Case Study 72: "The Artful Pecan"

Three days after I moved in, I finally decided to christen my new Manhattan kitchen with the only thing that seemed fit: pie.  Well, not really pie, per se. But when I think of moving, think of housewarming, and think of welcomes, I think of pie.  And when I think of pie, I think of my mother's famous pecan pie.  

"The Artful Pecan" is a bourbon pecan cupcake with a burnt brown sugar buttercream and a caramel pecan on top. It is haute design meets homecooked goodness.  It is elegance inspired by recent tours of the landmark and art deco buildings that ground this city and one whirlwind dive into the crazy kitchen that is the New York restaurant business. 

I once read that, according to the "science of happiness," location can as much impede our growth as it can serve to inspire us, help us grow and bring us joy.  What we take in and what we perceive affect what we feel and what we create.  New York City is a boundless pot of opportunity, with art lurking in every corner, waiting to be eaten up.  I'd like to think that with this move, a new era of Cupcaketology has begun. 

 

This little cupcake got all dressed up in candied pumpkin, glacéed orange and an autumn leaf tuile for a glamour shot.

(Photo by Deb Wild)

Case Study 71: "The Harvest Moon"

"Come a little bit closer

Hear what I have to say

Just like children sleepin'

We could dream this night away.

But there's a full moon risin'

Let's go dancin' in the light

We know where the music's playin'

Let's go out and feel the night."

- Neil Young

When autumn rolls in this Tuesday, I know just what I'm going to do.  I will fold the top down on our little BMW, pop in that old particular tape, and head out on a drive through the windy Connecticut backroads.  The air will be a little cooler and the trees will begin to sway more freely, like withering half-dressed skeletons against the night. 

I'll press play, and be greeted by the repeat of ten strumming chords, the same ones that will play the melody of a him and myself, dancing- in the kitchen, on the porch, in the lawn under the great tree with the dripping iron candelabra.  Turning and turning in the golden light knees knocking calves, elbows across shoulders, until the song breaks into those four deliciously picked notes. The same picked notes that I savored years earlier, lying on my back on the rug under the stereo, an eight-year old romantic with toes that swayed in the hazy waltz of the living room light.

Neil Young, "Harvest Moon."  The album with the haunting cover of a dark silhouette and fringe across the water's edge.  The song that made me yearn for the crackling fire, the hush of the woods, and the smell of burning gourds. The images that reminded me that, for all I ever believed myself to be a child of the summer, I was born under the stars of that flipped autumn sky. 

 

"The Harvest Moon" is a pumpkin and spice cupcake crowned with a cream cheese buttercream.  It is the most simple taste of autumn - in the flesh of the fruit, the cinnamon, the ginger, the nutmeg, all topped in a sweet cream - that evokes the unmistakable yearning for no other season but this.  Leaves sauntering through the sky.  The heavy crooked arms of apple trees bending to the ground in an abundant plie.  The shifting patterns of birds as they take flight to their winter homes.  The autumn dance.

It's not the fairest of the seasons, but it's the one that makes us remember what it means to be alive.  It reminds us that seasons come and seasons go, and it's the going that makes the coming all worthwhile in the end.  The sun rises and the sun sets.  Flowers bloom and leaves fall.  We run free in the summer and we hold each other tighter all winter long.  Life is both up and down, and as we see the turning of the days, the moon fades from white to orange and hangs lower in the sky.  We are never really ready for the fall, but when it arrives, like Neil says, we remember the dance. 

Case Study 70: "The Cliffwalk"

It was a blustery January day when I first walked around the perimeter of the Cliffwalk.  Three and a half miles of stone path against the bluffs of a New England shore. It was wild, gray and cold, but somehow I felt warm, a feeling I attributed to either being in love, or an inevitable human reaction to standing where the icy path meets the trembling ocean surf.

Growing up, we're always told that life isn't about the desination, it's about the journey along the way. But as I get older, I keep thinking about the chapters in my life as little paths of their own. Occasionally, a path is unclear. At times it's even a dead end. But sometimes, if I'm lucky, when I stand at each destination, which might not come until days, months, or even years later, I see the path clearly.

"The Cliffwalk" is a rocky road cupcake, chocolate and with bits of marshmallow and chopped walnuts, topped with a vanilla buttercream and chocolate chunk.  Chocked full, messy, a bit precarious, it's an undoubtedly decadent disaster. 

