All the president's men...

One of whom apparently wanted to firebomb the Brookings Institution.

I've been reading All the President's Men, by Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward. The definitive account of the Watergate break-in and the subsequent hunt for the truth that lead to President Nixon's resignation, it is amazing in it's breadth and detail. But strangely, despite the veritable laundry list of felonies and almost-crimes committed by members of the White House staff and approved by the freaking President of the United States of America, what gets to me the most is the fact that burning down the Brookings Institution was tossed around as a potential game plan by the Watergate conspirators.

This is pretty much how it went down: a member of Henry Kissinger's staff (who, incidentally, also had his phone wiretapped illegally by the White House... you know, no biggie) left the Secretary of State's office to join the Brookings Institution, a policy think-tank in DC. He was believed to have taken some classified documents with him when he left, and certain members of the White House wanted them back. Break-ins were a real popular method of political espionage and sabotage around those parts back then, but the White House needed a way to cover it up. I can just imagine how this goes: a whole bunch of whitebread, clean-cut government officials sitting around a White House office, smoking cigarettes and tossing out ideas. And then some bright soul (Chuck Colson, specifically!) says, "hey, I know, why don't we set it on fire?!"

Apparently his suggestion freaked some people out and they backed off from the plan entirely, but still. I mean, the White House was operating in such a way in which a trusted member of the team, someone who had a DIRECT line to the President, could suggest firebombing an American organization and no one would think twice about it. I am going to repeat this, so you can experience the full import of it: firebombing the Brookings Institution. FIREBOMBING. It's so absurd, and yet terrifyingly possible! I just... I am floored.

Colson went on to deny that he had suggested burning the Brookings Institution down as a way to cover up their break-in (in fact, he jokingly said that he'd actually been talking about setting the Washington Post on fire, because that's just a side-splitter right there) but many sources claimed that he was lying.

I know this shouldn't astonish me - after all, these men were committing crimes left and right. Still, there is something so brazen, so viciously open and brutally honest about planning to firebomb a building on American soil that really drives home the powerful can't-touch-me attitude that these men had. It reminds me of one of my favorite lines in last year's Frost/Nixon, where the now-resigned and bitter ex-President Nixon yells at reporter David Frost, "Well, when the president does it, that means that it is not illegal!" But really, what should I expect? As a source tells Woodward in All the President's Men, "the President is... well, a felon."

All of this is to say: if you haven't read All the President's Men, do it. And then call me, so we can get worked up about the subversion of the democratic process and the importance of checks and balances, law and order, and having a government that respects the laws that constrains it. Good times, y'all.

I don't think cupcakes have an opinion on abortion.

So apparently today, this lovely October 9, is National Pro-Life Cupcake Day. A day when school children should bring brightly decorated cupcakes into classrooms and when their classmates flock to the treats and ask, "whose birthday is it?" They can respond with "NOBODY'S, BECAUSE THE BABIES HAVE ALL BEEN ABORTED BEFORE THEIR BIRTHDAYS." Or something similarly capslocky. And then apparently the cake will go dry in their classmates' mouths (it's magic cake, triggered to automatically dry out by the mention of the word "abortion") and they'll realize the magnitude of the national mistake that was Roe. V. Wade.

Or maybe, because they are children who have been faced with sugar, they will shrug and stuff their faces with more cake.

Listen, I don't care what your opinion is about abortion. But for goodness sake, can't we leave cupcakes out of it? I mean, will no one think of the baked goods?

Story via Jezebel, which obviously has a bias (one that I agree with, but a bias nonetheless.)

The tell-tale wombs of Lewiston, Maine

I spend a large portion of my working hours in a basement filled with boxes upon boxes of clothes. It's a little like being at a perpetual rummage sale, only you can't touch, try on, or buy any of the objects. And because I spend so much time in a basement, carving ethylfoam and cutting muslin to make costume mounts, flouncing ruffles and vacuuming dust out of pleats, and struggling with stacks of boxes filled with 19th century bicycling outfits (surprisingly adorable, PS), I also listen to a lot of radio.

Specifically, NPR. The radio in the South Costume Storage (the fancy name for my basement lair) is an analog dial radio, which means that changing the frequency is an exercise in dread, trepidation, and ultimate futility. To avoid the heartache of listening to static as I gamely turn the dial in search of music, I usually just keep it on NPR all the time. That means I get a lot of depressing BBC World Service stories (sorry, my British brethren, but your news, while poshly-spoken, is a bit of a downer), more pledge drives than I can shake a stick at, The Story from North Carolina (underappreciated and very interesting!) and, at 3 pm, All Things Considered.

All of this is meant as a lead-up to this announcement: if you haven't listened to the All Things Considered story on healthcare (part 1 of scheduled 3) that broadcast yesterday, DO IT. "The Tell-Tale Wombs of Lewiston, Maine," besides having a totally creepy and awesome title, is a fascinating look at why the heck healthcare in America costs so damn much, using the town of Lewiston as a case study. Maybe it's just that I don't actually know that much about the healthcare debate (except that as a technically unemployed young person, I'd like some, pretty please!) but I found it full of fascinating facts, disturbing realities, and strongly persuasive in addressing the need for a really dramatic overhaul of the American healthcare system.

