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So What’s Sexier Than This?

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bread sex

There’s titillating sex bubbling and rising in your kitchen.

I hope. But maybe not. I’ll tell you why in just a minute.

Look at that picture above.

It caused a controversy about 40 years ago, almost as if Hugh Hefner had splayed a *blush* buck-naked Centrefold Playmate across your child’s Grade 1 Reader.

Look closely again, what do you think? If you see (and maybe smell) the delicious sight and wafting aroma of freshly-baked bread just pulled from the oven… well… I’m applauding your Victorian mores and approach to life.

Jane Austen has taught you well.

But maybe… just maybe… like so many of the time this was published (I was an avid reader of Harrowsmith magazine in the early 1980’s), you look a bit more deeply and visualize a young, heaving-bosomed lass with a sexually-charged come-hither look and signs of post-coital flush in her cheeks – and is that truly a loaf of steaming bread cupped lovingly in her hands? – well… now you’re COOKING!

Soon, a flood of complaint letters got dumped on the doorstep of the humble Canadian publisher … “how dare you put such filth on the cover of a magazine that arrives in our mailbox for all the children to see… not even wrapped in kraft paper for modesty. Unfettered pornography!

hidden porn

Ah yes… we all know that sex sells. I’ll bet this was the magazine’s bestselling edition ever.

Now in today’s soc-iso world, it’s not only sex that sells (porn sites are overloaded… I’m told!)… but to my unprepared surprise, so does YEAST. Seductive whor’ish yeast.

SCENE: Inside local supermarket, weekday morning, 8 am….. only busy parking lot within 20 kilometres (OK, the Cannabis Store was doing alright too).

While other delicate shoppers socially-distanced-crammed into the toilet paper, sanitizer, and face mask aisles (there’s a face mask aisle?)…

… I cleverly, devilishly … snuck away to the far reaches of the store and the baking section where I knew no one … no one… would be congregating, much less mobbing.

I just needed to grab a small jar of yeast for my pizza doughs, cinnamon buns, hot cross buns, and the occasional loaf of bread I feel inspired to muck up … routine stuff I do on any given week ever… dum de dum…

Perfect… no congregation, no crowd, no throngs …

Holy Cabbage Patch Dolls!!! …

NO YEAST! WTF!

Four more supermarket stores later (I know… why was I not in an isolation chamber at home?)… and the same Sci-Fi story…

YEAST… SOLD RIGHT OUT!

empty shelf

I had naively figured that with all this isolation, much more yeast (Saccharomyces cerevisiae, to us lab nerds) would be irritatingly ensconced in the below-the-waist internal workings of overrun ladies locked away with laid-off lads and their overcharged libidos (a bit of liberal blog fibbing here, the yeast normally found in vaginal itch is of the Candida variety).

There could easily be a foreseeable glut of baby bellies in 9 months under these circumstances… the COVID KIDS… but “bread bellies”? Where are all the gluten-free crowds now?

The global and local ripples of the CORONAVIRUS are and will be felt in countless areas that no one would have ever dreamed. The school bell has decisively rung and the next classroom we enter in life will be quite different.

And sadly too, perhaps one day in the not-too-distant future, counselling office waiting rooms will be overfilled with adolescents and young adults… searching for ways of coping with their childhood traumas – the sweat-drenched nightmares of days and weeks spent with no homemade breads or buns, the heartfelt sorrow-soaked memory of their mother’s and father’s faces as they tell their young charges that because of the Great Yeast Famine, there will be no cinnamon buns today, and maybe not tomorrow or next week either.

The good news ending here (for me at least, it’s all about ME, right?) comes when I spotted my wife running out the front doors of a local WalMart store… jumping up and down, arms raised in a V of jubilation… a small jar of Fleischmann’s “fungal gold” clenched in each hand… START THE CAR!

Have I mentioned my charitable side lately? I would never stoop to hawking tiny envelopes of yeast to you online at exorbitant prices… no Sirree!

But I can offer a special deal to you on a 6-pack of my delicious Hot Cross Buns this Easter weekend at the low low price of just $69.69 (any subliminal sexual message there is in your dirty little mind).

More yummy fun than finding your happy ending while ogling the cover of Harrowsmith mag…

*apologies to the hordes of English teachers and other language buffs for the endless run-on sentences in today’s post. Difficult times bring on disastrous grammar gaffes.

buns bunny

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cake Therapy With CNN

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I am a CNN fan boy.

