Raya.

Selamat hari raya! Oh, what a long two week delay it's been before I can actually wish my fellow readers (aka, tumbleweeds). And yes, more pretentious pictures. Why? Because - again, I can.

Spiced hot chocolate and ribena something-something, from Grafa. And soon enough, you'll see me posting hot chocolate from Rome! And brownies from Baked, New York!

Soon, my friends... soon..

Second Trial.

So I thought I'd give this food photography thing another try. No harm to that, right? (Aside from the evidently collateral damage to my weighing scale, of course). This is probably the 4th time I've made this cake in the past month - yesterday itself being my third - and still we can't stop ourselves from rounds and rounds of second helpings.

It's a rather basic dish - no particular culinary prowess needed, but it looks and smells so absolutely amazing, it'd seem like hours' work of efforts. See how pretty it is! And it smells almost like a fusion of spring and fall. Turning it over, and getting the first whiff of both the fresh oranges, and the spicy warmth of the cinnamon and nutmeg is always such a delight.

I can't say I have it perfected, but I've tried my best. So here's the recipe for all my fellow readers - or, that is, fellow tumbleweed friends who seem to have accumulated in this, well, ghost town of a blog.

Mind you though, the cake is quite sweet. But it goes ravishingly well with the combat of a hot long black. And yes, you can eat the rinds of the orange once it's baked, but it will taste slightly bitter-sweet, if I may say, which, personally, is my favorite thing about this cake.

Orange Upside-Down Cake (9x9)

2 oranges (I used naval)

1/2 cup brown sugar

1/2 cup + 3 tbsp softened butter

1-1/2 cup flour

2 tsp baking powder

1/8 tsp salt

2 eggs (separated)

1/2 cup milk (for this particular cake in the picture, I used evaporated milk)

1/4 cup + 2 tbsp fresh orange juice

Zest of 1 orange

2 cinnamon sticks

Grated nutmeg

Pre-heat oven to 180C. In oven-proof pan, melt 3 tbsp butter over medium-low heat. Add brown sugar and let dissolve and caramelize. Add cinnamon sticks and 2 tbsp of orange juice then allow to simmer, for about 1-2 minutes. Remove from heat, arrange thin orange slices to cover bottom of pan and sprinkle with grated nutmeg, and bring back to heat: let simmer for another 1-2 minutes.

For the cake, sift together flour, baking powder, and salt. In separate bowl, beat 1/2 cup of butter with white sugar until light and fluffy. Add in yolks and vanilla, beat until fully incorporated. Beat in the dry ingredients in three separate batches, alternating with the liquids (milk and orange juice, where of which, I add the orange juice as the third and final batch of liquids). Fold in the zest.

Beat egg whites until stiff peaks, then fold into batter, again, in three separate batches. Be careful not to over-mix, but make sure that all the egg whites are fully incorporated.

Pour and spread cake batter over prepared pan with oranges. Bake for 25-30 minutes. Allow to rest in pan for about 5 minutes before turning over. Serve warm (with coffee!).

Le burp!

Two.

It's been so long since I've blogged. I feel crippled, struggling so desperately just to puzzle out my thoughts into words. Even my fingers are feeling rather gawky.

Well, lo and behold, the long awaited break to my absence. 

And ah, once again, the bitterness of 2am's midnight moon brings me here.. to solitude, I must say.

(Blows pixel dust away) 

I've been troubled lately by so many vivid dreams. Dreams, of which, that even as I awake, I can still feel the tingle and shudder of the this's and that's. Each word, each touch, each grey or purple sky, each inhale and exhale provoke me.

As if my dreams weren't just illusions - not thoughts, nor fragments of the mind, but memories. It was so tangible - so real.

I recall last night that I dreamt of my past affair. It wasn't a dream of choice, obviously, but it went by, with both its hues and its melodies, the same as it would any of my yesterdays. 

I dreamt I bumped his shoulder, and I dreamt I kissed his lips. Then I dreamt that my throat hurt - that it bled, and I swallowed down every stain, and that because I had probably swallowed too much, my stomach churned with agony.

I dreamt that he spoke to me: that he spoke to me with words so violent, it damaged me like a crossfire of bullets and arrows - even nightfall drew in, and it rained with all the roars of thunder and lightning.

I then dreamt I spoke to him.

When I awoke, there were no tears to trace rings around my eyes, nor any blood down the cracks of my lips, but everything tasted similarly stale, salty, and bitter all at once.

His breath, reeking of such poisonous promises, was still ringing, like sirens in my ear. It was a noise so endlessly deafening, I couldn't get rid of it, no matter how hard I screamed shut in silence.

The mere thought of him makes the remorse of me bellow eerily with shame. 

Yes, behind these mirrors, and deep-set eyes, my regrets are an untamed beast.

So I am now brought to believe that my dreams were far more than what they seemed to be. Not dreams - no - but a premonition, perhaps.

The many days I have been tossed and turned, and rough-housed in and out of my sheets, through the imminent nights of my weary sleep, I presume a deep irking to be bashing at the gates of my subconscious.

And I think they call this unfinished business.