Tired of accessing the Internet through the Internet? Head to calltheinternet.org to, well, call the Internet. On the telephone. Remember those? The Website for calling the Internet lists only a local number—(202) 470-6789—a status—”live” or “offline”—and this description:

Thank you for expressing an interest in placing a phone call to the Internet. The Internet’s phone line is always accepting calls, unless we are assisting other Internet users, or are out of the office. Check the bottom of each page to find out the status of the Internet’s phoneline. Live means we’re in the office and taking calls, if the line is busy, try again later. Offline means we’re out of the office.

I recently placed a phone call to the Internet. Excerpts from the transcript after the jump.

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An occasional series whereby Jule admits she is neither Julia, nor Joy.

This time, I bring you Lemon Sugar Cookie Poofs. Why “poofs”? Well, they didn’t spread like I expected them to; they just kind of poofed. I baked them last night and brought them to a friend whose house is grieving a horrible loss. My go-to funeral food is actually a giant pan of potatoes au gratin, but my friend, she likes lemony things and is a baker, so I tried these out and brought them warm. Here’s one thing I know: Cookies can’t make everything better, just some things, but they can at least let your friends know you care.

Recipe and more after the jump.

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(photograph by Pilar Vergara)

Hang on to your mats, gentrifiers. The much-anticipated revival at the former Church of the Rapture at 14th and T is getting closer and, this time, won’t involve the laying-on of hands…unless that’s some new yoga move? Boundless Yoga is moving into 1840 14th St. NW, where it will share third-floor space with City Dance; the second floor will be a comedy dinner theater; and the ground floor is planned as a Diner/Tryst hybrid.

At least that’s the plan. Constantine Stavropoulos and Co. have to get by Dupont Circle’s ANC 2B first. Stavropoulos, owner of The Diner and Tryst in Adams Morgan and Open City in Woodley Park, is giving a presentation about plans at Wednesday’s meeting at the JCC, 16th and Q, around 8 p.m. Things could get sticky, we’ve heard.

The large space across from Café Saint Ex has been basically vacant since the church moved out a few years ago. We wrote about dashed condo dreams there at the cusp of the bust and, more recently, about artists kicked out because of the open elevator shaft.

That shaft will remain a defining feature of the building, which used to be a Model T assembly plant in the 1920s. (According to Stavropoulos, bumpers and lights were installed on the third floor, they’d paint cars on the second, and showcase them on the first, moving the parts with the giant elevator.)

The restaurateur and AU grad says unlike Open City (which is more Diner than Tryst), the new place will be a true blending of the coffeehouse/lounge/makeshift office that is Tryst and the 24-hour eggs-shakes-and-alcohol that is The Diner. They’ll be separate-but-not, he says, so Diner people can still be Diner people here and Tryst people can still grab a couch, but there will be opportunity for Diner/Trysts meet-cutes and whatnot. There’ll be a full bar, too, along with outdoor seating, pending liquor board and ANC approval.

So far, neighbors seem stoked, according to Stavropoulos. “Every single person I met, and I was out there all day Saturday, in some cases chasing after people as they were walking out of their homes, said ‘It’s about time,’” Stavropoulos says. One dropped what she was carrying “and hugged me.” The owners of the respective businesses are working as a team and using the same contractor, although they may open at different times. Stavropoulos says he hopes to open his yet-unnamed venture in March or April of next year.

It’s a bit of a gamble for Stavropoulos and not exactly cheap—it’ll probably cost him $2 million or more by the end. “The landlord is putting up some allowances, but it is going to be quite a bit of an investment. I’m leveraging everything, the businesses, the house, the dog, the cat, everything… but we’re excited. We’re hoping this will have a positive impact on the neighborhood.”

So it could be just me, but a guy’s gotta wonder how McCain isn’t drawing more fire for…just about everything, no?

Okay, perhaps it is just me who gets bummed when Fox wins big in the ratings after accusing Obama of proffering terrorist fist jabs and calling Michelle his “Baby Mama”, when McCain gets a free pass to assert that everyone knows who Hamas wants to be President, when the presumptive Republican nominee hires Steve Schmidt, Bush footsoldier, to rejuvenate his wizened, ailing campaign—this after giving a “full-throated” (phrase of the season) and thoroughly inane shout-out to the current Vice President—when Gen. Wesley Clark finds himself caught in some serious media crossfire for the simple crime of pinpointing the basis of McCain’s campaign and questioning its validity…and when Obama gets accused of elitism and out-of-touchism for his Ivy Leaguesmanship when McCain owns…what, like, thirty houses?

