This is not new. If given a deliberately vague task I freeze and wait for purpose, which often doesn’t show but finally did, when I carved a mission from this meme-me-me: I’d share seven foods from my past, each with a small story. You, dear reader, pick the one you like – or the least boring, whichever comes first – and the most-voted food gets cooked and blogged here on Simmer, recipe, story and all. Thank you, Susan for your too-kind words and, indirectly, the gift of one blogging day made a little less random.

S’mores Tarts Baking at an upscale Chicago pastry shop, I was expected to devise new desserts for the case. New desserts that would please both customers and our novelty-driven boss who, if he sensed a trend, would have sold chocolate-dipped pig ears and motorized cake. I came up with S’mores tarts, novel in 1995, composed of graham tart shells, milk chocolate ganache and fluffy house-made marshmallows which we would – big finish – set ablaze in front of the crowd. Seemed like a winner, and all went great until we actually blew out flames, and a lady in the window shrieked heavenward that she’d seen our spit hit the tarts. So much for blaze theater.

Curried Mushroom Soup In high school Behavioral Science class, we had a semester-long project in which we’d be pretend-married to another student, and live on a budget, and work out issues, and all types of situations designed for maximum teen discomfort. One assignment required hosting a dinner party with other “couples,” and after planting my pink Converse Hi-Tops at mom’s stove to make Curried Mushroom Soup – a mature-sounding dish from her files – I served it in our dining room to twitchy, bickering pairs who’d rather be somewhere else. Dabbing soup off my ripped jeans, I considered that this might be how adults spent their days.

Stuffed Leg of Lamb In a combined young-bride and young-chef disaster, I once pounded, stuffed and rolled a boneless leg of lamb to entertain Greg’s law firm colleagues. The evening started with our crotch-sniffing Dalmatian and a clogged sink, continued with undercooked, untied lamb and finished with a wailing fire alarm. In truth, the mustard-garlic-whatever stuffing was delicious – but who among you would ask me to do it again?

Tortelloni with Gorgonzola Sauce In the post-college summer of 1990, Greg and I backpacked around Italy. One night in Bologna we splurged on a real restaurant, a place called The Black Cat, set on a square with flickering jar candles, wrought-iron tables and people in clean clothes. After slurping cheap red wine we ate carpaccio with parmigiana, lemon and capers, fat cheese-filled tortelloni in Gorgonzola sauce, and tiramisu. It may be the wine, the summer or the fact that an argument caused me to leave, walk away and come back, but it is still, many dinners later, the best I ever had.

Linzer Torte The classic Austrian dessert is just fruit jam under latticed almond crust, but the buttery dough is tricky, melting, fragile. Especially if you’re rolling dough in a small city bakery in July, and daft owner lady won’t pay for air conditioning, and still takes orders for Linzer Torte. You might get heat stroke and threaten to quit, right there over the breaking dough. Yes you might. But you’d never blame a torte this good.

Marjolaine When I ran a catering company, The Happy Ending, I supplied restaurants with Valentine’s Day desserts. One year I filled an order for 300 pieces of Marjolaine, a labor-intensive classic made with hazelnut meringue, genoise, and two buttercreams. At the time I worked out of my house, and with no catering staff and a sleeping toddler, it was just me and Marjolaine in the all-night kitchen. For hours I baked, whipped, stirred, threw spatulas and wept. All the while I Love Lucy played on my tiny kitchen TV, the Scotland episode where Lucy dreams it all. I know this because I saw it three times; I was at my table so long that Nick at Nite ran it three full times before sunrise. Three. If you vote for Marjolaine, rest assured it will be well-planned. One cake, no Lucy and Simmer off to bed.

Spaghetti Carbonara When I returned home on college breaks and my sister was in high school, we liked to whip up this spaghetti-bacon-egg bonanza late at night – and for a short obsessive time, every night. When I picture the bubbling cream and parmigiana and yolks it boggles my mind, a mystery how I made it through those snack years without total stomach collapse, or gaining 500 pounds. Because that would surely happen now if, at 42, I began lounging with midnight TV, two-liter Diet Cokes and pasta straight-from the-pot. Iris was my Carbonara ringleader, insisting the more cheese, more spaghetti, more talk shows the better. Our parents were asleep, we had metabolism on our side and to flop down and share one blue bowl again, even a few strands, my stomach would gladly say yes.

So. One of these memories gets cooked. If it’s Marjolaine or lamb, please give me plenty of notice so I can prepare, respectively, with extra sleep and string.

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Update 1/28: WINNER! S’mores Tarts it is, announced here. Voting over, but if you wish to leave a request – like lamb, oh you people – feel free. And thanks for playing along.