A few years ago, I’d catch the occasional minute or two of Wolf or Brianna or Anderson. On Blitzer… On Keilar… On Cooper… 

It was passerby TV viewing. Ho hum… take in a moment of toothy-grinned Obama speaking to the camera and merrily continue on with MY day.

ROUTINE World. Happy World.

Sadly today, I’m a full-fledged CNN addict.

They handcuffed my inner liberal bias and are holding me hostage. I’m in their grip and I can’t let go. HELP!!

I feel dirty.

Thanks Donald.

NON-ROUTINE World. Sad World.

In the old world, it used to be that “polite” Canadians genially crossed paths and discussed the changing weather patterns. Gonna be a hot one today eh Ginger Snap?…

Today, the passing eye-rolls of interchange revolve more and more around what shovelful (dump truck!) of nonsense hit Twitter overnight. OMG, Can you believe that sh*t?…

500+ days back, when the U.S. election results were shockingly finalized, I predicted we’d do a throwback to the Dark Ages for a few years.

But it’s become even darker than I could have pie-in-the-sky imagined.

It’s like the 50 Shades phenomenon a couple of years back. A huge portion of the population was swept into a surreal madness of worship of a man who merrily abuses and proudly dominates women.

My understanding sense was senseless. I didn’t/don’t get it.

Trump 50 shades.jpg

And now there’s this insanity sweeping a whole nation, a nation that has been a world power, the beacon of hope and possibility for a peaceful and tolerantly accepting world for 100 years.

Sure, every story has its dark sides and America has held a few snotty handkerchiefs in its back pocket, thanks in part to slavery and misogyny and treachery. Nobody’s perfect…

…oh yeah… cake. Don’t forget the cake.

I always buy too many bananas at my local Superstore.

It began as an accidental overbuy when I’d purchase a 6 banana bunch (… daylight come and me wanna go home…) and then always find myself with 2 or 3 extras at the end of the week when we’d head off again and buy 6 more bananas.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat… Buy. Blacken. Buy Again.

Maybe it’s an OCD thing. Maybe it’s a “don’t carry out the same action and expect different results” scenario.

Where was I going? oh yeah… cake.

I love banana chocolate chip cake (I love lots of cakes… almost any cake in fact).

Banana Chocolate Chip cake.jpg

The deliciously smooth moistness and combination of banana and chocolate builds a delectable ambrosia effect that piggybacks on my love of peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

It’s a relatively healthy addiction, unlike my desire to smoke one Cuban cigar per week during the gorgeously sunny summer months.

And it doesn’t involve me spying through my neighbour’s window while they’re having sex…. EWwwwwwww! See? Healthy!

Building a banana chocolate chip cake is my sugar-drenched passport, my freedom to exclude the gluten free, superfood, and paleo folks who buffet me with their winds from all sides almost every day.

Take this!… eggs… and this!... white flour…. and THAT! chocolate…

So almost once weekly, I turn up the volume to CNN and gorge on the fetid faeces that emanate from the cake-hole of the TRUMPster whilst mixing flour and eggs and brown-black bananas and sugar … baking a yummy sweet cake for MY cake-hole.

Soothing with food.

My mind wanders in loop-de-loo circles and twists… why would Butch and Sundance think they could ever shoot their way out of that little Bolivian town?… I miss watching my young kidlets at their end-of-the-year ballet concerts… will the fear be greater in my head or my stomach when I dive out of an airplane in the next couple of weeks? I hope the spy couple who escaped back to Russia in the TV show The Americans, will get to see their children again in their lifetime.

Butch and sundance.jpg

Weird random thoughts.

But anything to escape the CNN-Trump vortex for a few blessed minutes.

It’s a perplexing thing where I hate the impulse to watch Trump as he clumsily – spitefully – maliciously – twists and batters our 3rd rock world towards an unhappy ending.

Baking a cake is an antibody vest I can wear (and eat!) to protect myself against the nastiness and darkness coming from the south-of-Canada kingdom. It makes the world feel normal again somehow.

As written in DESIDERATA, I have to accept that there are some things I can’t change in the world.

It’s OK for me to be narcissistic in my own space, show up and focus on getting better in my own world today and not fret about the future.

We can’t always magically succeed. But we can get better.

My banana chocolate chip cake can always be better too, but it does take continuous practice. Weekly, in fact!

Oh… and here’s the simple recipe I use to anti-Trumpify myself while watching CNN … You’re Welcome!

