beer googles

Beer and cake are the most heavenly foods on earth. How do I reconcile my worship of a bitter, carbonated nectar with my equal rapture in the presence of the sweet, dense manna? Hell is having to choose between them.

But I can choose, and I choose beer. Nearly every day. But beer has a stigma: it's undignified, manly, aggressive, unlike its more refined counterpart, wine. It's associated with frat parties and thick-necked guys and redneck softball teams, where the outfielder has a cigarette in one hand and a can of Natty Boh by his feet. Tell someone you drink a glass of wine every night with dinner, and she'll tell you how healthy it is. Now tell her you drink a beer every day at 4:00, and she'll think you're an alcoholic. Even though beer is good for you, but soda is not, beer still loses; no one thinks you're a drunk if you have a can of Coke with lunch.

You should know that when I talk about beer, I don't really mean beer; beer is, typically, lager—that piss-water-colored stuff that tastes nasty. I always mean ale. I like hoppy, bitter, light brown beers—no food-thick stouts with weird additives like chocolate. Give me some Flying Dog Doggie Style or some Harpoon IPA or some Rogue Dead Guy (perfect for Good Friday) or the holy grail of ales, The Brewer's Art's Resurrection (perfect for Easter Sunday).

I'd be lying if I said I didn't like the alcohol in beer. Coffee tastes delicious, but most of the people I know drink it for the flavor and the caffeine. Look, in a world that's as fucked up as ours, we need all the legal drugs we can get. Back when I suffered from insomnia, my therapist told me I should live like a starlet—popping uppers for breakfast and downers for dinner. And I do. Did.

On Monday, I took a beer-drinking hiatus, at least during the week, so of course I can think of nothing but beer. I quit because it's obvious I have a problem. That's right: I can't fit into my fat jeans. My problem isn't an alcohol addiction. If I had to pick from among Budweiser, Miller, Coors, or even Yuengling, I would abstain. If all you had was wine, I'd chew gum.(Possible exception: Riesling. Hey—I was raised on Maneschewitz, which spoiled me for Merlot.) Don't even mention diet beers. Blech.

Last night, my husband cracked open a Resurrection. Curses! I went upstairs and got in bed to wait for The Good Wife. The defendant had a drinking problem, and there was a picture of him with a beer in his hand. Last night I dreamt I was cooking eggs for breakfast—while drinking a beer. This morning, I found a pair of Flying Dog caps in the silverware drawer. I am Flying Dogfaceboy.

It's going to take the patience of Saul and the faith of Job to get to Friday with two six packs of Resurrection in the fridge. I like beer. A lot. But there's something I want a little more.

I want to fit in those white dragon pants.

stepping away from the cake

The scale at Weight Watchers showed a 3.4-pound loss after the first week. That's almost three and a half pounds of cake research (and beer research and Halloween candy research, et al.) gone. I realize it's time to step away from the cake in other ways, too.

As you know, I don't blog about confections, though I used to when I was working on The Book. Those days are gone now, and, though I would have loved a bestseller, I have to face some hard facts: I'm no Chesley Sullenberger. I'm no Sarah Palin. I didn't live through Columbine. And these are tough times. Some of us can't even afford a Ding Dong, much less a book that disses a few of them.

So I've redesigned my website to reflect my for-hire photography skills, and I've fixed my blog to reflect that I am more than my first book (and even my second book).

It's not a sweet parting of ways. I'm disappointed that Let Me Eat Cake won't be released in paperback, that it could easily wind up in the cut-out bin, that I didn't get on The View or feed cake to Stephen Colbert. And I could have done a lot more to promote myself.

I don't have that kind of head—the kind that can hand out business cards by the dozen to strangers and friends, that can impose on people, that can beg, that can toot my own horn in any but the can-you-believe-the-luck?! way. And most of the people who can do that are overbearing and obnoxious. For me, it would have been like wearing clothing that's many sizes too big; I would have lost myself.

That doesn't mean I can't or won't ask, every so often (but not face-to-face!) that you buy the remaining copies of The Book, especially from your independent retailer, if a copy can be found there. I worked really hard on it, I tell you tearfully, if the truth be told. And it's funny. And the person you give it to this holiday season will probably really like it a lot.

