On Sunday, after I had come back from reunion, it was rainy and cold, and I was missing the sunshine and my friends. I did what any sensible girl would do: I self-medicated with chocolate.

To my credit, they weren’t just for my benefit. My sainted parents were driving me and a giant armoire down to the city on Monday very, very early in the morning. They were supposed to bring a dessert for a party that night, so I made cupcakes to repay them.

I was going to make regular cake, but something about cupcakes appealed on that rainy Sunday. Still, I want something that dazzled: my parents’ friends are food-savvy people. Thus, I decided to go about it in an unexpected way: remaking Hostess’ Ding Dongs into something adults would want to eat.

It was pretty simple, actually: sour cream-chocolate cupcakes from Elinor Klivan’s Cupcakes!, seven-minute frosting from the Joy, and ganache from Bittman’s How to Cook Everything Vegetarian, modified with some instant espresso powder. After baking the cupcakes, I sliced the tops off, pulled out some of the center with a melon baller, and filled it with frosting. Operation completed, I placed the tops back, drizzled on ganache and made that iconic swirly pattern on the top. I wasn’t present for the party, but I hear they were a big hit. They were certainly pretty, with the contrasting black and white.

Yesterday, the urge struck again. I made some bread. It’s easy to forget that, in making bread, you’re working with something that is, essentially, alive: yeast. Mine was acting more like a dithering teenager than a one-celled organism last night: it doesn’t have a mind, but it seemed to have a mind of its own. I started the dough immediately after work, and had it ready to rise at 6ish. It was supposed to be doubled in size around 8. I checked it then, scratched my head, and moved it to a warmer location. At 9, it looked like it was making some progress, but it hadn’t doubled yet. Finally, at 10, it was ready to be shaped into a loaf. At that point, I was ready to get into bed, so baking it was out of the question. I had been rifling through Kneadlessly Simple at work, and was impressed by how easily you can slow down bread rising simply by popping it in the fridge. I tried this method, and the bread was perfectly risen at 6:30 in the morning. I put it in the oven, went back to sleep, and woke up to the glorious smell of fresh bread. Spread with some cherry-orange marmalade from Michigan, it was delicious.

It was definitely turning into that kind of meal: the one where the olive oil ends up on your dress instead of in your pasta salad, where your measuring cup sears your pinkie finger (burned by a #$%*& measuring cup!), and your shortbread graces the floor instead the dessert course. Where the sun starts to set as you’re still frantically cooking your picnic and mopping up shortbread.

Luckily, things hadn’t gone so sour that I didn’t have enough energy and time to take a breath, sweep up the shortbread, deposit it in the trash, and try again. (Don’t think I didn’t think of just rearranging it in the pan, covering it with the caramel and chocolate, and pretending like nothing had ever happened. Alas, it was too far gone for that–after I tried to piece it together I realized it was a lost cause and regretfully got rid of it.)

After the burned pinkie and the shortbread, I took a deep breath, drank some wine, and calmed down. That’s the thing about cooking–food will never be done faster just because you want it to. You’ll probably just end up forgetting a pot and ruining something good if you’re dashing around.

The second round of shortbread went much more successfully than the first. It turned out nicely browned and crisp. After that, besides almost cooking the candied peanuts to death, everything went much smoother. The pasta salad came together like a dream–it was incredibly simple, and yet so delicious: penne, lemon, olive oil, chopped kalamatas, watercress, tomato and red pepper. Alongside were a fresh goat cheese from the Garden of Eden, and a baguette that was warm when I picked it up after work, and some blanched asparagus with a lemon vinaigrette. And, of course, the snickery squares for dessert.

We were supposed to have a picnic at seven, and we ended up eating at my kitchen table around 8, but you can’t rush good food–or an overambitious menu.

After cooing over the pasta salad, Christina did have one question: “Why’s your floor so covered in crumbs?”

Some things, however, are best left in the kitchen. Oh, I don’t know, I answered. More wine?

Yes, please.

I understand where she’s coming from. My mom is an artist. Moreover, she’s a successful artist: she teaches, she does books, and she leads tours. Still, I’ve seen what it’s like for her to scramble for her next paycheck, and call people to plaintively ask them to mail her check. It’s not fair. Which is why my mom is so thrilled that my sister and I are both going into salaried work.

