Vegan Chocolate Cake

Well, it's here.  As soon as the jack-o-lanterns have turned to mush and the poppy is off my lapel, it's Christmas season. Normally, this is where I up my butter intake to truly heroic levels, but I think I will try to limit my intake this year. That being said, I present to you below a  wicked chocolate cake recipe, and it's vegan!  No eggs, no butter (just a bit of canola oil), but yes, there's sugar and flour.  This is adapted from Mollie Katzen's children's cookbook Honest Pretzels.  It doesn't need icing, but if you add some buttercream,  Stella McCartney will hate you.

Vegan Chocolate Cake

In a glass 8 or 9 " square pan, mix together 

1 1/4 cup flour

1 cup sugar

1/3 cup good cocoa

1/2 tsp salt

3/4 tsp baking soda

Make 4 dents in the mixture- 2 big, and 2 small.

Pour into the dents

 1 cup water 

1/3 cup canola oil

1 tsp vanilla extract

1 tsp white vinegar

Mix until it's all smooth and combined.

Lick batter off of spatula shaped like a finger (optional).

Bake 30 minutes, cool in pan, and sprinkle with icing sugar.  Mmmmm.

FNGs in NYC

The Red Rooster, in Harlem.  And no, you don't need to be a girl to be a Friday Night Girl!

How have I not posted anything about my beloved Friday Night Girls before?

The Classy Drunk, Part I: Chateau du Tailhas

Jean-Luc's ancient vines. Merlot grapes,  Paul Giamatti was wrong!!

In the past 8 years, I have visited Champagne, in France (twice), the Chianti/Brunello region of Italy (three times), Napa Valley in California, and most recently,  we went back to France for Bordeaux.  Do you see a pattern here? It looks like I plan my vacations at the LCBO.

Magnificent Facilities

"Anywhere in the city, I can tell you the best public toilet."
"OK.  Fifty-fourth and Sixth"
"Sperry Rand Building, 14th floor.  Morgan Apparel. Mention my name, she'll give you the key."
"Alright; Sixty-fifth and Tenth."
"Are you kidding?  Lincoln Center, Alice Tully Hall, the Met- magnificent facilities!"

Ritz Paris.  Tres bien.

There are 2 kinds of people in the world- those who are constantly searching for bathrooms, and those who aren't.  Sadly, I fall into the first category.  I'm also a bit of a germophobe, so I'm not looking for just anywhere, if you know what I mean.  I'm sure there's an app for this, and I probably should have invented it.  Then again, who wants to give away the locations all the good bathrooms, oops, sorry America, I mean restrooms? Luckily for me, this blog has approximately zero readers, so I can post the best options without fear of them being overrun.

Although I have never had the pleasure of using George Kostanza's recommendations, I am certainly a connoisseur in my own right.  On our most recent trip to New York, I would say the Waldorf was useful in midtown.  The restrooms were clean and easily accessible, and bore remnants of their art deco glory days.  You could almost picture the women of The Women gossiping and catfighting in there.  The biggest surprise, however, was the McDonald's at Union Square.  New, well stocked, and as clean as anywhere else I'd seen in the city.  McD's can be hit-or-miss; there are a few here in Toronto I wouldn't use on a bet, and I've been to The Subway Inn!

The Subway Inn.  NOT magnificent facilities!

Years ago, I discovered the restrooms in Bryant Park behind the Public Library. Since they were basically outdoors, I figured they'd be on par with a gas station in the bad part of Buffalo (yup- been there), but I discovered polished wood, an attendant, and fresh flowers.  A happy surprise indeed.

In Toronto,  the current downtown champion is the Shangri- La Hotel.  New, expansive, and pristine. If you're in the mood to shop, go uptown to Yorkdale.  It's an ever-expanding retail heaven, and the new facilities there would not be out of place at the French embassy.

Speaking of France, in Paris, the Ritz Hotel was my favourite pit stop, but it's closed for a massive renovation.  When it reopens, the security will probably be tightened, keeping the likes of me out on the street.  What I liked about the Ritz is that the toilets were sort of hidden; the doors were glass walls, and you had to know where to push.  Once you got inside, though, you were rewarded.  With Parisian hotels, the secret is to be dressed well and act like you own the place, then you can confidently barge past the doorman.  This tactic worked for me a few years ago at the Crillon, after massive Champagne consumption on an empty stomach had me stopping every few blocks on the walk back to our hotel.

Let's face it- facilities may start out magnificent, but it's the way people use them that determines if they stay that way. I'm looking at you, hoverers.

Ladies, when you hover, you make more of a mess than if you just sat your ass on the seat, so clean it up!  What kills me is that these are the bitches who are all "Ooh, public toilet seats are dirty", but they leave the bathroom looking like someone shook up and opened a can of ginger ale in there.  Gross.  You are gross.

Sometimes I'll enter a stall and immediately spin around in horror.  I have seen things in the restrooms at work where I literally cannot figure out what configuration you'd have to take with your body to get the result you left behind.  It'd take a CSI team to figure it out.

Of course, when all else fails, just look for a Starbucks.  I think that the purchase of a Starbucks beverage enters you into a covenant with the entire chain, allowing you bathroom privileges worldwide.  They have the balls to charge me $4 for a black tea lemonade;  the least they can do is hand over the key when I need it.

What's the Deal with Charmin?*

Eewww.

I take issue with Charmin super thick toilet paper.  Is it me, or are they starting to miss the mark when it comes to what you need from toilet paper?  The commercials say it's so thick, you can use a quarter of what you normally use, but at some point, this doesn't compute.