So nu, what are you waiting for? Go! Listen! And tell me what you think!

This originally had a different title.

I was going to call it "Separated at birth... " and then the first sentence of this post was going to be "... and centuries, and reality." Because I thought I had stumbled across a very strange resemblance that I was going to share with all you, but then my roommates said "you crazy, lady!" and suddenly I started to doubt myself. Therefore, I put it to you: do these two ladies look strangely similar?

Lady Numero Uno:

Dona Isabel Cobos de Porcel, painted by Francisco Goya in 1805.

And Lady Numero Dos:

Joan Holloway, as played by the extraordinarily talented Christina Hendricks.

So what say you: do these ladies look alike, or am I totally crazy?

San Diego, I love you

Any shit I have ever talked about San Diego, it's airport in particular, is now invalidated. San Diego International Airport, you have free wireless*. OMG I LOVE YOU.

*Unlike the world's most ridiculous Spanish Renaissance/Gothic Torture Chamber McMansion, where I have just spent the last five days of my life. Coats of arms embedded into the tiled floor of every room? Yes. Fountains in every room? Yes. Windows with no curtains? Yes. Internet? NO. Also, strangely, no showers. A correlation, perhaps?

I'm not trying to brag, honest.

Ok, yeah, I totally am. Yellow cake, lemon cream cheese frosting, lemon curd and blackberry compote fillings. Caitlin's birthday was a convenient excuse.

Give me Kitchen Aid or give me death.

Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time I was a senior in college, contemplating writing an honors thesis. Eventually it became clear to me that I would not be able to write it and still hold on to my sanity. I came to this realization over winter break and promptly called my roommate back in Atlanta, a little appalled and nervous. Our conversation went something like this:

S: "I don't think I'm going to be writing my thesis."
C: "hmmm, that's interesting."
S: "no, really!"
C: "yes, I heard you."
S: "what, aren't you shocked? Why are you so calm about this? WHY ARE YOU NOT MAKING SURPRISED NOISES?"
S: "Oh, I'm sorry, was this supposed to be news? I knew this would happen."
S: "How? I'm writing the damn thing and I didn't even know! How could you?"
C: "Over the past semester, you baked scones, cakes, chocolate croissants, more scones, tarts, cookies, brownies, and cupcakes. Every time you were supposed to be writing your thesis, you were baking. You even made cupcakes that looked like anatomically correct hearts. THEY HAD VENTRICLES AND EVERYTHING. Clearly, the thesis wasn't going to get written."
S: "..."

And that is how my very observant roommate diagnosed me as a stress baker.

So yeah, stress baking. Apparently I do it. And I must be extraordinarily anxious about SOMETHING, because I have been baking up a storm lately. Some people have requested pictures, so here they are a few of my creations (please excuse the poor quality - if this is food porn, it's clearly of the homemade sex tape variety):


Cupcake kuchen, or cupkuchen, for July 4. I used strawberries and bluberries to get a nice red/white/blue thing going, but none of the people at the party I brought them to seemed to care. Clearly, they aren't patriots.


And then there was the mini peach galette:


It was sort of an after-thought, actually; we had leftover tart dough from a tomato onion tart my roommates had made and some peaches that weren't used up in a peach/apricot kuchen I had made early that week. I wasn't sure what to do for the filling, so it was basically just sliced peaches coated with brown sugar and patted down with butter. I've since done some other, more intentional galettes (apple, mostly) but so far this has come out the prettiest.

Now, this next one has a story (surprising, right?). I have never feared cupcakes, or brownies, or scones. I faced down pan au chocolat with a take-no-prisoners attitude. Even pie dough, with all it's finickiness, doesn't frighten me too badly. But cakes? Especially layer cakes? As far as I can tell, they were created by the devil to confound me. At least that's what I've thought for the past few years, culminating in my spectacular layer cake failure from November, on election night. I tried to make a double-layer chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting. I was going to decorate it to look like the Obama logo! It was going to symoblize the meeting of black and white in this historic election! That last part is bullshit, but honestly, I was a little high on hope and baking fumes.

Well, this is how it looked for a split second (you can see that I cheated and used packaged colored frosting... I'm sorry, baking gods!):


And one second later, all hell breaks lose:


Basically, I'm a Cake Killer. Or so I thought, until I decided to face my fears and tackle a three-layer red velvet to bring to a going-away party for my friend Jing. I did some research, found the best layer cake advice from Deb from Smitten Kitchen, and produced three of these:


Which turned into this:


Which, if you can't tell, is three gorgeous layers of red velvet separated by two layers of cream cheese frosting and spackled with a crumb layer. And, in one of the most triumphant moments of my young adult life (I aim low), all of that became this:


Oooh, I get all weepy just thinking about it. I mean, you have to ignore the wonky writing - clearly I don't exactly have the art of decorating down just yet. Still, pretty cool for my first three layer cake, right?

I've since made a three-layer yellow cake with lemon cream cheese frosting and lemon curd/blackberry compote filling, a few more kuchens, and two (!!) fruit pies. I'm pretty proud of myself, but my roommates are starting to go a little sugar-crazy. Given how stressed out this means I am, I should probably seek therapy. But hey, flour and sugar are cheaper, right?