Day 230: Bayou Cooking School

Weeks before going to Panama and embarking on the juice fast, I'd planned what I was going to do on Day 230.

Actually, it was my friend Tray, a Louisiana native, who decided that for Day 230's thing I've never done before, I was going to learn how to boil crawfish. And he was going to teach me.

Of all the activities to welcome me back into the world of eating solid foods after a 72-hour hiatus, I'm not sure this was the best one. Not because I don't love crawfish, but because presuming I was successful in learning how to cook them, I wasn't going to be able to eat them since I was still only permitted to eat things that were raw. I wasn't even supposed to enjoy the second best thing at a crawfish boil, ice cold beer.

Damn you, Arden. And your stupid garden.

Like it or not, this was the day of Tray's annual charity crawfish boil, so I had no choice but to make this the day that I learned how to cook the little critters. My friend Emily came along with me to the event, for the second year in a row. Last year's crawfish boil turned into an all day affair that ended in a parking lot in the pouring down rain and may or may not have involved splashing strangers in puddles and a dance off. Though we weren't sure we were ready for that kind of fun this year, there is no doubt that Tray and his friends know how to throw a good party.

We arrived at the event, which is in a big yard behind a house in an Atlanta neighborhood called Virginia-Highlands. After a stop at the beer truck (That's right, I drank a beer. I may have had two. This was me giving the middle finger to fasting and to Arden's Garden), Emily and I started walking to a sectioned off area at the right side of the yard where Tray had set up to boil the crawfish. We could see several pots already in progress, but Tray was nowhere to be found. Not surprising, since he is one of the hosts of the event, and has quite a few responsibilities. I imagine it's a labor of love for him. He works his tail off the weeks leading up to the boil and on the day of, but he does so surrounded by all of his friends from Louisiana who come into town to support the cause. I think he manages to have a little bit of fun while working so hard.

But because he was running the show, he was sometimes difficult to track down.

Once we arrived at the cooking area, Emily and I both ran into several people that we knew, but we still didn't see Tray. I knew I needed to be near the pots of crawfish, but wasn't ready to cross the makeshift barrier into an area where I knew no one. Instead, we opted to stand outside the barrier looking longingly, and awkwardly toward the pots, like we were trying to get into a party we weren't invited to.

Finally I spotted Tray and said, "I'm ready to get my crawfish on!"

He shook his head laughing and said, "Where've you been? I've been cooking for three hours."

Emily and I received permission to cross over into the sacred crawfish boiling area.

"Alright," I said, "Let's get started."

Tray handed me a lighter and told me to light a flame on the gas burner beneath the pot.

"Sure," I said, confident this task would be easy. Only it wasn't. I don't know if I was scared I was going to burn my hand off or if my clothes weren't permitting me to get low enough to see what I was doing, but regardless, I couldn't make it happen; couldn't get the flame lit.

He didn't say so, but I'll bet Tray was thinking it was going to be a long day of teaching if I can't even light the burner.

Once he got it lit, Tray instructed me to cut lemons, potatoes, and garlic bulbs in half, and then throw them all in the boiling water for ten minutes.

"How many of each do I need to cut?" I asked, my need for a recipe rearing its ugly head.

"I don't know," he said, as he walked over to another pot already in progress. He lifted the lid and said, "This many."

I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Ok."

I hope you're not reading this entry in hopes that I can give you a legit recipe for a crawfish boil. There was no recipe, there was only Tray eyeballing my work and saying, "Yep. That looks about right."

He showed us where all of the ingredients were and handed us knives so Emily and I could start chopping, a task that seemed easy enough, except that the only table reserved for the preparation of this meal had just a square foot of open space, and we were fighting each other for it.

Not to mention, once everything was cut, getting it all into the pot of boiling water meant putting myself and those around me at potential and serious risk of 3rd degree burns.

I'm not sure if it was safer, but Emily and I turned our crawfish cooking into a basketball game, standing way back and hurling the lemons, potatoes, and garlic into the pot.

Tray had, at that time, disappeared again, leaving Emily and me by ourselves in this sectioned off area that consisted solely of Tray's friends, none of whom we knew. You can imagine, then, I'm sure, the understandably strange looks we received from some of them wondering what two random girls were doing in their VIP section chopping lemons and potatoes. Most of them stared at us, wondering who we were and why they'd never seen us before, and, likely, what we were doing there.

