Measure 1 Create the devil’s food cake
Spray on an 8-inch springform pan with non-stick cooking spray. At a medium bowl whisk the flour together with the baking powder, baking soda and salt. At the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle, beat the egg with the brown sugar in medium rate for three minutes. Beat in the egg, egg yolk, buttermilk and vanilla. At low speed, beat in the dry ingredients along with ginger paste in two altering batches.
Stir the batter to a skillet and bake for 30 to 35 minutes until a toothpick inserted into the centre comes out with a few moist crumbs attached. Allow cake cool for fifteen minutes, then get rid of the ring and then allow the cake cool completely on a stand. Leave the oven.
With a serrated knife-cut on a 1/4-inch-thick coating towards the surface of the cake. Spread the crumbs onto a small rimmed baking sheet and bake for 10 to 12 minutes, then turning the pan halfway through until the crumbs are crispy.
Step 4 Create the sexy fudge
In a small saucepan, combine the
It’s so beautiful in Hollywood today. The world is glittering with gold, and yellow streamers of sunlight wind through the tree boughs like God was throwing a party! And what makes today even more beautiful? It’s my birthday! And what else? I’m finally legal!!! Yay!!! But there’s more: I met a music manager who is going to help me produce a demo of my original songs. It will probably be a while before the record is complete, but I’d like to invite you into my world as everything comes together.
For those of you who don’t know me, let me paint you a little picture. For starters, I was home schooled as a kid, and I spent as much time reading Tolstoy and writing short stories as most kids did watching TV and going to regular school. I didn’t have a TV in the house, so I wrote lots of plays and forced my sister and brother to act in them. I collected insects. I held High Tea parties. And I tried to get rich — usually by kidnapping neighborhood cats and waiting for their owners to put up reward posters.
Oh yeah, I played the piano too. Man, did I love that piano! From the first time I sat down to one, I was hooked. I played every day, for hours on end,
What an eventful week! The highlight was attending my beautiful cousin Lisa’s wedding shower, where I was reunited with my aunt Gloria and, of course, the gorgeous blonde bride-to-be! I was a little bit late walking in the door, because I had run into a grounds-keeper with a golf cart and just couldn’t control myself: I had to do a couple loop-de-loops before actually walking in the door. Hehe.
The shower was a blast! I met Lisa’s friends (my favorite were a mother daughter duo, comprised of a young Texan millionheiress named Virginia and her four-year-old baby girl Olivia). We played all sorts of games, and I got to make a wedding dress for Lisa out of rolls and rolls of toilet paper. Too fun!
Aunt Gloria and I had too much champagne, and I loved the way she said “money” instead of “cool”. Gloria is the coolest person in my whole family. I love that woman. She is just so beautiful and so nice and so fun! If I had my life to do all over, I’d want to move to New York as a kid and live with her. I’d still do my music, but I’d be taking in Broadway, and all the other good things in life. I’d have a much more normal childhood, I wouldn’t a product of a brainwashing
It’s three o’clock in the morning and I just got back from Benito’s Tacos. They make the best burritos around and they’re open 24 hours. That’s good for me because I’m as nocturnal as they come. I love the dark! When I was six, I wrote a song called “Dark Dancing Parade”, and my sister and I turned off all the lights and marched around the house, singing and banging empty Folgers coffee cans with wooden spoons.
That’s not the only fun we had with coffee cans, though. Once both of my parents were out of town, and a sixteen year old girl named Patty had to babysit. I was about eight, my sister Mary was six, and my brother Charles was only three, but we put our little heads together to contrive a plan that would get rid of the babysitter for good. So we took all the empty Folgers cans from the garage (my dad used them to store fishing stuff), we filled them with water, and put them on top of every door. When the babysitter opened the doors, these huge 10 lb. coffee cans fell on her head. She was soaked, and thinking back, that had to hurt. But we thought it was hilarious.
That was until Mom came home and decided to blame every bit of the chaos and
Well, I cracked my head open at the SlipKnot concert last night. I wish I had a good story to go along with it, like fighting off a crazed metalhead weilding a spiked cane or something, but I’m not that cool. It all started when I followed one of the SlipKnot guys backstage. I had just arrived at the Universal Ampitheatre in Los Angeles, and I met up with Paul the bassist who gave me my backstage pass. I was ducking through some brush as I followed him around the front of the tour bus, when I stood up too soon and smashed my head into a huge bolt sticking out of the front of the bus by the windshield wiper. I remember hearing a loud crack, and then everything went black.
The next thing I remember, I was sitting on the pavement outside SlipKnot’s tour bus, holding a cold Red Bull against my throbbing head and gripping a towel covered in blood. I guess Paul had taken me inside the bus for a while with Chris and Joey, but I don’t remember any of it. I hadn’t passed out, but I’d blacked out. And Paul was getting concerned. “You’re still bleeding,” he said, making a face. Dazed, I quipped that I thought that’s what people did at SlipKnot shows.
