Sugar Rush (35 page)
Cinnamon Mascarpone Frosting
8 ounces mascarpone cheese, at room temperature
½ cupbutter, at room temperature
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
1½ cups powdered sugar
¼ cup heavy cream
Cinnamon (ground fresh, if you have a grinder)
½ cupbutter, at room temperature
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
1½ cups powdered sugar
¼ cup heavy cream
Cinnamon (ground fresh, if you have a grinder)
I tried many different versions of mascarpone frosting and discovered I really liked the ones that included butter, and the ones that included heavy cream, but couldn’t find one that included all of it, so ... voilà!—my own version. It might be a wee bit on the rich side. But then, isn’t that frosting law?
1.
Gently mix the cheese, butter, vanilla, and powdered sugar together. Make sure both cheese and butter are soft so you don’t have to overblend to make it smooth. If you overblend, the mascarpone can curdle. (Again, I won’t reveal exactly how it is I know this, but let’s just say, I’ve heard rumors ... possibly emanating from my own kitchen.)
Gently mix the cheese, butter, vanilla, and powdered sugar together. Make sure both cheese and butter are soft so you don’t have to overblend to make it smooth. If you overblend, the mascarpone can curdle. (Again, I won’t reveal exactly how it is I know this, but let’s just say, I’ve heard rumors ... possibly emanating from my own kitchen.)
2.
Whisk the cream until it holds a peak. Don’t whisk until you get stiff peaks, as it will make the frosting a bit too frothy and whipped in texture.
Whisk the cream until it holds a peak. Don’t whisk until you get stiff peaks, as it will make the frosting a bit too frothy and whipped in texture.
3.
Stir the whipped cream into the cheese and sugar mixture until just blended. It should be a smooth, thick, creamy frosting. If possible, use immediately. Otherwise, refrigerate, but bring back to room temperature to use later. You may want to stir slightly to regain the creamy texture. Again, don’t overstir, as the cheese can still curdle.
Stir the whipped cream into the cheese and sugar mixture until just blended. It should be a smooth, thick, creamy frosting. If possible, use immediately. Otherwise, refrigerate, but bring back to room temperature to use later. You may want to stir slightly to regain the creamy texture. Again, don’t overstir, as the cheese can still curdle.
4.
Grind or sprinkle cinnamon on top of the frosting as desired. Keep refrigerated when not being devoured.
Grind or sprinkle cinnamon on top of the frosting as desired. Keep refrigerated when not being devoured.
5.
Enjoy!
Enjoy!
Red Velvet Cupcakes
2½ cups flour
½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
2 cups sugar
1 cup (2 sticks) butter, at room temperature
4 eggs, at room temperature
1 cup sour cream
½ cup buttermilk
1 bottle (1 ounce) red food coloring
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
2 cups sugar
1 cup (2 sticks) butter, at room temperature
4 eggs, at room temperature
1 cup sour cream
½ cup buttermilk
1 bottle (1 ounce) red food coloring
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Line 30 muffin cups with paper liners. (Super cute paper liners, of course.)
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Line 30 muffin cups with paper liners. (Super cute paper liners, of course.)
2.
In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, cocoa powder, baking soda and salt, then set aside.
In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, cocoa powder, baking soda and salt, then set aside.
3.
Use an electric mixer on medium speed to cream the butter with the sugar until light and fluffy. This takes about 5 minutes (which is like a light year in holding-an-electric-mixer-time, so set a timer).
Use an electric mixer on medium speed to cream the butter with the sugar until light and fluffy. This takes about 5 minutes (which is like a light year in holding-an-electric-mixer-time, so set a timer).
4.
Beat in eggs, one at a time, until assimilated. (Yes, I’m asking you to
Borg
your eggs.)
Beat in eggs, one at a time, until assimilated. (Yes, I’m asking you to
Borg
your eggs.)
5.
Mix in sour cream, buttermilk, food color and vanilla. (
Note:
Don’t have buttermilk, or tired of getting this huge container for just a cup in a recipe? Just add 1 tablespoon white vinegar or lemon juice per cup of milk, stir, let sit for 5 minutes, then use as directed in recipe. Or get powdered buttermilk and use according to package directions—that’s what I do!)
