Raspberry Scones (I'm back)

I don't know, guys. I'm still heartbroken, and it's still hard, and I'm uncovering new layers of my grief like a flaky pastry that peels apart and gets crumbs all over my lap.

I needed something solid.

So, this morning, I made scones.

I'm back in Los Angeles after three weeks of love and wine and hugs and tears in the frozen tundra, and this city's greatest gift to me (and our truly depleted reservoirs) is the rain. I flew into a really beautiful LA sunset and since then, we've been nestled under the most delicious cloud-cover and steady downpours. I mean, did the wall of an El Pollo Loco franchise collapse from rain? Did that poor, scarved man have to climb out of and abandon his Smart Car in the flooded Sepulveda basin? Did people build houses on... I don't know, mud cliffs? Sure. LA doesn't do well with drainage, and that is apparent. BUT if you stay inside and your house isn't on a mud cliff, it's the best. I'm motherfucking cozy. I'm wearing the kind of slippers your grandma wore -- you know, satiny, like ballet flats but with a cushy sole and essentially manufactured for elderly feet. I crawl into my bed earlier and earlier in the evening just because I know it will be warmer in there. And I'm listening to Joni Mitchell on vinyl and deeply swaying in a way that I can only freely do when my roommates are gone. Are you picturing it? With the slippers, too? Sorry.

Gloomy weather and melancholy make a good team, like people who pair their wines and cheeses, or couples who start to look like each other. So I'm grateful for this rain. I can be pretty "right place, right time" about my sadness and even that tinge of homesickness that finds its way in even though I was home for three weeks. It's never enough time! So, eat a scone. Wishing you coziness with something solid.

Raspberry Scones

Ingredients:

2 cups all-purpose flour

1/4 cup white sugar

2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon lemon juice or zest 

1 stick cold, cubed butter

3/4 cup heavy whipping cream

1 cup frozen raspberries

excess flour for flouring

Directions:

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees and grease a baking sheet.

In a medium mixing bowl, combine the flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and lemon product.

Add the cubed butter and, using a pastry blender, mash that business up until you have pea-sized butter nubs. I hate this part of making scones because what is this consistency? Very frustrating. Power through.

Add the heavy whipping cream and mush with your hands that you washed before you even started, especially because of the norovirus.

Once the mixture is mostly combined (there will still be some loose flour), dump it onto your counter and knead it together. Don't overwork it, just be naturally flawless.

Try your best to shape the dough into a rectangle, about 8 1/2 x 11, with the long side facing you.

Starting about 1/3 of the way down from the top of your rectangle, line frozen raspberries along the rest of the dough.

Fold the non-berry portion onto the berry portion, and continue folding until you have a long dough tube (sensual) at the bottom of your counter.

Cut this tube into four squares, and then triangulate the squares.

Refrigerate the 8 triangle scones for about 10 minutes, then...

Bake the scones for about 20 minutes.

Cool and enjoy!

Using frozen berries that are folded into the dough helps contain what could otherwise be a berry shitshow. The tartness of the raspberries balances out the dense, biscuit-y scone and I could eat 20 million of these. But then what would happen to my bikini body?!

Happy baking!

Good Grief.

Grief is a funny thing.

It reminds me of when you're going out and you can't tell what the weather is going to do, so you bring a coat just in case. Some of the time, you're happy you have that coat -- you put it on, zip it up, thank yourself for bringing it. But the rest of the time, you're just lugging around this extra piece of clothing and there's nothing you can do about it. You can't set it down anywhere and it's very present and sometimes you catch other people looking at it and you want to say, "I didn't know what the temperature was going to be, okay? So I brought this and honestly, I'm probably going to need it later."

"But Emily," you say, wondering if there's going to be a recipe at the end of this post (spoiler alert: no). "A coat is ultimately a good thing and grief is terrible so what the hell are you trying to do with this clumsy analogy?" First of all, calm down, don't be mean. It's the holidays.

Second... grief is not terrible. Grief isn't terrible when you are absolutely required to feel something. Losing someone so close and so important has turned me into a ball of feelings -- like a holiday cheese ball, but filled with sadness and loss and coated in anger instead of... nuts? You guys, I love cheese, but I don't like or trust a cheese ball. Is that insane? Are they, in fact, coated with nuts?

