Weekly Dish

Towards the end of February, I get a little antsy. Some might call it cabin fever, but that isn’t really accurate; I get out of the house often enough. No, my end-of-winter jitters stem from the kitchen end of things. I look in the fridge, especially at the end of the week, and I try hard to get excited about finding a creative use for the bunch of carrots languishing in the crisper or the bag of sweet potatoes that seems to never end.

But sometimes I just can’t do it.

And, so, sometimes, instead of concentrating my energies on making a healthful dinner out of the seasonal ingredients I’m desperately trying to still adore (but am secretly wishing to bid goodbye for a time), I make dessert instead.

Please don’t tell anyone.

It’s just that dinner can get a bit routine come March. We eat lots and lots of broccoli: simply steamed and tossed with sauteed garlic, dressed up a little more with cashews and soy sauce, tossed in pasta, folded into an omelet with caramelized onions, pureed with chicken broth and cheddar cheese for soup. And while I love all of these meals — truly, I am thankful that farm-fresh broccoli bears only the slightest resemblance to its tough-stemmed bland cousin carried in supermarkets, and I happily toss the tender, earthy-tasting florets and stalks into all manner of meals. These quick dinners get us through the winter without breaking our budget or sending us calling for take-out.

Yet, at the end of the day, especially fickle, neither winter nor Spring days, I find myself staring into the recesses of my tiny pantry hankering to do something more with my culinary energy. Something with a little more fanfare than broccoli, again.

Last week, when this urge struck, I found a bag of Meyer lemons calling out to me, as they so often do to waken me from my winter slumber, and they asked, quite emphatically, to be made into a simple cake.

Because I grew up in the South, heiress to a whole host of vintage recipes calling for ingredients that I don’t normally buy now that I’m a little fussier about things like chemical additives and artificial sweetners, I particularly love the idea of taking an old recipe and revamping it. I heard about this one, for lemon-lime ice box cake, on NPR’s lovely segment, Kitchen Window, some time in the fall, and when I saw those Meyer lemons, I knew this cake was the one for me.

I wasn’t so concerned with the green that make the original recipe lemon-lime, — I like the striations of yellow, personally — so I stuck with lemons for all of the citrus flavor and left out the food coloring. And, while I’m sure run-of-the-mill lemons would work perfectly fine, if the season has left you any Meyers, their tempered tartness and hints of sweet florals make this cake truly irresistible.

So irresistible, in fact, that it might just get me from broccoli to asparagus. Maybe even, come fall, I’ll be wishing for winter days and the lemons they bring. That, my friends, would be a powerful cake.

Happy Easter to one and all!

Lemon Icebox Cake
Just a single layer, topped with a simple whipped cream topping, this cake’s humble appearance belies its big flavor. Which, to my mind, makes it an even better candidate for taking to an event, like an Easter dinner — no one will expect the buttery, lemony explosion as they take the first bite, and you, the humble baker will get all the praise. Not that that’s why you bake for others, of course, but just in case it’s an added bonus you appreciate.

A couple of ingredient notes: I find measurements that suggest how many lemons you need for the amounts of juice and zest to vary so widely that they are unhelpful; I measured the quantities of both as I used them, but especially for the zest, it’s okay to estimate. Fresh lemon juice is absolutely essential; yes, it takes time to zest and squeeze all of those lemons, but the result is well worth the effort.

As for the curd, a high-quality store-bought version would probably be fine; the original recipe calls for stirring it with a little water, so that it’s the right consistency to pour over the cake. I found that the texture of homemade curd, especially just after it’s made, worked perfectly.

Lemon Ice Box Cake

For the cake:

3 cups cake flour
3 t. baking powder
1/4 t. salt
1 cup butter, at room temp
1 1/2 cups sugar
4 eggs
1 cup buttermilk (whole milk works too)
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
2 t. grated lemon zest

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

Stir together the flour, salt, and baking powder in a small bowl and set aside.

In an electric mixer, cream the butter and sugar. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, and continue to beat until the mixture has doubled in volume.

Remove the bowl from the mixer, and with a rubber spatula, fold in the flour mixture and the buttermilk, alternating by thirds, until both have been incorporated. Stir in the juice and zest.

Pour the batter into a greased cake pan, and bake for 30-35 minutes, or until just moist (not wet) in the center. Turn the cake onto a rack to cool.

For the curd:

1 cup fresh lemon juice
1 cup sugar
1 T. grated lemon zest
4 large eggs, beaten
2 T. butter, diced

Whisk together the juice, sugar, zest, and eggs in a small saucepan. Stir constantly over medium-low heat, until the mixture thickens and coats a spoon. Remove from the heat and stir in the butter. When the cake has cooled slightly (it’s fine if it’s still warm, just not oven-hot), poke holes all over it with the bottom of a wooden spoon. I like to poke holes of varying depths — for some, go all the way through to the bottom, for others, just a prick in the top, and then, some in between. Pour the curd over the punctured cake, allowing it to seep into the holes. I had about 3/4 cup of curd left over. Let the cake stand while you whip the topping.

For the topping:

8 ounces mascarpone cheese, at room temp
1/2 cup whipping cream
1/2 cup powdered sugar
2 t. grated lemon zest
4 T. lemon juice

Whip the cream on high until soft peaks form. Add the powdered sugar, zest, and mascarpone; beat on medium-low until just combined. With the mixer running, slowly pour in the lemon juice. Spread the topping over the whole cake.

If you beat the mixture too long, the mascarpone will curdle, but that’s okay; it will smooth out some when you spread it on. And if it gets really lumpy and ugly, it will still taste good, but if you’re concerned about the appearance, whip some extra cream by itself to spread on top (like I did).

You can serve it warm — straight from the pan — or refrigerate and serve it cold. We liked it equally well both ways. It cuts into neater pieces once it’s been chilled.

–Adapted from April Fulton’s adapted recipe on NPR’s Kitchen Window 

Hey everybody. Happy New Year. Really, I mean that; I hope you won’t interpret my post title as an anti-New Year sentiment.

Because I actually love the idea of starting off the first day of the first month of a new year by looking ahead, thinking through goals I’d like to accomplish, dreaming about possible plans I’d like to make, anticipating what the future holds with ambition and hope and optimism.

But, for me, the looking back is more important, if only because it colors the lenses through which I see my future with a tint of needed realism. Glancing back over the past 12 months to see where I’ve been, what I’ve done, and how I’ve spent my time reveals that if I learned anything in 2007, it is that I absolutely cannot predict what my life will look like under any given circumstance.

