So, I’ve got what I think is exciting news, so I’ll just cut straight to it: I’m going to be an au pair in Paris for the next year.

For awhile, I felt like I needed to justify this decision to people by saying all of the potential advantages, and what I’d gain from it. But I really honestly don’t feel compelled to do that anymore, and I’ll just let the fact that I am very, very excited speak for itself. If all goes according to plan (as in, French Ministry of Labor, please let me into your country in a timely manner), I’ll be heading to France on a plane on the 20th of July.

I mainly wanted to announce this because if by some crazy-awesome-slim chance that any of you reading my blog happens to live in Paris, please be my friend!!! (Not joking. We should totally meet up.)

But, I also wanted to share it with you guys just because I have a feeling the nature of this blog might change or be altered somewhat. Although food is always on the forefront of my mind, I am not sure to what degree cooking, baking and sharing recipes will take a priority over the next few months. I’d still like to share what I make and eat, but I’ll warn you that this blog might be composed of some photo-only posts at best and empty silence for awhile at worst. Who knows, we’ll see! To be honest with you, I really don’t feel accountable to anyone or anything with this blog, and I’d like to keep it that way.

It’s kind of a little ironic, seeing as my blog is named The Moveable Feasts—which is so obviously a kind of (now) embarrassing allusion to Hemingway’s statement of Paris: “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.” I don’t, however, want this blog to become a cliche of why Paris is the best place in the world, for multiple reasons: 1) There are, like, a serious amount of blogs devoted to Paris and how wonderful it allegedly is, 2) I’ve never even been to Paris! I don’t really have any expectations for this next year, and I’d like to keep it that way (best way to exceed expectations is to keep them extraordinarily low or not have any at all, amIright?) and 3) I like some separation from real-life and blog-life, and I feel like food is a happy intermediary between the two.

Anyway, I want you all to know that I most definitely did not make this French meal for the sole purpose of announcing my move on this blog. Rather, I made a nice meal the other day since we had a big bunch of beets on hand and I’ve only been wanting to make quiche lorraine since forever. I made it about a year ago when Waylon came in visited me one weekend in Oregon. I followed the same recipe (Julia Child’s), but that time I added in some sauteed onions and a generous amount of gruyere cheese. I think I liked it better that way, but when I read in Mastering the Art of French Cooking that a true quiche lorraine contains only bacon, eggs and cream, I felt too guilty to try anything else. I felt like I had to make one real quiche lorraine, if for no other reason than to say that I made a real quiche lorraine instead of a quiche vosgienne (with gruyere) or a quiche alsacienne (with onions). Besides, I kind of feel proud announcing that the quiche is composed almost solely of dairy and animal fat in all its forms. I mean butter, cream, eggs, bacon? All good things. Still, when I make it again, I’ll probably add in some sauteed onions and gruyere.

I paired it with a beet salad, which I love. This one comes from Dorie Greenspan, who did something brilliant by pairing the beets and their simple French vinaigrette with “icy red onions.” They’re thin onion slices that are swished in water to remove any of their bitter bite, and then they’re chilled in the fridge with some ice cubes to make them refreshing and chilly. These onions, along with the tart vinaigrette-soaked beets, toasted walnuts, and a sprinkling of herbs, made a pretty good and sharp salad to go with the quiche.

I love, love the idea of having cold quiche as leftovers. Unfortunately, my Dad sees anything in a tart or cake form, and he equates it as a around-the-clock snack that he allows himself to nibble on until it’s gone. So between my dad, mom and me, there is one measly wedge leftover. To my Dad’s credit, it is a thin quiche—something I actually don’t find incredibly appealing (I think adding in onions and gruyere would beef it up a bit, as would using an 8-inch tart pan or dish as opposed to a 9-inch one). But it is a good quiche—especially when you don’t undercook it (a habit I have been really annoyingly been getting into latley), and then have to put it back in the oven to try and hastily finish browning it enough. Anyway… here’s to France, and maybe getting some French cooking skills along the way there.

PS: I think all of my pages were long overdue for an update, so behold: the new about me and inspiration pages. I also kind of feel like this blog is swiftly in need for some redesign, seeing as it’s now over 2 years old, woah! But I am far too undisciplined to get my act together to do that, for now.

One Year Ago: Pistachio Baklava (and a trip, awhile ago, to Istanbul) — probably my favorite post ever, I think
Two Years Ago: Orange Chocolate Chunk Cake, BLT Soup and Rhubarb & Raspberry Crostata

Julia Child’s Quiche Lorraine
From Mastering the Art of French Cooking
Serves 4, about

1 single-crust recipe pâte brisée, well chilled

3 to 4 ounces lean bacon (about 6 to 8 medium-cut slices), sliced into 1/4-inch segments
3 eggs
1 1/2 cups to 2 cups cream or half-and-half
1/2 teaspoon salt
pinch of freshly ground pepper
pinch of nutmeg
1 to 2 tablespoons butter, cut into pea-sized amounts

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Butter an 8 or 9-inch tart pan with a Pull the pâte brisée out of the fridge and set in on a lightly floured work surface. Beat the dough a few times with the rolling pin to soften it, and let it rest for a few minutes to get a little softer if necessary. Roll out the dough into a large circle about 10 or 11-inches in diameter, and about 1/8-inch thick. Working quickly, transfer the dough over to the prepared tart pan and press the dough into the tart pan. Lift the edges of the dough slightly down into the mold to thicken the sides of the pastry shell a little bit, and to make it more sturdy. Roll the pin over the top of the tart pan to remove any excess dough. Place in the freezer for about 20 minutes to firm up the butter and shell. Then line the crust with aluminum foil and fill with dried beans or pie weights. Bake in the pre-heated oven for 8 to 9 minutes. Then remove the foil and pie weights and cook for 2 or 3 minutes more, until the shell is starting to color. Remove from the oven and reduce the oven temperature to 375 degrees F.

