Trains...

The trains roll by.

I can hear them softly past my headphones...

Melody Gardot's "Some Lessons" is in my ears and Sarah Ash's Lord of Snow and Shadows is by my side in bed.

I smell a lingering bit of a 2008 Summer Series Rocky Patel cigar on my skin and my dress. It's soft and is mingling with my perfume that reminds me of orchids and honeysuckle. 

I'm dreaming softly of beaches and mountain cabins. They fill my thoughts of laziness and the fluidity of life. Simplicity.

This fuzziness that has nothing to do with beer is quite nice. It's soft sheets. It's a good book. It's jazz. It's blues. It's the good company that I had all night. It's the stories people told me tonight. It's the rain patter that's sneaking past my windows to my ears. 

It's the stretching like a cat and hooking your claws into the bits of life you refuse to lose. 

It's the love story I'm about to lose myself in.

National Rare Disease Day 2014 -- Feb. 28th

Hello.

I'm Lindsay Sprick.

I have many things that make me who I am. I have an identity. We all do. We are fascinating.

I have an extra thing. Most people do. But everyone has really interesting names for their weird things. We try so hard to define us. Our faults. Our defaults. Our definitions. Our thesauruses.

I have Pityriasis Rubra Pilarus. Type III, IV, or V. We don't really know. We never really will. Those of us with this disease will likely never know truly if there is a type, if we truly categorize with it, or if we really know what having this disease means. It's this checklist of frustration that we can't seem to conquer.


It's so alienating, it's disgusting. 


One in 600,000 people can get PRP. One in 1.6 million to one in eight million can get type III-V of PRP. That's what I have.



We're alone.



It's scary. 



But....



I recently had a glimmer of hope. 

I was emailed a number, a name, and a desire--someone in South Carolina wanted to meet another PRP-er. There really aren't many of us. We're a weird science.

So, for me, this was a terrifying thing.

Would I relate to this woman?

She has children.... I don't.

She has a husband.... I don't.

She has a similar but different type than I do.

Will she really know what I'm going through? I hope so.

Will... will we understand each other?

The answer was a very simple one: Listen. Learn. Tell each other your stories.




We both have amazing stories. 



.... and this entire time we lived an hour and a half from each other. 



She loves craft beer, just like me. So does her husband.

She is a redhead. So am I. 

She's just as strong as I am, if not stronger. No.... she's stronger.

She wanted to meet me, just as much as I wanted to meet her.

She is my long lost sister. Her desire to know about everything, to try everything, and to share her experiences with anyone who will fight the way she does was easily the most inspiring moment of my life.

January 19th completely changed my life.

It not only gave me hope.... it gave me some purpose.

Not only did Ginny relate to me, we ended up feeling like we knew each other our whole lives.

We both knew that grey feeling.... that lost feeling.

When you're always in pain... it's not easy.

People with PRP struggle with a few common factors--pain, fatigue, and visibility.

Pain constantly. You just get used to it (well, we try). It's all in your skin... your nerves. Honestly, you develop a strong resistance to it. A numbness. It doesn't make it easier... and mind over matter gets you pretty far, but not the entire way. We all find our way to deal with that frustration.

Fatigue. Oh.... daily. Daily. I speak so often of how much I love my bed. I really, really, really, love my bed. Cold weather ruins me. It literally takes every ounce of energy I have and leaves it at fall's feet. I grasp back at it, but I know that it won't be back until spring. There is nothing more calming to me than a hot cup of tea in my hands, a bundle of covers, and a few movies to watch.

Visibility. This is hard for me to talk about. Red... everything. Red. Burning. Embarrassment. Pain. Bleeding cracks, washing them out in the shower the next day.... Trying to moisturize constantly because if you don't, someone will notice. Everyone notices. The ridicule in middle school and high school is the worst of it.... young people are very creative. I grew up fast to combat it... Understanding was my armor. It helped but... it never made it that easy.