For instance, everyone says that having a baby changes everything. But, I found, until you have one yourself, living under your roof, occupying space in your routine, working her way into every second of every one of your days, you absolutely cannot imagine how those changes will affect you personally. Yes, it is a universal truth that babies change your life. So many people told me that. But I think it might also be true that how a baby changes each person’s life is remarkably different, uniquely tailored to each individual parent and each individual baby. And no one told me that part. For, in January of 2007, when I looked ahead to May and tried to picture our life with a baby, I could not possibly have imagined the reality of Josie in all her Josie-ness. Perhaps that’s why we are almost forced to speak of parenting in cliches, because the experience, with its ever-nuanced individualism, evades articulation.

And still, here I am, trying to articulate what it has meant to be a mom, or more precisely, what it has meant for me to be a mother to this one little baby girl named Josie.

And that is perhaps the most surprising thing to me of all: that in the midst of the busiest I have ever been, I feel compelled to carve out at least a few moments here and there to get into my kitchen and make something and to return to this little space and write about it. Mostly about the food, but also, as it is impossible for me to separate food from how I understand myself, about how I am making sense of my life in these busy days. I may not be the most regular of bloggers, (here is where I am not promising to do better because who knows if that will be possible or not?), or the most consistent of commenters on other blogs (here is where I tell you that I would so, so like to promise to do better because I really do read lots and lots of your blogs when I find the time, but almost always it is after the commenting conversations are long over), or the most reliable of responders to the very nice comments left here (and here I am having to use every ounce of self-control I can muster not to promise, but just to say that I am making a concerted effort to do better on this front, to jump into the comment conversation, even if a few days late, even if just to say, “Hey Everybody, thanks for saying you were here. It really does mean a lot, and it is rude of me not to say so.”). But I am so very grateful for every one of you who take the time to read the words I put out there, to try the recipes I bring you, and especially to communicate with me about what you’ve read or tried.

My gratitude is really all I feel capable of promising at the beginning of this year, as I hate the thought of making promises I won’t be able to keep. We all have to start somewhere, though, and one could do worse than committing to feel thankful.

Now, it seems I promised you an egg white recipe.

If you made the orange butter cookies, you will find yourself with 4 lonely egg whites with nowhere to go. I hate to see much of anything go to waste, but especially egg whites, because it is so easy to whip them into something lovely. Like a meringue. If you have a pie to top, you can certainly make meringue for that purpose, but I like to make little meringue shells to have an easy dessert on hand for dinner guests. Once the meringues are baked, slice some strawberries, or top with a dollop of lemon curd or bittersweet chocolate, and you have a gorgeous presentation in a snap. They look like little pillows of cloud or piles of snow, and they crunch with the bite of sugar without any heaviness — almost like sweetened air, concentrated into a crispy white case. They won’t be the most complicated dessert on the table, but with the right filling, they can be quite pretty (unfortunately, I don’t have a photo of a filled one because all of mine got eaten.) At least you’ll have turned leftover egg whites into something pretty and sweet, a sort of blank canvas to fill as you like. Sort of like a new year. I won’t make any promises about what yours will turn out to be like, but here’s hoping it’s filled with many good things. Happy 2008, everyone!

Meringue Shells

–adapted from The All New Joy of Cooking

The one rule for making meringues is not to step away from the mixer. The texture changes quickly, and you don’t want to miss the right time to add the sugar or stop beating. I also have had better luck with the crispy texture I like on cold, dry days, which is perhaps why I always end up making meringues in winter. They will keep in an airtight container for about a week before they lose their crunch. My favorite way to serve them is by filling the cavity with sliced strawberries, drizzling a little strawberry jam on top, and finishing with a spoonful of plain whipped cream, but fill with whatever strikes your fancy. They are versatile enough to handle a lot of variations, just be careful with overly sweet fillings — the meringues themselves provide most of the sweetener you’ll need.

1/2 cup egg whites (the 4 whites from my 4 large eggs measured exactly 1/2 cup)
1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar
1 cup granulated sugar, whirred in the food processor for a couple of minutes
Preheat your oven to 225 degrees. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper or silicone mats.

In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a whisk, beat the egg whites and cream of tartar on medium speed, until soft peaks form and the whites are all foamy, like this:

Now, turn your mixer to high, and sprinkle in the sugar, a tablespoon at a time, very gradually, until the mixture holds stiff peaks and becomes very shiny, like this:

Now, spoon out puffs of meringue onto the baking sheet, carving out a hollow with the back of your spoon, so the shells look like this:

Bake for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, depending on how you like the texture. David likes his to be soft in the center still, sort of marshmallowy, so I tend to take them out after 1 1/2 hours. If you want them very crispy all the way through, leave them for the full 2 hours. You can also turn the oven off and leave them in there to cool and dry out even more. This recipe will make about a dozen fist-sized shells. They will keep in an airtight container for at least a week, longer if it’s cold and dry outside (at least in my experience).

By nature, I am not a baker. Bakers, see, are precise. And organized. And neat. Rule-followers, usually. I am a cook. Intuitive, messy, and definitely a spirit-of-the-recipe kind of girl.

But, oh how I love to bake. Yes, this seeming paradox sometimes manifests itself in a great big doughy mess — cakes, especially, sometimes go terribly, terribly wrong under my erratic hand. Sometimes, though, every so often, a recipe for a baked good just feels right. As if I could do it little harm, even if I tried. These are the sorts of recipes that fall into my kitchen routine quietly, and before I know it, I’ve made the same kind of cookie or muffin or bready item a dozen times, and by some happy accident, they have turned out deliciously every time.

I first made these sandy butter cookies last holiday baking season, after I read about them on Orangette. Molly is right — this is quite an unassuming cookie, nothing much to look at. But it is exactly the sort of cookie that you can pile high on a plate, and before you know it, the plate has only tiny little crumbs to show for all your baking work. Left out, these cookies just get eaten, that is all there is to it.

I made these a number of times through the course of citrus season last year — I love them with Meyer lemon zest, as the original recipe calls for, but as you know, I have a supply of orange zest needing to be used. Orange zest marries so marvelously with plain old butter and sugar, I thought it would land happily in these simple little cookies.

Everyone has her own form of procrastination, and mine happens to be baking. So last week, when I should have been working on the semester’s final projects, I decided to make cookies for my students to eat while they took their final exam. David thought this recipe was an odd choice — he says these cookies are too sophisticated for college students’ palates. Perhaps he’s right, but as happens when they’re at our house, the platter piled high with cookies sat empty as my last student turned in her stapled stack of papers. As she walked out the door and wished me happy holidays, she turned around and said, “Oh, by the way, those cookies are good.”

