When The Cat Is Away (again)...

The mice play (again.)

Which is a nice way of saying that DH is out of town again, for about 4 days. Now normally I'd use this as an opportunity to stage a mini-revolt. Regular readers of this blog know that I use my DH's work travel as an opportunity to either turn into Slacker Mom, or just plain Crazy Mom. So, you know, I might throw out his t-shirts from 1964. Tidy up his side of the room, because he really won't miss that issue of "Submarine Monthly" from 3 years ago that he swears he is going to read. Or I might change jobs, cut my hair off, renovate my wardrobe, paint something, acquire a pet (or two), acquire a piercing (or two), let the kids play hookey from school and watch TV all day, have pizza for dinner several nights in a row, not bother to do any housework, buy a new car, acquire a tattoo (or two) ... really, there's a whole list of things I tend to do (or want to do) while my DH is away. Now it should be said that he really wouldn't mind my doing those things while he was in town. He might raise an eyebrow, but in general he's so sickeningly supportive and lovey-dovey and just plain nice about everything, that he takes my craziness in his stride. Bless him. This whole quiet normalcy thing is probably why I tend to break out the wierd stuff while he's away. Because, you know, it just might get a reaction out of him.

It never does. Partially because the show-off in me feels it necessary to blog about my exploits, and DUH, he reads my posts when he's gone. So the surprise factor isn't really there. Partially it's because he's my best friend, so I call him within ten seconds of committing some (minor and petty) craziness and say, "GUESS what I've just done? Can't guess? Okay, I've [insert minor and petty craziness]!" Partially it's because I attach more value to these things than he does - what I consider a big deal, he considers an "Eh, so?"

For the last couple of days I've been trying to think of craziness I can commit while he's away. This coming Wednesday is his birthday, so there were some good opportunities there, as in, "I got this tattoo just for you, sweetie!" I wonder, though....isn't it a bit control freak overachiever of me to be PLANNING my madness? I can totally picture this as a "to do" list:

1. Go crazy
2. Do something which you think is crazy
3. Blog about it
4. Call DH and tell him about it
5. Realise you're being silly, it's not that crazy at all. Start again.
6. Go crazy.
7. Repeat steps 2 -7 ad naseum until you come to the conclusion that you're so normal, and so straight, and frankly so bloody mother-of-three-in-the-'burbs that you're never really going to do anything all that bad in the first place, so might as well give up now.
   

So after several days of trying to come up with a craziness-to-do list, I'm still left with nothing. Seriously. Maybe this is because I have tons of normal stuff to get done. You know, like open a business (T minus one week), do mountains of laundry (currently, literally, to my knees), take care of three energetic, what-are-we-doing-today-Mum kids who are on Spring Break, buy an oven worth $6,000+, go to work, finish two giant school assignments, and oh yeah did I mention open a business?! Minor stuff, you know.

So maybe this is a week for calm rather than for added madness. Now there's a crazy thought.

Bedtime

This one is gorgeous, and so very true! I know there have been a lot of kid-related posts lately, and officially speaking I'm not a "mommy blogger" so some of you might be bored. I promise to get back to food, and work, and school, and the other Three Sweeties news soon. In the meantime, enjoy this bit of fun ... and if you've got a recipe for French macarons which actually WORKS, please send it on.

A Sweet Memory

Yesterday my friend Dr J called to wish me and my family a Happy New Year, as today is Rosh Hashana (Jewish New Year). I like this holiday, especially since it's one of the few happy holidays in the Jewish calendar. Plus the traditional food of Rosh Hashana is stuff I like - apples, honey, sweet challah - basically all things round and sweet. So Dr J called, and after he wished us a Happy New Year he also said, "...and a couple of days early, Happy Implantation Day!" He had remembered what I had forgotten - that 7 years ago, in the middle of services at Temple, I had to run off to a doctor's appointment. An appointment were they were implanting the three embryos which are now better known as The Trio.