Winter to Spring is so frustrating. I'm so close to being perfectly healthy again.

That bloody gopher is my worst enemy. Tell him to hibernate elsewhere....


However, don't get me wrong. I love seeing everyone (groundhogs included), cheersing glasses, getting excited and partying it up! I really do! Jazzes me up and gets me feisty.



I also hit walls.

Sometimes I just don't have the energy. I get so tired.

Cold weather physically hurts me. It hurts.

But the sun?

Oh my dear goodness gracious, give me a beach for two weeks and I will come back perfectly fine. I heal on the beach. I heal in sand, salt, and heat. It's like getting drunk and waking up hungover... except you wake up better than when you went to sleep. It's this really cool feeling... you feel like you're sun drunk. It's so.... good.

It makes me stretch like a cat and grab my headphones and a good book just so I have an excuse to lay on the beach.

SPF 50 for life, yo.

(every hour and a half, cause I burn)

It feels like life again.


It feels like energy.


It feels like healthy.


Whatever my point was when I started this... I just want you all to know this:

There are people who everyday battle incredibly strange and off the wall rare diseases.

They struggle with them every single day.

Far worse than I do.

Far worse.




I will never have a cure. It's not going to happen. Nor will they.



But one day, someone might. And that's the purpose of National Rare Disease Day.



Just... Listen. Listen to your neighbor. Your friend who may have a disease they can't hide. Your friend who suffers quietly and looks so normal. Your friend who knows that they don't have a shot at a cure.



Money rules the world.

We don't have enough money to find our cures. 

All we ask for is one more person to understand the fight. 

Maybe one day we can find help for those who are so debilitated that they need a real friend. Who won't judge. Who won't shy away.

We're alone. 

We also want to live. 

We have so much life to live. 


All we want is your help getting there.


It's Rare Disease Day.

Reach out.

Believe.

We have so many stories we're more than willing to share.

Craft Beer, September 2013

Every once in a while, it storms.

And when it storms, it may pour.

And when it pours, you may get wet.

It stormed tonight.

Tonight, a front stretched all the way from the Gulf of Mexico to Montreal. The same rain fell on Charlotte, on Baltimore, on DC, on Philly, on Rehoboth Beach, and on Atlanta. We all drank, sang, and lived that same rain tonight.

Tonight, it rained on Brickstore, and Cypress Street, and Square Pub, and Eulogy, and Barcade, and Lil’ Miss Whiskies, and Blind Tiger, and Monk’s Café, and Jose Pistolas, and Varga Bar, and so many more. Blind Squirrel. Busy Bee. Raleigh Times. Tasty Bev. Bottle Revolution. The list barely even starts.

Tonight, it poured.

Tonight, we reminded you of what community is. It’s widespread, and wild. It’s crazy and it’s untamed. It’s unexpected. It’s what, as Chickspeare did in the rain today at NoDa; completely and utterly wild.

And yet… there were people.

People who traversed the puddles, and the sprinkles, and the downpour. People who drove through the steady downpour and joined the others whom they may have known or not for a beer. For entertainment and silliness.

People who, no matter what the weather would be at the brewery on Saturday night would show. And that is what makes the community the way it is. You can’t stop the passion and the craziness, and the best thing about it all—the people.

As the rain continues reminding me that it’s Saturday night, and I should be downstairs watching TV shows like Breaking Bad and Futurama, instead I’m sitting here in this chair and I remind you of this awesome anthem.

You, are like my father.

You, you are the future.

You can drink craft beer like the 10% of us that do.

And you, if not now, if not in six months, if not in a year, one day you will look back on this moment and you will think of this.

Because you will remember what our beer tastes like.

And you won’t remember theirs.

And that, my friends, is the most important part of our story.

And that is what will bring you from a Mich Ultra drinker to a Hop Drop & Roll drinker a year and three months later.

When you put your first sour to your lips and you tell the ones you love, “this doesn’t taste like beer.”

