“I don’t know,” he said, and I gaped at him. “It just seems pointless.” Ah. There we are, that’s why, the point. My husband the attorney, the arrow thinker, does not like needless complication. He cannot grasp a situation that doesn’t have a point. I too like hitting the right note, but that’s not always been the case. There was a time, pre-culinary school-discipline-makeover, when I complicated all sorts of things. I frequently made simple things much harder than they had to be, things like:

That Medieval Times birthday cake: I’d already built battlements from a two-ton carrot cake. Did it really need that working gingerbread drawbridge and chocolate moat?

That six-tier wedding cake for the rabbit lovers: I agreed to carve bride and groom rabbits – they asked for black rabbits, a specific breed – out of Sculpey. Did she need that tiny strand of pearls, did he really need a rabbit tux? With a hole for his tail?

That banana tart for the Cuban-themed restaurant audition: did it really need rum, caramel, coconut, lime, white chocolate and a little umbrella? Perhaps I should have dressed it in a little marzipan t-shirt stamped “TROPICS?”

The overdoing went on a long time, until chef training beat it out of me. By necessity, I learned to create lovely things with speed and efficiency, things that didn’t stray. Lesson learned: if you don’t have two extra hours, don’t make a chocolate moat.

By now I should know, should know better. An unadorned tomato is best, but even in August I wanted to crank up the oven and bake – with tomatoes. The fact that it’s time for quick, cold and easy would, apparently, keep me from mixing bread dough, spreading filling, rolling and chopping and waiting for dough to rise. Twice.

Summer’s almost over, so a little side trip, one foot in the garden and one eye toward woolly fall, is no waste of time. Not the most efficient recipe, but so strong was the savory bread in my mind, a sort of deep dish-flavored sticky bun, that I bucked the heat to make it anyway and hope you will, too. It’s needlessly complicated, too true, but when you serve this edible centerpiece to oohs and ahhs, when they are reeling in tomato-steam and pulling apart crusty rolls, you might think: not complicated. Simply good, and worth it.

Summer Fest bounded through the season with a fabulous group of bloggers. What’s everyone cooked up for the finale?

♥ Margaret Roach at A Way to Garden has troubled tomatoes, but is still Making Quick Tomato Sauce, Ever so Slowly

♥ Matt Armendariz at MattBites features not one, not two, but an incredible Tomatoes Ten Ways, including Roasted Tomato Bloody Mary and cold Heirloom & Fennel Soup.

♥ Jaden Hair at Steamy Kitchen stacks a beautiful Caprese Salad with Basil Vinaigrette.

♥ Diane & Todd at White on Rice Couple are showing off gorgeous Tomato Jam Recipes and tales of Kiddie Tomato Thieves

♥ Shauna & Daniel Ahern at Gluten-Free Girl making I-want-it-right-now Smoked Tomato Salsa

♥ Paige Smith Orloff at The Sister Project is dishing up “the Greatest” – Curried Carrot & Tomato Soup.

And also you! Summer Fest is a great way to explore new voices, get new ideas and contribute your own. Hopscotch around the blogs, find what you like and please leave something to share, like recipes, links or tips. Do you grow great tomatoes, have the perfect summer recipe? Introduce yourself, and comment away.  Readers have exchanged so many delicious ideas – so swing by the blogs, and enjoy the best of summer.

UPSIDE-DOWN TOMATO BASIL BREAD

serves 12-16

Dough

2 1/2 teaspoons (or 1 package) active dry yeast
1 cup plus 3 tablespoons warm water
4 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon olive oil
3 3/4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1/2 cup shredded Parmesan cheese
2 teaspoons sea salt
1 teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper (or three-pepper mix)

cornmeal, for sprinkling

Filling

4 – 5 tablespoons fresh basil, finely chopped (basil from store produce pkg, about 1 oz)
1 cup shredded Parmesan cheese
1/4 cup olive oil
1 teaspoon sea salt
1 teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper (or three-pepper mix)
fresh-ground red pepper flakes, to your more hot/less hot taste -or- 1/2 teaspoon hot red pepper flakes

Tomato Topping

3 large or 4 small-medium tomatoes

optional for sprinkling: 1/4 teaspoon each: sea salt, sugar, red pepper flakes

Make Bread Dough:

Using mixer: Stir the yeast into warm water in mixer bowl; let stand about 10 minutes, until yeast looks bubbled and creamy. Fit mixer with dough hook. Stir in olive oil first, combining with yeast, then mix in flour, Parmesan cheese, sea salt, ground black pepper and hot pepper flakes. Start mixing on low and increase to medium speed, kneading about 5 minutes, until dough is combined, soft and elastic.

