Gluten For Punishment by Julie Seyler

Featured

Posted on by
Reply
Gluten for Punishment: Just Desserts for the Heartbroken, Lovesick, and Jilted by author Julie Seyler
Kindle Unlimited
Buy Paperback
Indie Bookstores

Gluten for Punishment: Just Desserts for the Heartbroken, Lovesick, and Jilted is a wry, heartfelt memoir by baking blogger and writer Julie Seyler, filled with personal stories, dating misadventures, and the desserts that got her through it all…

Julie Seyler’s love life has been a recipe for disaster—and she has the baked goods to prove it.

In this humorous and heartfelt collection, beloved baking blogger Julie Seyler shares stories of love, loss, and everything in between—accompanied by her signature dessert recipes—in one irresistible, gluten-filled volume.

Whether she’s arriving home after an awkward first date or seeking comfort once a promising relationship goes up in flames, Julie knows exactly where to turn when things go awry: the kitchen. And after three decades spent dating a cast of brooding, complicated Gen X creatives, her recipe box is overflowing—even while her bed remains empty.

From frustrating flings with the emotionally unavailable to an unflinching exploration of the love that lingers after tragedy, Gluten for Punishment is a wry and honest reminder that while relationships are rarely predictable, a sweet ending always awaits in the kitchen.

Praise:

“This brave and intimate memoir reveals that the recipe for lasting love lies in self-love and resilience.”

“I devoured this book. Intoxicated like a child after trick-or-treating, shoveling down candy as if each piece might vanish.”

Trader Joe’s Easy Elote Corn Dip

Posted on by
3
A bowl of Trader Joe's Elote Corn Dip with scattered Elote Corn Chip Dippers
Jump to Recipe

Two-Bit Story:

“Stop screaming bloody murder!” my mother shouted.
“No, please… Not Todaaayyy.”

As a child, there was one thing I hated more than anything else. One thing that would make me cry, go limp so no one could pick me up to move me. The thing I dreaded more than anything was getting my hair washed…by my mom.

There was no tenderness in the act. Washing hair was just another chore to complete in her non-nonsense, slightly aggressive way, the same way she scrubbed the floor or did the laundry. I’d lie across the faux marble Formica bathroom counter, my head bent backward in the sink bowl, the metal side of the bowl digging into the back of my bare neck. I felt trapped, claustrophobic, like I had lost agency.

She’d pour water from the pink bathroom cup over my hair and scalp, not bothering if it got in my ears, no paying much attention to the water temperature unless I complained. Then she’d cover my hair with Herbal Essence shampoo and scrub, scrub with her strong housewife fingers, scrub with her nails, until my entire body jiggled back and forth with the effort, like those massage chairs at the mall. No matter if her diamond wedding ring caught in a snarl, she’d continue on, tugging my head left or right with the effort. I’d lie across the countertop, each muscle tensed stiff as a board, my toes curled, my face scrunched in a grimace.

“Stop making that face!”
“It hurts…you’re pulling my hair.”
“Lie still.”
“But—water’s in my ear!”
“Then stop struggling!”

Then she’d rinse the shampoo from my hair until the tangled mess squeaked when rubbed. Cream rinse—that’s what we called conditioner in the 1970’s—was an adults-only luxury, Mom decided. Besides, the quicker I was off the autopsy slab, the better for me.

But conditioner helps with the next part. And without it, this second part of the process wasn’t any better. She’d use a comb to bushwhack through the knots and tangles, leaving what felt like half my hair in the comb and a bloody scalp.

The topic came up at a parent-teacher conference. I wasn’t in the room, but my mother told me she asked my second grade teacher, Mrs. Wroten. I imagine the exchange went something like this:

“I don’t know what to do with her about the hair,” she said. “She has a meltdown when I say it’s time. You’d think I was chasing her with a branding iron. The neighbors must think I’m killing her.”
“What would happen,” Mrs. Wroten asked, “if Julie washed it herself in the shower?”
“She’s seven.”
“She’s old enough.”
“And if she doesn’t wash it properly?”
“Then you check it and she learns.”
“She makes it such a production. I can’t deal with a production. It’s ridiculous.”
“Sometimes,” Mrs. Wroten said, “children want a little ownership.”
“Fine,” my mother responded. “We’ll see.”

