Do Dankes: The Triple Treat

I’ve been vewwy vewwy bad.

Though I did say to hell with “New Year, New You”, I have been trrrrying to make better choices about what I toss down the ole gullet.

OK. Well I tried for one week at least. And, well, really I was forced to. I was super sick, you see, and didn’t have any desire to eat anything other than the delicious chicken soup I made.

But when my nose unstuffed itself and my taste buds resumed their daily duties, the all-too-familiar urge to consume cake, cookies, and cupcakes absolutely overcame me. Damn it.

What is it about this triple sweet treat threat that draws me in so? Hooks me. Handcuffs me. Shackles me. Does not allow me to just say no.

Is there a Cupcakeaholic’s Anonymous? Oh yeah, it’s called Weight Watchers.

But for reals. When I find myself in the presence of some sweet treat, I salivate like a rabid dog. I foam at the mouth. My vision goes from glassessary to 20/15 in .2 secs if it hones in on funfetts, oat rais, snickerdoods, red velvs, or monkey cake.

I politely (desperately), gently (firmly) push (shove) people out of the way, hoping against hope that my Chosen One isn’t chosen by someone else.

And then, and then, after I have had selection success, I inhale the sugary goodness of my goodie.

Though I wish I had the patience to savor sweets, I always seem to devour them in seconds. Then, left with a bereft plate, I want seconds. And thirds. And fifths. ‘Tis a vicious cycle - sugar isn’t too satisfying, you see, and so I never grow tired of it.

When I crave, I cave - only to regret it after the cake is out of sight and tucked inside.

Now I don’t think I necessarily favor one of these ménage à treats over another. I like them all in turn. Oftentimes it just depends on my mood. But it always seems to work out - somehow my mood syncs with whatever treat is in front of me. Amazing!

I’m going to do the fair thing and divulge my favorite indulgences in reverse alphabetical order. Cupcakes to the plate, cookies on deck, cake on the bench (being lazy - as befits the fattest of them all).

Funfetti cupcakes. Where to begin? They’re light and fluffy. Colorful. Not too sweet. Vanilla (which I definitely prefer to chocolate - totes a vanilla on vanilla kind of girl). How I wish there was a funfetti bakery in New York City. Sigh.

But until someone with a bit more startup money than I opens such a joint, I shall have to survive on delectable treats from a few other NYC bakeries.

My faves: Sweet Revenge (pictured) - their namesake cupcake (peanut butter cake, ganache filling with peanut butter buttercream); Sugar Sweet Sunshine - Sunshine (yellow cake with vanilla buttercream); Buttercup Bake Shop - Red Velvet (with cream cheese frosting, the proper icing for R. Velvs) and Sour Cream Spice (‘nuff said); Crumbs - though I detest the fact that they’re a chain and their normal cupcakes are dry, I do love their vanilla-with-coconut-flakes mini-cupcakes.

Now cookies...cookies are quite a change of pace from cupcakes - but equally delish. Though not as moist (does that word bother anyone?) as their counterparts, they do offer maaaany more ingredients and super yummy varieties.

As corny as it sounds, I’m pretty partial to my mom’s cookies - very few bakeries come close to hers. And who needs a bakery when she mails them to my office all the time! (My coworkers love them just as much as I do.) Her ginger chews are incomparable. Homemade chocolate chip with mini M&M’s? OMMG. Her oatmeal raisins - unparalleled. Even iced sugar cookies she makes, gah! I’d better stop there before I wind up on Metro North homeward bound.

A distant second to Trissi, though, is Milk & Cookies. Their snickerdoodle and chocolate mint are totes ridics.

Onward to the last - but certainly not least - of the trio...drumroll please...“Let them eat cake!” (Don’t mind if I do.)

But do, please, let me eat the entire cake. I daresay I could! OK probably not - alas, what I love most about cakes is that you can cut yourself a huge piece, eschewing the embarrassment of having to go back for seconds (and thirds and fourths) that cupcakes often cause.

The tricky thing with cakes is that they’re more apt to dry out than their mini-twins. There’s just more cake to bake than cupcakes! So yeah, I don’t love a dry cake. I’ll eat it but I won’t necessarily enjoy it. Fine, I’ll enjoy it a little bit but not as much as I potentially could.

As much as I love vanilla on vanilla (funfetti is still my main squeeze in plus-size form - I make it for all my friend’s bdays, this one was for Michelle’s), I must say that I do favor other flavors. I even love chocolate cake with vanilla frosting - nuts, I know!

