Last year, I was at a total loss for what to give Jeff for his birthday. My brother-in-law, Taylor, had just scored a new-in-the-box PlayStation 3 from a police auction, and he gave it to me to give to Jeff. G-a-v-e. I paid him back the money he’d spent, but he never asked for it.

How much did Jeff like the gift? When I gave him the PlayStation, we were dating. Now, we’re married.

So, when my sister asked me to make a birthday cake for Taylor–a neapolitan cake topped with a huge catfish–I was all about it. Never mind that I’d never actually seen a catfish. Not without hushpuppies and tartar sauce.

Thank God for Google Image Search.

I started with three 9-inch cakes–one vanilla, one chocolate, and one strawberry–split and filled with vanilla buttercream, chocolate buttercream, and vanilla buttercream swirled with fresh strawberries. Then I crumb-coated the cake with vanilla buttercream and covered it in blue fondant.

While I baked the cakes and made buttercream, Jeff molded the catfish out of Rice Krispies treats. We let the “body” dry overnight, and then I wrapped it in chocolate fondant and sculpted the whiskers, gills, and fins the next day.

I held the cake on my lap while Jeff drove to Jenn and Taylor’s house. Rush hour traffic. Forty-five minutes. On the interstate.

I’ve never been so relieved to have something out of my car.

But the looks on their faces were worth it. Taylor was surprised. Jenn was beaming. My nephew, Logan, wanted the fish head, and his younger brother, Jackson, was pulling off the fondant and eating it by itself.

So, neapolitan? Check. Catfish? Check. A 200 proof sugar rush for the 3-year-old? Check.

My work there was done.

Happy birthday, Taylor!

We took these French Chocolate Brownies to a “Lost” season finale party Thursday night, and it’s a good thing the room was dark, so no one noticed exactly how many I wolfed down.

I needed something to supplement our dinner, which was a menu of Things That Are Difficult If Not Impossible For Me To Eat In Public. We’re talking corn-on-the-cob, which makes me obsess about my teeth. I think there’s something stuck between them. Can he see it? Maybe if I drink some water. Nope. Where’s a mirror? Maybe I can just keep my mouth shut all night. Is that a kernel?

And there were vegetables that had to be sliced with a knife.

Remember that scene in “Pretty Woman” where Julia Roberts tries to shuck an oyster and winds up hurling it across the restaurant? That’s me. That’s why I like to order things that stay put, like taters.

Anyway, I made a meal of these brownies. The crackly top adds a little texture to an otherwise completely moist, melt-in-your-mouth, fudgy brownie. Perfect for picnics, parties, and corn malfunctions.

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Do you have the Barefoot Contessa fantasy?

The one where you come home to mammoth bouquets of freshly-picked, artfully arranged flowers. Tomato and feta salad packed into Chinese takeout containers. Picnics on the beach and fireside dinners. The perfect cocktail for every meal. A refrigerator filled with exotic cheeses, olives, and homemade lemon curd. And friends who are international experts in garden lighting and table settings.

You know, the fantasy where you’re the Contessa’s husband, Jeffrey.

Guilty as charged.

That’s why I was very excited to find the Barefoot Bloggers, a new group celebrating Ina Garten, aka the Barefoot Contessa. Twice a month, we’ll be cooking and baking from her books and Food Network recipes.

Today’s inaugural recipe was Herbed-Baked Eggs. Gratin dishes filled with eggs, cream, and butter, broiled with a crunchy topping of fresh herbs, Parmesan, and salt and pepper. I even got to use a little of my own freshly-grown basil. How Contessa is that?

Easy and really delicious.

So, I wouldn’t really trade places with Ina’s Jeffrey (those wool sweaters would rub me raw), but I’m looking forward to trying out these recipes with my Jeff. I might even spring for those cute Chinese takeout boxes. He’s worth it.

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Can you hear her?

Off in the distance, the fat lady is singing.

Yes, a mere hour from the deadline, I have completed my first Daring Bakers Challenge: an opera cake.

A traditional opera cake has layers of sponge cake, coffee buttercream, ganache, and a final glaze of chocolate. They’re usually decorated with a musical symbol, the word “L’Opera,” or a name – “Clichy.” Louis Clichy introduced the cake at the Exposition Culinaire in Paris in 1903.

The DB Challenge was to create a nontraditional opera cake: no chocolate, no coffee, no dark colors.

I decided on almond sponge cake moistened with vanilla syrup and topped with raspberry buttercream, framboise (aka Razzmatazz), and a white chocolate glaze.

Certifiably Daring Bakerish.

Unfortunately, the first sponge cake was a rubbery abomination. So flat you could roll it into a tube.

The second cake was perfect, but the fluffy pink raspberry buttercream tasted like a 3-day-old sink sponge.

The third cake had raw spots. The meringue deflated. The buttercream looked like cottage cheese. And the white chocolate chips wouldn’t melt.

I was ready to chuck the challenge. I was out of almonds. I didn’t think I liked cake anymore.

But this morning, I rallied. I didn’t want to wait another month to be a Daring Baker. I mean, have you seen the logo? It’s cute.

So, less than two hours from the close of Reveal Day, here are my mini opera cakes. I’m officially a Daring Baker!

The dirty dishes can wait.

P.S. The Daring Bakers are dedicating this month’s challenge to Barbara of Winos and Foodies. Barbara is the force behind “A Taste of Yellow,” a food blogging event that supports Lance Armstrong’s LiveSTRONG foundation.

So, way back when Tuesdays with Dorie made Brioche Raisin Snails, I used the other half of the dough to make this week’s recipe: Pecan Honey Sticky Buns.

If you don’t make another thing you ever see on this site, make these.

Baptized in honey.

Christened with pecans.

Worthy a two-syllable damn.

