Roses Are Red...

I take back everything I've ever said about getting flowers. Sure they're expensive, they die quickly, and they are part of the whole Valentine's Day commercial/industrial complex that people love to rant about this time of year, but I could care less.

Justin gave me my first bouquet of roses, and it was awesome.

Happy Valentine's Day...

Recently, the love song-dedicated Pandora station I sometimes listen to at work played, "All My Life" by K-Ci & JoJo, which brought back memories of all the slow dances I watched from the sidelines when I was thirteen, and all my friends were having their bar and bat mitzvahs. At that moment, I became acutely aware of how happy I am to be 25, and where I am in my life.

You see, for the first time in those 25 years, I am not going to be single on Valentine's Day. For the first time, I am not going going to sit around bitterly muttering under my breath about "Singles' Awareness Day" or distracting myself with baked goods. Instead, for weeks, I've been happily looking forward to Valentine's Day, making plans and searching for the perfect card:

I ended up with this adorable creation from Etsy, selected based on Justin's fondness for Boolean logic.

Generally speaking, I've been floating around on cloud nine waiting for this holiday, and deflecting the comments of the Valentine's Day naysayers. It's true, we shouldn't (and don't) need a holiday to remind us to express our love to each other, but we are in love, and I think we deserve to celebrate that. I feel loved and appreciated by him every day, but I see nothing wrong with going the extra mile to show him how thankful I am on Valentine's Day. Sure, it's extravagant and a little impractical, but so is love. I am truly blessed to be so blissfully happy this Valentine's Day, and I'm not taking my good fortune for granted for a second. I feel like the luckiest girl in the world to have such an incredible man in my life, so I'm going to yell it from the rooftops if I must: "Happy Valentine's Day!"

Can You Hear The People Sing...

Ever since I was a very wee lass, I've been a fan of musical theater. When other kids were singing along to Raffi in the back of their moms' vans, my parents were weaning me on a musical diet that consisted of Cats, Phantom of the Opera, My Fair Lady, A Chorus Line, and Les Misérables. Of these, Les Misérables was my undisputed favorite. Before the age of five, I had virtually all the songs memorized. So when I turned five, my parents decided to take me to see it live. Granted, I was probably more mature than your average five year old, but they still had to teach me to wedge my fingers in my ears and scrunch myself down in the seat so I couldn't hear or see the scene in which Fantine dies, as the thought of a mother dying never ceased to drive me to horrific sobbing.

I managed to make it through my first viewing of Les Miz without tears, and I was hooked. In the past twenty years, I've seen the show seven times (though one of these was a production at my high school, but I'm counting it anyway). Whenever it comes through town, I make an effort to go, so when I was checking the theater listings for the year as I wrote up my 2011 "to-do" list and spotted that the new 25th anniversary touring production would be coming to Chicago, I added it to my list right away.

Since Justin also enjoys the theater, I thought perhaps tickets to see Les Miz would make a good Valentine's Day gift, so I pulled some strings through my network, and scored some fantastic seats. True, a musical in which all but two of the major characters die might not strike everyone as a romantic way to spend one's Valentine's Day, but we would be doing something we both enjoy, and I would be sharing one of my favorite things with him. What's not romantic about that?

As I mentioned, the performance that we saw was a new staging of Les Miz, created in honor of the production's 25th anniversary. Most notably, it eschewed the minimalist stage design of the previous versions I'd seen, in favor of elaborate, multi-layered sets and brighter, more complicated lighting schemes. It felt almost as if they were trying to brighten the somber tone of the story by dressing it up in fancier packaging, which isn't inherently a bad thing; it's just not what I'm used to.

Sadly, I felt that the singing talent of this version wasn't up to par with some of the productions I've seen in the past. This could be because we were subjected to the understudy for the main character, Jean Valjean, who lacked the proper vocal range for the role and often compensated by speaking his lines instead of singing them. For a musical that is "sung-thru," much like an opera, speaking is not acceptable in my book.

Also, there was a glaring, questionable casting choice for the character of Éponine. When the character first makes her appearance in the story, as a child, she is Caucasian, and the child of Caucasian parents. Midway through the story, however, when she appears an adult, the actress portraying her is African-American. I'm all for color-blind casting when it comes to theater, and challenging our expectations for characters, but I think they should at least be consistent. It's beyond confusing when a character changes race halfway through a story. The actress was perhaps one of the better singers in the entire production, but it was still an odd choice, in my estimation.

Unfortunate casting issues aside, I was still moved by the Les Miz magic. The songs held me in their thrall as I silently sang along in my head, and I'm pretty sure Justin enjoyed it as well, perhaps even more so than I did, as he didn't have six other versions to compare it to. I was overjoyed to share something so close to my heart with the man I adore, in celebration of a holiday that is all about love, and I'm excited to keep sharing these things with him in the future to come.

