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A Bourbon Bundt Cake Worthy of Its Name

Every family has a recipe like this one — the thing that shows up at every gathering, half-joked about, entirely devoured, and passed around on a folded paper napkin, or on nothing at all. In our case, it’s a vanilla bourbon bundt cake. Or, as we’ve always called it, Bundt Cake Gladys.

As far as I can recall, it was the only thing my grandmother ever baked in her bundt pan, which I still have. It’s a thin, cheap supermarket aluminum pan, worn and a little bent along the edges. It’s also the oldest baking pan I own, and the only one I’ll probably never throw out. She may have had others in her lifetime, but this was the one she had at the end, and in my mind, that makes it hers forever.

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If cocktails had personalities (and they do, especially after the second round), the Pink Lady would be your eccentric aunt. The one who insists on full costume for brunch, douses herself in vintage Chanel No. 5, and waits until everyone has dismissed her as harmless. Then she casually eviscerates a guest with a one-liner that clears the room. Yes, she’s pretty. No, she’s not harmless. And yes, she’s stronger than you. Beneath the ruffles and rouge lies a gin-soaked backbone you ignore at your own peril.

..

Let me tell you how I learned not to underestimate a Pink Lady first hand…

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Aunt Caroline wasn’t whipping up Lemon Lime Champagne Granita the night she sent Uncle Drew out for lemons. However, when the weather turns scorching hot and I spot a bowl of lemons on the counter I can’t help but chuckle and think of Aunt Caroline and this particular dessert. And, of course, that unforgettable night when Uncle Drew went out for lemons and never came back. (more…)

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Here is the thing with Roasted Bone Marrow and me: I always get anxious introducing this personal preference of mine to anybody new. Am I about to lose my new friend, or will admitting some small nugget of truth serve to cement our friendship further? Or, as is sometimes the case, will I be surprised with a knowing glimmer and nod, unmistakably signifying “me too”?

Once revealed, one can never be too sure about biases to or against one’s truths. My advice: be prepared for any and every reaction! And if said reaction is adverse, well, take comfort in the fact that no matter what one’s preferences are, one is rarely alone with them. As with all characteristic peculiarities,  a large community of like-minded residence usually exists nearby. Go and seek them out for support and communion!

One day, I was all alone, feeling destined for a life spent alone with my desires, and then BAM! A community formed all around me, growing in pride, losing its shame, increasing its visibility and public understanding, appearing just about everywhere on appetizer menus.

Yup. I eat the bone. Roasted Bone Marrow. Mmmm. Bone. (more…)

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If Dorie Greenspan thinks that just because she publishes a souped up, fancy schmancy, new and improved recipe for gourgeres I’m going to kick her oldest recipe for gourgeres the curb, well, she has another thing coming. (“My Newest Gourgeres”, page 8, “Everyday Dorie: The Way I Cook”)

No ma’am. I am way too loyal to her classic recipe! I won’t turn my back on the faithful, classic recipe I fell in love with just because some shiny new version comes to town and winks at me while showing me her ample poufs.

Oh, and wink at me these newest gourgeres do! Who knew that  younger-model gourgeres would be the temptresses they are? Ms. Greenspan certainly knows how to turn on her savory wiles and seduce even the most resistant gourgeres monogamist. With only a few bumps and grinds to the original recipe she had me forgetting all about the commitment I made to her original recipe.

FACT: Dorie has been turning my head for eight years now! It is this history together which causes such conflict when confronted with these sexy newest gourgeres. How can anyone resist these delicious, sexy, flavorful mouthfuls of pleasure?  How does one stay faithful to one’s first love when the honeymoon is over?

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I need to get out my step stool in order to conjure gems like this Aperol Tequila cocktail.

Way up high, back in The Inconvenient Cabinet sitting behind the refrigerator, you will just over a dozen bottles of booze. These aren’t my  “main squeeze” libations, no, these bottles are the rather queer stash of alcoholic this-and-thats I couldn’t say goodbye to. I think of these oddballs as my alcoholic booty calls — quite ready to satisfy me at a moment’s notice, but knowing never to ask for any real commitment from me. If they were ever bold enough to ask for a permanent place in the main pantry I would toss them out of my cabinet (and life) tout de suite.

For now they benefit from my general unwillingness to say goodbye and the knowledge that once day, as it always does, I will require a quick thrill without the request for main pantry fidelity.

When that moment inevitably happens I will get a step stool, crawl up to The Inconvenient Cabinet and cruise around the dusty neglected bottles to look for a quickie.

Aperol knows the rules.

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I can’t say I know much about the differences, if any, between ice pops and paletas. I don’t consider myself an expert at either. “Expert” is in the eye of the beholder I suppose. I’ve been making paletas, especially these Lime Berry Paletas, every summer ever since some wonderful company, I can’t now remember the name of, had the great idea to comp me a set of pop, er, paleta molds. Best freebie I ever got! Who knew some inexpensive, formed plastic, retailing for less than $10 would come to define summer for me?

“Pops” must be those icy treats associated with childhood, comprised of somewhat singular flavors such as “orange”, “cherry”, or, um, “purple.” Paletas, on the other hand come in countless flavor combinations, often containing a wide assortment of fruits, nuts and other ingredients. Even booze! And whereas a pop is often cloyingly sweet and unimaginative, a paleta (a name derived from the Spanish word for ‘stick’) embraces a more sophisticated profile of the sweet, spicy and sour flavors that everybody loves.  (more…)

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Curried Chicken en Papillote should hardly be considered a revolutionary act. But then neither should being able to feed yourself. Sadly, the latter now seems to be. Or at least so says none other than Jamie Oliver, who has taken it upon himself to start a global campaign purposed with reinstating food curriculum in our youth’s schools. To that end, today is his fourth annual Food Revolution Day intended to engage and inspire young people to learn about food and how to cook it.

It kind of blows my mind that a kid today could grow up without learning the basic life skill of knowing how to cook a healthy meal for themselves. If this particular food blog is about anything, it is about the how the generational continuity and sharing of food and its preparation has storied my entire life. So it just goes to say that if a kid doesn’t know how to cook for himself he or she will grow into a parent that can’t teach that same skill. How sad is that? (more…)

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When we started with French Fridays with Dorie nearly 5 years ago, it didn’t take very long for me to realize there would be assignments which would not do much to inspire my writing. I would dutifully cook the dish as required. Then I would do my best to take a worthy photograph while husband stood by patiently.  But later that week as I tried to write about it I would end up staring at my computer screen and frustrated when the words would fail to materialize.

No funny anecdotes from my personal history poured forth. I would have nothing special to say about an exotic ingredient I knew we all would have trouble finding. No snarky observations at all.

The drive to participate and be a part of the Dorista community would prove to be strong, however, so I had to think of something to keep the pace. Enter Haiku French Fridays!  I discovered that by resorting to a pithy haiku I could could easily crank out a post on topic, communicate something mildly entertaining, and still trick some of you into thinking I was being more profound than I was trying to be.

Haiku is very forgiving that way.  So please forgive me as I rely on it again to get me through this final French Friday’s post.

our global journey

to eat at her French table

has now run its course

xxoo, Trevor

 some make ups to get me through this:

Oso Buco à L’arman

do you feel guilty?

political correctness?

shhh…just eat your veal.

(recipe here.)

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