There is no emotional outlet. I drive around the chain of lakes in Minneapolis -- the same familiar route I've taken countless times to process everything from college applications to relationships to improv shows -- I drive around the lakes and my eyes fill up with hot, stinging tears and my throat tightens. In the past, I could be various shades of sad and mad AT something -- Northwestern University, Peter, a pretty rough improv set, for example. But this time, there is no target. Just feelings. Sometimes they come out sideways, and I get mad at my cardigan for being wrinkled or the driver in front of me for not pulling over and letting me pass when they want to go 5 mph around Lake Calhoun.

And that's when grief isn't terrible -- it's welcomed. Because I can take a deep breath and say, "Oh, this is grief. What I'm feeling is grief. Here's a label and a box for it." ...Like when you finally learn what a cheese ball is and you can identify it on a table of hors d'oeuvres and move on.

You never choose grief, because it follows closely behind a great loss. But when it's chilly, it's pretty nice to zip up that coat. I'm thankful I brought it. It's only a burden when I have a rare moment of unexpected joy or laughter -- because there's that fucking coat, and the reminder that I had to bring it in the first place, and the temperature is probably going to drop later.

(#thankful and #blessed to be writing from a cold climate where I can really settle into this winterwear metaphor!)

My heart physically aches and I don't recognize myself. I feel quite literally supported by the good friends who have emailed and texted to send their thoughts and love. So, yes, I'm not falling over, but I'm not okay. The only thought that helps a little bit when it's extra cold and I can't stop doing that special kind of sob that feels almost primal, it's so guttural and deep -- the only thing that helps a little bit is this incredibly vivid image I have of my dear friend Samantha tapping my arm and saying, "Sweetheart, it's okay. I'm fine and actually? This place is really neat!" This could be grief working its magic OR Samantha IS right there, in my ear, there but not. I'm putting stock in the latter because... how cool is that?

I'm helping to plan a party for Samantha on her birthday, December 28, at HUGE Theater. If you're in Minneapolis, stop by!

Wrapping this up for now. In the words of Samantha, how she ended every improv class, "Questions, comments, complaints? No? Praise and adoration!" <3

Upturned ducks.

This doesn't go here. But I don't know where else to put it. Some would say it belongs in a private journal, but I don't really keep those. I'm a sharer, always have been.

My phone was ringing loudly on my nightstand, which was weird because the volume on my phone wasn't supposed to be all the way up, I hadn't set an alarm in hopes that I would sleep in and sleep off the end of my tonsillitis. But my phone was ringing loudly and I saw that it said "Mom" so I groggily swiped it and anticipated a short conversation in which I could say, "Remember? There's a time difference and I'm sick and I'm sleeping." Instead, my half-asleep greeting was cut off by panicked sobs on the other end, and a situation that had been familiarly disorienting suddenly twisted into a reality I didn't recognize at all and I just wish I had taken a second to wake up before I had all of the air knocked out of me.

Samantha Pereira died. I didn't think that's a phrase I'd know or say for a long, long, long time. But here we are -- it's 2015, and she was supposed to turn 47 in a few weeks, and we were supposed to get tres leches cake at Cafe Latte when I was home for Christmas, and we were supposed to finish a text conversation from two days ago where I sent her a picture of my tonsils and she sent a lot of alarmed emojis back.

She was one of my very best and oldest friends. She still is?

Dinner in Vegas last year, attempting a selfie

When I was 12, I watched too much "Saturday Night Live" and became fascinated with improv. My parents took me to see Stevie Ray's Improv in the Park -- a summer tradition in the Lake Harriet Rose Gardens, shortform improv over lav mics between two trees, for families on blankets. Samantha was hosting that day, as she often did -- with this effortless and genuine playfulness that simultaneously made an entire audience and a few nervous improvisers feel safe. I introduced myself after the show and she suggested I sign up for classes, that she would be teaching a new teen class in the fall. Did I know it was going to change my life? ...Actually? I kind of did. Because when you talked to Samantha about improv, there was a spark that made you know very certainly that improv was magic. SHE did that. She was the first person to tell me to "yes and" and listen. She taught me zip zap zop and 2-person scenes. She made me feel safe and okay when I wanted to throw up from nerves before my first show and she was the one to give me my first notes afterwards.

