It's popsicle week. I'm coming in just under the wire!

The last time my brother and I had dinner he brought me a present.  A cutting from his lush wandering jew. He had planted the little stem carefully in a bit of soil and made a small newspaper pot to transport it. He had carried it in hands on the subway all the way to Brooklyn, where I was living at the time. It’s the last physical gift he ever gave me. 

Our Whole Foods has a cookie bar. It looks like a salad bar but it’s stocked with cookies. Genius idea. I don’t know what the cookies taste like. Shockingly I’ve never succumbed to their calls. But they look appetizing. No matter how stale they must be. No matter how dry I’m sure they are. Piles of cookies look unbearably good. And seeing a setup that usually holds spinach and arugula replaced by shortbread and chocolate chips just makes the brain short circuit a little.

I feel like a miss. But lately I’ve been getting ma’amed all over town. I live in a youngish neighborhood by some standards. Perhaps in that context I look especially ma’am-like? I only have a handful of grey hairs. Maybe it’s the fact that my gums are receding and my teeth are just a bit gappier than they were before. I didn’t think that was noticeable. 

Michael Pollan is involved in some questionable stuff.

There once was a girl who loved munchkins
She couldn’t but eat them in bunchkins
She loved them so dearly
That when a shop opened nearly
She said “Yum! That will make a great lunchkins.”

Imagine a soft pudgy marshmallow. Naked and vulnerable. What would happen if you put that marshmallow on the surface of the sun? Exactly what happens when a kid plunks her baby-soft finger in molten hot caramel. How do I know? Don’t worry. I’m alright now.

I just counted—between us, Gus and I have 10 pairs of gym shoes. That’s 20 shoes for 4 feet and zero closets. Are we hoarders?

Ok. I checked the bathroom. Six toothbrushes. Two faces. Confirmed hoarders. 

I’m so glad that Birkenstocks are acceptable again. Almost cool. Over the past couple of years I’ve seem them on fashionable New Yorkers, and I just bought a pair. I had forgotten how comfy they are. They’re still not exactly good looking, but I like them. They feel sort of age appropriate in a nice way.

Yesterday I didn’t step outside of my apartment once. I didn’t take a shower until just before bed. I won’t even tell you at what time I remembered to brush my teeth. It’s countdown to book deadline around here! 

One week. I’m feeling great. I have a plan of action. I even have a social plan or two for the evenings to keep me sane. And I know, in the back of my mind, that my contract includes a 45-day grace period should I need it. But that’s a crutch I’m going to try to run away from with my two good legs.

I know what you’re thinking. You probably read the title of this post and shook your head. Maybe you scrolled through the pictures disapprovingly. “My land,” you thought, “this woman is obsessed with custard.” And you know what? You’re absolutely right. It’s shameful. I am. But this week I have an excuse. This week I’m passing the buck. This week I’m blaming three other people. Custard haters, please send your complaints to John Cheever, my husband Gus, and John McPhee.

Let me tell you how I’ve been spending my evenings up here in Maine. We wrap up dinner around 6:30, nice and early. It’s wonderful to sit on the screened-in porch and watch the light change and feel the air cool down. At the end of the meal, we sit around and chat. Then my father-in-law John gets up and clears the plates and starts the dishes. And it’s usually about that time that I’m struck by a genius idea. Every night it’s the same idea, but somehow it always seems fresh. And then I ask:

Anyone want ice cream?

I was just thinking about middle school. The oversized LL Bean backpack that I insisted on wearing on one shoulder despite the threat of scoliosis. Braces that made me look so unattractive (the perm didn’t help) that one popular boy, who barely spoke to me otherwise, was moved enough to tell me how much better I looked the day they were removed. He seemed utterly relieved on my behalf.  Keds. Dirty white Keds.

Some people celebrate with champagne. I go for doughnuts. I need a special occasion for deep fat frying. This week I have one. Love, Cake is one year old! So what’s going to happen on this blogiversary?  I’m going to express my heartfelt gratitude. Get out the deep fryer. There will be plenty of fat but I'll try not to get too schmaltzy. 

Someone was on our roof at 5:38am on Tuesday morning. Only about 2 inches of ceiling separates our apartment and the sky. I know because we can see the bottom half of all the nails that hold our roof together. Any movement above us basically sounds like Bigfoot doing a lively jig. At first I was mad. Then I decided to get up, make coffee, and get an unpleasant gym visit out of the way. Beauty rest be damned. 

This week I asked Gus what he thought I should make for the blog. “Chocolate pudding!” Well, I aim to please! Here you go.

Just kidding. It wasn't that easy. I was annoyed at his lack of creativity. The truth is, right when I asked him, we were both coming off a high from this dairy-free quinoa pudding I had just made. I know quinoa pudding may not necessarily get you salivating, but trust me, quinoa pudding is much more delicious than it sounds. Anyway, after that successful pudding, Gus wanted more pudding. (It makes so much sense that we’re married.) And this time he wanted a really good chocolate pudding.

We live in a studio in a small building. It’s cozy and lovely. The building was built in the late 1800’s and a lot of the original, pretty wrought-iron stairway railing remains alongside the six flights we walk up to our home. There are still mysterious doors in the hallway that hide the space where communal toilets were years ago. I think the super uses them as broom closets now. (I did spy a reeeeaaally old commode when one door happened to be open. Neat and gross!) We have pretty exposed beams across the ceiling, really beat up wood floors, and a kind of ugly but warming brick wall. All in all, I feel extremely lucky to live here.

Do you remember the first time you tasted biscotti? Do you remember what ran through your mind? Perhaps it was something along the lines of, “This stupid cookie stick is stale. Rude.” That was my first reaction. But then again, I was just a kid. I didn’t know that biscotti are supposed to be hard. I didn’t know anything about drinking coffee. And I didn’t know that the singular of biscotti is biscotto. I’ve come a long way.

My friends and I rented a run-down, drafty house during our last two years of college. The kitchen was far from perfect. It had dingy linoleum floors covered with a film of salt and mud from our snowy boots and mysterious sticky patches from the last party. Fat carpenter ant carcasses dotted the faded countertops because B, one of my more courageous roommates, was in the habit of smooshing them with her thumb but not in the habit of disposing of the bodies. Thinking about whatever might have lurked in the dank darkness of the cupboards gives me the shivers even now. But, despite all of that, the four of us roommates were into good food and we were always excited to take up a cooking project together.

Can geckos regrow their tails? Absolutely. (And apparently the severed limb keeps moving once disconnected!) How's Jody Sweetin doing? Much better, thank goodness. What did we do before the internet?

The other day I was thinking of one of the songs my brother and I used to sing together. It was about milk, and it was on Sesame Street. "Milk. So good. So warm and white." Seriously catchy stuff. I was curious to hear the real version and it took exactly 2 seconds of searching. You are the best, World Wide Web.

I love this video. Watch a little bit if you have a second:

Sesame Street Milk Song

In the spirit of love and collaboration, my husband Gus has decided to guest post this week. Don't believe a word he says.

xo Sam

Believe me, I am as shocked and pleased by this as you are. I was definitely not expecting my wife Sam to invite me to do this guest post for Valentine’s Day. First of all, I assumed that she already knew how to make hot fudge. I have to admit that I am a bit surprised that she doesn’t, even after graduating from culinary school and so forth, but I am very happy to help her learn. It is so fun to team up as a couple! Love comma cake indeed!