Others had the guts to ask, "Who are you?" or "Do I know you?," which inevitably led to me telling them that I was friends with Tray, and about the blog.

As usual, I said, "blog," they heard, "geek," and quickly walked away. Others were intrigued and wanted to hear more. One in particular was extremely concerned with us getting the full crawfish experience, especially if I was writing about it.

"Wanna see where we're keeping all of the crawfish?," he asked us.

I thought that might've been a pickup line or a euphemism for something else. It was not.

"No, seriously," he said, "They're over there in that truck." He led Emily and me up a small hill, opened the door to the truck and we climbed in to find several white coolers, all filled with live crawfish.

I was amazed by them, crawling all over each other, likely unaware of what was about to happen. I picked one up, feeling mildly sorry for the little thing that would soon meet its death in a pot full of boiled water that I'd prepared.

We thanked our new friend for giving us the behind the scenes tour of crawfish, and returned from our short field trip to find Tray waiting at the boiling pots.

"Has it been ten minutes?" he said to me.

"Ten minutes?," I asked.

"Yeah," he went on, "Has it been ten minutes since you put the potatoes in?"

"Uh . . .uh . . .," I stammered, "I don't know . . .I don't have a watch . . .I just picked up a crawfish . . .with your friend!"

Tray shook his head at me again, still smiling, realizing that I'm not as quick of a learner as he'd hoped, and that I needed constant supervision on this project. I realized that Tray wasn't just teaching me for the fun of it, he was counting on this batch of crawfish to be edible. I couldn't slack off any longer.

Once the potatoes (and the garlic and lemons) had cooked for 10 minutes, it was time for more ingredients--corn, sausage, and seasoning.

A lifetime Lowcountry boil fan, I looked over to where Tray was motioning towards seasoning and said, "Oh, like Old Bay?"

He glared at me like I'd killed his dog right in front of him.

"Fuck Old Bay," he said.

Then he held up a yellow bag of what I can only assume is the real deal, legit crawfish boil seasoning that obviously is 1000 times better than Old Bay.

"Well excuse the hell out of me," I said.

The final ingredient to go into the pot was the most important--the crawfish.

Now, I was there to help and do as much as I possibly could to aide in the crawfish boiling, but when it came to dumping the crawfish, the best assistance I could provide was to get the hell out of the way. That's because the pounds and pounds of crawfish are stored in long, white coolers and require those with a lot more physical strength than me to lift them high enough to dump into the boiling pot.

Tray and his friends took care of that as gracefully as they could, losing only a few runaway crawfish that creeped into the woods behind the pots.

Once all of the ingredients were cooking, it was time for me to stir them with a brown paddle that reminded me of the paddle Ben Affleck's character uses to beat up freshmen in Dazed and Confused.

So far I'd managed to show up late, not light the burner, forget to keep time, and offend Louisiana spices, but I thought for sure that I couldn't screw up stirring the pot. I was wrong. Tray informed me that stirring a crawfish pot is less round and round, more up and down motions. When I was doing it right, I was almost pushing the food into the seasoned water and letting it come back to the surface.

Despite having messed up nearly every step of the way, when it was time to go to work on another pot, I was feeling confident enough to ask Emily for assistance. In other words, I was feeling confident to start bossing Emily around.

"Bring me the corn," I said to her, while I was still stirring the pot.

"Oh, so now you have a sous chef?" Tray joked.

I don't know about that, but thanks to Tray's instruction and our teamwork, Emily and I managed to boil two batches of delicious crawfish for charity go-ers consumption.

We didn't eat any, because Emily hates crawfish and I couldn't eat anything cooked, but Tray gave me two thumbs up on a job well done and to my knowledge, there were no reports of food poisoning.

Anyone that got sick at the crawfish boil did so because of too many trips to the beer truck, not because of me.

Day 223: Classing Up the Place

Back on the day that I ended up eating Krispy Kreme donuts hot off the line, my friend Tray invited me to a steak restaurant, Hal's, to smoke cigars with him and some of his buddies as the thing I’ve never done before.