I know I'm not alone in this experience. While Samantha was a quick and masterful improviser, her greatest joy and proudest moments were as an improv teacher. There are so many Minneapolis improvisers -- at Stevie Ray's, and later at HUGE -- who walked into a classroom absolutely terrified and excited and sooo green and came out in love with improv magic. She met each student with a warm smile and twinkle in her eye. No one got to sit on the sidelines in Samantha's class. Everyone was present. Everyone was a genius.

I wonder how many servers at the various restaurants we brunched and drank at over the years signed up for a class? She sold every one of them on it by the end of our meals. I can hear her so clearly in my ear, "Take a class! You'd be fantastic."

Crock Pot

Samantha started as my improv teacher and biggest comedy advocate, and then she became one of my truest forever friends. We shared the stage together at the Bloomington Sheraton with Stevie Ray's. She was on my first "indie" improv team, Crock Pot (with the incomparable Maureen Tubbs and Cristi Rumpza). I remember our first run at Improv a Go-Go in the old Brave New Workshop space. As many Minneapolis improvisers know, winning those three consecutive Sunday slots in the IAGG lottery is a real treat, and we savored those opportunities. We were giddy to play and I don't know that three people have ever made me laugh so hard. Those IAGG sets were like getting on a rollercoaster -- fast, full of delight, and the blackout always came too soon.

At the Brave New Workshop

When I told her I wasn't going to go to my senior prom, and that I was going to come watch the Stevie Ray's improv show in my dress that night instead, she (along with Maureen) secretly planned Improm -- and there aren't enough positive adjectives in the English language for that night. Samantha picked me up in a limo and took me to a fancy dinner with Maureen and a few others, then brought me to the fully streamer-ed, glitter glue-decorated space where an unsuspecting audience and all of my improv friends were waiting to do a prom-themed improv show. Samantha was incredibly thoughtful and always up for something fun. That is what Improm was, totally and completely. When people do something like that for you when you're 16, it changes how you see friendship. If I'm a good friend now, it's because women like Samantha and Maureen taught me what friendship is -- in those grand moments like Improm and also in the 3am phone calls and birthday dinners and shoulder squeezes on the backline during tough improv sets.

Improm surprise

She was wise and dependable. She was firm and compassionate and her advice was somehow practical and whimsical at once. When I was 12 and I thought about the woman I wanted to become, it was Samantha. And now that I'm 27, that still holds true. She's still the woman I want to be, for 10 million reasons. I have a hard time understanding that she won't be a bridesmaid in my wedding and that she won't know my kids. She always joked (although she would claim she was serious) that whenever I got on "Saturday Night Live," all she wanted was for me to hold a cue card during the goodnights that said, "Hi Samantha!" I don't know about SNL, but I do know that she has and will continue to be in every script I write and every improv show I do. How could she not be?

Summer Sunday evenings were dedicated to Improv in the Park throughout high school and college, and Samantha and I would often spend those warm afternoons hanging out at the Rose Gardens after improv class. I used to have these little duck earrings, and Samantha would laugh every time they were upside down. "Sweetheart! Your ducks are upturned!" It stuck for years. "How are you doing?" "Oh, I've been better." "Oh no, upturned ducks?"

Well, gosh, Samantha, if my ducks aren't upturned now.

Aunt Shirley's Orange Jello "Salad"

Oof. It has been awhile and I'm truly sorry. I have been baking, and I have been writing, but the two haven't come together on this blog in quite some time. But I'm still here!

The holiday season is upon us and I! Am! Stoked! For some reason, I'm feeling extra festive this year -- I've got a jolly lil spring in my step, for better or worse. My roommates and I purchased a real, live tree! I'm gorging myself on holiday beverages from Starbucks! I'm sending over 70 handmade holiday cards! Could it be that I'm... procrastinating other projects? Oh, that's certainly part of it, but basically, the holiday spirit is IN me, and yes, it's nearly sexual.

