remedial eating

a small burst of sun

Hey!  It's eighty-two and sunny here!  

You?  There?

 

 

Excellent.  Glad we got that taken care of.  That's all on the topic of weather, today.  We already beat that horse, this month, and to do so again would be tedious and redundant.  

And who wants tedious and redundant and snow when we could talk lemon cake?  

 

 

Lemon cake, after all, is a proven distractor, and potentially highly tasty, to boot.  Particularly if it's an Alpha and Omega Lemon Cake.  I don't say this as a challenge, or to raise hackles, because I don't have a competitive bone in my body.  If I did, I might balk at the fact that although Ohio had snow one day into Spring, Seattle got snow two days in.  And then, five and six days after Spring sprung, when we got more?  I might say ha HA! and so there and pffbbbtt!   

But I wouldn't.  Because I'm not.  Competitive, that is.  I am merely a pilgrim, traveling the long road in search of the ultimate lemon cake.  

 

 

But wait.  Didn't we already find it?  That gold and white number, thick with curd and petticoats of cream?   

Why yes, yes we did.  That was, and is, our acme Lemon Layer Cake.  But it has recently come to my attention that cake and layer cake are two different species, entirely.  The latter, the layer, is a special occasion confection, towering, indulgent, the high heels of crumbs.  It's what you whip out for full transits around the planet, parties of people, polished shoes and posh frocks. Or at least lots and lots of moustaches.  

 

 

Cake, on the other hand, unmodified cake, unadorned-by-adjectives-or-buttercream cake, is—get this—nothing special.  Ordinary eating.  Everyday fare.  Wedge-with-coffee, sliver-with-milk, dessert-on-any-old-Tuesday material.   

Blimey.  The memos I miss.

 

 

It's not like no one tried to tell me.  Everyday cakes have been everywhere, for a while now.  But for me, cakes and kids went hand in hand, my baking of one the direct result of my baking of the other.  And when your first cakes are birthday cakes, to celebrate first years, first footsteps, first words, all those age-appropriate f-words, well, frosting and frippery just can't be helped.

I'm making up for lost time.  Forgive me.  I did bring you cake.  And if your outdoors look anything like ours, if you're peering desperately out windows, in search of sun... 

 

 

Oops.  Off-script.  Alpha and Omega Lemon Cake.  I've been searching for such a cake for years (decades?), diligently, unflaggingly, unsuccessfully.  Shackelton came to mind more than once, as I tried and failed, tried and failed to escape yet another bleak outcome.  Dry cakes. Tough cakes.  Pallid, tepid, mild, faint cakes.  Sodden cakes.  Gooey cakes.  All of the above cakes.  

Lemon cake should be none of the above.  Despair fairly well summed up my state of mind.   

 

 

Okay, alright, I didn't survive on seal meat for a year.  And no, I didn't bake by blubber-light.  And, strictly speaking, I lost only sleep, never men, on my quest. Still.   

I did endure many a mediocre lemon cake, which was trying, and which, it has always seemed to me, should not only be illegal but also, an oxymoron.  How, I ask you, can lemon cake stand to be in the same sentence as mediocre?  Lemon cake, by definition, should be fraught with tension, heady and sharp and fantastically vivid.  As tart as tart can possibly be, threatening (but not making good) on true sour.  And I don't mean a thin tart veneer, along the top.  And I don't mean a girdle of pucker around the edge.  Because we both know how those stories end, with fought-after edges nibbled carefully away, while the vast interior bland wastelands are left for the crows, sad as snow-bound daffodils.  

 

 

Thing is, lemon's a tough customer, especially when baked into a cake.  Like chocolate, its flavor tends to fade when bolstered by flour and blasted with heat.  Layer cake solves the problem nicely, by smuggling in those pillows of curd.  But what for a cake with no contraband?  

Here's what: make Matt Lewis' lemon bundt cake.  Do not pass go.  Let me know what you think.  I think it's the cat's pajamas.  Also, I've officially ended my search.

 

 

Lewis is co-founder of the famed Red Hook bakery, Baked, and, it seems, a lemon whisperer.  Lewis works every angle in the lemon book to amplify the fruit's bling and zing.  Then, he writes a few new chapters.  The zest in the batter—ten(!) lemons' worth—is rubbed into the sugar, before either are beaten in.  The sugar becomes midwife to the lemon, delivering its essential oils throughout the batter.  Clever.  Also, he calls for two tablespoons of pure lemon extract.  I didn't know pure lemon extract existed, in December.  I'm now halfway through my second bottle.

There are other funny bits to the batter, funny enough they first gave me pause.  Confectioner's sugar?  Eggs and yolks?  Unbleached and cake flour? Butter and oil and heavy cream?  Really?    

 

 

Really.  As really as the wonky technique, which defies all science and logic. Where's the all-important creaming of butter and sugar?  The individual addition of eggs, for lift?  What's with this dump and stir?  Whence its loft? How will the darn thing ever rise?  Is he What is he thinking? 

Except apparently I'm illiterate in the ways of lemon cake, at least of the Be All, End All variety.  Because this cake bakes up so high that it buckles, with a crumb gold and fine as any I've eaten.  And yet—and this is deeply important—strong enough to withstand a downpour. 

 

 

Like all the best lemon cakes, this one involves a syrup of lemon juice, cut with sugar.  This syrup is brushed over the bundt's just-baked curves, which instantly dials the volume to high.

Well, originally, to medium.  

I don't really do medium.  

So I took, early on, to doubling the syrup, and doubling the drizzle, and inundating the cake.  I perforate the thing like a soaker hose—a #2 knitting needle is ideal, though a thin skewer makes a fine substitute—first on the still-hot exposed underside, later over the peaks and valleys.  I douse each surface as it becomes available, applying layer after layer (after layer) of syrup.  The pinholes work like volcanic conduits, in reverse, funneling the goods right down to the core.  That's the theory, anyway.  I've done this before with many a cake, and usually, the results are sad.  Soggy.  Sodden.  Sometimes dreadful. Not this time.  The cake held.  

 

 

The cake held, and drank every double drop, saturating each cranny with bright citric kick.   The edges are sharpest; the center, still pointed; the whole, like a lemon, masquerading as cake.  The glaze (there's glaze) is unnecessary, and excellent.  The texture, somehow, still textbook tender.  It works.  

It's not much to look at, especially sliced, where even its curves end up looking like squat.  It pinch-hits for birthdays, if you add candles, and undemanding guests of honor inclined toward supernatural childcare feats.  But bundts are, at heart, everyday things, for slivering and whittling over a week.  And this bundt, this smug humble bomb of a bundt, might just be a week's finest moment.  If nothing else, it guarantees a small burst of sun, no matter what the weather week brings.

