high-bar baking

I think I forget more often than I should how good pastry is. My Midwestern suburban upbringing rears its head whenever a pastry is not actively in front of me. I think “I don’t need all that fancy stuff!” and “It’s not really worth the work, anyway.”

Look, I don’t need to be signing myself up to make even semi-cheaty rough puff all the time. But it is worth the work. 

For a Halloween party (why else?) I reached into Sarah’s new book and pulled a Giant Pop Tart from the annals of childhood. It was indeed giant. The crust was rough puff pastry, and it was filled with cream cheese filling and raspberry (or whatever kind you wanted!) jam. The glaze was just straight sugar, but it was Halloween. And c’mon, it was a Pop Tart. Not that my edges sealed. Hey now, nobody actually had to insert it into a toaster. I heard no complaints at the party. 

Every time I see pop tart related content, I have to text the co-college-football-obsessed friend of mine. Will he be insulted that I’m putting myself on the same level as him? Who can say, but I am anyway. He’s a big fan of the Pop Tarts Bowl, which in recent years (for the first time last year?) featured an edible mascot. 

Which is cool but also has some bathing-in-a-tub-of-spagetti-noodles vibe, like, “Do I want to eat that, now?” And for clarity’s sake, the human inside was not harmed in the eating of the costume. No one actually ate the mascot. One hopes. 

And football season is… well, I can’t say it’s winding down, because hello 12 team playoff. January 20th? Good Lord. But the regular season is almost over. The weather is undeniably cold now. Thanksgiving vibes are in the air, and the season is no longer young. The end is almost in sight. Not yet, though, gosh, let’s not get too sad about it. I don’t want to think about having to pay attention to my actual life just yet. Let me live vicariously through eighty five 18-22 years olds just a little bit longer. 

Let me hold on to the days of innocence just a little bit longer.