apple tart

Recently, I have found myself haunted by the image and presence of Frida Kahlo in nearly every area of my life in what can only be described as the best way possible. Whether online, etched onto the sides of the buildings I pass by as I make my way around downtown, or in the voices of the 80's pop demigods I listen to on the radio but don't know any of the actual names of, the feeling has become an occurrence so common that I look forward to our various metaphorical meetings as a reliable and predictable source of emotional comfort wherever I go.

While generally I find that she watches over me with a fairly even mixture of both empathy and terrible pity, as time goes on, I feel more and more disappointment in her gaze as she bears witness to the banal calm of my small, frivolous life.

She sees me, limp, greasy, wretched, fully-fed, able-bodied, with every possible advantage at my fingertips and no pressing responsibilities to tie me down or hold me back, claiming to be a real artist while simultaneously producing no tangible work of value. Sure, I take photos, and sometimes they turn out half-way decent, but I imagine her laughing through my portfolio, shaking her head at the expensive tools I require to perform the same tasks she is able to accomplish with only her eyes, mind, pencil, and paper. I write for this blog, of course, and a smattering of clients who could replace me in an instant, but I no longer move people with my words; speaking strictly in terms of meaningful personal work, what have I to show for my time? Absolutely nothing; I never realized before this sudden intrusion into my normally well-adjusted patterns of thought that the source of this constant, undulating turmoil I feel inside is a direct result of my lack of artistic productivity in recent years, as I call myself something while in actuality being nothing, doing nothing as a creative to stake my claim in history as something, remaining stagnantly equal to the sum total of the beauty I produce and contribute to the world, which is nothing at all.

I used to draw; it would be an abject lie if I were to tell you that I do not know the reason why that does not happen anymore. As time goes on and I practice less and less, not always for a lack of time but much more often because of sheer laziness, my skills have worn dull and my patience has atrophied to a shadow of its former state. This to her is most certainly the greatest source of disgust when she beholds the feeble-minded individual I have devolved into over the last year, what embarrasses her most when she condescends to meet me whenever I need a strong, steady voice to guide my path. I prefer to believe that she saw some amount of rudimentary potential in my earlier attempts to join the world through my craft, her craft, even when others around me saw nothing but failure. The alternative - the notion that she knew that I was nothing all the while - is simply too painful for me to bear.

After a great deal of internal crisis, I've taken a few deliberate steps in what feels like the correct direction, starting today, here and now. She sees me eat like a pig when I should be drawing, a stupid child in constant need of pacification and gratification; this practice of having and taking before doing anything to deserve the satisfaction of the meal is my greatest reoccurring sin in her eyes, filling her with revulsion. She observes me as I squander time carelessly, the candle of my life burning unattended, dwindling down, the light of my love growing dimmer by the passing hour, each second misspent a lost opportunity for its glow to touch the people I care about most. I think, more than anything, she feels bad for me, but cannot for the life of her figure out what my fucking problem is. She ogles at me in incredulous disbelief as I waste away into less and less every day, not for lack of food, but as a self-imposed measure against what is ultimately a selfish heart. She watches me isolate myself, and, exasperated, sighs woefully, "It's no wonder you fail to be inspired by the world around you." I grow plants for food, ignoring the beautiful blossoms they sometimes produce, so desperate I am to consume without thinking.

Anyway, this is pinkbelly, welcome back to the kitchen. This week we're making an apple tart, or, more accurately, a baked apple toast. Groundbreaking, I know.

apple

biscuit

cinnamon

applesauce

Just for the official record, I have in fact dealt with disordered behavior in the past. I've grappled with substance abuse, loneliness, heartbreak, and I can honestly say without reservation that I have never been weaker than I am in this moment. I was going to bake a pastry base for this recipe from scratch, but decided, once again, to just take the easy way out, which means that this offering is as simple to make as it is delicious. I had one last half of a biscuit left in the ol' freezer box. Sue me.

I was at Ralph's the other day and an employee let me in on one of the chain's most closely-protected secrets: that of the discount produce basket. Nowhere else in the world can one buy apples at such a moderate price - four or five for a dollar, just like at the farmer's market. I work weekends now, and am generally no longer able to attend as such; I am eternally grateful that what has become one of my favorite places to shop will allow me to continue to get my fix on the cheap. Thank you once again to Tim, the stockboy who took the time to rock my world in this way. I owe you my life.

Here it is, the final half of a biscuit from what feels like a lifetime ago. I was a different woman when I baked this thing; expending the last one felt spiritual in a way that I can't quite articulate. I do not own a spring-form pan, and I probably didn't need one or anything similar for the purposes of this experiment; that didn't stop me from appropriating the lid of a mason jar for the task, however.

Basically, I slathered some applesauce onto the bread, sprinkled a pinch of cinnamon overtop, and rather ham-fistedly sliced my little green apple into what were supposed to resemble flower petals. Much easier said than done; it ain't as easy as they make it seem on television, I can tell you that much right now.

This was my crude attempt at adorning the top of the tart; the original plan was to make a bunch of fancy apple swirls, but, apparently, to make real roulades, you need to wrap a rubber band around them to get them to set into shape before placing them on the pie and baking them in. As a complete novice when it comes to the culinary arts, I had no idea that this would be the best way to achieve those sexy, Hollywood spirals we've all seen on Pinterest, and tried a lot of things that didn't work before giving up and choosing instead to make a shitty apple daisy.

After fourteen minutes under the coil at 350°, this thing was looking scrumptious, and I have to say that the endeavor was well worth every ounce of effort it took. This treat was the crown jewel of my morning; more exciting than a mere piece of toasted bread and more comforting than just eating a raw apple whole like a caveman, it was a welcome deviation from my normal breakfast routine that I shan't soon forget. By no means the most extravagant or luxurious choice in the matter, its simple and charming appeal only adds to the experience of eating it, leaving you energized and undistracted as you go about your morning. Once you get a taste, it will keep you coming back for more and more. I guarantee it.