Meanwhile, prepare the filling. Over medium heat, cook the sliced bacon in a skillet until cooked and lightly brown. Remove and let place on a plate lined with paper towels. Once cooled slightly, evenly scatter over the bottom of the partially-baked pastry shell. Next, beat the cream (and/or half-and-half) with the eggs, salt, pepper, and nutmeg, until well blended. Pour over the bacon slices into the hot pastry shell, then sprinkle the butter dots on top. Bake in the 375 degree oven for 30 minutes, until the quiche has puffed up and browned. (I’d bake it to be browner than the color of the quiche in my pictures.) Let cool slightly; serve warm or cold.

Icy Red Onion & Beet Salad
Adapted from Dorie Greenspan’s Around My French Table
Serves 4

1 small red onion, thinly sliced
1 teaspoon dijon mustard
1 teaspoon honey
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
2 tablespoons olive oil
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper
1 pound cooked beets, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch pieces
1/2 cup walnuts, toasted, and coarsely chopped
2 teaspoons freshly chopped herbs (I used parsley)

Swish the sliced onions in a bowl of cold water for a minute or two to remove bitterness. Pour out the water, refill with fresh cold water, and add in a few ice cubes. Place in the fridge to chill until you assemble the salad.

Meanwhile, put the mustard, honey, red wine vinegar, olive oil, and a good heavy pinch of salt and black pepper in a small mason jar. Cover, and shake until the vinaigrette is fully emulsified. Toss the vinaigrette with the beets in a medium bowl; set in the fridge to chill for at least an hour to let the beets soak up the vinaigrette.

To serve the salad, drain the onion slices, pat them dry, and sprinkle over the top of the beets. Follow this by the toasted walnuts, and a sprinkling of fresh herbs. Serve cold.

I should have known I’d return to Jerusalem once the weather started getting warmer. Lately, I’ve been wanting flavors that are fresh, spicy, complex, and/or filled with herbs, so it only makes sense, really. Last weekend when my brother was here, I turned to Jerusalem to make its herb pie. Which was completely delicious—I mean, how does flaky sheets of phyllo dough surrounding a lemony filling of greens and cheese sound to you? My only real issue with it is it’s name: herb pie. This is when I know things are not meant to be translated out of their original language, because I am positive that whatever herb pie translates to in its Sephardic Balkan language (or whatever language), it sounds much more delicious than herb pie.

Anyway, I quickly scouted out this dish next, kofta b’siniyah. Once again, I think that sounds much better than what my loose translation of it would be, which is something like “warmly spiced meatballs filled with pine nuts, shaped into football-like things, served over tahini.” I was pretty pleased with myself for choosing this dish to make, though.  For one, it allowed me to add another meatball recipe to my scanty repertoire (erm, it’s actually really the only one there as of now). I think I make meatballs way less than I should, and by that, I mean that I’ve made meatballs like twice over the past year.

Meatballs feel like the type of thing that good cooks should have down pat, and I’ve got a long way to go. This recipe seems like a really good one to have on hand, no matter the time of year. I can see myself eating this during the wintertime, but the combination of the kick from the red chili with the herbs and tahini sauce all give it this feel that make it seem fresh for when the sun is out too. Especially when served with a bright salad—Ottolenghi and Tamimi suggest to serve this with a tomato-cucumber salad and pita, which is exactly what I did. I almost feel like I could just eat the tomato-cucumber salad with some pita by itself as a sufficient dinner in the summertime, but I feel like we have time yet for that, don’t we? Ah I forget how good simple food in summer—aka the season of things-on-toast-for-dinner—tastes.

And anyway, I guess when we are serving other hungry people and guests, vegetables on toast don’t always quite cut it. These meatballs wouldn’t be a bad thing to turn to when you need something with a bit more protein and fat. Plus, entertain me: isn’t it such a beautiful dish? I know just about everything in Jerusalem is extremely beautiful and photogenic (ahem, the herb pie is the only one possibly on the border), but this dish especially strikes me. It was pretty fun nestling the meatballs in their delicious tahini bath, before sprinkling nuts, herbs and spices over the top. I am positive there is a correlation with beautiful food and how beautiful it makes us feel (fat included).

Song of the Week: I’ll Fly Away, by Gillian Welch & Allison Krauss. I was in an old used bookstore the other day, and this big, friendly man working there was playing the O Brother, Where Art Thou soundtrack—a movie that is pure brilliance, and if you think otherwise I’m not sure we watched the same movie—and it made me so happy. Something about that folky, bluesy old South feel that just makes you feel lazy in a very very good way.

One Year Ago: Flourless Chocolate Torte Revisted & a Salted Butter Caramel Sauce
Two Years Ago: Espresso Ice Cream and a Dense Chocolate Loaf Cake

Kofta b’siniyah
From Jerusalem
Serves 6, or more

14 ounces ground lamb
14 ounces ground beef
1 small onion, finely chopped
2 large cloves garlic, minced
scant 1/2 cup (50 grams) pine nuts, toasted and chopped
about 3 good handfuls (30 grams) flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped
1 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 1/2 teaspoon ground allspice
3/4 teaspoon grated nutmeg
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper

2/3 cup (150 grams) light tahini
3 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/2 cup (120 ml) water
1 large garlic clove, minced
2 tablespoons neutral-flavored oil

1 tablespoon oil
toasted pine nuts, to garnish
finely chopped flat-leaf parsley, to garnish
paprika, to garnish

First, prepare the meatball mixture. Place the ground meats, onion, garlic, pine nuts, parsley, spices, and about 1 1/2 teaspoons of the salt and black pepper in a large bowl. Using your hands, mix it all together gently until it’s pretty well combined. Pinch off pieces the size of big golf balls and shape into “long, torpedo-like fingers” that are about 8 centimeters long and that weigh about 2 ounces of 60 grams. Set them on a plate, cover with plastic wrap, and chill to rest while you prepare everything else until you’re ready to cook them. This can be done up to one day ahead of time.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F. Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil and set aside. To make the tahini sauce, whisk together the tahini paste, lemon juice, water, garlic, and another couple good pinches of salt. The consistency should be “a bit runnier than honey;” dribble in some water slowly if you need to thin it out. Set aside.

