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I reach into the cabinet to take out two well-worn stainless steel mixing bowls, its clean surface bearing the scratches of past culinary projects.  Almost automatically, I grab the glass measuring cup and silicone mixing spatula from their usual places.  From the pantry, I retrieve the sugar, flour, and baking powder and set them on the kitchen table.  Next to this set up is a piece of scratch paper on which I had carefully listed the ingredients that would mingle and coalesce in these bowls to create something beautiful.

Working swiftly, I measure out the powdery flour that is to be the cupcake body, some of it spilling over the edges of the measuring cup and onto the wooden kitchen table to make small piles of white dust.  Next, I add the baking powder and baking soda that would give the the cake volume.  I grab the whisk with the blue handle and begin to sift, turning everthing around rapidly to destroy clumps and to trap air between the fine grains.

In the second bowl, I pour in the thick coconut milk, the viscous olive oil, and the pale yellow champagne infused with the aroma of peaches.  Into this mixture, I scrape a cup of strawberry puree, the black seeds and tiny lumps of fruit still visible in the dull red juice.  This is the bowl that contains the essence of the cake–from the pinkish hue to the sweet scent of fruit and fermentation.  Finally, the wet mixture is brought together with the aerated flour, the moistness holding everything together like glue.

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As the cupcakes bake in the oven, I pick up a new stick of softened butter, bruising the sides with my fingers to test its readiness.  It breaks and smashes against the whirring metallic whisks; the electrical grinding drowns everything else in the kitchen.  I mix in powdered sugar, coconut milk, and concentrated champagne that had been simmering on the stove.  The stiff clump turns into soft buttercream–a beautiful, fluffy white frosting with a noticeable alcoholic bite.  It is rich without being overly filling.

Gingerly, I wiggle the cupcakes out of their tin molds and let them cool for the night.  In the morning, I choose a cake and decorate its top with a ring of frosting, garnishing the small pillowy mount with sliced strawberries.  But it’s not over yet.  I grab my camera and head into the living room.  I choose the wooden table stand for its checkered pattern and nice grainy texture.  I adjust the curtains to let in the soft, morning light, and find to my delight that the red curtains illuminate the room with a warm hue.  For the next fifteen minutes, I take a barrage of photos.  At first, the shots are mediocre, then, some near misses.  And, finally, the right shot.  This is perhaps, the part about baking that I enjoy the most.  Not the first bite or even the kitchen process.  It is this final picture.  Because I know that everything in this photo, from the beautifully decorated cake to the perfectly exposed and focused image, was created by me.  It doesn’t get more exhilarating than that.

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Strawberry Champagne Cupcakes from Love and Olive Oil

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It’s easy to reach out for God when I am lost.  Those are the times when a prayer is never far from my lips and thoughts of Him linger at the back of my mind at every second of every day.  In my uncertainty and fear, He is the only thing that matters; the only light that shines; the one person who grounds me; the refuge from my sorrows.  Every thought and action leads me back to him.

You may call that obsession.  Infatuation.  Self-delusion.  But sometimes, even I question whether I am holding onto empty promises.  Yet I cannot deny that my faith leads me through the most vulnerable seasons of life, not in resignation and defeat, but in the spirit of the greatest joy and peace.  Therefore, I am not afraid, even as my plans fall through.  Even if those closest to me, fail me.  Even as I stand at the edge of the precipice, because I know He will not waver.

It is difficult to see God when I am comfortable.  Those are the times when prayers are mumbled quickly, more out of routine than out of desire.  When obligations, chores and schedules occupy my mind at every second of every day, and leave no room for thoughts of Him.  In my complacency, I am fooled by the deceit of the world that everything else could matter more than Him.

I am thirsty and I do not even realize it.  I cannot seem to stop myself from spending empty hours checking Facebook, surfing youtube, reading blogs, scanning news headlines, chain-watching tv shows, all in an exhausting effort to preoccupy myself with every scrap of entertainment.  As if I am afraid to let my mind rest, that if I find myself sitting in silence, then I would have to confront Him.

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What I want is to run to Him again.  Not just when I feel like it, but because I need to.  Everyday.  To run until I feel that pain my chest and the fatigue in my muscles.  To push, claw, crawl, and fight my way through every obstacle that distracts from Him.  To burst in song, erupt in praises; to throw up my hands and proclaim His name in unabashed joy.  To seek Him with every fiber of my being, so that I cannot be satisfied with anything else but Him.  Even if I stumble, even as I gasp for air, do not let me stop.  Run with me, and I will follow you.

Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind.

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The best thing about this recipe is that it doesn’t require kneading at all, which is a great because I don’t own a bread machine or a stand mixer—yet.  Still, I had enough trouble just spreading the dough out in a round enough circle so that each piece could be rolled up nicely.  But that’s just inexperience.  I liked these because they were fun to make and seemed like a new twist on the regular cinnamon roll.  However, they’re also less sweet and could use a bit more sugar, in my opinion.  Nevertheless, the butterhorns are great to eat while they’re still piping hot from the oven, and served with a glass of milk.

Cinnamon Butterhorns from The Cilantropist

It is official.  I will be attending the Neuroscience PhD program at the University of California, San Francisco this fall.

Now that I know my days are numbered in Boston, everything here—even the frigid cold—has taken on a rosy, sentimental feel.  Suddenly, three months doesn’t seem like enough time to do everything that I want to do.

Originally, I had considered working through the whole of summer before the start of school.  But I realized that if I were to slave away for the next six years, then I’m going to need at least two months to “veg out” and seize every opportunity for idleness.  I’d love to travel somewhere, but will most likely be spending one glorious month enjoying Boston and the surrounding areas.  How can I possibly leave without enjoying summer strolls at the Arboretum, kayaking on the Charles, tasting the soft-shelled crab in Maine, sampling wine at a Newport vineyard, picking berries at a local New England farm?

As excited as I am about San Francisco and warmer winters, I know I am going to miss Boston.  This was the first place I ever lived where I truly had to rely on myself.  I remember arriving at Logan airport with two suitcases, walking into a very dirty apartment, and sleeping on a bare mattress that first night because I forgot to bring bed covers.  I felt more homesick than I ever thought I could, knowing that everybody that I ever knew was on the other coast.  But two years later, Boston has become my second home.

This bread was the first thing that I’ve baked for a long while.  I needed something easy to help me get back into the groove of baking regularly.  I loved how the cornmeal in the recipe gives it a nice yellow-brown hue, which is beautifully offset by cheerful purple spots of juicy grapes.  I had this bread for breakfast, but I think it’s actually too cake-like to have during the first meal of the day.  Definitely, if you make this, eat it fresh from the oven so that the grapes don’t have a chance to shrivel.  It seems like most embedded fruits tend to lose their form in pastries, leaving moist holes where they used to be.

Red Grape and Olive Oil Bread from Christina Marsigliese

Lately, it seems like everybody is getting married.  In the past year, three of the post-docs in the lab have gotten hitched, engaged, or soon-to-be engaged.  My fellow lab tech is now sporting a ring that extends almost 1 cm above her finger (I may be underestimating here).  It’s so huge that it can double as a self-defense instrument, like pepper spray; except, instead of blinding someone with a chemical irritant, she can leave a diamond shaped hole in their eyeballs.

It hadn’t really hit me yet that I was reaching a marriage-able age.  After all, the people I knew getting married were all older than me by a few years.  And even rumors about high school classmates who have made the jump seemed so far removed from my reality.  But I guess I have to finally admit that my cohort—at least some of us—are becoming adults.

Two weeks ago, I flew to Chicago to attend a friend’s wedding.  She was my best friend in high school.  I remember her as a history buff, grammar freak, Starbucks addict, and an incredibly loud commenter while watching movies at the theater.  She introduced me to Korean pop music, caramel frappucinos, extreme procrastination, and a spirit of vibrancy and spunk that brought out the best in me.  She was a frequent online companion during the wee hours of the morning, my favorite person to rant to, and an ideal confidant when it comes to the matter of boys.  She ogled pictures of Orlando Bloom, Brad Pitt, and George Clooney, and on my chemistry notes, you would find her works of doodle art.  She helped me ask my crush to junior prom and she was first to hear the details of my first kiss.  To see her get married was a mix of the surreal and the sentimental, with a permeating sense of time passing.

The wedding was lovely.  I walked into the chapel just as G- and her dad were preparing to walk down the aisle, and she looked stunning.  What struck me more than the delicate folds of her dress was the smile of genuine happiness and the grace and maturity she exuded.  Despite the big time gap since I had last seen her, I felt tender pride and real joy to see her celebrate this milestone.

