I say, my good man. Lorry pram bumbershoot wanker.

Sorry, that’s me getting my British on, because tonight’s rogan josh – a warmly spiced lamb curry – comes from the “Britain” chapter of Curry Cuisine (a fine tome, available at Amazon for a scant $14). Excuse me while I go neglect my teeth and take in some absurdist comedy.

As you can see, I have an excellent grasp of what it means to be British.

Back to the rogan josh, the star of tonight’s show: it’s a spicy (but not hot), yogurty (but not painfully creamy) lamb curry from the Kashmir. It’s an aromatic medley of ginger, turmeric, mild red Kashmiri chile (for which paprika makes an excellent stand-in), cumin, fennel and coriander, among other things.

Those other things being cardamom, cinnamon, bay, cloves and black peppercorns. I swirled the whole spices around in some hot oil while I got the ground spices together and hacked a lamb shoulder to pieces with a dull knife. The shoulder Fresh Direct brought me was a bit more than I needed, so two very lucky dogs got lamb scraps in their dinner tonight, causing them to follow me around for the rest of the evening with pleading eyes. Please, they are saying, we need more lamb or WE WILL DIE.

I WILL NOT SUCCUMB, YOU LYING ANIMALS.

A grated onion and several cloves of garlic joined the whole spices; I stirred them around until the onion started to turn golden and then fetched the lamb.

These lamb chunks somehow fail to fully bear witness to the violence I inflicted with that dull knife.

So, I’ve been reading Dianne Jacobs’ Will Write for Food, which is, so far, as helpful as promised. In one chapter, she harps on the fact that your first draft is usually a piece of shit, and everything – from a feature piece in Bon Appetit to a lowly blog post – needs to be wheedled and massaged to be readable. Which is totally true, but then I got to thinking: because of how this blog is structured, I’m always writing in the moment. I just cooked this lamb, I’m writing immediately after and I’ll publish this tonight.

So, of necessity, you’re ALWAYS getting my first draft, which essentially means that you’re always getting the crappiest possible writing I can generate.

I just thought you’d like to know that, dear readers.

The lamb went into the pan to get tossed hither and yon with the onion and spice mix, spent a few minutes getting nice and brown and was then coated with the ground spices.

(See, look at me using the passive voice! If I were editing, I’d figure out how to re-write that sentence. But I’m not, so I won’t.)

Here’s where things started smelling really, really good. As the ground spices hit the heat, they sent up a heady plume that perfumed my kitchen, the rest of the house, the hallway outside our apartment and half of our block. You’re welcome, neighbors!

As instructed, I gradually added yogurt to the lamb mixture before adding enough water to barely cover the lamb. I left it to simmer along with a pot of jasmine rice while I hied to the sofa to read some more of Jacobs’ book and lament my overuse of adjectives.

I stirred occasionally even though I should have just left the pot alone; partly it satisfied my love of stirring bubbling liquids, and partly I needed to open the pot periodically to release more of the rogan josh’s aroma into the air. Seriously, this curry on the stove is better than any sneeze-inducing shit you’ll find at Yankee Candle. If you could bottle the smell of simmering rogan josh, I’d be huffing it on the sly all the live-long day.

The curry and rice were miraculously done at the same time, so dinner was actually hot all the way through. Well, mostly hot, considering it had to sit through a photo shoot before it could be consumed. So, warm all the way through: a triumph!

Thank god this tasted as good as it smelled, or this would have been a serious let-down. All the spices coalesce into a warm, comforting blend from which you are hard pressed to pick out individual flavors. The gamy flavor of the lamb still comes through, and the yogurt adds a noticeable tang that keeps things from feeling too heavy.

The long ingredient list aside, this didn’t take all that long to assemble, nor was it particularly challenging to cook, so it’s a viable option for a weeknight. (For example, I’m going to finish this post up in time to watch So You Think You Can Dance, thus squandering valuable time when I could be editing.) And I have to believe that it will taste even better tomorrow, making it a great candidate for weekend big-pot cooking to last for lunches and dinners through the week.

Ace! Brilliant!