A year and a half later, I stood alone at the start of that same shoreline path on a sun-soaked July day. It was near evening, and the sea breeze was surprisingly cool, so I sat behind a shield of cerulean hydrangeas, dripping from a run while the others had fallen into an afternoon slumber back home.  They were friends, acquaintances, and one veritable soul sister, brought together by as much a constellation's turn as the decision to just not give a shit about making sense of it all.  Though I had been there before, I felt no déjà vu.

You see, people and places come into our lives for a reason, and they leave our lives for a reason as well.  These parts of the journey, the entries and the exits, aren't always smooth.  And so we fixate - on the various paths, on the potholes, and on the crumbling spackle we've used to cover the cracks as we go.   We forget that we control the direction of our feet and the strength to regain balance when we trip.  We close our eyes and get the hell out of there, without realizing that there might be some really great things left to see.

The truth is, life is one rocky road. As I stood there that summer day at the start of the Cliffwalk, by choice and by fate, I took my first steps on a new path on Aquidneck Island.  And I remembered that whatever beauty I might find at the end of the road was rolling against the horizon to my left all along. 

Case Study 69: "The August Peach"

When summer gathers up her robes of glory,

And, like a dream, glides away.

- Sarah Helen Whitman

I notoriously clutch to every summer's end as it seeps through my fingers like the weakening light at dusk.  Of course, it's inevitable that September will always roll around. But we're summer people, after all.  And so year after year we stand, sweaters half-covering our swimsuits and bare shoulders, denying that we might be cold as the slight chill in the air at our door.  And it knocks earlier and earlier each day. 

I'll be right there!  We shout. But we secretly hide in the backyard, standing below the naked parts of the trees above, where the sun is still hot, and we swear it's still summer where everything gold can stay.  So we reason. The peaches are in season.  The fawns are out alone. And the children next door just learned to ride bikes, which certainly means it can be nothing but summer.

"The August Peach" is a sweet summer peach cupcake topped with a vanilla-bourbon buttercream.  It's ripe, boozy and filled with fruits of the season at their best.

We hunger, we desire, and we want to still lick the juices of the season off our sticky hands.  So we grill up burgers and dogs and summer fruits, making a mess everywhere and hoping nobody sees that all the while, everywhere we go, we are leaving traces of our summer hands and feet.  Hoping to keep the sadness of the colder months at bay.  Hoping to forget that we're ending another third of our trip around the sun. 

Case Study 68: "The Farfalle"

They say the butterfly is a symbol for many things: conscious evolution, transformation, and the personification of the human soul.  But whatever it evokes for the individual, when it comes to the family, it means a bit more. 

I spent a day this weekend at a reunion with dozens of my closest relatives on my maternal grandmother's side.  La familia.  An enormous and forever growing chain of life that itself has seen many metamorphoses as it's evolved over the years. We are a family that celebrates.  We are a family ruled by women.  We are a family all about life.  Lives themselves, and the act of livin' it.

   
"The Farfalle" is a vanilla cupcake with a vanilla bean buttercream and butterfly sitting on top.  My mother told me that when she thinks about the family, she sees us all dancing, and we look like a big bunch of butterflies.  And you know what?  I can kind of see it.  Young and old, wings spread, fluttering around the room. We all become the same thing when we hit the dancefloor.

We find pictures of great aunts and see ourselves in their eyes.  We hear stories about the old country, about the new country, and about how we passed between the two. Years pass, and we learn that just as we die, we are reborn.  Every single person, living or dead, is locked in time as an essential link that holds the whole chain together.  And that somehow helps us makes sense of everything: who we were, who we are, and who we might become. 

Resurrection, rebirth, re-life.  Like a butterfly, old life begets new life, and that is what family is about. 

Notes from the Field: Existential Cupcaketology

"By releasing the pressure of

reality upon our lives,

fantasy convinced us that

life itself had no hold upon us.

 We belonged to no place or country,

no class, profession, or generation.

Our truth lay elsewhere.

-Simone de Beauvoir

A cupcake is a cupcake... until's it's not.

Pink meringue takes the form of a cupcake, and gets stuffed to the gills with nutella and strawberries. 

Yeah.  Lots of deep thoughts over here lately.  

Meringue Recipe Courtesy of Martha Stewart.

Case Study 67: "The Cookie Monster"

There are certain gentlemen in this world that do not like sweets (you know who you are!).  These salty fellows stroll through life with a taste for the more refined and savory delicacies of the culinary world.  Or maybe, when it comes to sugarly delights, they frankly just don't give a damn.

