The Urban Farmer and Co-hab are out the door early this a.m. The forecast is for showers but at the moment blue skies peek behind the clouds.
“Let’s take advantage of the window,” The Urban Farmer says.
It’s a quick down of seven grain hot cereal, then off they march. Destination: Bartell’s. Darigold butter is featured this week—2 pounds for 5 bucks. Today’s the last day to reap the savings. They’ll replenish their Sonicare brush heads while they’re at. Important to maintain the pearlies.
It’s a perfect spring a.m. Tulips, cherry, apple, and pear blossoms; spiking kale; frilly rhubarb.
At Bart’s they learn only the salted butter is on sale. Bummer. Oh, well. The Urban Farmer will make do.
They load the backpack with butter and brushes, wave the Bart’s cashier good-bye and whish off to bonus destination: Coyle’s Bakery on Greenwood. The Times did a glowing write-up in Wednesday’s paper. Time to see what all the fuss is about.
Co-hab and the Urban Farmer march past the place that sells shawarma and falafel, past the Couth Buzzard—Oh, that’s a place the Urban Farmer will check out one day—past the P.O. and multiple coffee houses.
“Ugh. Chocolati’s.” The Urban Farmer points. “Never going back there. They didn’t give me my complimentary truffle for first time customers.”
They pass the Beaver Pond Bar or maybe it’s Teeth or Busy Beaver. Some such. Any who a drinking estab. with a cutesy Beaver plastered to the door.
They keep jaunting up G’wood; their eyes peeled for Coyle’s.
“Oh. There. Is that it?” The Urban Farmer points again.
“That must be it. Up there on the corner. Look at the line. Ridiculous.”
The line snakes out the door and down the sidewalk. It’s not even 9 a.m. Way too early for crowd control.
“Just like Mike’s.” The Urban Farmer waves at the freshly-showered Eddie Bauer and REI folk, their domes capped with responsibly sourced beanies. “Ridiculous. Let’s go to Safeway.”
Mike’s What’s Mike’s? Oh, don’t get the Urban Farmer started. You know. Mike’s. The Boston tourist trap bake shop where standard wait time is half hour for Keebler quality cookies and “pastries,” so-called. All of it’s dry and crumbly.
Why subject themselves to the indignity of line waiting when the makings of a terrific baked good await them at home? There Hammer Me a Bundt Cake is happening.
Here’s the recipe:
4 ban-annas whirled through the Cuisinart.
2 sticks Earth Balance mashed with 1 and ½ cups shu-gar.
4 cups serious whole wheat pastry flour.
4 t. b.p. 1 t. salt.
Those are just the ordinaries. Now to the extraords. How’s this for good?
4 oz sledge-hammered dark choc. OK, not sledged, just regular hammered. The Urban Farmer was out on the deck at 7 a.m. pounding to wake the dead. But she got that chocolate crushed.
Coconut shavings, all that was left in the jar. Dumped in.
Walnuts. Always excellent for livening up.
And the crem de la crem—swap out the vanilla extract for orange and one orange zest thrown in for good measure.
Do I hear par-tay? Cha cha cha and hello lady with fruit on her head.
Heat up the oven to 350 F, spray the grease on the Bundt, dust in flour, and mix the dries with the damps.
Uh-oh. The batter is a bit lethargic. How’s about cuisinarting in an avocado? Yeah, sure. That should oompf it.
Mix mix mix. Super good.
Now dump into Bundt. Fine fine fine.
Way better than Mike’s. Way better than Coyle’s.
Urban Farmer and Co-hab have the what’s happening baked goods right here and right ready for today’s 2 p.m. bridge party.