 

Holy Grail Lemon Cake
adapted from Matt Lewis, via Food and Wine, December 2012  
equipment: 10" bundt pan 

My only adaptations to Lewis' genius formula were to use salted butter, double the lemon syrup, and tweak the glaze slightly, for added lemon and less drip. The initial blitzing of sugar and zest releases the lemon's essential oils into the sugar, and eliminates all trace of peel.  I like the effect of both, and find a quick rinse cleans the bowl, but feel free to skip, if rushed.  (Lewis' original called for rubbing the two together with fingers, a fine alternative.)  I use this lemon extract.  Artificial extract is completely different, and not a good substitute.  If you wish to leave out the rum, which adds a nice edge, simply substitute additional lemon juice, in both cake and syrup.  

Don't let the length of this recipe fool you.  It comes together quickly, and the extra elements (syrup, glaze) can be made in minutes while the cake's baking.  

Cake
1 1/2 cups all-purpose, unbleached flour
1 1/2 cups cake flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
2 3/4 cups confectioners' sugar
1/3 cup lightly packed, finely grated lemon zest (from 10 organic lemons)
1/2 cup canola oil
3 large eggs
3 large egg yolks
2 sticks salted butter, melted and cooled
3 tablespoons dark rum
2 tablespoons pure lemon extract
3/4 cup heavy cream

Lemon Syrup
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (from zested lemons)
2 tablespoons dark rum

Glaze
1 - 1 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar
1 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice (from zested lemons)
1-2 teaspoons pure lemon extract
1 teaspoon pure almond extract 

Make the cake:   
Preheat oven to 350°.  Generously coat the interior of a 10-inch bundt pan with butter (or baking spray), and flour, tapping to release excess.  Place oven rack in middle position.

In a medium bowl, whisk together all-purpose flour, cake flour, baking powder and salt.  Place confectioners' sugar and lemon zest in the bowl of a food processor, and pulse 15-10 times, to pulverize zest and incorporate its oils into the sugar.  In the bowl of a standing mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, add sugar, lemon zest, canola oil and cooled, melted butter, and mix at medium speed until well combined, 1 minute.  Beat in whole eggs, egg yolks, rum, and lemon extract, until just incorporated, 1 minute.  Reduce speed to low and beat, in 3 alternating batches of dry and wet, the flour mixture and the heavy cream, mixing until just barely incorporated.  Scrape down sides, and finish any final mixing by hand.  

Scrape batter into prepared bundt pan, and smooth surface slightly.  Bake on the middle rack for about 1 hour, checking at 50 minutes.  Cake is finished when a toothpick inserted at the deepest point emerges with a clean, damp crumb.  Other clues: cake will begin to pull away from sides, will have risen dramatically and buckled, and the cracked center will no longer be shiny.  Also, you will nearly faint from the scent.  Remove cake from oven and let cool on a rack for a few minutes, while you make the syrup...   

Make the Lemon Syrup:
In a small saucepan, combine sugar, lemon juice and rum and bring just to a low boil.  Turn heat down slightly to maintain a strong simmer, and stir until sugar dissolves, 3-4 minutes.  Let cool slightly.  

Douse the Cake:  
10 minutes after the cake emerges from the oven, while still in the pan, poke cake all over the exposed surface, deep enough to nearly but not quite hit the bottom.  A clean #2 knitting needles works beautifully, as does a long, thin wooden skewer.  50 pokes is none too few.  Slowly, with a tablespoon or pastry brush, drizzle syrup over the exposed surface, as well as down the sides of the tin, waiting for the syrup to soak in before adding more. Repeat a few times, leaving a few minutes between applications, until cake becomes less thirsty, and slows its soaking speed.  You will use 1/2 - 2/3 of the syrup in this fashion. Wait 15 minutes, then carefully invert cake onto a cooling rack.  With your needle or skewer, perforate the cake from the newly exposed surface, top and sides.  Slowly, in small patient batches, brush remaining glaze over top and sides of cake.  Set aside to dry and cool completely, about 2 hours.

Make and Apply Glaze:
In a medium bowl, whisk together 1 cup of the powdered sugar, lemon juice, almond extract, and 1 teaspoon of the lemon extract, until thoroughly combined and lump-free.  Taste, and add additional lemon extract, if you wish.  Texture should be very thick, like corn syrup or pancake batter.  A too-thin glaze will slide right off the cake.  Add some or all of of the remaining 1/2 cup of sugar, as needed, and whisk to combine.  Slowly and evenly, pour glaze over the completely cooled cake. There may be extra; save to serve on the side.  Let glaze set, 15-20 minutes, then slice into wedges and serve.

Cake keeps beautifully, covered or well-wrapped, for 4-5 days.  Good luck with that.    

slowly, slowly, slowly

What a difference a week makes.  

We are all so, so much better.  (Thank you, for your kind notes and wishes.) Mending, mended, better-rested, depending.  Much improved, in every case. Still—or, maybe, Therefore—I keep finding myself humming this tune.   

It began back in the hospital, where I heard Heber's familiar strains wafting through 5B's halls, and without quite meaning to, switched up the refrain. Holy, slowly, close enough.  

In those days, and in those that followed, 'slowly' was rather more myth than reality.  More a reminder to breathe, and pause, and not knock myself cold tripping over the IV stand.  I would stand there, RUSH written all over everything, and hum Holy, Holy, but with speed-limit lyrics.

Slowly is so not my normal pace.  Doubly so with three sick kids.  (The yuck hit, right after we hit home. The other two went down, with school-cancelling coughs and scary-high fevers.  The week before Christmas took on comic proportions.  The house, hospital-ward-like precautions.  The carols, a reality TV turn:  "On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me ... Four tissue boxes; Three dosage charts; Two Motrin bottles; and a new Braun thermometer!")  The less our days looked like a hymn, the more I hummed.  

It worked.  

(Eventually.)

Not all at once, of course.  Not even particularly quickly.  It's hard to hurry slow.  (Believe me.  I've tried.)  But as I look back over these last ten days, I spy all these sneaky corners around which Slow bellied up, staked us out, and settled in.

Usually where I least expected it.

Take the messes.  They were everywhere.  Tinsel, trees, glue, red and green galore.  A trail of Christmas schrapnel from two littles, mostly left to their own merry-making, amidst the tissues and walkers and water re-fills.  I groaned, then.  I grin, now.  They kept the Making flame alive, against some pretty fierce headwinds.  Glory be.

The lights strung up, in not the normal rooms, to bring Christmas to those who couldn't come to the tree.  The decision, split-second, unprecedented, excellent, that a half-decorated tree was wholly enough.