Today marks the first night of Passover. I have been in the kitchen most of the day, preparing desserts for the seder at my in-laws’ home tonight. This is a family ritual, a traditional – albeit grumbling and hungry – telling of the Passover story, followed by the eating of the so-called festive meal. I make the desserts. And to honor the fact that the Jewish slaves ran like hell out of Egypt before the bread could rise, the desserts have no flour.

And because the desserts have no flour, I go crazy.

I can make flourless things, you know – nice chocolate souffles, chocolate-dipped fruit, coconut meringues – and I make them all for Passover; but with the sudden absence of flour from my arsenal, I spend untold hours wringing my hands and wailing, “oh wheat, you have forsaken me! Where is my baking powder, my grain? Return to me, Apricot Chocolate Tortes of yore.”

I flip the cards of my mental cake-dex and want to mix every one. I want to sift through the air and slice layers to the sky, but I don’t. I honor my ancestors and their grain-free flight from Egypt with meringues, and strawberries, and pretend-banana cake laced with grainy matzo meal.

But here, like a golden calf, we can ogle beautiful chocolate cake. Of course I say this with no disrespect; some of my fondest memories involve being nine years old and seder-table tipsy – after my cousins loaded me with Shnapps, under the table. It’s simply that the no-flour rule waves a flag – a “you can’t have it” flag, and then you want it. Oh fine crumb, stop your wandering – and make a hasty return to your people’s plate!

Happy Passover, Happy Easter, a joyous Spring and a very fine day to you all, whatever you may be celebrating.  I’m back and simmering shortly with something fresh.

We’re back from a week of Chicago eating, and running around windy, early tornado-season Kansas has shaken out my high-calorie spring break. I’ve got things to do: plan a bat mitzvah, finish a book proposal, work off the winter blahs, and oh, yes – reconnect with my favorite readers. It’s time to get down to business, so might as well make it delicious. Hope you’re all well, and I will see you tomorrow. Fresh.

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Our 15th anniversary was November 13, 2008; I commemorated it with a tale of the most important cake I never made. Original post found here.

We’d insisted on a November wedding – autumn, crisp and comfortable – but now, standing in satin heels before a seated crowd at the Knickerbocker Hotel, I thought, what the hell does it matter what month it is, except that I’m wearing long sleeves? We are inside.

That was my view in 1993, but this long day had actually begun in 1985, when my parents drove away from the dorm and I carefully stood my mixtapes in a red plastic crate. Greg and I became friends that day, and found push me-pull you love after that, fueled by talk and turntables and parties, sunrises and vodka and dancing – sloppy dancing, no thoughts of time, money, or aching feet.

Even now – mortgage, silverware, thank-you notes – we still floated on a hazy and curious feeling of promise, still carried the remnants of a beer-soaked dance floor, and they would remain our guide on this day, when one “I do” minute might make the world briefly irony-free.

Or “I will,” or whatever – seconds later I thought, isn’t dinner going to be in this room? Thirty rows of family down there would be whisked away into cocktails, and return here for dinner. Would the room be ready? Would there be enough ice? Could I get a snack?

The staff would in fact transform the space – currently holding one bride, one groom, a rose-covered chuppah, a photographer, a video guy, a Rabbi and two hundred guests – back to a regular ballroom in time for soup. The grand old 1920’s girl, with her gilded ceilings and lighted dance floor, had seen both Al Capone and my parent’s prom night.

They knew what they were doing. By the first toast, draped tables and clinking china hugged the smoky mirrored walls. In the center, the dance floor built for Capone was lit for our newly married entrance, and at the other end of the ballroom, calling me, was our cake.

As an overeager apprentice pastry chef, I’d planned to make my own wedding cake. I fought everyone’s warnings, including chatty taxi drivers – don’t even think about it, baby – up to the last minute. Consumed by important tasks like hot-gluing 400 tiny peach satin roses to 200 place cards, I finally admitted defeat, and though it killed me to do it, I reluctantly turned the job over to a well-known European bakery.

And now the haughty not-my-cake taunted me from across the ballroom. During the reception I’d sneak peeks at it, and hug guests on that side of the room to get closer, edging across the floor; finally, my train rustled against the table’s skirting, and there it was.

We eyed each other. That cake was wearing nothing but an ivory buttercream robe and a wholly indecent – no, completely insane – shower of white chocolate curls.

I pursed my over-lipsticked lips. Really, it’s over the top. Kinda gauche, a bit much. Surely it could have used a more restrained hand, you know, say, mine, and then…the damn thing winked at me. Winked like Alexis Carrington in four tiers and frosted shoulder pads. Dark chocolate perfume and white ruffled lashes. I kid you not, the sly thing smiled.