Indeed they are. Simple, yes. But the separate flavors — orange here, a kick of sugar crystal there, finished with a bite of salt — come together after the crumbly texture has dissolved to make you want to take just one more bite.

Before you know it, you’ll be itching to make them again. Perhaps, like they have done with me, these cookies will work their way into your holiday baking ritual, and before you know it, you’ll have made them a dozen times. Happily they make great gifts. Or so I tell myself when I’m trying to remember what happened to all those little buttery disks.

Citrus Sables

–Amanda Hesser, via Orangette

Molly says you can bake and freeze them to give away, and that would be a lovely thing to do if you could keep from eating them all. That hasn’t happened around here yet, but I’m planning to wrap up the next batch to send with a couple of holiday care packages. They might not mail terribly well — they crumble a lot — but maybe if wrapped really well, they’ll do okay. I have frozen the wrapped cylinders of batter with good success; in fact, for a while, I kept at least one log of dough in the freezer for good measure — just in case a rainy cookie day appeared out of the cold, clear blue sky.

I usually hate recipes that call for only egg yolks or whites. Once I tried these, though, and kept making them, I had to think of something to do with all those whites, as I can’t stand to throw them out. Hang onto yours and stay tuned — a 4-egg-white recipe is coming your way shortly.

Other than that, the recipe is pretty straightforward, and I haven’t changed it much. I used demerara sugar in place of the turbinado, (Do you know demerara sugar? It is a lovely, lovely molasses-esque coarse sugar that I have grown to adore. They have it at my local grocer’s, and if you come across some, buy it. You’ll be happy you did.) and substituted orange zest for the Meyer lemon.

One urging — don’t skimp on the salt, and whatever you do, don’t use plain old table salt. What happens when you stir the coarse salt in at the end is that the granules hold their shape rather than dissolving into the batter, so the flavor is concentrated in tiny little bursts (rather than making the cookies salty). If you’re skeptical, at least try it with the full 3/4 teaspoon. It will look like a lot, but once you bite into a cookie, I think you’ll be glad you did.

2 cups all-purpose flour
2 t. baking powder
2 T. orange zest, grated (or other citrus zest)
1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened
1/2 cup powdered sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
3/4 t. coarse sea salt
4 large egg yolks
1/3 cup coarse sugar, like demerara

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Line 2 large baking sheets with parchment paper or silicone mats.

In a small bowl, combine the baking powder and flour. Toss in the orange zest and stir until it’s coated with the flour mixture.

In the bowl of a stand mixer, beat the butter and sugars with the paddle attachment until smooth and creamy. With the mixer running, add the egg yolks. Scrape down the sides of the bowl if you need to to make sure the egg is fully incorporated into the creamed butter and sugar.

Turn the mixer down to low and add the flour mixture, a little at a time, just until the flour is no longer noticeable. Stir in the salt.

Divide the dough into 4 equal portions. Drop each portion onto a piece of plastic wrap, and using the wrap to work the dough, form it into a long, slender log. Refrigerate for at least an hour.

Now the cookies are ready to slice and bake; I’ve left them in the fridge for as long as a week, or you can freeze the logs of dough by wrapping them in foil or dropping them into a plastic freezer bag.

When you’re ready to bake, spread the coarse sugar onto a plate. Roll each log of dough in the sugar, pressing with your fingers to make sure it sticks. Slice disks of equal thickness (about 1/4 inch) and place on the baking sheet. They will spread out a little bit, so leave a little space between them. Bake for 10-12 minutes, or until the bottoms take on just a hint of color and the edges are beginning to turn golden. Makes somewhere between 6 and 7 dozen cookies, depending on the size of your slices.

Last fall, David and I bought an orange tree to plant in our yard, next to the Meyer lemon tree he bought for the first birthday I celebrated in Baton Rouge, right under our bedroom windows. We’d just found out that I was pregnant with Josie, and the tree planting felt symbolic somehow, a visible reminder of the life I was busy growing inside of me. Oh, I know, I’m such an English teacher — my students would tell you that I find everything symbolic. Still, the orange tree meant something. Something important, even if just to me.

When we bought it, the man at the nursery told us that citrus trees are generally safe to plant here because it only freezes in southern Louisiana about once every ten years. Citrus trees don’t like to be frozen.

The winter after we bought our orange tree (and many other non-freeze-tolerating plants), only the second winter we’d lived here, it froze. Twice. The hibiscus leaves shriveled, the elephant ears bowed their heads to the ground, and the basil finally kicked the bucket. But the citrus trees, especially the orange tree, I was determined to protect. During the week of the freeze, David would scamper outside before we went to bed, and stake up bedsheets to cover the little still-green shrubs. Every morning, I’d wake up and look out the windows to see if I could tell if they were still alive. And every morning, they were.

So, when they blossomed in the spring, basking our backyard in a sweet, flowery aroma, just weeks before my due date, my attachment grew stronger. I photographed them and talked to them and breathed in their heady scent with a sentimentality that is probably particular to women in the third trimester of pregnancy.

And, as the rules of nature dictate, the flowers eventually gave way to tiny round green globes, and Josie made her way from inside my belly out into the big bright world.

Once the oranges were there, hanging from the branches, they didn’t do much deserving of notice. They were growing, to be sure, and every so often, I’d glance out the window and think, “Wow, those are really getting bigger.” Unlike the care they required to keep them alive during the freeze, or the showy way their flowers demanded attention with their unmistakable scent, the little green oranges grew inconspicuously, day by day, drinking up the sunlight and water they needed to ripen.

Until, one day a few weeks ago, they seemed ready to be picked. I took my basket outside, gathered the small, orange orbs, and brought them into my kitchen. I ate a couple of them just as they were, but they don’t have the most exciting flavor. They are sweet, but subtly so, and not very acidic. The scent of the zest, however, is overpoweringly orange-y, so I grated it all, and started trying to decide what to do with it.

David went through a scone phase over the summer — he tends to bake in frenzied sprees: first, there were muffins, then cookies and biscuits and bread, and, for a while, scones. I remembered that he made the orange chocolate chip ones from Once Upon a Tart…, and they were good, but we agreed that the chocolate overwhelmed the delicate orange flavor, and made them quite rich for breakfast.

