from instant pudding to homemade requests.

People ask me almost everyday where I learned to bake, or rather, why I seem to be so passionate about baking. The response I usually give is short and sweet, in a classic drawn-out kind of way. It sounds something like, "Well, from a very young age, both my grandmothers taught me how to bake. And it kind of stuck with me." And it's all true, just not complete.

After my parents split up, I found myself spending afternoons with my maternal grandmother. Everyday after school I would ride the bus to her house and wait for my mother to pick up my sister and I after she got off work. Sometimes we had a knitting lesson, learning to make washcloths or potholders (basically anything Grandma needed to replace around the house), but more often than not, I had a baking lesson. It started off simple, learning how to make peanut-butter crackers. I know what you're thinking, 'Peanut butter crackers are easy to make, who needs a lesson in that?' I didn't need a lesson,, per se, but my Grandma was determined to teach me how to become more independent, as I'm sure my daily water works when my mom left in her car were starting to grow old. So we started simple. Learning how to spread peanut butter. And soon after that we moved onto instant Jello Pudding from a package. And man oh man I thought that was just Top Chef material.

Every few days I would climb up on the counter and sit down next to the sink and dump this huge package of brown powder into a gigantic bowl. Then I would get to carefully pour milk into a cup (over a larger cup to catch my inevitable spillage) and then we'd set a timer and I'd whisk away for five minutes straight. I'm sure my whisking skills were comparable to every other five year old at the time-- uneven and messy. Maybe that's why we always baked by the sink?

Probably what I loved most about the pudding mix was getting to pour the batter into these delicate little glasses my Grandma only used for our afternoons together. We would separate the pudding into fours and then place the china into the fridge to let it set. And I could never wait for the pudding to get cold, we'd always eat one right away. Everyday after that I'd check back to see if we needed to make more pudding, hoping I'd get to use the big whisk.

At Christmas time, my Grandma would have my sister and I over for a baking session. We'd get out our cutest little aprons to protect our Christmas dresses, and she would let us destroy her kitchen for the entire afternoon. The scent of the cookies would overtake the house and even lure my grandfather from his den every once in a while. We made sugar cookies, cutout cookies, chocolate chip, butterscotch crunchies, almond cookies, and everything in between. The day was not over until every tin was filled. At the time, my sister was old enough to handle the mixer and the smaller measurements, so I was in charge of measuring everything light and easy to see.

I will never forget my very first lesson in measuring flour. I was handed a giant spoon, and a one cup measure. Next to me sat the big ceramic container of flour. My grandma took my hand and told me to scoop the flour into the cup. So I did what any child would do, I scooped until it was full and then started smashing it down with the back of the spoon to make room for more. Oh no, precious, don't pack the flour down. That will make the batter too dense. Flour has to be handled gently, explained my grandma. She took my hands in hers and showed me the proper way.

1. Scoop flour into the cup
2. Take a knife and chop the top lightly.
3. Use the knife (back side, not serrated!) to slide off the excess flour

And from that moment on, I knew my baking had to be precise. But my grandmother being the amazing woman she is, made baking look effortless. Actually, both my grandmothers make cooking and baking look flawless. But who wouldn't be able to when you're this beautiful?


Maternal Grandmother Sexton



Paternal Grandmother Phipps


I give them full-credit for my tree-climbing abilities and somewhat frequent public displays of half-nudity.

Anyhow, my paternal Grandmother has been an inspiration when it comes to baking as well. Her kitchen was constantly going when I was younger, and to this day it mostly still is. She either had hot dogs boiling for kids, or a pork tenderloin tenderizing in the oven. When it came to our afternoon visits, we always had apple slices and popcorn waiting for our movie, and when it ended, it was time to bake cupcakes to take home to my Mom. I still don't know how she got her icing to be so fluffy and light, even after having the recipe for a few years, but I was always impressed with her ability to make light and fluffy cupcakes and cookies with very little effort. She didn't wear an apron. She usually had on a blouse, her gold egg-shaped jewelry (rings, earrings and necklace) along with her perfectly polished nails and Chanel Number Five perfume sprayed on lightly. I couldn't leave her house without at least two lipstick prints on my face, a Bounce sheet in my pants pocket to ward off mosquitoes, and a container filled with her baked goods....and of course the occasional Coca-Cola for the road.

