There are always muffins

There's nothing like a bag of lemons in my fridge to keep me in the kitchen. Tart? Check. Cake? Check. Pie? Check. Ice cream? Well, not yet, but it probably won't be long. In the meantime, there are always muffins.



Muffins aren't my favorite quickbread—banana bread will probably always hold that title—but when it comes to quick weekend breakfasts, you can't do much better. With only a few dirty dishes (never mind that one of them is the much-hated muffin pan), even the sleepiest cook can have a batch ready in less than an hour.

Lemon-poppy seed muffins at bakeries are often aggressively lemony (and daffodil yellow). Clearly, I'm all about lemons, but good grief! Maybe it's because I'm usually making them at 7 am on a Saturday morning, but I prefer my muffins (and the lemon in them) in moderation.




Lemon-Poppy Seed Muffins
If you like a bit more lemon, add ½ teaspoon lemon extract to the wet ingredients before mixing it all together.

4 ounces granulated sugar (½ cup)
zest and juice (about 3 tablespoons) from 1 lemon (I use Meyer)
8 ounces unbleached white flour (2 cups)
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons poppy seeds
1 egg
11 ounces milk, preferably whole (1¼ cups)
3 ounces unsalted butter, melted & cooled (6 tablespoons)

Grease the cups of a muffin pan with butter or line with paper or foil cups; set aside. Preheat the oven to 400ºF.

Measure the sugar into a large bowl. Zest the lemon into the bowl and rub it into the sugar briefly. Add the flour, baking powder, soda, salt, and poppy seeds and mix together with a fork or whisk until combined.

In a medium bowl, lightly whisk the egg. Add the milk and whisk well, then stir in the melted butter. Dump the wet ingredients into the dry and stir just until combined. Scrape the batter into the muffin cups (they will be around three-quarters full).

Bake until a tester in one of the middle muffins comes out clean, about 20-25 minutes. Let cool on a rack for a few minutes before unmolding. Unlike some muffins, lemon ones are usually better once cooled.

Makes about a dozen muffins

A long time coming

Back last spring, my sister and her stepdaughter Malia needed to go to Palm Springs ... for a cheerleading competition. Setting aside the fact that I saw more glittery eyeshadow that weekend than in the rest of my life combined, it was a fantastic weekend.

Palm Springs is an odd little place. There are lots of golf courses, of course, and plenty of old people. There is almost always at least one convention going on (some event planner wisely decided to counter the thousands of peppy teens and tweens by scheduling a rodeo during the same weekend). They have an unsurprising glut of restaurants ... and a surprisingly large proportion of those restaurants are really good.

Not that we ate at too many places. With Sherman's Deli—a.k.a. the land of the unholy-good-Reuben—just down the street from our hotel, it was hard to be very adventurous. In fact, one day we ate such a great lunch at the deli that we didn't have room for any of the desserts in the very large bakery display, so we had dessert for dinner. Malia had a cream puff that was nearly the size of her head, Mike had a slice of coconut cream pie, and my sister and I had frozen yoghurt from a little shop down the street.



If you've ever been there, you probably know that the frozen yoghurt craze that has come and gone in the rest of the country two or three times never died in Palm Springs. They are everywhere. Most of them are the self-serve places with an endlessly-changing armory of flavors, and if you know anything about me, you know that I get weak in the knees for good frozen desserts. I bypassed the standard (chocolate and cheesecake) and odder (red velvet cake?) flavors and went straight for the pink grapefruit.

It was perfect. Not too sweet and with a bold citrusy flavor, I could as easily imagine it served in a shot glass as a palate cleanser at a fancy restaurant as from a paper cup at a country fair. I immediately proclaimed that I would recreate it when I got home, but grapefruit season was already past, and within a few months all I was making in my churn were strawberry ice creams and sorbets.

A couple weeks ago, though, I saw fragrant grapefruit at the store and decided to dive in. Winter may not be much to talk about here in L.A., but even when I lived in colder climes winter never stopped me from eating ice cream. After all, anecdata (I can't find any reputable information) says that we Alaskans eat more ice cream per capita than any other state.



It was worth the wait. The resulting frozen yoghurt is the palest pink (if you used red grapefruit it would probably be a bit darker) and not too tart—the acidity of the grapefruit really comes through.


Pink Grapefruit Frozen Yoghurt
After a little bit of research on Yelp, I discovered that we had gone to Yogurt on Tap, which claims to be the first self-serve frozen yogurt shop in Palm Springs (they also claim that frozen yoghurt is a healthy dessert, so have at it, I guess).

8 ounces granulated sugar (1 cup)
zest of 2 grapefruits
2 cups fresh pink grapefruit juice (from 2-3 grapefruit)
2 cups plain, whole milk yoghurt

Rub the zest into the sugar in a small saucepan (supposedly this distributes the oils for better flavor; I don't know if it really does anything, but I do it anyway). Add one cup of the juice and heat over medium heat until the sugar is dissolved. Mix in the additional juice and pour through a sieve into a large bowl, pressing out as much liquid as possible from the zest. Discard the solids and thoroughly chill the syrup mixture.

Add the yoghurt, stirring until combined. For a perfectly smooth mixture you will want to use a blender or immersion blender, as stirring will probably result in some small chunks of yoghurt that refuse to mix in. I ignored them and they mixed up fine in the churn (and saved me some dishes). Freeze according to your ice cream maker's instructions.

Makes one quart

Better than medicine

Sometimes I think I should have named this the Blog of Ugly Food. Chilaquiles; Split Pea Soup; Baingan Bharta; and now Lentil-Sausage Stew.

I last made this soup a few weeks ago, but I've spent the past three days huddled on my couch with the mother of all chest colds. While I've been eating little more than soup, it's been basic noodles in broth, and I've been longing for another bowl of this.



This soup—really more of a stew, as it's very thick and chunky—is a family tradition from the same origin as these oat cookies. I've changed the recipe over the years: I use white wine instead of red (although my mom usually decreases the amount or eliminates it entirely); I've increased the vegetables and decreased the amount of sausage; and I use stock (preferably homemade) instead of dried bouillon. In the nine years that I didn't eat meat, I left out the sausage (and even occasionally substituted vegetarian substitutes)

This soup quickly became a tradition in chilly Alaskan winters; not only is it warm, comforting, and easy, but it's even better a day or two after you make it.



