I like to bake. I guess that’s obvious if you’ve been reading for a while now, but it’s not necessarily because I love sweets (and don’t get me wrong, I do).

It is truly the best form of therapy, especially if you do late in the evening, watching The Nanny while trying to mix your batter and then subsequently fill the house with intoxicating baking smells at 2 a.m.

It’s glorious and I will tell you why.

Because you can go through the worst day in the world, a day that doesn’t make sense, a day that makes you cry, makes you wish you could dig your head in a hole because nothing is going right and people are annoying and you wish you could transport them all to a barren island so they can just revel in their annoying-ness and then hopefully die off and then you can come home, get together a few ingredients, mix them together and know at the end of the day, that if you follow the directions and put some love into it, you will have made something good, and that’s enough to make everything in the world seem better.

Honest.

That’s the same reason why I love to write, although I would compare journalism more to making macarons or boston cream pie than to your regular muffin.  It’s grueling, you’ll want to give up, but if you keep pushing on you realize that when it’s finished, you are beaming from ear to ear. And that’s the type of fire you need to have, whether you’re reporting or baking, or just even living really.

Creating new things to eat or read is all I need to melt away all the stress in my life. At least until it appears again, anyway.

“I get satisfaction of three kinds. One is creating something, one is being paid for it and one is the feeling that I haven’t just been sitting on my ass all afternoon.” - William F. Buckley, Jr.

My heart aches for Los Angeles. It’s not enough that we have people bagging on us from all over the world, but in addition to a horrid budget crisis, water shortage, etc.,  in a matter of a few days, 148,258 acres of this city burned free. Two firefighters were lost, dozens and dozens of homes were destroyed and our lives were disrupted by more than just traffic.

After two sleepless nights where all I could manage to inhale was the pungent smell of smoke, and another two where I  was thisclose to being evacuated before a fire swallowed up my house whole, all I could think of was how much my heart aches for this city.

Growing up, I never felt a particular connection to where I lived, it was just, well, somewhere I happened to live.  But as I got older and started to explore more of L.A. including a 35-mile traffic romp across the city every day, I realized that I care about Los Angeles more than I ever knew. And I had this insane desire in me to defend it, and find the beauty in it and try to get transplants to understand that there was more to Los Angeles than the west side and palm trees.

Mt. Wilson for example, which was severely threatened by the Station Fire, is home to the  100-inch Hooker telescope on which Edwin Hubble made discoveries that lead to the Big Bang Theory. The Wildlife Way Station, a 160 acre non-profit animal sanctuary and rehabilitational facility is more or less five minutes from my house.  Then there’s the Adams Pack Station, also threatened by the fire and  believed to be the last pack station in the United States, which serves 80 cabins in the Chantry Flats area. Cabins in Los Angeles. Who would’ve thought?

When I drove through my neighborhood of La Crescenta and Tujunga, trying to get more information and photos about this fire that was really putting a damper on our summer, I took in how much nature I’m surrounded by. I mean, I see deer coming down the mountain behind my house. Altadena is home to a native parrot population. If you go as high as you can near Angeles Crest, you will see signs telling you to beware of mountain lions.  Tujunga was once a socialist Utopian colony. Its location also frees it from some air pollution that plagues the rest of Los Angeles.

Besides the wildlife and recreational benefits, the residents of these areas are not cut from the same cloth as the stereotypical Angeleno. Case in point: When I drove to work yesterday morning, I saw handmade signs thanking firefighters and calling them heroes hanging from the bridges above the freeway and at Stop signs on major streets. Even Century 21 changed its marquee to reflect gratitude. In addition to that, many residents decided to band together last weekend in an effort to save their houses.

“We started thinking smart and came up with a plan,” said Greg Lievense, 54, an engineer at nearby Jet Propulsion Laboratory.

The group broke up into teams of three with an agreement that no one would be alone for the duration of the emergency. One neighbor began stockpiling ladders and flashlights.

“We broke up into ‘ember shifts,’ ” Lievense said.

“We developed an emergency signal — three long car honks — which would mean that a home is on fire and we need help or we all have to leave,” he said.

Their mission in turn would be to peer into the eaves and backyards of neighbors’ homes with flashlights in search of glowing embers or flames and respond if possible.

How awesome are these people? So awesome.

