Hey there cupcake

My wonderful, always put together, cute as a button, four years younger than me, red-headed, I want to be her BFF, cousin, Sara just called me. Did I mention already that she is wonderful? Oh I didn't? Well, she's wonderful.

She just called to ask what kind of icing to put on a lemon cake. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Ferris Bueller? Ding! Ding! Ding! That's right, cream cheese icing. Mix some lemon zest with cream cheese icing and spread it on thick.

I recently made what you see in the pictures below and they were such a hit! Before you go asking me for the recipe, I will first direct you to your local grocery store. Usually around aisle five or six in most grocery stores, there's this thing called the boxed cake aisle. Yeah, um, they have, like, every flavor of cake mix you could ever want or wish for or hope to stuff in your mouth. And if you look closer, usually to the left, right or on the shelves above these convenient little boxes, there are these tubs of ready made icing, again, in any flavor you could ever want or wish for or hope to dip your finger into. Yeah, go ahead, it's okay. You can cheat. No flour to sift, no sugar to measure, no butter to soften. I cheated with these. But they don't look like they came from a box & tub, do they?

To make them a little snazzier, instead of using paper muffin wrappers, cut small squares of wax paper and press them into the mini muffin cups. Give them a quick spray with Pam. (I like the Baking Pam with flour in it!) Using a ziploc bag, pipe the cake mix into the wax paper cut-outs. (Just lay a ziploc bag in a cup or empty jar and fold the ziplocking ends over the side and pour your batter in. Close the bag and snip a small hole in one of the bottom corners of the bag. Pipe away. You'll do this for the icing too.) Bake according to Mrs. Crocker's or Mr. Hines' box directions. While they're in the oven, using a citrus zester, microplane, or the smallest blade on your cheese grater, zest a lemon. If you like lots of lemon taste, zest quite a bit (I'd say about 2 Tablespoons worth) and vice versa if you don't like a lot of lemon; just do it to taste. I like to use a flat, offset spreader spatula thinga-ma-jig, but you can use a spoon if you don't have a flat, offset spreader spatula thinga-ma-jig handy, and mix the zest in with the cream cheese icing still in the tub. Put it into a ziploc bag but wait to snip the end until you're ready to frost. Let the cupcakes cool completely, then pipe the icing on in a circle motion. Top with decorations and say a prayer of thanksgiving to Saint Crocker and/or Saint Hines for putting their awesome recipes into boxed form.

Now go eat a dozen mini cupcakes.

And look, I know you don't care about any of this, but I was pleased that my cousin would call me with such a question. It makes me think I'm closer to reaching my goal of becoming Ms. Domestic USA, ok? So just humor me. And bring me a cupcake.

About Me #2

Continuing with yesterday's "About Me: I make friends easily" post, here is the second installment of "About Me".

2. I am not a mama's girl (for obvious reasons), nor am I a daddy's girl (the similarities stop at our shared appearances). Instead, I am a brother's girl. My older brother, Brad, is three years older than me, yet he is light years older than me as far as being responsible, mature, hilarious, and did I mention responsible yet? Because he is. Responsible. A word I will never use to describe myself. He has been, is now, and I am sure will continue to be a mom, a dad, a brother, and a best friend all rolled into one. Most life lessons I learned from him. Most of my favorite memories involve him. The characteristics of the perfect family member? He embodies them. I love him and would not be the person I am today if it weren't for him and his influence on my life and my character.

It wasn't always this way though. Of course, being brother and sister, we have had our fair share of quarrels. Like the time I was about three, which would have made him six, and we were wrestling on my bed. After a few good tussles, the next thing I knew, I was waking up from unconsciousness. Brad had flipped me off the bed and I had slammed the top of my noggin into the dresser. I'm sure Brad felt bad about it because we were, after all, just playing around, but this seemed to spark something in me. That spark? Revenge, sweet revenge - something my three-year-old mind had not yet conjured up until after this incident.  