Now that her wedding’s over, I’m not sure when I’ll be able to see her next time.  There have been plenty of days where I’ve thought about writing an email or picking up the phone, but I don’t.  I can blame busy schedules or long work hours, but the truth is that I’m afraid.  I’m afraid of those long awkward pauses and forced niceties that make up the vapid conversations between people who have nothing in common yet try to feign genuine interest.  I’m afraid that if I reach out this time, after so many missed opportunities, there would be nothing left to grab onto.

Someone wrote once that friends who have grown apart are like strings that had been cut, their loose ends flailing in the breeze.  But sometimes all that it takes to recover a friendship can be something as simple as tying a knot.

I don’t believe that friends have to stay by your side forever.  We all have our own lives to pursue, obligations to meet, agendas to make.  But I do believe that connections between people are never really lost forever, despite the time and the distance.  Put on hold, maybe, but always there if you dig down deep enough.

It’s been a long time since I’ve baked anything.  These pictures were taken months ago when I was invited to a friend’s house for dinner, and I needed to bring a dessert I could whip up in half an hour.  I thought it was best if I used a recipe that I had already tried.  This Lemon Tart was way better than the first time I made it, which was more than a year ago.  I’m glad to know that I’m actually getting better at baking (and all that entails is being able to tell when butter is “fluffed” or when whipped cream is “whipped”).  I’ve also realized that I should remember to write down how my food tastes.  This tart was made so long ago that I can’t remember much about it except that it was good, so I guess you have to take my word for it.

I have one more graduate school interview.  So far this month, I’ve visited three schools and heard back from none.  I know this process takes awhile, but the waiting is killing me.  As I type this, scenes of my past interviews are running through my head and I can’t seem to decide whether I want to jump out of my seat and walk around impatiently or sit here in quiet anguish as I accept the fact that there is nothing else I can do to enhance my eligibility.  I started this month with too much confidence only to progressively lose my cool as I confront the very real possibility that I may not be accepted anywhere.  Maybe I should’ve applied to more schools.

Maybe I’m not good enough to do science.

The thought that I might have to stay at my lab for another year as I reapply for the next cycle mortifies me.  More so because of wounded pride.  I cannot imagine how I would write to my professors again to request another set of recommendation letters.  I cannot even bear to imagine that I would be the only one of my friends still trying to get into graduate school while everyone else is on their way to a medical degree.  What bothers me most is the fact that all the reasons I just listed are so superficial.  Who cares about what other people think when this is MY career? This is when I know I have lost sight of what matters most.

It’s funny how some people say that I’m overly modest, because pride is something that I struggle with a lot, especially when it comes to science.  I think that’s probably true for a lot of people who have ever poured heart and soul into something they really love.  You become so attached to that one thing that it’s hard to face people and circumstances who challenge your sense of entitlement.  As much as it pains me, I’m grateful that God continuously breaks me down in this area so that I can clearly see what has been His all along.

It’s not that I don’t think I’ve worked hard for the things I’ve achieved; but I just don’t think I would’ve gotten this far without His grace.  I think I’m qualified for the work that I do because He has equipped me with the necessary skills and opened the doors to opportunities that led me here.  Even though a lot of other lab techs could probably replace me, I am at a place that best fits my skills and where I have the most to gain from.  As uncertain as the future can be, I think right now I am exactly where I am supposed to be.  Exactly where He wants me to be.

Why I want to do science shouldn’t be about prestige or the pursuit of validation.  And maybe it’s not even because science leads to innovations in medicine and health.  But above everything else, Science—either as a way to marvel the natural world or as a humbling career that demands perseverance—points me to the grace that is in Christ, my Savior.

“Now the poor, stand and confess that my portion is Him, and I’m more than blessed.”

This weekend marks my first round of graduate school interviews.  As excited as I am about these campus visits, I’m already exhausted by the withering pressure to socialize, mingle, and “schmooze.”  I can’t imagine how much more draining the next few are going to be.

Surprisingly, what I found most difficult weren’t the one-on-one interviews with professors, but the receptions and dinners that required a level of social interaction and networking skills that I, frankly, just plain suck at.  Perhaps it’s the introversion or the Asian upbringing that teaches you to not speak unless spoken to—maybe the two are related, I don’t know.  But too often I find myself the only person on the side, blending into the background and outshone by others more charming and adept at navigating group dynamics.