At the time I thought it was very appropriate time of year. These potential lives were being given to me in the period of time in the Jewish Calendar where it is decided who shall live and who shall die, who shall be forgiven for their transgressions, and who maybe needs to work a bit harder next year. We talk about being "transcribed in the Book of Life" for the coming year, and that's exactly what I asked for as I walked out of that Temple that day. I nervously, quickly, quietly walked out of there, ...and right before I walked out I turned around, faced the bimah, and said very quick, silent prayer. "Please," I said, "Please, please, please inscribe at least one of these babies in the Book of Life."

I'm not a terribly religious person. I would describe myself as more of a cultural Jew than a religious one, so it was a strange thing for me to do. Still, I figured I needed all the help I could get - if medical science couldn't solve this whole infertility thing, maybe a helping hand from the Man Upstairs would. Hey, at that point, I'dve stood on top of a mountain and howled while turning slowly counter-clockwise, all while wearing pink stripey shorts, if I thought it would help. Frankly, IVF sucks.

Anyway I walked out of that Temple, drove to the doctor's office, and two weeks later had the life-changing experience of the nurse on the phone telling me that my HCG levels (the hormone which indicates pregnancy) were totally through the roof. A mere 2 weeks after that, I got the thrill of seeing three tiny flickering heartbeats on a monitor.

So we could say that it worked - that my silent prayer got answered. They *were* inscribed in the Book Of Life. Or maybe it was just coincidence. Either way, I couldn't be more grateful on this Rosh Hashana eve.

May your days be filled with sweet reasons to celebrate. Mine are filled with at least 3.

The Swedish Chef

yah! ....e'vytink is okie dokie!....
(and I don't know what's funnier, the Chef himself, or the joke made at the end about the bride!)

In Praise of Thanks

For the past several weeks, I've not been doing much in the way of cooking at work. I've spent the vast majority of that time in the Kitchen Management office, helping them roll out a new software program. In the middle of this project, one of the major team members suffered a work-related injury and I ended up doing some of her tasks while she recovered. It's been long. It's been sometimes boring. It's been frustrating because I'd rather be in a kitchen, not out of it. At the same time, it's given me a huge amount of insight into the running of a food-related business, experience in dealing with suppliers and staffing issues, and in general been a great learning experience. (Although I would be remiss if I didn't confess that I had complained about it - loudly- once or twice or okay, three or four times.)

One of the best parts about this foray into culinary administration has been the relationship I've developed with one of the other staff. (And I christen thee, for blog purposes, 'Jewel.') I could wax lyrical about how much I adore her, but this post isn't about that (sorry babe.) Recently she and I were discussing the concept of thanks and appreciation from a work point of view. Previously I've talked about how I don't like certain rewards. You know, I just don't want to get stuff. I don't want spa gift certificates, I don't want movies or dinner out with my workmates. All I really, really, really want ... is for the person I'm working for to say thanks. A lot. And mean it.

Pshaw! (I hear you thinking) You can't be serious. You don't want anything? Truth is, NO, I don't. Because what I'm giving you is my time, my dedication, my attitude, my talent, my lots-of-non-monetary things. I want you, dear boss person, to give that right back to me. Reward me with your non-tangibles. Which, I have to say, Jewel has done in SPADES. She really LISTENED when I said that's what I wanted.

I should say that this topic came up because she and I were talking about the fact that HER reward for working her guts out was the HR Manager coming into the office, handing her an envelope, and saying, "Maybe you should open this later" and then walking out. No surprise, people, it was a voucher for some facial treatments. As Jewel wryly commented, "Great! They repay me for my hard work by telling me I have bad skin?" That kind of thank you isn't really a thank you at all. It's a here's-a-present-now-shut-up-and-work-more token gesture.

I invited Jewel over to dinner this past Friday, and she handed me an envelope, too. I knew she was way too smart to give me a &*(^**%! spa voucher, so I assumed it was a nice thank you card. I was only 50% right. It was by far one of the nicest thank you cards I've ever gotten, plus a family pack of tickets to the Royal Melbourne Show. A show which frankly, I couldn't really afford to go to otherwise. A show which I really wanted to take my kids to.

