sunshine makes me happy

And now we interrupt your regulary scheduled programming: I'm taking a little break-y from this blog to go to a place where it's socially acceptable to wear flip flops to fancy restaurants. No subways. No black tights. Drinks with flair. Fruit on trays. Shots you didn't want. Maybe jumping off boats. Kind of scary lizards. Lots of SPF. Definitely jumping off boats.

what leprechauns would eat

Soak up the green beer with some Irish Soda Bread. Also, may the road rise up to meet you and all of that.

frosting porn

There is only one way to apply frosting: heavily. Photographer Amy Stevens gets it. I discovered her beautiful disasters when a particularly heinous string of flight cancellations left me in the Philly airport overnight. Stevens' work was part of an exhibit of local artists, and a welcome distraction from my 13 hours of intermittent crying and cursing of the Wright brothers. Even more than her quirky compositions, I love Amy's story: when she turned 30, she bought a cake decorating kit in hopes of creating gorgeous, flawless confections. She soon realized that perfection wasn't going to happen, but instead of quitting, she decided to make cakes that are "visual experiences." I'd still like to eat them, though.

main squeeze

I heart citrus fruits, especially when I can add butter and sugar to them and make them into a treat, like these Lemon-Cornmeal Cookies.

what's your damage, heather?

Well, f*ck me gently with a chainsaw -- Heathers is becoming a musical! Normally I'd be apprehensive about one of my favorite movies mixing with a medium I find so annoying, but in this case I think it will be highly entertaining. Plus, I'm pretty sure all of the original cast is available to reprise their roles. What say you, Christian Slater?

"This is Ohio. If you don't have a brewski in your hand you might as well be wearing a dress. "

socks appeal

I've heard of the barefoot running movement, but as far as I know, no barefoot elliptical movement exists. Take note, Guy on the Elliptical Next to Me. Please wear socks, too.

Photo by Flickr user Rachel.::.K.

what is that? velvet?

In my mind, red velvet will be forever be entwined with the armadillo groom's cake in Steel Magnolias. However, for my first foray into baking red velvet, I opted to make cupcakes more suitable for Julia Roberts' character:

Shelby: "My colors are blush and bashful."
M'Lynn: "Her colors are pink and pink."
(Cue diabetic seizure and spilled orange juice)

Still, I must raise my mint julep to the ambitious amateur baker who attempted to recreate the armadillo for my friend's going away party.

One more, I can't help it:
Drum: Ouiser, can we call a truce long enough for me to get a piece of cake?
[Ouiser slices him the tail piece of an armadillo cake]
Drum: Aww, thanks Ouiser. Nothin' like a good piece of ass.

leave bambi alone

Can the antler trend be over already? I get the rustic, organic appeal that got design-y people into an antler tizzy…silkscreening them on throw pillows, making candlesticks out of them, and dangling them from silver necklaces. I’m also pretty sure that the people who have glommed onto the trend have never woken up in the middle of the night at their grandparents’ house to see a glassy-eyed stuffed deer head staring at them, and their mom has never tricked them into eating spaghetti with venison meatballs. And I’m preeeettty sure they’ve never seen their father gut a freshly cross-bowed buck on the back patio. Just sayin’.

(This antler chandelier is legit).

just add pearls

There's a lot of reasons why it sucked to be a woman in the '50s. While you were slaving over meatloaf dinners all day, hubby was off at work and, if Mad Men is to be believed, sleeping with most of the women in Manhattan. Still, if you were bound to the kitchen, at least you got to wear pretty aprons. There's a glut of these hostess-with-the-mostess staples on the market right now, but my favorites are from Florence Adams, a ridiculously adorable and cheaper-than-Anthropolgie online shop based in (wait for it) Kansas. Florence is the 90-year-old matriarch -- and daughter of a Depression-era carpenter and his wife -- who inspired the store. Just read this snippet from the web site and try and tell me you don't love Florence, too:

"With the help of friends, their only daughter was able to spend her high school years at a convent boarding school near the family home. From both the Sisters and her mother she learned all those feminine virtues that are so missed today. This education encompassed everything from how to set a lovely table, to running a home and dressing beautifully and modestly."

I would like to buy an apron from you, Florence. I would also like to have a nice visit with you over a cinnamon raisin bun and a cup of Sanka.

hey, pumpkin

These Iced Pumpkin Oatmeal Raisin cookies are delicious and healthy. Sort of. Does it matter?

freshly-baked tats

I do not have any tattoos. I am far too fickle to commit to a design, and I am far too vain to endure the ravages that gravity will inflict on intricately-detailed ink in my dermis. However, I am fascinated by the decorated masses. At a photo shoot a few years ago, I met a hairstylist with all manner of colorful, quirky designs covering her arms, my favorite being two crossed ice cream cones circled with the words "Bad to the Cone." While I got a hearty chuckle out of that, I'm not sure I'd want my bicep to be a joke. Still, I find girls with tattoos of adorable cupcakes and ice cream cones (like this tat from Flickr user Sweet Avenue Bake Shop) to be infinitely more badass than bikers with armfuls of menacing skulls and shanks. Because as you settle into middle-aged pudge, it's going to take guts to own the fact that the five-layer mocha fudge brownie cake inked on your arm isn't ironic anymore.

dream kitsch-en

A wave of nostalgia inspired by Barbie's 50th anniversary prompted me to search for some of my childhood toys on the Internets. It also made me wonder why she even had a kitchen. After all, it seems rather cruel that Barbie, after a long day toiling as a Career Girl, should have to come home to her pretty pink plastic appliances only to be reminded that she can't open her mouth. In my fantasy kitchen, I would have a non-dorm-sized fridge, an oven that accommodates regulation-sized cookie sheets, and -- is this too greedy? --drawers. A girl can dream...

oh-so-hio

I believe that a person is very much shaped by where she grew up, especially when it comes to culinary tastes. If you're from, say, the Heartland, this could translate into a seemingly conflicting love of farm-fresh produce and refined sugar-filled novelty desserts. Even if you move to a big city and develop a penchant for trendy restaurants with amuse bouches and complicated bathroom faucets, your inner yearning for Cool Whip-coated flag cakes and chocolate-laden Rice Krispie treats will never abate. So, I say stop fighting it and let your suburban and urban halves meet halfway. Probably at a Starbucks.