So, with the zest and juice from our newly harvested oranges, we made scones, buttery, soft scones with a lovely whisper of orange in every bite. As we sat on our deck this past Saturday, nibbling scones made from our first oranges and watching our giggly baby, now almost seven months old, I was reminded that the emergence of life is at once the most ordinary and the most remarkable event, no matter how expected or natural or commonplace.

And so it is with food, it seems, as our daily existence requires that we fuel our bodies with what the earth produces, or some variant of it, but that act, the act of feeding ourselves and each other, however everyday and routine, can possess great magic. Perhaps I am imbuing a simple scone with more meaning that it deserves, but I have to tell you, as I sat with people I love, eating food that my hands had made from ingredients our little patch of earth had grown, I felt a sense of connectedness and joy that I don’t find in many other areas of life. As the busy, harried holiday season is gaining speed, I hope that you will find a way to share a little food magic with people you love. And, if you happen to want that magic to come in the form of a scone, I highly recommend this one.

It is, after all, the season for both citrus and sharing. Happy magic-making to all!

Orange Scones

4 cups all-purpose flour
4 t. baking powder
1 t. salt
1 cup sugar
1/4 t. freshly grated nutmeg
3 sticks butter, diced
4 large eggs
1 t. vanilla extract
1/2 t. almond extract
1/2 cup freshly squeezed orange juice*
1/4 cup orange zest (loosely packed strips)*
2 T. orange marmalade (optional)**

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees and line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper.

In a large bowl, stir together the flour, baking powder, salt, sugar, and nutmeg until well-mixed. Add the butter and work it into the dry ingredients with a pastry blender. Be careful not to over-mix; you just want to blend until there aren’t visible traces of the butter and the mixture looks like little round crumbs. (Jerome and Frank say to do this in a food processor, but we don’t have one big enough.)

Toss the orange zest with the flour and butter (I use my hands; you just want the zest to get evenly distributed).

In a small bowl, whisk the eggs, and then stir in the vanillla, almond extract, orange juice, and the marmalade, if using. Pour this mixture on top of the buttery crumbs, and fold, just until the dough sticks together and the flour has disappeared. (Jerome and Frank recommend a wooden spoon for this job; I like to use a sturdy spatula). Watch carefully to prevent over-mixing. As my friend Tee will tell you, over-mixing makes for a tough baked good. (And just in case you’re put in charge of mixing in his kitchen, be very careful! He hates to see anything over-mixed, much to the amusement of his wife, Kathryn, who probably over-mixes just to annoy him.)

Spoon the dough onto the parchment-lined baking sheets in scant 1/2-cup rounds (about a palmful of dough from my hands). Make sure to leave space between the scones, as they will spread as they bake. You may have to bake in batches, depending on the size of your baking sheets. Bake for 18-24 minutes, or until the tops are golden and the edges are beginning to brown. Serve immediately. Baked scones are only good for the next couple of days, but the batter will keep in the fridge for at least a week. We usually bake 4 at a time until the batter is gone. It will make about 12 scones.

*You’ll need about 3 medium-sized oranges or 2 large ones for the zest and juice; I use the long strips of zest you get from using a claw zester.

**We’ve made the scones with the marmalade and without (it’s not something I keep in my fridge), and I can’t really tell a difference, so I’ll leave it out from now on.

–Adapted from Once Upon a Tart… by Frank Mentesana and Jerome Audureau

Finally, air I can breathe.

This has been a cool week for September in Louisiana: nothing drastic, mind you, but a hint, an ever-so-slight breeze, whispering the promise of seasonal change. And a hint is all I need to breathe deeply on my walks through campus, filling my lungs with air that is lightened by the chill it carries, leaving behind that old, saggy heaviness of late, damp summer. At least for a time, and a time I plan to enjoy.

That’s the thing I both love and hate about weather in the Deep South: it is always likely to change. People around here often say that if you don’t like the weather today, just wait around for a week or so. That seems especially apt advice during this in-between season, the space in the calendar when summer can’t really decide whether she’s ready to give up her time yet, and autumn is gently edging her way in, one tiny, cool breath at a time, as if waking slowly from a long, sweet dream. For the next several weeks, it will likely be hot, hot, and then cooler in the mornings, rainy some afternoons, hot again, and then cooler still, until, one morning, I’ll wake up, and there will be leaves covering my front walk, and I’ll grab a jacket on my way out the door.

Perhaps it’s because of the seasons that change comes so slow to this part of the world, this sometimes-sleepy bastion of a certain staunch resistance to tomorrow looking too different from today. Autumn had best ease her way in without too much fuss; otherwise, folks might start to get nervous. There are good and bad things about this quality, of course, but being a person who thrives in the middle ground — I may be labeled many things, but an extremist is not likely to be one of them — I particularly like the gradual approach of a new season. It gives me time to anticipate, time to say goodbye to the last of the long, hot days, time to reflect on just how lovely it is to feel that extra spring in my step that a cool nip in the air brings with it.

It also gives me time to make the most of the last of the summer harvest, little signals to remind me that the produce at the market will come in different hues and shapes in the coming weeks, and I’d better enjoy what’s here now, while it lasts.

Some people, I know, have that exact complaint against eating locally and seasonally: because we, in this country especially, are so used to having what we want when we want it, we don’t much care for being told that we can’t have tomatoes in January. And so, our supermarkets ship in tasteless, mealy, pinkish shadows of fruit to meet their consumer demand, losing any connection to the rhythms of an earth that produces in cycles, that figures time in spirals, rather than in one, straight continuous line.

I am as guilty of this mentality as anyone else when it comes to certain things; I’d have to make some serious adjustments to my cooking if I had to do without, say, lemons, or avocados for any extended period of time. But when it comes to what’s available at my local farmer’s market, I’m pretty committed to buying what’s in season while it lasts and then going without until its season returns. If this sounds like a big sacrifice, it really isn’t: after feasting on summer-ripe tomatoes, my tastebuds would refuse the supermarket variety anyway — seasonal, local principles or no.

One of my favorite things to savor while it makes its brief appearance at the market are sweet, fresh figs. For me, figs are one of those lovely seasonal surprises: when the heat around here becomes nearly too much to bear, on those Saturday mornings when I look out at the already-blazing sun and hesitate to venture out for our weekly market trip, I remember those baskets piled high with luscious fruit that only comes around once a year. Most of the time, I ration them throughout the week, slicing up a few here and there to eat with only a tiny dribble of cream, or to top a simple salad with arugula, pecans and blue cheese, and I time myself to run out just as Saturday rolls around again. But, for the last batch or two, as the summer tinges towards twilight and the light begins to carry flecks of autumn’s amber hues, I treat my figs just a little more decadently.