So I got him back. At his birthday party a few short months later, I was riding my tricycle through our house, trying to steal the attention away from Brad. All of his friends were over and my mom was getting ready to serve the cake and ice cream. Brad and his buds were sitting on the floor in the den and one of them spilled their drink. My mom, who was carrying the cake on one of those flat cardboard cake boards, put the cake down on the floor and ran to grab a towel to clean up the spilled drink. I came around the corner on my tricycle, saw the cake laying unattended on the floor, and immediately recognized the path that lay before me. I lowered my head, my snarling lip curling in determination. I cranked my trike handles, spun the pedals. I started pedaling hard. I started pedaling fast. My handle bar tassels blew in the wind. And right before everyone's eyes, I drove my trike straight through his cake. There were skid marks where there should have been frosted balloons. It was a wonderful feeling. I knew the inevitable spanking would blister my hiney, but friends, the victory. The victory was worth the beating, trust me on this one.

The ball was now in Brad's court.

On a leisurely afternoon, not long after the cake incident, Brad and I were playing in his room. I was trying to get him to incorporate his GI Joes into whatever Barbie and her friends were doing that afternoon, but he was having none of that. He suggested we do something more constructive with our time. He suggested I let him cut my hair. Being naive and relatively uncaring about my appearances back then, I let him. So he found some scissors and before I knew it, I had bangs. Half inch bangs. It was bad. We went back to playing with our GI Joes and Barbies, having decided that the hair cutting was fun, but fleeting. At dinner that night, my mom finally recognized the difference in my appearance. It's amazing it took her so long to notice because I had glorious hair back then. I mean glorious. I was three, yet my hair was down to my butt in long, soft waves. Oh boy did she notice. She demanded to know, "WHO DID THIS?" And before I could swallow my bite of fish sticks, Brad was pointing at little, innocent me saying, "Peyton did it to herself, Mama! She got the scissors and cut it! I saw her do it and tried to tell her not to, but she wouldn't listen to me!" My eyes welled up with tears, not because I had been betrayed by my own brother, but because I knew the inevitable spanking would blister my hiney. And boy, did it. Brad never said he was sorry, I had a blistered hiney, and worse of all, my beautiful locks were now tarnished by half-inch bangs. It was a bad day.   

The ball got tossed back and forth between my court and Brad's for years. Brad was much more creative in his tactics; I usually just annoyed him and tattled on him.

Brad, if you're reading this, even though you gave me a concussion, even though you made me walk around Preschool with half-inch bangs, even though you called me Papoon, and even though you and your high school buddies pummeled me with glass root beer bottles on my walk home from middle school, I love you.

And I will always be a brother's girl.

Cooking 101

I mentioned the other day that the Bread Baking Bunch was taking a trip to Chateau Elan. Well, we went this weekend and had an absolute blast! You can view the pictures here. We went to a cooking class while we were there and the chef made this pretty kick-ass, roasted corn salad. While I didn't have most of the ingredients the chef used on hand tonight, I decided to make my own version of it. First, I roasted two ears of corn in the oven. So simple: just put the oven on 350 and stick the ears straight on the rack for 35-45 minutes. When the corn comes out and after you've let it cool and pulled the husk and silk off, you'll "saw" the kernals off the cob. To do this, first cut off the bottom and top of the cobs:

With the fat end on the bottom and with the cob standing straight up (verticle), carefully cut down one side of the cob. After you've done this, lay the flat side down on the cutting board (horizontal) and keep cutting each side off, rotating the cob so that the flat side is always on the board.

Once you've got it all of the cob:

Place it in a bowl. Next, finely chop some cilantro. You can use the stems of the herb, too - that's actually where the most flavor lies. After the cilantro, chop up a white onion very fine.

Next, heat up about a tablespoon of olive oil and minced garlic in a saute pan. Throw your corn/cilantro/onion mixture in and saute until you just begin to smell that sauteed onion smell.

I cooked a piece of salmon in the toaster oven (yes! In the toaster oven!) with just some olive oil, salt and pepper to go with it. Top the salmon with a little bit of PeyPey's Picante and chopped cilantro. Throw some of this roasted corn salad on the plate, sprinkle with some salt and pepper and chopped cilantro and enjoy your dinner. I like to pair this with a citrus-y wine. Kim Crawford white, Nutura Organic white, or Menage A Trois white all would go wonderfully!