I have many Christmas memories, and most involve visiting my grandparents in Chicago, which we did every year until they passed away. There was the year Santa gave me rollerblades, and I lost my goddamn mind -- the next several years were spent choreographing rollerblade routines to Shania Twain's B-side hit, "Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under" in the garage, a song with a message I knew but didn't really KNOW, ya know? But not all Christmas memories are jolly -- like the one year in high school my mom's "big gift" to me was a blender, so that I could "make healthier choices for breakfast." :( :( :(

Another Christmas tradition the Schmidts had in common with many suburban Minneapolis families was the downtown Dayton's* 8th floor Christmas display. *For most of my childhood, it was Dayton's. Then, Marshall Fields. And by the time it was Macy's, we didn't go anymore.

Who remembers this??

Dayton's really knew how to put together a department store floor of pure magic. Every year, a different story would be told with elaborate props, animatronic figures, sound and music... it was a delight. They did Beauty and the Beast, Harry Potter, Alice in Wonderland, other very memorable tales that I just can't remember right now... And maybe I'm only remembering it this way because I was a kid who didn't understand money, but I'm pretty sure it was free? How is that even possible? We'd wait in line with other families in strollers and coats before slowly snaking our way through the display, older kids pushing through the crowd to read the accompanying story placards aloud. There were probably at least 20 scenes to the story, each one intricately designed and aptly fantastical (sometimes terrifying -- I don't know that I've ever needed to see an animatronic Voldemort thrusting at me). And when you reached the end of the story, what was waiting for you (besides a gift shop, obviously)? SANTA. That's right, this whole enchanting scenario ended with 1-on-1, let's-get-down-to-business conversation with the big guy himself, where you could address your Christmas wants and get a picture, too.

I was 8 years old in this picture. God help me.

As if this night wasn't already the best thing to ever happen... you could wrap up your whole familial night-on-the-town with a HOLIDAY PARADE, right through the center of downtown, a real festival of lights called the Holidazzle. If your parents loved you, you wouldn't watch from the street, where it was often below zero and a frozen tundra nightmare. If your parents cared about you at all, you would watch the parade from above the riff-raff, like royalty, in the skyways. Skyways are what Minnesotans use to avoid exposure and frostbite when trying to simply move between buildings in the wintertime. They connect buildings downtown, about three floors up, and make it possible for you to seamlessly move across the whole neighborhood without ever going outside. Fun! Necessary! Winter is a scary time!

I've heard since Macy's moved in, the 8th floor holiday display isn't as magical. I think I'll skip it, lest it tarnish my good memories (of fighting with my sister over Santa's lap-space and being sweaty in snowpants).

Another tradition on the Schmidt side of the family is my aunt Shirley's orange jello, present for every family function, and eaten primarily by me. I made it for my friends-giving this year and it delicious, and again, eaten primarily by me. But it's so tasty! And jello is ALWAYS fun. Give this simple recipe a try the next time you need to attend a particularly Midwestern potluck -- it will always be welcome there, and probably called "salad."

Aunt Shirley's Orange Jello "Salad"

THRILLED.

Ingredients:

1 large box of orange-flavored gelatin

2 cups orange sherbet (just now learned there isn't another "r" in that word!)

Boiling water

2 cans of mandarin oranges, drained

Directions:

Boil water according to the directions on the Jello box.

Whisk the gelatin powder and hot water together until well-mixed.

Add the sherbet and stir quickly until melted/fully combined.
Pour this mixture into whatever container you want the jello to live in. I used a traditional bundt pan, but I don't know that I'd recommend it. If you have a jello mold, that's obviously going to be your best and most fun bet.

Let sit for a few minutes until the mixture begins to solidify. Then, add the mandarin oranges and stir to ensure equal distribution.
Refrigerate for 4+ hours.
Some throw a whipped topping on there -- I don't. I don't think it needs it. This jello is delicious and I would eat it every day if I could.

Happy baking!