On the other hand, she was there for us we were little, and she’s still there for us these days. Whenever someone gets sick, or needs help, I know my mom will be there. In addition, my mom keeps a beautiful garden and a lovely house. Whenever people come to stay with us, there are always fresh linens on the bed and warm muffins for breakfast. (This, by the way, is why I drive myself to exhaustion when people stay with me: if the apartment isn’t completely clean, and if my guests don’t have fresh baked goods, I’m not being a good hostess. It’s a blessing and a curse, but at least I get fresh muffins too.)

And that, my friends, is the pull of domesticity. I’m starting to understand why people leave the city when they’re older. I was in Connecticut this past weekend, and we went to a wedding shower at a country club, did a little light shopping in the afternoon, and then went for a walk the next morning along the Connecticut river. On the way back, we bought some fresh eggs, asparagus, and spinach, while I gawked at the hens like I had spotted Sarah Jessica Parker on the street. They clucked at me expectantly. I made a strawberry-rhubarb pie in the afternoon, and we ate grilled (grilled! on a grill!) steak and creamed spinach. Not a single subway, homeless person, or concrete sidewalk in sight. Everywhere I went, I was whisked around in the comfort of a car. I wore a sweatshirt in public. It was all so easy.

Which is really what it comes down to: ease and comfort. I’m not saying my perch on the fourth floor is uncomfortable, but there is always the three flights of stairs to contend with. If I have to get somewhere and it’s raining, I get wet. If it’s hot out, well, you’ll get really sweaty. And if I want to go anywhere at all, I have to live with the minor indignities of public transportation.

For all my moaning, though, city life isn’t worth giving up on yet. Just to start: banh mi on Christopher Street, the cheese shop on 7th street, strutting around in my new gold shoes, gawking at dogs in the dog park, free people watching on the Hoboken pier, drinking as much as you like and walking home, lazily ordering in any of 14 different cuisines, having people come visit me, the Neue Gallery, and easy access to dried ancho chiles.

As for working, at least I get to chat with Paula Wolfert all the time. Now that’s something!

This is after they’ve been fried. Pretty, right?

This is the bacon-maple one.

And this is what I did with the rest of them, when I ran out of bacon–drizzled them with glaze and then sprinkled cinnamon on top. Yum-o.

Still, I am dying to get these out of the house. I’ve eaten one and it feels a bit leaden. Still, I think it’s a good option. The logistics might be tricky, though–no one wants a doughnut that’s been in the fridge, but bacon that’s been sitting out for hours isn’t that appealing either. Thus, I’m still considering another idea: a spiced doughnut with cardamom and cinnamon. We’ll see, in any case.

The dough itself was pretty simple, pulled from an Alton Brown recipe on Food Network. I think the flavor could be more complex–maybe I’ll introduce more spices into the mix next time. Also, I haven’t figured out the glaze yet. It was far too thin, but the sugar made it sticky-sweet. I still have to figure that part out. As much as it hurts me to say, maybe I should use maple extract. I usually don’t hold with any extracts except vanilla, but this might be the exception. I’m going to need a lot more bacon than what I cooked–4 slices for about 20 doughnuts.

Anyway, here are photos:

The dough, after being cut out.

And then the doughnut contest came along.

Now, besides being typically pegged for the same meal of the day, there isn’t much connection between these two fatty, glorious treats. That is, until I had a wonderful, inspired idea. If I’m going to win the doughnut contest (and I must. not. lose.), I’ll have to bring out something truly inspired: maple-bacon doughnuts. I revealed my devilishly simple plan to Rebecca, who merely said, “I’d be happier for you if I didn’t wish I had thought of it first.”

Anyway, I thought I was being so clever and original, until I googled “bacon doughnuts.” The people at a doughnut shop on the West Coast thought of it first, and someone even blogged about making them at Serious Eats.

Here’s what Anthony Bourdain had to say about the ones on the West Coast: “But this. Only Elvis, like late era Elvis on medication would eat this. (taking a bite) I’m really ashamed of myself for liking this. I took a bite to be polite, I’m eating the rest because I’m liking it.”

I’m feeling encouraged. Mighty encouraged. I mean, this is also the man who ate a beating cobra heart, but it must be pretty good if he liked it.

The contest isn’t until mid-June, but life is going to be so chaotic from now until then that I have to plan ahead. Thus, I’ll be doing my first try this weekend. Here’s to hoping they’re so terrific I don’t have to practice them again. Other quandary: should I wake up early and do them the day of? Or do them the night before, save myself some trouble, but run the risk of them not being fresh? All to be determined later.

I feel my porcine love rekindling. Here’s to hoping it works!