Her cookies were loaded with butter, rich sweet cream butter, and they just broke off and melted in your mouth. Snack time soon became a two or three times per day affair, and left us always wondering what would be on the menu later that day. My grandma could also make a semi-homemade dessert look and taste fully homemade. One of my favorite creations that she made was my Dad's Boston Cream Birthday Pie, and I believe about half of it was typically from store-bought materials. But she didn't look up how to make it home-made, she just created. She understood the consistency of every ingredient involved and knew what the final would need to be like, and from that point on she just dove right in.

Many afternoons were spent with my Grandparents, and that alone makes me one of the luckiest people in the world. Not only did I have the opportunity to live in the same city as both sets of grandparents, but I had ample opportunity of spending time with them and learning about their lives, while they shaped mine. I've probably adopted my maternal grandmother's perception and understanding of baking, but I adopted my paternal grandmother's ability to take this science to a new level. My passion for baking didn't just come from my Grandmothers, it came from some internal feeling I've learned to love about baking. Some days I bake because I'm sad. I bake because my world is crumbling around me, with no sense of direction, and all I want is for something to make sense. And baking makes sense. Plus, it's a great way to sort things out in my head, especially when there's no chance to go out for an hour long run!

I also bake because I like to make people happy. The first time they bite into something incredible, their face lights up. And that face is simply priceless. It's like watching a child open their first gift on Christmas morning. Nothing can compare. I may have moved on from boxed pudding and mis-measuring ingredients, but I cherish every step I've taken along the way. And now I find myself dreaming about new recipes, creating them while I'm at work without a task to complete. I even dream of opening my own bakery one day, maybe a non-profit organization designed to give back to the community in one way or another. Bring on the smiles. And the butter too, of course.

So there you have it...my story, in a very expanded nutshell. And yes, I do take baking requests.

And it happens sometime around midnight.

The overwhelming silence enters the room. Lights may be on, but mostly just the moonlight dances across the floor. When the door shuts every ounce of hope leaves with the ventilated air. The room feels stifling yet large in it's own right. Cross the floor the bed is not made and the single impression still remains. The single spot where the sheets crinkle, where the comforter has been moved around. The only heat generated comes from a faithful dog-- the only ally in this spot. A deep sigh comes with shutting off the final light. Getting into bed feels heavy and precise. Never sliding over into the middle, the same empty side remains untouched and waiting for its usual occupant. That same empty side silences any pleasant dream and waking up to it each morning only serves as a reminder for what should be there...

i hate baking cocoa.

Well, not really. But it is quite possibly the only relationship in my life I can define as love/hate. There are far too many dimensions to baking cocoa, and an even longer list of things that can go wrong when baking with it. So normally my baking cocoa stays tucked away in my cabinets, growing older and richer over time. And then of course there comes the occasional recipe I feel like playing around with-- whether it be my Chocolate Peanut Butter Shaysters, Tuxedo Chip Cookies, or even just a chocolate cheesecake. I head to the store to scrounge up some supplies...and inevitably buy yet another can of said baking cocoa! So now the oldie has a new younger sibling to hang out in the cobwebs with.

This week I found myself with a bag of white chocolate chips. I also found myself unwilling to play it safe with a simple white-choclate macadamia nut cookie. So of course I began my google search while at work, pulling ideas from a few co-workers. And all I could find were recipes for cookies with nuts, or cocoa powder. At first I wondered, why in the world would we treat something as rich as white chocolate so poorly? And then I realized...because it's not really chocolate at all. We just think it is because it's perfectly molded into a creamy texture. But this is all beside the point. I decided I would try to make a decadent cookie recipe that would match the rich flavor of the poser chocolate. And this is where I turned to my baking cocoa. Things would have started out normally but when I grabbed my container of flour I realized I wouldn't have enough for a whole batch. So I decided on making a half-recipe. And for those of you who bake, or who at least know how particular baking tends to be, this can get tricky. Doubling or cutting the recipe in half can drastically alter the consistency of any recipe, though logic is screaming out to tell me otherwise.

If I use two-thirds of a cup of something in a regular recipe, why wouldn't I use one-third for a half recipe? But you just can't. It has to be cut in half...and then played with ever so lightly. And so the process began.



