If You Give a Girl a Cookie

chocolate chip peanut butter cookies & such happy news.

2012-05-18T15:21:00.000-04:00

Guys, I had a baby. Then I made you some cookies.

You can read more about her here.

Well, if I'm being totally honest, I made these a while ago and I just unearthed the photos somewhere in the 2,000+ I've taken since my daughter was born. That's always a nice treat - finding photos of peanut butter cookies in between snapshots of sweet baby meat. I can't think of anything better.

These cookies came from the Clinton Street Baking Company's cookbook where most of the recipes are more suitable for breakfast, but I went straight for the dessert section. Well, I returned to the dessert section nearly two years after first purchasing a digital version of the cookbook and then never baking from it for fear I'd ruin my Kindle with butter and sugar flying everywhere. And while I'm thinking about it, don't ever buy a cookbook on your Kindle. I don't know what I was thinking. It's totally senseless.

Do, however, make these cookies. They're exactly the sort of thing your mother might pack in your lunchbox for a field trip in first grade. They're studded with chocolate chips and softly scented with peanut butter but not overwhelmingly so. That was important to me. I'm not the sort of person who swoons over the combination of peanut butter and chocolate, it's so terribly rich and I don't like the sensation of it sticking to the roof of my mouth. No. Thank. You.

But these? These are different. They're peanut butter cookies for people who don't like peanut butter cookies. I know - I'm off my rocker, right? But even I couldn't resist sloshing a warm cookie through a tall glass of ice cold milk and tucking more than my fair share into my belly.

You should do the same.

Chocolate Chip Peanut Butter Cookies
Adapted from Clinton Street Baking Company Cookbook

The original recipe says to roll the dough into a log, without freezing, then slice it. This is utter nonsense. The dough is soft and sticky and would never submit to rolling without giving you a world of trouble. Instead, I scooped the dough with a regular cookie scoop and didn't have any trouble at all.

8 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
1/2 cup peanut butter, chunky or smooth, not natural
1/2 cup light brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar, plus more for rolling
1 large egg
1 1/4 cups all purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup milk chocolate chips

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

In the bowl of an electric mixer, cream together the butter, peanut butter and sugars until light and fluffy - about 5 minutes. Add the egg and dry ingredients and mix until just combined. Mix in the chocolate chips.

Scoop the dough into balls and roll in granulated sugar. Put the dough onto the baking sheet with about two inches to spare in between each one. Using the back of a fork, press down on each cookie to make a cross-hatch pattern.

Bake for 12-15 minutes or until light brown on the edges and softly set in the center. Allow to cool on the cookie sheet for 5 minutes before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely.

Makes about 20 cookies or so.

olive oil & maple granola.

2012-04-16T17:09:00.000-04:00

Hear me out. I know I bombard you with granola recipes at every opportunity, and if granola isn't your thing, you've probably long checked out of this blog and decided that I am a tree-huggin' hippie who lives on nuts and seeds and chants in my backyard.

But the trouble is, I want to believe everyone likes granola. I mean, don't get me wrong, I feel like a loser every time I try to explain to someone just how fantastic that last batch of homemade granola was! Then I realize they are staring at me like I've got three heads and they smile politely and walk away.

I know, it doesn't sound terribly exciting, and how many granola recipes does one person need? But I've eaten a lot of granola in my lifetime - some delicious and some positively horrible - so I consider myself a granola authority of sorts. (I should be on Food Network's Unwrapped where they all have titles like Cheez Wiz Connoisseur and Twizzler Enthusiast.) But I do this for you! So you can have the best granola around each morning, for your afternoon snack mixed with a bit of Greek yogurt, to spread the good news that homemade granola is a world away from that pasty-pale store-bought garbage!

So about this particular recipe - it balances sweet and salty in a way most granola recipes do not. Rather than a slick of flavorless vegetable oil to keep it crisp, this recipes uses hearty olive oil that gives the brown sugar and maple syrup lacquering each crispy bit a good kick in the pants. And while we're talking about the syrup, and I hesitate to tell you this because I never want to be the sort of person who insists upon a particular ingredient or the entire batch will be ruined! But in this case, do your best to seek out a good, rich maple syrup. I'd never tasted Grade B syrup (for some reason I had it in my head that it was inferior to Grade A and if I was going to spend the $8, I was getting Grade A - this could not be farther from the truth) before this recipe but found a jug of it on sale at the Common Market and decided to give it a go. It came from a local sugar shack in Western Maryland called S&S and it's unlike any syrup I've ever had - it's sweet, of course, but it's also a touch bitter at the end, and to me, it tasted like coffee. A delicious cup of rich-bodied coffee that happened to pour out of a maple tree.