Lentil-Sausage Stew
From a photocopied page of an unknown cookbook. If you like, cut a few slices of sausage on a diagonal, sear just before serving and use them to top the stew. If you leave out the sausage, you may want to add a little bit of smoked salt to finish.

8 ounces dry brown lentils (1¼ cups)
12 ounces smoked kielbasa or Polish sausage, halved and thinly sliced (optional)
3 large carrots, chopped (about 1½ cups)
4 cups vegetable or chicken stock, or a mixture of stock and water, divided
1 bay leaf
4 tablespoons butter
½ large onion, diced (about 1 ½ cups)
3 stalks celery, chopped (1 generous cup)
3 tablespoons flour
½ cup white wine
salt & pepper

Rinse and drain the lentils. Combine with the sliced sausage and carrots in a 4 quart dutch oven or heavy oven-safe pot. Add 3 cups of the stock and the bay leaf and bring to a boil; lower heat, cover and simmer 30 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 375ºF.

Meanwhile, melt the butter in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Cook the onion and celery until tender but not browned, about 10 minutes. Add the flour and cook 1-2 minutes more, stirring constantly. Add the remaining 1 cup stock and the wine; cook, stirring often, until thickened and just brought to a boil, 3-4 minutes more.

Stir the onion mixture into the stew. Season to taste with salt and pepper, then transfer to the oven. Bake, uncovered, at least 40 minutes, stirring from time to time.

Garnish with seared sausage if desired. Serve with sour cream and warm bread.

Serves 6 or more

Resolved

Well, hello, blog. It's been a while.

It's been far longer than I intended, but when Major Life Stuff intervened, I thought it would be better to just take a break entirely and wait until I was able to hit the reset button on my life before I started back up.

Frankly, you didn't miss much. I did a bit of holiday baking, but not nearly as much as I usually do. Since the dust settled a few weeks ago, though, I've been getting to know my kitchen again. Spending some leisurely time cooking has reminded me of just how therapeutic it is. Whether I'm clanging pots in frustration or chopping up vegetables while humming off-tune, there's rarely a day that isn't improved by some time cooking.

And when it's winter in Los Angeles and Meyer lemons are four for a dollar, there's really no excuse not to make something delicious.



(While L.A. winter may not offer me the cold weather that I love, it does get dark early, which means terrible photos for a few more weeks— my apologies.)

I think I've made it clear that I'm a big fan of Dorie Greenspan. Her cookbooks are absolutely loaded with fantastic recipes, she always has variations (that sometimes sound even better than the original), and I haven't yet found an error. However, I would return every recipe I've ever tried—I might be willing to give up every recipe idea I've ever gotten from her—as long as I could keep the lemon cream recipe.

She credits Pierre Hermé, pâtissier extraordinaire, with the recipe; the man should have a monument in his honor somewhere in central Paris. Lemon cream is similar to lemon curd, but the butter is left out of the original mixture. Sugar, lemon juice, zest, and eggs are whisked in a double boiler until thickened. Once cooled a bit, the mixture is whizzed in a blender or food processor and softened butter is added. The butter emulsified, the curd lightens in color, and the whole shebang becomes light, creamy, and not nearly as rich as something with nearly three sticks of butter should be.

I've probably made this tart a dozen times in the last few years, but a couple weeks ago I decided to change it up. After all, when life gives you lemons ... get the blueberries out of the freezer.




Lemon Cream-Blueberry Tart
Adapted from Dorie Greenspan's Baking: From My Home to Yours

I almost exclusively use Meyer lemons for this now, but I have made it with Eureka lemons before; if your lemons are very tart, you may wish to add a bit more sugar. Also, this is a big recipe, but nothing is difficult. The cream is a little bit fiddly, but well worth the effort, and crust, blueberries, and lemon cream can each be made ahead of time. Ideally, though, the tart should be assembled the same day it will be eaten.

For the crust:
5 ounces unbleached flour (1 ¼ cups)
½ cup finely ground almonds
2 ounces confectioners' sugar (½ cup)
¼ teaspoon salt
4.5 ounces unsalted butter, well chilled and in several pieces (9 tablespoons)
1 large egg yolk

For the lemon cream:
7 ounces granulated sugar (1 cup)
zest of 3 Meyer lemons
4 large eggs
¾ cup Meyer lemon juice (from 4-5 lemons)
10.5 ounces butter, in pieces, at room temperature (21 tablespoons)

For the blueberry filling:
1 ½ cups fresh or frozen blueberries (use the best you can find)
1 tablespoon lemon juice
2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon arrowroot (or cornstarch)

For the crust, whiz the flour, almonds, sugar, and salt together in a food processor. Add the butter and pulse until it is a oatmeal/pea consistency (this won't take long - just a few seconds). Add the yolk in a few drizzles, pulsing briefly each time, then pulse in 10-second increments until the dough just comes together—listen for the funny noise the processor makes, which means it's almost ready.

Press the dough quickly into a 9 or 10 inch tart pan with a removable bottom. Butter the shiny side of a piece of foil and press it over the surface of the tart, then transfer to the freezer for at least half an hour. I usually make it a day ahead. (Note: you really should save a little bit of dough in the fridge in case your crust cracks, but I never bother with this; just fair warning.)

To make the lemon cream, set some water to simmer. Also, have a strainer handy next to your blender or food processor. In a bowl that can be set over (not in) the simmering water, combine the sugar and lemon zest. Rub it together until the sugar is moist and fragrant, then whisk in the eggs and lemon juice. Set the bowl over the water and whisk from time to time until warm, then whisk constantly until the mixture reaches 180ºF (if you're not using a thermometer, which I will admit to plenty of the time, it will be rather thick, like lemon curd, and relatively hot to the touch). Immediately strain the mixture into the blender or food processor, discarding the solids. Let the cream stand until cooled a bit, about 5-10 minutes). Put the lid on the machine and set the speed to high. Add the butter pieces in about 4 additions, stopping to scrape the sides if needed. After all the butter is added, keep the machine on high for three more minutes. Scrape the mixture into a bowl, press some plastic against the surface, and transfer to the fridge to chill completely, 4 hours to overnight.

Meanwhile, make the blueberry sauce. Combine the blueberries and lemon juice in a small saucepan. Stir the sugar and starch together in a little bowl, then mix with the fruit. Heat over medium heat until the mixture is thickened and the blueberries are beginning to break down, about 10 minutes. Chill until you are ready to assemble the tart.