Her message said, in part,

"...so I know that we have spoken at length about rewards and 'thank yous'...but I know deep inside everyone loves a gift still! ... All the long hours away from your family are hard to get back...so have a fantastic time at the Show."

Finally. Someone who gets it. Jewel has given me her honest appreciation of what I've done for her and the company, and given me precious time with my family. She got it so very, very right. As someone who (in T minus 3 weeks) will be a business owner, manager, HR person, bosslady, and everything else... I appreciate her leading by example. She asked me how I wanted to be thanked. She listened. She did it, and then added a surprise bonus.

Jewel has provided me with one of the best examples of true, meaningful thanks I've had yet.

This post is my thanks back.
(no blackhead squeezing and facial scrubs required.)

It's All (not) There In Black & White

Recently DH and I sat down to work out my taxes. No, we're not several months late - the financial year here ends on June 30. Anyhoo, we (okay, he) punched all the relevant numbers into e-tax (the online tax form) and bah-dah-bing-bah-dah-boom it spit this out:

Last year I earned less than $18,000. BEFORE taxes.

As in, I technically earned below the poverty line.
As in, kids working at Mickey D's made more money than I did.
As in, if DH were to get run over by a bus tomorrow, I couldn't afford to feed the kids, let alone myself.
As in, I earned how little?! Wait, DH, that can't possibly be right. Surely not. I mean, that's, you know, NOTHING.

Sadly, blog readers, it's true.

In the past 12 months, I've worked every hour I could.

As in, I took every shift work offered me.
As in, I worked early mornings, late nights, weekends, and everything in between.
As in, I ended up in the hospital for over 2 weeks because I worked myself into a back injury.
As in, I've never worked so damn hard as I have in the previous 12 months. (Okay, the 12 months before that? Equally as hard, but I earned more. Explanation below.)

Now it should be said that previous to this crazy cheffing biz, I worked a normal work week of 38 hours, with an hour lunch break, and earned somewhere in the vicinity of $50,000 a year. You know, REAL money. I also know that I hated most of it (except the fact that ABF worked there, too) and that towards the end, it was a soul-destroying experience. I *love* my job. I *love* being able to say, out loud, to total strangers, that I AM A CHEF. I am much happier now than I ever was before. In many ways my job now defines who I am.

However.

My back aches, often. (Although said injury is now basically resolved.)
My Birkenstocks have worn down to THROUGH the cork. Three times.
My clothes all smell vaguely like yeast and/or cooked meat, even after washing.
I'm not sure what my kids look like in the morning, because I leave the house before they wake up.
All the clothes I own are either black, white, or checkered black and white.
When I get into bed at night, I average about half a paragraph before falling into a sleep so deep, it would take a large volcanic eruption to wake me up.
My right pointer finger is permanently calloused from my knife pressing against it.

And for all this, I get paid nothing. Now the sad thing is, I actually get paid pretty well for my industry. Hour for hour, I am earning close to 50% more than I was the previous year. Difference is I am working less hours now, hence the frighteningly small amount of money I earned. I feel like I worked a lot more, but I earned a lot less.

Since I saw that ridiculously small number on that screen, I've felt a little bit depressed about it. I mean, shit, I don't know how much more I could have done. Sure, it was an unusual year in so far as I was out of work (with said back injury) for about 7 weeks. Plus I had about 2-3 days of school a week, limiting my work availability. Plus I changed to working in catering (as opposed to a restaurant) which meant I worked 50+ hours some weeks, and barely 8 in other weeks. So the itty-bitty-teeny-weeny earnings make sense. Logically, I mean. Emotionally, though? Complete train wreck.

I cried, you know. Something I don't do all that often. At the moment I feel as though I am stretched very thin (ha! probably the only time I have a thin day as opposed to a fat day!). I'm working for my normal company, opening my own (T minus 3 weeks), doing 2 small side jobs (writing at Candy Addict, and until last week, consulting to a restaurant building a pastry section.) So you know, it's not like I'm sitting here eating cream cakes and sipping ice cold Campari.

And all this for $17,675?

Hmmm.