This time around, the lovely Ivonne at Cream Puffs in Venice called for fig desserts just as the last of the fresh figs were appearing at my market, giving me ample reason to cloak these late summer jewels in a heady syrup of balsamic vinegar and sweet vermouth. To balance their deep, dark flavor, I whipped up a feathery pile of mascarpone cheese lightly scented with vanilla and honey. This recipe makes just enough for two, and since I am the only fig-lover in our house, I savored the whole batch, right down to the last drop of syrup (not in one sitting, of course).

Savor is also what I plan to do with these in-between days: Josie and I are enjoying late afternoons in the hammock, mornings in the swing, and midday walks around the neighborhood. The best and worst thing about these days — like the figs I love so much — is that they won’t last forever, so there’s nothing to do but drink in as much of the blue, blue expanse of twilight before it fades to night. The best news of all, though, is that if you miss your chance to dwell in the in-between, to savor the last of the seasonal fruit before its time is up, the season will return.

If figs are any indication, it will taste sweeter for the waiting.

This simple little dessert is my entry for this month’s Sugar High Friday, hosted by my fellow fig-lover, Ivonne.

Glazed Figs with Honey-Vanilla Mascarpone

This is the perfect dessert to serve after dinner: whip up the mascarpone and cook the figs and syrup before you serve the meal, and by the time you’re ready for something sweet, the figs will have cooled and the syrup will have thickened considerably. You can serve this hot, but I liked it better at room temperature.

10-12 figs, stemmed and halved
1 T. butter
1/4 cup brown sugar
2 T. balsamic vinegar
1/4 cup vermouth, port, or other sweet wine
1/4 cup mascarpone cheese
1/2 t. vanilla extract
1/2 t. honey

In a heavy-bottomed skillet, melt the butter over medium heat until it bubbles (but don’t let it brown). Add the figs, cut side down, and sprinkle with the sugar. Let it cook for a minute or two, shaking the pan to evenly distribute the sugar. Take care not to agitate the figs too much to make sure they keep their shape. Pour the vinegar and wine on top and cook for 7-10 minutes more, swirling the pan often, until the mixture is reduced by half. Remove from the heat and let the figs and syrup rest (the mixture will continue to thicken as it sits).

Meanwhile, mix the mascarpone, vanilla, and honey in a small bowl until thoroughly incorporated. To serve, place a scoop of the mascarpone in the center of a plate. Surround with figs and syrup. Serves 2.

–Adapted from Sara Foster, Fresh Every Day.

In my adult life, I have had to learn to like many foods I snubbed as a child. Vegetables of all kinds, wheat bread, and eggs, just to name a few. I was a very picky eater.

One kind of food I never turned down, however, is fruit. My mom kept a bowl of apples, oranges, and bananas, and one of her favorite snacks was a ripe banana, sliced and covered with ice-cold milk. To this day, that is still the basic treatment most fruits in my house receive — I still love bananas and milk; strawberries and figs get a splash of cream; and tropical fruits like mango and pineapple, a drizzle of coconut milk. But my favorite fruit and fat combination is peaches and cream.

Perhaps it’s because peaches remind me so much of summer — after mornings at the pool, Mom would often drive us over to Landrum’s produce stand to buy the freshest ones our small town had to offer. It could also be that a version of peaches and cream has been my standard birthday dessert for as many years as I can remember. Whatever the reason, my passion for peaches has not wavered over the years, and one of the most welcome signs of summer here in Louisiana for me are the peaches that appear on Mr. Buddy Miller’s table at our Saturday farmer’s market.

Oh, sure, I occasionally throw them into a hot dessert, a crisp or a cobbler, and recently, I made them into preserves. But, truth be told, the freshest summer peaches at the height of their season should not be cooked. My mom said once that it hurts her feelings to see a fresh peach exposed to heat, and although I’ve been known to do it, I have to say that I agree.

Mom loves fruit as much as I do — that’s probably where I learned it — so when I started thinking of an appropriate birthday dessert to finish the dinner my siblings and I made to celebrate my parents’ lives last weekend, I had peaches on my mind. Because my parents were born only nine days apart, we almost always celebrate their birthdays together. This year, we volunteered to cook Sunday lunch, a job they have done joyfully for all our lives. And, I wanted to end our meal with birthday desserts both Mom and Dad would enjoy.

When it comes to sweets, Dad is easy: chocolate, chocolate, and more chocolate. In fact, last weekend, when my sister got out all of the ingredients to make his cake, she discovered that he’d eaten two squares of her baking chocolate. We had to substitute chocolate chips. Mom, on the other hand, is not so easy to pin down. She won’t come out and tell you what she wants because she doesn’t want you to go to any trouble on her behalf. Elizabeth did manage to get out of her that she might like something fruity, and this time of year in this part of the country, that means peaches.

I wanted something simple, a dessert designed to showcase the summer-fresh flavor of the fruit, and a way to pair it with a creamy texture. I ended up with a tart, a crumbly butter crust that fell apart, a layer of this creamy filling, and layers of fresh, sweet peaches. It tasted heavenly, but because the crust didn’t hold up, it wasn’t very pretty to look at after we cut it. The surprise sta of the show, though, was this simple creamy concoction — nothing fancy, but when paired with the bright, sunny sweetness of the peaches, it does its job: it brings out the best of the peach flavor. It’s so simple to mix up that I’ve been keeping some in my fridge for afternoon snacks. A bit decadent, perhaps, but summer won’t last for ever. Though, to be outside in Louisiana right now, you’d never know it; the heat is abysmally oppressive. So, if I indulge in an afternoon of cold peaches and cream now and again to try to combat that heat, I’ll call it enjoying what’s left of my summer. Which, as school starts next week, is quickly coming to a close. At least I have some peaches left to ease the transition.

Johanna, of The Passionate Cook, asked for local or regional specialties for this month’s edition of Sugar High Friday. This peach cream makes the best use of local peaches and is a tribute to the way we ate fruit in my house growing up. Call peaches and cream the local specialty of my childhood home.

Peach Cream

8 oz. sour cream
2 T. peach jam
2 T. brown sugar
1/2 t. vanilla

Whisk all ingredients together. Serve over fresh peaches, or spread in a baked pie shell with sliced fresh peaches on top.