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Last Week: Tamesha didn’t realize she was on Top Chef, not Top Scallop, and packed her knives. The Dropper may or may not have led her down the garden path.

9:02: Were you aware than Shaft is a beast in the kitchen? I don’t know if he’s mentioned it.

QUICKFIRE: Apparently, the 18th District of Illinois is represented by a middle schooler.

9:03: The first day of Congress school is on ethics, and I’m not even going to make a joke about that.

For the challenge, they’re creating an hors d’oeuvre that packs the punch of a full dish, in accordance with the Congressional toothpick rule, which has nothing to do with the size of Congressional dicks as one might think.

9:05: Kelly is making a scallop. So is Hopcraft. They both think they’re going to win obviously. HAVE WE LEARNED NOTHING?

9:06: Okay, with Alex of the serial killer glasses, that’s three scallops.

Amanda doesn’t so much have “an idea.” Or a “clue.” Or “skill.”

9:08: Ed is having a hard time conceptualizing anything and cannot “transport [his dish] to the stick. JUST STAB THE FOOD WITH THE STICK. THE END.

Tiffany’s pronunciation of “prosciutto”: stop. You are not Italian or Alex Trebek.

9:09: Amanda, smiling girlishly at the congressman isn’t going to work. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t play on your team.

9:10: Hopcraft’s wide-eyed hyperenthusiam makes me want to kick him. Hard. In a special place.

The top: Kevin, The Dropper and Hopcraft. “All I could think was: wow! There’s a lot on that stick.” Again, I’m not going to touch that, congressman.

Winner: The Dropper. Damn

9:12: Coming up, the show continues to force the fiction that is Tiffany and Ed down our throats.

9:14: Commercials. Do viewers of Top Chef enjoy Hard Justice? I know I do!

9:15: ELIMINATION: Power Lunch. They’ll be taking over the Palm restaurant, cooking one of 5 proteins on the Palm’s menu.

Alex is overwhelmed by the number of ways there are to cook salmon. Including well-done. Really? I’ll order the steak.

9:17: Andrea hates everything about the swordfish she’s drawn. We can only hope this doesn’t cause her to disrespect the fish

9:18: Are Power Lunches at the Palm served family style? Because those portions: whoa.

LeahRedux is cutting her Porterhouse off the bone, rendering it no longer a Porterhouse. Keep going, NotLeah, keep going! That’s a great idea! I mean it!

9:20: Those lobsters could kill a man and steal his car.

9:21: The extent of Ed and Tiffany’s relationship = a blase discussion of pea puree. Sexy!

Coming up: WHERE IS THE GODDAMN PEA PUREE?

9:24: Commercials. Why do I do much cooking when Jenny Craig produces suck satisfying premade meals? I’m a sucker.

Commenters, where art thou this evening? You are missed.

9:26: You can tell the Palm is classy because of all the caricatures on the wall.

The winning chef gets their dish put on the menu AND their picture on the wall. Can you imagine Hopcraft’s evil leprachaun mug leering an you while you’re trying to wag the dog? Creepy.

9:28: Colicchio enters the kitchen to make everyone nervous, thus upping the chance than someone will injure themselves.

9:29: Injury! Called it.

Has anyone seen Ed’s pea puree? Please?

If Alex actually did steal it? Lamest move ever.

9:31: The diners are Washington insiders, reporters and politicians. It takes a long time to introduce them all. I stop listening. Also there is Art Smith.

Every dish LeahRedux makes screams, “CULINARY SCHOOL!” You’re trained, we get it. Stop beating us about the head with your pommes, they’re fucking potatoes.

9:33: Someone has disrespected the fish, but it’s not Andrea. Well, she might have, by drowning it in butter.

9:34: The tinkly music of stolen pea puree plays in the background as Alex serves his salmon.

“Has John Podesta ever eaten anything but bile for Republicans?” (via @JeffHouck)

I’ve been over flavored foams since season one, as I assume we all have.

9:37: Art saw the love in those dishes, because Art is stoned.

Also: have you seen Ed’s pea puree?