With toilet paper, you need area, not just density, am I right? I'm sorry, but a super absorbent piece of Charmin the size of a postage stamp will not get the job done.

So, Charmin, maybe stop making the toilet paper so thick it feels like I'm using an area rug, and a roll lasts about 2 days.  You've passed the point of diminishing returns. (Also, enough with the cartoon bears talking about skid marks and whatnot. Gross.)

*There is a reason I have named my blog after Seinfeld characters, people.

People- They're the Worst.

This book is desperately needed by some of my neighbours.

We celebrated on Sunday, so on actual Thanksgiving, the BF and I went to the only grocery store open in the area, to pick up a few things.  So, it seems, did everyone else in the city.  The parking lot was full, cars were illegally parked everywhere, and when we left, there were cars stretched around the block trying to get into the lot.  In the store, there were people buying the whole nine yards- turkeys, potatoes, veggies, pumpkin pies.  I have a grudging respect for people who don't plan their Thanksgiving dinners until noon the day of; it's absolutely the opposite of someone like me.

Anyway, the BF dropped me off with my groceries.  I was carrying a case of Diet Coke, a huge bag of groceries, a wrapped bouquet of flowers, and my stuffed purse.  None of the other people going into my condo held the door for me, but it was OK, I caught it with my leg. I got into the elevator with 2 people, neither of whom were holding anything.  As my hands were full, I waited a second for someone to say "which floor?" and make the incredible effort of raising an arm to press a button, but neither did. They both just pretended I wasn't there.  So, I took a deep breath, juggled my bags, rested the Diet Coke on my knee, and reached forward to hit 22.

The guy got off before me, dragging his little dog, who seemed not to want to go with him.  Even your dog thinks your an asshole, I thought.  The next stop was mine.  As I got off, I considered exiting with a sarcastically cheerful "Happy Thanksgiving!", but I surprised myself by saying with a smile, "Die in a fire!"  That chick will tell her friends about the crazy bitch in the elevator, oblivious to her part in the story. Worth it.

As it was Thanksgiving, let me say I am thankful to have been brought up to be the sort of person who will hold a door or push a button for you.

Air Canada to Paris

People watching from Les Deux Magots

I am about to make a controversial statement- one that may cause some of you to question my sanity:

I like Air Canada.  I'm sorry, but it's true. I've never had a problem with them that wasn't weather related, and they've never lost my luggage (I check only on the way home).  Yes, the flight attendants are as friendly as diner waitresses working the midnight shift, but as long as they bring me Diet Coke when I need it, I'm cool.  Frankly, I am not one to want to sing Happy Birthday to my fellow travelers anyway (sorry, West Jet). The planes are new, the TVs plentiful, and the food is, well, free.

When we flew to Paris last month, it was on old familiar AC 880, which we've taken several times before.  We got to the airport too early, of course.  No bags to check (truly, you don't need to check luggage.  I've done 2 weeks in Europe no problem, though I suspect traveling to a cold climate would pose problems, but why the hell would anyone want to do that?) All we had to endure was passing through security. I often get an extra pat down, or have my hands checked for explosives.  I think I am the Token White Lady, you know? The last time we were in the Bahamas, I got a pat down (rather, a feel up), from an eager lady that surely should have resulted in a marriage proposal.  She started at the top, worked her way down, then went back to the top! "Oh, we're going again!", I said jokingly, as she patted and squeezed (they're real, honey).  "She got further with you than I did this week", the BF sulked. But I digress...

Dear Mrs. Clooney...

I don't think the wrestler lady had an outfit like this.

Well, you did it.  You married my Pretend Boyfriend.  And I would like to offer my congratulations.  Hey, if it couldn't be me, I'm glad it was you! My PB looks genuinely in love, and why wouldn't he?  You're gorgeous, smart, successful, and most important, you do good work..  Here's my wish for you- please keep working!
In the past, the world got on fine when George took a cocktail waitress or female wrestler out of the work force, but it's different with you.  Your work matters..  So, take long vacations, go to the Oscars, sit next to Anna Wintour at fashion shows, but keep being an activist. I'm guessing that's what George fell in love with anyway, since he's had (many, many, many) pretty girls in the past.  Also- don't change your last name.  I love a good Irish surname, but there are some hyphenates that just don't work.  Alamuddin-Clooney is one of them.  So, again, congratulations, have a great honeymoon, enjoy the wardrobe upgrade, but then, please, back to work!

Side note to the new Mr. Alamuddin- George, honey, I know people have been making fun of you, saying that you are actually punching above your weight class with your new wife, but I have faith in you.  Make more movies like Good Night, and Good Luck., and your new bride will stick around, I'm sure.  If not, call me...

Hotel Bars- Toronto and New York

Bemelmans Bar

You don't have to be a high class hooker to love a good hotel bar. Herewith, Lori's Rating System for a few places where drinks cost more than you ever imagined they could:


New York:

Bemelmans Bar, Carlyle Hotel

Drinks: I had the Champagne flight, and my friend had the Carlyle Punch, I believe. Very nice. The flight had a sparkling red, which you don't see every day.
Ambience: Low lights, great jazz, stunning decor. Lots of facelifts and fur coats, but that's half the fun of being there.
Free Munchies: Top notch.  Olives, too!
Restroom: Clean and classy, no attendant
Other: Bemelmans is a legendary New York establishment.  The interior, by, yes, Ludwig Bemelmans, is a standout, but the vibe was fun, not snobby or douchy. A great night out.