If dough looks too dry: add water while mixer kneads, few drops at a time, until dough just combines. If dough looks too wet: add tiny dashes of flour while mixer kneads, sparingly, until sides of bowl look clean and dough combines.

Place dough in lightly oiled bowl; cover loosely with plastic wrap, then dish towel. Set aside and let rise until doubled, about 2 hours. Dough should feel very smooth, moist and soft.

While dough rises, make filling & tomato topping.

Make Filling:

In small bowl, place chopped fresh basil, Parmesan cheese, olive oil, sea salt, ground pepper and red pepper flakes. Stir to combine well, and set aside.

Tomato Topping:

Remove cores and chop tomatoes to small, rough pieces. Place in bowl (without accumulated liquid) and set aside.

Assemble Tomato Basil Bread

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F

Lightly oil (with olive oil) bottom and sides of 10″ round cake or springform pan (can also use 9 x 13 metal pan, Pyrex dish, or similar). Drain any excess juices from chopped tomatoes, then spread evenly over bottom of pan. Set aside.

Turn risen bread dough out on lightly floured surface. Gently pull and stretch dough to a rough rectangle, approximately 11″ x 24″. Using spatula, gently spread Filling evenly across dough to cover, reaching edges. Starting at long edge, roll dough up jelly roll style, as for cinnamon rolls. Try to roll evenly and without air gaps. With seam side facing down, make sure filled roll is solid and combined by patting sides and edges.

Using a thin, sharp knife (serrated is best) cut 1″ slices from dough roll. Arrange slices, spiral side down, on top of chopped tomatoes in prepared pan. In a 10″ round pan, you will have little to no room between slices (if using a larger pan, arrange slices barely touching, with small amounts of space between them.) Cover lightly with plastic wrap and allow to rise slightly, about 20 minutes.

Place filled pan on wider sheet pan or foil (important – to catch drips!) Bake on lower rack 40 – 45 minutes, until top rolls are medium brown, feel hollow when tapped, and tomato juices have bubbled and thickened. Remove from oven and cool on rack for 5 minutes.

To unmold & serve: Have a platter or cake stand ready that is wider than the bread pan. Cover browned top of rolls with platter or stand (pan will still be warm, use oven mitt.) Holding platter to pan together, turn over in one motion until pan is upside down. Use a knife to carefully lift pan from bread, releasing steam slowly. After releasing initial steam, lift pan off completely, revealing tomato-topped bread. Serve immediately.

If you’d like darker edges and more caramelization - it’s beautiful and delicious that way – preheat the broiler. When hot, mix together optional sea salt, sugar and red pepper flakes. Slide whole bread onto a sheet pan, then sprinkle salt mixture over tomato topping. Place under broiler for 1 – 2 minutes, watching carefully, until tomatoes sizzle and edges blacken. Remove and serve.

bread dough inspired by Carol Field, The Italian Baker

What’s Summer Fest? The wonderful Margaret Roach, she of A Way to Garden and The Sister Project, invited me to participate in Summer Fest 2009, a regular cross-blogging party: every week a new food-from-the-garden theme meets several well-known bloggers, including Margaret, Matt Armendariz, Jaden Hair, and White on Rice Couple’s Todd and Diane. Also popping up: Shauna and Daniel Ahern from Gluten-Free Girl, Paige Smith Orloff of The Sister Project, and, for the love of pie crust, me.

Summer Fest 2009 Schedule

Tuesday, July 28: HERBS

Tuesday, August 4: FRUITS from TREES

Tuesday, August 11: BEANS-AND-GREENS WEEK

Tuesday, August 18: TOMATO WEEK

It’s Tomato Week! Drop by the blogs to share your own links, recipes, and ideas.

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.

———–

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.

“No banana.” I checked one more basket, and held something up. “Banana muffin?”