Remember this:

Beer comes in many flavors.

Just like you do.

And that’s how it should be.

Spring fires bring May flowers...

The fire raged in her.

She sat, somewhat tired and somewhat pensive, against the soft pillows and linens.

Her shoulders burned a quiet, and yet comforting warmth. The sun had reminded her of what summer felt like. It resurrected her.

She reveled in the past smoke that now tinted her pale skin, and the light burn of mint against the strong tobacco she felt when she brushed her teeth.

Her stomach, still filled with warmth from the dark red wine settled her and comforted her.

Her mind spoke to her, telling her of stories she read and those still developing in her own worlds.

Her heart yearned longingly for a story of its own, and quiet patience reminded it of the true epic yet to come.

She heard the calm wind outside coming off of the briny coast and she smiled. "It is always the beach," she thought, "always the ocean that reminds me to breathe and to calm."

The warmth caused her to smile and blissfully comforted her, wrapping her amongst its lapping flames.

She blazed the spring's, yet almost summer's, fire.

She felt born to this season.

It was, ultimately, hers.

Born of this warmth, to it, it truly was the thing that sprung her to life each year.

She was, and remained, the phoenix.

What was she, if not this bird of fire and immutable rebirth?

She rises, yearly, to remind the people of the warmth of heart and purpose. She rises, yearly, to remind her of all of her strength and of the dance of fire.

She teases, she smokes, she may sometimes extinguish... but never has she completely gone out.

Fire always returns.

That is the way it is, and the way it remains.

All she needs is a spark to remember where or what she is.

All she needs is a bit of paper, a scrap of wood, or a dry grass to return.

You cannot quiet fire.

You may think you tame it, and you may think you create it, but the truth is that it is always there, waiting for its revival.

She believes in fire.

She believes in the licking flames and the returning embers.

Fire burns, and as often as it singes others, it singes herself. For not believing in the power of fire, she loses control over it. It is a headstrong thing, and always will be.

"You must always believe."

The flames licked up her sides and back, over her shoulders and into her heart. The rippling tide of each feather bore her into a new realm of confidence. Slowly, she built her wings.

Slowly, she constructed what would be hers.

She pruned and plucked out the dark spots.

No doubt.

No fear.

No insecurity.

No pride.

No frustration.

She built the wings from her heart and she unfurled them, feeling the warmth surround her and comfort her.

She knew who she was and she reveled in that.

She sat amongst the linens and pillows and her confidence did not leave her.

The truth was that she felt the way it settled into her bones.

She is a phoenix, a bird of fire, and no one can stop her from returning.

Hello again, spring.

Hello again, summer.

You've met your match.

Happy Movember!!

“We are the music makers... and we are the dreamers of dreams.”

-Willy Wonka

At this point, I’m pretty sure you are all like, “what the bloody hell is Lindsay doing?”

And my answer to you…. Is… I’M CELEBRATING MOVEMBER. Move over, menfolk, this lady’s got a ‘stache. (well, kind of….. in good news, they taste AWESOME)

Admit it. You like it.

So let me tell you a little about myself.

I kind of like mustaches. Facial hair in general. (Good thing I work in the industry I do.) My car has a “I heart mustaches” sticker on it. Here’s what it looks like:

It's my mustache ride...

Outside of that, I also absolutely love and enjoy being in my kitchen. And I’m home! So, I’m in my kitchen whipping up something fun.

I’ve been collecting these materials for a few days now, trying to make sure I had everything I needed to make these fun little lollies.

But if anything, I can explain to you guys how I made them!

One of the things I really like about making candy is that it’s a challenge to me. I can’t tell you how many batches of hard candy, brittle, and marshmallows I’ve screwed up. Alllll the time. I’ve broken candy thermometers, burnt myself on sugar, and cursed like a sailor once I realized my candy didn’t set.

It. Drives. Me. Nuts.