Strawberry Icebox Cake

It's the first day of October, which just might mean it's going to get cooler, cool enough for me to use my oven again! ...Use my oven, leave my air conditioned room, put on clothes that cover more of my bits... not necessarily in that order. The heat has made things a little bit too casual in my house as of late, and I did greet the plumber this morning without putting on a bra. I don't like to be that casual. Fall is a great time to cover up.

I adore October. SO DOES EVERYONE ELSE. Pretty unoriginal. Autumn is wonderful and even sociopaths love being cozy. I mean, sociopaths may have a different definition of "cozy," but the sentiment probably remains the same.

A lot of people also like Halloween. I so badly want to be a person who loves Halloween for everything it has to offer, but I am not that person. My pros and cons list for Halloween is balanced, like the scales of us Libras born in this month.

PROS:

- Being scared is sometimes super fun -- I prefer spooky stories, ghost tales heavy on historical facts and light on gore, just enough to make it hard for me to look at the mirror in my room when I go to sleep. When I was little, I used to be pretty into witches -- once, my mom brought me to a crystal shop in St. Paul that she told me was run by witches. I made a lot of dubious and sustained eye contact with the ordinary-looking women who worked there, not totally convinced since none of them looked like Angelica Huston. Now, I'm pretty into Stevie Nicks, which I guess is the grown-up version?

- Movies like Hocus Pocus! To fall asleep as a kid, I used to daydream about the Sanderson sisters visiting me. Again, very interested in witches. Didn't care at all about what happened to the kids they tortured.

- Fun-size candy that defies portion control and leaves you stuffed with 27 mini Kit Kats even though you'd never think to sit and eat a full-size Kit Kat at any time.

- Adorable children roaming the neighborhood. I would really like to always be greeting children.

- Getting to ask people, "What are you supposed to be?" and they think you're talking about their costume when in reality, that is sort of a fair question year-round.


CONS:

- Being scared is sometimes NOT super fun. There was a year when my ice rink, Parade Stadium, hosted a "haunted house" in the locker rooms. The smell left behind by the hockey players should've been scary enough, but they had older kids hide in the bathroom stalls and grab the ankles of passersby in the dark. Honestly, thinking about it now, it sounds pretty lazy? But then, as a... 9-year-old?... it was a true nightmare. One ankle grab sent me over the edge and I ran out of the locker room and out of the building and didn't stop until I was outside and the sky was blue and I felt safe again. Luckily, my ice skates had their guards on them, so any permanent damage was only emotional. I haven't entered a haunted house since. It all sounds pretty unnecessarily awful? I'll be the one holding everyone's purses outside, thanks.

- Mascots have always been alarming to me, my negative feelings towards them solidified by an encounter with a Subway sandwich mascot at a parade in 2007. Yes, I was an adult. Yes, he hugged me. Yes, he smelled like Subway bread (you  know what I'm talking about). When it comes to Halloween, I think being a drunk adult in an identity-concealing costume sometimes makes you feel invincible/like you can touch strangers. :(

- Someone was stabbed to death outside of my Union Square dorm in 2007 as part of a gang initiation and the perpetrator wasn't caught because of costumes and parade chaos.

- I have enough trouble putting together normal outfits for everyday life. Costumes are a lot of pressure. The best costume I've probably ever worn was part of a group situation with my college improv troupe, Dangerbox. We dressed as Hipster Wizard of Oz (and this was 2009, so "hipster" was still prettttty fresh, you guys). I was the tornado. We really killed it at that one Brooklyn party we attended, especially considering we found an empty bedroom and hung out with only each other for the night.

Great work from everyone involved

My ideal Halloween involves being curled up in front of a psychological thriller, most lights off, waiting for trick-or-treaters and obsessive-compulsively eating odd numbers of Milk Duds from their tiny fun-size boxes. If this sounds good to you, please make plans to join me. As evidenced by the above lists, I'm loads of fun. But doesn't this evening sound charming? Cozy in a non-sociopath way?

Lest I jump the gun on autumnal delights... here is a one more icebox cake recipe, for that one more weekend of heat LA is probably going to get. Luckily, it's delicious. Eat it on Halloween, too -- why not? As long as you're not wearing a mascot outfit, I approve!

