Steak. And Blue Cheese.

One of my favorite things (I know, everything is my favorite) is getting a good steak. And then getting something delicious on top.

Like a blue cheese crust.

I splurged a while back and picked up amazing filets at Chez Wegmans.

Did you say fill-ehs?

Add a red wine and shallot demi-glace, and a blue cheese crust. I’m in heaven.

Plus, throw in a side of prosciutto and asparagus topped with parm, and a glass of good merlot, you’re in business.

Did you say mer-lot?

In all seriousness, this was an easy meal to make and it probably cost us under $30. Similar meal at the steakhouse? We likely would have dropped $100+. (It helps that the wine was free. Thanks BK!)

Here’s what you need for the recipe.

To make the blue cheese topping, all you need is panko bread crumbs and blue cheese crumble. Mix about 1/2 cup blue cheese with 1/4 cup panko crumbs, and top the steaks 1-2 minutes before you pull them off the grill.

For the demi-glace (okay, so it’s more like a sauce than a “glace” per say), melt one tablespoon butter in a saucepan. Add a few cloves of chopped garlic, a minced shallot, and some thyme. Saute a few minutes, then add 1/4 cup red wine and just about 3/8 cup of beef broth. Simmer til the sauce reduces, then dress the steak and plates when you pull them off the grill.

Yum.

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Friday Find: Textastrophe

It’s been a long week. And I’m pretty sure with all the spring fever I’ve been having, this is just the thing I need to read in between the SEVEN meetings I have on a Friday.

Meet Textastrophe.

You know that moment you receive a random text and you want to respond? With something sort of snarky?

Or you see a phone number on Craigslist and think, “WTF. Why are you posting your number on Craigslist? Do you really need to sell the ab roller that bad?”

Good thing there is Textastrophe.

At this point, I don’t even care if it’s fake. (Which I suspect it is.)

I just know its beyond amusing.

Get ready to have your productivity take a nose-dive.

April 16, 2013.

While 32 of our friends are in Heaven trying to explain what a Hokie is, I stand here sure in the fact that I wouldn’t want to be anything else.

And that’s all I have to say about today.

Shoilets: Or, don’t ever say I’m high maintenance version 2.0

So I spent the last week living on a 100-foot dive boat. Sounds awesome, right?

Well, it was pretty awesome.

But before you get any visions of me partying on a yacht with Diddy…let me tell you about the cabin accommodations.

It involved a shoilet.

Or, as us fancy folk say, a shoilette.

What exactly is a shoilet?

Shower + toilet = shoilet. In the correct pronunciation, the word shoilet rhymes with toilet.

Imagine a small space, with a stall-type shower, where the shower curtain hangs not to keep the water from splashing onto the floor, but to keep the water from splashing onto the toilet. The entire set up is maybe…two feet by four feet, and that is being generous.

Oh, and when you turn around the hit the button to flush, be careful you don’t hit the shower faucet on the wall, else you will have accidentally activated your shoilet and will now be in danger of getting soaked, as there is no way to exit the shoilet without walking directly through the water stream.

One of my favorite parts? When installed correctly, the shoilet has two water temperatures when you use the “sho” part. Frostbite, or third-degree burn.

And doing any type of activity like, shaving your legs, is near-impossible in the shoilet, because there is barely room to turn around, not to mention if you move you are in danger of touching the shoilet door, which opens when you do as little as breathe on it. This causes the door to swing open, potentially spilling you, water, and your unshaved legs out onto the floor.

It should be noted that “shoilet” can be used as both a noun and a verb, making the word even more perfect. As in, “I’m going to jump in the shoilet before dinner” or “I need to shoilet before we leave.”

Yup, pretty AWESOME.

Oh, and don’t plan on using the word shoilet in everyday conversation, because I plan to trademark the hell out of it.

My Dad is a Rock Star.

Not a superhero. Those don’t exist.

Just a regular ole’ rock star.

He has lots of rock-star qualities.

Like, throwing amazing parties that consist of nothing more than sitting around the kitchen table with a good bottle of wine.

Or, making you feel at home whereever you are. Like that moment in Almost Famous. “You are home.”

He has a rock-star stage name that, if you are in the know, know him by.

He’s a fixer. Changes light bulbs, repairs walls, patches the garage roof, chases bats out of the house. THIS LAST ONE IS MOST IMPORTANT.

And he always travels to cool places that have names straight out of Jungle Book or Aladdin.

Like I said. Rock star. Probably one of my all-time favorite photos.

My partner in crime? Check.

Laughs when I say something dumb? Check. (this happens more than you would think.)

Makes a really good prime rib? Check.

Has me over for a glass of wine after a long day at work? Check.

Brings me back slightly awkward-and-sort-of-weird gifts from his travels? Check.

Best friend? Check.

Yup, he pretty much just chills at the corner of awesome and bombdiggity.

Happy Father’s Day to all the rock star dads out there.

And then I made pie.

First, can I just say how cool it is that someone in the Philippines read my blog? Much love to all of you who have been reading, following, and commenting.

And now onto the pie.

A few months back, on one of my excursions to the mecca of dealhounds, Marshalls, I got this delightful mini-pie press. In the shape of a star. It took me roughly thirty 0.3 seconds to decide that yes, I needed a mini-pie mold. Everyone should own a mini pie mold. Pie is delicious and mini pies are even better.

I hadn’t had a chance to use it, as I didn’t have a good reason for making mini pie. Luckily, I needed to bribe my coworkers. Yeah, luckily.