This concludes PeyPey's Cooking 101 class!

About PeyPey

...and speaking of me. Wait, we were talking about me, right? Thought so. I was thinking yesterday about all of the potential items I could put in the "About Me" section on a social networking site. And I just know that you guys are dying to know more about me, right? Well, that doesn't really matter. I'm going to tell you anyway.

If you look to the right, you'll see my profile. This is the place that Blogger has designed for the writer to mention something about themselves so that the readers won't just blindly read some random person's blog. This is the space for you, the reader, to know concrete things about me. You know, like, "I live in Georgia. I have brown hair. I am a girl," that kind of stuff.

My "About Me" section simply says, "I like hosepipe water."

While I feel that this sentence is pretty indicative of the kind of person I am, some readers may not read between the lines of that sentence and may not understand or get a grasp on the fact that by me telling you that I like hosepipe water, I am also trying to convey to you that I am a whimsical, random, fun-loving, laid-back, and thoughtful person. And as the reader, you can expect to come to this site and read my entries which exemplify all of the above. Instead, some Type-A readers will read that one line and think, "Um, that's really weird," and go on their merry way, not stopping to read one single blog entry.

I'm okay with that.

But for those of you who have patiently stuck around, I have a treat for you: a detailed "About Me" section. This may go on for several posts, so if you're interested in getting to know the real PeyPey, keep sticking around. So here we go.

1. I make friends easily. I have never been lacking in the friends department. I still keep in close contact with several friends from elementary school and middle school, while my high school friends are very much still a huge part of my life. The friends I have made since high school are abundant and at any given time, if I want to go to dinner, I have about 65 friends who I could call to join me. Making friends just comes natural to me. Sometimes, however, this can be a dangerous trait.

Case in point: while perusing the lip gloss shelves of Walmart as a fifteen-year-old, an unassuming light skinned black girl came to stand next to me. She appeared to be a few years younger than me and from her appearance, had an affinity for tweety-bird clothing. Because at that point in my life, I could spend no less than thirty minutes on this particular aisle each time I visited Walmart, I was there for awhile after my tweety-bird clad friend showed up. We struck up a conversation. She had a weird speech impediment which I decided to dismiss because, after all, I make friends easily. "So what's your favorite lip gloss?" I replied without hesitation, "Bonne Belle, hands down." We continued our lip gloss discourse and then she introduced herself. "I'm Tamara." (Pronounced Tuh-MARR-uh. I don't think that's important, but I thought I'd throw it in there.) "Hi, I'm Peyton."

And then the conversation went somewhere I wasn't expecting it to go. I mean, any girl can discuss beauty products, at length, with a complete stranger and without formal introductions, but I was just humoring her and being nice, because, after all, I make friends easily. "So, where do you go to school? How old are you? Can you drive? Do you have brothers and sisters? What do you do for fun? What's your favorite school subject? Do you like going to the movies? Have you ever dyed your hair? Do you have a boyfriend? Have you ever kissed a boy? Who's your favorite celebrity? Do you like Coke or Sprite? Do you like wearing jewelry? Have you ever been out of the country? What's your favorite ice cream flavor? What do you want to be when you grow up? When's your birthday? Do you want to be friends? Can I have your phone number?" After this daunting diatribe, I sat there in stunned silence not knowing what just hit me. Again, Tamara asked, "can I have your phone number?" This simple, joyful lip gloss shopping trip had transformed into a balls-to-the-wall interview from a stranger named Tamara who now wanted my phone number. "Can I have it? Your phone number?" Panic. But then I calmed down, and thought, "how harmless can she be? She's wearing tweety-bird clothing for heaven's sake. And after all, I make friends easily." So I said, "Um, sure. It's ***-****." "Awesome! Ok, I gotta go Peyton, but I'm going to call you and we're going to hang out soon!" And with that, she trotted off and I quietly laid down my basket full of Bonne Belle in the middle of the aisle and high-tailed it out of there.