Strawberry Icebox Cake

Ingredients:

About 1 box of honey graham crackers

2 containers fresh strawberries, washed and sliced

2 cups heavy whipping cream

4 tablespoons sugar

2 tablespoons vanilla

Directions:

Lay graham crackers on the base of a 9x13 pan.

Layer whipped cream and strawberries on top.

Layer graham crackers --> whipped cream --> strawberries, until you reach the top of the pan.

Like tiny beds of deliciousness

Cover and refrigerate for 4+ hours.

Cut and serve!

The graham crackers soften to something more appetizing than "moist" or "mushy." It's almost cake consistency, but without turning on your oven and sweating into your ingredients. Like magic!

Happy baking!

No-Bake Raspberry Cheesecake

A lot of people my age love "The Golden Girls" now. Great. Welcome. Where were you in 5th grade, when I was bringing VHS tapes of recorded reruns to sleepovers? Writing my favorite St. Olaf stories and Dorothy comebacks on the backs of my notebooks? In 7th grade, I sent handwritten letters to all four women. And when I brought my personalized, autographed Betty White headshot (which prominently featured her tiny dog, Panda) to school and it got lost in the midst of a bomb threat, no one cared. No one cared except my science teacher, Mr. Meyers, and it would've been really great to have shared that loss with a friend my own age.

I sound bitter, but I'm not. I'm glad people like it now because it means I can very easily buy a Golden Girls phone case on Etsy.

Prized possession/something I'd take with me in a fire

The show will always hold a special place in my heart and I'm so happy I found it on Lifetime -- Television for Women and Prepubescent Emily Schmidt -- when I did.

My first favorite show was "Laverne & Shirley." I would watch it on Nick at Nite after I was in my pajamas and one time -- not proud to say -- I peed my pants because I didn't want to leave before a commercial break. I loved TV... maybe too much, and, like, where were my parents? I never watched TV with my parents and if I had, my mom probably would've made me get up and go to the bathroom.

I wanted to be friends with Laverne and Shirley, and part of me probably still does. There are all sorts of fictional characters I have befriended in my head over the years -- Diane Chambers, Julia Sugarbaker, Liz Lemon... the list goes on.

In 4th grade, I found "The Golden Girls." There was no part of me that should've related to that show, but I really did. I got the jokes, I laughed out loud. I quoted it constantly -- not fun for friends, amusing for parents of friends. I found transcripts on the internet and pretended to deliver the lines. I guess that was me... realizing I wanted to be a comedy writer? I didn't define it like that until high school, but it was the first show I wished I had written. It taught me how to tell a joke and what story structure looked like and how to create characters with their own voices. I mean, thank God I was marathoning "Golden Girls" instead of... oh, I don't know, "S Club 7"? (I also watched that show sometimes, so I'm comfortable mocking it.)

A lack of cooperating friends means I'll find a way to be ALL of the girls for Halloween!

This week marks the 30th anniversary of the "Golden Girls" premiere. I think it's safe to say we're all better off having that show around. In a lot of ways, those four ladies taught me about friendship -- especially friendship with other women. They had different ways of communicating and problem-solving, and definitely knew how to give each other a hard time, but at the end of the day, it was always about how important they were to each other. The friendships with each other were what mattered.

I also think Blanche basically taught me about sex, but that's something I'll ponder on my own.

In the meantime, in honor of the four best fictional ladies I "know"... I give to you a recipe of the dessert that brought them together night after night to talk out their problems: cheesecake. 

No-Bake Raspberry Cheesecake

Ingredients:

Approximately 9 graham crackers, crushed

1/2 cup pecan chips

1/3 cup melted butter

1 pint heavy whipping cream

2 8-oz. packages of cream cheese at room temperature (seriously)

2/3 cup white sugar

1 1/2 teaspoons lemon juice

2 packages of fresh raspberries

Directions:

You're going to need a springform pan, so I hope you have one!

Combine the melted butter, crushed graham crackers, and pecans in a bowl.