In fact, I have two signed books I would like to sign and give away, completely free, even the shipping. Here are the conditions. 1. If you like the book, please post a favorable review on Amazon and B&N. And 2.) Please share it with at least one other person. Leave an email address in your comment, and I will put your names in a hat and have a drawing next Monday.

(P.S. You can still see old Cake posts and links to author interviews and reviews at The Cake Life.)

danger cake

Although research for The Book is long finished, I still get the occasional email for bizarre cake stories, like the ejaculating cake or this, the five-minute chocolate cake in a mug.

“The Most Dangerous Cake Recipe” is made of the usual suspects, and the original recipe lacked only salt. (I made this the first time with melted butter.)

Ingredients:

4 T flour
4 T sugar
2 T cocoa (Hershey’s dark)
1 egg
3 T milk (2% here)
3 T butter, melted
3 T chocolate chips (optional)
splash of vanilla
pinch of salt

1 large, microwave-safe coffee mug

Instructions:

1. Mix the dry ingredients well; add egg, and mix well; add remaining wet ingredients, and mix well.
2. Cook in the microwave on high for three minutes. The cake will bubble up over the mug.
3. Let it cool, and turn it over on a plate.

The email asks, “And why is this the most dangerous cake recipe in the world? Because we are all only 5 minutes away from chocolate cake at any time of the day or night.”

I’ve got some news for you. That’s not why this is the most dangerous cake recipe.



This cake in a mug is not nearly sweet enough. And though that could be fixed with more sugar (maybe a dusting of powdered sugar on the top?), it has the texture of a sponge. And though that might be fixed with a scoop of ice cream on the side, it already has a whopping 979 calories!

Better to waste those calories on something that's truly delicious, like a Berger's cookie.

sometimes my husband believes what I tell him, especially now that it's in a book

My husband picked up a very heavy and very fluorescent Key Lime Pie Cheesecake from Costco yesterday. Despite its vividness, I can tell it tastes delicious. OK, I can tell because I might have stuck my finger in it a little.

This afternoon, my husband cut pieces for him and my daughter. Rather than let my family and their dessert taunt me, I took my cottage cheese and fruit into the living room.

"You know, cheesecake is actually pie," Marty said to Serena.

"It is?" she said, as if it had never occurred to her, despite my having said it a thousand times over the last three years.

"That's right. It's crust and filling." He paused. And in another spectacular teaching moment, he continued, "And Boston Cream Pie is really cake."

[silence]

[eating sounds]

autographs

I recently sold some gigantic (18" x 18") enlargements of birds on a wire—three different shots. While I was signing one of them, my extra-fine Pilot Razor Point ran out of ink. It’s about time, really; I think Pilot stopped making them ten years ago. Finding a pen compatible with my personality (the Razor Point was perfect for my former sharp tongue) became a priority, even on a day when my daughter and I were both home with pinkeye.

So I took Serena to a makeup girls’ lunch at her favorite pizza joint. I usually pick her up before mass on the last day of school before Christmas, Easter, and summer breaks and take her to Mamma Lucia, but this Christmas, I was indisposed. We wiped our seeping eyes, donned our dark sunglasses, and went out for a slice.

My ulterior motive was Office Depot across the street, where I could get a new box of black extra-fine-point markers. They’re imperative, as I’m expecting a giant carton of 35 copies of The Book to arrive sometime in the next week or so, and I have to send them, signed, to a few of the people who helped me. Forget those boring black and blue felt tips! Sharpies now come in every color, in every nib size.

We returned from lunch with several of them in a few colors: The Book pink, The Book blue, black, and a single lime green of my daughter’s choosing. Signs that she’d been practicing her own autograph remain on the kitchen sideboard. (Her generation might actually need to practice it, now that they pay bills online and don’t have the exercise of signing a slew of checks every month.)

Now comes the question of what to write, besides my name. No one will even be able to read the scrawl that represents Leslie F. Miller. So what pithy slogan can I make my own? “Thank you” is not sweet enough. “Cake or Death” belongs to another. “Mmm…Cake!” another. “Did someone say cake?” is Mr. Ratburn's line and too long anyway. Pie’s easy: “Semper Pie” would be my motto. Or “Pie’s the limit.” But cake? “Leslie F. Miller eats cake and leaves”? That’s nuts.

