bekah brunstetter
Bekah Brunstetter I care deeply. About a lot of things. Like really, really deep. Ow
playwright in brooklyn, NY

Some Sage Advice

September 25th, 2011 by Bekah Brunstetter

Hey fatties! I’d like you to meet one of my favorite ways to eat craploads of pasta. We might even call this a ‘recipe.’

First! Boil a crapload of pasta. Preferably it’s a giant pasta that’s so giant it makes you feel like a giant italian grandma, like a ziti, or those giant shell things. Simultaneously, make a crapload of sage butter. SAGE BUTTER!!! Put a crapload of butter in a hot pan. Just when you think it’s enough butter, fattie, put a tiny bit more. Take about 30 sweet little sage leaves and place them in the butter until the little guys wilt. JUST before the pasta is fully cooked, put those giant guys straight into that butter with a bit of the boiling water. Stir and stuff. Last but not least, sprinkle / pour / dump about a cup of pecorino romano cheese all over that stuff, and stir. THEN EAT IT, FATTIE! YOU EARNED IT!

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Oh hi, Fall

September 23rd, 2011 by Bekah Brunstetter

Oh hi, next six days! HA!

I always know when it’s Fall (m’favorite season) because I suddenly start asking myself the big questions. Like: WHAT IF I spent an entire day making pumpkin bread to give to people for no reason whatsoever, and WHAT IF that pumpkin bread had Nutella in it? Also, where / how / when can I find Hunter Green pants?  And I should go buy a lot of number two pencils and THANKSGIVING!!!! Also, when can I start to see my breath just a LITTLE bit? Also,  should I bring a scarf? Apparently, not really anytime soon.

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July 19th, 2010 by Bekah Brunstetter

THERE I WAS, innocently drinking my Dasani, when a friend  informed me that there was salt in my water. Whaaaa??? I enquired, predictably. Sure enough, friend directed me to the back of the bottle, where both salt and magnesium are listed as ingredients. WHY, Dasani? WHY? To make me drink MORE water? Sneaky, and mean.

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I choose my Choice

November 4th, 2008 by Bekah Brunstetter


Oh, America. Land of the free, home of the fat.

On this day of choice, against my better judgement, I think I choose to go with my (chubby) gut and bake massive amounts of mac n cheese. With steamy sausage chunks. And butter. And fat.

This recipe has been directly theived from my mom’s very ancient Betty Crooker cookbook, inside of which all pages have nearly turned to flour. It’s even better two days later when you eat cold chunks of it out of the fridge, and the best five days later after accosted by a microwave.

Cheesey Fat Pasta Pie:

2 cups uncooked elbow macaroni (7 ounces)
1/4 cup butter or margarine
1/4 cup Gold Medal® all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1/4 teaspoon ground mustard
1/4 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
2 cups milk
2 cups shredded or cubed Cheddar cheese (8 ounces)
1. Heat oven to 350ºF.
2. Cook macaroni as directed on package.
3. While macaroni is cooking, melt butter in 3-quart saucepan over low heat. Stir in flour, salt, pepper, mustard and Worcestershire sauce. Cook over medium low heat, stirring constantly, until mixture is smooth and bubbly; remove from heat. Stir in milk. Heat to boiling, stirring constanly. Boil and stir 1 minute. Stir in cheese. Cook, stirring occasionally, until cheese is melted.
4. Drain macaroni. Gently stir macaroni into cheese sauce. Pour into ungreased 2-quart casserole. Bake uncovered 20 to 25 minutes or until bubbly.

Come ye emotional eaters! Welcome, ye weary, ye skinny, ye cold! Oh, freedom of chubby choice. Salt and Pepper to taste.

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October 24th, 2008 by Bekah Brunstetter


Each and every fall, the wild Bekah emerges from her cave of urban flippancy and turns suddenly Domestic: beating eggs, shaking cinnamon, and baking her way into the hearts of assorted loved ones and strangers.

Note: In no way did I make the pumpkin bread pictured above. Who has time to lovingly arrange orange slices and sprigs of dried nutmeg or what have you after one has baked a LOAF? Gah. Food stylists.

Anyways. As I do enjoy a moist bread*, I am in constant pursuit of the perfect moistest** recipe. I am pretty satisfied with my most recent baking adventure – this recipe (graciously shared below) calls for coconut milk – one week later, the bread is still moist *** as all get out!

I invite you to join me in the best part fall – the indoor part, at least. Make a cup of a tea, throw on a sweater and some Joe Pug **** tunes and Bake!