The games.  Inevitably, I resist.  I'm not naturally the gaming sort.  (So much still, so much focus, so precious little multi-tasking.)  And yet, games always reward me, thrice over.  (So much still, so much focus, so precious little multi-tasking.)  Ingenious is an old favorite; Spectrix, a new one; Seasons, still waiting for me to say yes.  

The pear chair, or rather the pear cushion, brought up from the basement for temporary kitchen residency.  To accomodate one increasingly ambulatory boy, who can now join us at the breakfast table.  Joy!

This.  

And this.   

And the quiet afternoon, in the middle of the crazy, to sit alone in the silence of the local library.  Very possibly, the season's best gift.  

The solace of soft flannel PJ's.  Presents were wrapped in them.  Pictures colored.  Meals eaten.  Christmas photos snapped.  Gingerbread baked.  Games played.  Snowmen built.  Stories read.  All in PJ's.  Sometimes, comfort trumps all.  

The story to which I said, Yes.  Let's read.  And sat down.  And read.  And listened, actually listened.  We'd been reading all week, mind you, stacks of stories to pass the sniffly time.  I always enjoy stories, but there's a difference, you know?  A pace.  A here-ness.  A not-thinking-about-what-comes-next-ness. This is a nice state of mind for a story.  This is a nice state of mind for a life.

The tea that soothed throats.  The thyme that tamed coughs.  The big double pot of snowy rice pudding, which may not aid ragged respiratory passages one whit, but which soothes ragged spirits like nobody's business.  

The assembling of these funny blue Make + Do kits, late one night for my littles, for Christmas, with Mamo.  Late nights are no recipe for tranquility, long-term, but sometimes?  They're as soothing as tea, thyme, and pudding, together.  Especially when wool is involved.      

The first snow, last Friday, a few fleeting inches.  Soft wet stuff, not long for this world, but enough to justify snow suits and mittens.  Enough to make a small snow duck penguin man.  To make the season feel finally right. To mark Winter's onset, on its first day.  

The second snow, yesterday, a proper snowfall.  Inches, suddenly, unexpectedly accumulating.  Three, maybe four, the high octane stuff, the sweet fluff that falls on the 32° cusp.  Just right for a four-foot-high snowman.  And an afternoon's worth of companionable shoveling.  (It's hard to hurry snow.)   

The illuminated-manuscript sculpey letters lying about.  Bedraggled stuffed animals, at long last repaired.  Kit!  Evidence, everywhere, that Mamo's arrived.  Mamo always sets a new pace.  So does saying goodbye to the last cookies.  

Exhale.   

Time to chop figs.  There's no fast way with figs.  They are sticky, and dense, and a tiny bit truculent, and frank in demanding five full minutes of time.  I give it.  Once, twice a year, for a batch of panforte, all the better to withstand the winter months ahead.

Panforte—strong bread—is often considered a Christmas confection.  For a few years, I made it accordingly, nestling dark sticky wedges into cookie boxes. Until I finally came to my senses, and postponed my panforte until after the holidays.  Publicly, I maintained it couldn't compete with its cute, colorful cookie-tray brethren.  Who, after all, picks murky dark stick over sparkly sugared trees and chocolate-topped mountains? 

(Well, the brilliant Rachel, perhaps.  I also, this week, made the splendid discovery I'm not alone in finding panforte the perfect final resting place for candied peel.  This year, I followed my old favorite formula—enough new already, this December.  Next time around, I'm giving Rachel's a go.)

Privately?  I couldn't bear to share.

I wasn't always so greedy.  For years, I dodged panforte recipes, its name all but sounding an audible *brrring!*, like the page-turning signal in a child's book on tape.  I'm no fan of dried figs.  I abhor spice-spiked chocolate.  (Both are lovely.  Separately.  But why, oh why, ruin two good things?)  And then there's the whole medieval angle, which I found endlessly compelling in art history, but far less so, in the kitchen.  (Stargazy pie, anyone?)  Medieval baked goods tend, for lack of a better term, toward the stodgy-dense-heavy-completely-antiquated.  Pre-widespread winter butter.  And eggs.  And chocolate.  Case closed.  

Or so I thought.  Until Alice came along.

Several years ago, Alice Medrich published Pure Dessert, and I focused, for the first time, on panforte.  Actually, I focused on the 2 1/4 teaspoons of crushed fennel, mid-way through Medrich's ingredient list.  Dried figs I can take or leave.  Fennel seeds I adore.  I read on.  And I listened, actually listened.

I heard "toasted hazlenuts" and "toasted almonds", and pretended I heard "salted pistachios".  I heard, in hushed tones, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and fresh pepper, and nutmeg, and other happy sounds.  I read between the lines, which with panforte, is where the most interesting parts play out.  

I inferred the fennel would temper the figs' sweetness.  Deduced that the small toss of cocoa powder was not chocolate, per se, but hue, tenor, mystery, backbone.  Understood candied orange peel would feel right at home, even if Alice was mum on the subject.  

I began to see that maybe, just maybe, I might even like this weird Gothic cacophony.  I did, sort of.  More accurately, I adored it.     

What I met, that first time out, was one strapping brick of a cake, as intimidating in weight as in countenance.  The sucker's heavy.  But pour a cup of tea, and work out a narrow wedge, and settle in for a heady, harmonious nibble.    

Because what you have is a stout, jewelled slice, cobbled with nuts, studded with orange, blushing a bit from the faint glow of spice.  There is fig there, yes, to bind and blend, and the deep sweet of honey, faintly dark at the rim. There is serious crunch, and solemn chew, and more flavors than seem possible in anything so brown.  And no quick way from narrow tip to wide edge, save to savour, slowly, slowly, slowly. 

Medieval Energy Bars (a.k.a. Panforte Nero)
adapted from Alice Medrich, Pure Dessert 
A few ingredient notes: I added the pistachios, for flavor and color, and a love of as many nuts as the dough could hold.  Feel free to omit them, if you wish. Choose plump, dark Mission figs, available in the bulk bins of natural foods stores and well-stocked grocers.  The pale, strung Turkish figs tend toward dry. Fennel seeds can be lightly crushed in a mortar and pestle, or placed in a Ziploc and banged about under a can.  You're after bits, not powder.  Homemade candied orange peel is excellent, here, though the grated zest of 2 (unsprayed) oranges make a fine substitute.  Finally, I am endlessly devoted to Holmquist Hazelnuts.  (As is Saveur, which named them #97 in their Top 100.). 