Heat about a tablespoon of oil in a large, deep saucepan over high heat. Working in batches to make sure not to overcrowd the pan, sear the meatballs until they’re deeply golden brown on all sides, which will take about 6 minutes per batch (I think mine shown in the pictures might have been seared a tad too long). At this point, they’ll only be cooked to about medium-rare. Remove from the skillet and set on the prepared baking sheet. Cook in the preheated oven for about 4 minutes until cooked through (if you have really good meat, freshly ground, Ottolenghi would encourage you to cook these for only a couple minutes so that they’re cooked to medium).

Spoon the tahini sauce on a big serving plate; arrange the meatballs on top. Scatter toasted pine nuts, parsley, and a sprinkling of paprika over the top. Serve immediately, with pita and preferably a nice sharp tomato-cucumber salad.

You better believe I’m proud to have made and eaten and enjoyed a dessert that features rhubarb (somewhat) by itself. Yes—there’s no mixing of rhubarb with raspberries here, nor with its ever-popular friend, the strawberry. I can now proudly tell you that I know what rhubarb, by itself, tastes like (unlike in the past). I’m not really sure how I would articulate that taste… but still. I cooked with rhubarb and really enjoyed it.

In this case, the rhubarb was stewed with some white wine, a little bit of sugar, and a vanilla bean, until it was just falling apart. Tart, sweet, fruity, smooth with vanilla—I was eating it by the spoonful it was so good. But this rhubarb was meant for greater things: to be layered with thick cardamom-scented whipped cream. This combination of whipped cream and stewed fruit is called a fool. It’s British, and this specific recipe comes from April Bloomfield’s A Girl and Her Pig , (via Lottie + Doof) which I frankly haven’t read but it feels like an important thing to mention nonetheless.

As delicious as the fool is, with the combination of creamy and tart, it’s texture is a bit one-dimensional. And one-dimensional mushiness has it’s perks, don’t get me wrong! (Not being sarcastic.) But still, I wanted something to offset it all. I was hoping to make some crunchy, melty shortbread cookies, but I didn’t really have the time to make them or chill the dough. In the end, I went with some honey snaps. They’re these crunchy, lacey-like cookies that I’ve made before when making Alice Medrich’s honey ice cream. Plus, I thought the honey (and tiny hint of ginger) would pair well with the flavors of cardamom and vanilla.

By the way, assembling the fool is seriously a treat, guys. It made me so happy how pretty it all is: assembling the bright pink and the seemingly millions little specks of the vanilla pods (I will never stop loving seeing them!), with the pure white of the cream, topped off with the bright green of the pistachios. On the sunny evening I made it, everything seemed to fall into place. Spring and summer (sun!) is feeling good.

Song Pick of the Week is Never Going Back Again by Fleetwood Mac.

One Year Ago: Nordstrom’s Chicken Paillard

Rhubarb Fools with Cardamom Cream
Adapted slightly from April Bloomfield’s A Girl and Her Pig, via Lottie + Doof
Makes 4 really big servings

Rhubarb Compote
1 1/4 pound rhubarb, top and ends trimmed, sliced into 3/4-inch pieces
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup dry white wine
1 vanilla bean

Cardamom Cream
6 green cardamom pods
3 tablespoons sugar
1 cup creme fraiche
1 cup heavy cream
4 heaping tablespoons pistachios, chopped

Honey snaps, for serving (just a suggestion)

For the rhubarb compote, combine the rhubarb, sugar, and white wine in a medium saucepan. Using a paring knife, split the vanilla bean in half and scrape out the vanilla pods; add the pods and split bean to the pot. Place over medium-low heat and bring to a gentle simmer. Stirring occasionally, cook until the rhubarb is very tender and the pieces are just falling apart, about 15 minutes. Set aside to cool. Once cooled, stir in the rosewater.

For the cardamom cream, smash the cardamom pods, remove the husks, and pound the seeds with a mortar and pestle until finely ground. Add in the sugar, and grind it all to combine. Add to a medium bowl (preferably one fitted for a stand mixer, if you have one), along with the creme fraiche and heavy cream. Chill until ready to serve. When ready to use it, whip with the whisk attachment until the cream is fluffy and holds soft peaks.

To assemble, layer the rhubarb and whipped cream between 4 8-ounce clear glasses. There’s no right way to do this; just balance out the amounts so you at least have a couple pretty layers of pink and white. Sprinkle the chopped pisatchios evenly over the tops. Cover and chill in the fridge for at least an hour; serve cold.

Macarons are something I have mixed feelings about. I first tried to make them when I was about 14 or 15 or so, back when I got my first cookbook and I thought the recipe for macarons looked pretty printed on the pages. I didn’t really understand what they were, and I certainly wasn’t aware of the hype surrounding them—maybe there wasn’t that much hype back then?

As a sort-of side note, that’s also when I didn’t really put food on some sort of complicated and precarious hierarchy; I laminated dough one day while making scalloped potatoes from a box the next night. If something looked good, I made it. I think I’m okay with having a far greater sense of food snobbery now, but I do sometimes miss my non-judgmental days.

Anyway, the first time I made macarons, it was a disaster. I didn’t know what to expect, but even I knew the weepy, flat, and falling-apart cookies that resulted seemed pretty far from success. So I forgot about them, moved on. I made them a couple times following that (somewhat more successfully), only because I knew my mom really loved them. But I never ever got macarons that looked this or this. And after a certain point, I didn’t really care to ever “conquer” them, just because I figured they were fussy, I could never get them as pretty or as good-tasting as from the stores, and they don’t satisfy me like a good plain lemon bar does anyway.

Well, my mind switched completely after spending an extended Memorial Day weekend up in Seattle with Lindsey and my brother, Jimmy. The last morning I was there, Lindsey had work in a company she works for downtown  (I know, she is so cool!! and she graduates so soon!!), so I had the morning from about 7:30-10:30 by myself. I walked through Pike Place market—something that is most definitely a huge tourist attraction, but which is actually a really, really nice market on weekday mornings when its not overwhelmingly crowded. Since it was so early, it was calm, with the people setting up the flowers in vases or transferring wheel-barrows full of ice and salmon into their stands. I went to my favorite bakery, Le Panier (at least I think it’s my favorite), ordered a pain au chocolat and a cappuccino, and sat down to read for a good hour or two while looking out over the Sound. It was really nice.