I especially I love it from Amy’s Bread - methinks cause it’s Devil’s food with buttercream frosting. I also thoroughly enjoy their coconut creme cake, their monkey cake (it’s dense, moist, and chunky with fresh bananas, pineapple and toasted pecans all coated in cream cheese icing - good lord), and of course their carrot cake (second only to the Schopp family recipe).

Though I don’t care for their overrated cupcakes, Magnolia does have a delish coconut layer cake.

And of course I love mi madre’s icebox cake - chocolate wafers encased in layers and layers of whipped cream (they expand when chilled - so good!)

You know what? I think I’m just gonna stop there before I decide to whip up that Valentine’s Day funfetti mix sitting in my cabinet. No Katie. No, no, no.

Last week I devoured two snickerdoodles and two oatmeal raisins from Milk & Cookies, then proceeded to try on bathing suits for my Miami trip (T - 2 days). Not a pretty sight.

Goddamn golden delicious it is. Gag me.

Cable Box Catastrophe

There are fewer things more devastating these days than a broken cable box. Devastating, I say.

Maybe it’s cause TV shows are so much better than they used to be (certain 80s and 90s gems aside). Or because there are so many of them, what with hundreds of channels to choose from. Quality and quantity, I say! (Jersey Shore I must exclude.)

Not only is there a plethora of genres, but in 2010 we actually have a way to record all of them - sans tapes! (I do kinda miss watching TGIF on video though!)

Why was the evolution of digital recording so goddamn long in the making? How oh how did we subsist solely on videotapes and VCRs until the late 90s? Incomprehensible. Unbelievable.

It truly baffles my 2.010 brain.

Me and my digital video recorder have a very intense relationship. Think Miranda and TiVo. But instead of SteVo, my main squeeze is Buddy the DVR.

And lately Buddy Boy’s been a horrifically horrendous boyfriend.

It all started 6 months ago. Buddy Boy 1.0 kept shutting off in the middle of a show! I pretty much had panic attacks and cried on a daily basis leading up to...the inevitable.

You see, we’d just gotten super serious super fast and I didn’t know how I would survive without him! I thought he was the best thing since barbeque sauce. He let me record as many shows and movies as I wanted and even allowed me to fast-forward through commercials!

Such a dreamboat! Sigh.

But the inevitable was, well, inevitable, and I knew the time had come to call Time Warner...after my sobs had subsided, obvi. They confirmed my worst nightmare - that all of my recorded shows, my series manager info, my saved movies would be - gasp - deleted. For good. Any hope for a saving/retrieval miracle was dashed on the spot.

I weighed the pros and cons and felt, in the end, that I simply couldn’t have Buddy 1.0 shutting down in the middle of Mad Men. So I did the right thing. Little did I know that there are worse things that having to reboot.

Buddy 1.1 was a deadbeat from the get-go. 


As soon as Groucho Marx aka Time-Warner-Cable-Dude left, I ripped the plastic off the face of my “new” cable box, Christmas morning! The anticipation, the glee, the hundreds of channels foaming at the mouth for me to watch them - all in that little grey square. Yipeeeee!

Then I noticed that the bulbs on the clock were busted. Ew! Malfunctioning minutes after inception? Really? Read: Refurbished. Read: Pissed.

Buddy Boy 1.1 sucks. I haven’t gotten over the fact that my main source of time-telling is wonky. I always mistake 4’s for 9’s and stub a few toes in my mad dash to get out the door - that’s 5 whole minutes of life based on lies!

But what’s really been irking the shit out of me is that the cable itself has been wonky. Like, malfunctioning. Especially my On Demand!

Oh I’m sorry, no I actually don’t want to see streaky, jumbled up pixels when Dexter’s walking into his bathroom (devastating!), or when Alex walks in on Belle doing it, or when Jake (how amazing is this picture) awkwardly has awkward conversations with awkward girls (hellooooo Michelle).

I do.not.appreciate the garbled, futuristic, computer chip sound-effects occurring onscreen in lieu of dialogue. The skipping over of scenes. The sporadic pauses. The “Searching for Signals”.

I don’t like my TV looking like one of those paintings made up of a million little pictures. I’d like to see McDreamy clearly...and hear him too, thankyouverymuch.

Why have you failed me Buddy Boy 1.1. What did I ever do to you? I’ve been nothing but nice. I decorated you with doilies and even left you some breather space - I know how you despise that DVD player being stowed on top of you.

And while you have recorded nearly everything I ask (though I hate you for not being able to record more than one thing...and for not letting me watch On Demand while you’re recording two shows), you deem it necessary to go kaput on me. AWOL.