1 cup whole hazelnuts, toasted
3/4 cup whole unblanched almonds, toasted
1/2 cup salted pistachios (optional)
2/3 cup unbleached, all-purpose flour
2 generous Tablespoons cocoa powder
2 1/2 teaspoons whole fennel seeds, lightly crushed
rounded 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
rounded 1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
rounded 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper (20 grinds)
rounded 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
rounded 1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1 teaspoon instant espresso (optional)
1/2 cup quality candied orange peel, diced
8 ounces dried Mission figs, tough ends trimmed, sliced to 1/4"
2/3 cup honey
2/3 cup granulated sugar

Grease well an 8" round cake tin.  Cut a parchment circle to fit the bottom, and a 2" cuff to fit the sides, and tuck in place.  Grease again, well, this time coating parchment.  Set a rack in the lower third of the oven, and preheat to 300°.

In a large bowl, combine everything, save the honey and sugar.  Set aside.

In a small saucepan, combine honey and sugar, and set over medium-high heat. Cook, stirring often, until the center hits a rolling boil, several minutes.  The honey at the edges will bubble first; continue to fold in and stir until sugar is dissolved, and center of mixture boils vigorously—this is your rolling boil.  Boil for 15 seconds, then remove from heat, and pour into nut mixture, working quickly with a wooden spoon to combine.  The syrup cools quickly.

Scrape mixture into the prepared pan, smooth the top as best you can, and place in the preheated oven.  Bake 40-45 minutes, until you see bubbles percolating at the center as well as the edges.  Cool panforte in the pan, on a rack, several hours or overnight.

Invert panforte onto a plate, peel away parchment, and invert again, right side up.  Dust with powdered sugar, if desired.  Serve in thin wedges that look slightly of stained glass, preferably with coffee or tea.  Store, well-wrapped, at room temperature, for months. 

the ones that i reach for

Christmas has so many soundtracks, most of which I dodge like strep throat.  

The stop-and-go of traffic on a December Saturday.  The groan of lines and lists, much too long.  The cranky of kids who want no more part of shopping carts.  I'm with them, on that one.  And defer whenever possible, on the others.  Ever a homebody, I'm doubly so, come December.

See, there's this other soundtrack I prefer, one as particular to this twelfth month as it is different, year to year.  The Bing and Pink Martini, blaring.  The daily counting down of days.  Holiday conversations, overheard.  

"...bearing gifts, we travel safari..."

"If you want free doughnuts, set something on fire?!"  (Crazy Herdmans.)

"Don't run off with the baby Jesus!  Remember what happened last time?"  (Our one-inch yarn baby went missing for a year.  Rolled paper with a handrawn smiley face was his understudy.  Turned up in the toybox, the following September.  Still living it down, three years later.)

The steady chorus of requests to bring up the Christmas box, already.  The crinkle of tissue, as we unwrap bits and bobs.  Regular interruptions, to read long-sequestered books.  The stories that spill out, not from pages but things, each like some keyhole into history.  

This is the Christmas mouse Mamo made.  Isn't he something?  I loved his nightcap, also.  But find him two branches, evenly spaced.  Otherwise, he faceplants like nobody's business.

I know the candle is terribly wonky.  And yes, the angel's in real need of a facelift.  But it came from Denmark, like your great-grandmother.  Do you know anything about Denmark?  

Do I? 

Yup, Mamo made the Pie Rabbit, also.  The cornhusk dolls, too.  And yes, those felt lovelies.  Right-o, also Mr. and Mrs. Claus.  And the nutcracker dancers.  Isn't she something?  

Those shepherds and sheep are special to me because they belonged to my Nana.  Yes, the Nana of our art cupboard.  And our dictionary table.  And our crèche.  And too many good things to name.  

The oohs! and oh!s and exclamations, as the unpacking of ornaments becomes the examining of years.  Did I really once write my name like that?  (Yes.) Whose chubby cheeks are those?  (Yours!)  Did he really make ornaments with glitter and pinecones?  (Yes, even twelve-year-olds were preschoolers, once upon a time, and not long ago.)  Did you really make this?  (Yes, yes I did.)  

What is 1-9-7-6?  (It's a date, dear child.  Years didn't always begin with 2.)      

The palpable intake of breath, mine, as I realize it may take a week to trim the tree.  

And that that's alright.  Maybe more than alright.  Maybe better.   

The squelch and slurp of Elmer's, fastening buttons on paper gingerbread.  The conspiratorial squeals of small people, full-to-bursting with secrets.  The occasional tears from an excess of merry-making.  The quiet adjustments made to move dinner up a half hour.  The constant scratching of pen on paper, me making lists, some practical, some less so.  From last week's grocery list, between milk and spinach: "buy reindeer noses".  (Check.)  Wedged in this week's To Do's, between Dentist and Laundry: "Elf about".  (Not done yet.)   

The collective groan, as we realize what it means that every piece in our Snowmen at Night Puzzle Book has come out.  And been combined.  With no pictures as guides.  It holds five puzzles.  All in shades of mid-blue.

The buzz as we plot and plan what we want to do when Mamo comes to town, in two weeks.  (Max: Games.  Molly: Hems.  Zoë: Dolls.  Henry: Everything!)  The steady trill of a newly-minted whistler.  The sudden quiet of a boy, sucked down the reading rabbit hole.    

(Absolute silence.  For the better part of two hours.  As my girl concentrates on coloring between the lines.  Apparently, she's overdue some small markers.)

The thrum of the mixer.  The chop-chop of nuts.  The *thwunk* of serrated knife through chocolate.  The peculiar squish-crinkle of waxed butter wrappers. The crunching of box after cardboard butter box, some twenty and counting consigned to the recycle.  The quieting burble of boiling sugar and cream, as it finally leaves the brisk 260°s, and zips through to 293°, 294°, 295°, hardball.  

The popping of corn.  For dinner.  Friday night.  The dining room table was covered in cookies.  It won't happen again.  Too often.  Honest.

The phwoof of flour, as it leaves the bag.  The creak of the table, as dough is rolled.  The crack of my back, two inches too tall.  The tap-tap of cutters, tickling the tabletop.  The sskkkkiiiittttttttttttteeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr of dragees, falling to the floor.  An entire jarful.  The small ones.  

Sweeping up two thousand of anything is tricky.  Two thousand tiny balls?   Have mercy.  (We considered crying.  Laughter won out.)   

The constant shrill B-L-E-E-E-E-P! of the timer, the only downside, in my mind, to all this baking.  (Seriously?  Oven manufacturers?  Quit with the induction stovetops, and just issue a standard model that plays Für Elise when the roast is done.  Danke.)  

