A New Project and A New Website

Two different people.  I used to be this kid who wore black, that wore my grades as a mark of honor, who would smoke a cigarette and hold in my cough until no one was looking.  I used to live in a world of dichotomies, I took one direction, judging those who took the other.  Bitter and self-centered, I hated everything that wasn't within arm's reach, anything I had to work for.  I was this lazy with all the best relationships I've ever held onto--from Nolan to my mother.   I was like this in law school, in California.  I left this person there, too.

In the last two months of living in Texas, living alone for the first time, I've grown into a new person.  Soft and muted blues, greens, greys--I don't hide behind a layer of black, a 4.0, or in a puff of smoke, indiscernible from the fog that hung over Pittsburgh most mornings.  I appreciate beauty and tones, floral and minimalism.  I respect the curated life, the plant you buy for decoration and how it differs from the one you buy for herbs.  I work with my hands now.  I feel a vernal change in my bones to produce, to craft, to create.  I have callouses that have softened over from when I would hold a pencil too long, back in the day when I held a pencil to write at all. My working hands are toiling again.  I'm creating candy bars, confectionaries, memories.  Someone's breakfast, someone's "cheat day".  

I appreciate a good cup of coffee above most things, and that's something that hasn't changed between the old and the new life I have.  That is why I went to Press Coffee with a simple idea:  I want to sell candy.  A simple stand, a couple dollars a bar, for an hour or two to get my name out there and have some fun doing it.  Press was, to me, the perfect venue.  From its wonderfully curated decor to its light-dappled cafe tables, Press understands appreciating the small, everyday victories of the perfect cup of coffee, the first bite of a crisp pastry, finding the just-right leather chair to sit in and enjoy the morning for what it is:  an opportunity to create, relax, not take life too hard or seriously.   I would have never thought of the generosity that would come of Natalie offering to give me liberty on stocking them as often as I could produce them.  

I am dropping off my second order this morning.  Twenty-seven bars of Matcha, Cookies and Cream, and Peanut Butter.  They're delicate and snap when you break them.  They're wrapped in the same designs I used for Nolan's Valentine's Day present, florals for spring*.  They're one of the simple pleasures we allow ourselves to spend money on, and maybe one of my customers will share his with someone he loves today.  I hope, whoever buys one, they'll recognize the attention each bar got from me.  From cutting the wrappers to measuring the foil, to getting the perfect process of tempering and cooling, each bar was made from my hands, hands that once held pencils too tightly, cigarettes too loosely, and another boy's hand too recklessly. 

If you're located in the San Antonio-area, stop by Press Coffee at 606 W French Place 78212, and maybe I'll see you there, too! (Usually for only, like, five minutes in the morning before work, though).

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What my work desk usually looks like

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Matcha is probably my personal favorite.  Beau and I are hockin' these like it's 2012

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(they're not $2, btw)

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*groundbreaking

And finally, a special thanks to Samuel Nuñez  for creating such an amazing logo, that inspired so much of my work this last month--from the candy bars to actually making this website a thing.  Go check him out, too!

Ice Cream in the Wintertime

I've gotten used to microwaving water for tea and never having to tell a single person what I'm thinking.  I slept for fifteen hours yesterday, my body exhausted from the flu, and no one would ever have known if I didn't tell people.  For pity, for a connection to someone else.  I've become this different person, a liminal character between two worlds--the moorish memories of California, the Shangri-La future of central Texas.  If the sun hits me at noon, my fingertips become smoke rings, I float away into my own imagination.  I never have to tell a single person what I'm thinking. Last week, I stopped by a Salvation Army and looked for an ice cream scoop.  I wanted an old one, one that looked rustic and used.  One that survived birthday parties and anniversaries, graduation parties and the Y2K scare.  I found a chipped crock and an Ace of Base CD instead.  I forgot my wallet in the car and felt oddly embarrassed, oddly unsure of myself, self-conscious of my windowshopping.  I went back out to the car and noticed how few parking spots there were for how many customers the store had.  It confused me, how people got there.  I left without buying anything.