One true thing about having a baby: you spend a lot of your waking hours feeding your little one. Which, for nursing moms, means a good portion of the day in a stationary position with little else to do but sit still. Oh, of course, there are the times when I just stare at her ears and her faintly receding hairline and long eyelashes like her dad’s and her chubby toes. But there’s only so much staring a girl can do in a day’s time, especially when the days stretch into weeks and weeks into months, and, well, you get the picture.

Lucky for me, I happened to time my child’s birth with the publishing of the last Harry Potter book. I read the first one ages ago, but since then, my husband has been the fan in the family. He’s read all 6 of the series, while it seems like I started the second one and never quite finished it. So, I decided now would be a good time to finish the second one and read straight on through to this last one. In case you’ve never held a hardback copy of one of the books in your hands, let me tell you, that’s a lot of pages.

As luck would have it, it happens that I’ve had some idle time on my hands, perfect for catching up on the workings of the magical world. Because I’ve read them consecutively and in such a short span of time, I’ve been working up to serious anxiety about the last book. You see, I am an ending kind of girl. Not that every story has to end in a happily ever after, mind you, but it must end properly, the right way, with closure and finality. Investing so much time in Harry and his friends has meant that I could be setting myself up to be disappointed. What if the series ends badly or in the wrong way or, worse yet, with things still up in the air?

Like good books and movies, meals should have satisfactory ends as well. Not every meal needs a big finale, of course, but on occasion, a sweet finish makes even the best main course even more satisfying. Most importantly, dessert signals that the eating is over: a sweet something tells your taste buds the eating is over. Closure for your mouth and your stomach, so to speak. Since I have not the time to spend all day baking nor do I need whole cakes, pies, or other large desserts lurking in my kitchen to tempt me, my meal closure has to come in small, easy-to-make portions.

These tiny fruit crumbles are just such a dessert. As long as you have good fruit, the method couldn’t be simpler: toss it with a bit of flour and sugar, top with a crumbly mixture of butter, sugar, and nuts or oats if you like, and pop it into the oven. You really can’t go wrong, and you can make two or ten, depending on your crowd (or your appetite).

I made these peach and blueberry ones at the end of a long week of feeding Josie and building up to the final Harry Potter. And, well, without spoiling anything for those of you who aren’t finished (or who haven’t started), let me just say that both the dessert and the Deathly Hallows were immensely satisfying.

They even worked well together, with a nice cup of coffee, a comfy chair, and a hungry baby — a perfectly happy ending to these summer days of baby care. So happy, in fact, that I’m thinking of starting the books over, just so I can enjoy the ending all over again. With a proper dessert, of course.

Tiny Crumbles

2 oven-proof ramekins
Fruit to fill each ramekin 3/4 full (I used peaches and blueberries)
Zest of an orange or a lemon
1 t. + 2 T. flour
1 t. + 1 T. brown sugar
1 T. butter
2 T. chopped pecans

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Toss the fruit in each ramekin with 1/2 t. each of flour and brown sugar and equal portions of the fruit zest. Mix the butter, nuts, 2 T. of flour and 1 T. of brown sugar until it’s crumbly; sprinkle evenly over each ramekin. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes, or until the top is brown and the filling bubbly around the edges.

Serve with coffee, ice cream, or a big, heavy book. Just make sure you choose one that ends well.

March is a month of many celebrations in our little family. David and I were married on the 10th, and his birthday falls on the 25th. It’s also, in this part of the world, the beginning of my favorite season: spring.

This March felt especially monumental in our lives: David turned 30, and we celebrated 6 years of marriage, the last one where it will be just the two of us living in our house. It’s funny how the expectation surrounding the birth of a child makes everything seem like such a big deal; maybe it’s just the hormones, but I have felt a sense of urgency to mark occasions by celebrating with more fervor than usual (and anyone who knows me will tell you that I am even in my non-pregnant state an occasion kind of girl).

David was not thrilled about the prospect of turning 30, so I put that celebration on the backburner for a while and concentrated on our anniversary. Usually, I cook a romantic dinner and wear my wedding dress for the evening. Silly, I know, and not very possible this year due to this person protruding from the front of my body. And, I didn’t feel much like spending such a beautiful weekend inside cooking either, so we came up with a new plan. David orchestrated an afternoon picnic and afterwards, we decided to head out to see a movie (neither of us could remember the last time we actually watched one in the theater).

My only job was to come up with a dessert we could have when we got back home with our take-out, and it I knew it had to be an occasion-worthy one — one of the traditional gifts for six years of marriage is sugar, after all.

Over the Christmas holidays, we had the chance to meet and visit with our good friend Tee’s brother, Griff, who also loves to cook. Over Sunday lunch, we got on the topic of cookbooks. When I told him I had just been given Marcella Hazan’s Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking, he immediately recommended her recipe for a dessert called a diplomatico. The suggestion stuck with me, and when I wanted something special to make for David, Hazan’s recipe is where I turned first. I altered it a little, adding a pronounced hazelnut flavor in with the chocolate, but I stuck with her basic formula.

The end result was both lovely and delicious; the chocolate filling is light in texture but heavy on flavor (especially if you use really good chocolate) and the cake turns velvety soft under the influence of its coffee-liqueur bath. You could make a fancy chocolate frosting to go on top, but a simple layer of whipped cream was all it needed, in my opinion. After you have the cake made and cooled, the dessert comes together very quickly; the set-up time it needs makes it the perfect thing to make the day before you need it.
In fact, it was so good that after it served as a celebratory sign of the six years I’ve been married to the love of my life, I convinced David to let me throw a small party in honor of the thirty years he has been alive. He agreed, as long as I promised to make this cake again, a sure sign that this was a dessert worthy of both occasions.

Chocolate Hazelnut Diplomatico

7 t. sugar, divided
4 eggs
6 ounces good, semisweet chocolate (extra, for garnish)
2/3 of a baked pound cake
1/3 cup frangelico (hazelnut liqueur)
1 1/4 cups very strong coffee (I used hazelnut flavored coffee)
1 cup heavy whipping cream
Toasted hazelnuts, for garnish

First, make the chocolate filling. Separate the eggs, and beat the yolks with 1 t. of the sugar until pale yellow. Melt the chocolate in the top of a double boiler. Pour the chocolate very slowly into the yolks, whisking constantly until thoroughly incorporated. Beat the whites on high until stiff peaks form. Stir a couple of spoonfuls of the whites into the chocolate mixture to lighten; then, fold the remaining whites in with a rubber spatula or wooden spoon very gently, being careful not to stir the air out of them. Set aside.