9:40: Commercials. Being a father feels even better than it used to now that we have iPhones.

Are you fun? If you’re not, don’t even THINK about going to Mohegan Sun. Everyone’s invited…everyone who’s fun, that is. You’re probably not fun enough.

9:42: Pointless interlude. Hopcraft’s sense of humor is a gift. Everything else about him is a curse, but that’s just me. The other chefs seem to think he’s funny, probably because they’re drunk.

9:45: Maybe you haven’t realized, but there’s some sort of drama about a pea puree.

9:46: JUDGE’S TABLE. Top three: Alex, Tiffany and Ed.

Ed shows a moment of personality, but only a moment.

Art goes on and on about the beauty of the pea puree. And on…and Alex gets the win.

9:48: Ed looks nonplussed. Which he usually does, but this time it’s gravid with meaning.

Alex: “It’s gotta be your own food on the plate,” except when it’s not.

I’m sorry: the theft was alleged. Innocent until proven guilty, and all that jazz.

9:49: Bottom three; Kelly, Andrea and Kevin.

9:51: Kelly committed the fatal flaw of oversalting. Fatal flaw, and that is not hyperbole.

Padma dismisses them with the most perfunctory “That’s all.”

9:53: Art Smith looks like he’s going to a Cuban wedding, not coming from a Power Lunch.

9:55: Commercials. The dogs were watching the show with me. They’ve fallen asleep. I think it’s an editorial comment.

9:57: The three of you all sucked in a variety of ways. Andrea, pack ‘em up.

9:58: “I don’t need four people behind a table to tell me that I can cook.” No, but you do need them to give you $100,000. You didn’t fail to “play the game,” you cooked crappy food, AKA disrespecting the fish. Deal. Maybe you should have stolen the pea puree.

Next Week: Do they even EAT food in Brazil? And Marcus Samuelsson in a hat.

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This totally makes up for those polenta squares filled with cheese. Seasonality, thy name is Thursday Night Smackdown!

Tonight, a summerific chilled corn soup with a little tomato-peach salad and spicy seared shrimp. I decided on this meal to showcase the bounty of New Jersey summers, which are redolent with all the main ingredients in this dinner. Some of it was even harvested from my very own backyard, where “some” equals “two flavorful but pathetically dwarfish plum tomatoes.”*

I chopped the fruit and veg for the salad first, so they could sit together and meld while I made the soup. It’s really more of a chunky salsa, but I’m choosing to call it a chopped salad because I like the way that sounds. A ripe peach, a few tomatoes, half a red onion and a pinch of salt later, I set the salad aside to stew in its own juices.

*Not meant to insult little people.**

**If I really cared, I would just say “small” or “undersized,” wouldn’t I? But I didn’t. I’m obviously a heartless, sizist bitch.***

***Oh asides, how I’ve missed you! It’s been too long.

Shucking corn indoors is almost, but not quite, an impediment to dealing with corn at all; the fricking silk worms its way into everything and onto everyone, and you spend half your cooking time chasing errant strings around the house. Hooray for open floor plan living!

Once the corn was wrangled, I mercilessly hacked the kernels from the cob with such violence that several of them flew a considerable distance. I get a little uppity, because a corn cob killed my uncle.

The corn nubbins joined a small potato (to add body to the soup) and a sweet onion in some gently foaming butter, where they relaxed for a few minutes before being unceremoniously doused with stock and left to simmer.

Once the kernels and potato were tender, they took a one-way ride in the Blendertron with some milk, with the resulting liquid forced through a sieve to achieve Ultimate Smoothness. I did it twice to assure that I’d have a perfectly creamy base unsullied by any hint of cellulose and then I had a psychotic break, because who the hell am I with this double-straining? I don’t even like straining things once.

That Thomas Keller, he sneaks into your head like a ninja all Inception-like and plants his love of sieves without you even realizing.

Eerie.

Corn soup alone does not a dinner make, so while the soup chilled I found some shrimp of questionable age in the freezer and decided to thaw them out and cook them off. Obviously, if you’re a vegetarian, you could nix the shrimp (even the milk and butter, if you’re vegan) and pair this with a hearty salad or a grilled cheese sandwich.