To bake the crust, preheat the oven to 375ºF. Put the tart on a baking sheet, leaving the foil on, and bake 25 minutes. Remove from the oven and carefully remove the foil. Press down any puffy bits, then return the tart to the oven for 8-10 minutes more, until golden brown. The edges of my crusts usually brown long before the rest of it, so you want to keep an eye on it and cover the edges with foil if necessary. Transfer to a rack and let cool completely.

Spread the blueberry mixture across the bottom of the tart, leaving about ¼ inch at the edges. Quickly whisk the cream to loosen it, then scrape it into the crust, spreading it carefully over the blueberries. Spread it up to the edges, swirl it around until it's pretty (or at least somewhat so). You can cut and serve immediately, but for best results, refrigerate for at least 15 minutes to let the lemon cream set a bit.

Serves 8

The perfect pudding

Tell me, why did it take me a month to put my pudding craving to rest?



To be honest, I think I just made it worse, but still. Pudding is so simple to make—as long as you're patient enough to keep it from curdling, it takes little more than pantry ingredients and time—but for some reason, I eat the vast majority of my custards frozen or baked in a tart crust.

After weeks of complaining about the lack of pudding in my life, last weekend the desire to procrastinate on some unrelated work got me into the kitchen. Thank you, procrastination! After reading through several cookbooks and blogs, discarding the overly fussy methods, and washing enough dishes to be able to see the bottom of the sink (oops), I was ready to get started.

"Pudding" can be a confusing term depending on who you're talking to. There are steamed puddings (often called "English puddings), which I have never eaten and rarely seen, and so won't talk about here. There are bread puddings, which are the happiest death bread could hope for: like french bread in many ways, a custard of some sort is mixed into stale chunks of bread (and often other stuff, my favorite being spiced apples), and the whole shebang is baked until creamy, fluffy, and will-you-marry-me delicious. Then there are the things that most people in the U.S. think of when they hear the term.

Well, frankly, most people probably think of either a cardboard box or a little plastic cup, but bear with me. In Europe, they are most often baked in a water bath (these are your pots de crème, or cup custards), and thickened with nothing but egg yolks. Alternatively, you can add some starch and cook it on the stovetop, and they are even quicker and almost as good (my dad would say better).

My life is, sadly, without custard cups and very short on oven-proof pudding-sized ramekins, so I decided to make a stovetop pudding. I was thinking about a chocolate pudding—how could I go wrong—but then as I saw a recipe for vanilla pudding in my trusty Dorie Greenspan cookbook, I had a brainwave. Caramel. The only sweet that I crave as often as I do custard. If it makes the most divine ice cream, why not make a pudding?



As I got to work, I quickly dismantled Dorie's method. Food processors may make the silkiest pudding, but I wouldn't know, because pouring several cups of scalding milk into a running food processor isn't an exciting thought for me. I can say that without food processor (I did use it to unclump the cornstarch and mix it with the eggs) or sieve, I had perfectly smooth, lump-free pudding.

The vanilla pudding recipe that I adapted has little puddles of chocolate ganache at the bottom, and that probably would be fantastic with the caramel, too. I could also see serving this dressed up with a poached pear or down with some spice cookies, but it was heavenly by it self, and a dollop of whipped cream was more than enough to keep us happy.




Salted Caramel Pudding
Adapted from Dorie Greenspan's Split-Level Pudding in Baking: From My Home to Yours
For a fantastic how-to on caramel, go to—who else?—David Lebovitz.

2.5 ounces sugar (about 5 tablespoons)
2¼ cups whole milk
scant 1 ounce cornstarch (about 3 tablespoons)
½ teaspoon salt, preferably sea salt or kosher salt
3 large egg yolks (reserve whites for another use)
1 ounce butter (2 tablespoons), at room temperature and cut into a few chunks
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Have six small (4 ounce) or three larger (8 ounce) ramekins or cups at hand.

Put the sugar in a medium heavy bottomed saucepan and set the heat to medium-high. Watch the sugar carefully, and when it begins to melt, use a spatula or wooden spoon to very gently stir from time to time, allowing the unmelted sugar to melt and keeping any hot spots from burning the sugar. When the sugar is mostly melted, swirl the pan from time to time, cooking until the sugar is a deep coppery amber color but not burnt (trust me, you can tell when sugar burns!).

When the sugar first starts heating, you should have ample time to get your other ingredients together. Measure the milk into a measuring cup or bowl and set near the sugar so that you have it handy. If you'd like to use a food processor, put the cornstarch and salt in the basin and pulse a few times—leave the lid on for a few seconds to let the dust settle before transferring to a plate or piece of waxed paper. Add the egg yolks and process for a minute, until lightened a bit. Alternatively, sift the cornstarch into a small bowl; if your cornstarch is lumpy, you may want to sift it twice. Then beat the egg yolks thoroughly in a large bowl; set aside.

Returning to the caramel: as soon as it's reached that amber color, begin stirring and carefully but quickly pour the milk in—it will bubble and steam furiously, so keep your face away and cover your arm with a towel if desired. The caramel will seize into candy immediately, but keep stirring and it will melt in a few minutes. Let heat until the sugar is completely dissolved and the mixture is nearly boiling, about 5 minutes.

Meanwhile, if your eggs are in the food processor, give them another quick pulse and then add the cornstarch mixture and pulse to combine, then transfer to a large bowl. If you're not using a processor, whisk the cornstarch mixture into the eggs. While whisking, slowly pour about a quarter of the hot milk into the egg mixture to temper the eggs. Transfer the mixture back to the pot and whisk constantly until the mixture has thickened and is just barely beginning to bubble, about 5-7 minutes (if you let the milk mixture come to a boil, it will take less time).

If you are worried about lumps, set a sieve over a medium bowl and pour the pudding through. Otherwise, pour the pudding into the reserved cups. If you like skin, stretch plastic wrap over the cups; if you don't, press it against the pudding. Chill until cooled, at least one hour. Serve with whipped cream or ganache (or both). These keep in the fridge for several days (if, for some reason, you don't eat them).

Serves 6 Note: I will try to check this post carefully, but if there's anything wonky in it, I apologize—Blogger is being anything but cooperative right now.

Breakfast of champions

This is the time of year when all I want to make is dessert. Apple cake; banana bread; pear tart. I've had a dangerous obsession with pudding lately, and cold weather makes me develop an illogical affection for ice cream. Kale is beginning to show up again, and I made my first batch of squash soup this weekend, but I don't think I will get truly excited about fall vegetables until I find my first early Brussels sprout.