Though it’s a given any Los Angeles resident is upset about this fire, especially since it is now being treated as arson, along with a homicide investigation because of the two brave firefighters who lost their lives, there’s something else that has been itching in my head. This isn’t really how I wanted my neighborhood to get on the map. Neither was the Michael Jackson funeral and memorial service. Every cloud has its silver lining though, I suppose and I’m hoping that those in L.A and beyond realize that this city has such a rich background and isn’t just a bunch of connecting freeways, cars and plastic surgery.

There are so many treasures here, the important thing is that you have to go looking for them.

I never imagined I would ever make a 3D cake. It just didn’t cross my mind, until it was requested for a co-worker’s birthday celebration. My task? Bake a cake in the shape of a bowling ball.  At first, I panicked. How in the world was I ever going to make this, with the limited time I had? After researching for quite a while, I discovered that Wilton made a sports ball pan set which ultimately made my life so much easier. Securing the mold was the easy part, now I had to think about the flavor and the part that made me want to cringe: the design.  I scoured the web looking for a good chocolate cake recipe (with the added request of no nuts) and somehow through my food voyeurism, came across a unique recipe for a Root Beer Float Cake from Honey & Jam. I was ecstatic. I gathered all my ingredients, went home and began the task, which couldn’t have been completed without help from my sister.

The ball pan set turned out great and the added work of assembling both halves with frosting made it that much better. My word of advice for using such a set would be to make sure that you grease both halves thoroughly either with vegetable shortening, or my favorite PAM with real flour.

Although I like to make everything when I bake from scratch, right down to the pie crust and custard, it was a work night and I was at the point where I was beginning to feel my eye balls in their sockets - never a good sign, so I settled with store bought vanilla buttercream frosting, but not before I added semi-sweet chocolate chips and root beer. That, I have to say, without being too cheeky, was the icing on the cake.

Next came the decoration. The pan set advised using a #3 Wilton tip, but I figured I’d just up the ante and use a #16 to cover more ground in a shorter amount of time. That turned out to be a slight mistake, as my bowling ball cake kinda sorta morphed into what one of my co-workers referred to as “an enemy from Super Mario Bros.”

My baking rarely requires the use of pastry bags and tips, and so, the entire process took a bit of getting used to. The actual finger holes for the bowling ball cake were the hardest part to fill in - the frosting turned out to be not very well suited to spherical shapes and kept running off. My solution? I quickly stuck in the fridge where it hardened up to the point where it was decipherable as a shape.

Despite the few mishaps I had, I knew it had turned out well when everyone loved it more than I had expected. A few requests for the recipe and a few second helpings solidified that I had gotten the job right. Needless to say, I think I’ll take quite the long breather before I attempt a bowling ball cake again. The root beer float cake recipe on the other hand, is one that can and should be used often - the root beer adds so much flavor to an ordinary chocolate cake that will have your guests wanting more.

“The great sadness of my life is that I never achieved the hour newscast, which would not have been twice as good as the half-hour newscast, but many times as good.”

Goodnight Walter Cronkite, you contributed more to journalism than you will know. Thank you. It is truly an end of an era

Let me preface this by saying that this Boston Cream Pie was perhaps the most demanding yet gratifying thing I’ve ever baked. Demanding in the sense that it took two people meticulously reading directions (how anyone could make this without help is a mystery)  to finish it and gratifying because when I was finished, when I had put my blood, sweat and tears into it - ok maybe not blood and tears, but there might have been some sweat mixed in with the batter, when I put this magnificent piece of baked good on display, it looked like it had come out of the kitchen of Julia Child, or Nigella Lawson or Paula Deen, except with not nearly enough butter as she would have liked. In short, it was without a doubt amazing.

You see those two sponge cakes above? They have enough spring in them to send you to the moon and back. Getting them that way was the most difficult task in the entire process. It wasn’t just a matter of mixing dry and wet ingredients together, oh no, it was a whole other ball game. Egg yolk and whites were separated, both beaten with sugar, until the whites became more or less like meringue and the yolks turned into a yellow gooey paste. Then, the whites were folded in the yolk mixture ever so gently, while the cake flour and other dry ingredients followed. But that’s not all. Milk and butter, heated and kept warm were poured down the side of the batter and folded in as well. A few daunting tasks later, and I had the most fluffy, light and airy pieces of cake I had ever seen.

Once I had crossed the sponge cake hurdle, I was ready to call it a night. My feet were aching, my hair was frazzled and frankly, I was afraid of making custard, the delicious filling that accompanies a Boston cream pie. But I decided to keep on keeping on. It’s a good thing I did, because I could have missed potentially the most amazing moment in all the years I’ve been baking: having  a simple combination of egg yolks and heavy whipping cream turn from liquid to semi-solid right in front of your eyes.