So a rant’s a rant, and rarely adorable. Here’s the question: is the MSM holding out on full-throttle McCain excoriation because:

a. They’re trying to shake their rep of being LIBERAL, or

b. They want to make it an interesting fight, for the sake of preserving ratings and because one of the candidates can’t raise money or adrenaline on his own steam?

Lemme know in the comments. Or, you know, don’t. After all, a fella like me only cares what they say in commie rags like the New York Times.

Meanwhile…Michael Douglass:

Olbermann sampled this speech in a recent special comment…merely proving Aaron Sorkin’s abiding influence on U.S. infotainment.

suggestions are welcome.

An occasional series whereby Jule admits she is not Julia. Or Joy.

Let’s say you’re not as attractive as you’d like to be. Or maybe you fucked up at work. You forgot to call your mom on Mother’s Day, that experiment with chicken turned into a congealed and taseteless lump, you killed the plants. One way to feel accomplished is to make cookies.

And so I bring you Red Velvet Black & White Cookies. I waxed on about these before and about my crush on Joy the Baker. Have you read her blog yet? If not, stop reading this one and get on over there. Or go to Ewa’s, who made Joy’s incredibly yummy and small-child-sized Lemon Whoopie Pies.

So, anyway, I had been contemplating the coming out party (from my oven) of these colorful cookies for some time. And, you know, they did make me feel successful. Everyone who tried them liked them. Some even raved. Except me. I forgot that I don’t really like Black & White cookies. They’re too sweet. Cloying, even. A touch treacly. But if you are a died-in-the-wool New Yorker (where the Black & White is unassailable), or if you’ve visited there and came home thinking everything about the place is just so sparkly and perfect (honestly, people do think this), if you just love you some Black & White cookies, then you should give these a try.

The cookie itself is made from a wonderful batter—flavorful and very, very red, and very moist and soft. Better as a cupcake in my opinion. As for the glazes, my suggestion would be to cut down on the corn syrup in the vanilla glaze, add a little more vanilla and little more water than the recipe calls for. The chocolate glaze is pretty well perfect.

Here is the recipe, by way of Joy, by way of (oh, the horror) Rachael Ray.

Earlier today, Gawker reported on a mysterious Facebook feature: Go to the search engine, press the “down” key on your keyboard, and find the name of five friends. Theories abound on what those names mean: Is it simply a random sampling of your online acquaintances? The five people you search the most? The five people who search you the most? Or is it something deeper? My theory: They are the last five people you will search for before you die. (Wes Craven, are you listening?)

Curious tidbit: Out of the friends that I’ve surveyed, nearly everyone has an ex on their list. Is Facebook now explicitly encouraging us all to rebound?

The online social networking community may never know. Since Gawker posted the item, the feature’s disappeared. It seems that, in the time it takes to change your relationship status from (intact heart) to (broken heart), Facebook has eliminated the mysterious list.

Predictably, Facebook users flipped their shit when they heard about this. I know I’ve been agonizing over the significance of my own five names since the fateful Facebook sign-on when I decided to push the down arrow, roughly two hours ago. One Gawker commenter claimed to get this response from a member of the Facebook team when they asked after the feature:

This is the canned response we’ve been using:

The five friends that you see below the search box are populated based on people whom we think you’d be most interested in. Taking into account various factors, we attempt to make an educated guess as to who it is you’re looking for when you start typing a name in the search box. Please note that this information is only visible to you and will not be shared with your friends. We hope that this feature is helpful and we appreciate your feedback. Let me know if you have further questions.“

Alright, Facebook. Obviously, you appear to know me better than I know myself. But enough about me. I’d like to learn something about you for a change. Next time you decide to add another creepy feature to help me live what increasingly does not resemble a “life,” no fair snatching the feature away before I come to understand it!

Update: Gawker clues us in. The feature can still be brought up by typing a period “.” into the search box.

Update update: The feature appears to have disappeared again.

An occasional series whereby Jule admits she is not Julia.