Luckily for me, my birthday was last week, so a cake was in order. I don't eat a lot of cake in the summer, as most of my fruit goes into tarts and pies, so I wanted to do something new. I was originally planning on making a rum cake for my birthday—I've been toying for years with the idea of recreating a cake from a bakery up near Mike's hometown, and I was spurred into action when I read that the place had changed hands and gone down in quality since the last time we went.

That rum cake—which, you will notice, is not pictured here—is unlike most that I've seen. Several thin layers of moist, spiced sponge cake are brushed with rum syrup and filled with rum-spiked pastry cream; the whole thing is then frosted with more of the pastry cream and topped off with a liberal amount of shaved chocolate.

Delicious in concept, but not (yet) in reality. The sponge recipe I used was a bit too dry, the pastry cream a bit too loose. I'm not one to be bothered by fiddling with a recipe a dozen times before I'm satisfied with it, but I couldn't accept a substandard birthday cake. After flipping through my cookbooks and browsing dozens of websites, I found myself torn between two recipes from Smitten Kitchen. I wavered for a while, flipping back and forth between the pages on my computer, before I chose the Espresso Cake. The deciding factor? I already had everything I needed.

Never mind the fact that almond paste found its way into the house when shopping the other day ... another cake may be in my future, after all.



This cake is a bit time-consuming, but simple. The chiffon cake layers are assertively coffee-flavored; and a hit of espresso-rum syrup keeps them moist and adds another hit of flavor). I did decide to change the frosting—Deb calls for an instant fudge buttercream, and while "instant" and "buttercream" sound lovely together for this Swiss buttercream dévotée, it sounded too sweet and rich for my tastes. I chose instead to go with a whipped ganache—anything with a full pound of Valrhona chocolate can't be very bad—however, ganache sets firmly and takes a long time to soften, making it a bit too difficult to slice and eat a delicate cake (you can see in the picture below where the ganache cracked when I sliced it straight out of the fridge). After all, who wants to wait an hour after slicing a cake to let the frosting soften? I made this the day before I cut into it, but it would be best to make it in the morning or early afternoon and keep it at room temperature until you're ready to serve it.




Espresso Chiffon Layer Cake
Adapted from Smitten Kitchen (danger—you will spend far too much time drooling over/making delicious food if you click over there)

Note that because chiffon cakes owe much of their leavening to egg whites, they will collapse somewhat when cooling. This is normal; however, when you are getting ready to put the cake together, I recommend gently squeezing the base of the cake if the top of your cake shrank in very much; this will help avoid having an uneven layer of frosting on the outside of the cake. Also, know that eggs are easier to separate when cold, but whip much more easily at room temperature; I generally separate my eggs before I even start assembling the other ingredients and washing whatever dishes I need that I accidentally dirtied an hour before...

For the cakes:
¼ cup mild vegetable oil (for baking, I use canola)
6 large eggs, separated
6 tablespoons espresso, room temperature
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
5 ounces cake flour (about 1⅓ cups)
9 ounces granulated sugar, divided (about 1⅓ cups)
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon cream of tartar

For the syrup:
¼ cup hot espresso
¼ cup sugar
¼ cup dark rum

For the ganache:
1 pound bittersweet chocolate, chopped (I almost always use Valrhona Extra Bitter 61% for things like this)
1 cup heavy cream
2 tablespoons light corn syrup
3 ounces unsalted butter, room temperature (6 tablespoons)

Preheat the oven to 350ºF; make sure racks are at top and bottom thirds of the oven. Line three ungreased 8-inch round cake pans with parchment rounds and set aside.

Combine the oil, egg yolks, espresso, and vanilla in a medium bowl and whisk to combine; set aside. In a large bowl, sift together the flour, 7 ounces (1 cup) of the sugar, baking powder, cinnamon, and salt—or, if you're like me and hate sifting, whisk the mixture vigorously, which as far as I can tell does the exact same thing unless you have lumpy leavening or sugar. Set aside.

In another large bowl, combine the egg whites with the cream of tartar. Beat on low speed until foamy, then increase speed to medium-high and slowly add the remaining 2 ounces (⅓ cup) sugar. Beat until soft peaks form (if you lift the beater out of the whites, they should form a little mountain in the bowl, but with a soft tip that folds over on itself); do not beat to stiff peaks or you will end up with a dense cake.

Add the egg mixture to the flour mixture and fold together until combined. Add about a quarter of the whites and fold together quickly to lighten the mixture, then fold in the remaining whites, just until the color is uniform.

Pour the batter evenly into the prepared cake pans. Bake 17-20 minutes, swapping oven location halfway through, until they are springy to the touch and don't leave any batter on a cake tester. Transfer to cooling racks and let cool completely in the pans (30 minutes minimum).

Meanwhile, make the syrup. Measure the sugar into a small bowl, then pour the hot coffee over and stir until the sugar is dissolved. Add the rum, stir well, and let cool.

To make the ganache, heat the cream and corn syrup over medium-low heat until quite hot but not boiling. Add the chocolate and let sit 1-2 minutes, then stir until melted and smooth. Let cool until it's about the consistency of yoghurt or mayo. Beat the butter in a large bowl until fluffy, then add the cooled ganache and beat until lightened and stiff, about 3-5 minutes (you don't want to overbeat it; three minutes may not be enough with a hand mixer, but it certainly should be with a stand mixer).

To assemble the cake, run a knife around the edge of each cake and invert onto the racks; remove the parchment paper. Place the first layer, bottom side up, on the cake platter. Brush with one third of the espresso syrup, then carefully spread with just over a cup of the frosting; after being soaked in syrup, the cake will be fragile, so be gentle. Repeat with the remaining layers, frosting the sides of the cake with the remaining frosting.

Serve at room temperature; if keeping for more than a day, store in the refrigerator

Serves at least 12; you could probably feed 16 easily after a big meal (if you want to share)

Well-earned

I'm taking a well-earned rest today.

The past two weeks of work have been maddening, but the madness ended yesterday! For the next couple months, my life will be unmitigated insanity, but very little of that will be coming from work.

Will that result in this blog getting a bit lively again? Only time will tell. Over the past several months it has been a source of guilt more than joy, as I've made all sorts of food that hasn't made it on here. Some of it will probably appear in future years (it's not exactly the time to share recipes for plum cake or curried corn fritters); some of it will probably trickle to the back of my mind and be lost forever.

In the meantime, though, we have biscuits. Who could complain about that?