I declined his offer for several reasons, but mainly because I wanted my Hal's experience to be just that--an experience. I wanted Filet Mignon, red wine, dessert, coffee, and, of course my very own cigar to enjoy following dinner. We’d sit in a candle lit, smoke-filled room with a big dark, wooden table and talk about our lives while puffing on stogies. Like a scene out of the Godfather, minus the Italian food.

Yes, that's exactly how I envisioned my first time smoking a cigar.

But if there is one thing that I've learned since starting this little project, it's that nothing ever happens quite as I planned it in my mind.

Weeks later, I found myself enjoying my last weekend of a two week vacation at my friend Lindsay’s 30th birthday bash on Folly Beach. She had managed to corral a large, spirited group willing to celebrate her milestone birthday with a weekend full of fun, debauchery and dance parties.

Among those who made the trip to Charleston was my brother’s old friend Ben. I’ve known Ben for a long time, but it had been a while since he and I'd seen him. He hadn’t changed a bit, though; he is still one of the nicest, most optimistic people I’ve ever met. He and his wife Mary Ann are such great people and so much fun.

At one point during our beach day, Ben announced he was headed back to the house and wanted to know if anyone needed anything. I had been contemplating how I was going to manage my need to use the bathroom, since I refused to reveal my sunburn for all to see by disrobing in front of the masses on the beach to use the world’s largest toilet, the ocean. So I hitched a ride with Ben back to the house to use the facilities.

That was all entirely too much information just to tell you that on our ride, Ben was, no surprise, a wave of positivity, talking about how much fun he was having, how there was still more fun ahead that evening, and how he’d hoped he and Trey, our other friend, would be cracking into some Cubans later.

Come again?

"Cubans," he said, seeing that I was confused about what he was talking about, "Cigars?"

"Oh, right, of course," I replied. Apparently the sun had fried my legs and my brain.

Ben went on as he opened the door to the beach house, "There's just something about a cigar that really classes a place up, you know?"

I laughed.

First of all, what a hilarious thing to say, and Ben said it with such conviction, I knew he believed what he was saying was the truth.

Secondly, we’d spent all day pounding domestic beers on the beach and the entire night before playing flip cup (did I mention this was a 30th birthday party?), so if ever there was a party in need of “classing up,” it was this one. I’m just not sure there were enough cigars in the world to pull it off.

But, if he’s got cigars and I’m in need of doing something that I’ve never done before (I know you’re not surprised that I’ve spent many a domestic beer drinking days on the beach and I’ve played quite a bit of flip cup before.), then maybe I should abandon my whole steak dinner, red wine, cigar fantasy and ask Ben if he would let me try one.

So I told him about the blog and he was happy to help, making Day 223’s thing I’ve never done before to smoke a cigar.

Later that night, after a positively glorious day on the beach, we continued Lindsay’s party back at the house with a cookout. And soon I was being summoned to the grill to partake in the cigar that Ben had promised me. He'd already lit it, and by the looks of the stubby thing, he'd already been smoking it for several hours.

He handed it to me, and I kind of held it awkwardly, staring at him for direction as to what to do next, as if I hadn’t ever seen anyone smoke a cigar before. Ben didn’t give me the instructions I was seeking, he just reminded me, as several people already had, not to inhale it.

I did as I was told, and took a couple of puffs, careful not to inhale the smoke. The end of the cigar was soggy, because apparently, as Ben and Trey demonstrated, smoking a cigar is really just chewing on the end of it, puffing it occasionally for effect and hooking it dramatically with your pointer finger to remove it from your mouth.

I expected to be disgusted by the taste, but I wasn’t at all. Because cigars, at least this one, didn’t really have much taste at all.

And as far as “classying up the place” goes, I didn’t feel classy at all. In fact, I felt kind of dirty. Maybe it’s that whole Monica Lewinsky thing?

After taking a few puffs on the cigar, I shared with the group, who all wanted to know what I thought, that I was underwhelmed. I handed the stogy back to Ben and went about the evening enjoying the birthday celebration well into the early morning.

The next morning, we had to clean the party house before packing up and heading home. I thanked Ben for being a part of the blog and as I took a load of trash to the dumpster, I heard Trey's husky voice calling out to me from the master bedroom.

"Hey Steph, did I make the blog?" he yelled.

Indeed, Trey, you did. You classy thing.