On my way out, I picked up 4 perfect macarons to give to Lindsey and her co-workers before I left to take the bus back home. Although I didn’t eat a macaron that day, I decided that they kind of embody everything I like in the world (just a slightly huge statement): leisure and luxury and aesthetic details and, of course, France. So I went home the next day and bought a bag of hazelnuts to make some hazelnut macarons.

I followed this recipe, from Pierre Hermé, via Katie at Butter Tree. She got the recipe from Hermé’s rare and coveted Macaron, and she translated it herself from its original French. I think this is the recipe that first got me following Katie (I have been wanting to make these for-ever), and she has accumulated quite the impressive collection of macaron recipes and tips since then. In her post, the macarons are called macaron praliné à l’ancienne, which frankly sounds awesome and dreamy, don’t you think? Only thing is I passed on the praline filling due to time and, let’s not kid ourselves, energy, so I don’t think just the hazelnut shells live up the the “praliné à l’ancienne” part. But, I thought the combination of chocolate with hazelnut sounded really good (I still can’t get some baci gelato out of my head 2 years after being in Italy), so I paired the hazelnut shells with some chocolate buttercream.

They were good, in the way that only chewy-airy-light-nutty macaraons sandwiched with creamy-rich buttercream can. 100% tasty (my mom ate 12 of the sandwiches in the span of like 4 hours…), but they’re not really close to being as pretty as I’d like them to be. In most cases, I feel like aesthetics with food should never be as important as taste, but these are French macarons. It wasn’t the taste that drew me into finally attempting to make them again, after all. I haven’t tried out macarons enough to know how to make them more flawless; however, some of my guesses include 1) I didn’t have a candy thermometer so I kind of went by feel when it came to the sugar syrup and meringue, 2) I don’t have a piping bag so I was doing the whole snipped-edge-of-the-ziploc approach, 3) I just need more practice? I could even feel myself pick up things along the way, with each new baking sheet filled with piped shells that went in the oven. It kind of made me want to keep going, to make something of a macaron factory out of my parent’s kitchen, just to see if I could achieve the perfect-looking one.

I’ll probably keep trying to make macarons, if only to re-create the feeling I got as the worker at Le Panier placed the brightly-colored macarons in the square box with the smell of butter and pastry in the air… then again, maybe I could just move to Seattle. Anyway, I’m all ears if you’ve got some tips or links about perfecting le macaron to send my way.

One Year Ago: Salted, Soft & Chewy Peanut Butter Cookies (the best! really)

PS: Because I can’t help myself, I’m going to attach on this song to this post (the longest post ever, gawd). Van Morrison is something  I grew up on, and his music always tugs on my heart in a way that only nostalgia can. A cover of the song, by Jeff Buckley, has basically become my favorite song throughout the past half-year, and I spent many a morning in art class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, during my last semester at college, listening to it while painting. I listened to both versions while spending the afternoon making these macarons yesterday. I wouldn’t mind doing that again.

I love spring vegetables, but then again, who doesn’t? When green things that aren’t cabbage or kale start making their rounds through things like the farmer’s markets, good restaurants, and blogs (of course), we know good things are happening. And by “things,” I of course mean the prospect of sunshine and clear skies.

Unfortunately, I walked out of the house this morning wearing a hoodie, a rain jacket, and a scarf, so it looks like those prospects aren’t looking too good. It seriously bothers me that this is all occurring in the second half of May. I mean, it’s just not right! Halfway through April I was lounging in my swimsuit, reading books under the sun, and making big salads for dinner.  Now that we’re almost to June, I feel like my legs are as pale (read: white, white, white) as they were in January.

(A slight digression: I was reading Camus’ The Plague awhile ago, and in it, the author implies that people who are obsessed with the weather are only so dependent on it because they fail to have any other interest, direction, or passion to steer the emotional course of the day.  (If you’ve read The Plague, please don’t hold me accountable to any interpretive scrutiny.) I feel like Camus was doing some serious poking-of-my-ribs there, but I can’t help but think the weather is perhaps the most important thing. Well, of course besides the obvious and obligatory things like love and family and all that. The weather even trumps food, and that’s saying quite a lot for me. I could probably make a whole religion that revolves around the Sun—see how I just sneakily put the sun as a proper noun there, hehe? Actually, that sort of religion probably already exists. Whatever.)

Anyway, when I saw a big bundle of fat asparagus at my parent’s home, I was trying to decide between making an asparagus tart or this recipe.  I think my internal seasonal clock was pulling at me to make this one, just because during this time of year I would ideally be lazing around in the sun all day and wanting something fresh and light for dinner. This is the type of food I’m craving during that time: fresh vegetables, cooked until tender, with a sharp sauce of some sort. This one is Catalan, apparently, and calls for tomatoes, red onions and capers to be added to a basic white wine vinaigrette. Topped with some herbs and a few wedges of hard-ish boiled eggs, it all tastes pretty delicious. And, with a good few pieces of bread to sop up all the vinaigrette that puddles beneath the asparagus, this makes a fine meal. This is exactly the type of meal I hope I’ll consistently be eating a lot of soon—Sun, please come soon.

Song Pick of the Week: If you’re in the sunshine, somewhere, 1) I envy you, and 2) listen to this song, Moi Je Joue, by Brigitte Bardot. Fun Fact! I first heard this song when it played during the Sofia Coppola-directed commercial for the Miss Dior Cherie fragrance. I watched the commercial, in a daze, and decided then and there that I would buy that fragrance. I know this is exactly what the ad-people are seeking to accomplish, and honestly I’m as anti-capitalist as the next person (or most likely more). But I knew I would love it! I knew it would be my fragrance—something I have been seeking to acquire for the past few years! And look, now it is. So thanks, Brigitte Bardot.

One Year Ago: Chicken Tikka Masala and a Simple Rice Pilaf

Catalan Asparagus with Salsa Vinagreta
From Saveur
Serves 4 as a main (with lots of bread, obviously); 6 or so as a side

2 pounds asparagus, woody ends trimmed
7 tablespoons good olive oil
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
3 tablespoons capers
3 tablespoons finely chopped parsley
2-3 plum tomatoes, cored and finely chopped
½ red onion, finely chopped
2 hard-boiled eggs, cut into wedges

Bring a large pot of water to boil. Liberally salt the water. Add the asparagus, in batches if you have to, and cook until tender, about 4 minutes. Test a spear to make sure the asparagus is cooked but still has a little bit. Drain, and transfer to a serving platter.

