Things I like: Cinnamon

I can pretty much separate all of life into three categories: people I love, things I like, and what gets my (hypothetical) toga all up in a twist (supposing I am an Ancient Roman).




































Belonging in the toga-twisting category are words including, but not limited to: tender, supple, chuckle, moist, and coupon.  Among the things I like are alliteration, organizing, acronyms, Jeopardy, coffee, pageants, Boggle, The Bachelor (for which I have an unabashed obsession), people watching, and cinnamon. 

Now, I realize you neither need, nor probably care, to know any of this.  That aside, if there is only one thing I like that you should care about, it is cinnamon.  Cinnamon is more than just a flavor or sugar's longtime partner in crime.  In fact, here are some fun facts to help you better understand the under-appreciated spice that is cinnamon.   

Cinnamon:

• is an aphrodisiac and antioxidant made from the dried bark of laurel trees.
• has been used as currency, medicine, and insect repellant. 
• was used to preserve meat and embalm mummies in Ancient Egypt.
• has been cause for both exploration and war. 

According to Wikipedia (my sources are bulletproof), "Cinnamon, as a warm and dry substance, was believed by doctors in ancient times to cure snakebites, freckles, the common cold, and kidney troubles."  Seriously, is there another spice so multitalented?

Anyway, if neither snickerdoodle nor cinnamon roll, apple pie nor Mexican hot chocolate, mole sauce nor churro has yet convinced you that cinnamon is a spice worth fighting for, leave it to this recipe to change your mind. 

Cinnamon Muddy Buddies/Puppy Chow

I ran out of Chex cereal and added some Wheaties.

More butter, more better, right?

...butter...

Momentarily unappetizing.

Returns to appetizing.

Must. Take. Pictures.

QUICKLY.

...before I'm photographing an empty bowl.

Reaffirm/discover your love for cinnamon here. 

Tough Potatoes

I don't know what qualifies something as a salad, but am greatly appreciative that potatoes and eggs slathered in mayo counts.  Ah, the American classic: potato salad.  Healthy me...I ate salad for lunch the other day. 

Looking at the recipe, I was initially concerned about the dressing to potato ratio, and rightly so.  In her book, "A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from the Kitchen Table," Molly Wizenberg says "[i]f my math is correct, that works out to approximately one tablespoon of mayonnaise per small potato."  I thought it might be a little overwhelming, more like a soup of potatoes swimming in a mayonnaise/ranch broth.  

But that wasn't an issue.  Or, the issue.  Remember the description of my blog?  Perhaps you didn't even read it.  Anyway, this post is about one of many culinary catastrophes, granted it was only minor...hence the "wah wah wahhh" (sad trumpet noise) Wednesday post.

I let the salad dress overnight and daydreamed about it until lunch.  And when the time was right, I scooped myself a heaping pile of potatoes in anticipation of my feast...only, before potato even touched palate, I knew something was terribly wrong. 

Each hunk of potato I attempted to pierce shot out from under my fork, as if it knew of the certain and impending doom it would soon be subjected to...I had underboiled the potatoes in my haste to toss the salad together. 

No matter.  Despite the crunchiness of semi-raw potatoes and the extra few minutes it took to capture them, the salad was particularly good.  Some people even like raw potatoes, my mom for instance.  She'll occasionally eat a slice with a sprinkle of salt...but then she also eats watermelon with salt and likes sucking the butter out of frozen cookies so I can't much vouch for her taste.

My advice? Be patient and properly boil your potatoes.  Or it will be tough potatoes to you, too (Recipe here.)

Ideal Grocery Stores and Expectation-Exceeding Cupcakes

My favorite time to go the grocery store is late at night—or rather, early in the morning.  There’s something strangely peaceful about perusing the aisles alone besides the two or three remaining employees and the occasional college student, arms loaded with Tim’s Jalapeño chips, some sort of soda or energy drink, and the last-minute snag of check stand beef sticks, all in an effort to cure the late-night munchies. 

Between 1 and 2am is gold. 

Besides the prime parking, it’s the hour just before closing and as the sole customer, I receive a personal and warm welcome—as least as far as grocery store greetings go. The store is quiet besides the gentle thud of cans being restocked, a slop of water under a mop, and the often quirky, yet endearing music playing over the PA system. 

A crowded aisle makes me uneasy. My cart and I become an incredibly awkward dance couple as I am forced to sashay it from side to side to get out of someone’s way.  In this case I put my head down, stick to my list, and focus on carefully and quickly navigating the minefields (aisles) with the next item as my destination, all the while asking that others “excuse” and “pardon” me.

P

My ideal grocery store conditions (the ones found on the late weeknights described above) allow me to walk slowly and carelessly, admiring artistic packaging and imagining the taste of spices I have never heard the name of before.  Especially dreamy are the myriad of flours—ones made from buckwheat, coconut, pistachios—nut butters, and newly crossbred fruit.

A normal person might dream of renting out Disneyland for the day, re-riding Splash Mountain until they achieve the perfect picture descending from the peak—or at least one where their head isn’t buried or face distorted in horror.

I myself would be overjoyed to spend the day at Haggen.  No list. No mission. Just smelling the dill and examining the thousands of products I frequently pass by.  But that’s another story.

My latest trip to the store was comedic. If you ask me, everyone and their aunt’s nephew’s baseball coach was there stalking up on groceries as if they thought the Mayan calendar was off by a couple of weeks.  I was in pursuit of ingredients for several recipes by famous food blogger Molly Wizenberg.

Potatoes, dill, and caraway seeds for her father’s famous potato salad and too many things to list for her go-to chocolate cupcakes.

Here’s the comedic (and embarrassing) part. As the clerk rang up my treasures I dropped my purse. No big deal, right? Wrong.

With the zipper conveniently open, the contents of the open compartment (a truck, scratch that, purse load of coins) clinked and clattered across the floor.  I stooped to the floor to begin the long and arduous task of picking pennies off linoleum…only, I couldn’t pick up a single one.

I was handicapped by my own fingernails, freshly French manicured and adorned with acrylic nails. At a loss, I attempted to scoot the change under the side of the counter with my shoe, hoping somehow no one noticed.

The kind clerk instead came out from behind the counter and picked up every last penny.  Upon receiving my change, he jokingly pretended to drop it on the floor.

I dashed out of the store hot coffee in hand (an ingredient for the cupcakes). It bubbled, foamed, and splashed as I ran through the dark parking lot in the rain, eager to get to my kitchen.

I must admit. I am a cupcake skeptic.  In my book, cake doesn’t stand a chance against a thick, fudgey brownie unless it is obscenely piled high with frosting (contrary to the modest “cap” of melted chocolate the cupcakes would wear in Wizenberg’s recipe).

As soon as I finished the batter, I knew something was special…and anyone else would have, too, if they had seen me barbarically assaulting the beaters with my face. Too much information, I know. 

They glistened with moistness as they came out of the oven and I excitedly measured and melted the chocolate chips that would soon cap their crowns.  And then…and then I ate a number of cupcakes I choose not disclose.  And some more.  Wizenberg's recipe can be found here.