Then I am struck by the thought: I don't really give a flying shit what I earn. I love my job. I'm good at my job. It's really all that matters, especially since I am fortunate enough to have a DH who does much less work (pound for pound, literally) than I do and earns...well... A WHOLE HECK OF A LOT MORE, shall we say, than I do. And it's true, it takes a lot less skill to bake a cake than it does to, say, redesign a submarine for the Australian Army.

But tell me - which would you rather have? Me? My money's (what little of it there is) on the cake. With extra icing, thanks.

__________________________________
Edited:

Today at work I had a bit of a sook (a woe-is-me complaint) to a workmate about this whole money thing. She looked at me, with a somewhat bemused expression on her face, and said, "Um, yeah, but Michelle? You're a *MUM* to triplets and a *WIFE* and a *STUDENT* and you run a *HOME*. Did you somehow forget that all of those have value too?"

The sad thing is that YES, actually, I did.

Morning Java

So there I was thinking DH was going to be pretty annoyed with me, when he got home (after reading this blog) and found out about all the things I did/didn't do while he was away. In specific I thought he'd be annoyed about the whole kids-and-coffee thing. After all, every morning of the entire week he was gone the kids and I shared a massive commuter mug full of coffee. He's has this "thing" (and really, I can't fault him) that kids shouldn't be drinking coffee. You know, all that caffeine. Not to mention the chemical cocktail in Sweet n' Low, or the fact that kids don't really need coffee per se. However, he now is left with no legs to stand on after: a) he readily lets them (occassionally) drink Diet Coke or Pepsi Max (which contain not only caffeine but also cancer-causing fake sugar substitutes) *and* b) he came home from his trip away with these:

Yup. Those are giant matching commuter mugs. Perfect for them to have their OWN tall mug of warm, caffeine-laden, pink sachet of cancerous goodness filled, growth-stunting cup of morning java. For shame, DH, for shame. This is how coffee addicts are born.

However, I've recently discovered that DH is smarter than I am. Funnily enough, HE won't make them coffee on mornings he drives them to school. Ya know, he doesn't want to support their habit or anything. So even though I was keeping java consumption down to a minimum (by us all sharing only one cup worth), he's gone and allowed them to have their own. Which, as we know, all six year olds who share every iota of their lives want. Something of their very, very own which they don't have to share because he/she is not sharing properly and it's not fair Mummy!!!!!!! So. He's the one who has made this bigger than Ben Hur, but *I* am the bad guy because I'm the one who actually fills the damn things up.

Sheesh. What's next? I offer them a sip of wine and he buys them matching hip flasks?

Yup, I'm The Worst Mommy EVAH!

Actually, I'm not, it's just that sometimes my kids make me feel that way. You know, when I'm being totally NOT FAIR and MEAN because I asked them to...oh, I don't know... GET DRESSED for school. Or maybe I asked that they tear down (and put away) their 10 foot high volcano of furniture, Lego boxes, Ken doll legs, playing cards and stuffed tigers. Or when I ask them to brush their teeth...having already asked 4 times previously, with an elapsed time of 5 minutes between nice, friendly, polite asking. Us mothers, man, are we HARSH!

Never mind that I let them have treats which I shouldn't have, including our new morning tradition of sharing a massive commuter mug of coffee (made with instant, and made with Sweet and Low! Oh the horrors!) on the way to school. Or the fact that I will move hell and high water to make sure they get what they need. You know, like a roof over their heads and pants that fit and exactly the right outfit for the dress-up parade. All of this goes out the window the very second I become the unreasonable, horrible, you-made-me-cry Mummy ... because I dared comment that it seems to take them 45 minutes to put on their school uniforms, but 2.3 seconds to get into PJ's so they don't miss one second of the Backyardigans.

Here are a few more reasons why I am a mean Mummy:

• I ask them to eat some sort of protein at dinner. No, tortillas are not protein.
• I ask them to brush their hair in the morning. You know, so that the other mothers don't think I'm neglectful. I have a reputation to uphold!
  