Ha ha, I kid! As though there are any vegetarians here! Or vegans; if there are any, I’m pretty sure they’re just monitoring things for the next time vegans are insulted. Hello, defensive vegans!

Anyway, I dusted the shrimp with chile powder and paprika, hit them with salt and seared them quickly in olive oil.

I ladled some soup into a bowl, heaped some of the chopped salad in the center and propped a couple of shrimp around, a miniature, edible fort-with-moat.

This dinner was satisfying in so many ways. First off, it was painfully seasonal, so I got to pat myself on the back for that and feel self-satisfied.

In addition to feeding my ego, it was also deeply satisfying to my mouth and gut. It was a lively mix of visuals and temperatures and textures and tastes – the confetti of the salad against a bright yellow field; cold soup against hot shrimp; creamy puree highlighting the crunchy salad; sweet corn and peach, acidic tomatoes and biting onions paired with spicy shrimp. It was an interesting twist on the peach salsas and corn-and-tomato salads that pop up so often at this time of year that was as fun to eat as it looked.

Brian, to torment me, described the dish variously as “fine,” “okay,” and “adequate,” but his scraped-clean bowl belies his disaffected nature. This is a winner.

Chilled Corn Soup with Peach-Tomato Salad
Serves 2 as a main, 4 as a first course

1 large ripe peach
3-4 ripe tomatoes
1 small red onion
1 tbsp. butter
3 cobs of corn
1 small yellow onion
1 red potato
2 cups stock (chicken or veg, your choice)
1/4 c. milk or cream
8 large shrimp
1 tsp. chile powder
1 tsp. paprika
salt
2 tbsp. olive oil

Make the salad: Dice the peach, tomatoes and red onion into relatively even-sized pieces. Toss with a pinch of salt, and let sit.

Make the soup: Chop the yellow onion roughly. Peel and chop the potato. Cut the kernels off the corn cobs.

Heat a saucepan over medium heat and add the butter. When it melts, add the onion, potato and corn. Saute for a few minutes, then add the stock and a pinch of salt. Simmer until the corn and potato are tender, 10 or 15 minutes.

Blend the corn mixture with the milk/cream, passing the soup through a sieve after it’s been blended. Check the seasoning and add more salt if needed; depends on the salinity of your stock. Chill.

When you’re ready to eat…

Make the shrimp: Heat a heavy skillet over medium-high heat; add the olive oil. Dust the shrimp with the chile and paprika and sprinkle with salt. Sear, a minute or two per side, until shrimp are just cooked through.

Assemble: Ladle the soup into bowls. Spoon a pile of salad in the middle, and place shrimp around salad. Serve immediately.

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Etsy strikes again!

This time in the form of Saltron and Pepperbot, a pair of roly poly little spice-dispensing robots. I don’t currently have an S&P set, and I think it’s because I’ve been waiting for Saltron and I didn’t even know it.

Also: Having Etsy linked to my PayPal account = DANGER, WILL ROBINSON. Frigging crafters and their frigging cute shit. STOP BEING SO DAMN CREATIVE.

Also, a question: would there be an interest in a holiday guide collecting the year’s Awesome Shit? Leave a comment!

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Recipe from The New Best Recipe

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Don’t make me regret turning off So You Think You Can Dance, show.

Last Week: Shaft and The Dropper butted antlers to see who would be the pack leader. Smoove B packed his knives and went.

9:02: Smoove B was the “father figure” in the house? That’s a dysfunctional family.

Michelle Bernstein with a kicky new haircut!

9:03: QUICKFIRE: Outlandish ingredients. Foie and frog legs seems unfair, when someone gets stuck with duck nuts.

Ed tells a story about duck nuts that should be at least somewhat amusing, but it’s Ed.

9:05: Sentence I’d hoped never to hear in regards to edibles: “I’m going to do a testicle marshmallow.”

Testicle Marshmallows is the name of the emo band I had when I was 14.