But I still do it. I relish the challenge.

Mostly because, it seems so simple, but it’s so remarkably easy to screw up. Candy making requires a good measure of patience… something I wasn’t exactly born with. In fact, it’s something I’m still working on getting better at every single day. I just get so excited for the end product that often, I end up rushing it.

But you can’t rush candy. It’s not forgiving in that regard.

So, here’s a simplistic explantation of how candy-making goes:

Sugar + water + lite corn syrup over medium heat on the stovetop. Stir the sugar till it dissolves (still will look white) and then let that bad boy start boiling.

Let it boil until you get to 260 degrees, add color until you get the hue you want (NO stirring it in. The boiling does the job). 

And once it hits 300 degrees you take it off the heat, let it stop boiling, and add the flavor.

Yummmmmmm.

Pour into molds and voila! Hardy candy.

What I didn’t know is that you need to remove the lollies while they’re still somewhat warm from the molds.

So, currently, half of the lollies are in the trash, half are bagged and look a little busted, and my molds are soaking in hot water. Amazing how if I had just taken two seconds to look up when to take them out, I wouldn’t have had any issues.

But I loved making them regardless! I have nine other flavors and a bunch of colors, so I can’t WAIT until I get to make lime green lollies or blue champagne flavored lollipop mustaches. Just because I can.

I’m also totally going to get some whole hops and put them in the lollies eventually. Lime hopped lollipops. 

Sounds AWESOME.

Boom.

Happy Movember!!

Cheers, y'all. 

Lindsay

P.S. I took these flat back pins from this etsy shop and made them into magnets! Aww, yeah!

What Do I Want? (In that part of my life.)

“And, in the end
The love you take
is equal to the love you make.” 
― Paul McCartney

This hasn’t been the easiest week for me.

This has been, instead, a week for learning about myself. For sticking up for myself and what I believe in.

I won’t be sly about this. Not coy. I’m not going to beat around the bush. For the last year, I’ve had what could be easily stated as, “Bad luck with men.”

I’m well aware of that at this point.

I’m not asking for pity or sympathy on that subject. It’s not something I need; I am more than capable of being alone and being happy about it.

But that’s not what made me pick up this pen. That’s not what made me grab a beer out of my fridge and find a way to struggle with the words. I’ll fight valiantly with them tonight instead.

I’m not a perfect woman. I’m brutally honest sometimes, frustrated with little things other times, I annoy easily, and I trust far too much in words.

When it comes to being interested in someone, I generally trust them to be honest with me and to mean what they say.

Perhaps I’m simply far too gullible when it comes to those kinds of feelings…

Or I’ve just been a fool for the last year to actually take a shot at rediscovering that part of my life.

…. That sounded bitter. Let’s rephrase.

I’m tired of the bullshit. I’m tired of boys saying they want to date, or that they’ll make time for me certain days and bailing at the last possible second, or others being in my face at events, or even others saying that after years they want to try again.

It’s just not been simple. And that’s what I’ve always believed in… a simple, old kind of love. The kind that lasts despite the stupid fights, the frustrations, the mistakes, and the little issues.  

Just as much as I want to be alone, I want the opportunity to have that kind of love in my life.

I’ve fallen out of love before. In my opinion, it is one of the worst possible things that can ever happen to you. Just as the bliss in the beginning is, the end is just as emotionally wrenching, painful, and terrifying. A numbness falls, and then the anger, and then the worst part: the part where you surpass numbness and the memories replay themselves in your head, and in the end… you just feel empty.

That emptiness has made me ache before.

You try to find ways to fill that bleak part of yourself, and you latch onto things that you should not, and you attempt to reclaim some part of that happiness that you had… despite the pain that it will likely cause you later.

It never helps.

That’s the point I’m at now. It never helps, so I’m refusing to begin to believe in that kind of method anymore. Fine. It didn’t work out. Again. Fine. That’s fucking great. Of course I’m upset. Of course I feel hurt. Of course I wish I could rewind two weeks and start over just so I wouldn’t feel cheated again.