• I ask them to re-brush their hair, only this time with an actual hairbrush and not their fingers.
  
• I act somewhat exasperated when they spill their milk, all over the dinner table, AGAIN.
• I expect them to call me by Mum, Mummy, Mama, or variations on a theme, but not my first name. I earned this parenthood gig (with injections, money, emotional upheaval and a c-section scar.) Dammit, I want to be MUM. I'm the parent, I'm not your friend.
• I politely, nicely, steel-pins-in-my-voice ask them to please, PLEASE stop leaning on me so hard it feels as though my arm will break off.
• I remind them that picking one's nose and then using the same finger to lick icing off a cake is just, you know, gross.
  

Thing is, the Mean Mummy badge is one I wear with pride. Whether they like it or not, these three kids are going to grow up polite, pleasant, capable humans...and all because I dared to be mean to them. I say, Mean Mommies unite! (and god help us when they become teenagers.)

So - humour me - How have YOU been a Mean Mommy today? (Comments welcome. Don't pretend like you weren't mean. Seriously. No need to pretend. We're all friends here.)
__________________________________________________________

emzee housekeeping: Go read some articles over here because I wrote some recently, and Three Sweeties now has a home (!) so expect more news on that front, and for two nights running the children have not eaten dinner from a square box with a picture of a guy named Luigi on the front. Yay me!

Life Lesons #2

Should you find yourself single parenting for the week, while DH fritters and floats away his time in another state (read: he's at a conference, and we all know what that means. Namely, he'll come home with loads of receipts for dinners out plus oh yeah honey, here's a free pen I got for you), that would NOT be a good time to :

• Tell the kids it's pizza for dinner every night
• Followed by ice cream
• Quit one's job entirely
• Forget to lock the front door
• Get yet more parking tickets
• Call your BF in the US for a very, very, very looooong chat at premium rates
  
• Decide to cut your hair (he's seen the go faster stripe and approves, but best I don't push my luck)
• Decide to clear out all the crap on his side of the bedroom, in a no-holds-barred approach
• Forget (not bother) to pay the cleaner
• Forget (not bother) to pay said parking tickets
• Leave the dishes to pile up in the sink
• Not touch a single load of laundry
• Stay up until all hours watching crap TV just because you can (and he's not here to look hang dog when you flick past episode number 1,346,788 of Star Trek because "I've not SEEN this one!")

...now I'm not saying I WILL do any of these. Nor am I saying I WON'T do any of these. I'm just saying he's been gone for about 6 hours and we've already had pizza for dinner.

It's going to be an interesting week.

Lessons for Life #1

Should you find yourself feeling a little down, a little blue, a little bit harumpf, harumpf, harumpf, (let's face it, a little bit crap about oneself altogether), instant relief can be found by acquiring a bright red "go faster" stripe:


It works. Trust me.

The Post Secret Mini-Movie

For well over a year now I've read the secrets posted on this website. I've laughed, gotten goose bumps and smiled both inside and out. Sometimes my heart aches for the people who have no other outlet for their grief than anonymously sending their secrets out to the world....but then I realize we all have our secrets, even if (like me) we live our lives surrounded by love and support.

In honour of Frank Warren's life-changing project, I am sharing a secret of my own.

One of my biggest secrets is this:

I hated being thin. The person in the mirror didn't look like me. I could no longer wear my weight as my suit of protective emotional armor. For many reasons I desperately need to lose weight, but I'm terrified of doing so (for the above reasons) , so instead I am eating myself into self-destruction.

Meat and 16 Veg

A traditional Australian dinner is the "meat and three veg" - literally, meat (usually a roast) of some kind, plus three vegetables (usually potatoes, and two overcooked boiled limp used-to-be nutritious veg.) Tuesday nights in our house have jokingly become "meat and 16 veg" nights because our weekly fresh veg and fruit delivery comes on a Wednesday morning. Usually Tuesday night finds me or DH rooting around in the fridge, trying to come up with a way to transform some lettuce, one tomato, a few stalks of celery, a head of bok choy and a limp carrot into a gourmet meal for five. Being as clever as we are, we often succeed. Tonight was no different except that instead of veg we had a whole basket full of just-past-nice pears and a couple of just-too-wrinkly golden delicious apples to use up.