I have collected a few autographs, mostly from musicians: handwritten notes from Ivan Kral (Patti Smith’s bassist), Rick Nielsen, and Jane Siberry. I have the names of all the members of Cheap Trick on a wrinkled piece of paper. Bob Schneider and his band, Willy Porter, and Natalia Zukerman have signed my copies of their CDs. And when I met Richard Butler of the Psychedelic Furs at the Marble Bar in the early eighties, I had him sign a painting I made of him, complete with a blue car potato print stamp. ("Blue cars, big beat, dead on my feet.") He wrote "Into you like a train," misleading unless you know it's a Furs song.

Most of the time, those names remind me of a meeting with them, like when Kip Winger stole my notebook at Rock & Roll Fantasy Camp to write “Rock on!” Right now, my fridge wears an autograph—just a name, no frills—from Victor Wooten, who spoke to the kids at Serena’s school. She stood in line to get it and the reminder of the time their presence was graced by the king of bass.

In two weeks, I head to Philadelphia to tape an interview for “A Chef’s Table”; afterwards, I’m supposed to go to bookstores to sign stock. My husband wants to know who would buy a book just because it’s signed. But that’s how I came to read The Frog King, a fabulous book by Adam Davies. And it’s why I had finally picked up a book on my list, Diane Ackerman’s The Zookeeper’s Wife. My mom has a whole collection of first-edition, signed Edward Gorey books.

Marty wouldn’t stand in line for an autograph, but he wouldn’t take a picture, either. Most of the time, his memory suffices—he smiles when he remembers shaking Nelson Mandela’s hand at Bill Clinton’s first inauguration, and he talked guitar with Willy Porter while I was snapping away and getting a signature.

But maybe an autograph represents something else entirely—not just proof of a meeting or a desire to increase the value of a work of art. Isn’t it the artist’s seal? Sometimes I ask people not to use my name when I’m not fond of what I was forced to create. But a signature on The Book would say: I’m Leslie F. Miller, and I approve this publication—despite the mistakes I’ve made and my persistent battles with The Suck Voice.

Maybe my signature slogan should be a reminder to myself, just as much as it is a message to the reader.

Lemon Pounds Cake

I like to call this a pounds cake because you can make it exactly as you like it and gain several pounds from just a couple of pieces.

I also like to post recipes for things I will no longer eat. I derive the sensory satisfaction from the list of ingredients (if I read them fast, it's as though they are mixed into cake batter; try it), and I also feel a bit of glee that you might make this, and I will be losing weight while you are the ones gaining the pounds.


Pounds Cake

3 sticks of butter
3 cups of sugar
1/4 teaspoon of salt
6 eggs
1 cup of whole milk
3 teaspoons of extract (I use 2 lemon, 1 vanilla)
3 cups of flour

1. Preheat the oven to 325°.
2. Grease and flour a tube pan—fancy are harder to unmold and clean.
3. Cream the butter. Add the sugar and salt. Mix thoroughly.
4. Add eggs, one at a time, while the mixer is running.
5. Add flavoring to the milk and add to batter alternately with flour.
6. Mix thoroughly and pour into prepared pan
7. Bake for 1.5 hours or until tester is clean.

Turn out the cake, and let it cool. Pour glaze on top.

Glaze

2 cups confectioners' sugar, sifted
1/2 stick of melted butter
2 T extract or juice (I use lemon juice)
2 T milk

Mix well. Pour on the Pounds Cake (and pour on the pounds).

Eat. Completely. Keep thinking that the lemon glaze tastes like a Lemon Cooler cookie. Relive the nostalgia over and over again. Gain some weight. Wear my giant hand-me-downs.

a special note to stephen colbert

I know what you need. It is soft and moist. It's suh-weet. Getting it only makes you want it more. It's the perfect way to end a meal or start a day. It's the climax of any celebration. (If it's really, really good, it's worth celebrating itself!) And next April, when my book hits the shelves, I would like to sit on your lap and give it to you.

A slice of Truthiness cake is yours for the tasting. All you have to do to get it is invite me to be a guest of The Colbert Report.