….

I am not a perfect woman.

I swear probably a little too often.

I want to spend as much time as possible with the person I’m dating for one main reason: I’M HARDLY EVER HOME. It likely sounds needy to some people, but then, I’m not trying to be needy. I’m trying to spend time with the person I like before my travel schedule takes over every week I have for the next month, or even two.

I’m a ginger. I’m feisty. Angry, even, sometimes. I can be selfish about my wants at times, but I also want every one else to be happy as well. I’ll go out of my way to make sure they’re happy too.

I’ve made mistakes that I simply cannot take back. I can’t take back what’s happened in my life, so I’m not going to regret it. Instead, I’m going to say, “That will not happen again.”

But I’m tired of feeling angry about things not going well with someone.

I’m tired of investing that much of my precious free time and emotions into someone that ultimately leaves me feeling remarkably unfulfilled.

…

Damn.

Damn.

This last time hurt.

I didn’t want to say that I was upset. I didn’t want to seem needy. I didn’t want to be frustrated. I didn’t want to feel negative in any way because this time, I actually really liked this guy. I was trying so hard to do it right and make sense of it to myself. Why the ever-living hell did I meet this guy that made me pause, and why it have to get blown up?

Why?

Then there is the other part of me that’s just pissed.

The part of me that’s like, “well if he really cared, he wouldn’t have canceled,” or “why say what he did only to let me down?” I worry far too much. I also bristle very easily.

This time, I wanted to be patient and figure it out in my head, but I also wanted to be shown that I wasn’t just any other girl. That I was special to this person. That they wanted to make the effort in the way I wanted to.

Because I don’t just wake up every day and meet someone that I’m interested in in that way. It either takes time for me, or it’s one of those moments that makes my heart race and makes me wonder what’s around the corner with that person.

What’s waiting?

What will happen in two weeks? Three? Four? Who knows after that.

One day? Two?

…. I feel cheated out of a good time this go round.

I feel that I’m silly and ridiculous, and I feel harsh and worn thin. I feel a little sad about it this time.

Previously, I didn’t even feel sad in the end. I just felt…. Blasé. I wasn’t uncomfortable in the end that it didn’t work out. I was just kind of like, “whatever, clearly this was a silly idea.”

….

I know that everyone who influences our lives also influences how we look at life. I know that every ex I have had has taught me some immeasurably important things about myself or the world around me. If it weren’t for one ex, I doubt I’d be the craft beer loving woman that I am today. I also wouldn’t be as sharp as I am today.

I just don’t know how to explain the swarm of thoughts in my head right now.

It’s a hurricane of self-doubt, self-assurance, some weird form of guilt, anger, frustration, self-rebuttal, shame, exuberance, self-empowerment, and who knows what else.

I feel conflicted. I don’t like that feeling. Often, I’m so damned bloody sure of myself that I can even talk myself into believing what I say. But tonight? I’m definitely not so sure of myself.

…

This last week has been rough. I started wary, but happy, went to angry, frustrated, and feeling cheated. Then, last night, I felt unsure. Today, I am still feeling very skittish.

It’s likely why I am holed up in my apartment right now demanding to myself that, “I will spend the whole next day alone.” It’s why I’ve been quieter today. It’s why I’ve allowed myself to feel exhausted. It’s why I feel almost entirely transparent from emotional sandpaper.

…

My worst trait is likely my inability to admit when something is wrong. I don’t like being seen as weak. I don’t like anyone thinking that I may be incapable of doing something. It is my worst trait because, for some reason, I can’t ever work up the courage to tell people when something isn’t going the way I wanted/expected/hoped for. I’m awful at giving up at things. I’m worse at admitting it.

It’s a terrible trait. Because I end up lying just as much to myself as others, and I often believe the word vomit I spew out. Or, in fact, I truly end up forcing part of myself to accept it as some sort of truth.