Press the mixture onto the bottom of your springform pan, as best you can. Try to do it evenly, but don't be too hard on yourself.

Could've crushed those crackers better if I were more patient.

Chill the crust in the fridge while you make the rest of the cake.

Whip the heavy whipping cream until soft peaks form.

Soft Peaks: The Emily Schmidt Story

Add the lemon juice, sugar, and cream cheese, and whip until it's a thick mixture of delicious delight.

Add the raspberries and whip until you're comfortable with the consistency of the berries -- not whole, but also not obliterated by the mixer. Find that happy medium.

Evenly pour the mixture over the crust and make it look nice on top. Personally, I had a lot of fun creating flourishes with a spatula, but that's up to you.

Cover and chill in the fridge for 4+ hours.

Slice, share, enjoy, marvel at how you made a cake without turning on your oven.

You could substitute Cool Whip for the fresh whipped cream, but only if you're... a monster? Come on. There's really no comparison. Cool Whip makes your mouth slimy. That's a red flag.

Happy baking!

Sprinkle Cake

It's amazing my brain can do this right now. "But Emily," you say. "Writing a blog takes literally no effort." Great point, but my brain is full, my heart is full, even my mouth is full -- of an infected abscess, but still. My mouth will be better in a few days when the dentist does something with a drill and I'm once again reminded that my body seems to be constantly failing. And my brain will be considerably less full after this weekend, when the Minnesota Fringe Festival ends with a summer camp-esque bang and a giant dance party at The Varsity. And my heart? Well, I hope my heart stays as full as it is right now, because it's brimming like a precocious child's orange juice glass in a Bounty commercial.

Despite my dry sarcasm and "general outlook," I'm easily excited. I am capable of a special childlike glee that is probably unexpected and off-putting. Fringe brings this out in me. So does fried cheese and friendship and comedy and making theater -- the cool thing is, the Fringe is really the ultimate combination of all of the above. This is my sixth consecutive year producing a show in the festival. This isn't an example of my writing abilities, because submissions are selected by lottery and I've never had a show written until about May of that year. The past few years, I've had the pleasure of writing a show in LA and sending it off to some of my very best friends to make it into a real play. How lucky am I?! I write a show in my bed, while eating Crispix off of my body, pants nowhere to be found. And then in a few months, actors are acting it and audiences are audiencing it, thanks to my incredible director/friend Samantha Baker Harris. I'm not into "magic," but this is magic.

I could spout off so many facts about the Fringe, but as my friends in LA would say, "Stop." Just know that it's 174 shows in 15 venues over 10 days with 5 performances each. This year, you can see everything from dance to drama to sketch comedy to a lady washing herself in a bathtub in someone's home. (I don't know. I really don't. It sold out very quickly.) It's everything, and it's a deck of wild cards. The fact that it's a lottery means some shows are produced by actual theater companies and some are produced by, like, an accountant with an idea. And honestly? Who's to predict which show will be better? Because you never know, and that's what's great -- especially when you have an artist pass and can see shows for free versus $14. If the show is terrible, it's still an experience. And! As an audience member, you can review shows on the Fringe website. Artists don't get bothered or excited by these reviews at all. Oh wait. The opposite. Right, it's the opposite. We all need, like, the most attention and feedback and reassurance. If someone says they don't check their reviews until the end of the run, they're a goddamn liar. Just get on our level already. Post-show drinks sometimes look like several artists clutching their smart phones, trying to be relaxed and normal while "casually" refreshing their show page. I'm not saying it's good, I'm just saying it happens. I've been pretty lucky this year with my show The Mrs., save for one TRULY INSANE review written by "professional" Dominic Papatola. He didn't care for the show. And he made sure everyone knew it was very much exclusively my fault. It's fine -- apparently, many find him to be an insufferable and mean little man, and I'm now in a club of those who have been "d-papd." Sounds like something that would happen in stirrups with a speculum, and to be honest, it kind of felt like that anyway.

THE GOOD NEWS IS I'M OVER IT.

Just kidding. I really am. It's good practice for dealing with all of the people who will express their general distaste for me in the future.