9:06: A TWEEST! Each chef has to take over the protein to their left.

9:08: Duck tongue soup does not look like something I want to eat. Ever.

Andrea’s knickers are in a twist over being judged by Michelle Bernstein, possibly because Michelle has the far superior version of their hair.

Hopcraft can’t help but snicker as Padma eats the duck nuts, because he is 11.

9:10: Hopcraft’s frog legs are insipid. Sad. Then again, Hopcraft is pretty insipid in general, so it was probably inevitable.

9:11: Winner: after the commercial. But potentially LeahRedux, so let’s all hope that’s not the case.

Not the winner: Andrea. Question: If you’re as good as Michelle Bernstein, why are you on this show? Just asking.

9:14: Commercials. I think I’ll just re-read Ramona and Beezus, but thanks anyway, Hollywood.

9:15: Winner: Kelly! Who I don’t particularly like, but I like LeahRedux even less.

9:16: ELIMINATION CHALLENGE: Make a dish best served cold. Chefs are split into two groups, and they’ll be serving to the opposing team as well as the judges. Get ready to get your bitchy on, chefs.

They’ll do their menu planning while they sail around the Potomac, for no apparent reason.

9:18: They’re on a motherfucking boat, ya’ll.

Kevin is a SPY! Shaft thinks everyone is out to get him, possibly because he’s set himself up as someone who should be gotten.

9:19: I can’t believe that Tiffany REALLY likes Ed. She seems like a reasonably interesting person who’s not in a coma.

9:20: The Dropper manhandles the salmon.

Alex sagely points out that the hard part of the challenge is not knowing what the other chefs are going to say. Unlike all the other challenges, where the judges drop obvious hints.

Coming up: Tamesha is the silent killer.

9:23: The official Dial poll question: Would you ever eat duck testicles? I’ll bet you a dollar that the answer is “no.” Any takers?

Commercials. There’s something new inside your McDonald’s Happy Meal. It’s called extruded beef product! Oh, my bad, apparently it’s called hope.

9:26: Andrea is still harping on Michelle Bernstein. You know, she could have been Michelle Bernstein if she hadn’t chosen to have kids. And had more talent. Also, way to throw your kids under the bus!

9:27: Tamesha could “strangle [LeahRedux] in a heartbeat,” and says it with the world’s straightest face. It’s chilling.

9:29: The power is going to Hopcraft’s head. Down, Hopcraft.

Meanwhile, Ed can’t imagine that anyone will take him down for personal reasons, because he doesn’t know the hidden evil that is Hopcraft.

9:32: Tamesha knows she can “be a bit harsh.” That is, she will cut a bitch.

9:34: When you’re more of a dick than Tom Colicchio? You’re a Dick.

9:35: Shaft is going down. But I’m sure it wasn’t personal.

The way Hopcraft says there was no scheming? Completely makes him sound like a schemer. Way to be subtle, Hopcraft.

9:38: Commercials. Italy’s cultural and culinary heritage has found its fullest expression in Buitoni pasta.

9:39: Pointless interlude. ANGELO CAN CONTROL YOUR THOUGHTS. Also Ed used to have sex with Angelo’s girlfriend. Aaand, CURTAIN. Ed: one classy motherfucker.

Also: Angelo? Girls?

9:43: Don’t second guess yourself, Tiffany! Except re: your relationship with Ed.

The Dropper, to his server: “Be careful, it’s like a baby.”

9:44: Andrea made a trio of tar-tars.

The Dropper needs to stop describing his food as “beautiful.”

9:45: Ed: “I couldn’t taste the beef at all. It’s like that saying: where’s the beef.” 1987 wants its reference back, Ed. But nice try at having a personality.

9:46: Tiffany is deemed tops, while the chefs politely refrain from going after The Dropper, who perhaps can actually control their thoughts.

If the editing is correct, the Stew Room is actually in the US Capitol.

9:48: Stew room. Shaft doesn’t understand why he’s on the bottom. Really, you don’t understand? I bet you do.

Tiffany and Kevin are tops.