Greg took the muffin. Locally baked and individually wrapped, the sticker read:

BANANA BREAD

He turned it over a few times. “But… it says Banana Bread.”  He looked at me.  “It’s a muffin.”

“Hmm,” I said.  “Technically, it’s the same thing, I mean, pretty much the same batter.  Just a different shape.”

He was still turning it over. Oh, dear.

I looked to our friend Barista Girl, behind the counter. “I don’t know,” she said. “They’re just labeling them like that now.”

All three of us looked at the muffin-bread.  I imagined a stream of banana bread lovers, weak from confusion.

“They shouldn’t do that,” she offered.

“No,” I said. “they shouldn’t mess with names like that.  Muffin is muffin and bread is bread.”

We agreed.  I mean, you can’t just change names.  You can’t decide that stick is suddenly leaf or dog is now called table.  There are rules about these things.  Peoples’ heads will explode.

Back home I was baking, and thought, there are exceptions to the name thing, even delicious ones, like these Two-Bite Jam Tarts.   Are they a cookie or a tart? They use Cream Cheese Dough, one I frequently roll into rugelach and other cookies.  But, as I noted to Josie, they have little edges.  They stand up and hold jam.  And they’re flaky, too – all clearly pointing to tart.

Josie had a mouthful of crumbs and raspberry. “Cookie,” she said.

“Oh, no, tart. I think – see, see how it’s like a little galette, with the edges…”

In a flash there was cold milk, three more treats and she was gone, leaping two steps at a time.  Name talk over.

“Whatever,” she threw down behind her, “they’re just good.”

———————-

These mini tarts – I’m making the call here – are little gems.   They tip the happiness scale because the easy-to-satisfaction ratio is so absurdly high.   A one-step dough, simple rolling skills and a bit of jam are all you need to enjoy warm two-bite tarts.  Flaky little cookies.  Whatever you call them – they won’t last long.

Almost-done preserves and jams sitting around? This is their moment.

Ziplocs make handy disposable pastry bags: fill with jam, cut a small opening, and pipe about a teaspoon onto each circle.

Pull up and pinch edges all around jam, pinching and overlapping slightly to seal. No uniformity necessary – just pinch and have faith.

Optional pistachio version – for Greg the pistachio-lover, who just wants banana bread to look like banana bread.

Baked, and they’re sunny perfection – actually, imperfection. Just look at those nooks, those crannies, the lopsides and jam spills!  Even my orderly self embraces their sweet mess.  A sifting of powdered sugar, however…

…brings them right back to perfect.

—————————

Two-Bite Jam Tarts

click me, I’m a printable recipe!

1 recipe Cream Cheese Dough (below)

Jam or Preserves, your choice – I like blackberry, raspberry and orange marmalade

pistachios or pecans, chopped (optional)

powdered sugar, for sprinkling

Dough:  make Cream Cheese Dough as directed.  After kneading lightly, cut dough in half.  Wrap and reserve half for another use (snacking is good.)

Roll remaining half of dough on lightly floured surface to about 1/8″ thick.  Using a medium-round fluted cutter – I use a 2 1/2″ round – cut circles from dough, re-rolling scraps and cutting circles until done.*

Preheat oven to 375 F.

Fill Tarts: line baking sheet with parchment paper or foil.  Transfer dough circles to baking sheet, fitting as many as you can – as you fill and pinch the tarts, you’ll have room for more.

Place jam (how much you have is up to you) in a ziploc bag.  Keeping top open, twist tightly over jam and cut small opening at the tip.  Hold tip facing upwards until you are ready to pipe!  Standing over baking sheet, place tip just above one dough circle and release about one teaspoon of jam in center.  Working quickly, repeat with remaining circles, changing jam as desired.

(alternately, you can spoon jam onto dough – but once you get the hang of piping, you’ll appreciate the speed)

Pinch Crusts: using both hands, pick up edges of dough circle and pinch together and upwards, working all the way around until complete, resembling a pie crust or raised bottlecap.  Repeat with all mini-tarts until done.

Optional nuts: before baking, sprinkle finely chopped pistachios or pecans over tarts

Bake:  bake tarts at 375 F for 15-18 minutes, until edges and bottom are lightly browned, and jam is bubbling.  Remove from oven and cool slightly.

