When the girls informed me that they were all coming over on Saturday to throw me a housewarming party, I couldn’t really say no — especially since celebration for us really means a flimsy excuse to put on dresses, eat a ton, and get drunk.

The theme was all things français, and though told not to lever un doigt, I sort of couldn’t help it. So besides vacuuming, stashing away my stacks of as-yet-unread magazines, and mopping the kitchen floor, I decided to make some cookies. Small enough not to interfere with anything the ladies might bring over, but a contribution of goodwill…sort of a party favor.

The first selection, of course, was French macarons, because they’re Shelli’s favorite. I thank David Lebovitz for the fantastic recipe, which I fucked up royally. (My fault, not his. Macarons are easy to overcook, and when they’re chocolate, and you can’t go by sight….)

Anyway, they were fine when sandwiching thick layers of dark-chocolate ganache, and anyway, the girls would be drunk by the time dessert rolled out. Sometimes it’s just the thought that counts.

The real fun was the second round: lemon tuiles from Alice Medrich’s Pure Dessert. I love tuiles. There’s something truly masochistic about eyeing the hot cookies for a full minute after you’ve pulled them from the oven, betting yourself that that one is just set enough not to accordion up when you try sneak the spatula under its edges. And they are really cute after you finally ease them from the pan and drape them over a rolling pin. So curvy.

So the tuiles were sufficiently tasty and lemony, enough to offset the overdone chocolate macarons a bit, but then I faced the plating. How do you arrange cookies that look like Pringles?

Well, duh.

(With thanks to Elise, who boosted my ego immeasurably when she squealed “Pringles!” as I brought them out to the table. )

I jump at just about any excuse to make loads of cupcakes. They’re cute, perfectly portioned, and much easier to serve than the full-size models. There’s also something so second grade about them that makes me giggle. When you go for more elegant flavors than Duncan Hines yellow or Betty Crocker chocolate, you’re guarantees at least a few smiles, if not frosting-sweetened tears of nostalgia.

Shelli’s 40th birthday, an afternoon barbecue for 30 or so, made for a perfect cupcake date (barbecues scream finger food).

I converted a red velvet cake recipe into cupcake form — wildly misjudging the proper fill level of the muffin tins, such that I had to give each of the red beauties a bit of a haircut on the cooling rack (it was that or risk the edges falling off in transit). Red velvet always makes a splash — it’s really, really red — but be warned: Your guests will ask you what it tastes like (red is not an acceptable answer, apparently).

Since Shelli loves nothing if not variety (and, more honestly, the red velvet didn’t make nearly as many cakes as I’d hoped), I decided to make a chocolate batch as well. And in honor of spring, carrot cake! Why not? My mom’s recipe, moistened with crushed pineapple (and blessedly devoid of nuts), always wins. As an added bonus, cream cheese frosting works beautifully with all three cakes. (I mean, I could eat cream cheese frosting with a spoon, but it’s a little more subtle as a topping.)

In any case, by the end of the decorating phase, cupcakes lined both counters, the stove, and even the coffee table, piles of candied rose petals, cocoa nibs, and silver dragees filling most of the blanks. Shelli’s mile o’ cupcakes!

A beautifully wrapped caramel
(image lifted from Epicurious)

I’m still here! Just quiet. I’ve been cooking like mad since before Thanksgiving — and eating too, which I suppose could explain the lethargy.

Highlight of the season: Made my very own salted chocolate caramels. Oh, mama. Trust me: A chewy, not-too-sweet, teasingly salty caramel a day can ease a lot of post-holiday pain.

Of course they’re not difficult (I rarely get complicated), but it was nice to find a recipe in Gourmet in December. You make your caramel and add some chocolate partway on the path to 255°. A bit of very nice sea salt is key, and I actually don’t regret spending something upward of $9 on a box of the flaky Maldon variety. I just may cook these up all year.

Back soon — and with a new camera to boot, I hope! Look for uncopyrighted photos here soon.

