Maple bacon doughnuts are nothing new to my world (evidence: here and here). I lead a lucky life.
And despite me loving them, I’ve never felt the urge to make them myself. When I think of homemade doughnuts, I get sleepy. Sooooo much work. The dough making, the rolling out, cutting out, the two rises and the frying. Ugh. Too much. It’s way easier to drive downtown and pick one up.
A few days ago though, I found a happy compromise: hot oil…but NO rises. Cake doughnuts. Whoa. WHOA.
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This is kind of an insane recipe title. I understand. I do.
You’re really supposed to be gawking at a fried fluffernutter sandwich, BUT when I posted the picture (above) on Instagram/Twitter, people started asking me if it was French toast. I was conflicted.
Do I fry these cute little heart shaped marshmallow things? Or do I just put it in a pan with a little butter? Sort of a no-brainer, right? Yes, total no-brainer.
French toast sounds healthier. We like this…even if it’s a total lie, we still like it. Also, if you want to be a total psycho, you can even have this for breakfast, rather than for dessert. I have no objections. Lastly, no hot oil.
Hot oil isn’t romantic; French toast is (I think?)…
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Wuuuuttts up, lovely people! I just came out of an intense 8-day working cave. OMG hard work, I love you (sometimes). I decided to celebrate with baking a pie, naturally.
And winter citrus! I’m all about it at the moment. The bursting, brilliant colors of January are coming at you in pie form. Get into this.
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I’m a big fan of layers. This is the very reason why Fall and Winter make me leap for joy.
These seasons give me the ability to wear a tank top, a t-shirt, a button up, and a jacket (and maybe a scarf)…all while not perspiring. Perspiring sucks. So does shivering, I guess; but at least I sorta get an ab workout when I shiver. AM I RIGHT?!
I dig food layers, too. These cupcakes? Crazy food layering going on here. Maybe you can’t see all the food layers yet. It’s okay. I’m gonna outline them for you.
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Let’s talk my favorite holiday subject: presents!!
Look, I know I’m supposed to act all adult-like and humble and and be like, “Me? Nah…I don’t need a present. Don’t get me a present. I have everything I need…”
But can we be honest? I love presents. And sure I do have most things I need, but I still have wants. Duh.
I like that someone got in their car, went somewhere, picked something out just for me. I like that someone wrapped something, put a bow on it…just for me. Presents–when thoughtful–feel warm and sweet, and are just plain awesome.
If someone baked me something, put it in a glass jar, learned how to make a pom-pom (just for me!) and gave it to me…swoon. Seriously, can we get friend married?
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Have I ever told you I’m really bad at math? Don’t ask me math questions. And please answer mine. If I’m asking, it means they’re serious and important.
For instance, if I for some reason burst into our office, covered in flour, and ask you how many grams 3/4 of a cup of flour is…it’s important. Really important.
Also, I’m a little heavy handed with the sugar when putting it in my coffee. Don’t judge me.
Let’s do cookie math, shall we? It’s way more fun than normal, real life math flour math…mainly because we get to eat this math.
This recipe yields 50 small cookies. For each cookie sandwich you’ll need two buttery, shortbread cookies and one small teaspoon of dulce de leche. Each cookie is about two bites. That means this recipe will give you 50 glorious, delicious bites of my childhood.
Yes, that’s right. These cookies you see here were some of the first I baked up. Ever.
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Real talk. Are you ready?
On Friday…(the one that just passed) I was a huge brat. I woke up extra early to show the day who’s who and by noon I had four failed recipes. Every bowl I owned was in the sink. Flour was all over the floor. There was melted butter in my bangs. Soo…to no surprise, I had major attitude. Like major. So I was like, Cool, I’m gonna sit outside eat two tacos, have an iced tea and I’ll feel better.
Didn’t work. Came home…still had an attitude.
I decided to sit in my mess of a kitchen and open up a new book that just arrived: Christina Tosi’s, Momofuku Milk Bar. Right after the introduction there is a section…and it’s called ‘Real Talk.’
Her Real Talk? Stop complaining. Keep your cool. Baking with no AC totally sweating? Shut up. No really…just shut up. Your mixer broke and you have 100 pounds of cookie dough to mix? Woman-up…roll up your sleeves…time to get busy.
Her hardbody, total attitude of pep talk is what I needed. Sometimes all of us need someone to set us straight. Christina did it. Girl crush? Totally.
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“Positive, positive, positive!!”
That’s my favorite line from Knocked Up.
Leslie Mann says it to Katherine-whatever-her-name-is when she’s all bummed out and can’t bring herself to get out of bed.
I say it to Teri when she’s being a brat.
I also say it to myself, outloud…every Monday morning when I look at my gigantic to-do list. I have to un-bratify myself, you know?
Monday mornings require pep-talks. It’s just a fact. Pep-talks. Coffee…and pop-tarts don’t hurt either.
Pop Tarts was a genius invention. They knew what they were doing. They knew they were basically just making pie for breakfast. It’s cool. We’re all cool with it, pop tart inventor. We thank you.
I didn’t grow up on pop tarts, unfortunately. I wasn’t that lucky. My parents saw through their marketing schemes; they knew the deal.
But now that I’m a grown-up and pay taxes and parking tickets and deal with all sorts of fun stuff…I’ve made the decision that I’m gonna have pie for breakfast…and call it a pop tart.
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This may be a total shocker to some of you, but in third grade I was not the cool girl.
Definitely not the cool girl. But I also wasn’t the weird girl, the girl that smelled nor the girl that was super jockey and athletic.
I was just way normal. Like really normal. Too normal for my own good. So I’m pretty sure I just kinda faded into the background…
The cool girls were the sprightly blond ones. Their hairs were always French braided. They wore a lot of pink. They were talkative and outgoing. The boys liked to punch them, in a good way (I think). And they had awesome packed lunches. (Read: Lunchables, Cheetos, Snack Packs.)
I was like, the antithesis of the situation you just read.
My dad thought it was a genius idea to buy me boys’ tennis shoes because he thought they were “designed” better. So yeah…I have him to thank for that. I was shy and quiet and observant. And my hair was frizzy and always sort of a mess. My mom, nor I, could French braid despite how many times we tried.
And my lunch…ugh…my lunch was always kind of lame. Think like, hummus, crudites and…arroz con pollo. Tell me! …how is a child supposed to be cool with yellow rice in their lunchbox?!?!
But now…I’m a totally different person. I know how to use a blow-dryer. My clothes are better. That lunch would actually make me excited. And I know how to do regular braids, French braids and fishtails. Yeah…I totally graduated to braiding pro status.
Despite who you were in third grade, everyone can braid this cheese danish. Everyone.
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Schemllo! Hi! What’s up!! How are you?! I’m well. Thanks. I have three Friday significant thoughts to share with you:
1. The Millionaire Matchmaker lady scares me. Like a lot.
2. When it rains in Los Angeles (which is like twice a year) everybody’s cuteness goes up a notch. They bring their serious rain gear ‘A’ game–it’s kind of intense. Boys have peacoats on. They wear those rustic looking boots that I love. Girls look spiffy in their Hunter boots. Everybody is wearing big pretty big sweaters. Everybody is drinking coffee. It’s a good look.
3. I learned that bourbon is delicious in everything. Like everything. Just everything.
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