Luckily, my big brother doesn't fall anywhere near that category.  Oh no, his appetite for the edible makes me proud.  I've seen him eat nearly an entire sleeve of graham crackers BEFORE dinner.  He's been known to wrap a bundle of shoestring licorice around his tongue in mere minutes.  And pitchers of margaritas?  Make them bottomless, especially on vacation, when we've got nowhere to go.

My big brubba.  The one who, at nearly six years old, wanted to send me back when I came roaring into the world.  The one who tickled me until I peed my pants and blew my budding eardrums out with the Steve Miller Band, The Doors, and Jimi Hendrix when he so graciously drove me to school in the 90s.  The one who sat higher up in the tree out back, a plastic desk nested in what seemed like miles above, while I manned the bottom branches and lowering the broken swing down for our mother to send up essentials (bandaids, juiceboxes, cookies).

He brought his older friends to stand guard when the boys teased me after school, and without fail he made light of every love interest I ever had, leaving me in the end with nothing but laughs, regardless of if it worked out or not.  He always let me tag along for all the best adventures, and he went all in when it came to his hobbies in life, like car-racing, fly fishing, and cigar smoking.  He has given me the gift-that-keeps-giving in the form of a nephew, who is so much his own shadow as he is his own little stubborn and silly bull. 

"The Cookie Monster" is just that.  A vanilla cupcake with a sparkly blue vanilla buttercream, and the face of one beloved monster with a mouthful of sweet delicious baked confection goodness.

So to my big cookie monster on his 31st birthday.  Thank you for sparing me those tortuous years of yellow school buses, all while making me appreciate the wonderful music of generations before us.  Thank you for being so crazily passionate and not giving me the option to not learn about your hobbies.  Having all of that knowledge always makes me feel like one hell of a refined woman when faced with a room full of men.  Thank you for giving me someone to look up to.  Whether it was in tree branches or adoration, you set an example for radness and success that pushed me far beyond my years.  And thank you for being there always, when I needed you most and when I didn't need you at all. 

I guess that's just what big brudders do.

Case Study 66: "The Summer Secret"

“There are no seven wonders of the world

in the eyes of a child.

There are seven million.”

- Walt Streightiff

Some things in life are sacred: space, Baby Jesus, and the teachings of Buddha.  And then other things in life are sacred, as in family summer ritual sacred.  In my opinion, among this second type lie some of the most amazing wonders of the world.  

Growing up, summer weeks were spent up on the Cape, and we made the most of our location, surviving mostly on the fruits of the sea alone, along with as much Emack and Bolio's ice cream and Cottage Street Bakery Dirt Bombs we could get our hands on.  But time spent on the sand was different. 

We'd drive out to Race Point, the far reaching tip of the great Massachusetts arm, also known as The End of the World, as far as I was concerned.  While the dads released the air from the truck tires, us kids would run out towards the dunes, bathing suits half on and grass between our toes, catching the sweet perfume of beach roses and salt spray from what waited for us on the other side of that tall grass.

Riding over the sand was like driving on the moon.  Up and down we went, reckless and bumpy as we rose, and weightless as we dropped down the dunes, with our windows down and some old Eagles tape singing a lullaby "Hotel California" to the nesting piping plovers on the beach outside.  Our chosen parking spot always depended on two things: extreme distance from other human beings and the ability to back the trucks toward each other, bumper to bumper, where the rear doors opened to create a closed canopy above, under which lay the perfect serving space for the Ultimate Beach Sandwich.

Bread. Peanut butter.  Banana.  Nutella.  Hershey Bar.  Marshmallow Fluff.  Who knew that six ingredients could lead to salvation?  Assembled and wrapped in tin foil for an hour, unwrapped and BAM.  World hunger: SOLVED.  Ok, well maybe the hunger of five kids, tired from having spent a few hours swimming back to shore after they've drifted nearly to the other end of the Cape on inner-tubes guided by umbrella sails, was what was solved.  But you get the idea.

"The Summer Secret" is a banana cupcake, filled with Nutella, and topped with a whipped Peanut Butter buttercream and a Hershey's chocolate dipped Marshmallow.  Fruity, nutty, creamy, sugary, chocolatey cake goodness all in one bite.  Heaven. 

I'm not quite sure how many wonders of the world exist nowadays.  I once believed there were seven, but maybe that was back in the day before the internet, or when I took the lyrics of related Fleetwood Mac songs as my bible and our family did a lot of traveling in the canyons and mountains out west.  But regardless, if I controlled the list, on it would sit this holy flavor combination.  And though I'm not sure if it holds such high revere in my heart because of nostalgia or true awesomeness, I just don't care.  Some things, my friends, are just sacred. 