LARRY’S BANANA CHOCOLATE CHIP CAKE

INGREDIENTS

1/2 cup butter, melted

1 cup white sugar

2 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup sour cream (low fat works fine)

3/4 cup chocolate chips

2 ripe, medium bananas, sliced or mushed.

PREPARATION

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Grease a 9×5 inch loaf or 8 inch cake pan.

In a large bowl, stir together the melted butter and sugar. Add the eggs and vanilla, mix well.

Combine the flour, baking soda and salt, stir into the butter mixture until smooth. Finally, fold in the sour cream, chocolate chips and bananas. Spread evenly into the prepared pan.

Bake at 350 degrees F (175 degrees C) for 60 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the centre of the loaf comes out clean. Cool loaf in the pan for 10 minutes before removing to a wire rack to cool completely.

Bake Me A Cake

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great-british-bake-off.jpg

For god’s sake let me turn off the Great British Bake Off.

It’s the darkest doldrum days of Canadian winter and I’ve been baking cakes this week.

It’s those damned U.K. crooked-teethed bakers in an emerald field‘s fault.

Welcome to my test kitchen.

Chocolate cakes. I’ve been baking chocolate cakes and internally ruminating about making cinnamon buns and hot cross buns. Warm, comforting scents waft in swirls, mixing lightly with tinges of pine smoke from the woodstove. Currier and Ives and Norman Rockwell would stand proud.

Maybe my sugar craving is psychological lust in disguise… porn in a more socially acceptable guise. Maybe I’m a man whose mind lies in the erotic X-rated gutter looking for sexual connections to everything, I don’t know.

I know I love chocolate. I love chocolate cake. But I don’t need to eat chocolate cake.

What I need is to run more and bike more and swim more. That’s not a New Year’s Resolution. But it should be.

waitress pie.jpg

There was a movie a while back called WAITRESS, where Keri Russell made pies in a diner, lots of pies. She’d make a different pie every day – a pie that matched her mood and what was happening in her world… pies like :

BAD BABY PIE – Quiche with egg and brie cheese with a smoked ham centre… (made when she becomes pregnant by her abusive husband.)

MARSHMELLOW MERMAID PIE – From when she was in her mermaid stage. “Biblically good!

I HATE MY HUSBAND PIE – “You make it with bittersweet chocolate and don’t sweeten it. You make it into a pudding and drown it in caramel …”

One day, setting a piece of Strawberry Chocolate Oasis pie in front of Old Joe, her favourite customer (Andy Griffith), he oohs and ahhs in ecstasy at the first forkful, and she says, “It’s just a pie“.

Just a pie! It’s downright expert. A thing’a beauty … how each flavor opens itself, one by one, like a chapter in a book. First, the flavor of an exotic spice hits ya … Just a hint of it … and then you get flooded with chocolate, dark and bittersweet like an old love affair …

Just a pie. Just a chocolate cake. Not just just anything.

Yup Old Joe, it’s like a chapter in a book.

My cakes are filled with messages and meanings that go miles beyond the floury-sugary material ingredients blended together; cakes with memory fillings, creamy whipped childhood playgrounds and frosted wedding ceremonies and family-layered funeral gatherings.

Food – especially sweet food – is special in our lives. It’s like the weather. Good. Bad. Indifferent. We talk about it constantly.

Yup, Old Joe, it’s like a trip to an exotic spicy locale that invigorates and inspires you.

My cake tastes better when it travels too. It’s both literal and metaphorical.

Doesn’t any food you eat when you travel taste better than the same thing eaten at home?

A plain old havarti cheese sandwich on a crispy sourdough baguette gulped down at your kitchen table magically tastes so much better when sitting on the Spanish Steps in Rome, or on a massive rock parapet overlooking Machu Picchu.

Food mingles with personalities and visual perspectives on the horizon like fine sparkling wine pairs with fresh fruit.

My cake will transport you down an elm tree-lined journey into your past and a meal you shared with your best childhood friend in your backyard.

Treasured Mom moments.

funny-chocolate-beaters

The power of cake.

Now that a new year has dawned, I think I’m drawn to making cakes because I’m celebrating the birth of a new seasonal effect, the lengthening of daylight. I’m looking outwards to the exciting creation of experiences, activities and new life stories.

But I’m also connecting with past wonders and the sometimes sweet, sometimes spicy memories of family dinners, weddings, funerals and celebrations.

Or maybe… just maybe… I truly am addicted to sugar.

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

cigar