I've been making biscuits for years. They're simple—flour, salt, butter, buttermilk, and leavening—and fast. You can bake them in a jiffy to go with stews and soups (I particularly like them with split pea or lentil-sausage stew), or eat them for breakfast stuffed with eggs and sausage. A little dry ham and cheese, and you can make great little two-bite sandwiches. Biscuits are also perfect with all manner of sweet accompaniments, from jam & butter to macerated strawberries and whipped cream; it's not necessary, but I usually add a bit of sugar to the dough, as well.

For years, I made the exact same biscuits. It was the basic biscuits that most people have made at some point over the years, almost verbatim from The Joy of Cooking: rub some cold butter into flour, salt, and leavening, moisten with buttermilk, and pop into a hot oven. Eventually, though, I started fiddling with things, looking at the many variations in my different cookbooks. I started playing with flour (all cake flour wasn't sturdy enough; only A-P flour didn't have enough tenderness) and leavening (a combination of baking powder and soda seems to work best with buttermilk). All in all, I thought, I made a pretty darned good biscuit.



And then. And then. A few weeks ago, sitting on the floor surrounded by a pile of cookbooks and magazines, I noticed the biscuit recipe in Michael Ruhlman's Ratio. After the first basic steps and a rest in the fridge, Ruhlman gives the dough the puff pastry treatment, rolling it and folding it into thirds several times. This results in extreme layers and extra tall biscuits, and it is entirely worth the extra work.



Extra Flaky Buttermilk Biscuits
Adapted from Michael Ruhlman's fascinating and useful book "Ratio".

If you're using these for dessert, I recommend adding a tablespoon of sugar to the dry ingredients, though it's certainly not necessary. And in a strawberry shortcake sort of application, I wouldn't do the extra rolling, as I prefer a less flaky biscuit. I've really started to embrace my kitchen scale for dry ingredients, and I highly recommend you do the same; the volume measurements are estimates in case you don't have a scale.

7 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1¾ cups)
2 ounces cake flour (about ¼ cup)
2 teaspoons baking powder
¼ teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
3 ounces very cold butter, cut into pieces (6 tablespoons)
¾ cup cold buttermilk

Measure both flours into a mixing bowl set on your scale. Add the baking powder, soda, and salt and stir well to mix. Add the cold butter, toss to coat, and quickly rub the butter into the flour (if you naturally have very warm hands, you may want to rinse them in very cold water and dry them before starting - or use a pastry cutter or a pair of knives). The biggest pieces of flour should be no bigger than peas, and the mixture as a whole should look rather crumbly, kind of like oats. Pour in the buttermilk and stir quickly just to combine.

Empty the dough out onto a piece of plastic wrap; if you have some troublesome flour at the bottom of your bowl, just toss it on top. Use the plastic wrap, if needed, to turn the dough a few times until any dry bits are combined, then press into a 1 inch thick rectangle and wrap tightly. Transfer to the refrigerator for about half an hour or the freezer about 10 minutes.

Unwrap the dough and either dust with flour or top with another piece of plastic wrap. Roll the dough out to approximately an 8- by 10-inch rectangle. Fold it into thirds, roll out again, fold into thirds one more time, and roll out about ½ inch thick. Rewrap and return to the fridge for about 20 minutes. (Note: if your home is very warm, you may wish to refrigerate it for a few minutes between folds, as you don't want the butter, which is very thin at this point, to melt or soften).

While the dough chills, heat the oven to 400ºF.

Remove the dough from the fridge and transfer to a cutting board. Using a very sharp knife, trim the edges from the rectangle, then cut the dough into 6-10 rectangles. Transfer to an ungreased baking sheet and bake until tall and golden brown, 16-18 minutes for very small biscuits, a few minutes longer for larger ones.

Makes 10-12 little biscuits (about 2 ½ by 2 inches)

Overworking, with a salad

Well, crap.

Someday, perhaps, my life will be my own again, and I'll be able to do what I want, when I want (at least from time to time). I've finally resorted to the Pomodoro Technique at work, and I've seriously considered bringing it home with me. I'm not quite Type A enough to handle that kind of structure.

That being said, there is an end in sight. Work will may return to some level of normalcy come mid-October, and several other things will be wrapping up before Christmas.

In the meantime, believe it or not, I have been cooking. Not much has been blog-worthy, though. I've got a pudding cake recipe that is about 3 tweaks away from perfect; a chewy whole-wheat chocolate chip cookie that, I hope, I will be perfecting this weekend; and several ideas for tarts and cakes that I haven't even begun to properly plan. For dinners we've eaten scads of pasta (tomato sauce made from our crop has been the high point of the past several weeks), the occasional salad, and anything we could think of to eat with salsa.

This is the time of year when I get confused with the food that's on offer. Late summer produce is still everywhere—tomatoes, corn, grapes, peaches—but we're also getting the first fennel and kohlrabi, the prune plums have already disappeared, and local apples arrived just this week. I'm thrilled with all the options, but it's easy to be overwhelmed. Do I embrace the cool, cloudy evenings and use the foods I've not seen for nine months? Do I ignore those and instead just gorge myself on summer favorites, hoping to help me get through the winter?

Not that it's ever worked—I'll be half-dreaming of tomatoes from the day they turn mealy and sickly pink until they return to some level of quality sometime next spring—but that's been my plan so far. We've still got another dozen or so tomatoes ripening on the patio, so as long as the evil mouse-rat that's already stolen at least 5 pounds doesn't get any more of them, I'll be continuing for a little while longer.

Every season, I find some item that I gorge myself on no matter what the price, and when it's gone, I swear that I'm going to eat even more next year. Just as invariably, when that season comes again, I get distracted by something else. Last summer, it was fresh black-eyed peas. This year, it's been corn, and black-eyed peas are but a distant memory (I ate them once, but it was a lackluster dish that we won't discuss). I've always loved corn, and summers spent at my grandparents house in Oregon always included many dinners of corn on the cob, unnecessarily but deliciously coated in butter and salt. Corn is never as good as it is fresh from the garden—like peas, its sugars start converting to starch the minute it's picked. However, even after a few days in the fridge, the right seasonings and a few minutes in a hot skillet will make a meal that I'd never complain about.

Corn-Feta Salad with Tomatoes

Also like peas, corn freezes extraordinarily well. In the spring, this salad would probably be great with Persian cucumbers instead of tomatoes and some fresh-frozen corn (put it in a very hot skillet without thawing, in a single layer to avoid steaming).