Allow me to let you in on a little secret, cable box: You are not a satellite dish. You cannot come in and go out as you please.

Shape up, yo, or I’ll ship you out!

(Oh wait that’s a lie - I think I’d rather deal with chopped up people and squeaky computer virus voices than risk losing my long-saved Season 2 of Mad Men...ahh what’s a girl to do? Sad face.)

Karaoke? Kill Me.

I hate karaoke more than any drunkreational activity in the world.

Loathe. Abhor. Detest. Despise.

I wish I enjoyed it. Really, I do. People get so into it. I envy their enthusiasm. They live, breathe, die karaoke. They spend their days plotting ways to swindle friends into karaokeing - or they go solo to belt it out at bars.

Perhaps these lonely karaoke lovahs didn’t make the American Idol cut. Perhaps they miss their high-school-musical glory years. Perhaps they enjoy getting wasted and showing off (or absolutely embarrassing themselves) in front of strangers.

But whatever their reason, kudos to them. They thrive on stage.

I, on the other hand, cower away from it.

Maybe it’s cause I’m so self-conscious - I don’t like being in the spotlight. The lights are so bright I can’t see and certainly can’t think! In 8th grade I had four lines - literally - as Auntie Em in Oz. The second I walked out, they completely left my brain. I just kept repeating “Dorothy! Dorothy!” (Hey, at least I remembered her name.)

But my most obvious anti-karaoke reason is probably the simple fact that my voice sucks. Awful.

Or maybe I’m just never quite drunk enough to shake all that fright outta me.

Aww hell, that’s a lie. I do recall two times that I’ve karaoked. The first was in Provincetown, MA, quite a few years ago. Buddies who witnessed my belligerence that evening can attest that it was pure, unadulterated liquid courage that enabled me to slur my way through “It’s Raining Men” (at least I think that’s what it was). And yes, drag queens were involved.

The second unfortunate occurrence was at a bar in college (do any of you DZ girls recall?)

Both times are big, bad blurs. And while I’m sure my intoxication level had a hand in my forgetfulness, more likely methinks I blocked dem bad mem’s from my mind.

Who wants to relive a night of karaoke? NOT I.

This past Sunday I went to Kenny’s Castaways on good ole Bleecker St. Little did I know there was live.band.karaoke and a room full of middle-aged men and women trying to reenact their Select Chorus days.

Some peeps were good. Others were ho-rrific. But after suffering through “Smooth Operator”, “My Sharona”, and “Crazy”, I was left seriously wondering (said in Charlotte’s WHERE’S THE RING voice):

What’s the appeal? WHAT’s the APPEAL????

Well, in defense of Kenny’s (and a few singing friends), I can appreciate the draw of crooning to a live, jamming band.

Wrinkly, bespectacled men and khaki donning, camel-toed women transformed. There on that shitty little stage, it was possible for them to fulfill their adolescent dreams of being in a bright lights, big city band.

They could bow and nod wave and their ears and eyes could swell with audience love - even if it was limited to slurred shouts and off-kilter applause.

The divey Bleecker Street staple became, lo and behold, the Madison Square Garden of their tween dreams. They had made it! Like magic!

But really - it was ridiculous (and not in a good way) to see these oldies percolate, sway their hips, grind on down à la Elvis for the (pathetic) little audience. But...but...I must say that my time spent at band-accompanied-karaoke was vastly more bearable than the other omnipresent option.

Old-school-tape-deck-80s-TV karaoke? Holy shit vomit.

Most common folk (as in not GaGa), cannot, apparently, read and sing at the same time. They never know the tune. They miss words, mess up lines. And that little music note that bounces on top of the words makes them downright dizzy! (Or maybe it’s the 151 they’ve been sipping in preparation for their debut.)

They undoubtedly (drunkenly, sloppily) make out with the microphone - the same microphone that hundreds upon hundreds of similarly sloshed pseudo singers have made out with.

They sway back and forth to the beat, thinking they look good - when really they look like 6th graders at their first school dance.

(Michelle Carberry, however, I must exclude. She is a Queen Karaoke fo sho - even plays the tambourines while she’s singing.)

I feel so very sorry for these syncopating psychos who never had their moment to shine in the spotlight. Whose dreams of rocking in the real world were cut short by lack of talent.

But come on. You’re hurting my ears.

Hating Thy Neighbor

Apologies to one and all for my super slackerness this week. Drunching all day Sunday (whewww Bloody Mary’s) and no work Monday means no bloggies until Thursday apparently!