Oh, dear Mrs. Wroten, 2nd grade teacher and my personal patron saint of hair care.

I started washing my hair myself later that week, without grumbles or incident, used cream rinse, combed through my own snarls, and eventually started using a spray-in conditioner called No More Tears.

Damn right… no more tears indeed.

Two-Bit Recipe:

I created this easy, simple dip recipe for a recent mahjong night. It’s packed with flavor, the ingredients are a simple shopping trip to Trader Joe’s, and it makes just enough for a small gathering, but can also be doubled or tripled for larger get-togethers.

Trader Joe's Easy Elote Corn Dip

All the flavor of Mexican elote corn in a quick and easy dip.


Ingredients

  • 1 cup Trader Joe’s frozen Roasted Corn, thawed
  • 1 container Trader Joe’s Everything and the Elote Greek Style Yogurt Dip
  • ⅓ cup crumbled Cotija cheese
  • 1 green onion, finely sliced, green and white parts separated
  • Juice of ½ lime
  • 1 teaspoon lime zest
  • Tajín (optional)
  • 1 bag Trader Joe’s Elote Corn Chip Dippers or other tortilla chips

Directions

  1. In a medium bowl, combine corn, dip, cheese, white part of onion, lime juice, and lime zest.
  2. Transfer to a serving bowl and sprinkle with green part of onion and Tajín (if using). Serve with Elote Corn Chip Dippers.

Recipe for Brazilian Passion Fruit Cake: A Sweet Adventure

Posted on by
1
Jump to Recipe

Two-Bit Story:

I notice a lot of LA productions use the word “immersive” these days, but I find most of these so-called immersive plays wanting. They’re often essentially a standard theater built within an interesting environment plus an interactive bit pre-show or during intermission.  

Perhaps I’m jaded.

I was around for the LA Tamara days, the grand dame of interactive theater.  It was written by John Krizanc and opened in Los Angeles in 1984 at the three-story Hollywood American Legion Hall on Highland Avenue. It ran for nine years, and I still miss it 30+ years later.

The premise was based on the real-life artist Tamara de Lempicka and her encounter with Italian poet and fascist sympathizer Gabriele d’Annunzio in 1927.  By the standards of interactive theater, Tamara was exceptional. And not just because interactive theater was unusual for the 80s, although that helped. Some of the things they did are still remarkably difficult to pull off today.  What made it special was that the interactivity wasn’t an add-on—the entire play depended on the audience being physically present in the room and making choices.

There wasn’t traditional audience seating nor a single stage. You moved through this enormous, three-story building, following whichever character you chose. Multiple scenes happened simultaneously in different rooms, so you literally couldn’t see the entire play unfold. Your choices determined the story you experienced.

Today, a production may put you in a warehouse, give you a signature cocktail, have actors whisper in your ear, and call itself immersive. Tamara did something more elaborate. You could follow various characters:  Tamara, D’Annunzio, Luisa, the servants, the chauffeur, etc. If you followed one character, you literally lost another story happening somewhere else in the villa. And each time actors interacted, you could choose to follow someone else.  Each choice you made had consequences, a split second decision on which story you were going to experience. There was no way to see everything in a single performance.

Even your arrival was part of the experience. Before walking through the grand double-doors, you were issued an Italian passport. It identified you as someone entering D’Annunzio’s Il Vittoriale. It was stamped by a gruff Fascist official. Lose your passport, you may get deported. Keep your passport, and it could be used to return to experience another version of the story. Each time you visited, the ticket price dropped. On your sixth passport stamp, entrance was free. This was important, because this was NOT a play you could see in one night.

The first room you entered was the D’Annunzio villa’s central gathering area, during a cocktail party in progress. Waitstaff, which you later learn were actors, served classic champagne cocktails (the first time I had one and now a life-long love). Authentic Tamara de Lempicka paintings (borrowed from Hollywood actors like Barbra Streisand and later replaced with fakes) lined the walls. You sipped your cocktail, wandering around the room, making your way to the dining table, dirty dishes and remnants of a meal still in place.  Someone had picked their peas from their meal, placing them neatly to the side. The play, it seems, had already begun.