A long, sweaty weekend, one of the rare astonishingly hot days in San Francisco, and I’m just way too far from the beach. Ty was getting heatstroke in Laguna Seca with Valentino Rossi, and I wanted to keep myself busy…so I baked.

Well, first I ate and socialized: Jonas and Melissa came to town, and I found myself nominated once again to be social coordinator (hilarious, really, when one thinks about how socially backwards I really am). But first, dinner.

I made a bargain with some folks at work, many of whom live in lovely homes with yards in the steamy South Bay: Bring me the fruit from your tree, and I will make you treats. From Cara I got a bag of Meyer lemons (which immediately turned into lemon bars); from Jin a bag of the most enormous Eureka lemons I have ever seen. All organic, naturally, and I swear, these things are as big as Nerf footballs. I couldn’t even carry home the entire bag at once.

The lemon biscotti (image lifted
from Leite’s Culinaria)

Jin’s lemons became lemon biscotti, as I had some citron vodka in the house. Crunchy but disappointingly not so lemony, despite the vodka, zest, and lemon oil. Round two went into an enormous batch of lemon curd (I know, I’m not terribly creative). Jin claims to love lemon curd, fortunately, so I’m hoping the jar I gave him won’t go to waste; the rest was split between a gift for Angus and a good-size scoop still waiting in the fridge for my spoon. Tonight the lemons would also become dinner.

I had crème fraîche leftover in the fridge from Kevin’s brunch, so I finally got to try Amanda Hesser’s recipe for pasta with lemon, crème fraîche, and arugula, with spinach in lieu of the arugula. (You can find the recipe in Cooking for Mr. Latte, which despite the precious title is actually a fascinating, witty, and saliva-inducing read. Don’t miss the almond cake.) It wasn’t nearly as puckery as I’d feared, since I wasn’t using Meyer lemons; but the creaminess and slight tang of the crème fraîche was set off nicely by the sweet spinach and bite of the pasta — quite wonderful, really.

The quickie dinner gave me time to eat and plan drinks in honor of the last-minute Jonas and Melissa visit (Nihon, as usual), which thankfully we kept early, so I was up in time to hit the farmer’s market the next morning.

Keeping a really long weekend story short for the moment, the market led to gift-certificate spending at Williams-Sonoma, then a well-deserved, if sweaty, nap and a lovely steak and panzanella dinner for one. Later, drinks again, this time at Medjool, until all the buttheads showed up and we had to flee to Doc’s.

Yesterday? With all those egg whites in the fridge, I had to get to work, and despite the junglelike feel of my kitchen…yep, angel food cake (it’ll go nicely with the lemon curd!). So maybe it is strange to wake up and bake a cake on a Sunday morning for no one in particular, and it’s certainly irresponsible to keep the gas on for an hour when power is at a premium, but you can’t beat a light dessert in the dead of summer.

Which is why I finished the day by making lemon sorbet.

torta della nonna

Listening to early-’90s punky stuff while stuffing my face with homemade popcorn tossed with cheese and white truffle oil and trying futilely to focus on writing sensible documentation for the hosting world about blog tools…lordy, what have I become? Yet I find myself wondering, What is Plaid Retina doing right now?

The link between music and food is obvious and has been discussed at great length, certainly, but I’m not convinced that the relationship between, say, Jawbreaker and chopping greens for soup, or Nuisance and a lovingly rolled-out pie dough have been fully examined.

Speaking of which, I finally decided to go for it and, though giving up my aspirations to ever make one like Lino’s, put together a homemade torta della nonna. Honestly, the ubiquitous pie can’t really ever be that bad, loaded as it is with lemon and pine nuts and (dreamy) ricotta.

(Actually, a side note: This pie is, I believe, often made with pastry cream, which may explain why some tortas have a puddinglike texture, while mine is fairly dry. Also, I may love photography, but I do not know how to take pictures of food. Side image is for reference only. If you want food porn, visit Nordljus.)