I like having a companion in my life for this reason: I tell that person how I’m really feeling more than most. There are things I could talk about to that person that I wouldn’t even begin to tell my parents, and even sometimes, my best friends.

I’ve been working on that. Trying to be honest in how I’m currently feeling. So I don’t hurt my friends’ feelings for not letting them in on the loop. So I don’t upset my family when they find out that something has been bothering me for a while. Instead, I’ll tell you now if I’m exhausted, or if I’m annoyed, but it’s still hard for me to tell people if I’m sad or disappointed in something/someone/myself.

…

Hmm.

I don’t really know what else to think, or say, when it comes down to it.

I wouldn’t say I’m feeling lonely. In fact, right now, I’m really enjoying being alone in my apartment with nothing else going on. Listening to music, laying down on my bed, and being lazy.

I would say, instead, that I’m only going to wait for the right thing to come along. I don’t just believe the pretty words men say now. I want their actions to reflect, instead, how they feel. Which, this time, it became pretty obvious to me just where I fell on his totem pole… and it sucked.

…

I’m just going to keep giving it time. Just keep on living my life and enjoying how everything else in my life is going remarkably well. Remember to tell myself to only walk on my own two feet.

…

What do I want? What a loaded question. But, I think I know the answer right now.

My hammock, a few beers, and time alone. So, here I go…

Cheers, all. 

My Gift to You.

"Approach love and cooking with reckless abandon."

-Dalai Lama

Once, I made a trifle that wasn’t very good.

Another time, I made some pretty bomb ass baked apples.

And even another time, I got up at 5am to bake molten chocolate cakes for one of my best friend’s birthdays. Just so she could have them still warm from the oven at 7:15am when I would see her.

My mother always said that the only thing that could get me up at 5am in the morning was baking. She was right for a long time. (I get up for beer stuff now too!)

This one time, I went to the apple festival in Hendersonville, NC and brought back a whole peck of apples. I made an apple pie every day for almost a week. 

I love to bake. It’s one of the few things in the world that’s really a great stress reliever for me. Just follow the steps, throw in a lot of love, and everything will come out okay. Guaranteed to work, 100% of the time. Not to mention, I really enjoy making a mess every once in a while. I always end up covered in melted chocolate and flour and god knows what else. (It’s also an excuse to buy really cute aprons.)

It started with my family. My mom cooks. My grandfather. My grandmother. My mom always had to shoo me out of the kitchen because I always wanted to stick my nose into everything and ask if I could help. She said that even when I was really young, no one could keep me out of the kitchen. I still love stepping into my kitchen. For me, it really is a home. As long as I have an oven and a stovetop, I’m happy.

Then came the inevitable. Time to learn to cook. And I was not always good at it. I never burnt soup (shout out to my sister), but I have made some pretty terrible concoctions in my life. Baking was something I could always rely on, though. If you followed the steps, it should turn out well. I liked that. (I’m a much better cook now, by the way.)

I was making cookies one day and messed something up. Just threw in a bunch of mini m&ms into a batch of chocolate cookies I was making and they crushed up in the batter and melted everywhere. I still baked them. They were delicious. That got me thinking, though. About making my own recipes, and experimenting with the ones I already had. Then came the different cookie recipes. The white chocolate and heath bar cookies, the double chocolate chip chocolate cookies (that’s a mouthful), the peppermint crackles, and peanut butter cookies. I like cookies. Because you don’t have to share. It’s your cookie. There’s one cookie. I liked that.

About a year ago, I was on a cupcake kick. I was also drinking a LOT of really good beer. I was also spending a lot of time at Fullsteam. Love that spot. And they had a beer coming out. Wanderlust, a cherry imperial stout. And all I could think was, I want to bake with that. So, I did. And they were pretty wicked cupcakes.