Meanwhile, whisk together the olive oil, lemon juice, vinegar, and salt in a medium bowl. Once somewhat emulsified, add in the capers, parsley, tomatoes and onions and whisk again to combine. Taste for salt and pepper (you’ll probably have to add some). Pour over asparagus and top with wedges of hard-boiled eggs. Eat warm, room-temperature, cold, whatever; just eat it with good bread.

So before I even get started, I’m going to apologize for 1.) presenting you with two lemony desserts in a row, and 2.) presenting you with nothing but treats and sweets throughout the past 6 weeks or so. That’s a lot of sugar and citrus.

But this one is kind of unavoidable, both in making and blogging about it. I mentioned in my post on lemon bars that lemon pudding cake is my mom’s favorite dessert. I grew up on it, and it’s the only dessert I really remember my mom caring enough about to put in the effort to make it on a weeknight. It’s also the only dessert I think my mom would repeatedly make even after I took on the role of answering well and beyond my family’s demand for sugar in the form of baked goods.

And although it took me awhile to come to my senses, I can see why. If you haven’t heard of lemon pudding cake before, it’s thing of wonder. The batter consists of the usual suspects of milk, sugar, some flour, and eggs, but the eggs are separated and beaten separately so the whites become airy and meringue-like. It’s a very loose batter, and when it bakes up in a dish, a springy sponge cake forms on top while a tangy pudding with the consistency of thick custard remains on the bottom. Each bite has differing textures of pudding and cake (hence the name), and it’s all tied together through the bright lemon flavor. It’s really, really good. It also isn’t too heavy, which is wonderful but also extremely dangerous in how it makes you want to eat about 3 servings in one sitting.

My mom always used the recipe found in my family’s Betty Crocker cookbook—you know, the one that’s spiral bound with all the cheesy 80s-era photographs inside. Because I have a natural tendency to falsely believe that prettier pictures and more technical-sounding instructions somehow correlate to a better recipe, I tried about a year ago to upstage my mom with what she calls a “fancier” and not as good recipe. Of course my mom was right—it was fussier, involved butter and more bowls, and it wasn’t as good. Of course. So I’ve learned my lesson: this year, when I had the urge to bake a dessert and my mom’s eyes lit up as she suggested I make lemon pudding cake, I stuck with her Betty Crocker recipe. 

These pudding cakes are perfect straight from the oven, after they’ve cooled for a few minutes. They’re warm and gooey and tart and cakey and everything good in the world. I sprinkled some powdered sugar over some of them (let’s not kid ourselves—mostly in the attempts to make the things more photogenic), but they really don’t need anything. However, if I were to add something, it’d be a dollop of this marscapone whipped cream. By the way, those lemon budinos—which I believe are lemon pudding cakes with an Italian name—are photographed so beautifully, and should convince you to try lemon pudding cake if you have any doubts at this point.

Song Pick of the Week is Halo. Because Beyonce is the most likely the coolest and most beautiful and enviable woman in the world. I know that song is old, and I’m not sure what threw it under my radar lately, but it’s got a real humbling feel to it that make me keep listening to it on repeat.

One Year Ago: Smoothest, Creamiest Hummus

Lemon Pudding Cake
Adapted from Betty Crocker
Serves 6-9 (small-ish portions)

I baked these cakes in a combination of 3 6-ounce ramekins and 3 12-ounce ramekins. To simplify things, I wrote the recipe down to be for 6-ounce ramekins or small bowls, but of course it’s okay to use differently sized bowls. Just keep in mind the cooking time: the 6-ounce ones require about 30 minutes of cooking, while the larger 12-ounce ones needed about 40 minutes. If you bake the pudding cake in one large casserole dish, that might take upwards of an hour. I’d go more by sight and touch to tell when it’s done.

Also! 2 cups of sugar looks like a lot of sugar. It is, but these are not overly sweet (and they’re really pleasantly tart), so I wouldn’t recommend messing with the amounts.

4 eggs, separated
1 1/3 cup milk
2 heaped teaspoons lemon zest (from 1 to 2 lemons)
1/2 cup lemon juice (from about 3 lemons)
2 cups sugar
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Place 9 6-ounce ramekins (or other sized ramekins, if you want) in a large roasting pan (I lined the pan with a kitchen tea towel before placing the ramekins on top, in order to prevent slips). Heat a kettle full of water on the stove for the water bath.

In a clean and dry stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, beat egg whites until stiff peaks begin to form. Meanwhile, in a large bowl, beat egg yolks with a whisk slightly. Add the milk and lemon zest to combine. While whisking the mixture, add the lemon juice in a slow stream (as to not curdle the mixture). Add in the sugar, flour, and salt, and whisk until smooth. Add about 1/3 of the whipped egg whites and whisk in to lighten the mixture. Continue by adding the rest of the rest of the egg whites and folding them in until the mixture is mostly uniform.

Pour or ladle the mixture into the ramekins. Carefully pour enough hot water in the roasting pan so that the water reaches about 1 inch up the sides of the ramekins. Bake in the preheated oven for about 30 minutes, or until the tops are a deep golden brown and they spring back when lightly touched. Remove the ramekins from the water bath and let cool for at least 20 minutes. Eat warm, at room temperature, or cold—it’s always good.

So I graduated from my university this past Sunday.

I spent a large part of my time at college thinking that “it wasn’t for me.” It’s been a little strange to kind of have this growing realization that I’ll never again be in a community that has so much support, warmth, encouragement, and opportunities as the one I’ve just left. I know it all had to come to an end, but it’s hard to get a grasp on  the fine line where one part of my life ends and another begins.

And I don’t think that difficulty comes so much from not having my whole life (or even the “next step”) figured out, but rather from having a feeling of wanting to belong somewhere, or to something or someone, but being too scared to figure out which where or thing or one to choose.