Ok, I’m not saying that I’m a complete loser.  I’ve got humor, and a pleasant smile.  And I can hold myself in a private conversation most of the time.  But throw me into a group of more than four people I’m unfamiliar with, and I’ll feel less inclined to put myself out there; my attention wanders and I let myself retreat.  I figure, I’ll let the extroverts do their jobs.  Once I get into that quiet mode, it’s harder to break out.  And a whole dinner will go by before I realized that I was the only person who spoke fewer than two sentences through the whole affair.  It’s awful.

(Who else thinks this picture looks like pac-man on the left?)

My only hope is that age will bring self-assurance.  If not that, then at least better conversation starters than “Awful weather today, huh?”  Maybe someday, I can speak with someone in a conversation devoid of awkward silences and filled more with comfortable pauses.

I know I made Pumpkin Cheesecake awhile back, but I found this recipe to be much more flavorful than the other one; even though the pumpkin flavor is still quite subtle.  And personally, I prefer the spongey-ness here than the creamy/silky texture of the previous cake.  Sure, there’s a huge gaping crack in the middle, but I think it makes it more rustic, no?  Personally, I don’t really think a water bath is all that necessary to bake a cheesecake, unless you mind the cracks.  And most people don’t.

I think I’m cheesecaked out for awhile.

Pumpkin Mascarpone Cheesecake from Slice of Feist

As a kid, I used to dream about moving to someplace where nobody knew me.  Now that I’m 23, I still fantasize about hopping onto a plane at a moment’s notice, except the prospect of being cramped up in a small space for more than six hours makes my knees ache.  Nonetheless, the idea of starting with a clean state is an attractive thought; that if you could change your environment, then you can fashion yourself to be whatever sort of person you always wanted to be.  Now that I’ve actually done it, I can’t really say that I’ve changed much, personality-wise.  What was it about myself that I wanted to change so much?  I’m not quite sure what I expected when I moved to Boston; maybe not a complete 180, but at least a 90 degree or something, right?  What I have learned is that I am who I always was, and who I’ll become is what I’ve always had the capacity to be.  I don’t need to force myself to change anything; I’m just going to let the “growing up” take care of that.

With the new year and pending interviews for graduate school, I’ve been thinking a lot about where I want to end up for the next five or six years.  If I were myself two years ago, I would’ve jumped at the opportunity to try somewhere completely different; not California and not Boston.  But I don’t really feel like pulling another major move anytime soon.  As much of an introvert as I am, building a social network from scratch is a lonely feat that I’m not quite up for doing again, yet.  And now that I’ve found a comfortable rhythm and routine here, I’ve been able to appreciate Boston much more for its beauty and vast number of places/things that I have yet to discover.  Even in this frigid weather, I am still excited to step outside and feel the drops of cold as the snow falls on my face.  The question is whether I can see myself spending the rest of my 20’s here, or anywhere else.  Wow, that’s such a loaded decision.

Recently, an old friend came to visit me.  It’s always somewhat of a surprise to see old friends now, since I rarely see them, so any lifestyle change is especially striking.  And for X—‘s visit, the first thing I noticed was the change in wardrobe.  He has graduated from slightly over-sized flannel shirts to form-fitting, and dare I say it, attractive “Urban Outfitter-esque” clothes.  I’m so glad to see that one of us has made the fortunate leap of buying our own clothes instead of relying on our parents’ best guess at youthful fashion; albeit, my mom still buys most of my clothing, but only because she is blessed with better sartorial sense.

We spent a bit talking about our immediate futures and reminiscing about sunny California while we braced against the northeastern winds.  Like me, he will also decide where he’s going to study for the next few years.  While both of us have fond recollections of the golden state, we are reluctant to return home for the next decade of our lives.  More surprising for him since I distinctly remember how adamant he was about living near home for medical school (and how he hated the idea of recreational drinking—well, guess who drank with me last weekend?).  It’s nice to see that people do change over time.  Who knows, maybe in a few years, I might change my mind about that PhD.  Maybe I’ll fall into teaching or turn around and pursue political science, or something.  As scary as it can be when plans fall apart, maybe it’s a good thing that we don’t always follow linear lives.