That got me moving. What else could I do? That’s when the ideas started becoming real, tangible, tasty treats. Carrot cake with DFH Raison D’etre. Pumpkin and ginger with Southern Tier’s Pumking. Dragon’s Milk chocolate stout cupcakes. El Mole Ocho Spice Cake. And my personal favorite so far, Lemon Raspberry Framboise cupcakes.

They’re my little creations. I love that. I love to share them with people.

Yesterday, I taught a Beer Education class at Growler’s Pourhouse in Charlotte. The subject was Baking with Beer. I made Dragon’s Milk cupcakes and Lemon Honey cookies with a lemon Mad Hatter IPA glaze. I had a great time teaching the class, and I think everyone really enjoyed the beers and the desserts.

On the way over there, I got a request for the Dragon’s Milk cupcake recipe while I was at NoDa Brewing. I get that request a lot. It kind of makes me itchy all over. I’m a little protective of my recipes. But perhaps it’s time to put one of them out there. So people will bake them and share them and get to experience that same happiness I feel when people tell me that I did a good job on them.

So, I guess what I’m trying to say (as I feel itchy all over), is that you guys deserve to have this recipe. Because without Fullsteam letting me play with Wanderlust, and without all of the amazing people who really appreciate the beer in the first place, I don’t know if I ever would have decided to make these cupcakes. And without New Holland, I doubt that I would have ever thrown Dragon’s Milk into some chocolate cake.

So here you go, everyone. My gift to you.

Dragon’s Milk Cupcakes

Yield: 3.5 dozen

Ingredients:

·       2 c. Dragon’s Milk

·       4 sticks (2 c.) butter

·       1 ½ c. unsweetened cocoa powder (I like to use Hershey’s Special Dark)

·       4 c. all-purpose flour

·       4 c. sugar

·       1 tbsp. baking soda

·       1 ½ tsp. salt

·       4 large eggs

·       1 1/3 c. sour cream

Instructions:

1.     Oven at 350 degrees.

2.     Bring stout & butter to simmer in a heavy, large saucepan over medium heat. Once simmering, add cocoa powder and whisk until smooth. Turn off the stovetop and set the pan to cool on an empty burner.

3.     In a large mixing bowl, blend the flour, sugar, soda, and salt.

4.     In an electric mixer, beat the eggs & sour cream until blended. Add the stout mixture from the pan until it’s just blended. Add the flour mix and beat on low speed until everything is incorporated.

5.     Bake until set (toothpick comes out clean) and cool completely. For cupcakes, it takes anywhere from 15-18 minutes is what I’ve seen. For cake it’s longer, around 30 minutes per each 8 in. round.

Dragon’s Milk Icing

Ingredients:

·       3.5 c. powdered sugar (you may need up to 5 cups or so in the end)

·       ½ c. unsweetened cocoa powder

·       1 ½ c. unsalted butter @ room temperature

·       ½ c. Dragon’s Milk

·       4 oz. melted & room temperature bittersweet chocolate (Baker’s chocolate)

Instructions:

1.     Mix cocoa powder and sugar together in a mixing bowl.

2.     Cream the butter and the stout in an electric mixer. It won’t mix completely, but that’s okay.

3.     Add the cocoa mix & beat until light and fluffy.

4.     Add the melted AND COOLED chocolate and beat until stiff peaks form. You may need to add more powdered sugar (1/4 – ½ c. at a time) until the icing is stiff enough to pipe & retain it’s shape.

5.     Pipe onto COMPLETELY cooled cupcakes with a piping bag. I prefer to use the closed star or open star tips on these cupcakes. Or you can just slather it on the cupcakes. Whatever floats your boat.

6.     Garnish with whatever you like. Praline pecans go well.

Take care of my baby, y’all. And enjoy. Spread the glory of Dragon’s Milk cupcakes to the world for me. And go play in the kitchen and come up with something glorious. So I have more excuses to play in the kitchen as well.

Cheers.