tag seven other friends and encourage them to play along. Let’s hear seven random facts about you guys. Ready. Set. Go.

Sincerely, Cecelia. Lacey in Europe. Annotations. Sun-Splashed Foodie. Like Double Cherry Pie. Little Gems. JRDM. 

Cream puffs and prosciutto.

My new go-to, for any and all functions which would require me to bring anything. And maybe even those that don't. 

Not together. Obviously. Because that would be disgusting. One after another, with a delicious dinner in between? Now we’re talking. This week, I had the pleasure of joining friends old and new for a lovely dinner party at a gorgeous home over looking the glassy waters of Long Beach. Because that’s what you do when you’re old and mature. You go to dinner parties. I feel I’ve been preparing myself for this stage of life since the day I learned cupcake shaped dresses in pastels were appropriate tea party attire, while sequins were more suitable for cocktails - which I can assure you was very young. And far too early to consume cocktails. Always fabulous at attending, I’ve never been one to find myself in a kitchen. This, for me, is like learning a foreign language, one full of words like sifting and double boilers, saffron and celery root. Thank goodness for Martha Stewart, who I personally enjoy much more after her jail sentence. Her cupcakes and tablescapes have such an edge now, wouldn’t you agree? Maybe it’s just me. In any case, my participation came in the form of appetizers. With Martha’s assistance, I planned two mouth-watering snacks. Basil and Prosciutto Crostini’s and Baked Brie. Navigating the aisles of Whole Foods like a professional, and sampling cheeses like it was my job, I was fairly confident I could very well pull this off. Cutting the golden La Brea Bakery baguette on the diagonal, without losing a finger. Toasting the tasty pieces without setting a small kitchen fire. Layering the crisp basil and topping with salty prosciutto, without missing a beat. So impressed with myself – simple, I know, I’m not very hard to please - I completely forgot about the baked brie, which Heidi – if you’re reading this – is sitting tight in your refrigerator. Perhaps next time. Basking in my near kitchen perfection was short lived as things continued to get better and better with chimichurri chicken and a crunchy chopped salad. However, the piece de resistance was the most divine, creamy and puffy cream puffs to ever grace my lips. So amazing, I’d like to share them with you. You’re welcome. 

Thank you Heidi, for making them, Tootie, for sharing your recipe, and Cristal for having me.

These are Martha's.
Filled with ice cream.
To. Die. For.

Cream Puffs

Shells

1 cup water

½ cup butter

1 cup sifted, all-purpose flour

¼ tsp. salt

4 eggs

                                                                       

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

In a saucepan over high heat, heat water and butter until it melts and boils.  Turn heat to low and add flour and salt; stir vigorously over heat until dough leaves the sides of the pan in a smooth ball.

Quickly transfer dough to a large bowl; with mixer beat in eggs, one at a time, and continue beating until dough is smooth and satiny.

On a greased, lightly floured cookie sheet, drop 1 heaping tablespoon of dough.  This will make about 10-12 shells, and can be made bigger or smaller. I say, the bigger the better.

Bake at 400 degrees for 25-30 minutes, until golden and firm.   With shells still in the oven, turn off, and allowing to rest 15 minutes, and then transfer to a cooling rack.

With a sharp knife, cut shells in half and remove a little of the dough inside to make room for filling.

Filling

2 5.1 oz. packages instant vanilla pudding

2 ½ cups milk

2 cups whipping cream (whipped) or substitute with Cool Whip

2 tsp. vanilla extract

Make pudding as directed on package using the amount of milk indicated in this recipe.  Gradually fold in whipping cream and vanilla.

Fill shells, set top shell in place and refrigerate.

Chocolate Glaze

2 squares unsweetened chocolate

2 tbs. butter

1 ½ cups powdered sugar

Dash of salt

4 tbs. hot milk

Melt chocolate and butter in a microwave safe dish for approx 1 minute, and stir until melted.  Add powdered sugar and salt.  Gradually blend in 4 tablespoons of hot milk.  Pour over filled shells.  Refrigerate.

Puffs taste best at room temperature, if you can wait that long.

Enjoy.