Assembling was easy. The custard went on smoothly, but the next hurdle I had to cross was making the chocolate ganache. This particular recipe had an interesting way of melting chocolate, one which I loved. The trick was to heat up the heavy whipping cream first and then pour  on the chocolate in a separate container. Boiling cream melting chocolate - what a genius idea. It made the glaze very smooth. After the ganache had cooled down, I realized the cake looked a bit empty, so I looked around the kitchen for a bit until I discovered some sliced almonds. What a life saver they were, because they instantly transformed this Boston Cream Pie from ordinary to extraordinary.

Despite the hard work, I had an amazing time and there are quite a few details I’m missing from this post, but making this dessert, in between a full-time job and freelance work just about knocked me out of my socks.

Recipe from JoyofBaking

My mind is in a few different places at once now. I can’t decide whether to stay up tonight on Twitter following the protest scheduled in Iran or get some sleep so I can be up on time to go to the protest in Westwood.

The last couple of days have been quite difficult for me. Difficult in the sense that it was very hard to concentrate on anything but Iran - everything else, work, life, even food just seemed secondary. Everytime I complained about something, like the fact that my car had a malfunction, followed by a towing, I regretted it. My concerns, my pet peeves or insignificant struggles could not and can not compare in any way, shape or form to those in my hometown.

At times, I can’t believe this is all happening, unfolding in front of the world’s eyes - I keep imagining how those who voted for change feel, how upset and angry and passionate they must have been to say, “you know what - NO, I will not stand up for this, I will stand up for what I believe in.” That takes real courage, courage that many of us have never known in our lives.

Every day, while I read the tweets, listen to the news and watch the videos, I am reminded of the situations my parents and entire extended family must have been in during the 1979 Revolution. I cannot even begin to fathom what life was like, it many ways it wasn’t a life at all, but then in other ways, it was like they were REALLY living. I’m not sure how to fully explain what I mean by that last sentence. I mean, it’s as if everything in life that didn’t matter just melted away and the important things hung around. The ones you love, the fight for social justice, morality and human rights - that’s what took over.

For example, this is a personal blog and although I can post whatever I choose at this very moment, I cannot bring myself to do it. Something is getting in the way. Something is telling me, “No, it’s not appropriate. There are bigger things in play. There are lives at stake.”

Things worth mentioning in regards to the Iran Election 2009:

1. The outpour of support from around the world, especially the U.S is just amazing to me. It is so touching and amazing - everywhere you look in Twitter, you see a green tinted icon and messages offering all in Iran their support.

2. Social media - All hail the power of social media. I hope Maureen Dowd realizes how wrong she has been about Twitter.

3. Journalism - You can stop buying newspapers, pay us close to nothing, but let’s face it- you still need us. We’re important. When the times are really tough, we are the most important profession on the face of the planet. And it’s amazing.

My mind is racing. I just read that someone received a “goodbye” email from Iran. My mom told me earlier she had heard that many people decided to write their wills and send out their goodbyes, because they knew if they went into the rally, they wouldn’t come out alive. This entire thing is weighing heavily for me and I’m hoping for the best, and fearing the worst. My thoughts and prayers are with all with enough courage to stand up for what they believe in, even though it might mean death.

In a column in the New York Times yesterday, writer Stephen Holden discussed how the final of a long drawn out season of American Idol that never seems to end raised one extra question:

the overhyped media question of the moment is whether the country is ready to hand the crown to an androgynous, seemingly gay 27-year-old fireball from San Diego

Well, we have the answer, and that is, no, America is not and was not ready to handle Adam Lambert, perhaps the most unique and entertaining contestant to ever grace the American Idol stage- someone who I liken to a modern day Liberace, with a slight hint of Eddie Munster and a whole lotta Freddie Mercury.

It might have been Kris Allen’s roaring rendition of Kanye West’s “Heartless,” it might have been his home grown, boy next door appeal, or it could have simply been that he was better.

Except that he wasn’t.

In the 2 hour finale, Adam, clad in metal wings, platform boots, and all the black eyeliner CVS had in stock, took the stage and performed with none other than KISS. His pixie hair swaying between bursts of flame, he stood next to Gene Simmons and looked like he was home.

