Mary the Mad Baker!

What's in a name? Something about a rose smelling as sweet even when called belch blossom...Names are important. When I whipped out the "holiday bread" that I have been tending for the past two weeks, folks liked it. "Yummy!" seemed to be the word of the day. After my test subjects ate their pieces with gusto, I smilingly let the F-word drop. No, I didn't curse, but by the looks of shock, I might as well have. "Holiday bread" is the much preferred term of "Fruit cake." Everyone seemed stunned that something that has been the butt of so many jokes (What's left at the end of the world? Fruit cakes and cockroaches...)could taste decent. I took devilish delight in correcting their assumptions. Mary the Mad Baker, Defender of Innocent Baked Goods around the world!
Actually, I can't take the credit. There are a whole lot of bad fruit cakes in the world. There are members of my family who have seen me regurgitate one particularly bad example. Why did I go crazy and make one myself? Well, my cooking hero Alton Brown put an irresistible recipe for one on his show Good Eats. As I made only enough to ship to my family (one batch can make four mini-loaves), you can find the recipe here and make your own. For first timers, whatever you do, don't call it a fruit cake. Try trail mix bread or holiday bread. After you receive the compliments, feel free to drop the F-word. :)

I'm Such a Goober...

Well, I got my taste of excitement for the year. Today is Sunday, my apartment cleaning day, and I usually round out my cleaning frenzy by taking my vacuum's air filter out on to my balcony for a thorough beating. It was a bit chilly this morning, so I wore my old terry cloth robe over my Superman tank top and roos. Thanks God for small favors. Out of habit, I pulled my glass door shut behind me, only this time I heard a sickening thud following it. My Anti-theft Charlie Bar had dropped down and effectively locked me out of my apartment. There was this brilliant moment where I could see the picture I made there in my scruffy robe, my pre-shower hair, and my it's-cold-out-here-runny nose. I had to laugh. Lucky for me, a neighbor pulled up in her car and saw me waving like a lunatic from my second story balcony. She offered to call the security folk for me on her cell phone, leaving me to contemplate my situation. With my front door double bolted and chained from the inside, there was nothing short of a bettering ram that was going to get in that way. The same went for my bedroom window as I had reinforced the frame with a large two-by-four to prevent thieves. (My paranoia keeps everyone out, now with me included!) The only way back into my fortress of solitude that is my apartment was going to have to be through my charlie barred sliding glass doors. The repair bills kept dancing through my head as I waited for help to arrive.
Forty-five minutes, a wire hanger, and advice from the security man later, I managed to break back into my apartment. No one had to call the police or the local news channel and I didn't have to expose my Superman jammies to an audience. I may stay inside for the rest of the day just to be on the safe side. I'm such a goober.