I stifled the impulse to laugh – I’m nuts, I thought, I’m married and freaking nuts – but out came a giggle, then a chuckle, and a full-on, doubled-over, can’t-talk guffaw. Aunt Ruth, Aunt Margaret, Aunt Rose – all the aunts watching the bride clutching her princess-waist, teary and gasping, likely whispered “dear batty little thing…she’s overcome.” And I was.

Overcome with all this more, all this larger-than-life more that was suddenly now. I stared at the cake thinking this is it. This is me and I’ll be cranking out many happy endings like this one – big, moussed, and circa ‘85 – and each time I do I’ll think of us, sharing endless runs for cheap, hot doughnuts in the dark.

Now we fed each other chocolate cake on forks in the air, white curls falling from our lips as petals, laughing and laughing at this hilarious circus, laughs you belt out once or twice in life and never see again – all the while cameras clicking and crumbs dropping. Our private delicious laughter, and one sound moment for a sweet life ahead.

Anyway, found within a stack and then another stack of dubious food-sketchbook archives, here is my long-ago view of our Big Fat 90′s Wedding Cake, and it’s even more curl-explosive and toweringly white chocolate than I remember it.  The other stray doodlings on the page lend a nicely extra-crazy air, no?   With a fresh look at this a few years on, I can tell that the artist has recently married, and has not yet endured fifteen years of learning to fold t-shirts like her husband’s mother – clearly, the cake is all aglow.

Even now – mortgage, silverware, thank-you notes – we still floated on a hazy and curious feeling of promise, still carried the remnants of a beer-soaked dance floor, and they would remain our guide on this day, when one  “I do” minute might make the world briefly irony-free.

Or “I will,” or whatever – seconds later I thought, isn’t dinner going to be in this room? Thirty rows of family down there would be whisked away into cocktails, and return here for dinner.  Would the room be ready? Would there be enough ice?  Could I get a snack?

The staff would in fact transform the space – currently holding one bride, one groom, a rose-covered chuppah, a photographer, a video guy, a Rabbi and two hundred guests – back to a regular ballroom in time for soup.  The grand old 1920’s girl, with her gilded ceilings and lighted dance floor, had seen both Al Capone and my parent’s prom night.

They knew what they were doing.  By the first toast, draped tables and clinking china hugged the smoky mirrored walls.  In the center, the dance floor built for Capone was lit for our newly married entrance, and at the other end of the ballroom, calling me, was our cake.

As an overeager apprentice pastry chef, I’d planned to make my own wedding cake.  I fought everyone’s warnings, including chatty taxi drivers  – don’t even think about it, baby – up to the last minute.  Consumed by important tasks like hot-gluing 400 tiny peach satin roses to 200 place cards, I finally admitted defeat, and though it killed me to do it, I reluctantly turned the job over to a well-known European bakery.

And now the haughty not-my-cake taunted me from across the ballroom.  During the reception I’d sneak peeks at it, and hug guests on that side of the room to get closer, edging across the floor; finally, my train rustled against the table’s skirting, and there it was.

We eyed each other. That cake was wearing nothing but an ivory buttercream robe and a wholly indecent – no, completely insane – shower of white chocolate curls.

I pursed my over-lipsticked lips. Really, it’s over the top. Kinda gauche, a bit much. Surely it could have used a more restrained hand, you know, say, mine, and then…the damn thing winked at me.  Winked like Alexis Carrington in four tiers and frosted shoulder pads.  Dark chocolate perfume and white ruffled lashes.  I kid you not, the sly thing smiled.

I stifled the impulse to laugh – I’m nuts, I thought, I’m married and freaking nuts – but out came a giggle, then a chuckle, and a full-on, doubled-over, can’t-talk guffaw.  Aunt Ruth, Aunt Margaret, Aunt Rose – all the aunts watching the bride clutching her princess-waist, teary and gasping, likely whispered “dear batty little thing…she’s overcome.”  And I was.

Overcome with all this more, all this larger-than-life more that was suddenly now. I stared at the cake thinking this is it. This is me and I’ll be cranking out many happy endings like this one – big, moussed, and circa ‘85 – and each time I do I’ll think of us, sharing endless runs for cheap, hot doughnuts in the dark.

Now we fed each other chocolate cake from forks in the air, white chocolate curls falling off our lips like rose petals, laughing and laughing at this hilarious circus, laughs you belt out once or twice in life and never see again – all the while cameras clicking and crumbs dropping.  Our private delicious laughter, and one sound moment for a sweet life ahead.