Mix in sour cream, buttermilk, food color and vanilla. (
Note:
Don’t have buttermilk, or tired of getting this huge container for just a cup in a recipe? Just add 1 tablespoon white vinegar or lemon juice per cup of milk, stir, let sit for 5 minutes, then use as directed in recipe. Or get powdered buttermilk and use according to package directions—that’s what I do!)
6.
Gradually beat in flour mixture on low speed until just, you know, Borg’d. Do not overbeat (because, as we learned from our TV boyfriend, Bobby Flay, we don’t want our gluten activated). Of course, if Bobby Flay wants to activate
my
gluten ... well ... that’s another story.
Gradually beat in flour mixture on low speed until just, you know, Borg’d. Do not overbeat (because, as we learned from our TV boyfriend, Bobby Flay, we don’t want our gluten activated). Of course, if Bobby Flay wants to activate
my
gluten ... well ... that’s another story.
7.
Spoon batter into 30 paper-lined muffin cups, filling each cup
full.
Spoon batter into 30 paper-lined muffin cups, filling each cup
full.8.
Bake 20 to 25 minutes or until cupcakes reach clean toothpick doneness.
Bake 20 to 25 minutes or until cupcakes reach clean toothpick doneness.
9.
Cool in pans on wire rack 5 minutes. Remove from pans to cool the rest of the way before frosting.
Cool in pans on wire rack 5 minutes. Remove from pans to cool the rest of the way before frosting.
Vanilla Cream Cheese Frosting
1 8-ounce package cream cheese, softened
¼ cup (½ stick) butter, softened
2 tablespoons sour cream
2 teaspoons vanilla
1 16-ounce box confectioners’ (10x) sugar (approx. 3½ cups)
¼ cup (½ stick) butter, softened
2 tablespoons sour cream
2 teaspoons vanilla
1 16-ounce box confectioners’ (10x) sugar (approx. 3½ cups)
1.
Cream together the softened cream cheese and butter, the sour cream, and the vanilla until light and fluffy (approximately 3–4 minutes on medium speed).
Cream together the softened cream cheese and butter, the sour cream, and the vanilla until light and fluffy (approximately 3–4 minutes on medium speed).
2.
Gradually blend in the powdered sugar until the frosting is smooth.
Gradually blend in the powdered sugar until the frosting is smooth.
3.
Frost the cupcakes, pour a tall, cold glass of milk ... and be prepared to have a Cupcake Moment. Just sayin’.
Frost the cupcakes, pour a tall, cold glass of milk ... and be prepared to have a Cupcake Moment. Just sayin’.
Can’t wait to get back to Sugarberry Island and the Cupcake Club? You’re in luck!
Sweet Stuff
will be in stores next month. Here’s a taste to whet your appetite.
Sweet Stuff
will be in stores next month. Here’s a taste to whet your appetite.
L
ater, she would blame the whole thing on the cupcakes. Riley glanced through the sparkling window panes of the hand-stained, sliding French panel doors to the extended, multileveled tigerwood deck—complete with stargazer pergola and red cedar soaking tub—straight into a pair of familiar, sober brown eyes. “I know that look,” she called out, loud enough so he could hear her through the thermal, double-paned glass. “Don’t mock. I can too do this.” She turned her attention forward again and stared at the electronic panel of the Jog Master 3000. “I mean, how hard can it be?” A rhetorical question of course. Anyone, probably even the sunbathing mastiff, could figure out how to push a few buttons and—“Ooof!” The belt started moving under her feet. Really fast.
ater, she would blame the whole thing on the cupcakes. Riley glanced through the sparkling window panes of the hand-stained, sliding French panel doors to the extended, multileveled tigerwood deck—complete with stargazer pergola and red cedar soaking tub—straight into a pair of familiar, sober brown eyes. “I know that look,” she called out, loud enough so he could hear her through the thermal, double-paned glass. “Don’t mock. I can too do this.” She turned her attention forward again and stared at the electronic panel of the Jog Master 3000. “I mean, how hard can it be?” A rhetorical question of course. Anyone, probably even the sunbathing mastiff, could figure out how to push a few buttons and—“Ooof!” The belt started moving under her feet. Really fast.