And yet, on Friday night, there I was, reading the lines “Why is this night not like any other night?,” and, on Sunday, merrily eating Easter dinner and celebrating a holiday to commemorate the resurrection of a prophet I kinda, sorta believe in. Matzo ball soup to pastel M&M eggs, braised brisket to roast beef.

(Sidenote: who the hell eats roast beef for Easter dinner? I was outraged when I discovered the dinner menu, right up until the point where I practically stuck my face into Sheena’s meltingly pink roast beef. Tradition can only take you so far, I guess. And then you eat the roast beef.)

Still, it was just the sort of merry, polytheistic mashup my family specializes in. We’re not really Christians, in the sense of going to church on Sundays, reading the Bible, voting Republican, etc. (I was kidding in that last category. Sort of.) Still, we’ll show up to church, looking presentable, whenever it’s really necessary. I categorize myself as an agnostic, but will identify as Congregational if pressed. That is the church I was baptized into, and the church my sister married in. Mostly, I enjoy the white pointed steeples and the sense of tidy propriety they give off. And the seasonal cookie swaps.

And yet I understand it. “It” meaning organized religion, that is. After all, when something is really changing–say, someone dying, or getting married–they do tend to do it in a church or a temple or some other holy place. If nothing else, it seems like a way to be a beloved member of a larger whole. To belong.

Which, I suppose, is what holidays are about. I mean, the Passover was just lovely–one of the guest’s daughters had had a baby that very day, so we were toasting to her health, and eating like crazy, and sitting at a long table reading about the escape from Egypt. On Sunday, I saw my two aunts and their husbands and children, and we talked and caught up and ate and drank. To use one of the world’s most abused words, it was nice. Really nice.

I probably won’t be showing up to a church any time soon. I’m still not completely convinced that the way some churches go about things is the best way. However, it’s nice to know it’s there if I need it, or if I change my mind. As long as I can share a meal with people, though, I’m not sure I’ll need to.

Now, I never seem to be able to do less than two things at a time. While I’m watching TV, I’m reading Jezebel. When I’m filling out forms at work, I’m also checking my email. When I’m cooking, I’m fiddling with my music.

I blame my computer. While it’s amazingly useful, and living without it would cripple my social and work life, it’s also paralyzing my ability to do any one thing at a time.

This is why I’m dying to cook something from Paula Wolfert’s cookbooks. I’ve been flipping through Slow Mediterranean Cooking, and the cooking looks like an excellent antidote to ADD cooking. It takes hours, you have to seek out the ingredients, and, most of all, you have to pay attention. It takes care. And it’s nice to care about something.

Unfortunately, these sort of recipes also take money, which is a bit of a scarce commodity at the moment. Until then, I’m going to flip through recipes for duck confit…while eating peanut butter.

At least I care about peanut butter.

To be more specific, I’m craving a casserole.

I really am mystified. The weather is getting warmer, and this would be a good time to start pining after, say, strawberries and baby artichokes. Instead, I’m looking back longingly towards dishes that would serve well towards fending off a winter chill, instead of anticipating swimsuit season.

Oh well. It’s still far too cold to swim here, and there are still a few breezes coming off the Hudson to guard against.

In any case, I’ve got a casserole in mind. I saw something like it on a bargain-eating site, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. I have some meaty chunks of ham in my freezer, and I was thinking about combining those (once they’re defrosted, of course) with some sauteed mushrooms, spinach, some onion, a white sauce, and some cooked gnocchi. I know, it’s pretty indulgent, but the breezes over the Hudson will warm up soon, and then the season will be definitively over. And then I’ll have to wait another six months for a fix.

Thus, swimsuit season be damned–I will have my white sauce! I’ll let you know how it turns out.

Which is why I was momentarily flummoxed when Nora brought by some extra parsley she had. There was, however, one parsley dish I was anxious to try: chimichurri. One of our authors included it on provolone toasts as an appetizer, but I wanted to use it for its original use: as a topping for steak.

Luckily, I happened to have a flank steak in the freezer. After a nice leisurely soak in a marinade, I broiled it and topped it with some of my chimichurri.

A funny thing about the broiler: only now, after a year and a half, did I discover it exists. I thought it was peculiar that there wasn’t one in my stove. In my old-fashioned clunker, however, it has its own compartment underneath the stove.

Genius!

Needless to say, I’ve been happing broiling asparagus, peppers, and, yes, my steak, ever since. And I’m reconsidering my dislike of parsley. After all, spring is the time for fresh starts.