Day 178: Hot off the Line

When the last hours of the day are upon me and I still haven’t come up with something that I’ve never done before, I often question whether or not this blog was a good idea. What was I thinking trying to come up with 365 things I’ve never done before?

More often than not, I have my friends to rely on for help. On Day 178, I found myself in a circle with four of my co-workers all fiercely loyal to the blog, all of us trying to come up with something that I’ve never done before. It’s days like this when I don’t think the blog was a good idea. I think it was a great idea.

“Let’s go streaking through Centennial Park!” someone said.

Nah. No spray tan (this should not be the reason I didn't want to go streaking, but sadly it is).

My friend Tray, who was not among the group discussing options, text messaged me and invited me to Hal’s to try a cigar for the first time at Hal’s a steak restaurant in Atlanta. I do want to do that, but I’ve never eaten at Hal’s either and I want to make the night an entire experience. Dinner, wine, and cigars.

So there we were, scratching our heads when finally I offered something that Mo and I had already talked about doing, “Krispy Kreme, hot off the line. I’ve never done it. Who’s in?”

There wasn’t any opposition to the idea, but I got the feeling there was a little disappointment, like this was too easy or something. And I’m sure I felt sad, confused feelings coming in my direction that in 29 years I had never done this before. But still, who can be disappointed about Krispy Kreme? Not wanting to let me or the blog down, we all piled into cars and headed to Ponce de Leon Avenue to Krispy Kreme.

I had eaten numerous Krispy Kreme donuts over the years. For some reason in high school clubs used to sell boxes of them as fundraisers which I found both odd and gross.

Eating them as they are first ready, “Hot off the Line” was a completely different story however, and was something I needed to experience.

Several of our crew were seasoned Krispy Kreme eaters.

“I mean, our house is right there,” Amanda said, pointing to her and husband Stephen’s place, “so sometimes on Sundays we’ll walk up here and get a box.

She stopped herself, feeling as though she revealed too much, “I mean, ‘a couple.’”

Atlanta’s Krispy Kreme is a big, well-lit place on a main thoroughfare. Despite the flashing lights and accessibility, I’ve passed Krispy Kreme numerous times before but had never stopped.

We all walked up the counter and Mo ordered two dozen donuts for five people. I mean, I knew it would be good, but that many donuts felt a little unnecessary. I soon found out he had big plans.

Amanda warned me while I was in line trying to decide what to drink, “Don’t try to dip the donut in coffee, it will disintegrate.”

I don’t know why she felt it necessary to tell me this because I had no intention of drinking coffee. It was around 10pm, first of all, and I was looking for something to drink that would make me feel less badly about eating a fatty donut. I also felt the need to be 8-years old again, so I drank milk.

We took the donuts to the table and I sensed a feeling of urgency. “Hot off the line” only lasts for a little while, so I needed to experience this right away.

So I picked up the first one, Amanda grabbed the camera and I took a bite.

Holy. Donut.

The donut didn’t need hot coffee to melt in my mouth. It was unlike anything I’ve ever tasted before. Sweet and delicious. I didn’t think so before, but I believe it now: a warm Krispy Kreme donut is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.

If you haven’t done this, you must. Wait until the sign that says, “Hot donuts now,” and forget about where you are going and turn your car into the parking lot. If you don’t live near a Krispy Kreme restaurant, I am personally inviting you to Atlanta to eat one. Seriously. You can stay at my house. You must try one.

While still basking in the donut’s glory, Mo, no surprise, suggested we have a donut eating contest. As much as that sounded like a delicious idea, I knew it would make me sick. Plus, I believe Krispy Kremes are meant to be savored, not eaten in haste.

The boys went for it, though, and I filmed it (unfortunately because my computer hates me I haven't been able to upload despite numerous tries, but picture any eating contest with three dudes and donuts).

Mo, always a winner, polished off an impressive five in one minute. Justin ate three, and Stephen, despite living closest to the Krispy Kreme only finished two.

As we sat there, watching this disgusting charade go down, Amanda pointed out that the donut changes so quickly after it comes off the line, that even a 15-minute old Krispy Kreme is different from the one I just ate.

I don’t think I’ve ever in my life eaten two donuts in one sitting, but this felt like the right thing to do, so after the competition was over, I tried another.