We're about halfway through the festival, and my overwhelming feelings are those of joy and... compulsive affection? My girl crush numbers are through the roof. Are we still saying "girl crushes" or is that sort of frowned upon? Sorry. The Mrs.' cast is filled with some of the most amazing women I've ever met. I feel incredibly lucky that they said yes to this play -- they have completely exceeded my expectations for the weird little script I wrote. Their interpretations of the characters and the nuances they bring to the table are incredible. I sit up in the tech booth during the show and I'm pretty sure our lighting tech thinks I'm 100% crazy. My laugh is not okay. It's that childlike glee I was talking about. Sometimes I look at her, wild-eyed, as if to say, "Aren't they just SO GREAT?" But it's not her job to interact with me at all and honestly, she's making the right choice to just not engage with my over-the-top enthusiasm. I get it, lady, I don't know how to handle myself either. I want to say, "Isn't it cool that my comedy hero Shanan Custer is in this thing I wrote?" And she would mostly be like, "You need to be quieter, the audience can hear you." Fair, fair.

I cast my best friends and my comedy heroes because it's more fun to write with their voices in my head. It's almost collaborative. And it feels like I'm hanging out with my friends-- brb, touching base with sanity real quick.

Back.

...I also see shows that my friends have written and produced and I'm reminded of all the things that "comedy" and "storytelling" can be -- all the ways we can be poignant and expressive and funny and creative as humans. It's a revival. It's like church camp, but instead of coming home singing This Little Light of Mine and sore from The Waterskiiing Incident, I'm all, "What if I wrote something with PUPPETS?" I mean, I won't. But that anything-is-possible feeling will stick with me all year.

Erin Sheppard is my Fringe hero this year. I saw her show twice and am seeing it again, because my artist pass affords me that luxury. Erin is an improviser, actor, choreographer, dancer and she will PRODUCE THE SHIT out of an incredible show. This year, it was Dance with the Devil -- several dances inspired by the seven deadly sins, alternating with the most hilarious and heartbreaking and well-crafted stories I've ever heard, by Rita Boersma (also in The Mrs. -- double girl crush alert -- gonna use that term until someone gives me another one to use). Rita tells stories about sin in the most lovely, easy, beautiful way -- anecdotes that had me laughing and crying and processing. And the dances? I can't even explain how those make me feel. Sorry, Erin. This is creepy.

I'm presenting you with a recipe for homemade sprinkle cake, because life should be celebrated with sprinkles -- whether you're making a show or cake, isn't it cool that you're making something that wasn't there before?

I wish someone would teach me how to pronounce "nonpareil."

Sprinkle Cake

Ingredients:

Cake

1 2/3 cups flour

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup unsalted, melted butter

3/4 cup sugar

1/4 cup brown sugar

1 egg

1/4 cup sour cream

3/4 cup whipping cream

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

2/3 cup sprinkles (sticks not balls!)

Frosting 

1 cup unsalted, softened butter

3/4 cup powdered sugar

1/4 cup whipping cream

2 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract 

Directions: 

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and grease one round cake pan. If you want to make this guy a layered situation, you will need to double the recipe!

In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Set aside.

In a large microwavable bowl, melt the butter.

Whisk in the sugars with the butter and beat until those lumps are outta there.

Add the egg, sour cream, whipping cream, and vanilla. 

Continue to whisk until well-combined.

Slowly add the dry ingredients to the wet. Again, let's try to make this lump-free. Do your very best.

Add the sprinkles!

VERY fun.

Unload into the cake pan and violently drop the pan onto the counter to get rid of air bubbles. So loud. So satisfying.

Bake for about 33 minutes. You know your oven. You know what a finished cake should look like (not wet, not burnt).

Cool completely!

Frosting time!

Beat the butter, powdered sugar, whipping cream, and vanilla until that shit is FLUFFY and LIGHT and... heavenly?!? Yes.

I also dyed it blue!

Is your cake cooled completely? You better check. Mine wasn't, and the frosting melted, because it's butter, you big idiot. It was a small disaster. I fridged it, and it recovered, but just don't make the same mistakes as me. Practice patience. Be better.

This cake is everything.

Happy baking!