- – -

My school produces a literary journal every year, and there’s a student-written poem from last year’s edition that has been going around in my head the last couple months. This is going to be pretty damn awkward if that student ever sees this post, but I figure I should give credit where credit is due, so here goes: her name is Astra Lincoln, and she’s a very, very good writer. This is an excerpt from her poem “Peter Pan Syndrome.”

“& you were nine when the last of your baby-teeth fell out, and
this frightened you. you found a piece of loose thread hanging off
your baby blanket, and ripped it off. this was then tied around the
third tooth on the left, which proceeded to be pulled out and hid
beneath your pillow with a letter: ‘dear tooth fairey. i am scared
and i will miss your visits. i can not be without you. i heard you
won’t pick up teeth that were pulled, and did not fall on their own.
i hope that every night you come and see this tooth. i hope you
do not take it, but leave it here and check every night to see if it
is a keeper. it does not want to be kept, but it does not want to be
forgotten.”

I was talking to my dad on the phone yesterday, and after reminding me of my birthday this Wednesday (aka tomorrow, or most likely today depending on where you are in the world) he exclaimed, “Wow, what a big week for you! Turning 22 and graduating!” And he went on to say that he had only started college right after he turned 21. He had waited a few years after high school to go to college because, as he says, “it was a different time back then.” Anyway, he said that when he woke up the morning of his 21st birthday, all his friends were asking him what he was going to do to celebrate. He said that he just responded with, “Ah, it’s all over now, everything is ending, I just wanna go back to sleep.” I guess for him starting college was a sign that something was ending that he wouldn’t get back again. This made me smile, but it also made me pretty sad in that I know that my Dad lives in the past (which both my twin sister and I very much got from him).

I remember when my older sister turned 22, over 4 years ago. I was amazed at how old 22 sounded. I told her that once a person gets past that age, they’re “in the deep end.” I kind of still think that, and I still think 22 sounds really, really old. It’s a weird time, is it not? Not like 18 or 30 or anything, but 22 sounds strange to me. I don’t know, I guess we’ll see how it turns out, won’t we? This also happens to be the same approach I’m taking to graduating and moving on in life after college (probably not a coincidence). No doubt I’ll let you know how both the whole age-thing and the whole graduation-thing turns out.

Moving on—I feel the need to do a huge shout-out at this time to my beautiful mother, whose birthday is today. Yes, that means that 50% of the 6 people in my family are born within two days of each other (more if you count my grandfather who also happens to share the same birthday as me and Lindsey). My mom so selflessly has let Lindsey and I steal all the attention away from her growing up as we never gave a second thought to her birthday or Mother’s Day for that matter, as we only ever focused on ourselves. So she deserves much more than a shout-out or two, but that’s all I’ve got right now. (I love you, Mom.)

My mom would really love these lemon bars. Her favorite dessert of all time is what she calls lemon pudding cake—that delicious dessert that is a souffle-like cake on top and a thick, tart pudding on the bottom. These lemon bars aren’t quite there in terms of nostalgia, but they’re still pretty good. And besides, I didn’t make them for her. I made them for my boss at work, whose birthday was last week. (I know, these spring birthdays, they never end!!!) Her birthday has coincided somewhat with the closing of my two-plus year stint at that office, so these treats kind of served as a kill-two-birds-with-one-stone offering.

This lemon bar recipe is one that I’ve been making for years, and it’s from Cook’s Illustrated (surprise! not). In my opinion, it makes the best lemon bars out there—and that includes restaurants, bakeries, or homemade. The shortbread crust is made with powdered sugar and cornstarch, which makes for a melt-in-your-mouth tenderness that is deeelectable. And I never say or use the word delectable, so the fact that I’m using it here should serve as a testament to how good this crust seriously is. Plus, there’s a nice, fat layer of it—no skimpy crust here! And the filling is tart, bright, and it’s perfectly solid so it doesn’t ooze all over you when you try to cut the bars up or eat them. It’s a good recipe to have on hand, especially when birthdays are around.

Lemon Bars
From Cook’s Illustrated
Makes a 9 by 13 pan (about 24 1 to 2-inch squares)

1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
2/3 cup powdered sugar, plus more for dusting
1/4 cup cornstarch
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
12 tablespoons (1 1/2 sticks) butter, at room temperature and cut up into chunky pieces

4 eggs
1 1/3 cups white sugar
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
zest of 2 lemons (a heaping two teaspoons)
2/3 cup lemon juice from 3 to 4 lemons
1/3 cup whole milk
pinch kosher salt

To make the crust, line a 13 x 9-inch baking dish with parchment paper or aluminum foil. Butter any parts of the baking dish that remain exposed. Set aside.

Process the flour, powdered sugar, cornstarch, and salt in a food processor for a few seconds until combined. Add the cubes of butter and pulse until the mixture is pale yellow and crumbly-looking, about 10 1-second pulses. Sprinkle mixture into the prepared pan and press firmly into an even layer. Refrigerate for 30 minutes, and while it’s sitting there, preheat your oven to 350 degrees F. Once chilled, place directly in the heated oven for about 20 minutes, or until golden brown (and deliciously fragrant).

While the crust is baking, make the filling. Whisk the eggs, sugar, and flour in a medium bowl until well combined. Stir in the lemon zest, lemon juice, milk and salt, and blend well. It will look soup, but that’s just fine. Let it sit and settle for a bit while the crust finishes baking off.

When the crust is golden brown, remove the pan from the oven and reduce the oven temperature to 325 degrees F. Stir the filling mixture to reblend, and then pour it over the hot crust. Bake until the filling feels firm when touched lightly, about 20 minutes. Transfer to a wire rack and let cool to room temperature, about an hour or so. Dust powdered sugar over the whole thing and cut into serving-size bars. Store in the fridge, and eat chilled.

So yesterday was my best friend’s birthday. We first met a little less than 3 years ago, when we were both transfer students into the university that we’ll be graduating from in a little less than two weeks. I was lucky in that aspect—most of the other people in our transfer group were what I’ll call less than kindred spirits. But Abbey, she’s a good one. I mean, she lets me make her perhaps the fattiest, most calorically-dense treat for her birthday AND she lets me capitalize on it by taking photos of it and putting it up here to show it off.