But moving on and off my maple syrup high horse. Besides that, there's the coconut chips. I've always used sweetened, shredded coconut for my granola recipes, but I found a bag of these at that same Common Market and as it turns out, they crisp up like tropical chips in the oven, lightly coated with that magical maple slurry and just a bit salty from the coarse salt sprinkled over the top. And it's that same salt that keeps this granola grounded, keeps it interesting, keeps you reaching back into the back for another handful on your way out the door.

Now I realize that nuts and seeds can certainly add up, but I usually hit the bulk section of my local grocer and it isn't too bad - I keep the nuts in the freezer and it'll last through several batches of granola (and I'm convinced it ends up costing less than buying multiple boxes of cereal).

I love this recipe as-is, but I also like to stir in a handful of dried cherries once it's cool enough to handle. Their tart chewiness lends a great contrast to the crunchy granola and were it not for my dried-fruit averse husband who doesn't like when I add the "chewies" to the mix, I'd eat it that way every day.

One last thing and I promise I'll shut my trap and let you get on with it - don't skimp on stirring the granola really well in the 15 minute increments mentioned below. I neglected it once before and the maple-sugar mixture tends to pool in the center of the pan (or maybe I just need new, less warped pans?) and I ended up with a handful of gluey pieces once it finished baking. So just keep stirring! All will be right with the world.

Olive Oil & Maple Granola
Adapted from Food52 & Nekisia Davis

Makes about 7 cups

3 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
1 cup raw pumpkin seeds, hulled
1 cup raw sunflower seeds, hulled
1 cup unsweetened coconut chips
1 1/4 cup raw pecans, left whole or coarsely chopped
1/2 cup packed light-brown sugar
3/4 cup pure maple syrup, preferably Grade B
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Coarse salt
Dried cherries, optional

Preheat the oven to 300 degrees F and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

In a large bowl, mix together the oats, pumpkin seeds, sunflower seeds, coconut chips, pecans, brown sugar, and a hefty pinch of coarse salt.

In a measuring cup, whisk together the maple syrup and olive oil. It won't really come together in any sort of cohesive manner, but give it a good stir and then quickly pour it over the oat mixture. (I've made it before just by mixing everything together in one bowl from the get-go, but I got it into my head that some bits were becoming saturated in olive oil, others in just syrup, and vowed to just mix the syrup and oil together and sleep peacefully at night.)

Toss it all together with a rubber spatula until well coated - really make sure you get all the way to the bottom of the bowl where the dry bits of oats and coconut shards tend to hide. Tip the mixture onto the baking sheet and spread it evenly.

Bake for 45-55 minutes, stirring and flipping the granola every 15 minutes, until golden brown and crisp. As soon as you remove it from the oven, sprinkle it once more with a good pinch of coarse salt and toss it every 30 minutes or so until the granola is completely cool. Mix in a handful of dried cherries, if you like.

The granola will keep in a plastic bag or container at room temperature for about a week, but we keep ours in the freezer. I find the dried fruit will soften the crisp of the granola after a few days unless it's frozen, plus my baby Daddy says he enjoys the ice cold milk that results from frozen granola.

strawberry cake.

2012-04-05T16:02:00.000-04:00

Well, this feels a little awkward. I've been away from this blog since last October when I made a little announcement that is not so little anymore. It sort of has that feeling when you're home from college and you know you're home but its just funny enough that you feel you should ask to get a glass of milk rather than helping yourself. I never, ever intended for that to happen and I'm so grateful for those of you who have checked in to see how things are going. I've missed this place quite a bit, my friends.

Truthfully, it's been a rough ride. Like, 22 weeks of daily toilet-hugging followed by another few weeks of zero appetite and now onto waddling about with just a few days to go and trying to get down my required protein each day. I've only cooked a handful of meals this entire time and almost no dessert - even the simplest of recipes seemed daunting and the idea of having to burn valuable energy on something as silly as washing dishes was enough to make me put the cookbooks away.

I miss being hungry. I miss it a lot. But I made you a cake. A cake!

Now, it's not a terribly fancy cake, mind you. It's more of a Sunday-afternoon-I-have-some-strawberries-on-the-counter-and-I-did-just-take-a-nap sort of cake. But I'm just so grateful that I rustled up the chutzpah to hull a pound (a whole! stinkin'! pound!) of strawberries. That sounds like an awful lot when you're nine months pregnant. Then again, getting out of bed without assistance and tying my shoes and trying not to cry at Campbell's soup commercials all sound impossible these days, but I make it happen.