Next, line a baking dish or deep bowl with a damp dishcloth or cheesecloth, letting the edges hang over. Mix the coffee, frangelico, and 5 t. of the sugar in another shallow dish. Slice the pound cake thinly, and dip each slice quickly into the coffee mixture. Line the cloth-lined dish with a layer of cake slices, making sure to fill in all gaps (the wet cake smooshes well, so don’t be afraid to press small pieces into any holes). Spread a layer of the chocolate mixture on top of the cake. Repeat with remaining cake and chocolate, finishing with cake. How many layers you get will depend on the size of your container. I used a 4-quart round bowl and had 4 layers of cake (3 layers of filling). Cover the top of the dessert with the cloth and refrigerate for at least a few hours, preferably overnight.

Just before serving, whip the cream with a teaspoon of sugar until soft peaks form. Turn the cake out of the container onto a platter or cake stand. Frost the sides and top with whipped cream; garnish with chopped nuts and shaved chocolate.

–Adapted from Marcella Hazan’s Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking

Towards the end of last semester, I made a careless scheduling mistake in one of my classes — I miscalculated the number of minutes each student could have for his or her presentation, and it took me a good day to figure out why we kept running out of time. When I explained my error to my students, I told them I didn’t know how I could have come up with those numbers. One of my especially clever students raised her hand and said, “Do you think it has anything to do with your brain shrinking? I read in an article that pregnancy can cause your brain to decrease in size.” Now, of course, I know that science indicates that actual brain size has nothing to do with intelligence or with the brain’s ability to function properly. At the same time, I have to say that pregnancy has, at times, made me feel like part of my brain has gone inactive or shorted out on me. I am usually a very organized, task-oriented person, and all of a sudden, I have turned into a chaotically scatter-brained crazy woman. And the baby isn’t even here yet!

It isn’t just that I haven’t been posting. The holidays were nuts for us — we spent a lot of time away from home and our computers, and then getting back into the rhythm of a school schedule always makes life extra busy at the beginning of a semester — perhaps, it makes sense that I would take a blogging break until I’m in a more regular routine and things have settled down a little. No, the really troubling part of this whole brain chaos is that — I don’t know if I can make myself say this – I don’t really feel like cooking.

I am, of course. Cooking. Just not anything very interesting. I find myself poring over my new, glossy, pretty cookbooks and feeling completely at a loss for how to decide what to make. Part of it is that I am overwhelmed by what is actually happening in the formation of this new little person in my body. I feel so much pressure to make sure I am getting the right nutrients to help him or her grow that I find myself relying on familiar recipes (all of which you already know about).

Another part is that in some ways, I feel like all I do is think about food. I wake up starving, and if I don’t eat every two hours or so, especially in the mornings, I have dizzy spells. David’s favorite joke these days is, “Have you eaten all three of your breakfasts yet?” By the time dinner rolls around, I’m still hungry, but I can’t bear to really think about what to make. So, we have roast chicken and vegetables. Again.

I’ve only found one remedy for this culinary dry spell: baking.

Now, I know that sounds contrary to maternal instinct and, well, just plain good common sense. In order to gain a healthy amount of weight and get the nutrients the growing baby needs, one should avoid refined sugar and high-calorie sweets. So goes the conventional pregnancy-book wisdom.

But, the making of sweet, pretty things makes me so happy. It isn’t really the eating of them — although I won’t lie and say I don’t love that part too. It’s the sheer joy of putting them together.

Perhaps I’m still in holiday mode — my sister-in-law, Hannah, and I had such a lovely time whipping up fun treats in the kitchen, and then, before I knew it, her weeks here had passed and we were all on the road for Christmas celebrating, and then, to move Jon and her to Texas.

Or, maybe, it’s the weather. It has been wet and cold here for weeks on end, and if I don’t see more than one day of sunshine in a row soon, I’m likely to hide under my covers indefinitely. Folks in the Pacific Northwest, my sincere condolences. I don’t know how you do it.

Whatever the reason, after a long, long hiatus, I have not a menu or a quick dinner recipe to offer you, but what has been a bright spot in several a dark, rainy January day for me: a lemon cupcake.

I first made these for our friend Billy’s birthday right before we left for Christmas holidays, and I used the last of the Meyer lemon crop in these parts to make another batch not too long ago. The cake part of this recipe comes from the ever-reliable Rachel at Coconut and Lime: I adapted her Lime & Buttermilk cupcake recipe to suit my hankering for a lemon-only affair. To make the lemon flavor even more pronounced, and because I had some left over from a round of holiday gift-making, I filled the centers with lemon curd. Frosting, in my opinion, should match its partner: heavy buttercream works well with a hefty chocolate cupcake, but for these lighter, lemony ones, I opted for a dollop of plain whipped cream and a garnish of sugared rind.

If you need a pick-me-up in the midst of a hectic schedule, a rainy day, or simply the doldrums of winter, one of these cupcakes might just inject some sunshine into your soul. And if you’re six months pregnant and without the inspiration for a single meal, they might just make you feel like a cook again. Or, maybe that’s just me.

Lemon Sunshine Cupcakes

There are a variety of ways to make filled cupcakes, but most of them require some sort of assembly after the cupcakes are already baked. I wanted to see what happened if the curd baked right along with the cupcake batter. You won’t get a neat pocket of filling right in the middle of your cupcake that way; instead, the curd sort of soaks the whole cake, so that each bite is bursting with lemon flavor. Be forewarned: eating these cupcakes does make for sticky fingers.

For this recipe, I like long, thin strips of lemon zest, which you can get with a claw zester or with a really sharp vegetable peeler.

1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 t. baking powder
1/4 t. baking soda
1/4 t. salt
1 cup sugar
3/4 cup butter
3/4 cup buttermilk
2 eggs
Juice of 1 large lemon
Zest of 3 large lemons
About 1 cup of Lemon Curd
Half pint of heavy whipping cream

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Line a muffin tin with baking cups, aluminum or paper, and spray with baking spray. Stir together the dry ingredients: flour, baking powder, soda, and salt. With a mixer, cream the butter and sugar until fluffy. Add the eggs and continue beating, until the mixture is well-combined.

Toss half of the zest with a teaspoon of sugar and set aside; stir the rest in with the butter, sugar, and eggs.

Stir the buttermilk and lemon juice together in a glass measuring cup with a pouring spout. With the mixer on low, add the liquid and flour mixtures alternately, until the batter is thick and creamy.