Serve:  sift powdered sugar lightly over tarts, and serve.  Or just…eat.  Enjoy!

* with this flaky dough, a fluted round cutter will produce a raised pattern along the sides and create a terrific little “tart crust.”

makes about 30 two-bite tarts (or cookies. Your call.)

———————-

Cream Cheese Dough (also found here)

8 oz cream cheese, cold
8 oz unsalted butter, cold
2 cups all-purpose flour
pinch salt

Place flour and salt in food processor and process a few seconds, to blend. Chunk butter and cream cheese in pieces over flour, then process, using on-off motion, until dough just forms a ball. Turn out onto floured surface and knead lightly into a smooth mass.

Roll, shape and bake into tart crusts, sweet turnovers, rugelach, and other cookies.  Keeps several days wrapped in the refrigerator, and freezes well.

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.

His today’s-today stance makes me a target. He is especially fond of letting me know how fortunate he’s been to hear every tale of my family, friends, dogs, the pink curtains in first grade and every bite I’ve eaten since 1985. He likes to say there’s nothing he doesn’t know – no story he hasn’t heard, no tale untold, and this worries me. If I run out of material, what will we talk about in the nursing home? I’ve been thinking of doing stupid things just for the anecdotes. I need to keep him on his toes.

It’s not that he doesn’t remember; the man recalls every gift he ever gave me and every taco, sancho, and burrito he’s ever known – it’s just that he doesn’t need to. His memories live in lockdown, a place I don’t understand, a place that clearly lacks soft lights and throw pillows. So it’s all the more shocking to know there’s one memory that routinely escapes, one tableau he repeats – happily repeats, a terrible man-sin – and that memory is Key West.

I’ve heard it many times. The station wagon rumbling south in the night, a young sleepy Greg sprawled in back – the back back, no seat belts required – on a Snoopy sleeping bag, moving toward palm trees, dreaming of the nation’s southernmost spot. His dad drove while his mom likely dozed, and he – still an only child, the space all his own – was allowed to roll around with snacks and stare at the stars. Down through the dark, wheels below, we drove all the way to Key West.

We’ve shared key lime pie a hundred times, including one overpriced slice with two tourist forks right on Duval Street. But whether I make it or buy it, it’s one of the few bites I know – certain tacos, another – that he’ll willingly link to the past. He’ll say how great it was in the wagon, how it was such a sweet setup with that sleeping bag, and for one brief, backwards moment we are almost, but not quite, saying things the same way. Then we clear plates, and today’s today.

Good thing that today is nice, too, and that after 15 years you don’t need a misty mind-meld to stay together. But there’s a kind of tricky filling to it all and sometimes, it’s good to put the right fork in the right hand on the right day.

There is never, ever a bad day with key limes, the happiest sprite on the tree. You can make the classic whole pie, or mess around like I do and make little tarts. These are pucker-up good, creamy and nicely individual – so everyone can take their own sweet time at the plate. To each his own, right?

Key Lime Pie (or tarts)

There are a million Key Lime recipes out there, but all you really need is a simple mix of lime juice, eggs and the magic of sweetened condensed milk – the more creative bits are up to you. I’ve found that this recipe, from Cook’s Illustrated The New Best Recipe book (published 2004, America’s Test Kitchen) hits the perfect texture and rich, tart taste. Make the whole pie or use 3″ tart rings to make minis.

Note: prepare the filling for the pie first, so it can thicken during the time it takes to prepare the crust.

Lime filling

4 teaspoons grated zest and 1/2 cup strained juice from 3-4 Persian limes (or up to a dozen Key limes)
4 large egg yolks
1 (14-oz.) can sweetened condensed milk

Graham cracker crust

9 graham crackers (5 ounces) broken into rough pieces
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and kept warm
optional: 1 teaspoon cinnamon

Whipped cream topping

3/4 cup chilled heavy cream
1/4 cup (1 ounce) confectioner’s sugar

optional garnish:

1/2 lime, sliced paper-thin and dipped in granulated sugar

————————

The filling: Whisk the zest and yolks in a medium nonreactive bowl until tinted light green, about 2 minutes. Beat in the condensed milk, then the juice; set aside at room temperature to thicken (about 30 minutes).

The crust: Adjust an oven rack to the middle position and heat the oven to 325 degrees.