Champagne Bar at the Plaza

Drinks: I actually had one of my favourite drinks here.  The Imperial Plaza was outstanding, but for $26, it ought to be.
Ambience: It was the afternoon, so it was a mixed bag.  The crowd ranged from Eurotrash to Recent Lottery Winner.
Free Munchies: OK.  Popcorn heavy
Restroom: Very nice- upstairs, nice hand lotion.
Other: The last time I was there, they treated us like we were paying with food stamps when we didn't order a bottle, but the service was much better this time.

Toronto:

The Library Bar at the Royal York

Drinks: Excellent options available.  The Bay Area Daisy, from the Fairmont Classics list was amazing, but don't bother having it made with Patron, unless you want to spend $30 on a drink. Other drinks named for Canadian writers, so if you've always dreamed of sipping a Margaret Atwood Margarita, here's your chance.
Ambience: Elegant, not too loud. A library look, obviously. Suits and tourists.
Free Munchies: Very good, refilled often.
Restroom: Suitable to the location, if not exceptionally glamourous.
Other: This place is so much better than it was even a few years ago. Before the refurbishment, the drinks were hit and miss.  Now they are all hits. The Mediterranean dips and the crab cakes were really good as well, and they brought me a decadent piece of cake when they found out it was my birthday. You win my heart forever that way.

The Lobby Lounge at the Shangri La

Drinks: Very good, but I did get a glass of warm Champagne once, which is the saddest thing in the world. The drinks menus are little books, which is cute.
Ambience: Elegant, chill, and subtly perfumed.  Modern fireplace, comfortable chairs.  Easy place to spend a few hours nursing your insanely expensive drink. International and fashionable crowd.
Free Munchies: Can't remember, but Momofuku is next door, so just go eat there.
Restroom: Best in the downtown core.
Other: There's a grand piano in the lobby, and once when we were there, Chantal Kreviazuk sat down and played a bit.  That was cool!

I started going to hotel bars when there weren't too many other options in Toronto. Everything was either a club or a sports bar. I'm too old for the former, and too girly for the latter. Thankfully, there are some elegant bars in the city now, which I'll detail later. Of course, the historical aspects of these classic hotel bars also appeals to me.  When my life isn't a Seinfeld episode, I prefer it to be a Thin Man movie.

The Yogurt Thief

People are endlessly surprising.  I just wish it wasn't so often because they totally fucking suck.

The day I started at my current job, while giving me a tour of the office, my boss stuck a yogurt in the fridge.  When she went back for it a few hours later, it was gone.  Apparently this had been happening on and off for the past year, but the Yogurt Thief was about to go into overdrive, and was about to steal the wrong lady's yogurt.

When this woman discovered her yogurt was missing two days in a row, she just about lost her mind.  Everyone on our floor heard about it.  For a while there, I thought she was going to call the cops.  Instead, she came up with a plan:  we were going to run a sting operation.  The plan was to subtly mark the bottom of some yogurts, plant them in the fridge, and if they were taken, we were going to search through everyone's garbage cans looking for the marked containers.  I was new, so I wanted to be a team player, but sifting through garbage at the end of the work day oddly did not appeal to me.

Instead, she stuck this on the fridge:

God, even our threats are so Canadian...

I guess the threat worked.  The office Jean Valjean seems to have stopped, or was perhaps one of the people transferred to another location recently, along with the guy who used to cook raw fish in the toaster oven.  In any case, I was spared garbage patrol. And people do still suck.

Fishs Eddy and the Walk to Work

So few are...

It's just not a trip to New York without a stop at Fishs Eddy.  When a friend told me about it years ago, I thought she said "Fishetti's", so I was looking for some Italian store.  I just wandered in when I was walking up Broadway, and didn't realize I had found the place she was talking about until much later. In any case, this is a fun place to poke around when you're in the Union Square area.  I love entertaining, so I could happily spend all day, and a few paycheques, in here, snapping up trays, plates, and things I didn't know I need, like this.   I bought a lot from the Floor Plan series in 2008; probably the closest I'll ever get to living in a classic 6.  Ah, well.  Hard to believe I didn't purchase this very perceptive item:

My sentiments exactly.

If it were a travel mug, I guarantee I would have bought it for my walk to work. When I transferred to where I work now, I initially took the subway in the morning, but going only 4 stops seemed like a waste of money. It takes me about 40 minutes to walk.  The first 20 minutes are great, but after that, as my office is close to the lake, the journey gets tricky. Around Queen Street, I encounter the suburban train crowd coming into the city from Union station-  a sea of rushed smokers, texters, and wheeled suitcases.  I am often the only person walking against the tide.

Initially, it freaked me out.  I mean, there was this wave of humanity coming at me, taking up 95% of the sidewalk, but they seemed to want more.  There are still people who give me dirty looks when I won't get out of their way by walking in the street.  I have actually snorted "This isn't a one-way sidewalk, you know!".  And I have walked right through a few people, line-backer style. In time, I have gotten better at negotiating my narrow southbound lane; I keep to the right, and I keep alert.  Still, if you come at me with your head down, you will find yourself in a game of Chicken with me. I'm not saying you'll lose, but... I don't know how to finish that sentence...

The Point of No Returns

No, you can't return all that shit!