Well that and the fact that I’ve been sort of sleepless.

You see, I’ve got a case of the un-neighborly neighbs. It’s been rough.

Apartments in New York City are among the few things in life where you actually do get what you ask for. Millions of people sequestered in 22-ish square miles is complete madness. 

And while I do, in fact, adore this madness that is my life, I abhor the ridiculously close quarters we must keep with perfect strangers. Some of them, at least.

Dear Bible. Dear André. I disagree with you both. I do not deem it my duty to “love thy neighbor”. Nor do I want to lend him any of my sugar.

My neighbors are ca-razy and ru-uuuude.
The apartment complex I live in now - while lovely and adorable in a Melrose Place kind of way - is also unfortunately home to the worst NYC demographic degenerates: Old-school rent controlled grouchpots and still-in-school NYU kiddies.

Let’s start with the former, shall we?

Sure, we young professional types descended upon this city like the plague a few decades back. It was a modern day white person vs. Native American drama - but instead of bleeding flesh, the indigenous peeps bled money.

Rents reached exorbitant amounts - amounts that no one except folks in finance can really afford to pay. Same as now.
Unless, of course, the exilees were fortunate enough to abide in a rent-stabilized abode - like some of the units at my complex, 224 Sullivan Street.
Lucky for them...unlucky for us youngins. Not only does our resentment flame burn every time we see one of these ancient relics (their rent check often has two fewer 0’s), but we feel our well-being endangered. These old folks are kooky.
Let it be known that I have more compassion for elderly people than I do for anyone on the planet (except perhaps animals). But...but.
There’s a elderly gay man who lets his 15 year old (blind, deaf) Springer Spaniel roam the first floor hallway - and relieve herself as needed.
There’s an old cat lady who seems to think the hallway is her own personal closet. She has stored, among other things, a ginormous suitcase at the top of the stairs that I, in turn, bumped into every single time I carried something up.
But the worst of the worst is the old hunchbacked man who lives above me. He has a mullet and wears the same 80s warmup suit (which was obviously the last time he bothered showering) every day. And it is obvious that that was the last decade he bothered to shower.
The first time I saw him struggling up the stairs, my heart broke. But a few weeks later me and a bunch of my friends were walking through the courtyard and he screamed at us, “WHO ARE YOU, I DON’T RECOGNIZE YOU, WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE????”

Imagine my dismay when I learned that scary-druggie-biker dude lives right.above.me. And the sheer horror when I discovered he’s a bonafide nocturnal lunatic.
He’s paces his squeaky old floor like a ghost rattling chains in the attic. He drags furniture all over his 12 x 14 space - rearranging what, I do not know. He drops what I believe to be a sack of potatoes, picks it up, and drops it again. And his favorite time to do all of this is 4 am.
As if the elephant hunchback isn’t bad enough, the college kids below and next door to me seemingly exist to make my Greenwich Village residence even more miserable.
Bass-heavy music all night long. Alarm clocks shrieking till 2 pm on the weekends. Bottles in the hallways. Skunky weed smoke snaking under my door. Good LORD, one of them even had the audacity to ask if he could “steal my internet.” Umm. No.

I guess when it’s down to the wire, though, I do relate more to the collegiate partiers than the geriatric psychos.

Do Dankes: Masterpiece is Magical

Maybe it’s because I love classic literature. People just don’t write books like that anymore!

OK, well there are a few good authors these days. But truth be told, no one holds a candle to Tolstoy or Austen or Gaskell or Hardy or even Hemingway.

I am a sucker for a good book (more to come on that at a later date) - but I am also, apparently, a sucker for good books made into good movies.

I don’t mean books of the Harry Potter/Lord of the Rings sort- I’m talking literature.

2005’s Pride and Prejudice aside - though by no means brushed aside; Joe Wright’s adaptation is perhaps my favorite movie ever - Hollywood just doesn’t make blockbuster films based on the books of long-dead British (or Russian...and some American) authors. 


Fair. But oh-so-devastating.

Devastating, that is, until I discovered a gem on the Public Broadcasting Service: Masterpiece Classic.

OMFG. I am obsessed. Literally, literarily obsessed.