The clatter of tins, piling up.  The twist of lids, turning, for dessert.  The sighs of my children, as they wonder when it will be the week when The Good Cookies begin.  Next week, my loves.  Unless you're me.  I, for one, love a quiet cookie. 

Maybe it's because of the buzz in our days.  Maybe it's because I'm contrarian. All I know is that where cookies are concerned, the ones that I reach for are the sleepers.  You know the ones.  

Quiet cookies lack curb appeal.  They've no sprinkles, no thick swirls of frosting, no bright colors, no cute festive shapes.  Worse, they lack chocolate. Doghouse territory.  Unredeemable, in many books. They're wallflowers, the widows and orphans of the cookie tray community, ignored and neglected every time.  The Last Cookies Standing on a platter littered with the crumbs of the dazzling and fancy. 

Understand: by quiet, I don't mean dull, or in any way boring, and most definitely not plain.  What I mean is unassuming.  Unprepossessing.  Maybe disingenuous.  Possibly stealthy.  Because behind that quiet exterior sits an unabashedly excellent bite.  In this case, a shortbread, inflected with cornmeal, humming with orange, in a mystery key.  

This shortbread began as Claudia Fleming's, whose pitch-perfect palate I've championed before.  Over the years, I've adapted and tweaked it, to draw on not one Fleming winner, but two.  After making my umpteenth batch of her biscotti with lashings orange and rosemary both, I realized the fragrant needles would be right at home, here, as well.  That year, I swiped a sprig of rosemary from our bush, showered green confetti into that December's dough, fretted I'd spoiled everything, and never looked back.   

The basic biscuit here is a shortbread, expertly salted, cut with confectionar's sugar, for tenderness.  Buttery, barely sweet, with a masterfully-calibrated crisp crumb, these are first-rate, without any additions.  But.  Add a full tablespoon of fresh orange zest, and you cut the rich with winter sunshine.  The fresh rosemary, minced fine, is not herbal at all, only deeply pleasant.  It is not bold or awkward or Very Interesting.  It speaks in hushed tones, pads around in soft stockings, more variegations in tweed than loud Christmas sweater.  Ditto the cornmeal, whose golden crunch amplifies shortbread's own soundtrack and texture.  

I slice these into bars, simple rectangles, really, because I like to underscore their quiet.  By which, I suppose, I really mean, up the wow when someone finally takes a bite.  (See contrarian, above.)  With dough pliable enough to roll and cut, and tensile strength enough to sustain basic shapes, there is no reason these couldn't be hearts, stars or flowers.  Or pressed into tart pans, for frilly-edged wedges.  Feel free to try either variation.  More people will reach for them, if you do.  

But then, there will be fewer for you.    

 

Orange Rosemary Cornmeal Shortbread

adapted from Claudia Fleming, The Last Course
Yield: 2-3 dozen cookies, depending on size 

Fleming calls for a coarsely ground cornmeal, which I love for its extra crunch and bite.  I've also used a finer ground (think instant polenta) to good effect. Use whichever you have on hand.  

I cut these 1" x 1 1/2", for modest 2-3 bite biscuits, but size and shape are totally flexible.  Basic cookie cutters can be used (the rosemary and cornmeal trip up intricate shapes).  Additionally, they work well as slice-and-bakes, or pressed into tart tins and cut into wedges.  Simply adjust baking time, accordingly.  If you do opt for rolled, and are wary about sticking, see Tips for Painless Rolled Cookies at the end of this post.  

1 cup (2 sticks) salted butter, slightly softened
3/4 cup powdered sugar
1 Tablespoon orange zest, freshly grated
1 heaping teaspoon fresh rosemary, minced
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
6 Tablespoons coarsely ground cornmeal 
1 3/4 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt 

Turbinado (raw) sugar, for sprinkling, optional

In a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream butter, powdered sugar, orange zest, salt and rosemary, until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Scrape sides, add vanilla, and beat again to combine.  Scrape sides, add flour and cornmeal, and mix just to combine.  Scrape dough onto a length of plastic wrap, flatten to a rough rectangle, an inch high, wrap well, and chill 1-2 hours, or overnight.  Dough can be refrigerated at this stage up to 5 days, or frozen, well-wrapped, for a month.  

Preheat oven to 300°.  Line two rimmed baking trays with parchment paper.  If dough has been refrigerated overnight, let sit at room temperature 20 minutes to take the chill off.  When dough is workable, flour a clean work surface, and roll dough to a rough rectangle, 1/4" thick, rotating often and re-flouring as needed.  Using a clean ruler, or any other clean straight edge (i.e. lightweight cutting board), and a sharp chef's knife, trim edges to form a tidy rectangle. Make vertical cuts, 1" apart, then vertical cuts, 1 1/2" apart.   

Using an offset spatula, place bars on a baking sheet, 1/2" apart (these spread only a very little).  With a small fork, prick 3 sets of holes down length of each bar (this helps them cook evenly), and sprinkle with turbinado sugar.  Continue, re-rolling any scraps, until all cookies are cut.  

Bake 18-24 minutes, rotating trays halfway through, front to back and top to bottom, until cookies are no longer glossy on top, and are gold at the edges and underneath.  Let cool 10-15 minutes on the trays, then remove to racks to cool completely.  Stored airtight, in tins, these cookies keep beautifully, a month or more.    

WIPS, PIPS, and an Index

Who's in?

I'm starting a petition, effective immediately, to move Thanksgiving to November 23.  Permanently.  Thursday, Saturday, Tuesday, whatever.  I mean, seriously, folks, how awesome was that, to have an entire extra week before December began?

I suppose I could have spent said bonus week contemplating the zen of bare branches, the abstract beauty of their asymmetry, soaking in a bit of still before the hurry.

Pffft.

Fat chance.

I took that gift and ran with it.  Last week had 'Make!' written all over it, so between the play dates and Perler beads, Spot It! rounds and sleepovers, stories under quilts and science experiments involving sugar mountains, I stole away to the basement to stitch a few seams.  Christmas, for me, has always been about butter, which enters on cue as the turkey exits stage left.  It felt downright radical to have my hands buried not in sugar and butter but fabric and thread.  

Less sticky.  More linty.  I liked it.  Very much.

I finished a few things, began others, and am officially leaving all as is, for now.  Works in progress to be picked up on those last evenings, when nights are dark and hands idle and kids and cookies put to bed.  I'm not normally a fan of unfinished business, but am looking forward to quiet nights with twinkling lights, needles, thread, buttons, and Mamo (!).

I am also looking forward to not having, ahem, to Google my own blog to track down my own cookie.  I mentioned last year I intended a re-org.  A recipe index will do, for now.  If you, like me, have been groaning over the prospect of tracking down, say, chocolate scones or roast parsnips or pasta with chickpeas and kale, groan no more.  Instead, click on that recipe Index, top right, where posts are actually organized by—get this—recipe.  Nifty. 