Simple – I’m a fan. Carole’s award-winning 1992 book Great Cakes was, and still is, my great friend in the kitchen – helpful in culinary school, in our first place, at every Mother’s Day brunch.  All her creative-but-practical recipes, full of usefully rich advice, are as vital to me as ever – albeit more folded, spattered and crumbed, as all good recipes should be.  Carole graciously agreed to play, and impressed me yet again – for such a prolific author, she provided the most efficient answers seen here yet.

(I knew she was coming, so I baked a cake! Specifically, Carole’s Gingery Pumpkin Cake, from her excellent recipe in Great Cakes. See the recipe – and result – below.)

————

How often do you think about eating?

All the time.

Coffee craving?

In the morning.

Favorite hometown food?

Memphis BBQ from Paynes.

Ever been served breakfast in bed?

Only if I was sick.

Your absolutely reliable, go-to dish for entertaining is:

Filet of Beef

Food that makes you gag?

Tofu

Worst kitchen disaster:

A recipe for Gum Drop cookies that was passed to me by a casual acquaintance that I wanted to shoot after making them.

Three things in your refrigerator right now:

Salad greens, English Cheddar, hummus.

Your idea of a romantic meal is:

My husband and I eat totally differently – and I am not having an affair at present!

Secret snack of shame?

Brownies

Most ambitious thing you’ve ever done in the kitchen:

Whole Sea Bass en Croute.

Best restaurant if you’re not paying:

Per Se

Extra Credit:  Where is the world’s best pizza?

I don’t know, but the world’s best pastries are in Vienna.

ed. note: now, you know I love me some pizza, but I might agree with Carole about Vienna – especially on the day I ate dessert at Demel.

Carole Walter’s Gingery Pumpkin Cake
from Great Cakes, 1992

3 cups sifted unbleached all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
5 large eggs
1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup light brown sugar, lightly packed

One 1-lb. can (2 cups) pureed pumpkin (do not use pumpkin pie mix)

1 1/2 cups vegetable oil
1 1/2 cups walnuts, chopped medium, 2 tablespoons reserved for top
1 cup mixed light and dark raisins
2 tablespoons minced crystallized ginger
1/2 cup quartered red glaceed cherries, optional

1. Position rack in the lower third of the oven and preheat to 350 F. Butter a 10-inch angel food cake pan. (You can also bake this in two large loaf pans or a deep 1/2 sheet jelly roll pan, as I did, lined with parchment paper)

2. Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and spices. Set aside.

3. Put the eggs in the large bowl of an electric mixer. Using the beaters or whip attachment, beat on medium-high speed for 2 minutes.

4. Add the granulated sugar, 1 tablespoon at a time, taking 3-4 minutes to blend it in well. Then add the light brown sugar over an additional 3 to 4 minutes, beating until mixture is light in color and thickened. Add the pumpkin puree and beat for 1 minute. Slowly pour in the oil in a steady stream, and beat one minute longer.

5. Reduce mixer speed to low. Blend in the dry ingredients all at once, mixing just until incorporated. Remove the bowl from the mixer. Using a wide rubber spatula, fold in all but 2 tablespoons of the nuts, then the raisins, ginger, and optional cherries.

6. Pour the batter into the prepared pan. Sprinkle top with the reserved 2 tablespoons of nuts. Bake in the preheated oven for 65-70 minutes, until cake begins to leave sides of pan and a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out dry.

7. Remove from the oven and set the pan on a cake rack to cool completely. To remove the cake, run a thin, sharp knife around the sides and center tube. Lift up center tube and run a thin, sharp knife under the cake. Invert the cake onto the rack. Turn top side up and cool completely.

Serves 12 – 16.

Storage: store at room temperature, covered, for up to 5 days. For longer storage, refrigerate up to 10 days.

Note: I baked this cake in a half-sheet pan, which allowed me to cut small squares and top each with cream cheese frosting (find a quick basic version here) and one perfect pecan.

Click me, I’m a printable recipe!

We may see a few chocolate sprinkle flurries in the overnight.  Stay tuned!

* click here for my favorite, crazy-easy, perfect-for-cupcakes Vanilla Buttercream.

Favorite Vanilla Buttercream for Cupcakes

8 oz unsalted butter, softened (two sticks)
3 cups powdered sugar, sifted
2 tablespoons plus 2 teaspoons milk
2 teaspoons vanilla extract

In mixer bowl, use paddle attachment to beat butter until smooth, white and creamy. Gradually beat in powdered sugar, occasionally stopping to scrape down bowl, continuing until smooth and combined. Add milk and vanilla on low speed to combine, then briefly beat on high speed until fluffy and fully mixed. Use immediately or store, refrigerated, for several days.