Solution? Pear and Apple Crisp!

Start with somewhat dodgy fruit:


Make sure to enlist the kids....especially any cute 6 year old boys who might be hanging around the place:



Don't forget to take the close-up of just how damn SCRUMMY it all was:


...and then take the shot of how much it was a hit, with yet another six year old who happens to roam around the house


Lastly, go to blogger and post about it:

APPLE (and/or) PEAR CRISP
(Note: Method edited from original to reflect emzee's inherent laziness.)

Bunch o' apples or pears (about 8 pieces of fruit), sliced
2 T sugar
1/2 cup rolled oats
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup plain flour
1/4 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1/4 cup butter

To serve: ice cream, custard, or whatever

Preheat oven to 375/180. Take a large round casserole and spray with oil spray. Throw in the fruit, sprinkle the sugar on top. In a separate bowl add the remaining ingredients. Cut the butter through with a knife until the mixture resembles breadcrumbs (note, this is when child labour comes in handy.) For the lazy among us, whizz it in a food processor. Throw (okay, gently scatter) on top and bake for 35-40 minutes or until crisp and smelling totally divine. Eat with accompaniments (I recommend 3 x six year old children and vanilla custard.)

Tooth Fairy Economics

It's raining teeth in our house at the moment, with each of the kids either losing a tooth or wobbling a tooth or discussing their wobbly teeth. A veritable dental typhoon around here! Since us Jews don't have Santa Claus, the only real 'fantasy' character we can use is the Tooth Fairy. I make a pretty good Tooth Fairy, even though my wings don't quite fit (and frankly are a bit out of fashion), and the pink dress does nothing for my complexion. Some months ago the kids found my stash of their fallen-out teeth (yes, I know, it's kinda gross to be keeping them - and scarily enough I even have some of my own baby teeth). They were thoroughly confused as to why I might have them, given that TTF herself is meant to take them away.

Hmmm. (Insert mad scramble thinking) Ummmm..... wwwwweeeelllll, you see, The Tooth Fairy SELLS them back to the Mummies and Daddies after she collects them, so the Mummies and Daddies can keep them as a memory of their kids growing up. Yup. That's it.

So this weekend we discussed TTF again - specifically, how someone so small can possibly carry coins which are so big and heavy. DD1 opined that in her fairy dress, TTF has magical pockets which can fit giant coins in so that the coins just barely peek over the top of the pocket edge. Sorta like Mary Poppins' carpet bag, the pockets look normal sized (eg tiny and suitably fairy-ish) but they can hold much bigger things than they look like they should. DD2, however, had a different theory. Namely that the people who give TTF the money in the first place give her tiny money, and TTF has a special magical skill which means she can carry her tiny coins and then magic them into normal size when she puts them under your pillow. Either solution works, really, and I was most impressed about the kids coming up with these answers.

It was quite an entertaining conversation, until such time as I asked HOW TTF comes upon all this money in the first place. I mean, millions of trillions of children across the world, times however many teeth - we're talking some serious dosh here. This is the point where my children proved (yet again) that they are smarter than I am, and that they remember what I say.

"Um, DUH Mummy! She sells the teeth to the Mummies and Daddies, and then she has money to give to the KIDS."

Ahhh. I see. My original explanation for why I had ziploc baggies of teeth hiding in my closet comes back to haunt me. Seems ol' TTF has a bit of a "robbing Peter to pay Paul" scheme going on. Clearly, a free market economy exists even in Fairy Land.

News Flash: Apparently, Isabella (friend of the trio) has SEEN TTF, for reals! Hmmm. Me thinks this report might be suspect.

News Flash #2: Apparently DS, when he lost his very first teeth (at age 3), stayed up awake ALL NIGHT to see her, and he didn't see her. Apparently she was SO small, he couldn't see her because it was soooooo dark in his room.

News Flash #3: Boy, are these kids going to be pissed off when they realise their Mum owns a fairy dress with no pockets!