Tea For Two...

Normally, I write about the "interesting" things that Justin and I do together -- museums, theater, festivals, and movies. In all honesty, however, it is the little rituals that we repeat week in and week out that I cherish the most. Of these, one of the things that stand out the most is our quiet Sunday morning breakfasts together. You see, Justin is usually responsible for these meals, and the novelty of having my man prepare scrumptious meals for me never grows old. This week, however, I wanted to do something nice for him, to repay him for all the nice things he's done for me lately, so I decided to take over the responsibility for preparing breakfast by baking some scones.

My enjoyment of scones dates back to my college days, when I fell in love with the chocolate chip variety sold at the campus coffee shop after an unfortunate insect-in-my-croissant incident soured me on my previous go-to breakfast item. The chocolate chip scones were, however, but one in a rotating menu of scones that were often poorly labeled, and I ended up with a lot of unpalatable raisin and blueberry scones during that era. Later, I discovered the delights of the maple oat scones at Starbucks, but it seemed like I could never sync up my sporadic Starbucks visits with the presence of those tasty treats. All I ever seemed to find there were strawberry or blueberry scones. Fie on fruit in my baked goods!

It was clearly time to take matters into my own hands, and I started trolling the blogosphere for viable recipes. The one I ended up settling on, however, came from my own bookshelf and a copy of Baking Illustrated. Since the staff at Cook's Illustrated (who published the book), actively scour the internet sending cease and desist letters to bloggers who print their recipes, I won't be sharing it here, but I actually think they're better than the ones at Starbucks. The oatmeal gets a quick toast in the oven before joining the dough, which gives everything a very nice toasted grain flavor.


We ended up sharing the scones over a nice cup of tea, and it was relaxing to sleep in a little longer without having to worry about leaving time to prepare breakfast. Not that I appreciate his cooking any less, but it felt good to be the one taking care of him for a change. After all, variety is the spice of life...

Precious And Few...

As an aftereffect of my snow-bound cleaning marathon, I've been taking some steps to get my digital house in order as well. I currently have four computers in my two-bedroom apartment, three of which are mine, and of those, only one is properly functional. The other two are out-dated machines dating back to earlier eras in my life, that I had been holding onto because there was data left on them that I still hoped to recover somehow. Although I am tech-savvy enough to work in the modern economy and blog on the side, I didn't know nearly enough about computers to retrieve my old data, and the pair of old computers sat on my desk, taking up space and gathering dust.

Enter Justin. Early on in our relationship, he noticed the old computers sitting on my desk, still plugged into the wall, and commented on the vampire power they were drawing and putting on my electric bill. He offered to take a look at them and see if anything on them was salvageable. Since we've been keeping ourselves busy in the intervening months, the computers slipped off our radar screen, until I found a new font of inspiration to clean house this week and decided to reclaim my desk space.

Tonight, Justin performed some sort of computer magic, extracting the hard drive from my circa 2003-2006 Dell, and using a piece of equipment he just happened to have to connect it to my current Mac. Mostly, I wanted to preserve the papers I'd written in college, since that computer predated my purchase of a digital camera, but lo and behold, there was a small cache of images on the hard drive as well.


Of the forgotten photographs I found, this one was by far the most significant. It represents the last photo ever taken of me with my late maternal grandfather, and one of very few pictures to represent me and both of my grandparents. It was taken in 2005 at the Kampsville Inn, where we'd gone to eat to celebrate the visit of my cousin Jenny. Just a couple months later, Paw-Paw passed away. It may not be the most flattering image ever captured of any of us, but seeing it again brought tears to my eyes. I am so thankful to have this photo back in my collection, and to be reminded of one of the last times I spent with my Paw-Paw. I am a very lucky girl to have such a helpful boyfriend who does thoughtful things for me like this. Thanks babe!

Let Them Eat Cake...

I've written about it before, but there are times in a woman's life (usually on a monthly basis) when she needs chocolate, and I am no different. I have been craving chocolate like nobody's business the past week or so, and while I partially sated my craving with a batch of Ghirardelli brownies during the blizzard (keeping brownie mix in the house is dangerous, kids), they were merely a substitute to distract myself from what I really wanted -- chocolate cake. It wasn't just any chocolate cake that had captured my imagination either; I was fixated on a recipe I'd seen ages ago on the internet, and never gotten around to trying.

The recipe, for a cake that combined two of my favorite things, chocolate and root beer, came from a book that had stormed the food blogosphere when it was released a few years ago, and I was reminded of this particular recipe when I saw that the book's authors had released a new book. I managed to locate the recipe for the cake online, but I was skeptical of the instructions, which suggested swapping as much as a cup of the root beer in the cake with root beer schnapps for a more intense root beer flavor. Intuitively speaking, a cup seemed like a lot of booze for a cake.