Vanilla Buttercream Plus

When it comes to flavoring buttercream, the spatula’s the limit. Try beating in any of these additions for extra cupcake happiness.

* Orange: finely grated orange zest, plus a few tablespoon of fresh-squeezed orange juice

* Mocha: one tablespoon instant espresso, dissolved in water or Kahlua liqueur

* Berry Pink:  a few tablespoons of seedless raspberry jam (pink frosting lovers, take note)

* Minty Goodness:  one dozen finely chopped Andes mint chocolate candies (for pastel green color, add one drop at a time of green gel food coloring for desired shade)

* Lemon-Lime:  finely grated lime zest, finely grated lemon zest and a few tablespoons Rose’s Lime Juice

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<—- Looking for the world’s…uh…frostiest cupcake?  Click here.

But here’s the thing – I don’t have one, and though there are hundreds of versions out there, I wanted to give you mine. I seriously use a crumb-as-you-go method, no recipe at all, and it never occurred to me to write it down. You’d think I would, with the blogging and all, but no, I just stick my hands in the buttery flour and scrunch away. Heck if I know what’s in there. I just bake, photograph and eat.

the elusive crumb cake

Anyway, a few readers – led by Carol, carrying a flaming torch and fork – demanded crumb cake. And I kind of broke that promise, but this is a campaign year, so I’ll do as the candidates do, and offer you…a distraction!   Hey, look over there! You wouldn’t turn down an easy golden cake with juicy berries and crunchy pecans, would you? Warm from the oven, a shower of powdered sugar, kind of like crumb cake?

It’s one of my old favorites – perfect for brunch, good in any season, and best of all, I wrote it down. While I document my crazy crumb-ing, you enjoy the distraction.

Blueberry Pecan Brunch Cake

6 ounces unsalted butter, softened
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
3 large eggs, room temperature
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 tablespoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup pecans, finely chopped
1 1/2 cups fresh (or frozen) blueberries
2 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon
powdered sugar

Using an electric mixer, beat the butter until light and smooth. Add the sugar and vanilla and beat on medium speed until light and fluffy. Add the eggs one at a time, beating on medium speed until each is incorporated, stopping to scrape the bowl as necessary.

Place the flour, baking powder and salt in a small bowl, and whisk lightly to combine. With the mixer running on low speed, add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture. Mix just until the batter is combined – scrape once – and briefly mix again to finish.

Spray a 9 x 13-inch baking pan with baking spray. Dust lightly with flour, tapping out excess. Scrape the batter into the pan. Sprinkle 1/2 cup of the chopped pecans over the batter. Sprinkle the blueberries evenly over the batter and top with the remaining pecans. In a small bowl, combine the sugar and cinnamon and sprinkle the mixture evenly over the entire cake. Bake the cake on center rack in the oven for about 45 minutes, until golden brown and an inserted tooth pick or wooden skewer comes out clean.

When cake is cool enough to handle, sift powdered sugar lightly over the top and cut into squares, serving warm or at room temperature.

Serves 8 to 12. Cake be made 1 – 2 days ahead. To store, cover tightly with plastic wrap and store at room temperature. Re-heat briefly in oven, if desired.

* one printable recipe, coming right up: blueberry-pecan-brunch-cake

During construction I got another bright idea, to start a blog – amusing, since I knew as much about blogging as I did about drywall.  Sure, the early posts featured beams and framing and trim boards, but when the year wore on and the builders dragged, sugar and flour crept in.  Scones replaced doorknobs, and paint gave way to banana bread.   Once I got over the notion of sharing my kitchen with strangers, there were no strangers at all – just a few more guests at the table.  So I put out more food.

I still don’t know much about blogging.  But if you’re considering it yourself, a bit of advice:

1) photograph everything. Drive your family nuts by making them wait for dinner (“hold on – click, click – okay, no wait – click – okay, eat”)

2) make yourself the butt of every joke. For me, not a problem.

3) be sure to exploit every edible occasion, like my mother-in-law’s birthday cake, above. She had a lovely 65th, and certainly I should have shown her smiling behind candles, but…oh come on, the blog is turning one.  I needed a cake here!

Thank you for sharing this year with all of us at Simmer.  And when I say all of us I mean, you know, me.  I also mean the two decent people and one sweet dog who put up with me. It takes good humor to be laid out daily like a brunch buffet, but I assure you they’re well-fed for their trouble.  And when they’re eating well, the blog is too.  It’s been my pleasure to host you all – so stick around, grab a snack, and know you’re welcome in my kitchen.