9:49: Winner: Kevin! He wins a Hawaiian vacation. Also, welcome to my consciousness, Kevin!

9:50: The bottom: Tamesha and Shaft.

Tamesha stands behind her dish, but would make changes. Sure.

9:51: Tamesha disrespected the scallop. And then she quietly garrottes Tom.

9:52: Shaft thinks he’s there because he’s a threat, and Michelle Bernstein quickly disabuses him of that notion.

9:54: Commercials. Is Top Chef: Just Desserts a good thing, or are we all going to suffer Top Chef Burnout?

Then again, it does mean we get to see more of Gail and the girls.

9:57: Apparently, 30% of the Top Chef viewing audience would gladly eat duck testicles, so you totally should have taken that bet.

9:58: Knifed: Tamesha. Watch your back in the parking lot, Padma.

Next Week: Tiffany and Ed have a relationship. REALLY.  And pea puree shenanigans.

Thanks for hanging out, ya’ll! Off to check out your comments.

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And The Taco Rule is in full effect.

Do you not know The Taco Rule? You should. We often invoke it around these parts, even when no tacos are involved. The Taco Rule says that when tacos are eaten for dinner, you have to keep eating until all the taco meat is gone. Brian is the originator of the rule, which seems sensible enough, so we follow it.

Usually, the rule applies to the ground beef/Old El Paso variety of taco meat – which is full of delicious nostalgia – but tonight we applied it to some cumin, lime and garlic marinated skirt steak with avocado and fresh pico de gallo.

Like you need a rule to convince you to keep eating that.

Above: jalapeños growing in my garden, which I picked tonight for the pico, making me feel decidedly Suzy Homemaker-esque.

Above: Looks like dog puke.

It’s not dog puke, I swear. It’s skirt steak in the cumin-lime-garlic paste I threw together to flavor the meat. I would tell you more about it, but that’s pretty much all that’s in it, so it would be useless padding. Because you know how I’m a stickler for staying on-topic.

Okay, there’s some salt in it too. Which was kind of a wild card, because I ran out of kosher salt and had to use regular table salt. I’m so used to measuring kosher salt with my fingers that I no longer have any concept of table salt, which is saltier than kosher, so there was a strong chance that I could have accidentally salt-preserved my beef.

Look, now you’ve made me ramble.

While the beef sat in its potentially desiccating salt bath, I chopped the veggies for the pico. Above, photos of pico in-process with wildly varying levels of white balance despite being taken in the same location with the same camera on the same settings.

Damn fluctuating natural light. Thou art so lovely, but so fickle.

Fresh pico stays in my fridge pretty much all summer. If I manage not to scarf it all down with a bag of tortilla chips, it’s great with almost any grilled meat. Unfortunately, I rarely manage to avoid housing that shit.

Above is an avocado. Did you think I could make it through an entire post without using the macro lens? Foolish grasshopper.

Brian got home too late to grill – yes, there is such a thing, although those who know Brian may doubt it – so I seared off the meat in a smoking hot cast iron skillet. A few minutes on each side created a nice crust while keeping the inside perfectly medium rare. I let it rest for a few minutes before slicing carefully across the grain.

This might have been a tight-ass meal except that I stopped at Citarella, the fancy-pants grocery store, to pick up the food. And Citarella, of course, only had prime skirt steak, so these actually ended up being the most expensive tacos I’ve ever had.

I piled meat and veg into a warm tortilla and got started applying The Rule.

For a taco, this is pretty refreshing. The bite of the onion, heat of the fresh chile, the acid of the tomatoes and the brightness of the lime keep things light. Aside from all the chopping for the pico, it’s quick to throw together; perfect for a warm summer night, especially since you’re only in front of the stove for a few minutes.

As was required, we saw The Taco Rule through to its inevitable conclusion.

Cumin and Lime Crusted Skirt Steak
1 lb. skirt steak
3 limes
1 tbsp. olive oil
5 cloves of garlic
1 tsp. chile powder
4 tbsp. cumin
1/2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. veg oil

Cut the steak into 4-inch lengths. Put the meat in a shallow dish.