I’ve been thinking lately about my first crush. Or two. I was twelve and this boy named James gave me a pretty little white handkerchief with pink ruffles around the edges. We were in the same Nature Club and were both home schooled, and I was quite flattered, to the point of wearing the handkerchief in my hair and riding my bike past his house a lot.
But then I was at a home school testing facility and there was a boy named Peter in my class. Where James was pale and blonde haired with this somewhat doofy look in his eyes, Peter was tan with black hair trimmed into that very-cool-for-twelve-year-olds bowl cut. He was dead hot, I thought, and I had to devise a plan to meet him.
So I went home and got out my typewriter. I typed up this exhaustive questionairre that took up two whole pages. It asked extremely pertinent questions like DO YOU PREFER EATING WITH A SPOON OR A FORK?, WHAT IS YOUR BIRTHDATE, and DO YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND? And for processing purposes, WHAT IS YOUR PHONE NUMBER?
He filled out the questionairre, gave it back, and I called him with his results two days later.
Yes, I was quite brazen. And it was about this time that I decided to ride by James’ house and
The days leading up to the 4th of July holiday, I spent alone — or should I say unsupervised, with my “manager” once again out of town on business. This left me occupied by nothing more than my digital piano and, after a while, the whims of idle hands… which can actually be quite dangerous, given my imagination.
And when songwriting grew tiresome on the night before the Big Bear trip, I hunted around in my closet for something to cut up, or paint, or otherwise ruin… just for fun. And so it was, with the help of a family sized jug of Clorox, I transformed a boring turquoise blue minidress into a canvas of wearable art, splattered with trailing blobs of amoeba-esque bleach spots.
I thought it looked awesome! But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it reminded me of something else. Something bad. Something I had carefully put out of my mind. And then, on the balcony in Big Bear, against a backdrop of glittering pyrotechnics, I finally remembered it: another bleach story from days gone by. Back when I wasn’t such a nice girl. Back when I was, come to think of it, a very bad girl indeed.
It all started my first week of college when I met Ty Schultz, a delicious looking football player from a neighboring campus, who,
I have never felt so lost in my life. My now-former manager and I have officially parted ways after he robbed me blind of my bank account money and everything I owned. It all started when I walked in on him with a needle plunged four inches deep into his thigh. He was using steroids. It didn’t take long for things to get out of control.
When one of his weightlifting friends died in a motorcycle accident, he broke into the dead guy’s house to steal his steroids and whatever else was laying around. Little did I know I was next on his hit list. He actually took my personal information and emptied my bank accounts and E*Trade account! He took everything, even my piano! I knew he’d lied to me about his abilities as a manager, but I never expected this!!!
With nowhere to live, no piano, and not a penny to my name, I came home to my mother’s house in Oregon to find sanctuary.
Even after spending many beautiful afternoons in the shade of pine trees and in the company of my family, I wasn’t happy to be in Oregon. KISS FM putting my music into rotation was nice, of course, and my sister’s tremendous laugh and my brother’s way of growing up before my eyes stirred my love. But I
I left Oregon with little more than a three step plan, and it went something like this: 1. Drive to LA, 2. Play Cinespace and The Hollywood Hellhouse, 3. Move in with Marilyn Manson’s drummer.
I made the trip back to California at the end of September, and did, as a matter of fact, cap off my first week by playing a great show at Cinespace, where I met a lot of new fans who had come to learn about my music on MySpace. But after that, little went according to plan.
My new roommate, Ginger Fish, was holed up in some German hospital following a fall from stage while drumming with Manson, and I found myself relegated to the couch of an eccentric boutique film director named Ari, and into the company of a certain Chasey Lain… whom I knew only from that one Bloodhound Gang song.
Two good weeks, I think, were spent on Ari’s couch in a blur of self-destruction that would have impressed even Quentin Tarantino. Sure, I was back in California — but I felt miserable. All the bad things I had been through because of my former manager swirled around me as I sank deeper into despair, wondering what the hell it was all for. Why had I been through so much pain?
I had one of those childhoods that Kodak commercials are made of: Christmas carols, lemonade stands, cherry picking excursions, and U-Haul box fortresses. Home schooled until I was fourteen, I confided in my mother like she was my best friend forever, and I read Tolstoy like he was Judy Blume. My dearest friends were three little girls named Katie, Ellen, and Mae, whom I brought to life on the pages of a small fabric-covered blank book. My enemies were Sartre, for I found him difficult, and time… for I didn’t see him coming.
I’m not sure when I grew up, really, but it happened early. When other kids my age were playing with Barbies, I was reading War And Peace and playing music on the street corner for change. The way I saw it, being a kid was for, well, kids… and I couldn’t allow myself to be just another kid. So I became a grown up, at least in my mind, and I spent my time learning about grown up things instead of goofing off.
I studied modern art because I wanted to be sophisticated, and soon turned to oil painting after Mondrian’s “Horizontal Tree” inspired me. I studied the Constitution, wrote letters to my Congressmen, and served as the Oregon Ambassador to Girls State, where I introduced ballots to legislature and fought