Gingerbread Induced Diabetes

My sweetie and I were busy, busy, busy preparing for Christmas, but in the days that followed, I was so worn out from holiday festivities that all I cared to do was lay in bed and eat shards of our gorgeous gingerbread house and watch re-runs of RHOBH. Real Housewives of Buttholes. While I was pasted to my sheets and my blood was turning to a balanced mixture of eggnog and royal frosting, all I could do was wonder what the eff I was doing watching that damn show again (interrupted occasionally only by that shark documentary on Nat Geo during commercial breaks), but I didn't care to stop watching, or get up to pee for that matter. Then I realized it's because there's nothing else on television. All I can do these days for evening entertainment is lay in bed thinking about how much I hate Oprah or wondering if I'm the only person in America who periodically walks into her bathroom and violently rips open the shower curtain expecting to find someone or something in there. Shower curtains are creepy. I don't care what anybody says.

I am declaring a television state of emergency, America, and I am suffering a deep post advent depression because of it. I'm well over Bravo, and I want to break up with Andy, but I feel like he owes me money and still hasn't returned my CD collection. Thank God I'm conspiring to have an affair with Tom Hanks when Big Love starts in two weeks, or I might just grow into my bed the way a contact lens grows into your eyeball if you don't take it out.

Two, Two, Two Birthdays in One

Today is my sweetie's birthday. Check out this awesome wrapping paper I found!

Giddyup, Yo! It's like it has been trapped in someone's attic for 35 years and donated to Big Lots, where I purchased the roll for $1. ONE. DOLLAR. I liked it so much, I bought two Howdy Pardners (it took one whole roll to wrap my sweetie's gift) and two of these fancy numbers for the price of a roll of Hallmark wrap. AND it's the good kind of paper with the grid on the back.

Looks like scraps from my mother's bridal shower. I love it.

I also got this bonus $2 ribbon wheel. It's like it's my birthday, too! The wrap is not the only reason, of course. It's because my sweetie has been my greatest gift. Happy, happy birthday, bebe! I'm so glad you were born.

I'm Raising the Bar for Christmas

This year, I'm going to limit myself to only one store bought dessert and bake a cake. (Yes, me! Gulp.) This seems like the perfect beginner's recipe from David Lebovitz. 2010 will mark the year I progressed from a lazy, thoughtless idiot to just a plain old thoughtless idiot.

Chocolate Idiot Cake
One 9-inch (23 cm) cake

Adapted from Ready for Dessert (Ten Speed Press)

This cake is extremely rich, and tastes like the most delicious, silkiest, most supremely-chocolate ganache you’ve ever had. As mentioned, it’s equally good a few days later, and only an idiot could possibly mess it up. You don’t need to use ScharffenBerger chocolate for this cake, but use a good one—you’ll appreciate it when you taste your first melt-in-your-mouth bite.

10 ounces (290 g) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, coarsely chopped
7 ounces (200 g) butter, salted or unsalted, cut into pieces
5 large eggs, at room temperature
1 cup (200 g) sugar

Preheat the oven to 350F (175C).

1. Butter a 9-inch (23 cm) springform pan* and dust it with cocoa powder, tapping out any excess. If you suspect your springform pan isn’t 100% water-tight, wrap the outside with aluminum foil, making sure it goes all the way up to the outer rim.

2. Melt the chocolate and butter in a double boiler (or microwave), stirring occasionally, until smooth. Remove from heat.

3. In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs and sugar, then whisk in the melted chocolate mixture until smooth.

4. Pour the batter into the prepared springform pan and cover the top of the pan snugly with a sheet of foil. Put the springform pan into a larger baking pan, such as a roasting pan, and add enough hot water to the baking pan to come about halfway up to the outside of the cake pan.

Bake for 1 hour and 15 minutes.

You’ll know the cake is done when it feels just set, like quivering chocolate pudding. If you gently touch the center, your finger should come away clean.

5. Lift the cake pan from the water bath and remove the foil. Let cake cool completely on a cooling rack.

Serve thin wedges of this very rich cake at room temperature, with creme anglaise, ice cream, or whipped cream.

Storage: This Chocolate Idiot Cake can be wrapped and chilled in the refrigerator for 3-5 days.