Right now thought, I’m going to graduate school.  Regardless of where I’ll end up, I think I’m going to have one “helluva” time.  I’m so excited; I can’t wait.

Pumpkin Garlic Knots from Handle the Heat

This morning I stumbled on a cache of old “love” letters, if you will, from high school.  Reading them wasn’t so much nostalgic as it was amusing (and somewhat cringe-worthy).  They are filled with corny endearments, from “honey bunny” to “smoochie wookums,” with a healthy smattering of “darlings” thrown in.  This is only made funnier by the fact that my “ex” and I are currently great friends, and I can no longer imagine him uttering the phrase “dearest Joanne” unless it was dripping with sarcasm and followed by some cheeky insult.  Yet I have, in my possession, a reminder of his “whipped-ness,” once upon a time.

But on a sentimental note, the letters chronicle our adolescent angst and fears during a transformative period where both of us were navigating our transition into college while trying to cling onto each other.  So eager to leave our suburban childhood and yet wholly unprepared to give up on this relationship.  Funny how life seemed so much more simple and dramatic, at the same time, when you’re only 17.  By golly, that was six years ago!  To think that I was a nerdy, naive college freshman, walking around campus with my dorm key hanging on a lanyard around my neck (oh God, how did I ever think that was COOL?)  Religiously attending every 8 AM lecture and fantasizing about marrying my high school sweetheart.  Can you imagine?

There is not a drop of regret or wistfulness when I read those letters from the “yonder days of youth” (oh gawd, I crack myself up).  I still remember the sense of freedom and peace when I realized that we had come to the end of our story, but not of our friendship.  A revelation that was tinged with satisfaction and not resignation; gratitude, not bitterness.  I could not have asked for a better person to share in the excitement of adolescent romance.  And it was with excitement that I greeted our new friendship, which I can say with the utmost certainty, would last for a lifetime.

These days I make a point to catch up with him every few weeks.  Occasionally he picks up the phone to my mournful wailing.  You know, the usual “My life is in shambles!” call.  But I think we have been truly blessed to watch each other over the years, as we find our callings, pursue our passions, and slowly grow into the kind of person we always wanted to be.  And D—, if you’re reading this, you can be sure that “honey bunny” is forever eliminated from my vocabulary.  I doubt it would ever make its appearance again in my future relationships.  Because seriously, wtf were we smoking?

Yours truly,

“Honey bunny”

Pumpkin Cheesecake with Gingersnap Crust from Cook & Be Merry

Two weeks ago I presented a Nature paper in my lab’s journal club that relates to butterfly research.  It was incredibly beautiful and awe-inspiring work in a discipline that is small and often overshadowed by the glitziness of immunology, cancer, and other biomedical research.  And even though this type of “fringe” science doesn’t directly benefit medicine, the coolest research—in my opinion—is the type that delves into nature’s biggest curiosities.  In this case, this paper is about magentoreception (or the ability to sense magnetism) in butterflies, and its possible role in directing the migration of this insect and other animals that exhibit migratory behavior.

Every year during the fall, thousands of butterflies fly from US and Canada down to Mexico to spend winter at the exact same fir grove.  How spectacular would it be to actually witness this sight in person?  Thousands of orange, fluttering leaves that litter the sky, cover the ground, and land on trunks of trees.  The mysterious thing is that this behavior isn’t taught; it is innate.  Some wiring in their brains allows them to pinpoint the correct direction, through disparate weather and rough terrains, to find their way to safe haven.

About two years ago, the same guy who published the paper I presented, also discovered that the butterfly “compass” is time and sun sensitive.  Say, for example, at 10 AM, the butterflies know to steer to the right of the sun in order to fly southwest.  But at 4 PM, they fly straight toward the sun so that they can maintain the same trajectory.  This means that the butterflies have linked the ability to sense the position of the sun in the sky to their circadian rhythm.  If you take butterflies with a skewed day cycle (ie. wake up at 1 PM instead of 7 AM), they would fly to the right of the sun at 4 PM as if they thought it were 10 AM.  And here’s the kicker: the butterflies require their antennae in order to do this.  This led to the discovery of a separate circadian center in the antennae that is also similar to the circadian clock found in their brains.