Of course the cocoa gave me issues right off the bat and spilled all over the counter. And this is why I hate baking cocoa:

1. It sticks to anything and everything it touches.
2. When used with a mixer, it will fly into the air like dust particles and stain your white MacBook. (just me? okay.)
3. The canister it comes in is barely big enough to fit a quarter cup measure in, and most chocolate recipes call for at least a third of a cup.
4. It will always spill. On white counter tops. On white tiles. On anything white.
5. It is the most dense powder I have ever worked with, but only seems to dry out the dough instead of thickening it.

For years I've tried to perfect recipes so that I can bypass such an ingredient and opt for the more seductive sounding one; melted chocolate. But even then, the consistency comes out all wrong. So why do I continue to bake with such a pain-in-the-butt ingredient? Because of the perks...

1. A rich and creamy batter comparable to chocolate mousse, only in a more sinful form.
2. The mature flavor of the chocolate is only experienced when baked. (Trust. If you eat a spoonful of this stuff you will definitely choke on the bitterness)
3. The cookie somehow remains soft throughout baking, no matter if you cut the time short or go longer.
4. Licking the spatula after mixing is the most sinfully blissful experience in the world.
5. The sexy chocolate smile that comes after biting into a hot cookie.



Besides, where else can you get something as dark and sweet as this? (...aside from on South Beach during Black Beach Week of course.)

The only thing more fun than dressing up a sugary cookie during Christmas is dressing up a chocolate cookie with loads and loads of rich white chocolate. So that's just what I did tonight...chocolate chips mixed in and melted on top in a buttercream overload. Who says Friday nights can't be sexy while staying at home?



Bon appétit mes chéris. Je dois faire la vaisselle maintenant.

Strange Beginnings

How often do we greet each other on the street? And I'm not talking about saying hi to someone you know on the way to your next class at the University, I mean really saying 'hello' and 'good morning' to complete strangers. When I walk Tache in the mornings, I am either greeted by a stranger with their face pointed downward, scooting their dog past mine without so much as a sniff, let alone a human good morning. And at other times I get a very brief 'how's it going' as they pause for a moment to let the dogs sniff. But as soon as one starts to grumble or get the least bit excited, they yank the leash and turn away quickly...as if some social code has been shattered.

Maybe I'm just used to growing up in a smaller area where there is time to stop and say hello, but there has definitely been something lacking in human connection the past few months. And then yesterday, I found myself oddly surprised. After walking out of the leasing office with a very minor complaint about my pedestrian keycard not working, a worker stopped me dead in my running shoes and told me, "Smile! It's a beautiful day out. Don't let the sun get you mad. Go on and throw on a bikini and head to the beach...I know that's what you were thinking!!"

And that's when it hit me. People don't say hi to people who are frowning down here. And the second thing that hit me, that workman is not from Miami for that very reason. In Saint Louis, I grew up understanding that saying hello and smiling to a stranger could make their day, and that smiling is contagious. But in Miami, people only want to speak to you if you're smiling. And when the workman said something to me, I didn't even realize I was frowning. So what kind of signal do I send out while walking Tache? While running down the street? I know we Phipps women have rather stern looking faces when we're just relaxing.

Is this why no one seems to greet each other anymore? So many people in Miami have their heads down while running down the street to their next appointment, or they have house music blasting so loudly in their cars that they have no real connection to the outside world. I think that the insane amount of consumerism we have bought into is destroying us socially. People only socialize in settings they consider normal. (ie: work, Church, school, sporting events) Anywhere else, they feel out of place, or don't bother trying to connect.

Goal of the day: Wear my Saint Louis smile proudly and share the love.

That of course will be applied after my trip to the doctor, where I will inevitably be bumped and forgotten on the waiting list. But alas, it is what it is.

A gift for you: May your day shine like fresh molasses.

If I am crazy, what does it mean to be sane?

I go through these phases of loving my life, wanting more from my life, absolutely hating the majority of my life, and then back again. What's scary is that very rarely is this change of heart caused by a major event, or a sudden revelation. It truly is my mind that takes me there. Sometimes I find myself extremely aware of my surroundings, completely conscious to my situation and my connection to the world around me. And it can be terrifying-- to feel so insignificant in a world full of billions of people, and yet feel like the center of something at the exact same time.

Sometimes I envy the common person who has no clue where they are in life-- simply happy to be here. And I'm not saying they're less of a person because they aren't awakened, but they certainly have less worries. What is the trade-off for knowing? How much sleep do I lose at night by knowing what type of person I am, what type of person I'm not...and the worst one, what type of person I could be?