But in all seriousness, she is one of the best friends I could ask for. Although we’ve lived in the same house together for the past two years, very soon we’ll both be off—her, to travel the world and me … to figure out how to travel the world. So I suppose that this birthday celebration of hers, and mine next week, are all wrapped up in the same end-of-the-year whirlwind of trying to come to grips with all the bittersweet feelings that come with any really big ending (and beginning). It’s a strange grab-bag of emotions.

Anyway, so a big celebration calls for a big celebration treat. I’m pretty sure this is one of her favorite desserts, and it’s also one of mine. And, come to think of it, I think it’s pretty high up there on everyone’s favorite dessert list. And if it’s not, it at least should be. It’s a universal good. I’m willing to say it’s better than cake, and better than any kind of birthday cake you can think up (I think it beats last year’s, but I guess I’d have to leave that ultimate judgement up to my friend).

I decided to make Dorie Greenspan’s recipe for tall, creamy cheesecake, mostly because how can one not trust Dorie on these matters? But, I’m not going to lie, the pictures on this site’s creation of the recipe is what really sold me. One grocery trip and a combination of cream cheese, butter, sour cream, eggs, and heavy cream later, I too had my own creation of the recipe. I really liked it, and my friend loves it, so it was a complete success. But, with that being said, I don’t know if it’s my ideal cheesecake. It is creamy, airy, and smooth. It has a delicious flavor, and it feels dangerously light enough to want to eat a quarter of the thing in one sitting. Which is all really good, but I think I’d prefer the type of cheesecake that is insanely dense, and extremely thick. I’m thinking it might be more along the lines of this one, by Smitten Kitchen? Anyone ever try that one?

Also, a couple more notes regarding this recipe: I think if I were to do it again, I would either make the crust one layer on the bottom, without pressing it up along the sides, or I’d make it thinner so that it can go completely up to the top of the sides of the cheesecake. For some reason, I think either of those options would look more elegant. Also, in case you haven’t noticed, that weird little swooshy design along the sides of the crust are due to my running-the-knife-along-the-sides skills when trying to loosen the cheesecake from the springform pan. It was completely accidental, but I think it actually looks pretty cool. It’s what my friend Abbey would call a “happy mistake” (she went to a Waldorf school as a child, if that means anything to you). Also! I didn’t have a roasting pan big enough to hold the springform pan in for a water bath or bain-marie, so I just placed a big pan full of water on the rack below the cheesecake while it was in the oven—I hope this somehow served as a substitute, but I have a feeling this cheesecake would have been even better if it were able to have a proper water bath.

With those extensive qualifications, I think it’s important to note that it is a really, really good cheesecake. It looks dreamy (or at least I think so), and it tastes like it too. It doesn’t feature any other flavors but vanilla, and I think the creamy, smooth filling with the tangy (and addicting) sour cream topping makes for a taste that’s really satisfying, and pure. I think it’s a classic cheesecake.

PS: Song pick of the week is Wolf Parade’s I’ll Believe in Anything. It is goooood. (I kind of really like this thing I’ve gotten into, where I share a song if I feel like it. I’ve been reading a lot of Hungry and Frozen lately and she always shares what music is inspiring her at the time she’s writing the post and I really like the vibes it gives. Am I transgressing my boundaries by telling you what to listen to, on top of what to eat? Maybe, but I enjoy it! So there!

One Year Ago: Strawberry Cream Cake

Dorie Greenspan’s Tall and Creamy Cheesecake
From Dorie Greenspan, obviously, in her Baking: From My Home to Yours, with some good guidance from this post
Serves an army

Graham Cracker Crust
1 3/4 cups (I believe something like 210 grams) graham cracker crumbs
3 tablespoons sugar
Pinch of salt
5 tablespoons butter, melted

Cheesecake Filling
2 pounds (4 8-ounce boxes) cream cheese, at room temperature
1 1/3 cups sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
4 large eggs, at room temperature
1 1/3 cups sour cream or heavy cream, or a combination of the two

Sour Cream Topping
2 cups sour cream
1/3 cup powdered sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Butter a 9-inch springform pan; wrap the bottom of the pan in a double layer of aluminum foil. Set aside.

To make the crust, stir together the graham cracker crumbs, sugar and salt. Pour over the melted butter and, using your hands, mix it together until the dry ingredients are evenly moistened. Turn the mixture out into the prepared springform pan and, using your fingers or the edge of something hard like a measuring cup, pat the mixture into an even layer along the bottom of the pan (and up the sides a little bit too, if you’d like). Bake in the preheated oven for 10 minutes, or until the crust begins to get ever-so-slightly brown and fragrant. Once the crust is removed, lower the oven to 325 degrees F. Set the crust aside to cool while you prepare the cheesecake filling.

To prepare the filling, first prepare a big kettle-full of water for boiling. In a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, beat the room-tempurature cream cheese at medium speed until it’s soft, smooth and lightened, about 3 or 4 minutes. With the mixer running, add the sugar and salt, and continue to beat another 4 minutes or so, until the mixture is even more lightened! Beat in the vanilla, followed by the eggs, one by one, making sure to scrape down the sides of the bowl as you go and beating for a full minute between each egg addition. The batter should be “well-aerated.” On a low speed, add in the sour cream and heavy cream and stir until fully combined. Give the batter a few stirs with a rubber spatula to make sure the mixture is well combined.

Place the foil-wrapped springform pan in a large roasting pan. Scrape the batter into the pan, over the crust. If you have a somewhat standard 9-inch springform pan, the batter should just reach the brim. Place the roasting pan, holding the unbaked cheesecake, in the oven. With the oven door open, carefully pour the boiled water into the roasting pan so that it reaches just halfway up the sides of the springform pan.

Bake the cheesecake in the 325 degree oven for an hour and 30 minutes, until the cheesecake has risen and puffed up above the rim of the pan and has gotten slightly browned at parts (it may even have some little cracks). Turn off the oven and prop the oven door open. Let the cheesecake rest in the cooling oven for another hour—this prevents any major cracks on the cheesecake, I think.