Given that winter in Rochester lasts forever (foooorrrrreeeeevvvverrrrrr), the only type of pie worth making is apple.

As I always say, because I’m lazy efficient, I used the Pillsbury roll-out refrigerated pie crust. You can make five pies from one package. You’ll have to combine the dough and re-roll it out to make the last two crusts.

I don’t use a recipe for apple pie–which makes it more impressive when people ask if you use a recipe. I more go by a few rules of thumb. The rule of thumb?

Here’s how it all goes down:

• Get a couple apples. Two apples made the five pies, with some to spare. How about them apples?
• Three parts white sugar, one part brown sugar. Enough to coat the chopped apples but not too much. Else your filling gets runny.
• Juice of 1/2 lemon–just give it a good squeeze.
• Cinnamon and nutmeg.
• A few tablespoons flour.
• Egg wash (i.e. egg yolk + water) to coat the top crust.

Combine all the ingredients, and spoon into your pie crust. Make sure you seal the edges carefully and lightly brush the egg wash on.

Bake on parchment paper at 400F for about 10 minutes, and then turn down to 325F until the pie looks done. Trust me, you’ll know when it’s done.

My only complaint is that my pie did not hold its star shape. Whatever. You can’t win them all. The pie was still delicious.

Small moment of bragging: my coworker left me a voicemail saying this was the “best pie he had ever tasted.”

Bonus points if you got all the references without looking at the links.

I Object: Single is NOT the New Social Outcast

According to a enlightening ridiculous NYT piece, people who live alone are, apparently, totalfreakingweirdos.

The evidence for the said “people who live alone will undoubtably turn into social lepers” argument is completely erroneous and humorous all at once.

• Kramer is NOT a good example of what happens to people when they live alone. I’ve yet to substitute butter for tanning oil and there are no plans to begin washing vegetables in the shower.
• Singing along to Journey is COMPLETELY NORMAL. And singing in the shower? It is widely known that bathrooms have amazing acoustics.
• Laundry left in the dryer is a sign of laziness. The same goes for dishes in the sink, not vacuuming, and other various physical manifestations of sloth.
• Champagne at 8 a.m.? It’s called a freaking mimosa. And they’re delicious.
• Matthew Morrison has publicly admitted to going on a sweet-potato only diet and I’m pretty sure he’s not a social outcast. He’s just insanely good looking.

Living alone is normal. So is living with your significant other. Stockpiling canned soup and bottled water for the apocalypse while trying out for Hoarders? That’s just plain scary.

I seriously believe this author deliberately searched out the weirdest, oddest, quirkiest people to interview for this article. And completely ignored the larger subset of TOTALLY NORMAL people who live by themselves. The concept of sample size? I don’t believe that was applied here…

Living alone doesn’t turn you into Bridget Jones or a social pariah. Living alone teaches you to be alone.

And the best part?

I watch football in my underwear. And I’m pretty sure my future husband won’t complain about that.

Good Luck Chuck?

I have a feeling…I’m a good luck chuck.

I know what you’re thinking. “Good luck chucks” don’t exist. They aren’t real. Fiction. Imagination. Figments of your drunken “dammit why did I call/text/sleep with” him mind.

I beg to differ.

I, cakerypapery, am a Good Luck Chuck. (minus the fact that I do not at all look like this.)

Now, like any good CSI NCIS agent profiler, you should be asking, “cakerypapery, why?”

Let’s just say that…through drunken texting not-so-flattering methods I’ve discovered that not one, not two, but FOUR ex bfs are now either happily dating or engaged. Dating, okay. But ENGAGED? ARE YOU SHI*TTING ME LIFE??

Point of reference: before you say that it’s “just a matter of time,” we are talking multiple recent exes. Within the period of “wow, that serious already?” timeframe.

Not to mention, our lovely january dirtbag is also back online dating.

(yes, I stalked.)

(and yes, that line about being “overwhelmed” was really just a crock of sh*t. since he’s already looking for a new girl ONLINE.)

(And seriously, I don’t ever want to encounter a “crock of sh*t” in real life. I bet it would smell. Bad.)

And no, aforementioned guys aren’t serial monogamists. Apparently, all it takes is a nice Catholic girl like me to break the ice. AWESOME. Glad I could help out with that.

Which just proves that all the reasons people use to break up, especially the “it’s not you, it’s me” line, are really la verdad. Because, guess what? IT’S NOT ME, IT IS YOU. and, you are just NOT THAT INTO ME.

If anyone (man or woman), needs a handy dandy powerpoint reference to help them remember that busy is the kiss of the death and you deserve a freaking phone call, shoot me an email.

til then, throw that fish back into the sea. Better yet, throw it onto dry land before some other person is tricked into hooking it.

A great post involving a sure fire way to get over someone (and not by getting under someone) to follow. Let’s just say…milk, jameo and some serious DIY.

When I’m done being bitter, maybe I’ll be slightly flattered that I have this amazing ability to make people realize what they really want. Which, as a consequence of said magical powers, usually happens to not be me. sigh…insert Bridget Jones reference here…

Hello world!

Welcome to cakerypapery! If you’re wondering why it’s “cakerypapery,” let’s just say I was the girl who alternated between playing in the faux kitchen and glueing tangrams to the page in preschool. These days, it’s a real (although still tiny) kitchen and I’ve traded out the tangrams for stacks of cardstock and a die-cutter.

One day cakerypapery will be a real place, but until then, enjoy a slice of goodness on the web. : )