2 tablespoons olive oil, divided

½ sweet onion, thinly sliced

3 ears sweet corn, cut off the cob (2 to 2½ cups kernels)

1 large fresh tomato

2 ounces feta cheese

pinch dried oregano

salt & pepper

salad greens (optional)

Heat a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add one tablespoon of the olive oil and the sliced onion; sprinkle with salt and cook, stirring well, until tender and beginning to brown, 5-7 minutes. Increase the heat to high and add the corn, mixing well and spreading across the skillet. Cook 2-3 minutes, stirring a few times, until tender; if your pan is hot enough, you'll get some nice caramelized bits on the corn.

Remove from the heat and transfer to a shallow bowl; set aside to cool to barely warm or room temperature.

Chop the tomato and add it to the mixture; crumble the feta over. Add the oregano, some pepper, and the remaining tablespoon of olive oil and gently stir to combine. Adjust seasoning to your taste—depending on your feta, you may or may not need more salt.

Serve over a bed of greens, with crusty bread or crostini (or, for that matter, <i>on</i> crostini as bruschetta).

Serves 3 as a main dish, 4-6 as a side, and I-have-no-idea-how-many as a bruschetta appetizer (8-10, maybe?)

Tart-maggedon

I like to imagine that someday, somewhere, I will have enough land to have a proper garden. Rows of tomatoes, long beanpoles, cucumbers big and small grown for various pickles, a fruit tree or two. Until then, I just have to satisfy myself with my little starter garden on our patio. Every year we try a something new in the spring—it was sweet, oblong French breakfast radishes this year—and spend the summer coaxing as many peppers and tomatoes as we can out of our various containers and small strips of earth.

Yesterday, I decided to pick the tomatoes that were ripe.



I don't think we're doing so badly for an apartment patio.

Perhaps unfortunately, I haven't been doing much of particular interest with the tomatoes. We've eaten at least a half dozen dinners of panzanella; some sandwiches with mayo, tomato, and sharp cheddar cheese; and today we had pasta with the simplest tomato sauce: fresh blanched tomatoes, onion and garlic, olive oil, salt, herbs, and a touch of butter at the end. My favorites may have been the specimens that were sliced and eaten plain, still warm from the sun.

They may only be around, in all their end-of-summer glory, for another month or so, but I'm actually not here to talk about tomatoes. I'm here to talk about a meal that it took me several weeks, no few tears, and a burn scar on my arm to perfect. I'm here to talk about cheese gone bubbly and golden-brown in the oven. I'm here to talk about a mushroom and fontina tart.



Cheese and mushrooms, I'll venture, aren't ever likely to be a bad pair. Years ago, when I was still living in Morocco, I was paging through a borrowed vegetarian cookbook when I saw a recipe for polenta, baked with fontina and topped with mushrooms. In later years, I developed a slight obsession with savory tarts. Chard, beets, tomatoes ... you name it, I'll probably be happy to stick it in a buttery crust.

The first time I made this tart, I planned it days in advance. I read recipes and made notes and made a special trip to the store to get some fontina; I bought mushrooms and scrubbed my kitchen clean.

I should have known early that it wasn't going to work out. As I sliced onions and hummed along to Motown classics, suddenly it came to me: I never made the crust! I abandoned my vegetables, cranked up the oven, and feverishly put together the food processor, shaped my crust, and tossed it in the freezer, and by the time it was ready to go into the oven to blind-bake, it was nearly nine.

Never one to quit, I kept working. My mushrooms were prepped and custard mixed when the par-baked crust came out; the whole thing wasn't out of the oven more than 2 minutes before I popped it back in with its fillings. Then I waited.

And waited. The house was filled with delicious smells and both of us were practically drooling when the timer finally beeped. Perhaps I was starting to bonk and my hands were shaking; perhaps I was just tired, getting ready for dinner at 10 pm. As I took the bubbling, golden tart from the oven, something possessed me to unmold it immediately and without a spatula. As the metal tart ring inevitably slipped and wrapped around my forearm like a bracelet, I yelled, jerked ... and the entire tart fell, face down of course, onto the floor.

I'm not ashamed to admit it. I sat down, surrounded by tart-maggedon, and I cried for a few minutes. Afterward, I got up, iced my arm, helped Mike clean up the mess, and made ramen for dinner.

Tarts were on probation in my house for a few weeks after that. Eventually, though, I was ready to give it another whack, and I'm glad that I did.



As long as you don't wait until 8:30 to start dinner, this tart is totally worth your time. The ingredients may be difficult to find (or a bit expensive) in some places, but they're used in small enough amounts that it's not a wallet-buster. The first time I made it, I used a crumbly tart crust enriched with an egg yolk, but the second time I chose to use an all-butter flaky pastry dough, which was quicker, easier, and better suited to the filling. When making an all-butter crust, I use a method similar to the one on Chez Pim—I use more water and don't roll it nearly as much. While it's blind-baking, the onions and mushrooms have ample time to cook, and while the composed tart is then baking, there's ample time to make a salad—in my case, an incongruous but delicious warm corn salad. Just make sure you unmold it carefully when it's done.




Mushroom and Fontina Tart
You might notice that my pictures look a little bit light on mushrooms; that's because I'm much worse at meal planning (and the shopping that goes along with it) than I would have you believe, and I made the second tart with only about 4.5 ounces of mushrooms

For the pâte brisée:

1 ¼ cups unbleached flour
½ teaspoon salt
4 ounces (1 stick) unsalted butter, well chilled
¼ cup cold water, plus more if needed

For the tart:

½ onion, thinly sliced
1 tablespoon olive oil
3 tablespoons butter, divided
6-8 ounces assorted mushrooms (I used a mixture of shiitake, maitake, and cremini)
2-3 sprigs fresh thyme, or ½ teaspoon dried
salt and pepper to taste
4 ounces fontina, grated
2 eggs
¾ cup milk, preferably whole
pinch salt

Preheat the oven to 375ºF.

To make the crust, mix together the flour and salt in a bowl or on a clean counter or chopping board. Cut the butter into the flour until the mixture resembles very coarse meal. Pour the cold water over the flour and mix until it just holds together; feel free to add more, a teaspoon or so at a time, if necessary. Form the dough into a flattened disk, wrap tightly with plastic wrap, and refrigerator for 30 minutes.