Really, really fast.
“Oh crap!” She grabbed the padded side bars, an instinctive move purely intended to keep from face planting on high-speed rubber, with little actual athleticism involved. Okay, not a drop of it, but if she could keep pace long enough to get her balance, she could relax the death grip of just one of her hands and smack—press, she meant press—the electronic panel of buttons on this very—very—expensive piece of leased equipment. At which point her ill-advised, unfortunate little adventure would end well.
Or at least without the local EMTs being called. Or a lengthy hospital stay. She was way too busy for stitches.
“Yeah,” she gasped. “Piece of cake.” She managed a smirk at the irony of that particular phrase, but quickly turned to full panic mode as she realized she wasn’t exactly gaining ground. Rapidly losing it, in fact, along with what little breath she had. “Crap, crap, crap,” she panted in rhythm with her running steps. It had only been a few minutes—three minutes and forty-four seconds, according to the oh-so-helpful digital display—and she was already perspiring. Okay, okay, sweating. She just wasn’t sure if it was from the actual exertion, or the abject anxiety that she wasn’t going to get out of this latest catastrophe in one piece.
Where were those big, strong Steinway delivery men when you needed them, anyway? Surely they could race right in and save her, in blazingly heroic, stud monkey fashion. She’d let them, too. Just because she prided herself on her total I-Am-Woman independence thing A.J. (After Jeremy) didn’t mean she wasn’t above a little Rapunzel fantasy now and again.
She’d been awaiting delivery of the elegant baby grand for over an hour. So, technically, it was all their fault. The baby grand in question was the final component, and the pièce de ré-sistance, of this particular staging event. With every other remaining detail attended to, she’d foolishly given in to the urge to run a test check—all right, play—with some of the toys she’d had installed. Once again, she had managed to get herself into a bit of a pickle.
Enough with the food analogies, Riles
. Eight minutes, twenty-three seconds. At a dead run. The only way she could have ever pulled that off was if she were being chased by zombies. With machetes. And the world as she knew it would end if she didn’t get to the edge of the dark, scary forest in time.
. Eight minutes, twenty-three seconds. At a dead run. The only way she could have ever pulled that off was if she were being chased by zombies. With machetes. And the world as she knew it would end if she didn’t get to the edge of the dark, scary forest in time.
Instead, all she had her mastiff and his baleful stare. Not exactly adrenaline inducing.
Ten minutes, thirteen seconds. She was well past sweating and deep into red-faced overexertion. She glared back at Brutus, who kept faithful watch, but otherwise appeared unconcerned with his mistress’s current distress. “No gravy on your kibble tonight,” she called out. Well, in her mind, she called out. She was so winded it was all she could do to think the words. But her expression hopefully conveyed the message to her mutant, one hundred fifty pound mastiff.
He looked completely unmoved by her menacing glare. He knew she was a pushover. She’d taken him in as a rescue, hadn’t she?
The sweet sound of the cascading entrance chimes echoed through the room, indicating the delivery men had finally arrived. “Thank God,” she wheezed. She didn’t even care what they thought of the situation, or how horrible she must look. She’d bribe them with a few of Leilani’s decadently delicious Black Forest cupcakes, featuring raspberry truffle filling, and topped with fresh, plump, perfectly rosy raspberries. There were two dozen of them, carefully arranged on the three tier, crystal display dish in the beautifully appointed breakfast nook. That, and maybe throw in a few bottles of imported lager presently chilling in the newly installed, stainless-steel Viking fridge with handy bottom freezer, and surely they wouldn’t say anything to Scary Lois about Riley’s less-than-professional activities.
Lois Grinkmeyer-Hington-Smythe was easily the most intimidating person Riley had staged showcase houses for thus far, or worked for in any capacity, for that matter. Given her former career as head food stylist for
Foodie
, the number one selling food magazine in the country, that was saying something. Even the most intimidating chef had nothing on Scary Lois, highest performing realtor for Gold Coast properties. Riley couldn’t afford to annoy the source of her best bookings.
Foodie
, the number one selling food magazine in the country, that was saying something. Even the most intimidating chef had nothing on Scary Lois, highest performing realtor for Gold Coast properties. Riley couldn’t afford to annoy the source of her best bookings.
