No Awesome Shit Monday, no Tight Ass Tuesday and now dessert for dinner. It’s a world where people throw ducks at balloons and nothing is as it seems.

If you can name that line, you can be my new best friend, if you still want to be after reading this. Also, Awesome Shit coming at the end of this post.


I would like to meet the person who decided that this should be my brain chemistry, the person who decided that my life would be more fun if marred by a highly unstable mental illness every six to eight months. I would like to meet them, and then I would like to slap them, or him, or her, or it or whatever, with a glove. (It’s more genteel that way.) On both cheeks. And then, for good measure, I’ll kick them in the ‘nads, hard.

Obviously Jesus hates me, probably because of all the times I’ve killed him in my heart. That, and my inveterate patronization of the temple moneylenders. There is no other explanation for this abnormality.


I say this because over the past few weeks my brain has gradually been elevating its anxiety levels, first moving from green to yellow (I’m always at blue), then from yellow to orange before bypassing red entirely in favor of CLEAR THE DECKS, LADS; SHE’S GONNA BLOW. And for shit like this, I’m sorry to say, Jesus is my scapegoat.* Agnosticism is handy that way. Also handy? Valium, but in a different way.

So you see, I had no choice but to have dessert for dinner. Because we all know there’s no way you can make udon noodles and veggies in peanut sauce when your anxiety is at Threat Level: Two Minutes to Midnight, and we also know that zabaglione with blackberries and raspberries helps valium work better. Ergo, a win-win.

I’d meant to make the zabaglione for dessert yesterday, which marked the 8th anniversary of Brian and I committing to one another. Brian, unlike the blog, would have been thrilled that I had commemorated the occasion with dessert and would gladly have eaten it. STUPID UNGRATEFUL BLOG. It also marked the day after making a layer cake requiring eight egg whites for the cake and frosting, leaving me with eight homeless yolks. Unfortunately, anxiety on the brain and a gut filled to bursting with the best French Dip sandwich in Jersey City prevented zabaglione-making.

*Jesus is My Scapegoat is the name of my acid big-band mathcore septet’s upcoming release as well.


Tonight, I’d wanted to make the aforementioned peanut noodles with the most excellent fresh udon noodles sold by my local fruit and veg shop, but we’ve already established the impossibility of the venture, so: zabaglione.

My mom used to make it as a special treat when I was little and I’d dip toast into it. She made it the way her mom made it, which is to say: raw eggs. Egg yolks and sugar in mug; single beater attached to the hand mixer; beater lowered into mug; eggs whipped until light and creamy and presented to unknowing child. Although maybe I can thank all the muscle I carry today to a childhood of raw egg yolks. It may also explain my love of the Rocky film franchise.


I made mine with slightly-less-than-raw egg yolks, because I don’t need ANYTHING ELSE to be anxious about these days. I whipped the yolks, sugar and some Frangelico (Marsala is traditional, but I don’t really like it that way; rum is also tasty) in a bowl held over a pot of barely simmering water. I went on texture and not temperature so I don’t actually know if the eggs got hot enough to not kill me, but I’m here writing this so I think we can assume that things are okay on the raw-egg front.

I had some leftover mascarpone* in the fridge so I tossed that in, as well, to enrich things, because I apparently do not find raw egg yolks to be enriching enough for my tastes. I blame my childhood. And Jesus.

Into a wine glass went the finished zabaglione, topped with a layer of berries that instantly sank to the bottom of the glass instead of staying where they were to produce a picturesque parfait for me, and some more zabaglione. A dab of whipped cream, a few more berries, and dinner was served.

*Do you see that, countless television food personalities of the world? MAScarpone. Say it! It’s not hard.


I didn’t actually mean for this to be dinner, I meant it to be a snack en route to dinner. It was surprisingly filling, though – although I don’t know if anyone other than me is surprised – especially after I went old-school on it and scooped up the leftovers with a piece of whole wheat toast.  Double-fiber whole wheat toast. And ate all those extra berries.

So okay, it makes sense that it was filling. And I had to eat the extra berries to drown my guilt about buying horribly out of season produce with an undoubtedly massive carbon footprint relative to berry size. (I just typed “assive” by mistake and wanted so badly to leave it, because I think it would make a hilarious word and I’ll take my laughs where I can get ’em.)

Maybe I felt a little sick at the end. Maybe. From the volume, not from raw eggs. Don’t tell me that’s never happened to you before. I know you.

Also, the valium-enhancing properties? TOTALLY TRUE.

(BONUS AWESOME SHIT: This calendar, which is awesomely adorably and awesomely FREE to print off, courtesy of Cottage Industrialist.)

Simple Zabaglione
4 egg yolks
1/3 c. sugar
pinch salt
1 tsp. vanilla extract
3 tbsp. liqueur of choice
1/4 c. mascarpone cheese (optional)
Mixed berries, for serving (optional)
Toast (optional)

Whisk the eggs, sugar, salt, vanilla and booze together in a medium size bowl. Set the bowl over a pot of just-simmering water, being careful not to let the water touch the bowl, and whisk (or beat with a hand mixer) continuously, until the egg mixture lightens to a pale butter color, thickens, and triples in volume. If you want to be a nerd and go by temperature, you should be looking for roundabouts 160 degrees F.

If using the mascarpone, beat in. Serve warm, or chill before serving; your call. Tastes best with berries, although it also pairs well with biscotti and I wouldn’t turn down zabaglione with peaches.