Besides from the “time compensated sun compass,” the butterflies also possess two Cryptochrome proteins that are known to be magnetosensitive in other animals; however, to my knowledge, it has not been shown whether butterflies use the earth’s magnetic poles in migration.  In the paper that I presented, the scientists use fruit flies, which also possess their own Cry proteins and exhibits avoidance of magnetic fields, to study butterfly Cry proteins.  First, they expressed butterfly Cry in mutant fruit flies that are unable to generate normal Cry proteins on their own.  Amazingly, they proved that butterfly Cry was enough to rescue the magnetic sensitive behavior in these mutant flies even though they are completely different species!  Second, they show that this effect of the Cry proteins is dependent on UV light.  Finally, they also show that the Cry proteins work through a mechanisms different from the one that has been the convention of thought for a long time.

I can’t wait until they finally find how magnetoreception factors in butterfly behavior and how the Cry proteins are involved at a molecular level.  But even as we are closer to revealing the mechanism of magnetoreception, we are still far from understanding all the factors that combine to initiate the butterflies’ southward journey.  What I love about natural phenomenons like this—which seems so astoundingly complex and beyond understanding—is that they may actually have a strong genetic component that is in itself simple yet sophisticated.  This simple yet intricate nature of such natural mysteries is what drives scientists to come up with unique and creative experiments to explore these questions.  Even if you aren’t a scientist, I hope you share my enthusiasm for such outstanding science as this.

Cheesecake Brownies from Smitten Kitchen

This Saturday I stayed home to recover from a cold.  To satiate my chocolate craving, I made cheesecake brownies.  When they’re fresh out of the oven, the brownie part has a more cake-like texture, which I generally prefer.  If you like your brownies chewy, then just cool them in the fridge for a few hours.  But overall, these were yummy.  Especially since it has cheesecake in it, and cream cheese makes everything taste better.  I wanted there to be a clear separation of cheesecake topping and brownie so I tried not to mix the two layers too much while I was marbling them.  I’d eat it warm with a cup of milk. By the way, I love how Smitten Kitchen always has easy-to-make recipes that usually require no more than two bowls to make!

If you check the play count on my iTunes playlist, you’d find that Switchfoot’s “Dare you to move” has been played 1200 times.  And that’s an underestimate, since I tend to hit replay before the song ends.  I am one of those people who obsesses over one song at a time, and keeps it on repeat until I can mentally follow every drum beat and guitar rift.  I do this with every song until I am utterly disgusted with the melody and move onto the next catchy tune.  This is why I need my own room, because I would drive my roommate nuts.

      

But “Dare You to Move” holds a special place in my heart.  It is THE song I revisit, time and time again.  I’ve played it the day when I sat down on the steps of some stranger’s house and cried.  Over lost loves, dashed hopes, and deep-seated fears.  This is the song that inspires me at every twist and turn, reminding me that life is so much bigger than my circumstances.  It is the song I turn to when I need to find myself through anger and sadness.  In disappointment and confusion.  From resignation and indifference. 

          

This song is about moving forward regardless of whatever humiliating, shameful, hurtful, and devastating event took place.  It touches the very core of what I believe in.  That we have a choice at the brink of defeat and surrender—“between who you are and who you could be”—to choose how we want to make our lives.  It is timeless precisely for that reason.  Because failures come and go, because we will never know what adversity will hit us next, because we can never predict where we will find ourselves, we will always need to remember how to move forward. 

     

This past weekend, I tried to make doughnuts with lemon ricotta cheese filling.  I love the lemon zest and sugar topping, but the bread itself tastes nothing like soft, fluffy donuts.  Even though they make for some tasty breakfast buns, I consider this a flop.  I suspect I must have overworked the dough while rolling it out to cut out circles, because it was extremely difficult to re-roll the scraps.  Note: let it rest after each round of rolling so that it can build up some air.  Moreover, I could barely fit more than a small dollop of cheese filling into the buns without it spilling out.  In the end, I had so much leftover cheese filling that I had to figure out some way to use it up.  I’ll post what I did with that later. 

One thing I did learn from this is how to let dough rise in an icy cold apartment.  I turned on my electric oven to 200F for a minute and 15 seconds.  Turned it off and shut my doughnuts inside to rise.  It’s great because it’s well insulated and protected from drafts.  Now, if I could only figure out how to “fluff” my buns, then I’ll be happy. 

Baked Lemon Doughnuts from Gourmet Traveler