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.

I’m not really all work and no play; I just have too much work, so I can find time for the play but rarely the documentation of said play.

But play is screaming for attention tonight, because I’m making ice cream.

I clearly don’t do this enough, because I actually forgot to stick the mixing arm in the bowl until after I’d started the machine. But it’s a crying shame, honestly. Homemade ice cream is ridiculously easy — it just takes some investment in an ice cream machine ($50) and the dairy aisle. Helpful as well are several guests or a strong personal resistance to temptation. (Thankfully I am not the type to smother my sorrows in a pint of cold fat. However, it means that making ice cream is often kind of a waste in my house, since I don’t pack that much away.)

Tonight I’m going for the gold (well, speckled ivory, really). We’ve been invited to a dinner party as one of a group of “gastronomes,” which I’m assuming means I need to bring something interesting.

I’m going back to my Advanced Baking and Pastry days, when I kicked some serious ass with an apple charlotte and some fancy accoutrements, including a dramatically long, curled caramel tuile that, sadly, is not going to make an appearance tomorrow. The revised plan: individual apple tartlets with caramel sauce and sour cream ice cream.

(Writing this, I realize I should really be serving tarte tatins. But dealing with blazing-hot caramel in small pans I don’t own in someone else’s kitchen…maybe not such a good idea.)

Sour cream ice cream is brilliant: your favorite vanilla, rich and flecked with loads of real vanilla bean, but with a vivid tang and a filthily decadent richness you aren’t going to find at the corner store. The closest relative is certainly crème fraîche ice cream, or yogurt-flavored gelato from Vivoli in Firenze — which, by the way, has nothing whatsoever to do with “fro-yo.” (European yogurt is the best because it’s fat.)

I couldn’t locate the recipe I used in school, so I went with this version from Gourmet. It’s still churning, but after several dozen tastes…well, I’m optimistic that I can save a little for the party.

Sour Cream Ice Cream
(Gourmet, 1996)

2 cups half-and-half
1 cup sugar
1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
8 large egg yolks
2 cups (1 pint) sour cream

In heavy saucepan combine half-and-half, 3/4 cup sugar, and vanilla bean and bring just to a boil. Remove pan from heat. in a bowl whisk together egg yolks and remaining 1/4 cup sugar and hot half-and-half mixture in a stream, whisking. Return custard to pan and cook over moderately low heat, stirring, until 170°F on a candy thermometer.

Remove pan from heat. Scrape seeds from vanilla bean into custard until combined well and discard pod. Stir sour cream into custard until combined well and strain through a fine sieve into a bowl. Chill custard until cold and freeze in an ice-cream maker.

Makes about 1 quart.