After an hour, carefully pull the roasting pan out of the oven, making sure not to slosh any water onto the precious cheesecake! Carefully lift the springform pan out of the water bath and let the cheesecake cool on a wire rack until it comes to room temperature.

Once the cake is cool, cover with aluminum foil or plastic wrap and chill the cake (I know, the waiting! it never ends!) for at least 4 hours, or overnight. When ready to serve, run a butter knife along the edges and carefully open the springform latch and remove the pan sides.

For the sour cream topping, combine the sour cream, powdered sugar, and vanilla in a medium bowl until well mixed. Dollop the mixture on top of the chilled cheesecake and smooth it out into an even layer. Store the cheesecake in the fridge, and always serve cold.

Happy Birthday, Abbey! x

So, I made this over a week ago. That seems a little weird to me, to be writing about and talking about something that is already long gone and enjoyed (well enjoyed, mind you!). Although I usually don’t blog in anything close to “real time,” I think I have been especially aware of the time lag lately since everything seems to be going by SO QUICKLY. We’re down to a less than 3 weeks (!) until I graduate. That’s three weeks to find a way to eat all the food in my pantry, to handle both my best friend’s and my own birthday, to do all those things I’ve wanted to do in this city with these friends over the past 3 years that I haven’t got a chance to, to finish that thing called a thesis that has been consuming me wildly, to, you know, figure out what I’m going to do with my life after I graduate (something that strangely enough hasn’t been consuming me wildly, but should be).

It’s all a little surreal to me. I could try to gauge my feelings about everything but I’m pretty sure I have neither the time nor the audacity to try and figure that all out at the moment.  I have a good knack of blocking pesky or bothersome things out of my consciousness  anyway. Some part of my brain, for my sake, hides feelings and decisions that I don’t want to deal with away where I can’t reach them. They stay there, until someone or something else makes the decision for me or it all compounds into one big terrible mess that I can’t ignore. I can’t tell if this “skill” of mine is good or bad yet (you tell me).

Anyway, a critical part of this whole scheme of mine is that I don’t have time to do everything I want or need to, but I do have time to muddle away making treats of some form…obviously. Because treats are necessary. Anyway, so about a week ago a friend of mine and I wanted to make some treat resonant of tea time; something buttery, cakey and a little crumbly, sweet. Although I’ve had this recipe bookmarked for the better part of a year, the fact that I had an almost-full jar of apricot jam in my fridge (along with the very important fact that I have only the aforementioned scant 3 weeks (3 weeks!) to use it up), this recipe seemed like destiny.

So we made the dough, briefly chilled it, squished it all into a pan and spread nearly the full jar of jam on top. I suppose that on this particular day, we were feeling rather aesthetically inclined, seeing as we went all out and decided to do a pretty lattice top. You’ll be happy to know that despite how we pretty much botched it up, squished it all around, and made it look rather messy, when it emerged from the oven it was a real beauty. We ate slices of it warm, but I think it is best at room temperature.

When I ate a slice of it for breakfast, it reminded me of when Waylon and I were in Florence, where we shared a twin bed at a hostel. Even though the shower didn’t work, the breakfast at that hostel was the best—they had teas and toast and jams and an apricot crostata, with a lattice top just like this one. I can’t really remember what it tasted like, but I think this one was just as good if not better. The pastry is crumbly, buttery, and soft, and it has a really nice texture from the addition of some cornmeal (the idea of which came from David Lebovtiz). It’s basically like a cookie-pastry crust that’s all wrapped around a thin layer of sticky sweet jam.

Regarding the jam, I think any would really do. With that being said, I honestly also think a quick homemade jam would be best here—that way you could control the amount of sugar and balance out the sweet pastry with a more tart jam (kind of like that of the rhubarb-raspberry sort in another crostata I made, just about forever ago). I do however find a lot of appeal in the idea of making this sort of dessert as a spur-of-the-moment thing by being resourceful and using up what you have on hand.  So if you have an almost-full jar of apricot jam in the fridge that needs to be used in a few weeks, I’d say that trumps all.

One Year Ago: Rhubarb-Grapefruit Marmalade (hey! that woulda worked well here) and Caramelized Cauliflower Pasta with Parmesan, Pine Nuts, and Lemon

Apricot Jam Crostata
Adapted from Maggie Barrett, via The Wednesday Chef and David Lebovitz
Serves 8

You can make the dough ahead of time and store it in the fridge, but when you take it out to press into the pan, you’ll probably have to wait a bit for the dough to soften and become flexible. Also, feel free to substitute any sort of jam you’d like here.

1 1/2 cups (190 grams) all-purpose flour, plus more for rolling dough
1/2 cup (70 grams) cornmeal or polenta
scant 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
2 teaspoons baking powder
9 (110 grams) tablespoons unsalted butter, at room tempurature
1/2 (100 grams) cup sugar
1 large egg
1 large egg yolk
14 ounces (450 grams) apricot jam

In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, cornmeal, salt, and baking powder. Set aside.

In a large bowl, or in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, beat together the butter and sugar until well-combined, about 1 minute. Mix in the egg and egg yolk until combined. Add in the flour mixture and continue to mix at medium speed until the mixture begins to get all clumpy.

By hand, separate the dough into two balls, with one part roughly twice as big as the other (as in, separate the dough into two parts of 1/3 and 2/3). Wrap the two balls in plastic wrap and place the in fridge for about 30 minutes, just to firm up.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Remove the dough from the fridge. Starting with the larger section, press the dough evenly into the bottom and sides of a 9-inch tart pan with a removable bottom. Fill the crust with the jam, spread in an even layer. On a lightly floured surface, roll out the remaining 1/3 dough until it’s about 1/4-inch thick. Cut into narrow strips and place them in a lattice pattern, if you’d like, on the crostata. I personally think it’s prettier and more personal if you don’t make it look too perfect.

Bake in the preheated oven until the pastry is golden brown, about 20 to 25 minutes. (Side note: in researching this recipe I found this bit hidden in the instructions of a recipe from an Italian cook: “Do not let it overbake or the pasta frolla will become hard as stone and the jam will become as sticky as glue.” So yeah, keep that in mind.) Let cool at least a little bit before serving; it’s best served at room temperature.