I laughed at myself, thinking about how many donuts I’ve refused over the years, and here, only to be here at Krispy Kreme, polishing off two in less than an hour, all in the name of the blog, of course.

It reminded me of a wedding I went to in Philadelphia last fall. I passed on the filet mignon at the reception, explaining to everyone around me that I didn’t red meat. Hours later at Geno’s Cheese Steaks, however, I had no problem inhaling a Philly cheese steak. Clearly I have no problem abandoning rational thought when food is involved.

We sat around for a while at the restaurant, until one of the employees told us they were closing. I’ve been told to leave many bars over the years after last call was over, but getting kicked out of a donut shop? Definitely a first, and definitely a personal low.

The sugar rush that follows two Krispy Kreme donuts came on after I’d already made it home. I was up late, my mind unable to slow down. My body had the sugar shakes, which I would love to tell you I channeled into something positive like spring-cleaning my house or reading a novel. Unfortunately I have little to show for my late night.

A “Hot off the Line” donut is a special treat that I can’t do often, but one that I will be enjoying again. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

Day 150: South African Reality TV

Since first appearing in Day 135's blog about King Cake, my friend Tray has longed for more blog appearances. He actually offered to join me on Day 149's outing at the Glenwood, but that would've defeated the entire point of me going to the bar on my own. We made plans to hang out on Day 150 instead.

Tray made several suggestions on where we could go and I chose 10 Degrees South in Buckhead. It was the place I had never been to, making Day 150's thing I've never done before to eat South African food.

According to the restaurant's website, South African cuisine is a fusion of French, Portuguese, Dutch, German and Malaysian cuisines with heavy Mediterranean influences. I've eaten most of those cuisines before, but a fusion of all of them was going to be interesting.

When we walked in, I was pleasantly surprised at how crowded and happening the place was for a Wednesday night. These are my kind of weekday party people.

Tray had been to 10 Degrees South before, so he led the way through the restaurant to the less formal bar area, where we were going to eat. On our walk to the back, I glanced to my right and through the glass doors in the hallway was a room full of television cameras, a crew, and lights.

I stopped abruptly and stared through the door.

"Are they filming a movie?" I asked loudly and excitedly to no one in particular. I was sure that I was about to make Day 150 about much more than South African food. If I could just get a hold of one person, a director or a producer, I could tell them all about Project 29 to 30 and they could make me a star!

Or at least just let me walk around in the background of whatever production was going on. I'll take what I can get.

I recognized one of the guys sitting on the couch in the room as Bert Weiss, a cast member of Atlanta radio's "The Bert Show." I don't listen to the popular morning show regularly, but the last time I listened, Bert was weighing the possibility of joining the cast of a reality program about men in Atlanta similar to the "Real Housewives" series.

Evident by what I was watching go down through these glass doors, Bert's decision had been made.

I marveled at how "unrealistic" this little scene seemed to be. Five guys sitting awkwardly close to each other on a couch, sipping on cocktails, trying to engage in conversation with at least a dozen people standing around them either holding cameras, microphones or simply gawking at their every move.

I'm certainly not naive to the fact that reality TV is somewhat scripted, but absolutely nothing about this scene appeared authentic. I was somewhat disappointed, as I had always secretly hoped that the women of the "Real Housewives of New York" are as terrible and nasty as they seem on television. But maybe it's all in the production and editing?

The shoot ended with an orchestrated toast that included all of the men rising from their seats at the same time and chinking their glasses together. I say "orchestrated" because I've never seen a group of men actually do something so cheesy before and I can only assume that some female producer came up with the idea and instructed them to do it.

I never had an opportunity to sneak my way into the production, unfortunately. I plan on keeping a close eye on Bravo for the release of this show, though, in hopes that I will see that scene, and be able to shout to all of my friends, "I was there! I was there when they filmed this!!!"

When we sat at the bar and spoke to the bartender, she confirmed that they were filming a reality show. We watched the "cast" exit the room and mill around the bar for a bit and I made Tray take my picture with some of them in the background before he ordered a drink. And then I, for the second night in a row, intently studied the wine list, determined to make the right choice.

Rigal Malbec was not on the menu, sadly.

“I feel like I should drink South African wine since we’re at a South African restaurant. You know, to get the whole experience,” I said to Tray.