Even after you eat one of these perfectly golden, buttery sticky buns, you’ll find yourself snacking on the gooey orphaned pecans at the bottom of the dish every time you walk by. Because willpower is so overrated.

And who needs to wear shorts?

Nom. Nom. Nom.

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Unless you’re in traction or trapped under something heavy, life’s too short to read Remembrance of Things Past. It’s more than 3,000 pages–roughly the length of War and Peace, Gone With the Wind, and Bill Clinton’s My Life combined.

What do you need to know about Marcel Proust’s masterpiece? It’s all about involuntary memory. The narrator tastes a madeleine, remembers ones his aunt gave him as a child, and starts remembering his childhood in detail. From there, he decides to write about his entire life. Proust kept adding details until he died. I’m surprised his editors didn’t kill him.

Today’s Tuesdays with Dorie assignment is the traditional madeleine. I’d always assumed madeleines were cookies, but they’re actually buttery, lemony little tea cakes. If you piped a little marshmallow fluff inside, they would taste like very high-end Twinkies. The shell shape comes from the madeleine pan.

How did they fare at our house? Jeff and I thought they were good, but Henry the French Bulldog inhaled them. I used them to sneak him his allergy meds. Do you remember the scene in Velvet Goldmine where the rock star snorts cocaine off a hooker’s back? That was Henry with the madeleines. Then he passed out on the couch and started nursing in his sleep. Dreaming of life as a puppy.

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My nephew, Jack, is rocking in my dad’s recliner when Henry the Wonderdog launches over the armrest and licks the tip of Jack’s nose.

“HENRY TRIED TO BITE ME!”

We tell him nooooooo, Henry was just trying to kiss him.

“HENRY KISSED ME!”

I tell him he should feel special, because Henry doesn’t go around kissing everyone. This doesn’t help.

Finally, Jack asks for the only thing that will take away the pain.

“Are we having pie?”

This week’s Tuesdays with Dorie recipe, Peanut Butter Torte, is pie taken to the extreme–big flavors in ridiculous quantities–and it’s illegal in states that frown on The Devil’s Threesome: Oreos, peanut butter, and cream cheese. There’s also butter. Ganache. Chopped peanuts. If I didn’t know it was a Dorie recipe, I’d swear Emeril. This is a recipe that goes over the top, then takes a hot air balloon and a rocket.

So, how is it?

Straight out of the fridge, it softens fast, gets hard to slice, and the peanut butter-cream cheese filling has an odd twang to it that makes two bites plenty. I divided it into Rubbermaids, shoved it in the freezer, and forgot about it for a few days.

Put it in the freezer. Seriously. The texture and flavor are much, much better. The filling mellows and becomes more like ice cream. Frozen, it’s Jack-worthy.

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When I was 17, a friend set me up on a blind date with her cousin. He picked me up in a monstrous white truck with extra stereo speakers installed where padding should have been. The windows rattled. Deafening. He drove me to his parents’ house, had his mother make him a grilled cheese and tater tots (nothing for me), and ranted about how his ex-girlfriend had cheated on him and women couldn’t be trusted.

What does all this have to do with Dorie’s Fluted Polenta and Ricotta Cake?

It’s like a blind date. You want to like it.

What’s not to like about polenta, ricotta, sugar, honey, butter, and figs? Separately, delicious. In this particular combination, grainy and cloying.

Still, I wasn’t ready to give up on it. I tried adding Dorie’s suggested whipped cream sweetened with honey.

Didn’t help.

Sometimes bad cakes, like bad blind dates, require dumping. But one woman’s frog is another’s prince, so I give you the Fluted Polenta and Ricotta Cake recipe.

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My birthday was last Sunday, and my sister’s was on Friday, which means last weekend was a birthday extravaganza, filled with grilled steaks and twice-baked potatoes, brownie pie, baked brie, fruit salad spiked with fried goat cheese, Belgian waffles, a picnic in the park, and a wedge of chocolate cake so uncompromising I know it’s still sitting, like the Lincoln Memorial, in one of my arteries.

Such gluttony, mere days after “The Biggest Loser” finale! Beatings, beatings, beatings.

This morning, I was back to the breakfast of the penitent: high-fiber cereal, 1% milk, and shame. But then I remembered this week’s Tuesdays with Dorie challenge, Bill’s Big Carrot Cake. And out came the butter, the sugar, and the cream cheese.

Oh, well. Everything in moderation. That’s why I turned Bill’s Big Carrot Cake into cupcakes. Portion-control and DENIAL.

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Yesterday, I could have run a marathon (or at least jogged to the mailbox) thanks to this week’s Tuesdays with Dorie challenge: marshmallows. Marshmallows cut with cookie cutters. Marshmallows sliced into classic squares. Marshmallows melted into Rice Krispie Treats. Marshmallows bobbing in hot chocolate. My veins were coursing with sugar, corn syrup, and potato starch. I broke a sweat.

Am I some sort of marshmallow fiend? No. Those chewy, powdery little knobs that bookend my grocery’s baking section have never had much appeal.

But homemade marshmallows … the taste is similar, but the texture is so very different. When you stir them into hot chocolate, they don’t resist the spoon, all jet-puffed and stubborn. You can taste them in every sip.

And homemade marshmallows have style. Even though they stay soft, they can maintain the clean lines of a cookie cutter, so you can cut them into any shape–hearts, snowflakes, stars. I used a flying pig cookie cutter, but the pig was too big for the cup and unfortunately had to be … halved. There’s a reason I didn’t include that photo. Did you need the visual of a pig’s head (or tail) bobbing around in my mug of hot chocolate? I didn’t think so.

Obviously, I’m not old enough to handle so much sugar in the house. That’s why I’ve bagged the rest of the marshmallows. They’re on the way to my nephews.

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