* heh

** heh heh.

*** Stop, Bekah. STOP.

**** I’m not kidding, do it, right now.


(blatantly stolen from  ‘Kevin Ryan’ (?) of


  • 1 cup chopped walnuts
  • 3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
  • 2 cups packed dark brown sugar
  • 2/3 cup white sugar
  • 2 teaspoons baking soda
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
  • 2 cups pumpkin puree
  • 1 cup vegetable oil
  • 2/3 cup coconut milk
  • 2/3 cup flaked coconut


  1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Grease and flour two 8×4 inch loaf pans.
  2. Spread walnuts in a single layer on an ungreased baking sheet. Toast in the preheated oven for 8 to 10 minutes, or until lightly browned. Set aside to cool.
  3. In a large bowl, stir together the flour, brown sugar, white sugar, baking soda, salt, nutmeg, and cinnamon. Add the pumpkin puree, oil, and coconut milk, and mix until all of the flour is absorbed. Fold in the flaked coconut and toasted walnuts. Divide the batter evenly between the prepared pans.
  4. Bake for 1 hour and 15 minutes in the preheated oven, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Remove from oven, and cover loaves tightly with foil. Allow to steam for 10 minutes. Remove foil, and turn out onto a cooling rack. Tent loosely with the foil, and allow to cool completely.

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thanks: a thorough report

November 23rd, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter


I thank the apron.

It was a success, as they say in France, and in 3054 Panther Ridge Lane Lewisville NC 27023. (Stalkers, desist.) It was a success, despite the fact that I threw back a couple of glasses of angst-reducing, finger-bitey chardonnay while waiting for the turkey to finish – and later took ibprofen for some ladypains – so basically – I was high as so many kites during most of the shebang, and was plunged into a coma-esque nap circa 3 minutes after the meal concluded.

Let me begin by noting that my parents’ house is big and beautiful, with lots of windows and light and happy trees to boot.  This provided a pleasant backdrop to my cooking frenzy.



My uncle Robert arrived early BEFORE I had donned myspecialgrownupdress, just as I had finished laying out the pumpkin cupcakes and assorted dessert things:


So my Dad choked him.



Cheese tray in tact, with sharp cheddar, havarti, goat and brie, coupled with the ‘I made ya’ll a dip, ya’ll!’ that Tim’s cute ass girlfriend Olivia brought, appetizering happened as guests arrived. (My Grandma and a few of her friends.) The men ate ruffly chips in the basement (each with their own recliner) as I tried to pretend that 12 things fit in one oven at once.  Ha, I say to that. Ha. Hi, the microwave.

A mere hour later than I anticipated, everything was finally ready, and lunchdinner was ‘served’ if you will, on the finest of Brunstetter heirloom China.


Yes, that is a card table at the end. Yes, I sat at it. Yes, it quivered every time I cut my turkey (which was kind of dry/suck it five times, Whole Foods.)

All in all, people were fed. My stuffing, I have to say, so I will say, was pretty top notch, with little toasted pecan bits, and the green beans were killer for being my first romp with ‘mashed’ garlic. Yeah, I mashed some garlic. Maybe I did.

Fat and happy, we posed, as Really Tall Related People should:


And that, as they say, was a Wrap. You know, like a day after thanksgiving turkey wrap with stuffing bits and cranberry goo. That kind.

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Child-Rearing at its Best

August 23rd, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Dear Motherhood,

I’m stoked. I think I have pre-maturely figured you out via through sitting on of Babies. And by Babies, I mean one really stellar near-eight year old girl in particular. Her name is Kate.

Step one: Give the Kate at least two hours to dance it out to High School Musical Two. The REMIX, even.


Allow time for costume changes and impromptu moving of furniture. Freak out when she does cartwheels in her socks.

Step two: Cookie Shop, and how. Take the Kate with you to purchase the ingredients. She likes this. Let her convince you to use white chocolate chips, because those are her favorite, and her parents both like dark so she never gets to have it. Also let her convince you to buy a giant overpriced can of organic whipped cream that you will later forget you bought, and most likely use in un-child rearing activities.

Step three: Cookie bake. Let Kate do most of it herself, as hard as it is to let go. Let her eat big dough balls off the spoon.


During cookiethon, allow her to the tell the story of Where All her Teeth Went. Allow Kate to ball the dough childishly onto the tray, like so:


Let go. Let her do it. Letting go is hard. It looks like this:


Finally, Step Four: while they are baking,  paper doll it all to hell.  Dig through your personals, grab your construction paper and sticker collection. Go to Town.


Make a girl doll and a boy doll. Force them to make out.


Wonder why Kate prompts this, and knows what it means.

In summation: Bring it, motherhood. I welcome your letting-go challenges, and your butteryburnt cookies.

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I Do Not Enjoy the Sundried Tomato.

July 11th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter


People, this is a little thing I like to call ‘food journalism.’ Watch and observe.

I don’t like sun dried tomatoes. I do not appreciate the bittersweet grime it adds to the innocent sandwich, nor do I appreciate its texture,which is similar, I imagine, to what it is like to bite off someone else’s tongue and slowly chew it.

I do not appreciate the fact that it just molested, nay, ruined, the over-priced wrap I purchased while running from airport to home to ponytail to change of clothes to train to work. I am not pleased with the things that it did to the Honey Roasted Turkey and Brie, wrapped up in there, tight, so delicious and innocent. Yes. I called my sandwich tight.

Tight things are awesome, including up do’s on sweaty days, grandma dresses that somehow Come Back and are paired with gladiator sandals, vaginas, um, ace bandages, Phat Beats, and Oxygen masks around the heads of small children on plummeting planes.