I can’t get enough ricotta, so I don’t know why I don’t make it weekly, but the time is certainly right when it’s the star of the plate. (I also forget that when made with cream, especially, homemade ricotta takes no more than a couple of hours to cook and drain.)

Mario Batali includes a recipe in Molto Italiano that asks for pine nuts in lieu of what I thought were standard wheatberries, which worked for me, since I didn’t have either time or inclination to schlep over to Rainbow in the rain for said wheatberries The dough is a lovely-feeling pasta frolla made with butter, olive oil, egg, vanilla, flour, salt, and sugar, though I’m convinced that Mario’s measurements are short on liquid — it wouldn’t come together without an additional sprinkling or three.

Rest the dough, mix together your ricotta, egg, lemon, and sugar, roll the dough, and line the pan. If you have a removable-bottom tart pan, this is the time to use it — I looked to a nonstick springform for straight sides, and found it simply too slippery and way too high to grip the bottom layer while it awaited filling (I also probably overheated the dough). A royal pain in the ass, in any case.

Still, after a short fight, the crust was laid and filled, and the delicate top layer placed and crimped. A short bake revealed a beautiful golden crust (thank you, olive oil) and puffed filling, just sweet enough to enjoy with coffee but restrained enough to pair brilliantly with some of that dessert wine languishing in my cabinet. (It also works well with framboise, I learned last night….)

But the best praise of all came unexpectedly when Ty, who doesn’t even like sweets, accepted a sliver and announced that that he loved it. (And as an excellent post-script, I brought the rest to work and appeared to make some coworkers happy, other than poor Justine, who made the mistake of asking me for advice on cheesecake. I talked her ear off.) It’s no Lino pie, but that’s not bad.

OK, fine, yes, I am a dork. And kind of dumb, honestly. I just realized that having a laptop means I don’t have to poke my head around the corner from the kitchen to read a recipe I found online — I can bring the whole goddam thing into the kitchen. Maybe I’ve been missing out because I usually don’t have counter space. In any case…quite a discovery.

So back to the dork part. I had a Saturday like most normal people, I think. Got up late and made a frittata for breakfast with the swiss chard that’s been staring at me balefully from the produce bin for a week (mixing it with capers, some leftover roasted potatoes, and unidentified but delicious grated hard cheese — yum!). It looked like a nice day, so we walked over to the drugstore then wandered down Market for a while, Ty left, and I headed to Hayes Valley for some window shopping. I made my way home when the fog started rolling in, stopped to say hello at Bi-Rite, put away my groceries, and suddenly decided I needed to make gingerbread.

Sometimes I get a bug up my ass about a particular food, and I’ve decided it’s best to just go with it. The bug isn’t always something I need to cook — more a food that needs to happen. A couple of months ago I suddenly developed a craving for hot-and-sour soup. I blew it off that night, too lazy to even call for delivery. (I pretty much never get delivery. Makes me feel too guilty.) The next night, same, so I made something Asian at home. Third night — Jesus, OK! Marched over to Yum Yum House, got my soup, enjoyed it thoroughly, and forgot about hot-and-sour soup again.

I told Jee recently about an episode at school during our final class (making food for the restaurant) after our chef let us know that although he had a menu prepared, he would be thrilled to take our suggestions for the next day’s menu. Out of nowhere — skate! We must have skate. Couldn’t have made Chef happier, but I thought it was just weird, honestly. I don’t eat skate much. Well, OK, last weekend, actually, but that’s the first time I’d cooked it since school (with sauce grenobloise, by the way — lots of lemon, butter, and capers — mmmm). Thing is, I just think about food all the time. I guess I shouldn’t be shocked when a left-of-center dish starts whispering in my ear.

So anyway: gingerbread. I really wanted to make the fresh ginger gingerbread highlighted recently by Leite’s Culinaria but didn’t have the right sized pan. On, then, to Nancy Baggett’s Nicely Spicy Gingerbread, to which I added both crystallized ginger and orange oil.

Now it’s 7pm on a Saturday, and my house smells like gingerbread. I may be a dork, but gingerhouse is not a bad thing.