The chimes cascaded again.
Oh, for God’s sake, come in, already
! She tried to shout, but all she could muster was a strangled, guttural grunt. Why weren’t they just coming in? Open house meant the house was open!
Oh, for God’s sake, come in, already
! She tried to shout, but all she could muster was a strangled, guttural grunt. Why weren’t they just coming in? Open house meant the house was open!
She could see the headlines now.
Riley Brown Found Dead!
SUGARBERRY ISLAND’S PREMIERE HOUSE STAGER RILEY BROWN FOUND DEAD IN HIGH-SPEED TREADMILL INCIDENT!
DATELINE:
BARRIER ISLANDS
, GEORGIA—Piano deliverymen and part-time models, Sven and Magnus, claimed they had no knowledge that the front door to the island’s newly redesigned, prime lease property was unlocked, and that they could have entered the home and rescued the lovely and talented house stager from escalating terror and certain death. They did, however, make sure the reporter got their names right and photographed them from their good side.
BARRIER ISLANDS
, GEORGIA—Piano deliverymen and part-time models, Sven and Magnus, claimed they had no knowledge that the front door to the island’s newly redesigned, prime lease property was unlocked, and that they could have entered the home and rescued the lovely and talented house stager from escalating terror and certain death. They did, however, make sure the reporter got their names right and photographed them from their good side.
Meanwhile, poor, dead Riley Brown probably wouldn’t even warrant a hunky CSI investigator, who—clearly moved by her still glowing, cherubic face and bountiful blond curls—would posthumously vow to go to the ends of the earth to find out who was responsible for this terrible, terrible tragedy.
Of course, you couldn’t exactly arrest a Jog Master 3000.
Right at the point where she knew her sweaty palms couldn’t grip the rubber padding one second longer, and her gaze had shifted to Brutus out on the deck, for what could likely be the very last time—someone with a very deep voice carrying the warm caress of a slight Southern accent said, “Beg your pardon. I thought this was the house being leased. My apologies, I—”
Riley jerked her head around to look at the intruder. That was no Sven. Or even a Magnus. He was way—way—better than any Nordic fantasy. Framed by what she knew was a nine-foot archway, he was a rugged six-foot-four at least, with shoulders and jaw to match. Even in his white cotton, button-down shirt, faded jeans, and dark brown sport coat, he looked like he could have delivered a baby grand with his left hand, while simultaneously saving the world with his right. Thick, dark hair framed a tanned face with crinkles at the corners of the most amazing bright blue eyes ... Wait—she knew that face! How did she know that face?
Her jaw went slack the instant she realized who was standing, live and in the amazingly more-gorgeous-in-person flesh, right there in her Florida room. Well, not
her
Florida room, but ... that didn’t matter. Unfortunately the moment her jaw had gone slack, so had her hands.
her
Florida room, but ... that didn’t matter. Unfortunately the moment her jaw had gone slack, so had her hands.
She let out a strangled shriek as the rapidly spinning rubber track ejected her from the back end of the machine as if she were a clown out of a circus cannon. Sans the acrobatic skills. Or clean landing.
The good news? The tastefully arranged indoor/outdoor cluster of salt-air tolerant baby cabbage and saw palmettos, cockspur prickly pear and Adam’s Needle yucca kept her from being ejected straight through the sparkling clean, thermal double panes she’d spent a full hour on that morning. The bad news? Well, other than the part about saw palmettos and prickly pear not exactly being soft and cushy kinds of foliage? Yeah, that would be lying in a sweaty, red-faced, scratched up heap ... all while looking up into the breathtaking, turquoise blue eyes of the one and only Quinn Brannigan.
Dazed in more ways than one, Riley found herself thinking that if her life were ever made into a movie of the week, she sure hoped the screenwriter would give her some clever, witty line to say at that exact moment. One that would show her to be adorably spunky and utterly charming ... despite her bedraggled, pathetic, disastrous appearance.
Alas, she was more a visual person—which was why she was a stylist and a photographer, not a writer. Quinn Brannigan, on the other hand, was a writer. Of the number one with a bullet,
New York Times
bestselling variety. So, of course, he knew exactly what to say. But then, he didn’t really need to worry about that, did he?