Anywhoo. My wrap and I also protesteth the presence of the roasted red pepper, which even further ruined the experience. As I shoved the thing down on the G train, I was not happy to find half-way through one of these slippery little guys mercilessly trapped between the folds of the soft wheat. Because here’s the thing with the Roasted Red Pepper: if you know it’s coming, if you know it’s there, it’s not so bad. You prepare yourself for the slime guaranteed to slide down your throat. But if it arrives unannounced: Ew. Similar to, I would imagine, the experience of eating, or Oral Sex With, a Slug who eats Too Much Olive Oil.

Other offensive Wegetables include black olives, green olives, olives filled with weird stuff, every olive in the world, frozen peas, mushrooms, mushrooms fried with stuff, mushrooms crammed full of green stuff, big mushrooms that disguise themselves as sandwiches and entrees, little mushrooms with faces that destroy your take out thai, and Lima Beans.

To defend the honor of your favorite Wegetable, please leave a comment/plea.

This is where I say, ‘that’s a WRAP,’ and you chuckle, and I chuckle, and in a way, wherever you are, and wherever I am, we are chuckling together. It is our way of staying friends.

Note/Disclaimer: To read ACTUAL good food journalism, please read the work of the lovely ms. Elizabeth Castoria, whose amazing weekly food column can be found here:

Becky’s Killer Food Column

Read it. It’s great.

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My Lovely Lady Cakes.

July 5th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

p1010043.JPGPeople, I like to make cakes. Maybe I do. I have an entire play fueled by the hours I spent with my Mom learning how to ice a cake. (It involves butter knives, luke-warm water, and skills that I do no possess. She makes some serious perfect, as Mom’s tend to do.)

Maybe I’m saying that I’d be happy to make and decorate stupid/silly/festive cakes all day – forever. Maybe I’d like that. Now I’m not claiming that my cake-gifts are superior to those of people that are – say – trained. I have no ‘skill’ per se – nor do I really have the patience to like make flowers and/or villages out of sugar water – or whatever the f. Maybe I don’t feel like I need an mfa in the cake.

So I present to you some of the bekah cakes (and maybe a pie) of the past and present. Because yes, I photograph them.

Smile, the cake.


Americans, meet the cake of Independence. I was fixing up this sassy little patriotic monster yesterday and my Mom called. She asks, ‘ What are you doing?’ ‘I’m making an Independence Cake!’ To which she replies, ‘ So am I – and so’s your Grandmother!’

Yes, ladies. Unity. If you have not made this with your Mom, you Have Not Lived. This cold white cake boasts (YES. IT BOASTS, okay? literally) whipped cream frosting and fresh fruit, and is guaranteed to threaten to fall out of the fridge before consumed. Nothing says freedom like a cake that – somehow – magically -comes from a box. So easy, your boyfriend can help.

For a more tolerant Cake of Independence Cake, substitute ‘brown’ cake for ‘white’ cake.

Next up, We’ve got Charlie the Bunny Cake. Nothing Says ‘He is Risen’ like an edible rabbit appendage. Fanbase, look closely.


You’ll notice that it’s secretly two round cakes: one for the face – and the other is cut to make two ears and – goddamnit – A BOW TIE. It’s important that this cake be named Charlie, every year. I don’t know why. To give the illusion of fur, mix coconut into the icing. It is also important that you eat about 8,000 starburst jelly beans during the creation of Your New Friend. It is then important to Eat his Face.

Next up, we have the ‘My little brother is going to Boot Camp so let’s get him nice and chubs before he Leaves and goes to Boot Camp which is really Strange to Imagine and sounds pretty terrible Oh Well I guess I’ll just make a cake’ Cake.

The marine corps emblem is NOT edible.


Next up, the Sideways Cake for Gay Male Friend who is Into Strawberries. jcs-bday-014.jpg

Some sort of marble effect occured with this cake that I don’t really recall, but I think I was trying to create some sort of metaphor for the blurred lines of his sexuality.

This next cake section is not for the faint of heart. It is dedicated to my friend Michael Mason, who enjoys Sleeping in My Bathtub, Bagels, and Vaginas. Naturally, for his birthday in 05, Amy and I decided that this was an appropriate gift. Notice yet another clever usage of the coconut.


And then, he ate it, which looked like this: thanks-for-the-vagina-046.jpg


The following year, I decided to PG my Michael Mason cake of Choice, which looked like this.

Okay, i can’t find it right now. It looked like a bagel. For real.

Here’s this one instead: made for one Ms. Erin McCarson, who thoroughly enjoys pink things, gummy things, and being paid attention to, so this lil beaut went over swell.


Wow, faithful admirers: this is sad. As I dig through the derge (derge? what? okay. derge) that are my photo’s, I’m realizing how many pictures of cake I have. Technically I am ‘working’ now so this might have to be a two part instillation.

But let me leave you with this inspirational thought: cakes are awesome, easy to make. Just think of a few things you know your subject likes: and attempt to create it, via the cake. The person will feel honored, chubby and loved.

Don’t just do it, do it!

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