Busted: pepperoni bread

Goddamnit anyway. Nothing is simple.

I got a few requests for the pepperoni roll recipe from this entry and I promised to post it, so here goes.

Truth is people, the pepperoni rolls don't come from a recipe so much as a procedure and in that telling, I'm letting a big secret out of the bag.

I make all my homemade bread doughs, including the one for my beloved pepperoni rolls, in a Panasonic SD-YD250 Automatic Bread Maker.

There, I said it. I'm busted. So kill me already.

I recently purchased this Panasonic in order to replace the SD-BT55P model that was gifted to us by sister of Goat and her husband for our wedding in 1992. The original Panasonic was a godlike machine that operated perfectly for 16 years and was only replaced when the paddle mechanism began to leak (from extraordinary wear) and replacing it cost half as much as a new machine. I can only hope the new model does as well as the old.

This machine kicks ass.

I make my pizza dough in it (and yes, I am the sort of asshole who has a big stone on the bottom of the oven to bake the pizza on), I make bread dough in it (I use that for everything, regular bread or I roll in some cheddar or parm and herbs or whatever strikes my fancy), and I sometimes use the machine to bake the bread as well (when I'm in a hurry and don't have time to shape and bake it myself).

For pepperoni rolls, I put this in the machine:

3 cups bread flour (about 14 3/4 ounces)
3 tablespoons powdered milk
2 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons salt
2 tablespoons butter
1 cup water
1 1/2 teaspoons yeast.

then I press "dough" mode and a perfect dough comes out 45 minutes later. How fucking beautiful is that?

I cut the dough into four pieces, roll each into an 8-inch circle (which are never perfect and always come out as a weird amoeba shape), sprinkle a handful of shredded mozzerella on there, then arrange about 10 slices of sandwich-sized pepperoni in an even layer on top. I roll that up, pinch the seam and let it rise, covered (with a layer of Saran and a kitchen towel on top), for about an hour.

HINT: put those mothers right on the baking pan after you roll them and let them rise on there. And do me a goddamn favor? Line the goddamn pan with parchment paper. Because if you have a blow-out (and you will have a blow-out), you'll be glad you did, trust me. Jesus christ awmighty.

After they've risen, put three slashes in each and bake them at 385 F for about 25 minutes or until they're golden brown. I usually rotate the pan about halfway through for an even bake.

Everyone loves these pepperoni rolls. You can use ham and cheddar (Lil' OB's fave) instead of pepperoni and mozzarella (Goat's fave). Or I sometimes make an Erin roll with olives and banana pepper and whatever leftover lunchmeat and cheese I've got lying around (me likey hard salami and swiss). I wrap these individually and freeze them for lunches. They're great for picnics. One roll is a really big portion. I cut Lil' OB's rolls in half and wrap them that way before I freeze them.

The secret is in the dough, which is chewy and luscious. That dough makes a hell of a good dinner roll as well. Just cut it into 12 pieces and bake 'em. Those are my mom's fave.

So I'd like to take the credit, but the Panasonic does most of the work and if you have $140, go over here and get yourself one. I use mine all the time. If you only have $33, maybe get you one of these. You won't have any bread, but add a couple of AAA batteries and maybe you'll get some facial grimaces and toe curling to rise.

The whole magilla

Full transcript of Sotomayor's 2001 "Latina woman" speech. Judge for yourself.

Beautifully honest

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Goat archives vol. three: photo phantasmagoria

For those who visit this blog regularly, that I refer to my Splendid King as "the Goat" is no surprise, nor is it unusual for me to have a bit of fun at the Goat's expense. But there are things you do not know, people.

The Goat has come a long way in these nearly seventeen years of marriage. And the best way to demonstrate that of course, is in pictures.


In the year of our Lord, 1976, two years after his own high school graduation, my Dearly Beloved attended prom, making him one of those older guys that no one knew. It was a double date affair. He and "a buddy of a guy that I worked with" escorted the ladies in a "souped-up Cutlass."

I like the ruffles on the shirt cuffs.

"I can do pink."

Sure you can, Starsky.


This strikes me as a casual outfit worn either before or after a night out at the famed Utopia dance club. Doesn't he look like one of Tony Manero's gang from Saturday Night Fever?

*** Stayin' alive, stayin' alive. Just stayin' alive! ***



Here we find the Goat relaxing on his vehicle: either the "Plymouth Fury or the Chrysler Newport;" further determination unavailable as "those were some lost years."