Good lord do my coworkers have a field day making fun of me when I get all gaga over Masterpiece. Cranford is their latest poke-fun-at-Katie binge. Hmmmmmpf.
But for reals, yo. These productions deserve so much more acclaim than they get! At least as far as I’m concerned.
Andrew Davies, God of Classic Literature Adaptations and Screenwriting, is pretty much the crown prince when it comes to breathing new life into these beloved tales. He is a 73-year-old genius who has penned scripts for some of my favorite productions including Little Dorrit, Sense & Sensibility, Middlemarch, Pride and Prejudice, and Daniel Deronda.
Masterpiece is so lucky to have such a brilliant man working on so many of their projects.

But though the writing, the nuances, and the dialogue are all part of the magic that is Masterpiece, that is just the beginning.

The actors and actresses that sign on for this PBS program are - in a word - magnificent. From revered veterans like Dame Judi Dench and Imelda Staunton, to famous contemporary stars including Keira Knightley and Johnny Lee Miller and Matthew Macfadyen, to rising talents like Romola Garai, Gemma Arterton, and Eddie Redmayne - the cast is always immaculately chosen.

Though I have seen many, many adaptations of my favorite classics, the actors and actresses that participate in Masterpiece are incomparable. And they just get better and better with each new production!

The costumes, the sets, the cinematography, the direction - breathtaking. Masterpiece Classic offers the whole package. These films are unrivaled (well, perhaps because they have no rivals...but still).

My good friend Jeffery (of jdbrecords) recently posted a blog featuring his top 10 films of 2009. Thus inspired, I will now list my top 10 Masterpiece Classics (of all time).

Honorable Mention - Sense & Sensibility (2008): Though I appreciate the stylishness of this most recent reincarnation, I hold the 1995 Ang Lee’s version closer to my heart. It’s very good but a bit too sensual and racy - Austen surely rolled over in her grave during that opening scene.

10. The Forsyte Saga (2002): Epic. Extremely epic. Hence Saga. But beautifully filmed and acted; the villainous Soames (Damian Lewis) will have your skin crawling with creepiness throughout.
9. Lorna Doone (2000): A Romeo and Juliet-esque tale full to the brim with forbidden love, action, and suspense, Lorna Doone is a classic romance set in the wilds of 17th-century England. (A&E)

8. Under the Greenwood Tree (2005): A lesser known Hardy novel. Keeley Hawes (Matthew Macfadyen’s very lucky wife) shines as a lady being courted by a quite a few men.

7. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (1996): Sort of a Jane Eyre in reverse - oh those Brontë sisters! But this understated story will indeed hold your attention till the last.

6. Persuasion (2007): Sally Hawkins plays Anne Elliott to a T. This posthumous Austen novel is brought stunningly to life in a lush, lovely scope. And it’s a must see for three small words - Rupert Penry-Jones (above...bow chicka wow wow).

5. Tess of the d’Urbervilles (2008): This has been a favorite novel of mine since I read it in 10th grade - despite its tragicness. I loved the A&E adaptation starring Justine Waddell, but I must say I that enjoyed Gemma Arterton and Eddie Redmayne a bit more.
4. North and South (2004): It’s unfortunate that Elizabeth Gaskell is so overshadowed by Austen and the Brontës. But her tale of strong-willed, misunderstood lovers during the Industrial Revolution is phenomenal.

3. Cranford (2007, 2009): Another Gaskell gem! This charming, often hilarious production recounts the trials and tribulations of a small country town. It’s sometimes kooky but always endearing. Judi Dench, ‘nuff said!
2. Jane Eyre (2006): In her acting debut, Ruth Wilson more than holds her own alongside the formidable Toby Stephens. Love, love, love this version! One of my favorite novels, too.
1. Little Dorrit (2008): Though I’m ashamed to say I’d never heard of this Dickens novel, I relished every second of the Masterpiece film. While it waxes Dickens at his lower-class-best, the actors play their parts to perfection. (And it doesn’t hurt that Matthew Macfadyen is one of the leads.)

There are so many treasures out there that Masterpiece has brought into our homes, into our lives. So many books that I can’t wait to read (I do work in publishing so I feel obligated to say that the book is always better!)

Maybe I’m a Masterpieceoholic because I believe romance is dead and see it living on in these films. Or perhaps because Mad Men isn’t on all year round.

But I agree with the nutty Blanche DuBois from A Streetcar Named Desire. She said, “Their literary heritage is not what they treasure above all else.”
So true. Maybe we should start treasuring this rich, bountiful written heritage of ours. Whether you read the book or watch the Masterpiece Classic. Ah hem, maybe you should start. You won’t regret it.

(If you’ve actually read this entire opus on romantic period dramas, bravo. As much of an anachronism as I may seem, I will have you know that I did not score 100% on this quiz. Oh no, I got two wrong. See how you do!)