Notes from the Field: Here Piggy Piggy

Nothing to see here....

 Just a few sweet little piggies hanging out atop homemade funfetti cupcakes and neon pink vanilla buttercream.  

Notes from the Field: Going...going...GONE

Birthday cake, Cupcaketologist-style, Newport, RI.

Just a little note to say that I am currently in the process of making the move from Philadelphia to New York for an exciting new job opportunity and life chapter.  Philadelphia has treated me like gold for the past 7 years, and I am nothing but grateful, if not in awe of, the experiences and people that have come into my life there.  

In addition, cupcake catering has moved north as well!  Any inquiries for parties and events in the NYC-Metro and New England area, please contact via: thecupcaketologist at gmail dot com.

As my favorite poet, Stanley Kunitz said in his poem The Layers: "I am not done with my changes." 

I am thrilled to see what is to come...  

Case Study 65: "The Summer Fleur"

“A man does what he must - 

in spite of personal consequences, 

in spite of obstacles and dangers and pressures -

and that is the basis of all human morality.”

-Winston Churchill

We talk a lot about what makes a good man, and I think in general, many of these marked qualities are pretty synonymous with what makes a good woman.  But to be honest, there are just some characteristics that are simply set apart, and I have one reason to hold them high: my dad. 

I could write novels on the places he traveled alone.  I remember as a kid, searching for the smell of his cologne and crispness of his suit during the days, the weeks, the months at a time he spent on business in Venezuela, Brussels, Toronto, and India.  The returns were welcomed by our rugby games and swim meets, the nights watching the Yankees, him in his leather chair and me on the floor, and the fall evenings when he picked me up from swim practice with the top down in the convertible, the heat blasting, and Van Morrison's Moondance on the radio. 

When he started working from home, I thought, who has it better than this guy?  But he wasn't content to keep it at that.  He embraced his Italian instincts, and took over as head house chef, learning first from recipes, then taking flight on his own culinary adventures.  A martini in one hand, a plated feast in the other, and a snarky quip on the tip of his tongue, he paints the portrait of a true man of style and grace, with a kick of perfect inappropriateness.  I remember the one winter the two of us stood outside for hours, teeth chattering, as we made zeppole in our Fry Daddy for Christmas.  Promise we'll do it again, Dad!

"The Summer Fleur" is a dark chocolate and zucchini cupcake with a creamy goat cheese frosting, and a pan fried zucchini blossom on top. The chocolate cake beneath is deep, sweet and swirled with chunks of zucchini, which is offset by the tangy kick of the goat cheese on top.  The blossoms, now in season, are simply one of the most succulent Italian summer delights when sizzled up with a little egg, a pinch of flour and a pan of hot olive oil.  A well rounded cupcake, I'd say.       

 

I could talk about how my father has a full head of dark hair that would make men half his age shiver in their shoes, how his golf game is a lot better than he'll ever admit it to be, or how he always checks my tires for air before I leave.  But to be honest, those are things that could make a man, well, just anyone else.  

 

Mother's can be so much more wonderfully irrational and quick to act.  But like Churchill said, a very good man, just gets it done.  In a dire situation, a good man just diffuses all of his hope, his wealth of knowledge, his trust and respect into the matter at hand. He might not say anything right away, and he might speak carefully at first, but when a good man talks, it's stops you in your tracks, and you just know, without even knowing it right away.  

And so, to my big Daddoo, I say thank you for being an honest to God good man. Though you might have beat me during our first half marathon (no biggie!), and sometimes I ask you to keep it down when you are oh-so-passionately serenading us with your amazing guitar skills, you are truly a beacon of knowing light.  And without it, this girl wouldn't be half the woman I grew up to be.

Notes from the Field: Summer Hands and Feet.

Hello there.  

It's been awhile, huh.

In the weeks since we last talked, 

these tired feet have traveled miles. 

To mostly good places, 

like fields and woods, various city streets, 

and lots of sand.  

But finally this weekend, 

they walked back into the kitchen,

and let the hands take over again.  

And they said, "Let's take it nice and easy, ok??"

And so, the hands did.  

With good old American double vanilla cupcakes. 

 

The hands will try hard to keep up with 

the feet as they roam this summer.

After all, that's what summer feet do.