Roll out the dough to 11-12 inches in diameter and transfer to a 10 inch tart pan, gently pressing the crust into the edges; fold the crust under at the edges if it is thin in spots. Trim the edges, cover with foil, and weight with pie weights or some dry beans. Place the tart pan on a baking sheet and place in the oven for 15 minutes. Remove the weights and foil and return to the oven until just golden, 8-10 minutes more.

Meanwhile, set a large skillet over medium high heat with the olive oil and one tablespoon of the butter. Sauté the onion with a bit of salt until softened and just beginning to brown, 5-7 minutes; transfer to a medium bowl. Slice all the mushrooms and sauté in two additions, adding one tablespoon of the butter and seasoning with salt and pepper each time; when cooked, transfer to the bowl with the onion. Add the thyme, stir well, and set aside.

Beat the eggs together with the milk and salt; stir in the cheese, leaving a bit out. Spread the mushroom mixture evenly over the tart crust, then carefully pour the custard-cheese mixture over. Sprinkle the reserved cheese over the top.

Return the tart to the oven and bake 45-60 minutes, until golden brown all over and bubbling; if you prod a toothpick in near the middle you will see that the custard has set. Let cool 5-10 minutes before unmolding and serving. Serve hot or warm.

Serves 6 to 8

Seven links

I wasn't the kid who responded to chain letters, but I can't resist a meme, and this one gives me the opportunity to look back at the past 14 or so months of blogging. Sometimes it's easy to get bogged down in day-to-day life, cooking the same meals, scrabbling for blog ideas, and forgetting to think about ideas and recipes from even a few months past. At least a dozen times this summer I've gone to my recipes page, only to see something like stuffed squash or apple caramels and rack my brain to remember when I last made or even thought about a dish.

Reflection, it turns out, has some value. Although tomatoes and corn and plums are reminding me that there's still a little bit of summer left, the beginning of school and chilly evenings are already turning my mind to braises and wintery spices, to squash and applesauce. As I scrolled through earlier posts, I felt a little flutter in my chest that most women my age reserve for Johnny Depp. Black-eyed peas! Pomegranates! Stroganoff! I may have a few more summer posts left, but my unfaithful heart is already scheming fall recipes. Here are some of the things that I'm planning to share:

- Kale Soup
- Braised Pearl Onions (a.k.a. the best Thanksgiving side dish)
- Cheesy Roast Pumpkin "fondue"
- Chili-that-Texans-would-hate
- Bok Choy
- Onion-Stuffed Moroccan bread
- A trio of autumn cookies: Ginger-Orange, Pumpkin-Raisin, and Molasses Spice
- Eggnog Ice Cream
- and hopefully, Spiced Rum Cake with Custard

But first, I'm going to head down memory lane with seven special posts. Thanks to Nicole at the wonderful blog And Baby Cakes Three for inviting me to participate and forcing me to look back.

My most beautiful post:

I suppose it's cheating to choose either of my Alaska posts, but as much as I love food, I don't think it will ever live up to the beauty of my first home. For food, I think some of my prettiest pictures have been on some of my barest posts—I flipped through dozens of posts, and my favorites all had one or two photos each. I finally settled on my Fresh Black-Eyed Peas with Swiss Chard; not only are they fantastic to eat, but I love both of the photos.




My most popular post:

This also kind of qualified as my most surprising post. Half a Cabbage and a Cake was written near the end of two weeks vacation; I was feeling lazy and relaxed, and I had whipped up a simple little cornmeal cake to celebrate the New Year (and the end of my pumpkin pie). While I make plenty of more complicated meals, this is the kind of food I love: simple, rustic, and flavorful.




My most controversial post:

Umm... I don't think anything that I write about is controversial—at least, I can't imagine someone who gets riled up about chocolate spends much time reading food blogs. I suppose for lack of anything else, I will choose this post about souped up ramen (pun totally intended), simply because lots of foodies have no place in their heart for packaged ramen. I make no apologies.


My most helpful post:

I don't think that very many recipes I post on here are outrageously complicated, but perhaps the most helpful post is the one for Cheese and Onion Enchiladas. The process of making a more traditional enchilada isn't familiar to most people I've met, but they're not difficult, just time consuming. In addition, eating enchiladas with a big pile of cold, crunchy vegetables is foreign to almost everyone I know, and it can make a believer out of an enchilada hater.






A post that surprised me with its success:

Once I discount the Blueberry-Lemon Cornmeal Cake above, this one's easy: Aloo Simla Mirch. Curried potatoes and bell peppers, made with a simple homemade masala, is one of my favorite Indian dishes when bell peppers are at their best (and one that I will probably be making again this week). However, in my experience most people are more interested in getting Indian food at restaurants than making it at home—perhaps due to the initial outlay to buy spices that Western-centric cooks often don't have—I credit Liana at Pie and Beer, who linked back to it shortly after I posted it.




A post I feel didn’t get the attention it deserved:

I had a hard time with this one—since my life crashed down around my ears and my posts became so infrequent this summer, I can't really blame anyone but myself for some of the posts that haven't gotten much attention. The internet wave just keeps on rolling no matter what is going on in real life. However, I think it's a real shame that more people didn't get a chance to check out this simple Pea Purée. Not only is it easy to make and delicious—I recently discovered that it's fantastic thinned with a little bit of water and tossed with pasta—but it also embraces the inherent starchiness of peas that haven't just been rushed in from the garden.




The post that I am most proud of:

The posts that I tend to be most proud of are the ones where I have the much longed-for combination of good recipe, photos, writing, and story. While I often have three of those four (sometimes I may be more terse and not have a story at all; more often, my pictures are altogether lacking), putting all four together is always an accomplishment. What could be more simple than oatmeal cookies? Without raisins, chocolate, or some other accompaniment, the recipe has to be spot-on. My Perfectly Simple Oatmeal Cookies are chewy and flavorful; the pictures, monochromatic though they may necessarily be, are better composed than most; and the story reminds me fondly of family and friends.




Wow. I think I'm exhausted. I'm going to cheat and not tag specific people for this. How about this: if you are interested in joining in here, send a message and let me know.

I'm off for the day, but that promised mushroom tart will be making an appearance before the end of the weekend—with (wonder of wonders) a dessert! I haven't had a dessert on here in ages, it seems, but that will change soon.

It's a start

I've managed, in the past several days, to work my way from lying prone on the couch, sipping soup and running through entire boxes of tissue to having some ability to put together coherent thoughts, interrupted only by the occasional three-minute coughing fit. I guess I'll call it progress—on the bright side, a hacking cough provides a fantastic ab workout. Amazingly, I've actually been cooking. My favorite sick foods are not exactly blog-worthy (eggs poached in milk, served over toast, ramen noodles, and tomato-rice soup with cinnamon), but I didn't entirely lose my sense of taste, so once my throat had recovered a bit, I decided to take advantage.