New York Times
bestselling variety. So, of course, he knew exactly what to say. But then, he didn’t really need to worry about that, did he?
“I am sorry.” The hint of drawl in his voice made him sound inherently sincere, while the concern etched in every crease of his perfectly gorgeous face underscored the tone. “I don’t know how I made such a mistake. I never meant to alarm you like that. Let me to help you up, make sure you’re all right.” He extended a hand.
See? Perfect white knight, perfect amount of sincere contrition, perfect ... well, everything. She’d always thought him handsome, staring back at her from the glossy book jackets of his many best-sellers. What the photo didn’t convey was the magnetism and charisma that packed an even bigger wallop in person. Not to mention his voice. Deep and smooth, with a cadence hinting at warm honey drizzled all over a hot, buttery biscuit. If they could package that voice along with his books, he’d double his already enormous sales.
“You know”—her words came out in more of a post-marathon croak—“you really should read your own books.” Then she closed her eyes when his expression shifted to one of confusion.
I said that, right out loud, didn’t I?
Another rhetorical question, of course. “On tape,” she added lamely, as if that was going to clear matters right up. “You know, audio books.” Riley let her head drop farther back into the sharp fronds. “Never mind. I’m shutting up now.”
I said that, right out loud, didn’t I?
Another rhetorical question, of course. “On tape,” she added lamely, as if that was going to clear matters right up. “You know, audio books.” Riley let her head drop farther back into the sharp fronds. “Never mind. I’m shutting up now.”
“Give me your hand.” He crouched down, so that his handsome face and hot-sex-in-a-summertime-hammock voice were even closer to her. “Are you hurt? Did you hit your head on the glass?”
Given her random commentary, his concern wasn’t the least bit surprising. It was an easy out that a lesser woman might have taken. No one had ever accused her, however, of being lesser. Too much, maybe. All right, definitely.
“No,” she managed. “Just a few scratches. I’m fine, I just—” She broke off, and with a little sigh and a not-so-little huff of breath, tried to struggle her way out of the forest of serrated-edge foliage by herself. Then just as quickly gave up as the plants seemed to want to suck her in more deeply. She’d lost enough skin already.
She couldn’t lose any more of her pride, however. That was all gone. So, she rubbed her dirty, still-sweaty palm on her pant leg, then took the offered hand, steeling her fluttering hormones against the feel of his skin on hers. Not that she was normally so overwrought about such things, but, at the moment, her defenses were abnormally low. As in, completely missing.
And yep.
Pow.
Right in the libido. Wide palm, warm skin, strong grip. He lifted her overly tall, less-than-lithe form out of the tangle of deadly blades as if she were nothing more cumbersome than a downy little feather. She’d never once been accused of being a feather. Of any kind. She had to admit, it felt rather ... blissful. So much so, if he’d asked her, she’d have happily agreed to strip naked, have his babies, or anything else he wanted, right there. On the evil Jog Master, even.
Pow.
Right in the libido. Wide palm, warm skin, strong grip. He lifted her overly tall, less-than-lithe form out of the tangle of deadly blades as if she were nothing more cumbersome than a downy little feather. She’d never once been accused of being a feather. Of any kind. She had to admit, it felt rather ... blissful. So much so, if he’d asked her, she’d have happily agreed to strip naked, have his babies, or anything else he wanted, right there. On the evil Jog Master, even.
Because, oh yeah, that’s what he’s dying to do, Riles. Take you, take you hard.
Not that it mattered. Even if she had somehow managed to look adorably spunky and utterly charming despite the scratched-up flesh and blotchy red face, she’d sworn off men. Nineteen months, ten days, and dozens of cupcakes ago.
Not that all men were stupid, lying, cheating, ex-fiancé bastards like Jeremy. She knew that. And she hadn’t held his actions against the rest of the male members of the human race. Most of the time. But given how thoroughly and completely duped and humiliated she’d been by the one person from that part of the population she’d most trusted with her deepest, truest self, not to mention all of her carefully guarded heart ... yeah, she wasn’t in a mad rush to find out if her judgment in that arena had improved. Hence the switch to baked goods for personal comfort.
Men were complicated. Cupcakes, on the other hand? Not so much.
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