A few hours later, the tweety-bird stranger was forgotten and I was back to normal. Until later that night, when she called. I sat on the phone with her for what seemed like hours, agonizing over the fact that I had just given out my phone number to a complete stranger who seemed a bit off kilter. After that phone call, I was sure there would be no more. That was just a fluke, something random. Probably won't hear from her again.

A few hours later, the speech impediment on the other end of the line was forgotten and I was back to normal. Until the next day, when she called.

This went on and on, everyday for a few weeks. I was weirded out, my family was weirded out and was getting tired of my lengthy phone use. So one day, my little brother, who at the time was 5 or 6, picked up the phone when she called and lit into her. I had no idea the capabilities of his little lungs or the ugliness of his tongue. If I were Tamara, I probably would have crapped my pants after being yelled at like that from a 5 or 6 year old. He was ruthless. I wasn't mad though, because I was annoyed by Tamara. I mean, who did she think she was trying to be my friend and all?

A few hours later, the tongue lashing from the kid was forgotten and me my little bro got back to wrestling and picking on each other and all was back to normal. Until the next week when she called. People, this went on and on for ten years until my parents finally changed their number. TEN. YEARS. Ten years.

Ten years.

So while I consider this make-friends-easily trait among the best and most attractive things about myself, it has its flaws. Moral of the story: Not everyone is your friend, Peyton. Some people are crazy. Don't give your phone number to strangers on the lip gloss aisle. You can say no. You already have plenty of friends, ok, self?

Ok, I feel better that you all know that story about me now.

Stay tuned for more "About Me" stories!

Childhood Cuisine

For a long time, when I was in a group meeting and we had to tell "one weird fact about ourselves" (dang college), mine was always that I used to eat roly polies as a child.

Are you shocked? I wasn't really either when my parents told me about my three-year-old self scarfing down the little insect balls. My dad said I would stick out my little pudgy, balled up fist, flip my palm right side up, and offer him my collected smorgasbord of roly polies which had defensively rolled themselves up into perfect little balls. They knew not their own fate.

The fact that I ate them is not surprising. I was three. Who knows what else my little fist stuffed down my piehole? No, the surprising part was that, when presented with my gift of what I considered to be good eatin', my dad would politely decline and say, "No thank you pumpkin, I'm full. You eat 'em all." Is it just me or do you find it quite odd that my father still let me ingest them? He didn't knock them out of my hand or say "Peyton, pumpkin, don't eat bugs, ok?" Instead, he just let me keep right on snacking. There is no telling how many roly polies met their fate in the bottom of my tummy.

I think if I'm ever again in one of these stupid meetings where we have tell a group of strangers some weird fact about ourselves, I will save myself the embarrassment and not tell them that I used to eat roly polies as a little girl. Instead, maybe I'll tell them about my triple jointed toe.

Wait, on second thought, I might just stick with the roly polies.

******NEWS BULLETIN******
This just in! So I just googled the scientific name for Roly Polies and guess what it is? It's going to gross you out, I promise. Are you ready? Are you sure? Because it's getting kind of close to dinner time and I wouldn't want to spoil your dinner or anything. And I don't want to put a bad taste in your mouth for roly polies (wait, what did I just say?) because this will forever alter the way you think of these cute little bugs. Are you sure? Like, absolutely sure? Ok, if you're sure. Here goes. The scientific name for roly polies, the cute, harmless little balls, is ARMADILLIDIUM VULGARE. See? I told you. I shouldn't have done it. Now you're thinking of vulgar armadillos aren't you? Ok, well goodnight ladies and gentlemen. Enjoy your dinners and may you have sweet dreams tonight. Dreams free of vulgar armadillos. Until next time!
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One of my biggest pet peeves...

Is when businesses spell "cool" like "kool" and when "clean" is spelled like "klean" or "kleen". Why? There is no reason for this. For reasons unbeknownst to me, this makes me pretty mad.

Ode To Friday

I love your name
And that I will soon be playing games

The next two days
Just go by in a haze

Soon it will be
Freaking Monday again and we

Will be back to the grind
Leaving Saturday and Sunday behind

But the promise of another you
Will be enough to get me through

Another whole week
Sorry, I know I’m such a geek.