Shortly after returning from my trip, I went to the farmer's market to find that summer had finally taken hold: piles of peppers, boxes of beautiful (and horribly overpriced) heirloom tomatoes, great heaps of fragrant basil. On my own little patio, habañeros are beginning to turn orange, tomatoes are ripening almost as fast as we can eat them, and a sunflower kindly planted by one of our local songbirds is swiveling from east to west each day.



I came home with a shock of sweet Italian basil, a big bag of red peppers, and a plan. Particularly in California, bell peppers seem to be forgotten around the summertime. Eggplant are everywhere, towers of corn stack up on tables and in grocery stores, and boxes of watermelon and cantaloupe loom like bodyguards at store entrances. But bell peppers? Eh, you can get those any old time.

True? Perhaps. But deeply colored peppers, small and firm, with sweet and lightly acidic flavor—those are harder to find. Red peppers (or their orange and yellow siblings) are all right raw, I suppose, diced with some red onion and a tangy vinagrette or used as a vehicle for hummus or some other sort of dip, but their flavor deepens when cooked. They pair well with spicy Indian flavors and are delicious blended into a nutty sauce, but they are at their most simple and versatile when roasted.

Every summer, I try to find a big bag of super-ripe red peppers on the cheap. Sometimes they are beginning to wrinkle with age, or they're strangely wrinkled and collapsed on themselves, or even beginning to bruise and turn brown. No matter—a hot, hot oven or grill wipes away all those sins. A bonus? Tuck them away in your freezer, and you can add color to soups and stews, or grill up crusty panini, all winter long.



I adore toasted sandwiches. Nearly anyone who is passionate about food would agree that texture and mouthfeel are integral parts of any meal, and for me, any proper sandwich has to have some good crunch. If it doesn't have lettuce, or cucumber, or maybe even some potato chips when the time is right, it's gotta be toasted. (That is not to say that some sandwiches don't require toast and a crunchy filling ... I don't want any soft bread on my BLTs.) A griddle and some melted butter will make a fine toasted sandwich, but the rippled, crusty ridges are what make panini really special. You don't need any special apparatus, although the panini presses look pretty cool; you don't even need one of those special cast-iron grill lids. Any heavy pot that fits into your grill pan or will balance on a flat grill will work fine. I use a 10-inch cast iron skillet that nests into my 10 inch grill pan, but any dish - even a plate weighed down with a bag of beans or a foil-wrapped brick will do.




Roasted Red Pepper Panini
To be honest, I usually make these with goat cheese instead of fresh mozzarella (it's less fussy, as the goat cheese doesn't get as gooey when it melts); just sub the goat cheese and spread it a little farther on your sandwich.

4 slices, about ⅜ inch thick, rustic country-style white bread (like a ciabatta loaf), or 2 individual ciabatta rolls
4 ounces fresh mozzarella
roasted red pepper, about one medium pepper total (see below)
8-10 fres basil leaves
salt & pepper
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon butter

To make roasted red peppers, preheat your broiler or grill. Rinse red peppers (I can get about a dozen in my oven at once); arrange on a baking sheet and place near the top of the oven or pile them in a single layer on the grill. Cook until the skin is blackened, turning with tongs as needed until tender and mostly blackened all over. Place the peppers in a paper bag or a lidded container and set aside to steam and cool for a few minutes. When cool enough to handle, peel away the skin and remove the stem and seeds; discard all but the flesh. To freeze, you can either set little puddles on a baking sheet, then transfer to a bag when frozen, or stuff them into an ice cube tray and do the same.

To make the panini, heat a heavy, ridged grill pan over medium-high or high heat (because the mozzarella melts quickly, make sure it's higher than you would usually use for a sandwich); have ready an unheated matching skillet or a heat-resistant dish (with weights if needed).

If using individual rolls, cut a thin slice from the top of each roll, then cut crosswise into two ⅜ inch slices. Arrange the bread slices on a plate; if using the rolls, face the cut side down.

Thinly slice the fresh mozzarella and pat dry with a paper towel; if it is very fresh and juicy, you may want to press a little bit to remove a bit more whey. Arrange over two slices of bread, leaving a half-inch clear around the edges. Pat the red pepper pieces dry as well and arrange over the cheese. Scatter basil leaves over, season with salt and papper, and top each sandwich with the other slices of bread.

Melt the butter in a little bowl and mix it with the oil. Brush about half of the mixture over the tops of the sandwiches, then flip the bread, cheese side up, into the grill pan. Set your weight over the top, pressing down if needed to force the bread into the ridges.

Toast 2-3 minutes, until golden brown and crispy. Remove the weight, brush the tops with the butter mixture, and carefully flip. Note: if your pan was too cool or your fillings too juicy, you may have some pepper- or cheese-juice drip into the pan; if so, don't panic - just hold them over a plate to catch the drips before flipping them.

Press on the toasted side just briefly, then remove the weight to finish cooking. If necessary, use your spatula to poke any errant cheese back into the sandwich.

Toast until golden, 2-3 minutes more. Remove to a cutting board to firm up for 1-2 minutes, then cut and serve.

Makes 2 sandwiches

Jiggedy-jog

There's something to be said for simultaneous refreshment and frustration. After a fantastic 10 days visiting my parents (and an old friend from high school), I returned home, only to contract a nasty virus on the plane ride home. I limped my way through the short week at work and am sniffling, coughing, and sneezing my way through the weekend. Alaska, as always, was a blast. We climbed mountains.














We saw ice ...












 ... and water ...

 

 ... and quite a few animals.







 (That's a porcupine, by the way, but he was on the move.)






 We also ate a lot of good food, but I didn't take any pictures. Halibut tacos; pea purée (this time with mushrooms, as a topping for pasta); seared coho salmon; and the best fried chicken I've ever made, if I do say so myself. We introduced Mike to zucchini patties and my mom to Swiss chard; we ate spring rolls, crusty pizza, and other hometown favorites; and we made three quarts of ice cream with cherries and dark chocolate stracciatella for my dad. It was fun—in some ways, I could have stayed much longer. Given that they had record-breaking rainfall the two days after we left, though, I suppose it was time.




 Coming soon: red pepper panini, and the mushroom tart-that-almost-wasn't.