i'd rather be baking

In the midst of the cold and snow that was last week, I found myself dreaming of the South. Yes, the South. If you know me at all, you’ll know that this is a little odd.

Yes, I spent a good chunk of my formative years in Arkansas, and yes, my husband spent his entire life there (until recently). I love my friends, family, and the Ozarks as much as the next girl, but really, the South isn’t my favorite. I like the ocean. And winter, generally. You can see how this would be a problem.

But here’s the newsflash: it’s warm in the South. It doesn’t snow there in May. People call you “honey” and “dear” and make ridiculously good food. And what do I think of when I think of all of these things? The fantastic Pioneer Woman.

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I think that if, by some cruel trick, I had to discard my growing cookbook collection and keep just one, it would be this one. Without much of a contest. America’s Test Kitchen knows their stuff and never ceases to provide inspiration.

Their recipes also provide great hacking potential. Now I know, that sort of defeats their entire purpose – they like to work the kinks out of a recipe so that you can prepare it exactly as written, with great results. That’s all well and good, but sometimes I get bored.

These tiny, flavor-filled strawberry cakes were born of an entirely different recipe, for a moist, coffee cake-like thing filled with blueberries, that I’ve made a zillion times. It’s always delicious, but guess what? It’s not blueberry season.

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I’ve had a hankering for coconut cupcakes for the past week or so. Sometimes a girl just needs some coconut.

After flipping through my favorite cookbooks and finding nothing to satisfy this craving, I naturally consulted the trusty interwebs. I was disappointed to find that every coconut cupcake recipe seemingly worth its salt contained either three sticks of butter or a large helping of coconut milk. I’m sure both yield delicious cupcakes, but I’m not sure which is worse, nutrition-wise.

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Ryan’s birthday was last week, and with a little bit of trepidation, I broke out the bundt pan. Twice. In one day.

I realize this may seem silly, but I have some anxiety when it comes to bundt pans. They hold the potential to turn an otherwise-perfectly-prepared cake into either a glorious triumph or a colossal disaster. There are two many what-ifs. I like control.

And yet, I found myself breaking out the dreaded bundt not once but twice. First at an ungodly hour of the morning (somewhere around seven) for monkey bread and secondly for carrot cake, per the birthday boy’s request.

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