So Friday night. Lets discuss Friday night, shall we?
I was going to meet John's coworkers for the first time. We were going to get all dressed up, head over to
Whiskey, and pretend like we were sorta fancy. One by one, the wives, girlfriends and dates started dropping out and, while I am more than comfortable as one of the guys, I realized that being the only lady amongst this crowd was a surefire way to ruin a perfectly good Manscursion.
My adorable and usually kinda oafish fiance gets all dressed up in his pinstripe pants, dress shirt and dress shoes. He even had me put some Aveda Control Paste in his hair. His best friend shows up from Greensboro to pick him up, also dressed to kill. So, I send my two hotties off and snuggle in to have a perfectly amazing Friday night at home, by myself. Some people don't like being alone. I usually get about 8 hours alone in my house a month, total. A whole night to sit on my ass, snuggle my animals and do nothing? By myself!!? I was fucking stoked. The Bones marathon began. Season 3. Gormogon. Rock.
Two episodes in, John calls me. In full wounded puppy mode, he informs me that some of the coworkers did a little pre-gaming, showing up to Whiskey sloshed. John made everyone leave and head to a dive bar where their drunkeness would be slightly more appropriate. One of them climbed on the roof of the bar, ripped his pants all the way to his crotch and proceeded to spend the rest of the evening demanding that people look his "inch and a half." The other one, who was supposed to be the DD, was so drunk that he kept passing out on the bar. Now, I should preface this by saying that occasionally, it becomes apparent how different our high school/college experiences must have been. This doesn't seem too appalling to me. This sounds hilarious. Like something I might want to get pictures of- because Monday morning blackmail is awesome.
Unfortunately, I had an unhappy fiance. We all know what that means, right? Time for baking!! My gorgeous 1950s oven hasn't really appreciated my baking efforts lately. The temperature vascillates between around 300 and 600 degrees, leaving my cupcakes scalded on the outside and straight up batter on the inside. I've discovered that if I turn it to 400, let it heat for an hour, crack the door, let it cool for a while and then just leave the dial 25 degrees under the temperature that I actually want it, I might have a chance at baking an okay cake. I rarely have the time to do this. Friday night, I had nothin' but time.
Normally, this would be the point that I cranked up the Mirah, but I was far too invested in the chemistry between Brennan and Booth. I rummaged through the pantry and found a box of
Trader Joe's Madagascar Bourbon Vanilla Bean Cake Mix. Sweet.
1 cup of milk? Check.
2 eggs? Affirmative.
1 stick of butter? Rock. I couldn't bear to just whip up some boxed cake mix without doing anything to it, so I threw in
1/4 cup of Creme Fraiche, just to see what happened. I threw it all in a casserole dish and popped it in the oven for about 50 minutes. I knew when I smelled it that it was gonna be good as shit. I nibbled the corner and found it intensely moist but also surprisingly fluffy. The Halloween episode was on, the one where Bones is dressed like Wonder Woman.
Fuck. Frosting. I didn't have any room temperature butter. No eggs left for Meringue buttercream. No cream cheese.
Creme Fraiche? That should work, right? I threw the rest of the tub in my table mixer. Slowly, I alternated between adding about
3/4 cup of Valrhona Cocoa Powder and about
1/3 cup of Confectioners Sugar. Normally, this is the point where I would add the liquid Jesus that is Vanilla Bean Paste. Kate gave me a jar for my birthday and I'm obsessed. OBSESSED. I try to put it in everything. Unfortunately, I thought it would be a fantastic idea to knock it off my counter and watch the jar shatter on my tile floor. After I had cleaned it up and dried my tears, I added plain old boring vanilla. Maybe
1/2 tsp Organic Vanilla Extract. Upon tasting it, I felt like it was still missing something. It was delicious and kind of tasted like a upscale European truffle- but it had a shallow backend. I added about
1 1/2 tsp Instant Espresso Powder and a teensy bit more cocoa powder. Finally I sprinkled some
Fleur de Sel in there. For those of you not in the know, fleur de sel is a french, hand harvested sea salt. Despite having a higher mineral content than most salt, it tastes smoother, less metallic and smells a little bit like the ocean. Hot damn, kids. This shit was sex in my mouth. This was close your eyes and sigh delicious. This was no-shopping, no planning, impulse baking, dancing around my kitchen yum. I turned the mixer on 4 and beat the crap out of it for about 5 minutes and then slapped it on the cake. My trick- I put the cake in the freezer while I make the icing so it's nice and cool and I don't have to wait to frost it. I sprinkled some Fleur de Sel and cocoa powder on top once the frosting set and popped it in the fridge. Oh, I also used tweezers to place little decorating pearls in fun swirly heart shapes. It wasn't much to look at and I had to do
something to make it feel special...
After about 6 episodes of bones and a belly full of cake batter and frosting, I passed out on the couch. I woke up when the boys got home to watch their faces when they opened the fridge to see their surprise. After hearing, "oh my god, mmm" I decided that my job was done. Baking is kind of like being a super hero, you know.. Except, instead of being smoking hot and badass tough bitches who make the world a better place through vigilantism, we are smoking hot and badass tough bitches who make the world a better place with carbs and foodgasms.