Tray smiled, but he was probably thinking, "this girl is a loser." Regardless, he is certainly becoming more and more aware at how authentic I aim to be with the blog. He motioned towards the guy singing cover songs with an acoustic guitar and said, “I could see about replacing that guy with Dave Matthews. He's South African, right?"

Tray is catching on. What a fabulous idea!

We ordered the sliced rump steak served over potatoes and the grilled calamari as appetizers. The steak was great, for steak, but I loved the calamari. The only calamari I had ever eaten was fried, but I like it so much better grilled. It was light and delicious.

Tray and I consulted the bartender about what we should order for our meal. The appetizers were pretty filling, so we opted to share an entree. Going for 100 percent authenticity, we wanted the most South African item on the menu.

She instructed us to order Bobotie, a sweet ground beef curry topped with savory custard that is baked until golden brown. It was served with yellow rice and sambals.

We were about to tear into what was the equivalent of a beef pie, when Tray revealed to me that despite coming from Louisiana and enjoying cooking himself, he doesn't really have adventurous tastes in food. I was concerned and not at all confident about how this was all going to go.

We both took a bite and looked at each other for a reaction. Tray looked a little confused, which I understood. The flavor was strange, but not in bad way. Tasty, but odd. I was confused by the dish, too, really, and I kept taking bites to try and figure out if I liked it or not. It was beef, but it was sweet. I truly don't know what is in Bobotie or how it is made, but after several tries, I came to the conclusion that I did like it, even if I didn't completely understand it.

Tray, on the other hand, wasn't sold, I don't think. He said he liked it, but I wouldn't say this meal has moved to the top of the list of his favorite things to eat. I'm pretty sure we may go back to the more predictable and familiar Mexican or New Orleans cuisine for our next outing.

I'm sold on South African food, though, and I'd like to go back and try another dish on the menu. 10 Degrees South is a cool spot full of interesting people, and not just Tray and me.

We ended Tray's second blog appearance with Girl Scout cookies and a huge round of the name game with Tray's roommate's girlfriend. Not a bad Wednesday.

Day 135: Who Dat Makin' King Cake?

With a strong Louisiana contention in my office, and the Saints in the Super Bowl, King Cake consumption had reached an all-time high at the beginning of February. All of the King Cakes came from different places, but all were store bought. I wanted to make one of my own.

Day 135’s thing I’ve never done before was to make a King Cake from scratch.

The Tuesday after the Saints won the Super Bowl seemed like a good time to make it happen. I was working late, so I had the time, and it seemed like a good time to present my friend and die-hard Saints fan Jackie with a celebratory, “I’m happy for your team” gift.

This challenge was extra intimidating for two reasons:

1. Jackie is an excellent baker

2. She's from New Orleans

The potential to make this cake for her and have her think it was a huge disaster was high. She knows baking. She knows New Orleans.

Plus, she said she doesn’t even make King Cakes anymore, after attempting them a couple of times.

When I emailed her to tell her I was attempting to make one in her honor, she replied, “OMG. I’m going to cry I've done it twice... so my hats off to you. I used an Emeril recipe that is NOT good.”

Interesting, I thought, that she mentioned the Emeril recipe because I had looked that one up and passed on it for having too much lemon and other weird ingredients. Emeril is from New Orleans too, so I assumed he would know how to do a King Cake well, but this recipe did not sound good. I chose a Southern Living’s version instead.

The ingredients were simple enough: flour, eggs, sugar, cinnamon, butter. Everything is mixed together to make a dough. I didn’t think about it until I was actually doing it, but this was the first time I’d ever made, and kneaded, dough. What a mess! My kitchen and I were both covered in flour. It was fun, though.

After the dough seemed doughy enough, the recipe called for me to cover it, put it into a warm (85 degrees) place away from any drafts.

Since my landlords like to keep my part of the house no warmer than 60 degrees, finding a place without a draft that was 85 degrees was nearly impossible. For the first round of resting/rising, I put the ball of dough in my oven. I'm sure the oven (which was turned off) wasn't 85 degrees, but at least the dough would be safe from the draft. After waiting the hour the recipe called for, the dough was supposed to rise to double in size. It definitely got bigger, but I'm not at all sure it was twice its original size.