This isn't one of those times where I'm suddenly awakened and hating life...not even close. I'm actually just studying for my World Literature Final Exam. Dostoevsky to be exact. The Underground Man feels the same way, but mostly just hates himself for who he is. And he also hates everyone else...for being who they are. Not taking life for face-value, The Underground Man criticizes the way man perceives the world, easily believing everything they hear. For me, it doesn't really bother me to know that some people just take things as they come, because I know I fall victim to that type of living from time to time. But what gets me is when I open my eyes and take a good look around, and I actually see the things I've been missing out on. I see the passion and the beauty, but I also see the disparity and tragedy on every doorstep. And then I stop to think about how I can't change every tragic story I read about, and I fall victim to my insignificant thinking. I fall victim to my insecurities about remaining a genuine human being.

And now that I've completely gone off track from the Underground Man's angry thinking, I will return to my studies, somehow a little more disconnected from his pessimism this time around.

Late-Night Baking.

There are very few problems that a baking/music session can't fix. Probably something to do with the melodious sound of the blender mixed with the current song humming through the air. Mix in the sweet scent of brown sugar and vanilla...and there's nothing you can't do. And who doesn't love a little challenge? My boyfriend has a large glass bowl, miniature blenders and no measuring spoons...and so we begin.



Luckily, the only measurements that require the spoons are vanilla, cinammon, salt...and baking powder. The first three I can manage by taste alone, but the powder is slightly more important. So we'll just have to wait and see how high or low these cookies rise.

What's a baking session without a companion? Puppy number one is of course laying at my feet, waiting for me to drop spoonfuls of this delicious batter all over the floor. Puppy number two is of course chewing away at his toys, while resting at Evan's feet.



Now I personally like to add a little extra butter to my oatmeal-raisin cookies, usually when I add in the oats...oh and I like to add some extra cinnamon to those puppies too. It adds a little extra warmth to the batter, and it softens up any of the dough that has become a little too dense from the stirring.

When in doubt, stir with your hands, it makes a fun mess, mixes the batter way better...and did I mention you get to lick your fingers afterwards? Because you do in fact get to lick your fingers clean. It's wonderful.

I should probably stop eating dough and wait the 8 minutes that remain until the cookies come out of the oven. Especially because I haven't had dinner yet, and it's 11 pm. (Just enough time to finish solving the conundrum pounding through my temples.)

"Nobody said it was easy." -Coldplay

**************

Bon appétit!!

A Mid-Morning 'Radical' Piece of Literature

"In case you haven't noticed, as the result of a shamelessly rigged election in Florida, in which thousands of African Americans were arbitrarily disenfranchised, we now present ourselves to the rest of the world as proud, grinning, jut-jawed, pitiless war-lovers with appalling powerful weaponry - who stand unopposed.

In case you haven't noticed, we are now as feared and hated all over the world as the Nazi's once were.
And with good reason.

In case you haven't noticed, our unelected leaders have dehumanized millions and millions of human beings simply because of their religion and race. We wound 'em and kill 'em and torture 'em and imprison 'em all we want.

Piece of cake.

In case you haven't noticed, we also dehumanize our own soldiers, not because of their religion or race, but because of their low social class.

Send 'em anywhere. Make 'em do anything.

Piece of cake.

The O'Reilly Factor.

So I am a man without a country, except for the librarians and a Chicago paper called "In These Times."
Before we attacked Iraq, the majestic "New York Times" guaranteed there were weapons of destruction there.
Albert Einstein and Mark Twain gave up on the human race at the end of their lives, even though Twain hadn't even seen the First World War. War is now a form of TV entertainment, and what made the First World War so particularly entertaining were two American inventions, barbed wire and the machine gun.

Shrapnel was invented by an Englishman of the same name. Don't you wish you could have something named after you?
Like my distinct betters Einstein and Twain, I now give up on people too. I am a veteran of the Second World War and I have to say this is the not the first time I surrendered to a pitiless war machine.

My last words? "Life is no way to treat an animal, not even a mouse."

Napalm came from Harvard. Veritas!

Our president is a Christian? So was Adolf Hitler.

What can be said to our young people, now that psychopathic personalities, which is to say persons without consciences, without senses of pity or shame, have taken all the money in the treasuries of our government and corporations and made it all their own?"

— Kurt Vonnegut (A Man Without a Country)