I did a bad, bad thing. These shoes, from 2 posts down?  I returned them.  Here's the thing- the forecast for New York got better, and the last time I wore them, though I didn't get blisters, the lack of support made my feet ache.  I fared much better in my white Birkenstocks. Since they're rubber, I cleaned them up and was prepared to righteously declare that no, of course I didn't wear them! if the sales person had asked.
Instead, the guy didn't even open the box, making me wish I had stuck my $6 Old Navy flip flops in the box instead.  But I'd never do that.  I feel bad enough for returning gently used rubber shoes.

The reason I feel bad is that I worked in retail for years.   I have been the person in the store who listened to the bullshit stories, and I have been the analyst at the corporate headquarters who tracked returns and formulated the policy.  Returns drive me nuts.

Also, I am someone with the shame gene, which seems to have been bred out of most people.  I seriously don't know how people have said the things they've said to me when returning used merchandise.  A selection from several stores I've worked at, recreated for your amusement:

"I'd like to return this [$350] tablecloth"
"It has a mustard stain on it."
"Yeah."
"Did it have a mustard stain on it when you bought it?"
"No."
"Uh, you can't return this."
"But why???"


"I'd like to return these 8 napkins, 8 napkin rings, 8 charger plates, 8 wine glasses, and 8 dessert plates."
"How was the party?"


"I'd like to return this lipstick [to a store in Toronto]."
"We don't sell this brand, unfortunately."
"Yeah, I know, I didn't get it here."
"Uh, where did you get it?"
"The Sak's in Palm Beach.  But I don't like the colour."


"I'd like to return this porcelain gravy boat."
"It's broken."
"I dropped it."
"You can't return it."
"But it's broken! What am I supposed to do with it?"


We eventually accepted all the returns except the broken gravy boat, and that lady came back to the store a half a dozen times, to ask literally everyone who worked there. So yes, the squeaky wheel does indeed get the grease, but trust me, everyone in the store thinks you're an asshole.  Oh, and don't yell at the cashier, or even the manager.  They are just following the rules. And if you try to return rubber shoes, give them a good wipe down first.

Everywhere Is Not Home Depot

This is not evening wear.

Last Friday we went to the 21 Club for a pre-theatre dinner, and then on to the Belasco Theatre to see Neil Patrick Harris in Hedwig and the Angry Inch.  The dinner was amazing, and NPH blew my mind (I now have a serious crush on him, but we'll deal with that later). Afterwards, we stopped by The Modern for a late drink.  Sounds like a classy evening out, right?  Well, almost.

Here's the thing: I don't understand why people don't dress for the occasion.  I realize I am almost alone in this, however.

21 has a dress code, and they enforce it, thank God, but at the theatre?  Christ, you'd think I was at the Home Depot based on what most people had on.  This isn't elitist, either- if I could see you, you were sitting in front of me, so your tickets had to cost $300 and up.  I'm thinking if you can afford the ticket to the show, you can afford a shirt with buttons on it, as opposed to the t-shirt you picked up at Comic-Con 2012 (seriously, that is what the guy right in front of me was wearing).

The ladies were no better.  In fact, many of them were dressed the same as the fellas: t-shirt, cargo shorts, and running shoes.  In New York. On a Friday night. In a Broadway theatre. There was a woman in The Modern wearing a pink velour track suit and dirty running shoes.  She couldn't be poor, because she was in a place where the drinks are $16. When did this become a thing?

Some helpful questions to ask yourself when getting dressed for a night out:


Is this what I wore the last time I mowed the lawn? 

Would this outfit be perfectly suited to the McDonald's drive-thru?

Could I comfortably complete a marathon in these shoes?

Is there something "hilarious" written on my t-shirt?

If you answer Yes to any of the above, I implore you to go back to your closet and start outfit planning anew.  Or go to the nearest Joe Fresh and get a damn dress or a dress shirt and pants.  You don't have to break the bank.  The bar is so low these days, that in a navy v-neck chiffon dress from Ann Taylor, I looked like The LSD compared to everyone else.

A night on the town is supposed to be different from a night at home.  I don't understand why you would show up at an elegant bar or a storied theatre dressed like you are about to binge-watch The Real Housewives of New Jersey on your sofa while eating KFC. I think you are disrespecting your surroundings, and your fellow patrons.  And you're pissing me off. You really don't want to do either.

40 percent

So I'm heading to New York on Friday.  As I do with all vacations, I have spent the past week endlessly checking weather reports.  The one thing I can't control becomes my obsession.  So typically me...

But there is an optimist in me somewhere- I compare all forecasts, then believe the best one. Unfortunately, for the past week, the percentage chance of rain has been increasing.

I wish the Weather Network here in Canada, and all others, frankly, would call a 40% Probability of Precipitation what it actually is- We Have No Fucking Idea%.  This has been the forecast here for weeks now, and it's driving me insane.  The point of the POP, for the ladies anyway, is twofold- is rain going to make my hair puffy, and will it ruin my shoes?  40% is no damn good to me.

Do I wear good shoes and hope for the 60% Probability of No Precipitation?  I have rather a large shoe collection, but not too many pairs I want to get rained on.  During the Great Toronto Flood of July, 2013, I lost a pair of sandals I loved.  On that day, I waded from the subway stop through ankle deep city water, and when I took those puppies off, I knew that they had, shall we say, seen too much.  They were great shoes- cute, comfortable.  They'd been to New York, Italy, and France, and I'd been able to walk miles and look good. When they started drying out, however, they smelled like a sewer, so they had to go. I still miss those shoes...

Melissa flox gladiators.  So far, so good!