The reason I needed the ice cream scoop is because I was determined to make ice cream.  Chantilly Meringuèe, to be exact.  I was given twenty-two eggs from a coworker whose fridge was overflowing with them.  So many delicate egg whites, cracked open on the sides of mixing bowls and countertops.  My fascination with the egg white's transformation was last seen with the Italian Meringue Buttercream, but I wanted to take it one step further.  Because, egg whites, too, are so liminal.  So between-worlds.  Too viscous for liquid, too amorphous for a solid.  The more air you incorporate, the more velveteen and shapely it becomes.

I wanted to see this transformation, I wanted to feel as though my sublimated body could border-cross the way this dessert did.  I wanted to create magic without the unnecessary equipment of an ice cream maker.  I wanted something cold on my tongue, the sharp bite of winter melting in my mouth.  I wanted to feel alive this week, after sleeping for fifteen hours and only speaking when I needed something.  I wanted to feel like a kid again, taking change from my pocket and buying ice cream across the street from my school, at a place called Shaffer's Snack Shack.  I wanted to share this recipe with you.

A Greyhound Through Hill Country

It was hard to find a comfortable position.  I'm long-limbed and can never stay still for long.  I wrapped my body around an old leather jacket and road the north-bound Greyhound bus to Dallas last week.  It gave me a reason to see Nolan, the first time in three weeks.  Three weeks that quantified into a lifetime of changing perspectives and the resultant, nagging question of why did i do this?

The bus left at seven and pulled in by midnight.  We sat in traffic for 45 minutes, and I read articles about the I Ching and cancer.  My eyes grew dryer with every mile marker and I had a pair of glasses tucked into the backseat pocket.  It was longer than I thought five hours could be, and the only way I could gauge that kind of time was San Diego to Phoenix, from San Diego to Las Vegas, from San Diego to the first gas station we stopped at the buy water and a burger on our way to El Paso for the night.  All my starting points were from that Southern California town.  And many of my ending points, too.

By the end of my time in California, I was no longer many things.  I was no longer alone, no longer exciting, no longer young and naive and studious.  No longer a law student, no longer confident, no longer the faltering idea of being someone else.  I was myself and I have sacrificed for that kind of beginning, but I had to go to Dallas and see if it was all worth it.  To look the wolf in the eyes at night and see if it howls the same as you howled inside.  When it wasn't so perfect, when it was a shaggy puddle of old love notes that got ripped to shreds in an old cardboard box.

We met at the station and a male prostitute asked where I was going.  It was pitch-dark and silent in the city, and in the distance you saw how expansive Dallas was.  We passed office buildings that still had lights on and it seemed we found ourselves in another city, another few moments of exploration.  We got a hotel for the night, a little room with a queen-sized bed and a TV that was screwed into the dresser.  The fridge motor ran louder than my breathing and my body, naturally nestled into Nolan's, fell into the rhythm of his breathing.

And for two days, I felt whole.  In a way I hadn't before.  Longer than the three-week span of living on my own.  Longer than maybe a year or two.  It was no longer a question of "How will we survive?", but a question of when will the vast gap between us close itself?  Inside you can fill barbecue joints, the Grand Canyon, and the biggest little city in the world.   There is a five year age gap and the gaps in our teeth and a gap between my thighs because I'm only eating for one.  There are memories I think I forgot and a tenderness in our words and fingertips that came out of the synapses of our mind, our fight or flight response, our relationship survivalism.

And we couldn't even kiss goodbye because we're in an unfamiliar town.  We hesitated, standing at terminal five of the Dallas greyhound, my bag on my shoulder and a headphone in one year.  I looked him in the eye and said, "I'll see you soon."

Places to visit in Dallas....Social House / Weekend Coffee / TENOVERSIX / White Elephant 

