• Open for business

    Yo-Yo’s etsy shop, Smashing for Pretty, is now open for business!


    Over the past week we’ve been smashing, drilling, crafting, photographing, and posting up a blue streak. Jump rings and lobster clasps are en route to our front door. Broken drill bits and miss-smashed coins (yes, it’s possible) litter the basement floor.

    We’re on a steep learning curve but most (I hope?) of the kinks are worked out (to the best of our novice abilities) and we’re ready to roll. Er, sell.


    Check it out and give us feedback, suggestions, inspiration. We’re all ears.

    And bandaged fingers. ‘Cause certain brilliant mamas decide to hold the stinkin’ coin with one hand while hammer-whacking it with the other.

    Signed,
    An Improbable Jeweler

  • Thanksgiving of 2010

    I can’t do it! I just spent too much mucho tiempo (welcome to my world of mutilated Espanglish) trying to put my Thanksgiving pictures into a collage—either I’m super picky or Picasa is way too limited. Or else I’m just clueless about Picasa’s superpowers. In any case, nothing suited my fancy, so instead of slapping a couple pictures up and being done with it, now I have to go and write something. Which is fine, I guess, seeing as I’ve gotten out of the habit over the past few days and need to get back in.


    Thanksgiving of 2010 will go down in history as the Thanksgiving where we ate pulled pork instead of turkey, Yo-Yo shot and ate a squirrel, the Baby Nickel knocked the bathroom sink off the wall, we had a desert-only evening meal (except for a few conscientious souls who ate a bit of salad first—I was not one of them), and I documented everything with what my aunt Dr. P refers to as my “phallic camera.”

    Reading….


    We did a lot of it. Mr. Handsome read a book about Hiroshima. I finished Cherry. Yo-Yo started Watership Down. My dad finished Life of Pi. Etc. (And the kids tried to watch a TV that wasn’t in the house.)

    Washing Dishes….


    It happened, many times over.

    Cozy all over the place…


    Votives, red globe lights, hot tea, and toasty fires galore.

    Music…


    They twanged and tuned.


    They wailed and crooned.


    There were songs about stinky feet and cleaning the toilets of Grand Central Station. (We are not a pious family.)

    The squirrel…


    The silly thing sat on a branch for fifteen minutes waiting for everyone to move on out so it could eat its Thanksgiving nut in peace and quiet.


    But instead it ended up in the frying pan.


    You can’t tell from the photo, but it was consumed with much gusto and clashing of forks.

    Its hide now resides in my parents’ freezer. I hope it stays there.

    The sun came out…


    and the kids (finally) took their energy outside.


    The woodpile…


    got some stackage.

    Target practice…


    and nobody got a lead foot. Yay!

    No pictures of food. Can you believe it? Words will have to suffice: besides the pulled pork, there was a kick-butt cabbage salad (recipe coming once Mom gets it to me—Mom? Mom? Puh-le-e-e-ase?), spectacular oven fries, hearty whole wheat bread, beet and fresh greens salad, shrimp, corn, skillet sweet potatoes, garlic mashed potatoes, squid, chocolate cake, black raspberry pie, cheesecake with sour cherry sauce, two glorious red raspberry pies, and sky-high pizzas. Among other things.

    This same time, years previous: apple chutney and pumpkin pie

  • No two ways about it

    Apple cake is coming.


    But first:

    My kids have been fighting constantly.


    I’m up to my eyeballs in chains and smashed coins. An etsy shop is happening.

    Tried twice to start the fire. It wouldn’t.

    Not really into Thanksgiving so it’s good we’re going to my parents. I think there will be pulled pork and … squid. I’m making a cheesecake.

    My room is trashed. The terrain is hilly, thanks to socks, gloves, the kids’ too-small clothes, random shoes, and magazines.

    My oldest daughter is staging a Class A revolt against the lowly legume.

    My daughters have declared World War III … against each other. I’m ready to put them both in the state penitentiary. Or at least their rooms. Oh wait. They already are in their rooms.

    I Love Lucy is my saving grace.

    I took a picture of the full moon.


    Taking pictures is hard. I want lessons.

    I cleaned out my bathroom cupboards.


    It’s amazing how a cleaned out cupboard frees up my brain space.

    Wish it would rain already.

    I need a bigger blanket to cover the giant hole in my leather sofa. Or else a seamstress who wants to indebt herself to me.

    There is a bushel of broccoli on my kitchen table.


    And now, for cake. I discovered a new apple cake and made it three times.

    I think this was the apple cake I was looking for when I embarked on last year’s apple cake quest. Next year there will be no searching for I have found the perfect apple cake.


    What is a perfect apple cake? It’s an apple cake that uses lots of apples, not just a wimpy cup or two. The cake must taste of apple, lots and lots of apple. There must be no doubt that you are indeed eating a cake made out of apples.

    Apples apples apples apples.

    Have I made myself clear?

    This cake is an apple cake all right. With 4 cups of apple to a 3/4 cup of flour, there ain’t no two ways around it.


    Apple Rum Cake
    Adapted from David Lebovitz’s blog

    I changed the title from “French Apple Cake” to “Apple Rum Cake” since the boozy flavor is deliciously distinct. But not so distinct that the kids fussed. To the contrary, they acted like it was the best cake I’d ever served them.

    They (“they” being Frenchified foodies, I presume) say that using a variety of apples is key. I used Golden Delicious, Fuji, York, and Stayman.

    One time I added fresh cranberries and some chopped nuts. The cranberries were nice; the nuts were not. Another time I used ½ cup maple sugar plus 1/4 cup regular white sugar. It had a nice flavor, but wasn’t noticeable enough to warrant using up my precious maple sugar.

    2 eggs
    3/4 cup sugar
    3 tablespoons rum
    ½ teaspoon vanilla
    3/4 cup flour
    3/4 teaspoon baking powder
    pinch of salt
    ½ cup butter, melted and cooled to room temperature
    4 apples, a variety, peeled and chopped (about four cups)

    Beat the eggs till frothy. Add the sugar and beat till well combined. Beat in the rum and vanilla.

    Stir together the flour, baking powder, and salt. Stirring gently, add the dry ingredients alternately with the melted butter. Fold in the apples.

    Pour the batter into a heavily greased 9-inch springform pan, using a spatula to smooth out the top. Bake the cake for 45-55 minutes at 350 degrees, or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean.

    Cool the cake for 5 minutes before running a knife around the edge of the pan and removing the sides. (I was dumping my cake upside down every single time—and having mighty problems, too—and just now re-read Lebovitz’s instructions and realized that was not a part of them.)

    Serve slices of cake warm, or at room temperature, with whipped cream. Cover leftovers with plastic and store at room temperature.

    This same time, years previous: feminism, part II