I Never Thought It Would Be This Hard

...to find a recipe for lemon cake.

This week I've got a christening cake to make for a client. Normally, this is not an issue, except that this client asked for a "very very moist lemon cake." Simple, right? I've probably got dozens of lemon cake recipes, many of which I've tried before. However, most of the lemon cake recipes I have are either light and melt-on-your-tongue lemony, or fairly dense (but dry-ish) cakes of the loaf/bread variety. Neither of these are what my client wants - she wants something which is moist but not particularly dense (LOL, I can think of a few bad jokes here, but as this is a family blog I'll refrain.). From my perspective, it's got to be able to hold up some fondant (roll out icing), keep for a few days, and not require refrigeration. I spent a good hour or two (okay, more than that) trolling through my favourite recipe sites, Googling, reading posts on foodie blogs and begging friends for their lemon cake secrets. I really wanted to avoid using a filling like lemon curd (as I didn't know how far this cake had to travel, etc) and I needed a recipe which would make a fairly large cake without drying out.

Several (and I mean several) lemon cakes later, I *finally* found a recipe which fit the bill. Sadly, it's not the above photo of a Lemon Ricotta Cake (which cost me a fortune, burned on the outside and was raw in the middle, and tasted like wet soap). It also wasn't the "famous" Justice Lady Bird Lemon Cake. Nor was it Martha Stewart's Lemon Cake. Nor was it my precious Luscious Lemon Loaf, which dried out when I made it bigger than one loaf size. I also refused on culinary moral grounds to make the thousands of recipes which involved a box of lemon cake mix, frozen lemonade concentrate, a box of lemon jell-o, a box of lemon pudding, or lemon lime soda in various amounts. (Surely, all things which don't belong in a baker's pantry of ingredients?!)

I don't have a photo of the finished product (yet to be decorated) and the trial cake has only a small wodge left, sitting forlornly on my kitchen bench, waiting for someone (probably DH a bit later tonight) to finish it off. This is quite possibly the best lemon cake I've ever eaten, and in recent history I've eaten a LOT of them. Note, I didn't bother with the glaze, although I can see how it would add more lemony lusciousness. For those baulking at zesting 8 lemons, do yourself a favour and invest in a microplane. (Easily purchased at most decent homeware shops.)

Best Lemon Cake Emzee's Ever Had (from Ina Garten, better known as the Barefoot Contessa)

1/2 pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
2 1/2 cups granulated sugar, divided
4 extra-large eggs, at room temperature
1/3 cup grated lemon zest (6 to 8 large lemons)
3 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon kosher salt
3/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice, divided
3/4 cup buttermilk, at room temperature
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

For the glaze:
2 cups confectioners' sugar, sifted
3 1/2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Grease and flour 2 (8 1/2 by 4 1/4 by 2 1/2-inch) loaf pans. You may also line the bottom with parchment paper, if desired.

Cream the butter and 2 cups granulated sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, until light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. With the mixer on medium speed, add the eggs, 1 at a time, and the lemon zest.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a bowl. In another bowl, combine 1/4 cup lemon juice, the buttermilk, and vanilla. Add the flour and buttermilk mixtures alternately to the batter, beginning and ending with the flour. Divide the batter evenly between the pans, smooth the tops, and bake for 45 minutes to 1 hour, until a cake tester comes out clean.

Combine 1/2 cup granulated sugar with 1/2 cup lemon juice in a small saucepan and cook over low heat until the sugar dissolves. When the cakes are done, allow to cool for 10 minutes. Remove the cakes from the pans and set them on a rack set over a tray or sheet pan; spoon the lemon syrup over them. Allow the cakes to cool completely.

For the glaze, combine the confectioners' sugar and the lemon juice in a bowl, mixing with a wire whisk until smooth. Pour over the tops of the cakes and allow the glaze to drizzle down the sides.

...oh, and this photo? It's just a brag about the cute stuff I made at work recently. Yup, I used company time to make some treats for my kids (note, AFTER making 200+ of these things for a function...)