Wanted Ad

Here Ellen rubs Mariah's "burgeoning baby bump." My eyes took off like pinwheels when I read that phrase AGAIN. There's nothing I hate more than that stupid expression. Can we puhlease get some new alliteration for gossip rags to use to describe pregnant women that makes them feel clever and cutesy? This phrase is hackneyed, and it doesn't even apply here. The only part of Mariah that doesn't look pregnant is her uterus. Even her back up singer is staring at her ass like whoa. How about calling it her flourishing fetus fat? Pregnancy is all joyous and everything, but I'm high on spicy mangos, and I needed something to bitch about. And, hey, it's Mariah Carey. Who cares?

The Nutcracker

This photo gives new meaning to the name Nutcracker. I don't think Michael Kors would approve of that diaper panty. Wait until Tim Gunn gets a hold of Mrs. Brand's costume designer. There's going to be blood. If a contestant designed those drawers on Project Runway, that person would surely have received Heidi's kiss of death for it. How did these make it to the public eye?

Wedding Lessons

When we were prepping for France, my sweetie and I took a refresher French class. Every day on my lunch break, I would review my notes and study vocabulary. I kept my French books in the car, so they were always on hand if I wanted to look something up. I played French CDs in the car, we watched French movies. It was pseudo-immersion. We only did this for about eight weeks, but we were able to communicate pretty decently in Paris, and our teacher was impressed. Because of this tiny success, I have decided to take the same approach to wedding planning.

I took the bull by the horns last week and bought The Knot Complete Guide to Weddings in the Real World: The Ultimate Source of Ideas, Advice, and Relief for the Bride and Groom and Those Who Love Them. Sounds promising, right? Right? My pre-wedding planning plan: to read this book on my lunch break every day, and to plan some extracurricular wedding associated outings. Next weekend, potential site viewing. January, bridal expo. Look Geppetto, I'm a real bride! Santa is not the only one making a list. Look at me go!

Disclaimer: The other night on Watch What Happens Live, Rocco DiSpirito was talking about his time on Dancing with the Stars and said that he came to the realization after days and days of dancing for hours and hours that no matter how much he practiced, he'd never be a dancer. This is how I felt in Paris, when I couldn't decipher every single word people were saying. I got the gist of what they were taking about, but the nuances were lost on me. I sense this may be the same for weddings, but I'm giving it a whirl.

Crock Pot Fever

Ever since I took a new job 11 minutes from home, I have rediscovered my love of the Crock-Pot since I no longer fear setting my home aflame from a heat source that has been unsupervised for 12 to 15 hours. Now I can cook chili and stews at ease and not have to worry about false arson charges or meat that has been cooked to a crisp.

I will be hosting Christmas dinner at my place this year, and just as I was lamenting my need to design a plan in which I can cook a turkey, yams, green beans, and stuffing in one tiny oven and not have to microwave anything to serve it hot, I came across a variety of recipes for Crock-Pot stuffing. Say what? It's like Christmas in Dec...em...well, early Christmas. I am visualizing a house full of Crock-Pots in my future, and I like what I see.

Week Three as a Bride-to-Be

Life has been a bit...unusual lately. Not wanting to give up my first of only two major Facebook status changes in the name of maturity and modesty, I took the click before the plunge and changed my status to engaged. What happened next was very unexpected. People I haven't spoken to in ages came out of the woodwork to wish me well and congratulate me.

At first, I was very surprised. I was, after all, the exact same girl I was two seconds before when my status said...whatever it said, if it wasn't in fact a totally ignored data field altogether. Was I now someone different after a man had validated my worth with a beautiful diamond? Had I all of a sudden been accepted into some kind of clandestine club where the secret hand shake ends in a ring bump? The first rule of Bride Club is, you do not talk about Bride Club. Even store clerks noticed my ring and congratulated me with a sort of "welcome to the other side" wink. I received hugs from co-workers, who had previously barely spoken to me. It was like a crazy experiment...a sprinkle of fairy dust. Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.

Don't get me wrong. It has been truly special. I have never felt so loved in my whole life. Every girl likes to be noticed and congratulated on her husband to be. I guess I was just totally surprised by all of the attention. I don't know why I was so surprised; people LOVE love. I love love, and a good love story have I.