So, before I ventured into the kitchen, I tried to find the hard copy of the original cookbook, Baked: New Frontiers in Baking, at my local library, only to find there was a wait list. Discouraged, I tried to silence the cake's siren song in my mind, but I ended up bringing it up to Justin, who quickly located the book on the shelf at the library at which he works, and checked it out on my behalf. A quick scan of the original indicated that the proper substitution was a half cup, not a full cup, so I was glad I checked the source.

Ultimately, the cake didn't taste much like root beer at all, possibly because the soda I used for the cake was rather mild. The recipe calls for regular, not diet soda, which I do not drink, so I ended up purchasing Dad's Root Beer, which I hadn't consumed since my childhood, because it came in a size that was more suitable for baking and wouldn't leave me with tons of extra cans or bottles that I wouldn't want to drink. I didn't realize, however, until the cake was finished that the Dad's Root Beer was very, very mild. I think the root beer flavor might come through more with a more assertive soda in the mix.

That being said, I am prepared to give this recipe another chance. The cake was tasty, if slightly dense, and very chocolatey. Unless I can get the root beer flavor to become more prominent, this recipe won't replace my all-time favorite chocolate cake recipe (about which I still have yet to blog), but I will definitely be filing away the recipe for the frosting from this cake. Not only was it mind-blowingly simple to make, it was also delicious.

I don't say that lightly either -- if you know anything about my taste in baked goods, you'll know that I hate frosting. I was always the kid you wanted at a birthday party growing up, because I wouldn't fight for the edge pieces of the cake, or the pieces with the balloons or flowers. I was perfectly content to get an unadorned, inside piece, scrape off the frosting, and pass along the sugar high to another guest. So for me to say that I really enjoyed the frosting on this cake is somewhat of a minor miracle.

I'll keep you posted on whether I can coax more root beer flavor out of this cake in the future, but if nothing else, I urge you to whip up a batch of this frosting and spread it on some box cake or cupcakes. It's that good. And to my lady readers -- trust me, it will satisfy that deep yearning for chocolate.


Root Beer Chocolate Bundt Cake adapted from Baked: New Frontiers in Baking

Cake
2 cups root beer (if you can find it, swap out 1/2 cup of root beer for root beer schnapps)
1 cup dark unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 cup unsalted butter
1 1/4 cups granulated sugar
1/2 cup firmly packed dark brown sugar
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/4 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs

Frosting
2 ounces dark chocolate melted and cooled slightly
1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened
1 teaspoons salt
1/4 cup root beer
2/3 cup dark unsweetened cocoa powder
2 1/2 cups confectioners’ sugar

For the cake:
1. Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F. Butter and flour the Bundt pan.
2. In a small saucepan, heat the root beer, cocoa powder, and butter over medium heat until the butter is melted. Add the sugars and whisk until dissolved. Remove from the heat and let cool.
3. In a large bowl, whisk the flour, baking soda, and salt together.
4. In a small bowl, whisk the eggs until just beaten, then whisk them into the cooled cocoa mixture until combined. Gently fold the flour mixture into the cocoa mixture. The batter will be slightly lumpy–do not overbeat, as it could cause the cake to be tough.
5. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 35 to 40 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through the baking time, until a small sharp knife inserted into the cake comes out clean. Cool on a cooling rack completely before frosting.

For the frosting:
Combine all ingredients in a food processor and pulse until smooth and shiny. Apply to cake and allow to set before serving.

Snowpocalypse...

Double. Snow. Day.

That's right, due to the third largest blizzard in Chicago history, which dumped between 20 and 21 inches of snow upon my fair city, I was granted not one, but two days off of work while the city attempts to dig itself out from under the mess. For my part, I haven't ventured outdoors in two and a half days (hence the lack of photos of the snow carnage). I've been cozily consuming chocolate baked goods and giving my apartment an overdue, and very thorough cleaning, right down to the freshly-scrubbed grout on my bathroom floor.

The storm itself was definitely one to remember. We actually had thundersnow. Who knew such a thing even existed? I'd certainly never heard of it until I saw it on The Colbert Report a week or so ago when the rare meteorological phenomenon struck New York City. It definitely was strange, watching the lighting outside, and listening to the thunder and howling winds, while the sky was whited-out with snow instead of rain. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a little scary.

Thankfully, our patio furniture didn't blow away, and even more importantly, I got to exercise the greatest benefit of high-rise living -- no shoveling! Instead, I got to look at the vast expanses of white from the safety and warmth of my apartment, while watching the endless press conferences staged by the city, and following the coverage of the motorists who were stranded on Lake Shore Drive overnight behind a jack-knifed bus.

Although I'm certainly glad I wasn't trying to get anywhere via automobile the past couple days, I must say that I'm anticipating tomorrow's commute to work with no small amount of trepidation. Would a triple snow day have really been too much to ask?