To deal with 40%, I actually bought rubber shoes.  I saw these Melissa gladiators on sale, and they were strangely comfortable.  I have walked a bit in them, and I can't believe I'm saying this, but no blisters! This is practically unprecedented.  I get blisters from Rockports, Birkenstocks, Cole Haans, and flip-flops, not just from pointy-toed Manolos.

I'm bringing these to New York, since the forecast is in this Who Knows range, and I'm leaving the  Ferragamos at home.  Those babies have never left their soft felt encasements on a day with over 10% POP. And they never will.

Minimalism vs My Books

Jerry:  "What is this obsession people have with books? They put them in their houses like they're trophies.  What do you need it for after you've read it?"

I love minimalism.  At least I think I do.  Actually, I guess I just want to be someone cool enough to exist in a chic, minimalist environment.  I also love the English country house look.  Therein lies the problem:  trying to decorate when you are drawn to two diametrically opposed styles is a challenge.  It's also why I still have some Ikea furniture.  Until I can make a final decision, I am loathe to spend thousands of dollars on something I will probably regret as soon as I can't return it (my elegant and costly sofa that I now hate attests to this).  I am also, naturally, sort of messy. Without meaning to or noticing, I will leave magazines and papers lying around until you can't see the furniture anymore.  I stop myself before it's time to call the Hoarders people, and go on a mad purge to try to get closer to my minimalist ideal of surfaces, darling.

Harvey House, by John Lautner, Los Feliz. Perfection.

The Lautner and Neutra houses brought beautifully back to life by Kelly Lynch and Mitch Glazer have been inspiration since I first saw them in magazine features more than a decade ago.  I wish I had this commitment to one style, and the vision to execute it so perfectly.  Oh, and some Hollywood money would also be nice...

Aside from my natural, let's say, sloppiness, there is the matter of my bookishness.  I read a lot, and I love to be surrounded by my books. The great ones are reread, loaned out, occasionally returned, and serve as a reminder that something predated the Internet.  And they look great, don't you think?

Sadly, not my living room.

I have a very hard time throwing out books.  Exhibit A would probably be my grade 13 (yes, that used to be a thing in Ontario) French text book.  I keep it because it's still useful, and dammit, I might one day commit to learning more French than just what was required to get through school or buy a pair of shoes in Paris.

I also have a collection of books from university.  These are books I have "read", meaning that I plowed through them on Diet Coke-fueled all nighters right before needing to pass a test or write an essay.  I retained virtually nothing.  Books in this category include The Master and Margarita, Fathers and Sons, and, to my deep embarrassment, One Hundred Years of Solitude. I guess I keep these ones out of guilt, and figure, maybe one day I will properly read them.

I have an alarming number of sort of stupid books- Cruel Shoes, by Steve Martin, old Letterman Top Ten List books, Simpson's anthologies.  I never throw out something that can give me a laugh.  It's why the David Sedaris and the Spy magazines stay, too. One of my favourite stupid books is The Bachelor Home Companion, for God's sake! Having books like this around requires some balance; hence the Serious Authors collection:  Ian McEwan, Martin Amis, Timothy Findlay, Philip Roth, Margaret Atwood, to name a few, and my favourite- John Updike.  I'm not sure I'll ever re-read Updike's amazing Rabbit tetralogy, so yeah, I guess I am keeping those to prove that, although I own this book, I'm not a complete moron. 

So, my attempts at minimalism are usually trumped my my desire to keep things I love.  But it could be worse.  One of my friends married a guy who felt strenuously that the only acceptable thing to have hanging above their living room fireplace mantle was his signed, framed Walter Payton jersey.  I'm not discounting Walter's awesomeness, but as a living room decoration? Keeping tons of books may violate the principles of minimalism, but at least the style police won't show up at my door.

White Velvet Cutouts

White Velvet Cutouts. The Champagne of sugar cookies.

I can't even tell you how many batches of these cookies I have made.  I got the recipe from a Seventeen magazine when I was probably 13 years old.  I have been making them ever since.  They are great for so many reasons: they hold their shape when you bake them; they're a bit tart, thanks to the cream cheese; they're soft, but not too soft; the tangy glaze is a perfect counterpart to sweetness of the cookies.

I have been sort of off baked goods for a while now, but I am practically salivating on my keyboard just thinking about how delicious these cookies are. I have made them in dozens of shapes, for various functions- these champagne flutes were for our Christmas party last year.  

White Velvet Cutouts

1 cup butter, soft enough to mix, but not room temperature

3 oz. cream cheese, softened

1 cup granulated sugar

1 egg yolk

2 1/2 cups all purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon real vanilla extract

Cream the butter and cream cheese in an electric mixer if you have one, or just go at it with a wooden spoon, like I did as a kid.  Add the sugar, and mix until light and fluffy. Add in the egg yolk and vanilla, and mix well.  Stir in the flour.  

Separate the dough into 2 pieces, and flatten into discs, then wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight, or at least for 3 hours.  You want the dough to be really, really firm before you roll it out.  That's how you get well-defined shapes.

When ready to proceed, preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Sprinkle plenty of flour on your rolling surface, and remove one disc from the fridge to roll out.  The original recipe said to roll to 3/16th of an inch, so shoot for that if you want a lot of cookies.  Mine are usually a bit thicker.

Cut out shapes.  I have made lips, houses, sharks, Christmas trees, stars, doves, Texas, candy canes... you get the idea.