Between the subdued melodies and unoriginal interpretations of songs that fell flat, Adam was the type of contestant that made you excited about music. “I have ideas,” he declared. And he was right. With amazing renditions of “Mad World” by Tears for Fears, “Born to Be Wild” and “Play That Funky Music” by Wild Cherry, it’s no surprise that Adam performed last on more than one occasion - he was not one to be followed.

But beyond his far reaching voice (complete with full view of his tonsils), Adam wasn’t able to catch the vote far enough to make it to the top. As Stephen Holden pointed out yesterday, it’s just the way American Idol works.

But the kind of talent “American Idol” promotes is a known quantity. The show would never introduce, nor could it ever create, the next Bob Dylan, whose nasal voice, to use a favorite “American Idol” word, is too pitchy. As often as not, the dictum to put a new spin to an old song results in the kind of confusion that made the renditions by Danny Gokey (this year’s No. 3) of Aerosmith and Joe Cocker hits unfocused travesties.

Maybe an Adam Lambert upset was inevitable. Maybe (or definitely) Adam, with his theatrics, over the top performances and one of a kind outfits wasn’t a fit for this competition at all.

The answer to Holden’s question still remains the same - America wasn’t ready for Adam. The country voted in the right man for president, you think they could have gotten American Idol right, but such was not the case unfortunately.

Despite this, there are high hopes for a full fledged career in music, and I’m pretty sure he wont disappoint. There’s always a renewed type of hope for those that come in second or third - just look at Chris Daughtry. After millions of copies of his self-titled debut sold , he was nominated for a Grammy for Best Rock Song for “It’s Not Over.”

So Adam, don’t despair. It’s better this way. Trust me.

I woke up to the great news this morning that Roxana Saberi, the American journalist who had been convicted of espionage and sentenced to 8 years in prison in Tehran, Iran has now been freed and reunited with her parents. She had been arrested in late January, followed by a one-day secretive trial.

My heart sinks every time I hear of a journalist being equated with  a criminal or being accused of criminal activity. This case was especially close to home because my family is from Iran. I always remember the fact about how my life would have turned out if we had never left. How differently would I have turned out? Would my passions, goals and dreams have been the same? Would I have even considered becoming a journalist, knowing that because of what I said or did, I could be arrested and put in jail with an 8 year prison sentence? In my heart of hearts, I have to believe that my passions in life would not only have stayed the same, but would have been stronger.

Saberi’s case comes after that of Esha Momeni, a CSUN graduate student I have written about here before, who was arrested on Oct. 15, 2008 for videotaping interviews with members of the Campaign for Equality, a gender rights group in Iran. Momeni was held in the same prison-Evin- which Saberi was held for 25 days before she was released.  Unlike Saberi, who will most likely return to her native North Dakota in a few days, she has since been forbidden to leave Iran.

Momeni’s case also hits close to home for me, again because she is from Iran and that CSUN is my alma mater. This could have very well been me.

In the U.S., journalists live and die by not only the deadline, but of the second amendment:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

America prides itself on this fact, but in countries like Iran or China or Cuba,  a journalist cannot practice his or her craft without fear of imprisonment or worse, death.

One only needs to visit the Committee to Protect Journalists to see the attitudes towards journalists displayed in numbers killed, imprisoned and missing.

This cannot be said enough: Journalism is not a crime. Uncovering the truth and changing some tiny part of the world by reporting on it is not a crime. Being brave enough to do what these two women did is not a crime.

I can only hope that now, Momeni’s case be shown such swiftness because Saberi was released. Give her her passport, allow her to return home. You’ve got it all backwards, Iran. The love that your country’s journalists have for their home can be matched by no other. Those who seek to challenge, to bring honesty and bring democracy by their craft to the people and the country that they adore are not criminals. Why? Because they are not indifferent. Because indifference, as George Bernard Shaw said is a sin.

The worst sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them; that’s the essence of inhumanity.

So no, journalism is not the crime, indifference is the crime. Ignorance is the crime, turning a blind eye is the crime, being docile and apathetic is the crime.

Here is an excerpt from an essay written by Esha Momeni in 2007, translated by Sudi Farokhnia. Here you are, government of Iran, convicting a woman who has written these words and not allowing her the freedom to leave. Read her words, consider her intentions and then decide. Here is hoping for a quick return home for Esha.

I am dressed in white, head to toe. I am aware that the serenity and peacefulness of white does not represent my city, but when I am dressed in white I feel like a dove that is free, one that has not been earmarked and was never kept captive. As I stroll along the streets of my city, I feel like a bride, a bride that is walking towards a new promise, the dream of equality.