Fill each muffin cup a little less than half-full and make a well in the center. Fill the well with a spoonful of lemon curd. Top with the remaining batter, to cover the curd. Bake for 18-22 minutes, until the tops are just beginning to brown.

When the cupcakes have completely cooled, frost with whipped cream and top with the sugared zest. Keep in the refrigerator until ready to serve.

PS: If you are reading this post, I’d just like to say THANK YOU for returning. After so many glimpses of my very fat cat in a Santa hat on your computer screen, I’d completely understand if you never came back. I truly appreciate all of your comments and emails and the simple fact that you’ve checked in again to see if I’ve managed to post again. I am also terribly behind in responding to those kind comments and emails, so if you’ve written and not heard back from me, please accept my sincere apology for my silence. If pregnancy has taught me anything, it’s that I can’t know what the future holds, so I won’t make any promises I’m not certain I can keep, but I will say that I hope to be a more regular presence, even if it’s just to tell you about another fun sweet that’s emerged from my oven. Just promise you won’t call the pregnancy nutrition police, okay?

PPS: After catching up on my blog reading, I was delighted to discover that Garrett at Vanilla Garlic and Cheryl and the Cupcake Bakeshop are collecting cupcake recipes! Head over to their sites to check out more ways to spend a rainy day baking on January 29th.

For this month’s Paper Chef competition, the required ingredients include:

1. Vermouth
2. Cranberries
3. Sparkling drink
4. Something wild

with a celebration theme. Cranberries and a sparkling drink are easy enough, especially this time of year, and although I’ve never actually had vermouth, I understand that the sweet red version is akin to sherry or port, both of which know their way around my kitchen quite well.

The something wild part, however, I was not so sure about.

Wild berries? Not this time of year. Wild animals? My pregnancy-induced aversion to meat says no. Wild…and crazy?

Hmmm. Well, I am not wild and crazy. In fact, anyone who knows me will tell you that I am quite the opposite: pajamas and a movie suit me much better than any night out on the town (especially these days). But, I do know some wild and crazy people. In fact, one of the people who has been in my life the longest who fits that description is also one of the women who taught me a good deal about the pleasures of food and cooking: my Aunt Emily.

Aunt Em is the youngest of five children, the oldest of whom is my father. Many stories circulate about which of them — the oldest and only boy or the youngest girl — got into more trouble as a kid. Apparently, by the time Aunt Em came around, my grandparents were so tired, she did exactly as she pleased. Or so the stories go.

By the time I knew her, she was the cool aunt who invited me up to her farmhouse in the summer, let me eat absolutely whatever I pleased, did flips off of the diving board when we went to the pool, and could waterski as well as any of the teenagers at the lake. Especially compared to my sweet, mild-mannered mother, Aunt Em was the picture of let-your-hair-down wild and crazy fun.

And, man, could she cook.

And so, although I know an actual person cannot be an ingredient, the spirit of Aunt Em is certainly what inspired this creation. One of my favorite desserts that she makes is something she calls Savannah Cake, made by mixing sherry custard and torn-up angel food cake and refrigerating it in a mold. The finished cake is iced with whipped cream and served with raspberry sauce. It is beautiful — the bright red of the berries and the white of the cake — but it is also delicious.

So, for my Aunt Em-inspired Paper Chef entry, I recreated her Savannah Cake, with a few alterations. For starters, I made a champagne cake, a bit denser than angel food, but airy enough to hold the custard well. The champagne flavor of the cake also provided a nice counterpoint to the vermouth in the custard, my second adjustment. And finally, I made a cranberry sauce with lime, instead of the raspberry sauce, usually made with lemon. Truly, a celebratory dessert, it would make a delightfully different birthday cake, or a fitting end to a fancy, celebratory dinner.

I love the custardy texture of this cake, and the flavors of the vermouth and champagne do play nicely together in your mouth. But, for me, the cranberry sauce makes it — the lovely, tart berry puree coats each sweet creamy bite with the perfect tang of contrast. Next time I make it, I won’t sweeten the cream for the icing — it doesn’t need it, and I think the cream could stand alone.

This cake also requires a celebratory spirit in the kitchen — it’s quite a process to make all of the individual parts before assembly, and then you have to wait until the next day to try it! But, when you do, the anticipation will make the celebration that much sweeter. Or, shall we say, wilder?

Wild Aunt Em’s Savannah Cake with Cranberry Sauce

For the cake:
2 3/4 cup cake flour
2 t. baking powder
1 t. salt
10 1/2 T. butter
1 1/2 cups sugar, divided
3/4 cup champagne
6 egg whites (set aside the yolks for the custard)

Sift the flour, baking powder, and salt together in a bowl. Set aside.

Cream the butter and 1 cup of the sugar. Add the champagne and flour mixture alternately to the creamed butter and sugar, mixing well after each addition (or just leave the motor running on your mixer like I do). Pour this batter (it will be very thick) into a large bowl and set aside.

Wash the mixer, and beat the egg whites with the remaining 1/2 cup of sugar until soft peaks form. Stir a couple of spoonfuls of the egg whites into the batter to lighten; then, fold the whites and batter together. Pour into a greased cake pan and bake for about 40 minutes, or until the edges are light brown and a knife inserted into the center comes out clean. Put the cake on a rack to cool.

For the custard:
1 envelope unflavored gelatin, softened in 1/2 cup cold water
6 egg yolks
1 cup sugar
3/4 cup sweet vermouth (or sherry)
1/4 cup water

Beat the egg yolks until light yellow. Add the sugar and continue to beat. Stir in the vermouth and water; add the gelatin. Cook this mixture in the top of a double-boiler over simmering water (the highest temperature you can manage without the water boiling), and stir, until slightly thickened, somewhere around 15-20 minutes. The custard will coat the back of a spoon, but it won’t get terribly thick until it’s chilled. Set aside to cool.
To assemble the cake:
1 pint of whipping cream
1 cup sugar

Whip the cream and sugar together, and divide in half. Stir half of the whipped cream into the cooled custard; cover and refrigerate the rest. Mix the cream and custard well. Tear the cake into pieces and fold the cake into the custard-cream mixture. Pour this into a greased bundt pan and refrigerate overnight. The next day, ice with the remaining whipped cream and pour the cranberry sauce on top so it runs down the sides. Serve slices with more sauce.

Cranberry Sauce

12 ounces of cranberries
1 cup water
Zest and juice of 1 lime
1 cup sugar

Cook the ingredients over medium until the water boils. Then, cook for another 10 minutes, just until the cranberries burst. Force this mixture through a strainer.