In a food processor, process the graham crackers until evenly fine, about 30 seconds (you should have 1 cup crumbs). Add the sugar (plus optional cinnamon) and pulse to combine. Continue to pulse while adding the warm melted butter in a steady stream; pulse until the mixture resembles wet sand.

For Whole Pie: Transfer the crumbs to a 9-inch glass pie plate and evenly press the crumbs into the plate, using your thumbs and a 1/2 cup measuring cup to square off the top of the crust. Bake the crust until it is fragrant and beginning to brown, 15-18 minutes; transfer to a wire rack and cool completely.

For Individual Tarts: Use any size mini tart pan, from 1-3 inches wide, to make individual tarts. Using the prepared graham cracker crumb mixture, place enough crumbs into each mini pan to pat down bottom and press up sides, creating a firm crumb “wall.” Place tarts on sheet pan and bake as directed above, until just fragrant and beginning to brown. Cool before filling.

To Fill: For whole pie, pour the lime filling into pie crust (for mini tarts, fill to approximately 2/3 full). Bake until the center is set yet wiggly when jiggled, 15-17 minutes. Return pie (or tarts) to a wire rack, and cool to room temperature. Refrigerate until well chilled, at least 3 hours. Pies or tarts can be covered directly with lightly oiled plastic wrap and refrigerated for up to one day.

For Topping: Up to 2 hours before serving, whip the cream in the chilled bowl of an electric mixer to very soft peaks. Adding the confectioner’s sugar 1 tablespoon at a time, continue whipping to just-stiff peaks. Decoratively pipe the whipped cream over the filling or spread whipped cream evenly with a rubber spatula. Garnish with sugared lime slices, if desired, and serve.

I am just running Cleo out when I turn and snap a picture of our dirt. A truck pulls up and the driver watches me, but short-shorts girl across the street doesn’t bat an eye.

Walking that dog with a camera again. What-ever!

Since we moved in on December 15, the sky has only poured rain, snow or ice – so instead of living with benign dry dirt, we’ve had a moat.

A muddy moat. If you wished to get to the yard you’d have to cross soggy bits of carpet, moldy moving boxes and wet gray boards shot with rusted nails. Day after muddy day, Greg would frown and say “god…it looks like World War I out there.”

Our house at 5:00 pm – peace on earth! The guys in the truck were sod guys, and spent the day rolling out a miraculous green carpet. I can’t believe it.

Greg beams at the grass. It’s worth noting that my husband likes plants about as much as he likes aquariums. Greg, want to go the aquarium? Eh – fish.

Okay, how about some gardening?

We were walking today and I said, “oh, wait, I want to get a shot of that forsythia.”

And Greg said, “who?” Eh.

But show him a truck filled with perfect rolls of grass…

…and suddenly he’s cruising the sprinkler aisles.

Seriously, in 14 years of marriage we’ve never had a decent lawn. At our first place, a three-flat in Chicago’s Wrigleyville, we had a fabulous urban garden courtesy of Tad & Kirby, the uber-gay power couple upstairs. They had pugs and Stickley chairs and green thumbs, but one day Kirby packed his Fiestaware and split. Tad nursed his broken heart and the yard went to hell.

At our 1929 ex-house here in Lawrence, we battled dry shade, acorns, and seed-strangling tree roots. We killed everything from grass to groundcover to mulch before accepting that even Astro Turf could not, would not survive that spot.

So imagine our pleasure – our immense gratification – at a few instant yards of soft, green lawn.

We stood and looked at it, amazed. Then I said “why do we have lawns, anyway?”

“I believe we have the English to blame,” said Greg. He knows I love the English. Damn.

“Well, it looks good there – in the gardens and everything. But here – I mean, how did everyone come to need their little square, anyway? Isn’t it just some kind of symbol of man taming nature?”

“Yes,” he said, “it is.” And then he went off to find the hose.

Last August, the new old house needed a chimney, and as we are not third-generation bricklayers, someone else was going to do it.

Builder Dan gave us a list of proposed subcontractors. He wanted Company X, or maybe Company Y, but he did not want Dick Chilton. As in, “I hope we don’t need to go to Dick Chilton.”

Why? It seems Dick was a masonry prima donna, and had built two reputations: one as “the best around,” and the other as an abrasive, thick-headed jerk.