I suspect it's a bit glitchy.  I've scads of further categories I'd like to populate. (Apples.  Zucchini!  Chocolate!!)  I dream of stand-alone recipes that print. Consider it another WIP.  (And please report back any wrinkles.  And know that Google Search box, below the Index, is awfully keen.)  

The important bit is that we can now find ALL THE COOKIES AT ONE GLANCE, hip hip!  Because now, my friends, is no time for digging.      

And, lest you think we've neglected the kitchen entirely, double Pffft.  What use a bonus week without a head start?  We snipped enough apricots to set the Christmas Cakes in motion, tossed with sour cherries, currants, walnuts and a good glug of sherry.  We toasted nuts, and turned out our first brittle, and dipped our toes into the sugar jar.  Actually, we dipped our orange peels into the sugar jar.  Repeatedly.  I highly recommend it.  It always ends well.

If you can boil water, you can candy orange peel.  I love that about this bittersweet treat.  Even if it took me until this year to arrive at that conclusion.  Last year, my dear friend Dania asked after a recipe for candied orange peel.  I think I'd sent some, so had obviously made some, but couldn't translate that to a coherent reply.  I can't remember my words exactly, but to paraphrase, my recipe ran something like, "....uhhh.... well.... ohhh... umm... gee...."  

Problem was, I grew up thinking candied orange peel as constant at Christmas as suet and marzipan.  Are you with me?  No?

Let's try again.  

While my friends were slice-and-baking Pillsbury dough logs, my mom was stirring vats of proper medieval mincemeat, molding and hand-painting marzipan medallions, and filling the kitchen with the exquisite scent of orange, as peels boiled and bubbled steamily on the stove.  Same old, same old.  At least in my home.  

Mind you, I didn't much like candied orange peel as a kid, preferring the admittedly-nasty cookies down the street.  (Brand names!  Shiny packages! Commercial jingles!  Such a sucker!)  But I didn't exactly not like it, either.  I'd pluck a morsel, drawn in by its sparkle, adoring the crunch of sugar crystals between my teeth.  

Then I'd get down to the peel below and pucker at its bite, edgy, intense, faintly bitter.  "It's an acquired taste," my mom would say, every year.  She was right.  I've acquired it.  And her recipe, too.

I've been making some variation on my mom's candied orange peel off and on for a decade, now.  It is heady, heady stuff, so easy, so lovely, so entirely different from store-bought.  In fact, I can't think of another food-stuff where the homemade so sets itself apart.  They hail from separate species, these two.  Scratch that.  Separate kingdoms.  That might still be an understatement.  Commercial candied peel, those small cubes in tubs, is sticky and gacky and sweetsweetsweet.  Its flavor, if you can detect one, is a faint monotone, a vague pallid orange.  The color, not the fruit.  

I like the color orange.  On doll smocks and Penguin paperbacks.  

Homemade orange peel is exponentially Orange, uppercase, vibrant, loud and profound.  If a coil, compressed, had a food analog, I think it would be homemade orange peel.  It is, after all, the peel of the orange, source of its essential oils, a.k.a. soul.  This peel is removed—with a zipper or knife—and then boiled, three times, to remove its bitter.  After its final blanching, the peel's boiled a fourth time, but this time in sugar syrup, where its left to languish, long and slow.  This is Orange for "spa day". Bitter exits, sweet enters, osmosis doing its thing, entirely in the orange's (and our) favor.  It doesn't look like much until the very end, when the peel morphs from opaque to transluscent, the peels going all glow-y, almost illuminated.  

Then?  Drain.  Dry.  Dump in sugar.  The end.  (Details down below, for those so inclined).  Seriously, not much harder than noodles.

I know this now.  I had to see for myself, again.  Last year, in reply to Dania, I could only mumble, because I did what I'd always done, blindly followed Mamo's curlicued script, mind elsewhere, multi-tasking, until, presto!  Orange peel!  

This year, I paid attention.  It really works.  It's really that simple.  And in the name of double-checking, I made two batches, two ways.  It's really, really that tasty.  

The outside is all excellent and sugar-gritty, giving way to the toothsome, tender gnaw of peel.  It is crunch and chew, sweet and saturated, joyfully bold and just barely bitter.  It packs a punch.  Like sour belts, for grown-ups.  Sour belts you can respectably inhale all day long.  (I love sour belts).  

I nibble at a peel mid-morning, on the way out the door, during afternoon doldroms.  I whip out a jar whenever anyone comes calling, since they keep forever, suit conversations of all stripes, and are far too small to spoil anyone's supper.  

And!  Candied orange peel is an ace ingredient, in any recipe calling for the stuff.  Dip one end in chocolate for orangettes in an almost-instant.  Chop and add to any baked goods that call for candied peel; the improvement will be marked, and grand.  They lively up pecan bars, and make mendiants sparkle, and take Florentines from good to OMG.  And although I've not yet tested it, I've long believed homemade peel would rock an oatmeal cookie, jazzed up on candied ginger and bittersweet chunks.  Yes.  Later.  

Right now, I'd best go stash some peel, so as to still have some while finishing those last WIPS and PIPS.  (PIPS, of course, being Pants in Progress, for a—shhhhhh—certain stuffed somebody.  On second thought, we'd better make it orange pips, so as not to blow our cover.)  Because candied peel is a cup of tea's soul mate.  And a cup of tea is sewing's same.  And if the forecast is remotely correct, we're in for a baking blizzard, between now and then.  

Candied Orange Peel, Thick and Thin
Thin Peel recipe, from Susan Pasco, with great thanks; Thick Peel variation adapted from Alice Medrich, Pure Dessert

This year, I made two versions of candied peel, my mom's thin version, in which the outer layer is peeled away with a zipper, and a thicker sliced version, which includes some of the pith.  Both are excellent for eating out of hand. The thicker version is ideal for orangettes and baked goods. Take your pick.  The methods are virtually the same for both, with slight differences in peeling and final simmering in the syrup.  I've included both variations below.  

Use organic oranges, if you can manage.  It's the peel we're eating here, which bears the brunt of the pesticides.  Organic oranges often look awful.  Have no fear.  The sugar coats all.