So the next "rising period," after I rolled the dough out, filled it with butter and sugar and cinnamon, and formed it into an oval, I ended up putting the dough on a cookie sheet and placed it directly in front of the space heater in my living room. It was beyond redneck, but it worked. I think it worked. I mean, it definitely grew, but since I had nothing to compare it to, I have no idea what it was supposed to look like.

I baked it for the appropriate time, brought it out and it was less of a ring that I think it’s supposed to be, and more of a mound with a hole in the center. I frosted it and covered it with the yellow, green, and purple sugar that I had dyed. It looked glorious.

Making a King Cake is a lot like making fruit cake in that it involves a great deal of effort, and a great deal of time and tedious labor. But saying I made a King Cake did not garner the same negative reaction that saying I made a fruit cake did. And while I think both tasted good, if I had to choose one to eat for the rest of my life, I'd definitely choose the King Cake. The true test on taste, though, was Jackie, and all my native New Orleanian friends. Someone had brought in a premade King Cake that people had been eating all day. I was irritated by this because I wasn't sure how mine would stack up against the store bought version and I didn't know if anyone would still want to eat my King Cake. Mature, I know.

Jackie, who had been wearing Saints outfits for two weeks, was touched from the moment I emailed her and told her that I was making it. She got the first piece, which was still warm from having come out of my oven less than an hour before.

Her eyes widened and she said it was the best King Cake she'd ever had.

Ever. Had.

I know everyone measures success differently, but I think I can call that a universal success. Or maybe she was just being nice. I had to follow up with another New Orleanian, Belinda. She had just returned from New Orleans where she watched the Super Bowl with her hometown crew. Her voice was still hoarse.

She also agreed with Jackie that it was the best King Cake she'd ever had.

I texted my friend Tray a picture of the King Cake before it was devoured by my colleagues. He's also from New Orleans and had just returned from the Super Bowl in Miami.

“Holy smokes!” he wrote me back, “I want a piece.”

He called me later to ask about the cake.

"What did you use for the baby?" he asked me. There is usually a plastic baby hidden in the King Cake and the tradition is, whoever gets the baby in their piece of cake has to buy the next year's cake.

This question had come up earlier when I confessed to Jackie that I didn't have plastic babies just lying around my house, nor did I have any idea where to purchase such a toy. She said I could’ve come to her house because having a toddler means having small plastic toys. Lots of them.

I considered taking some random trinket from my house, sterilizing it and making it the "baby." But a Washington, DC key chain just didn't feel very New Orleansy. So I did some reading about the King Cake on cooking websites and they said a bean, or an almond, were appropriate substitutes. I used an almond.

Tray disagreed with this decision. When I told him I didn't have a plastic baby to put into the cake and that I used an almond instead, he was not pleased.

"Don't tell people that. Don't say you used an almond," he said. He was serious. When it comes to King Cakes, or anything New Orleans, Tray does not mess around.

He asked me if I knew the history behind the King Cake and Mardi Gras, which I did not. He gave me a quick overview on the phone, but proceeded to, after we hung up, send me multiple text messages delving further into it. Sending a history lesson via text message is difficult, I imagine. I applauded his efforts.

I spent so much damn time dyeing sugar for the top of the cake, so I do remember what he told me about the significance of the colors. Purple represents justice, green represents faith, and gold represents power.
I confess I don't remember much else about what he said, so I've since gone back and read about the history of Mardi Gras. For Tray’s sake, please go learn about the King Cake and Mardi Gras here.

I left one of the cakes at home because it hadn't cooled yet, and I couldn't put icing on it. I promised I'd bring it in the next day, and then I forgot, causing literal outrage from my co-workers. Sara was like a King Cake addict looking to get her fix.

"What?! I didn't eat lunch today because I thought you bringing the other cake!!” she said, crazily.

I was taken aback. My feelings were mixed, as I felt badly to have disappointed so many people, but also awesome that everyone loved the cake this much.

I brought in the second cake the next day, but it wasn't as good the second time around. I take the blame for that, because I should've covered it to keep it fresh, but I just left it in my oven, where it had been cooling.

Still, I count the King Cake an overall success, one that I know I can only take partial credit for since all I did was follow instructions. I’m in love with this recipe.

Who Dat?