When X and Y weren’t available, we were forced to go with Dick, and he more than lived up to his reputation. He worked at a glacial place without interruption, glaring at assistants and scowling at bricks. He also scowled at mailmen, truck drivers, birds, leaves, and the stupid people who were paying him well.

We started referring to him as “Dick Chimney,” and don’t bother asking why – I don’t remember, and who among us knows how private jokes begin, anyway? He didn’t speak to us, he would not be introduced to us, would not look at us, but his name was Dick and he worked on the chimney, so he was Dick Chimney.

I confess that between us, we have a lot of private names for people. But this one struck us as especially hilarious, because let’s face it, the title had a certain X-rated ring.

”Who’s on site today?” we’d say. Heh.

“Dick Chimney.” Heh heh heh.

I think we play this shorthand game as a function of both humor and ignorance. We are either cowards who snigger at people from afar, or we really just don’t know their name. Maybe it’s funny, or maybe it’s not, but it is an unbreakable habit, the naming.

Let’s take the petite young barista with a haughty tone – clearly it was our privilege to receive her coffee – Princess Pissypants. Credit Josie for the brilliant Pissypants part.

It is a neverending list of shame. The waiter who rushes dinner is Abrupt Guy. The crunchy fifty-something Nepal trekker is Buddhist Woman. (my e-mail to Greg – “Buddhist Woman’s here. Headed home.”) A pear-shaped retiree holds court in the coffee shop daily at nine. He is Pontificus Blohardus.

Our friend’s southern husband, the one who looks like Morrissey? Kentucky-Fried Morrissey – KFM to those in the know.

I’m sure that listening to us would be quite appalling. I might hate us.

The pale local weather girl is Ghosty. Dreemy is the Thai food server from another planet, and the restaurant host who habitually over-estimates the wait time is The Voice of Doom, as in, oh great, the Voice of Doom is working today.

Some of our other Hall of Namers include Chuck Wagon (sweaty and stout, brings onion sandwiches to the library) Suspicious Guy (why is he looking at us?) and certainly Senor Crappuccino, a barista who repeatedly made lousy drinks and what’s more, filled them only halfway.

But we talked, he improved, and guess what? Senor Ex-Crappuccino.

I’m afraid it’s too late for Josie, who frequently knows people by their pretend-names. Regarding one young college neighbor who likes to run in a rather bouncy manner:

“Booby Girl got home really late last night,” she’ll say. “She was wearing shorts and she was not alone.”

I fear that both of our moms are right, that we are in fact mean and terrible people, but then again, we amuse ourselves and we hurt no one. Come on, if a guy worked on your house every day for six months wearing a black t-shirt emblazoned with “P-O-R-N,” wouldn’t you call him Porn T-Shirt Guy?

The Name Game generally doesn’t apply to anyone we like, and though we’re not looking too kind right now, believe me, there are a few. There was the nice quiet guy our handyman used to bring around – the one with no nose. It’s true – he lost his nose in some freak prison accident years ago, and now breathes through two little holes like a gentle, pint-sized Voldemort. So we named him No-Nose.

Mean! Oh, mean, you say? Don’t kid yourself. Once you see a guy with no nose, that is their name.

And then there is Old Shoe. Old Shoe has since moved away, but one night, years ago, his wife drank too much Pinot and casually told me that sleeping with him was like putting on an old shoe.

Oh, Shoe, I’m so sorry. In our little naming world, you are among the sad and unjust. Don’t get me wrong, it gives me a giggle, a fine old Dick Chimney giggle.

But Shoe, I’m just so glad you don’t know who you are.

Dick Chimney at work. Don’t talk to him.

This is Cleo, our passive but noisy lab. Greg – said husband – and I spend a lot of time saying things to each other like “…what’s Cleo barking at?” or “why is she barking now?”

We spend a lot of time saying things like “what’s for dinner?”

“Are the painters coming today?”

“Did we hang Platform One yet?”

But once in a blue Lawrence moon, we go somewhere different…

…and say other things.

Somewhere that is not very well lit.

Somewhere where we did not have to order the fixtures…

…just bread and olives, pizza and red wine.

Somewhere that is not a question. We smile and don’t say much of anything.

Happy Birthday, Greg.