Juice the limes. Put the garlic through a press (or grate with a microplane) into the lime juice; whisk in the chile powder, cumin, olive oil and salt.

Pour the lime mixture over the steak and toss to coat. Let the steak sit in the marinade at room temperature for 1 hour.

Heat a heavy skillet/cast iron pan over high heat; add the veg oil. When the oil is just smoking, add the steak. Cook for 3-5 minutes on each side; more time if you like things more well done, less if you like it rare.

Remove the meat from the pan and let rest for at least 5 minutes. Slice across the grain into thin slices.

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Bling out your countertop.

It’s big. It’s gold. It looks like a giant can.

It is, in fact, a biscuit tin. Which sounds ever so much more dignified than “cookie jar,” doesn’t it? I think my new affectation will be calling cookie jars “biscuit tins.”

Because when was the last time you bought your countertop a nice piece of jewelery? (From The Future Perfect.) And after all your countertop has done for you. I mean, really.

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Getting drunk AND eating cake? It’s the best of all possible desserts!

Of course it is, because it’s a David Lebovitz dessert: Bahamian rum cake from Ready for Dessert. David is already my ice cream guru, so why not also a rum cake guru? Not a bad title to have.

I was having trouble deciding whether to make brownies (easier and quicker but not so exciting) or rum cake (longer and more involved but filled with liquor), so I turned to my Facebookers. My Facebookers are a greedy bunch who would not deign to answer my question, instead agitating for rum brownies. Gluttons.

I decided to leave the rum brownies to David and went with the rum cake (thank you, Jane, for being decisive!).

The batter was a pretty standard affair: cream butter and sugar, add eggs, then alternate wet and dry ingredients until smooth batterage is achieved. In this case, the “wet” was coconut milk, producing a rich, delicately scented, pale yellow batter. It also tasted good, which I might know because I accidentally on purpose left a lot of batter clinging to the mixing bowl that had to be eaten.

The most trying part of the whole thing was probably preparing the bundt pan for the batter. Buttering and flouring pans is my most hated step in baking, and trying to evenly flour the inside of a bundt pan is a DAMN NIGHTMARE. And that is NOT hyperbole.

Into the oven it went, because the weather was only in the mid-80s today so it was high time to crank up the range.

Toward the end of the baking time, I threw together the rum syrup in which the finished cake would soak: sugar, coconut milk, apply heat, whisk whisk whisk, add rum.

The liquor store only had big bottles of dark rum, so I guess I’ll be making a lot of rum cake from now on. There are worse problems to have.

The cake came out about an hour and ten minutes after going in, beautifully risen and browned, and I poked it full of holes to welcome the coconut-rum syrup. I must confess that I strayed from the directions a bit, which instructed me to poke approximately 60 holes; I got a little poke-happy and went closer to 80.

I think it’s completely adorable that the number of pokes was specified, because who counts the pokes? David Lebovitz, that’s who. Which makes him a man after my own heart, because that’s totally the kind of thing I would do. I once spent an hour of my life figuring out exactly how many licks it DOES take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop

It’s 957, by the way. That owl was a fucking liar. Never trust a talking bird.

I turned the cooled cake out – I’d been afeared that the syrup would cause it to stick to the pan, but it fell out easily with a satisfying plop – and doused it with the remaining rum-coconut mixture.

I managed to wait entire nanoseconds for the syrup to sink in before I cut into it.

The recipe also includes an optional coconutty glaze, but David gives permission to omit it if it’s bathing suit season. Which it conveniently is, giving a nice out to people like myself who are too lazy to do it and don’t give two shits about bathing suit season.

The cake was golden, with a perfect crumb and a subtle coconut flavor. If I may voice a small complaint (and you have no idea how loathe I am to complain about a David Lebovitz recipe), it’s lack of rum. Some bites were moistly redolent with it, others had the merest hint.

This may have been my fault for not waiting long enough for the rum to fully soak in. Yes, it was probably my fault. David Lebovitz is blameless.

Is it wrong to eat rum cake for breakfast? Because I’m gonna.

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