The Birth of a Baby Chick

 Most times, my ideas are ridiculous.  Generally, ranging from the inner depths of inappropriateness or the fact that my internal monologue wasn’t turned on that day.   Hence, the root of this story.  So it begins, a balmy day in Buenos Aires.  My sister and I are taking our annual holiday- she is so gracious to travel with me because the itinerary usually includes me running around a city looking for the best food, the tastiest beverage, most interesting service and overall the hottest looking people. 

We found ourselves in what they called a “caliente” spot…. It served traditional Argentinean fare of casseroles- filled with varied meats, vegetables all stewed together- basically heaven. After realizing that my sister is well, as much as I love her dearly and would not trade her for the world- a vegetarian for the most part.  So after I attempted- and I use the word attempted- to explain to our server that we couldn’t have pork, sweetbreads, or anything that came from an animal- she looked at me blankly.  So then I started making animal noises- completely forgetting that my best friends last name was VACA and dammit, that means cow in Spanish.  After an embarrassing three minutes- I ordered our first bottle of Argentina Malbec.

Bottle #1:

We loosen up- catch up the usual. How our mother can drive us crazy but you know “she’s mom!” What color we plan on dying our hair next. Business- why we feel stifled in our current job situation- if only someone would give us large amounts of unmarked bills with no strings attached.  You know the usual.

Bottle #2:

My sister proceeds to divulge all and tells me a story that I can’t even top.  I mean wow.  This took the whole bottle.

Bottle #3:

I divulge that I just gotten broken up with- the hurt, the angry, the “how the hell was I with the person for so long but somehow still feel bad because you know “it’s a break up!”  After going through all the silly little details and what did I do wrong, it was at this moment that I declared that my mission; was to make pastries that would be an extension of how I felt- of course using the best techniques, natural ingredients, and oh so adorable decor.  If I want to write, “I’m Too Good For You” on a cake- I will- it will be the roasted banana, salted peanut milk chocolate Wild Turkey bourbon mousse cake.  OR the “I Hope You Get an STD” cake- obviously Raspberry Mexican Vanilla Bavarian…  Then there is the “I Can’t Stop Thinking About You” cake; Tahitian Vanilla, Goose Island Root beer, and Cherries, and the oh so addictive “Wanna Make Out?” cake; chocolate, chocolate, and chocolate- preferably of the 70% persuasion and of course, cocoa nibs.

Making food is such an extension of our emotions and what is going on- why not have a bit of your soul on display? 

My sister and I had an amazing time thinking of all the different cake names we would make and more importantly who we would have sent them too. (I still have my list handy)   It was the last drop of this bottle that I slurred “I shall call it the Bitter Chick Bakery”- not only for the fact that I was obviously drunk, dumped, and in a foreign country- sometimes a good laugh and a good pastry can just be what you need instead of therapy.

Awakening from our Malbec coma- I turned to look at my sister from my bed made for midgets, and had a groggy sense that something, an idea, was born.  Slowly rolling myself off my bed and crawling to the shower to get the day started in looking for yet another tasty adventure, I realized that in our attempt to deal with life’s giving’s we created something out of it that is our own.  But all in all, the fact in that single bite; all that anger, joy, relucence, or happiness would be washed away by the pure joy of a damn good dessert.

-Youngest