Wonder if he found what he was looking for.


This photo is notable as it was taken before the festivities began. My Dearly Beloved was on his way to perform the duties of Best Man ("Yeah, I think I was the Best Man. Yeah.") at what "must have been Charlie's" wedding.

Is it just me, or are his posing techniques uncanny?


This picture was shoved between the pages of the all-Goat album that the rest of today's pix came from. I don't know why. That's me at about the same age as the Goat was in the last photo. I, too, was at a friend's wedding.

Maybe it's here for contrast. Dunno.

* * *

Cake cake cake!

Per request, here's the skinny on the cake art from this post.

We used regular cheap-o cake mix, butter flavored yellow. Made the batter per the instructions on the package (ate a shitload of the batter. Raw eggs be damned--some things are sacrosanct), then we poured a cup or so of batter into five separate bowls and added gel food coloring to get them jazzed.

Poured the colored batter into a bundt pan one at a time in messy layers to get the groovy psychedelic effect and baked per instructions.

I got the batter coloring idea from this recipe.

As for the frosting, we made this no-cook buttercream, which was a pretty damn good alternative to other terrifying buttercream frosting recipes that require (gasp) a candy thermometer. Our frosting was sweet, but it tasted wonderful on the cake. I added a couple of shakes of salt with the sugar, and recommend you do the same if you make this. We also made it a day before we used it to get it all married and shit (ask Al the Retired Army Guy about that, he should know).

The frosting wasn't quite creamy enough to pipe (probably operator error), and that's why we ended up globbing it on the cake like that.

This cake rocked my face off.

Because I am a perfect piece of ass as well as brilliant and grandly generous and because I know there are a whole lot of candy-asses out there who need all the help they can get, I'm going to give you my recipe for brown sugar icing so pay attention and don't be an asshole.

Put a cup of packed light brown sugar, 1/2 stick of butter (4 tablespoons), 2 tablespoons water and 1/2 teaspoon salt in a saucepan on low heat. Stir until its melted and just begins to bubble.

Take it off the stove and add 2 egg yolks. Whisk those mothers in righteous.

Put it back on the stove on very low heat and stir constantly until it thickens up, about 2 minutes. Let it cool.

When you spread a dollop of that brown sugar icing over a piece of regular yellow cake (bundt shaped is best for this), it will kick your ass all the way to Akron. I call the yellow cake with brown sugar frosting "Recession Cake" because you can make it for about three bucks but it's so good, you wouldn't hesitate to call it the best piece of cake you ever put in your miserable mewling mouth.

That's the Goat eating Recession Cake in the pic. Can you believe this guy? I cook all this shit for him all the time and then I go and deal with his filthy member in the bedroom and look at the mug on him. Jesus christ awmighty!

I don't know what all you people did to deserve a goddess like me. I just don't know what at all.

Remembering

The finest Memorial Day tribute you will read today.

Perfect pepperoni rolls and cake art

Whenever I make pepperoni rolls, they end up like mutants. There's always a blow out or a big bulge that looks like a tumor. They still taste great (homemade dough), but they always look like shit. Yesterday, my batch of pepperoni rolls came out EFFING PERFECT for the first time ever.


The kid and I made a cake yesterday as well, with homemade buttercream frosting. Like my pepperoni rolls, cakes never come out perfect for me. But this cake tasted really good and it's got a lot of personality. I call it cake art.

"It's cake art, kid."


I made meatballs too, but I didn't take a picture of those. They just looked like meatballs. We ate them for dinner. Yum.

Happy Sunday.

Crystal clear Bristol

"Girls need to imagine and picture their life with a screaming newborn baby and then think before they have sex. Think about the consequences. If girls realized the consequences of sex, nobody would be having sex. Trust me. Nobody."–Bristol Palin in an interview with People Magazine.

Travelogue

I need to get to Anchorage.

I am out of my mind

So go talk to Earl.

On the road

Wite-out on the road.


Unidentified headless rodent on the road.


Wooly thing on the road.


Spider on the road.


Sparkle cup on the road.


Hatched egg on the road.


Purple disc with red center on the road.


Dead mouse on the road.


Ice cube tray on the road.


Portion of hollow plastic orb on the road.


Hole on the road.


Egg on the road.


Couch on the road.


Boutonniere on the road.


Beer can and dead bird on the road.