Transfer cutouts to an ungreased cookie sheet.  I often stick the cookie sheet in the freezer for a few minutes, if the dough has warmed up too much during the rolling process.

Bake until the edges are just slightly golden. The whiter these cookies stay, the better they taste.  The recipe says 8-10 minutes, but hang around your oven and check them frequently, and you'll learn how long to bake them in your oven.

Remove to a wire rack to cool completely.  

Run your cookie sheet under cold water and dry before using it again. If you stick unbaked dough on a hot cookie sheet, the shapes will start to melt before they cook, and that ain't pretty.

Glaze:

1 cup icing sugar (or powdered sugar, or confectioners sugar; whatever they call it where you live)

2 tablespoons water

1/2 teaspoon lemon juice

food colouring, if you like

Mix up glaze, and spread on cooled cookies.  You may need to tinker with quantities to get the thickness you want.  Thinner is better.  This glaze is delicious, but it takes absolutely FOREVER to harden, so you need to store your finished cookies in one layer, or they'll all stick together.  Worth it, though!

Summer Rules

Word, LSD

Look, I know we all love summer, but let's not forget that even something as wonderful as a sunny day has some rules around it.  I'm talking about clothes, of course.

In the city, summer brings out the most questionable sartorial choices you could imagine.  The other day, I was walking down the street behind a woman wearing a thin, peach coloured "dress". I have to use quotation marks, because this thing barely qualified.  Pro tip, ladies: you are not actually wearing a dress if I can see where your thigh ends and your butt begins.

 

Not only was this dress short, it was tight.  How tight, you ask? Well, I was walking a reasonable distance behind her, and I could clearly make out her ASS TATTOO through the strained fabric.  

As the saying goes,"Just because it zips, doesn't mean it fits". Learn it. Live it.

image

Where I'll Be in NYC

Best. Drink. Ever.  Bar Hemingway, Paris (excuse the terrible phone photo.)

I'm heading to New York the first weekend in August.  I've gone at the end of the month a few times, for the US Open, and to say goodbye to my beloved Shea Stadium, but this is the first time I have gone in the dead of summer with no specific event planned.  Well, except for seeing Neil Patrick Harris in Hedwig- can't wait for that.  I'm such a fatalist that I actually worry he'll fall off his platform shoes and hurt himself before I get there.  Keep it together for 4 more weeks, NPH!

I hope to have beautiful days that I can spend wandering aimlessly, but should the weather be lousy, I know where I'll be- PJ Clarke's.

I love old school, classic bars, but somehow I have never been to PJ's.  I've been to, among others, The 21 Club, Martin's Tavern in Georgetown, and in Paris, Hemingway's (currently closed), and Harry's New York Bar. I went to Harry's on a pilgrimage of sorts, because they invented my absolute favourite cocktail- the Sidecar.

PJ Clarke's looks promising since the first drink listed on the cocktail menu is the Patrick Joseph Clarke Sidecar. Any bar that loves My Drink that much deserves a visit.  What better place to ride out a humid, dreary afternoon than a dark bar?  To be honest, I think this is where I'll be rain or shine.

Just because:

Lori's Sidecar:

1 part Cognac (as good as you can afford)
1 part Cointreau (not Triple Sec, not Grand Marnier. Cointreau!)
1 part freshly squeezed lemon juice, strained (not from a bottle, not from concentrate!)

Dump into an ice-filled shaker, and shake until really cold. Pour into a nice coupe glass, or a Martini glass if that's all you have available. Sip, though you will be tempted to chug. If you chug, you will regret it. Or so I've been told ;)

Go Human Beings!

Elaine:  "I will NEVER understand people."
Jerry:  "They're the worst!"

If, like me, you have ever had to utter the sentence "Excuse me, but could you not clip your toenails on the bus?", you might understand my frustration with my fellow human beings.  A casual observer of this blog might go away thinking I'm an irredeemable misanthrope, but that's not (entirely) true. Yes, during the average day, I scold strangers for various offenses, but it's only because, well, let George explain.

The thing is, though I sort of hate people, I love humanity, if that makes any sense.  By any criteria, we really are the worst- millennia of religious oppression, warfare, tribalism, sexism, and yet... look at all the good stuff!

Some guys with crappier tools than you have in your garage built this. Respect.

The first time I went to France, we went to Reims, ostensibly for the Champagne, but I also wanted very much to see the cathedral.  It is truly magnificent.  It fills me with awe and wonder, as it is intended to, except I don't see the glory of God, I see the glory of man.  People built this church 800 years ago!  With no heavy machinery, no computers, nothing but the simple tools available in the dark ages. It's positively mind-blowing.

Beautiful, non?

It pays to remember that we measly little humans built everything with just the stuff we found around us.  Every bit of technology started as matter, and was adapted by someone with a big brain and a lot of curiosity.  None of this stuff fell from the sky fully formed; we built the Parthenon, we built the Hubble telescope.  From the pyramids to the International Space Station, the wheel to the Mars Rover, people made these things, and did it DESPITE the warlords, the oppression, and the fanatical dictators.  If that isn't amazing, I don't know what is.

I try to remember this when some jerk blows cigarette smoke in my face on the sidewalk.