6 oranges, organic, if possible
2 1/4 cups sugar
2 1/4 cups water

Additional granulated sugar for coating 

Peel oranges:  
Thin:  Using a sharp peeler, remove orange's outer layer, working your way down the sphere in wide strips.  When all oranges are peeled, cut spirals horizontally, into rough 1" x 2" rectangles.  Think rustic.
Thick:  With a sharp paring knife, slice both ends off each orange, then score the peel, top to bottom, four or five times, just down to the fruit.  The goal here is to easily remove the peel in diamonds, mostly intact.  Remove each quarter/section of peel from the fruit.  I candy the tops and bottoms, as well, punching out the stems, and adding the remaining "donuts".  They will not be elegant, but they will be delicious, excellent for baking or solo nibbling.

Blanch Peel: 
Thin and Thick:  Place sliced peels in a medium saucepan, fill with cold water, and set over high heat.  Bring just to the boil, then drain.  Repeat this twice more, starting with cold water each time.  Drain a third time, and set aside.

Thick only: After the final blanching, use a small sharp knife or baby spoon to scrape only the thickest, mushiest bits of pith from the interior.  Discard.  The firm pith can remain; it will sweeten in the next step.  Then, slice each diamond into long, thin strips or triangles, 1/4 - 1/2" across.  If you are using the tops and bottoms, roughly chop those, as well.  

Candy Peel:
Combine sugar and water in the same saucepan.  Stir over low heat until sugar dissolves.  Add peel, and simmer uncovered, gently, until syrup thickens, stirring occasionally, 20-40 minutes for Thin, around 60 minutes for Thick. I've always judged doneness by sight: when the peel turns transluscent, it is finished.  Medrich notes the sugar syrup will reach between 220° and 222° when the peel is done.  

Finishing:
Set a strainer over a small bowl, and drain finished peel, catching syrup below. (The "waste" syrup is intensely orange and aromatic, excellent mixed into sparkling water, smoothies, or likely, a favorite cocktail.)  Set a wire cooling rack over a large rimmed baking sheet to catch drips, spread candied peel in a single layer on the rack, and allow to cool and dry for 1 1/2-2 hours.  When peel is no longer wet but still tacky, pour a layer of granulated sugar (1-2 cups) onto a tray, and toss peel well in the sugar, until thoroughly coated.  Transfer peel to a lidded glass jar, and store in the fridge, where it will keep beautifully for months.   

to look at it

I went walking, Thursday night.  It was 8:46 p.m.  

There were old discarded lawn chairs on the sidewalk, which I thought odd, given that trash day was days away, yet.  It took multiple chair sightings, plus several cordoned-off grass patches, before I realized folks were staking out spots for the parade.  The Fourth of July parade, this coming Wednesday.  Six days from last Thursday.  The Fourth is a fairly big deal, around here.  We'll probably go.  We probably won't stay.  94º.  You understand.

The trees overhead were deafening.  Right around the solstice, here, each year, the cicadas return, our high summer alarm.  A cicada sounds like a flourescent light on the fritz, during those final, whiny, vvvzzzzzzzzzzzz days. Like that, only louder.  Much, much louder.  Because while I'm never sure whether there are two or two thousand, invisible as they are in the branches and leaves, there are definitely multiples, all singing the same song.  I mention this, because I'd never heard cicadas, pre-Ohio, and maybe you've never heard them, either.

You non-cicada states should know you share a country with citizens whose entire summer has this soundtrack.  That for some of us, a walk in the great June outdoors sounds for all the world like a Wal-Mart whose every last overhead needs replacing.  (Weird.)

I know that it was 8:46 p.m., because I caught the time as I was checking the temperature.  The temperature was 98º.

Cooler than earlier.  Still, a bit toasty.

It's been hot here, this week.  It promises to be hot, next week.  I just checked the ten day forecast.  The first nine begin with "9".  The lows, for every last one of the next ten days, are expected to be higher than Seattle's highs.  

(Dear Seattle: I know you're beyond ready for summer.  Please know, I'm not bragging.  I'm whining.  I'll take rain on my parade over swelter, any day.  And anyway, sillies, Seattle's summer begins July 5.)

I mention this because I phoned my mom, while walking.  She asked after the heat, and I answered.  She was surprised, as I'd not thought to mention it myself.  I was surprised, because I realized I've become accustomed.  Am becoming accustomed.  Am at least not panic-stricken.  There was a time, last year, when I was in full-fledged summer panic.  It was just a passing phase, so I didn't mention it.  Only lasted from January through, oh gosh, maybe June? Literally, waking up in the middle of the night, frozen.  Paralyzed at the thought of the upcoming heat.  The suffocating humidity.  The claustrophobia of August.  The insufferable alter-ego I become.  

(Did I mention Thursday's humidity hit 92%?  After dark?  I am not anti-summer.  I am anti-awful.)  

Thing is, once last summer hit, it was alright.  More than alright.  Pretty okay, actually.  We'd learned enough, changed enough, to survive.  To cope.  To be competent.  To, often enough, thrive.  To be pleasant people, even in July.  To be able to go walking under ninety-eight degree skies.  In the event, it was just fine.     

Sufficiently fine that, last Thursday, I didn't think to volunteer the heat.  Had to be asked.  We've come a long way.    

I was looking over outtakes of our past week, realizing how very much they look like the week prior's.  More comic books, more flowers, more making stuff. More reading programs, more drawing sessions, more beetles and pests.  More popsicles, more baking, more beans and butterflies.  Encore, encore, to look at it.  

And yet, this week was entirely unto itself, in the living of it.  Looks are funny. Looks can fool.

Because this time, said comics were written with friends, which adds an entirely new element of funny.  And the reading program included words like Prize! and Finish!  The flowers were darker, fuller, further along.  The beans, big enough to climb inside.  The stuff made involved less flour and water (thank heavens), and more bulbs, wires, and circuitry (have mercy). This week's drawings were robots, portraits and puppies.  And ice cream doodles, on a long-wished-for, finally-found kitchen chalk board.    

I've yet to identify this week's blaze orange beetles.  I've identified and raged against this week's garden pests.  Bunnies.  Dear, sweet, tiny, twee, cotton-tailed bunnies.  Blasted, tomato-inhaling, zucchini-annihilating, sneaky stealthy bunnies.  Ate those first two tomatoes before dawn, the next day.  The first fourteen tiny summer squash, also.  One bite out of each.  Left the rest to rot. Make that thieving, inconsiderate, wasteful sneaky stealthy bunnies.  Memo to my furry friends: I hear you are lovely in mustard and cream.     

This week's baking took a detour toward cinnamon rolls.  This week, we made popsicles, but in triplicate, because, well, hello?  98º.  This week's butterfly looked just like last week's butterfly.  Black Tiger Swallowtail 1 and Black Tiger Swallowtail 2.  But redundant and metamorphosis are mutually exclusive. Wonder and awe never get old.  