I do not, however, love wedding planning. I don't know what to do, and I can't decide what I like. I know this much: 95% of my wardrobe is black, and 90% of all of the garments in my closet intended to cover my lower extremities are pants. How the hell am I supposed to pick out a white dress? Just looking at these dresses makes me feel like a fish out of water...like a nightmare in which I've forgotten to put on my clothes, only I am awake and fully aware that eventually people will definitely be staring at me in a dress that makes me feel naked. It's near horrifying.

And then the guilt zaps me. My sweetie is a traditional man. I am absolutely certain that each time he has visualized his wedding day (and I'm SURE he has based on the fact that he is in the kitchen baking cookies with sprinkles as I write this post), it involved a girl in a white dress, who probably wasn't such a spaz tard about tying bows and hot-gluing shit to shit. I need to snap out of it and RuPaul the fuck out of this wedding. Desperate times call for desperate measures and right now, this desperate bitch needs Dwight from RHOA. I'd at least settle for that neurotic little gay man Bethenny let her dog use as a kong during her wedding planning. He did pick a kick ass cake, and that is my biggest concern. That and not feeling naked.

I am also desperately lacking that girl gene that makes women flip out with glee at the mere mention of a wedding. I am excited, but my excitement stems more from being married, not from getting married. Thank God everyone I know has done this before me, so I can suck on to them like an ass leach from Stand by Me. I need help. The details are making my head spin and I seem to be fresh out of opinions. Extending. Suckers. Now. Look. Out.

Rich Persimmons

In Paris, one of the things I marveled at was the size of the persimmons. I had to buy a few to sample, and they were delicious. When I came home from France, I looked online for an authentic French vinaigrette (my taste buds already missed it) and happened upon David Lebovitz's blog about living and eating in Paris. It just so happens that today's post boasts a Chocolate Persimmon Muffin recipe that makes me want to break my no-bake streak. If some lovely person out there more skilled than I with measuring cups ever makes these, please mail me one.

Injustices

Look at me. A daily vitamin taking, avid hand washing, 8 glass of water drinking, health food eating, regular exercising, non-smoker. I came back from Paris weighing exactly the same (despite walking 12 hours a day) with every upper-respiratory infection known to man. Damn subway. Now day 12 of mystery illness(es) and no hope in sight of ever breathing through my nose again.

Look at my sweetie. A daily Monster drinking, avid meat and cheese loving, Taco Bell eating, two-pack a day smoking, exercise is the devil chanting, sleep deprived couch potato . He came back from Paris twelve pounds lighter and strong like bull.

Why, I ask? WHY?

Don't Know Much About History

There are certain things one does not retain after one's 11th grade World History final. Sure, I once knew about the importance of the ports of Benelux or that Napoleon was Corsican, but that information has since been replaced with practical information, like remembering the gazillionty usernames and passwords I need to survive in this friggin' society. I wish I would have cared about the Treaty of Versailles sixteen years ago, but guess what. I didn't. I cared about boys and getting a drivers license and going to prom. Sorry, French Revolution, I just didn't have time for you. I didn't know how important you were. I've been foolish. Please forgive me. Is it OK to get my GED after I've earned my Master's degree? Of course there are those who remember this kind of trivia, but I don't know any of them...except for one.

Lucky for me my sweetie, nay, fiance, is one of these people. In preparation for Paris, I researched things like current Parisian fashion, places to eat, and how not to get my purse stolen. He memorized French history. Well, he read French history, which for him is the bloody same as memorizing. There's nothing he loves more than to push up the sleeves on his corduroy jacket, straighten his tie, and school me on how many Louises there were and which one was the bitch that built the hide-away suite at the back of Versailles because he needed a break. Yes, I went to Paris with my very own tour guide, which made sightseeing a far richer experience than simply being amazed by how old and opulent shit was. For this I am grateful. I'll remember to feed the dog and water the plants, and he'll remember the generals' names on the Arc de Triomphe. This is how we compliment each other. Clearly, I got the better end of the bargain.

And now for some old, opulent shit. Voila!