At Least

The Tenement Museum, Orchard St, New York

A few years ago, I moved into a brand new condo on a sweltering August 1st.  When I arrived with all my stuff, my landlord told me that the A/C wouldn't be ready for another month.  Surprise!  I lost my mind.  You would think I was being told I'd be without running water for a month.  I called the long suffering BF at work and started crying.  That night, we combed the city in search of cheap fans. I yelled at my landlord to knock some money off my rent.  It was a tiny condo with not too many opening windows, and that place was humid bordering on fetid for the month.  It was a nightmare.  Well, compared to my usual environment of perfectly comfortable.   In retrospect, I am aware that I did overreact.  Yes, I was sweatier than I cared to be for the hottest month of the year, but come on.  This was a prime example of what the nauseating but sort-of-right-on hashtag First World Problems describes.

The thing is, can you legitimately complain about anything when you have an exceedingly comfortable life?  I do often hear a little voice in my head, when I am having a George Kostanza moment and acting like the world is coming to an end when the slightest thing goes wrong.  The voice says "yeah, at least the Taliban isn't picking your clothes out for you," or something like that. It's the fucked up way my brain tells me to settle down and put things in perspective.

I have a friend who had minor (but invasive) surgery a while ago, and she was sort of put off when another friend said something along the lines of "At least you're not dying", she thought it minimized her pain.  I'm sure that wasn't the intention, but it gets to the heart of the issue- if you live in one of the best places on earth, and have all the comforts, are you allowed to complain about anything?  Ever?

I think that when something goes wrong in your life, it's your problem.  Just because it doesn't register with the United Nations Commission on Human Rights or something, doesn't make it nothing.  On the other hand, imagine someone moving here from Darfur and listening to me bitch about my broken air conditioning.  I am sure they'd want to punch me in the throat. And they should!

I visited the Tenement Museum in New York this winter- it was the most affecting museum visit I have ever made.  We did the Irish Outsiders tour, and by the end, I was choking back tears. The tour made it easy to imagine life for the people who lived in the squalid building- there was very little comfort to be had.  Temperature, smell, workload, food- things I rarely if ever worry about- what passed for "good enough" was whatever they could get.  I think of those tenement dwellers, or the first settlers in Canada, when I'm getting ready to complain about needing a cardigan in the office because the A/C is blasting.  I know two things for sure- I am lucky to have the comfort I do, and good God, what a shitty pioneer I would have made.

Pride Cake

Cute enough to deserve my Kate Spade plates.

Well, actually, it was for a friend's birthday, but World Pride is happening here in Toronto, so it seemed doubly appropriate.  I used this Duff cake mix, and I'm pretty happy with the results. (Fun Fact- I can't get on the Duff website from my office- apparently they think I'm looking for porn when I'm looking for cake mixes.  Great.)

I never use mixes, being a frankly fabulous baker in my own right, but this one just looked cute, so I picked it up.  The cake was quite delicious, but didn't taste homemade.  You may have noticed that it's only one layer- that's because the other layer sort of, well, fell apart when I tried to flip it out of the pan. I forgot how delicate cake mix cakes are!

All in all, I think the best part of the mix was the tinting and pouring instructions.  I'll probably try this again with a scratch cake the next time a rainbow cake is called for, though I can't imagine when that will be.  Maybe if I ever have Jesse Jackson over for dinner?

I Hate To Break It To You, But You Are Not Going To Win The Lottery

Do you think a recent lottery winner lives here?

In my last office, we had a guy who ran the lottery pool.  He diligently collected money every week from a sizable group of people, but not me. I buy maybe 2 tickets a year, if it occurs to me.  Any more investment than that feels like burning money.  This man talked about it incessantly, especially if there was a lot of money at stake.  In Canada, the jackpots don't get as ridiculously huge as in America, but every now and then, they'll hit 20-40 million dollars.  The good thing, though, is that lottery winnings are not taxed in Canada, so if you win $40 million, you get a cheque for $40 million. And this poor schmuck was so sure he'd win.  

He worried about which room to book for the team meeting where the group would discuss their next move.  He worried about hiring a lawyer to hire to help with the dispersion of the cash.  His obsessive desire to hit the big score was mostly confusing, though, because if you had seen this guy, you would have to wonder what the hell he wanted with millions of dollars.  I know if I had an endless stream of money, I'd upgrade my already Imelda Marcos-ish shoe collection, and the hotels I stay in when I travel.  (Seriously, if I won a lottery, you would actually be able to pinpoint the day in the monthly retail sales results.)  But this guy?  He didn't look like someone who aspired to great wealth, he looked like someone who slept in a ditch.  Never combed his hair or brushed his teeth.  Wasn't interested in travel.  Didn't want to help his family, based on the many comments about going off the radar to keep his mooching relatives away.  And he wasn't poor!  He had a house, a car, a pension, and was about to retire.  The only thing we knew that he liked was Pepsi.  What did he want with millions of dollars?  Did he want to ride out his golden years in a villa next to George Clooney on lake Como?  To steal Gisele Bundchen from Tom Brady?  What? 

I never did find out.  He retired, so I guess he just buys tickets for himself now.  I hope he found a hobby.  Hell, I hope he wins the lottery.  I really want to know what he'd do with all that money...

New Old York

"You'll love Toronto, Liz.  It's just like New York, but without all the stuff!"
- Gavin Volure, as played by Steve Martin, 30 Rock


I live in Toronto, but I love New York.  I've loved it from my first visit as a teenager , when I stayed at the Edison, and Times Square was still seedy and gross, to my most recent visit a few months ago, when I stayed at the Sofitel, and ate at Balthazar and Babbo again.  I learned to love New York from movies as old as The Thin Man, to The Godfather and When Harry Met Sally. The joke is how many New York movies were actually shot in Toronto.