This Week: Whole Orange Cake

When a recipe for a cake makes you go: Really? That’s a recipe you should try. Such was the case with Whole Orange Poppyseed Cake which uses, you guessed it, whole oranges: The peel, the pulp, and all the rest, not counting the sticker on the outside, of course, all mushed up in a food processor. It also calls for three sticks of butter and six eggs, but let’s move on, shall we?

The recipe comes by way of Joy the Baker, my new favorite baking blog. Some of her posts would make those of us on the copy desk cringe, but her recipes and photos are fucking magic. (Seriously, check out yesterday’s post: Red Velvet Black and White Cookies. My crush on Joy now knows no bounds.)

Joy adapted the recipe from a podcast by Sweet Melissa, a wonderful bakery I used to frequent when I lived in Brooklyn. So I knew this was going to be good. But, of course, I found a way to sort of mess it up. Fortunately, baking, despite what you’ve heard, is not an exact science. You can mess up all sorts of steps and still produce something that will make you go: Wow. My glaze was too thin (see exhibit A above); I forgot the poppyseeds in the cake, so swirled them into the glaze instead, which worked out fine.

Recipe after the jump.

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An occasional series whereby Jule admits she is not Julia. And keeps trying anyway.

Although I’m supposed to have mastered the art of the dinner party by now, throwing them doesn’t thrill me. Inviting people over for dinner makes me feel like my parents broiling steaks for the Jordans, the Mrs. of which possessed a cackle that could break lightbulbs. Also, my “English basement” apartment in Adams Morgan is small and sort of strangely laid out, so fuck it. I don’t do it. But I do like getting invited. And if you get invited, you should bring dessert. Dessert is easy. Baking is fun. Try this: Marble Cheesecake.

Recipe after the jump.

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An occasional series whereby Jule admits she is not Julia

Happy St. Pat’s, kids. In honor of the religious holiday (worshipping at the church of green beads and beer, apparently), I have attempted Irish soda bread. This is a recipe I’ve tried several times in the past, mostly for a party I used to have on my porch in Pennsylvania. The parade, such as it was, went up one side of my house and down the other. People who should know better came over, drank too much, soaked it up with soda bread, and yelled down to unsuspecting Girl Scouts, “Hey! Show us your cookies!”

This year, things are more subdued. Also, the soda bread did not turn out as well as I remember. I think the oven was set too high. Also, it could use another tablespoon of sugar. CPers, you decide. It’s in the lounge with some Irish butter and orange marmalade.

Recipe, slightly tweaked, after the jump.

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Tim, I need you to try something.

An occasional series whereby Jule admits she is not Julia.

Julia Child did not have to spend her evenings slicing many dozens of newspaper pages for the Association for Alternative Newsweeklies awards. So I’m sure that’s why after I did and then came home to bake, I ended up with this mess:

What this was supposed to be was the first step in what has become an annual tradition: Grandma Hig’s Boston Cream Pie for my husband’s brithday. Grandma Hig is his grandma, a fantastic baker. She made our wedding cake a few months back, trucking the cake, the buttercream, and all the necessary gadgets from the Adirondacks. It was fantastic. Everything she bakes is fantastic. So I am not only not Julia Child, I am also not Grandma Hig.

Here’s what went wrong: I never follow directions on how long to bake something. I rarely even time it. I have a theory that good bakers can tell when something’s done by smell, primarily, and a poke or two as a secondary test. If you’re paying attention, I swear this works. I have baked a successful cake or two using the smell-and-poke process. Here’s one from Joe Dempsey’s last day at CP (it was tastier than it was attractive…):

Problem was, I wasn’t paying attention. I got watching The Wire, last two episodes of Season 4, got a good whiff of baking cake and yanked them out too early. They didn’t rise properly and when they cooled, they sank into golden, lumpy discs. Sure, sure I was going to slice them in half, fill them with cream and cover them with chocolate, anyway, but I just couldn’t call these worthy of Grandma Hig. I got frustrated and was about to throw them out when I figured out…

How to Salvage: Cake balls! Try this: Bake a cake, dump it—warm—into a bowl and then mix in a container’s worth of frosting (or make your own). Stick it in the refrigerator for about an hour, then roll the cooled mass into balls. Dip in chocolate, roll in crushed, toasted nuts or dust with cocoa powder. It’s sort of like a birthday truffle, Midwest mom-style.