Simple in the morning

I still have the same dream as when I was fourteen.  I'm flying in a plane and it is raining outside, I stare lazily like a cat.  We're heading to Nova Scotia and it sounds magical and foreign and we never land.  Always in the air, always anticipating something you've heard before, but can't pinpoint exactly where.  It's a silly dream, pointless.  I am not sure what to make of it other than those two words.  I think the same thing when my mother tells me what she got at the grocery store.  I think the same thing when I tell Nolan what I did the day before, rehearsing the call before I make it in my head.  Always mundane, always ordinary, just to hear myself.  And maybe my subconscious is doing the same--just wanted to think, to be remembered its there, waiting, powerless during the day.  And when I think like that, about what my mind wants me to know, how I may have forgotten a part of who I am, I'll wake up, a little damp with sweat, and check the time on my phone.  Sometimes it's witching hour, sometimes it's ten in the morning.  Sometimes it doesn't matter, because before I can even set my phone down, I'm asleep again, dreaming of that first bite of cold mug on cold lips, and how the warm coffee cuts into that bitter cold with its own brand of percolated bitterness.  And then I wake up, ready for breakfast.  I've forgotten anything I dreamt about.  And my subconscious remains in that liminal space of wandering and wondering, of ghost of myself, cutting itself, pleading to Heathcliff to let it in, let it in. And I wake up hungry, so hungry.  This week you can see indents below my cheekbones; I haven't done a lot of eating lately.  Too tired at night, to busy during the day.  Too lazy to make myself even a bowl of cereal.  Not concerned enough of my own well-being when I don't have anyone to live with to remind me to do the menial tasks of eating, sleeping, calming down before the blow-up and the breakdown.  And I've been sick with a cough that won't go away, my throat a little raw, my voice a little rough on the vowels.  I've drank more tea this week than I have in years.

And one morning when I was feeling particularly hungry, particularly awake, I made bread.  A simple bread, a quick bread.  An Irish soda bread.  Simple, almost more cake than bread, it chewed easily and satisfied my empty stomach, my thoughts of an empty bed and an empty life.   I've written before about the transformative power of bread, and when I pulled the loaves out of the oven, nothing mattered but that first bite.  Not my mind, my cold, my job, or my relationship--just the warm and delicate crumb that fell over my flannel shirt as I stood hunched over the stove, eating it tenderly with my bare hands.

Enjoy this soda bread with some caramelized onion compound butter.  Enjoy your week.

Irish Soda Bread with Caramelized Onion Soda Bread (yields two loaves)

Ingredients for the bread:

• 3 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 tablespoon baking powder
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/4 cup sugar
• 1 teaspoon salt (i, again, used smoked salt--not necessary)
• 2 cups buttermilk
• 1 egg
• 1/4 cup butter, melted

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 325 and prepare two 9"x5" loaf pans with parchment paper and butter or oil.
2. Sift the flour, baking powder, soda, sugar, and salt together a few times.  I like to do this to ensure they are all mixed, but also to give it a lighter texture for a quick bread like this, that can sometimes be dense with moisture
3. In a small saucepan, melt butter and set aside to cool briefly
4. In a measuring cup, measure out buttermilk.  Add egg and cooled melted butter.  Whisk together until all a pale yellow.
5. With a rubber spatula or wooden spoon, create a well in the dry ingredients.  Slowly begin pouring in wet ingredients, making sure all dry is moistened and a dough/batter begins to form
6. Distribute evenly into prepared loaf pans and bake for 70 minutes or until golden brown and a toothpick comes out clean.
7. Allow to cool a little, and enjoy with caramelized onion butter!

Ingredients for the Onion Butter

• 1/2 a stick of butter, room temperature
• 2 tablespoons olive oil or butter, for onions
• 1/2 one yellow onion, chopped
• Pinch of sea salt

Directions:

1. In a small skillet, melt 2 tablespoons of butter or heat olive oil on medium-low heat
2.  Add onion and let cook down for 15-20 minutes, stirring constantly
3. Set aside and allow to cool
4. In a food processor, mix room temperature butter and onions, occasionally scraping sides and bottom with a rubber spatula to ensure homogeneously mixed.
5. Lay out plastic wrap on a flat surface, and use spatula to scoop mixture into center.  Shape roughly into a log and then roll plastic wrap around butter, twisting the edges like candy to create a firm log shape.  Allow to firm up in fridge before serving.