Spring St on Adelaide St

Yes, this has been going on for decades.  Whenever our dollar is in the toilet, the American productions ramp up.  Legend had it that set designers used to have to make "garbage" to litter our streets, since Toronto was so tidy it just didn't look authentic.  Thanks to Rudy and Bloomberg cleaning up New York, and Rob Ford turning Toronto into the World's Largest Crack Den, I think now we provide all the garbage needed for the New York look.  You're welcome, producers!

The thing we don't provide is New York subway entrances, so production companies have been slapping them together all over the downtown core:

Wall St on Bay St

Trust me, this ain't New York, but we have been wannabes for centuries.  Hell, this place was even called York, originally.  No matter how many condos we call The Hudson or, God help me,  The Rockefeller, this is Toronto.  We do have tall buildings, lots of money, and assholes in fancy suits, so I guess that's close enough.

It would be nice if, on occasion, Toronto could play itself in a movie. Better yet, now that Grand Central Station has a Tim Horton's, maybe some day down the road, New York will be dressed up like Toronto for a movie shoot!

Patio Thunderdome

Café de Flore, the best patio in the world.

When you live in Toronto, beautiful summer days are more anticipated than new Rob Ford crack videos.  And more rare! You'll see idiots in skate shorts as soon as the temperature stays above freezing for more than 3 consecutive days.  Then, we start eyeing patios, waiting for the furniture to come out.  As soon as it does, regardless of temperature, summer is on, baby!  Coats and heat lamps are required, but we're outside, dammit.

The past few weeks have been really glorious, so last Friday I decided to meet a few friends at a downtown patio after work.  I was not alone.  If you wait too late, you're screwed, and relegated to some inside seat where you stare out at the lucky bastards whose bosses didn't see them skip out early, or you end up on a patio in a sketchy neigbourhood, where a homeless guy will show you his infected foot while you drink your wine. I was not going to let that happen.  Bring on Patio Thunderdome.

I left work early (this is why they give us BlackBerrys, right?), and I practically ran up Bay St. to Mercatto, in the Eaton Centre.  They have my favourite central patio. Yeah, you can sometimes get accosted by homeless guys there, but it faces Trinity Square and a little park, so there's enough greenery to make you forget the concrete jungle for a while. The downtown core has plenty of options, but the ones closes to the financial centre are not my scene.  I am rarely in the mood to listen to guys in pink ties talk about how much money they make.  Those places were already crawling with d-bags, so I knew I had to get moving. I was walking with the urgency of someone trying to get to the bank to make a mortgage payment so they don't foreclose on your house.  I jaywalked, I bumped into a few people, and I ran in front of a couple clearly going to the same place as me, but you do what you have to in the Thunderdome. My efforts were rewarded.  I got there in time to grab a great table, and to be one glass of Prosecco in before my friends arrived.

Summer is precious when you live in this bitch of a climate, so I will probably be knocking people over to get patio tables from now until October.  If you see me coming, it's best to just move out of the way.  Cheers!

A Hundred Pounds of Vogue

The recent Kimye issue was the first Vogue I haven't bought since May of 1986. (I still have that one, by the way). It's not the cover subjects' fault, really; I truly have no understanding of who they are. But I know who they are not- fashion models!

Now THAT'S a Vogue cover!

I started buying Vogue as a brand new teenager, during the Grace Mirabella era.  A while ago, my mom demanded that I get my collection the hell out of her closets, so I brought about a hundred pounds worth home after a recent visit (just the tip of the iceberg, I should add).  One look at the covers, and I was right back in the 80s, wanting big hair and shoulder pads.  I hate to admit it, but when I look back at those issues, I really think I prefer them. Sure, there were ads for L'Eggs pantyhose and about 100 kinds of cigarettes, but the clothes were fabulous!

RITZ cigarettes by Yves Saint Laurent.  What the actual fuck?

She's got L'Eggs!

I can finally afford, if not the high end, at least the middle ground, and instead of powerful females in sumptuous Donna Karan work clothes, more often than not, I get endless spreads from the spectacularly artistic Grace Coddington of Natalia Vodianova dressed as Alice in Wonderland. I love Grace, but, yawn. It's OK, Vogue doesn't need me.  For every 40-something woman who bails, 10 teenage girls will start buying.  Hell, Beiber might be on the September issue.

She may not be rocking my world with her cover choices, but I do really admire Anna Wintour (I was on line behind her at a bank machine near Lincoln Center once.  When I told my friend Steve, he said "Ooh, girl, I bet you wish you had been dressed better." Gay guys know how to hurt you...). Every criticism that has been leveled at her is one that would never stick to a man.  She's strong and knows what she wants, and if you don't deliver, watch out.  That's called being a boss, people, not a bitch.  I have worked for plenty of men like that, and no one ever characterized them as anything other than strong.  She's been putting up with that bullshit for years, and just keeps right on being herself, which you have to love.

I hope Vogue and I can meet somewhere in the middle.  I'll keep buying it out of devotion, but please, Anna, more Karan and Kors and less Kimye, K?

PC Plus

Like clockwork.

When I grocery shop, I use my PC Plus card.  You collect points for purchasing whatever some computer program has decided they want you to buy that week, based on your past shopping habits. So Loblaws, the giant Canadian conglomerate owned by fashionable descendants of a baker, knows what I eat and when I buy it.  Even basic analysis should mean that every 4th week I get coupons for potato chips, chocolate, and tampax.  Get your shit together, PC plus.