Iran and all that makes it unique - steep streets, narrow alleys and unmarked homes - is still the land of promise that we hold dear to our hearts. The women of this land are peacefully writing a glorious end to the bitter long story of inequality and injustice. Iran is still the covenant to those hands that would like to wash the mud of distress from the yarns of this land in the stream of peace and unity. Only then we can resurrect equality and knit white wings for the dove that represents unity. Meanwhile, behind every closed door, a young girl dressed in white is making history so that she can embrace the future with pride and honor.

My grandmother everyday practices her signature, as evidence of her existence and her uniqueness. Here in Iran, I, you, and our mothers are all brides dressed all in white, and with our peaceful approach we dance in the alleys from house to house so that our promise of equality and unity transforms the sounds of the chains on our feet to the melodies of an anklet.

Los Angeles, Mehregan Festival, 2007 :

A young lady with Channel eye-glasses is standing right outside the bridal booth:

“Excuse me, but may I have a few minutes of your time?”

There is no reaction so I continue.

“Have you heard of the One Million Signatures Campaign?”

She shakes her head as if to indicate “no” (at least I know she understands ¨Persian).

“Would you like to know?”

This time, she doesn’t even move her head so I continue:

“The One Million Signatures Campaign ….. inside Iran…”

She interrupts me: “I don’t travel to Iran.”

A couple of meters farther on, a female artist is discussing the work she has for sale. Self-assured, I walk towards her and it doesn’t take long before she says: “bring me the petition that fixes the root of the problems, these things won’t do the job” and then she walks away.

I attempt to talk to a few others, I get some smiles which have various meanings embedded in them: “forgive me I can’t”, caution, skepticism, pity…

I walk back to the Campaign booth inside the bazaar. I see my imperfections, I feel as if I have forgotten how to speak Persian or I can’t find the right words, or maybe words don’t have the same meaning in different parts of the world. Of course, I did manage to collect many signatures, and each person had their own personal reasons for signing. However, I couldn’t stop thinking: I, my mother, my sisters, Marjan, Azadeh, Maryam,… we were all just images, just like pictures that one quickly browses through in a furniture catalogue.

For more about Esha and her ordeal, visit For Esha

I can’t think of the exact moment that I decided I wanted to be a writer, but I suspect that it was some time between the ages of 10 and 13. My first experience with journalism took place when I signed up for a newspaper class in 7th grade. I was a shy, timid student who was intimidated by my classmates at times. I kept mostly to myself and a few friends in my social circle, but more or less didn’t fit in. Unfortunately, the time I spent producing the newspaper was cut short when I was forced to switch schools in the middle of the year. I was upset and confused, and wondered to myself how this public school kid was ever going to make friends or succeed in the new private school I was going to be attending.

My new school didn’t offer me an outlet for my writing, so I had to create my own. I spent hours holed up in my room writing poetry in journals only appropriate for a 12-year-old girl. I’d read them out loud to myself and searched for poetry contests to enter while listening to Sarah Mclaughlan. What a 12-year-old was doing listening to music appropriate for Felicity in her college endeavors, I have no idea, but it helped me think.

After finding a contest I liked, I managed to print out my poem, typed in fancy cursive font and sent  it off. A couple months later, I received a letter in the mail that my poem was slated to be published in an anthology. You can’t imagine what that did to a 12-year-old me. Actually, you might be able to. I was ecstatic to say the least. I must have danced all around the house at least a couple times.

I still  have the anthology saved, although the poem is a bit embarrassing to ever reprint anywhere (trust me on this).

I guess you could say that was the first time I was “published.” It felt like I was high. The idea of being published brings with it such euphoria that I can’t even describe. That’s probably when I knew I didn’t want an M.D after my name, or a business degree under my belt. That’s when I knew that there wasn’t anything else I wanted to do in the world but write. So here I am.

So America, this is it. The day that I and millions of others like me thought would never come has finally arrived. How do I feel? I feel overwhelmed with emotion, overcome with hope and ready for change. This is the day I’ve been waiting for ever since I was old enough to knew what it all meant - what Martin Luther King, Jr. meant, what Rosa Parks did, what the Civil Rights Movement and so on. And although it’s hard to believe, it even goes beyond that - it goes to being able to look up at the leader of this country and be proud.

The last eight years, I cried silent tears of sadness. Tomorrow, when I see Barack Obama as our new president, I will cry tears of joy. Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, we are free at last.