New routines and a cake recipe

I have met a hundred people this week and cannot remember anyone's name.  I gave thirty-eight cents to a homeless man and didn't look him in the eyes.  I think I am coming down with a cold, my body is achy.  I slept for fourteen hours and made biscuits in a skillet my sister got me for Christmas.  I haven't kissed anyone in ten days. This week has been distinctively marked for me.  One night, I had decaf coffee for dinner.  Another, a bowl of white rice.  My body doesn't need sustenance the way it used to.  Instead, I listen to the small taptaptap's of the dog in the apartment next to mine and that is enough for the night.  I have nightmares about bugs crawling in my mouth and on my skin and I take two showers a day, because I do not pay for water at my new place.  I am always thirsty and I cried reading an old poem I wrote to a boy once.  I notice my oven is gas range and I can smell it strongly when I first preheat it.  I am scared of the ice on the roads, of cancer, of losing the last vestiges of my good, good life that I had before I decided to pursue independence.

This week was my first week of my new job as an administrative manager for a hotel down in San Antonio.  Meeting upon meeting, I was told how I can improve the site, how many granola bars we need to order, how to increase revenue and profits for in the next quarter.   I saw the words, the business idioms, but they are hollow.  In the back of my head, i think about how all I want to do is write, bake, sleep.  When I get home, I look at the wilting flowers that stood erect a day before, and I trim them to be used later for decoration somewhere else.  Nothing can be wasted right now, everything preserved, so I don't have a reason to leave the house.  Eggs used for meringues will make a custard with the yolks.  Scrambled eggs, give the embryos to the stray dog that scratches at houses in search of leftovers.  I used old parchment paper as scratch paper, a quick drawing I did of a logo I want for packaging.  I used some lip balm on my cold and dry hands.  It's been raining here, cold at nights.  The space heater next to my bed runs and squeaks all night.  I am just not used to this sort of life yet.

But I have time to think now, to bake and to write.  I find inspiration in those half-dead and cut flowers.  They were beautiful in their youth and I wanted to lay them on a pillow of buttercream.  I put them on a vanilla cake,  poked their stems into the meringue, and served them to my employees in an effort to show I cared.  When I came home, the flowers had wilted, and my record player was still spinning from when I forgot to flip it over that morning.  Noiselessly, it ran and I laid down on my bed, mouthing the words to a song that wasn't playing.  It rained that night and in the morning there was ice, but at least I made something beautiful.  I have time for beauty now.

Vanilla Cake with Italian Meringue Buttercream

For the cake: Use Molly Yeh's Vanilla Cake recipe to make a two layer 8" cake

For the Italian Meringue Icing:

Ingredients:

• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1/8 cup water
• 3 egg whites, room temperature
• 1/2 teaspoon white vinegar
• 1/8 cup sugar
• 1 cup butter, room temperature and cut into tablespoons
• 1 1/2 teaspoon vanilla (alternatively, use any other extracts, floral essences, or zests --or coffee!--that you may want to try.  I just went with the basics here)

Directions:

1. In a mixer (i suggest stand mixer here, but that is not to say a hand mixer would not work), beat eggs with sugar until stiff peaks begin to form and the white triple or quadruple in volume.
2. Add vinegar to stabilize the meringue.  Add the vanilla.
3. Continue to beat.  Set aside while you work on the simple syrup
4. For the simple syrup necessary to cook the egg whites and create the meringue, Place 1/2 cup sugar and water into small saucepan and put on medium-high heat.  Be mindful that it does not start to burn, due to the small surface area of so little sugar and water
5. When the temperature on an instant read thermometer reaches 238 degrees Fahrenheit (or, if it becomes really tacky as it bubbles, or if you do the water drop test), the syrup is ready
6. Turn the mixer back on and slowly drizzle in the syrup, making sure to take your time.  Keep beating the mixture for a few minutes until it has cooled down (if you add the butter too soon after the hot simple syrup, you risk the butter just melting and clotting and your meringue to be oily)
7. Once the mixture is cool enough to touch (you can tell by touching the bowl), start adding the butter one tablespoon at a time.  Have the mixer on and make sure the last tablespoon is full incorporated before adding a new one.  It may start to curdle and separate as you add them, but it will reconstitute once it works into an emulsified state
8. When the last tablespoon of butter goes in, mix to incorporate and you should have a beautiful, not-too-sweet and silky buttercream that is elegant and simplistic.
9. Assembly:  As Molly's cakes cool, put on on the plate, add a layer of buttercream, put other cake on top.  Slather cake in buttercream, decorate, enjoy!