Easy breezy Cover Girl on the road.

Forty nine is seven squared

My brother John would have turned 49 today. Now that's a number. Four. Tea. Nine. Fifty less one.

49.

You've got your 4, which is 2 squared; and you've got your 9, which is 3 squared. Then you've got 4 + 9, which is 13, and you don't want to mess around with 13. You've got to be careful with 13, but it's right on the ass of 49, like I just showed you.

You're probably not thinking about 5, but it's here. 9 - 4. There's your five. Just glance over your shoulder. Five is quiet, but with the sort of power it's swinging, why should it draw attention to itself? Five knows everything about every other number. Just dig how it's wrapped itself around 49.

(shhh. here's a secret. numbers are really characters in your life. really. I know what I'm talking about. I've seen these guys. careful.)


The stunning thing about that photo is the uncanny resemblance John would have to Dad later in life.

(this post is teetering on the edge of a giant glass.)

When people see that picture, they often think it is Johnny holding a baby. Nope. That's Dad holding Johnny. Dad's about 21 or 22. John is 30 or 31 in the picture at the top of this post. Now say "ricochet." Say it out loud.

You never think you'll be dealing with a word like posthumous until you're dealing with a word like posthumous. When it arrives, you stare at it and blink a few times, then you just sort of swallow it whole because there is no other choice.

(confidential to all you writerly types out there: ain't second person grand?)

I apologize. I'm doing the best I can. But with the giant glass and the 49 and the squares and the second person; with everything ricocheting around, it's not easy. Sort of like being alone in a crowded room or a really bad song lyric that you can't stop singing.

Posthumous.

John's last posthumous novel will be published later this year by Akashic Books. Here's a link.

There is more to be said about Better than I can fit into this post or, more accurately, into this day, the space around me or the space inside of me.

Stay tuned.

All the writing will eventually make it to the wall. But it will have to wait until the five stops shouting and the snapshots close back upon themselves.

To that end, I shall leave the conclusion of this post in more competent hands:

Peace, love and Lou

It's hard to assign enough glee to following scenario:

I'm sauntering around the 2009 Hessler Street Fair--Cleveland's longest and most venerable celebration of patchouli-soaked tie-dye-clad peacenik hippie-ism--when I see a luscious man in a uniform.

"Lou!"

"Erin!"

Of course I immediately lunged towards him and embraced him.

Lou Pumphrey is a tireless protester of all things violent and a fierce defender of all things life. Unlike the hypocritical nincompoops who vote "pro-life" with one hand and support the death penalty with the other, Lou supports all life, in the womb, in Iraq or in the slammer.

There is no bullshit about Lou Pumphrey.

For instance, the uniform he's wearing in this picture is the same one he was issued 41 years ago by the United States Army upon his honorable discharge after a year's tour of duty in Vietnam. Now dig this: it fits him perfectly--I mean perfectly. Not one button on that jacket is the slightest bit strained.

Lou pens letters to local editors frequently and has responded to my Rainy Day Woman column more than once. He loved my corn chowder but didn't care so much for my musings on abortion. But that's okay. Lou and I can love on each other no matter how fervently we disagree.

And really, what girl doesn't love a man in a uniform?

* * *

Since there's so much love in this post already, let me sprinkle it with a just a few more love links for good measure:

Lou's first person accounting of how an Irishman was barred from the Cleveland 2009 St. Patty Day parade.

Photos of the 2008 Hessler Street Fair.

The Funny Times, the paper where Lou works.

Hi boss

The best part of working in the Offices of Erin O'Brien is that no one cares if I eff off for an hour!

Cheesus Christ!

It's in the cards

A few years ago, this temptress gave me an online tarot card reading that I thoroughly enjoyed. I even looked up each card and did a little research on my own.

It was fun and there was one primary element of the reading that was uncannily accurate (I'll keep that to myself thankyouverymuch). There may have been other truths in the reading, but this was three years ago and let's face it--I can barely remember what I did ten minutes ago. So if you're into tarot or just curious, Anavid is one card that's a sure bet.

Scarily! Warily! Hairily!

Autogynephelia et al.

1. "Boomerang Hippo" would be a good name for a band.

2. Huh?



3. Knorr discontinued their Newburg sauce mix. Now what the hell am I supposed to do? Don't even get me started on Screaming Yellow Zonkers.

4. Maybe someone put the left side of Cheney's head in a vice when he was a kid. Maybe that's how he got that permanent evil scowl.

