The Quiet Man and I were ambling the streets of London last year when we spotted this pastry shop. 
I'm not a big fan of fussy desserts. I prefer straightforward American style treats, like brownies, chocolate chip cookies, lemon meringue pie, strawberry short cake, and donuts. At the edges of the case, almost wedged out by opera cakes dripping with ganache and flaky squares of millefeuille, was a plump and pillowy jelly donut. I plunked down my pounds and nibbled my way around Picadilly Circus with a dusting of powdered sugar as lipstick. It was phenomenal.
We met up with my siblings in front of a theatre to see 39 steps and I shared what I could of my jelly donut. My brother raced back to the pastry shop to buy his own jelly donut, but they were all gone. Mine was the last. (Ha, ha, Roy. That serves you right for all the chocolate chip cookies you have snatched out of my hands in our childhood. ) After our trip, I thought a lot about the food we ate in Europe: the crackly loaves of French bread, the creamy soft fresh mozzarella, the chocolate chip gelato, the dandelion-yellow butter from the Isle of Guernsey. But most especially, I thought about that London jelly donut and I knew I had to make them mine. All mine.
After the donut holes were fried, 
I used a medicine dropper to inject some warmed jelly into the center. 
Why, just look at all the multi-tasking you can do with your leftover medicinal supplies! Prudy's penny pinching pharmaceuticals! 
Jelly Donut HolesCombine buttermilk, eggs and sugar and blend well.
Beat in sifted dry ingredients.
Then stir in melted butter.
Roll or pat dough on floured board about 1/4 inch thick and cut with 2 1/2-inch doughnut cutter. Fry in hot fat (canola oil) (375° F) till golden brown on both sides. Drain on paper towels. Use a medicine dropper of pastry bag fitted with a tip to inject jelly deep inside the donut. Sprinkle with powdered sugar. Makes dozens of doughnut holes.
Right in the wood chips. Slithered his way through my parent's little grove of fruit trees too. And even though the posse of neighborhood men threw him over the fence into the great beyond, I still imagine he is there. 
Even when I dive into the swimming pool. Or when I run alone down to the sandbox to retrieve a charge's pair of missing flipflops. Or when I'm sitting in a lounge chair, reading a novel, I can imagine him slithering silently up my leg. Ssssss........ 
Have them mix up the batter side by side, while you dump in the ingredients; no sense in getting out the sugar twice. There, now that's done. After we had just poured the batters into the pan, my mother convinced us to run down to the high school and see the grad night decorations. The charges were game (as usual) even though I didn't really want to go (as usual), but my mother is awfully good at convincing me to come along (as usual). 
It was so fun and fabulous that we had to call my Dad and the neighbor and the Quiet Man and convince them to come up and take a look too. (My mom did the convincing; she's much better at it than I am.) When we raced home to pick them up, our weekend guests (3 of my sister's families with a combined total of 10 kids under the age of 10) had already begun to arrive, so my mom convinced them to come up and see it too. Some of them even stayed for the kick off fireworks, but I went home to work on my chipster topped brownies. And then we very nearly gobbled them all up before I could snap a picture. This was all I got:
They were declared extremely yummy by all. (Click
It might seem counter intuitive to serve hot potatoes at the official summer kick off weekend, but they are always a huge hit. I kid you not, I've made these AND potato salad AND put out potato chips for barbecues, and these hot potatoes always go first. (And then there are people like me, who take a heaping scoop of all three, and then go back for seconds.) They couldn't be simpler to put together; no peeling, no pre-cooking, and they always come out perfect. 
I don't like to admit it to myself, but she is now eight years old. That means I have roughly one decade left to tuck her into bed at night and listen to her practice violin and to make sure she at least tries the vegetables on her plate. It's like trying to hold tight to a handful of water; you can feel it slipping through your fingers before you get a solid grasp. I like to tell her that I will smash the clocks and throw away the calendars so she won't get any older, but she just rolls her eyes. She's old enough to know how ridiculous that is, even if her mother is silly enough to try it. (It almost worked for Frog and Toad.) Besides she was born old. And smart, too. It's tough to be in charge around here. 
It's the story of a bossy, yet caring, older bunny sister with an unpredictable and very silly little brother bunny. The only clear difference between Max and Ruby and my two charges is that Max and Ruby are rabbits. Other than that, the distinction is fuzzy.
while Max fashions a crude mud and worm cake. 
So for our quadruple cousins birthday party, we had Ruby's lovely cake...
And Max's yuckamucka cake.
Was I wrong to include that photo? Egads, it is unsightly. It didn't bother the under-12 year old party goers. They actually preferred Max's cake and specifically requested their own gummy worm. We won't dwell on that one. Let's dwell on this cake instead:
This one is worth your time and attention. It's a fabulously light and fluffy buttermilk cake, filled with raspberries and cream and frosted with some pink tinted whipped cream. I wish I had a piece right now for breakfast. It so festive and purdy, just perfect for a special celebration. Make a wish, birthday girls! And don't bother wishing for time to slow down, because it doesn't work. Better just have another piece of cake and enjoy it all while you can!
I borrowed them last night when they were out to dinner wiwth friends. By the way Mom, can I borrow your dried mangoes? OK, thanks. And now that I have them, I think I want some in a salad, so you may not get them back right away. Thanks again. These snack cakes were really yummy. The mango flavor wasn't pronounced, but present. They tasted like little gingerbread spice cakes with a touch of the tropics. They'd be lovely for breakfast, an afterschool snack, or for a casual dessert like we had last night. Come on back tomorrow for a Max and Ruby raspberry fluff birthday cake. 
There are so many events worth celebrating this time of year: weddings, baby showers, mom and dad's day, recitals, end of year parties, and of course graduations. And even though my little ones are learning at home, I've never been one to turn away an opportunity for a potential party. My sister Heidi suggested that we come for a weekend visit and have a mini homeschool graduation together for our pint-sized scholars. Decked out in black construction paper graduation hats with yarn tassels, the students solemnly marched forward to Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance. My Westy-boy gave a report on ancient civilizations focusing particularly on Ancient Egypt and China, 
followed by my Sailor-girl's study on World War II and post war communism. 
Heidi's little girl explained the importance of the -at family for reading words like cat, rat, bat, and even that, which is always good to remember so you won't get stuck when plowing through Dr. Seuss. 
And for a little comic relief, Heidi's little boy shared a collection of his favorite riddles. He has a strand of hilarity woven into his DNA from his dead-on witty dad, so it's good to know he is honing his skills to entertain us for the rest of our lives. 
After receiving their diplomas, rolled into a tube and tied with yellow ribbon which led West to falsely believe it was a pirate map, we gathered the group into the car and headed to an indoor bouncy warehouse. 
We saved treats for last, because speaking from experience, it is always better for everyone to bounce before eating treats. Because I said so, that's why. 
But harvest is best of all because fussy young charges take a suprisingly active interest in what they are bringing in for dinner. 
I'm not quite ready to rename them Peter Cottontail or Mopsy, but they are surely beginning to appreciate the sweetness of soft baby spinaches and the zing of candy colored radishes. (And another big step is my Sailor girl is wearing her jeans! Only to garden, but still.)
Not that they wouldn't prefer Mesquite Barbecue Chips or a cone of Baskin Robbin's mint chip, but I think we are taking a step in the right direction. And while, I'm a fan of chips and ice cream myself, I like this salad so much better. It's so fantastic that if I don't get off my current kick of eating it nightly, I'll soon have nothing else to post about. It could be Southwestern Tossed Salad all summer long. Then again, that mint chip ice cream cone sounded pretty good. Maybe I should plant some mint... Have a great weekend everyone! 