And when the cast began their performances, choices must be made…who did you follow, where did you go? Did you stay with the party you arrived with or split up so you can learn more? 10 actors, 12 rooms…a “choose your own adventure” book in the flesh. You climbed stairs. You went into bedrooms. You entered the oratory and smelled the scent of musk commingled with piety (to this day, I don’t know what that scent was…frankincense? Myrrh?). You discovered characters already in rooms. You’d watch fellow audience members disappear down a hallway and have absolutely no idea what they were witnessing. You were constantly aware that another story was happening somewhere else.

The entire building functioned as a stage. At any given moment, ten actors were performing simultaneously, different audience members followed different actors, scenes remained synchronized enough that the narrative didn’t collapse, actors maintained character while navigating the crowd.

Then came the intermission, dinner and drinks, where you and dozens of strangers essentially became immediate companions and story archivists:

“What did you see?”
“Where did you go?”
“Did you see what happened with the chauffeur?”
“Wait, you saw that?”

As you continued on, you made different choices based on what you’d learned… you realized the servants’ stories were just as important as the main characters.

And at the play’s end, you understood you had seen only one possible story, when a thousand more options existed. You couldn’t wait to return, to follow someone else, perhaps the chauffeur into the basement next time.

You saw the play three times.

You could have gone a dozen more.

Two-Bit Recipe:

“Passion is a word we use when we talk about love. It is also a word we use to describe a crime. Sometimes it is also a fruit.”  — Zava, Ted Lasso

As often happens, my recipe today has absolutely nothing to do with the story above.

I baked my version of this cake with the seeds included and I enjoyed this rustic version. It reminds me of a lemon poppy seed cake. As it bakes, the seeds gently release their aromatic oils, perfuming the entire cake. Each bite of the finished cake breaks the soft, velvety silence of the sponge with an unexpected, playful crunch—a bold, crackling finish. However, I think most people would probably prefer to keep the seeds to the syrup only —so that’s the way I’ve written the final recipe, but feel free to keep the seeds if you enjoy the crunch.

Brazilian Passion Fruit Cake (Bolo de Maracujá)

This traditional dessert is tropical sunshine baked into a cake. The sponge is infused with the bright soul of passion fruit and doused in a sticky passion fruit glaze. It’s a cake baked for, sultry afternoons, a lush treat to be enjoyed slowly beside a steaming cup of tea as the day winds down.


Ingredients

    CAKE
  • 2 cups all-purpose flour
  • 2 teaspoons baking powder
  • ¼ teaspoon kosher salt
  • 4 large eggs, separated
  • 1½ cups granulated sugar
  • ½ cup unsalted butter, softened
  • 1 cup passion fruit pulp WITHOUT seeds (about 12)
    • SYRUP
  • 1 cup granulated sugar
  • ½ cup water
  • ¼ cup passion fruit pulp WITH seeds (about 3)

Directions

  1. Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease and flour a 10-12 cup bundt pan. Mix together flour, baking powder, and salt. Set aside.
  2. Using an electric mixer, beat egg yolks, sugar and butter for 6 minutes or until mixture is pale and creamy. Transfer to a large bowl. Clean the mixer bowl very well and set aside.*
  3. Add the flour mixture in three additions, alternating with 1 cup passion fruit pulp, beginning and ending with flour.
  4. In bowl of stand mixer, whisk egg whites to soft peaks. Fold egg whites into batter in two additions.
  5. Pour batter into prepared cake pan and bake for 50-55 minutes or until a skewer inserted comes out clean.
  6. Meanwhile, make passion fruit syrup. place remaining ¼ cup passion fruit pulp, sugar, and water in a small saucepan over low heat, stirring until sugar dissolves. Increase heat to high and bring to boil. Boil for about 8 minutes or until syrup becomes thick and syrupy. Set aside to cool.
  7. Remove cake from the oven. Using a bamboo or metal skewer, poke holes in the surface of the cake. Reserving ¼ cup of the syrup, pour the remaining syrup over the hot cake. Cool cake completely before removing from the pan. Pour the remaining ¼ cup of the syrup over the top of the cake.

* I abhor trying to clean the stand mixer bowl in the middle of the recipe. If there’s any remaining butter in the bowl, the egg whites will not whip so you must scrupulously clean it. If you have both electric beaters and a stand mixer, use the beaters for the butter mixture and the stand mixer for the egg whites. Clean both later at your convenience.

Two-Bit News:

Upcoming 2026 Events About Town