5. Barrel o' ugh: Elizabeth Edwards, Carrie Prejean--and most notably--Palin's book deal! Can't wait to read a whole book of this:

There have been so many things written and said through mainstream media that have not been accurate, and it will be nice through an unfiltered forum to get to speak truthfully about who we are and what we stand for and what Alaska is all about.

Come Saturday morning

I'll be at the Rocky River Library with a whole slew of other authors this Saturday. I'd love to say hello, so stop by if you're in Northeast Ohio and have a few minutes.

***

The title of today's post is courtesy of a cheesy song from 1969 by The Sandpipers that probably has nothing to do with Julie Andrews. Erin O'Brien takes no responsibility for the song's lyric (of dubious grammatical origin): "Just I and my friend. We'll travel for miles in our Saturday smiles," although O'Brien once read something wherein Julie Andrews was described as a bit of a randy sex kitten behind the scenes despite her squeaky clean image in front of the camera. The information (which O'Brien cannot verify) infinitely improved her opinion of Andrews.

O'Brien tried to post a YouTube that just featured the song, but was unsuccessful as any vids matching that description had embedding disabled. So O'Brien settled on the Julie Andrews tribute (which will likely be removed any moment due to copyright infringement). Upon further consideration however, O'Brien is glad to have the opportunity to muse on Andrews, who she thinks once even flashed her boobies on 60 minutes, but she's not sure.

O'Brien has a lot of issues. She thanks you for your support.

The Ramble Inn

Bye bye birdie

When you finally muster the courage to delete the not-quite-right-can't-put-your-finger-on-it paragraphs/sections, it's like having a massive bowel movement that was theretofore obstructing your whole personage. Freeing, really, that DELETE key.

Begone oh vapid prose!

Driving with Jesus

While I was in the supermarket the other day, someone placed a religious flyer beneath my windshield wiper. I didn't notice it until I was buckled up and ready to go, so I took my chances and pulled out.

As I drove home, the flyer flapped away, but stayed affixed to the car as I suspected it would. It reminded me of this tongue-in-cheek documentary/reality show wherein the host hung out with "alternative" individuals. I don't remember much about it. But on one show, he traveled along with a Ministry that delivered the word by driving around in a van that had religious slogans painted on its side. There may have been a loudspeaker as well. I'm not sure.

"So by driving around like this we're actually ministering?" asked the TV host.

"That's right," his guest replied. "We're delivering the Word right now."

So I've decided to keep the Jesus flyer on the Mini Cooper for a while. Will it fly off one day? What does it mean if someone removes it? If I let it get all tattered and rain-soaked, is that some sort of desecration? Am I subtly ministering by traveling along with this message? Maybe I'd better read it and make sure I'm not spreading some evil code hidden between the lines.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

Amen.

Dead elephants

Hate to say I told you so, but I told you so.

If you're like me and just can't get enough of this stuff, go dig Time Magazine's dirge for the GOP. Here's a brief excerpt:

So Republicans need to decide what Republicans need to believe. What does their three-legged stool of strong defense, traditional values and economic conservatism mean today? Does strong defense mean unqualified support for torture, outdated weapons systems and pre-emptive wars? Do traditional values mean no room in the tent for pro-choicers like Specter and Snowe?

On Limbaugh! On Cheney! On Rove!
Go Palin! Go McCain! Go Boehner!

Moms 1997

My first year as a mom, with Gram Soos in the middle and my mom on the left. Jessica Rose is the little squeaker.


Calling all Moms: Have a great day!

Erin, Erin everywhere

I will be at three different events in Northeast Ohio over the coming months.

1) Rocky River Public Library Book Festival on May 16.

2) "Illuminating Twilight" on June 4 at the Independence Library.

3) A reading from my brother John's last posthumously published novel "Better" on July 11.

Click here for all the info and links. I hope to see you there!

The pluffer

A Rainy Day for Conservatives

In my column this week, I solemnly deliver a Conservative eulogy.

If you have something to say about it, Scene's new webpage has a user-friendly comment section and you can comment on the article directly (via the above link), or you may tell me off here, or feel free to email my editor Frank Lewis at flewisATclevesceneDOTcom.

Now then, as promised in the article, here are the links to the quotes therein:

Oldandevil2 musing on Obama supporters.

Velociman musing on Obama's inauguration.

And Dan O, who just pines for the end.

* * *