And of course, that parade prep, beyond our backyard.  And those ubiquitous cicadas, which leave great moults, which make great collectibles to be shared over lunch.  And that old, existential, ultimately misplaced summer dread.  And these now, very real, sky-high outside temps.  Which cause fierce thunderstorms.  Which leave half our neighbors without power.  (We were so lucky.  Are so grateful.)  

Most of life unfolds outside the frame.  So much of what matters never earns verbs or nouns.  Where we point our lens, what we wrap words around, they are scraps and slivers, limited, selective.  Fragments, shards.  I was thinking about this, this past week.    

Next to that milk bottle of blooms, way up top, was a Lego robot.  Is a Lego robot.  As there is, on our table, almost always a Lego something-or-other. And a Pink Pearl.  And its accompanying crumbs.  And toast crumbs, from breakfast.  Yogurt smudges, also. And the counters behind, littered with the day's dishes.  Maybe bread rising.  A coffee pot, unrinsed.  Likely, half a lemon, careening toward mummy.  And we haven't even addressed the underneath, polka-dotted pink with dribbled smoothie.  See what I mean?  Sneaky, bunny rabbit words.  Splattered's more accurate, but I feel endlessly better stepping over spills Rorschach'd as polka dots.    

Much of it, most of it, sits beyond the borders.  Doesn't mean it's not in my kitchen.  

It is.  

Of course it is.  

Same as yours.

(Well, maybe you don't invite cicada casings to lunch.  But, you know, the sticky bits.)

To all appearances, that bowl might look a re-run.  To look at it, you might reasonably think, Lemon Curd.  To your point, it pretty much strikes the same pose.  To your tongue, it dances another jig altogether. 

Allow me to introduce Lime Curd. 

This particular curd was made a few months back, for a friend's birthday lunch. I had bought some strawberries to jolly up the table, despite the fact that it was February.  Certain exceptions apply when fêting a February 29th baby. After all, Leap Year doesn't come along every year.  And winter strawberries don't come with flavor, just because you will it.  

They needed help.  Lime curd was called in. 

I have spoken here before of my strawberry-lime love, of the way these two fruits complement one another.  If lime juice is all that, I reasoned, lime emboldened by egg and butter would flatter even winter's worst berries. Score one for reason.  Score ten for lime curd.  Or wherever your score card caps out.

We made our go-to lemon curd, the one I call foolproof because in fifty+ batches it's never failed, simply swapping out lemons for little green limes. Ace.  The color was only ever so slightly different, a bit more chartreuse, more off-yellow than green.  But the flavor, the flavor was unto itself.  Entirely different.  This week against last.  Lemon curd, for its part, tastes like it looks: soft, vivid, suave, (sorry) lemon-y.  Sharp, yes, but in a yellow way, which may make no sense to you but makes all kinds to me.  

Lime curd surprises.  Lime curd causes pause.  Lime curd raises eyebrows, and mouth corners, and berries.  Lime has that edge, that razor-rimmed sweet, a puckery, puckish, arch kind of tart.  Not unlike, come to think of it, a flourescent's final buzz.  Lime is lemon curd's mischievious twin.  Our plates, summers, selves, need mischievious twins.

It did the trick, dressing up those sad berries, but like any truly useful foodstuff, didn't stop there.  Turns out lime curd is swell on overnight waffles, settling into the squares like a birthright.  (Maple Syrup who?)  Whip it into buttercream, and sandwich between sugar cookies.  Slip it between a citrus-scented layer cake, littered, if you will, with blueberries.  Sneak it into summer trifle, alongside the custard, or better still, as a sly custard substitute. Spoon it onto pavlovas with raspberries and chantilly.  I eat it straight-up.  I've two kids who do, too.  Really, a spoon and a mouth and you're set.  

And yet, lime curd begs the berry.  There's something sublime, between the two.  All berries.  Any berries.  Blue, black, straw, marion, tay.  Maybe not goose.  Any berry but goose.  We made little berry tarts yesterday, the frilly French kind, with pâte sucre and fluted tins and a glossy jam topcoat.  We layered the berries on a pastry cream pouf, and it was nice enough, mild, softly sweet.  But I couldn't help wishing the cream was curd, an eye-squinching wink to wake up that ripe fruit.  

Our strawberries are gone, but I hear you Seattle folk still have some.  Score one for late-breaking summers.  For there is little lovelier (and little simpler) than a platter of rubies and a bowl of lime curd.  If that was strawberries under a cloud, this is them, dripping rhinestones, smart, dazzling, a nudge sassy. And if you, like me, see strawberries in the rearview mirror, rest assured: there's a berry parade yet to come.  And a sidekick, waiting in the wings.  

Foolproof Lime Curd
adapted from our favorite, foolproof lemon curd 
Yields: 2 cups

As I mentioned in the lemon original, the technique is what sets this curd apart: all ingredients are blitzed by stick blender before cooking, which shields the mixture against curdling, the ordinary bane of all curds.  I use organic limes for curd, owing to the heavy use of peel.  I've yet to have enough leftover lime curd to stockpile, but if it's anything like lemon curd, it will freeze admirably. Please note, you'll need a fine-mesh strainer (or regular strainer, plus cheesecloth).  Pull out your microplane and stick blender if you've got them.  Fine holes of a box grater and/or a standard blender make fine substitutes.

3 large eggs
3 large egg yolks
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup fresh lime juice (from 4-6 plump limes)
1/4 cup freshly grated lime zest (from 4-5 limes), from organic limes, if possible
pinch of salt
4 Tablespoons salted butter, softened, cut into pieces

Wash and dry limes.  Zest limes on a microplane rasp, measure out 1/4 cup of the zest, and set aside.

Juice limes, and measure 1/2 cup.  If you have a stick blender, add lime juice, eggs, egg yolks, and sugar directly to a medium, heavy pot, and blitz 30 seconds or so, until mixture is smooth and no clumps of egg remain.  (If using a standing blender, blitz juice, sugar and eggs on high for 30 seconds, then pour into pan.)  After blending, add lime zest and salt to mixture, then place pan on medium heat.  Heat mixture for 8-12 minutes, whisking occasionally, until mixture thickens noticeably and coats the back of a spoon.  Remove from heat, then whisk in butter, one piece at a time.  Set a fine-mesh sieve (or cheesecloth-lined strainer) over a large, heat-proof bowl, and pour in hot curd.  Strain curd (to remove zest), nudging as needed with a rubber spatula or wooden spoon.  Use a rubber spatula to scrape free the nice slick of curd on the underside of the strainer.  Eat warm, immediately, or chilled, with all manner of summer berries.  Keeps beautifully, refrigerated, up to 5 days.