This cake, this humble looking vanilla cake with the dozens of strawberry slices wedged into the buttery batter, is exactly the sort of thing you'll want to put in your oven and forget about for a while. Of course, until you smell the berries turning into jammy pockets of berry goo and you pat yourself on the back for turning such simple ingredients into something so splendid.

It may seem like there's too many berries to go around, but if you really squeeze 'em in there, let them overlap just a bit and don't worry if "just a bit" turns into "one on top of the other," then you'll be rewarded with a cake that is more strawberry than cake. The batter crinkles up around the strawberries as it bakes and really, the cake is more of a vessel for getting all those summery berries into your belly without too much hassle.

You'll want to add this to your recipe box for those summer days when it's unbearably hot but you'd still like dessert before the sun goes down. I can't imagine a summer night without dessert, but then again this summer will be different for me. I'll have a newborn to snack on anytime I please, but for those of you don't, you can have this cake.

Recipe here.

where i've been.

2011-10-05T15:49:00.000-04:00

I've missed this place. I've missed the smirking little girl up at the top of the page there, the one with the mixing bowl and freckled cheeks. I've missed cooking, and I've missed hearing from you, dear readers.

Since it's been just shy of two whole months since my last post, I'll just get right to it. I'm a little pregnant. We're due in April, and no one was more surprised than me. And while some bloggers seem to chug happily along, posting the standard cinnamon-bun-in-the-oven recipes to announce their pregnancies, I have been down for the count. I wish I had more to share, but I've been on a steady diet of cereal and toast for the past twelve weeks and frankly, the very thought of stirring a pot sends me running for the facilities to hug my new BFF, Mr. Toilet.

I'm praying things are on the upswing, but between graduate school, a new job, married life, and worrying if my lunch will come up any second, there hasn't been much time for brownies. I think that's the worst.

Be back soon. Promise.

almond torte with sugared apricots.

2011-08-11T10:55:00.000-04:00

Fruit and I have come a long way. I used to stuff myself silly with every kind of peach, plum, and apple I could get my hands on, nothing was off limits. So it was a terrible surprise when one day, in between fifth and sixth grade, a red apple turned against me.

We had just moved to a new town and my parents took me and my siblings on a picnic at a local park to blow off some steam before the school year started. There were a few rusted out swingsets and an oversized Coca-Cola can you could crawl through, although that's only entertaining for so long. I think we had sandwiches or some other picnic fare, but I can't remember exactly. It's all been blocked out by that terrible episode of The Apple.

My Dad packed a tub of caramel dipping sauce for our apple slices, and when it was time to eat, I didn't waste a minute. I ate half an apple worth of slices before taking off for the slide again, but by the time I reached the top of the ladder, my lips were tingling. I chewed on them a bit, thinking it was nothing, but it got worse. Within a few minutes, my tongue, cheeks and gums were all itchy and swollen, and we didn't know why.

Through a few rounds of trial an error (a horrible reaction to some peaches at my friend Natalie's house was the clincher), my allergist diagnosed me with a fruit allergy, and the only thing I could have for years was watermelon. Anything else and I swelled up like a balloon. It was really ridiculous, I had to carry an Epi-Pen around school and the nurse called me down to her office to see if I needed specially made lunches. I mumbled something like, "I'll just pack, thanks..." and walked sheepishly back to class.

Over the years, it has gotten better. I still can't eat apples, and I still react to some fruits, but apricots are back from the Dark Side. Just touching them to my lips 5 years ago would've made me look like a puffer fish, but they've since apologized and begged to come back. I'm starting small with this apricot torte, and I think apricots and I are back on track to being fine friends again.

First, you blitz a handful of almonds into a powder, perhaps leaving a few crunchy bits in there because you are lazy or just enjoy your cake batter studded with almonds. Then you whip up a quick and dirty batter with your standard butter, eggs, sugar and flour and top the whole thing off with a ring of halved apricots, bright orange and juicy. Now, because apricots tend to be on the mouth-puckering side of the fruit spectrum, it would serve you well to sprinkle a bit of sugar over the tops before sliding it into the oven to bake. Once it gets going, it perfumes your whole house with the scent of toasted almonds and blistering fruit, the sort of fragrance that forces you to walk in and out of the house just to have it register in your senses again. Once it's ready, the top crackles and shatters in spots and some apricots nestle down beneath the surface of the cake (a welcome surprise upon slicing). The few wedges of fruit that stuck around will fill with a little puddle of apricot juice and you might be sorely tempted to scoop them out with a spoon and forgo the cake altogether.

But don't. Let it cool ever so slightly, pour yourself a cuppa, and call it breakfast.

Almond Torte with Sugared Apricots
Adapted from Orangette & Marion Burros

1/3 cup finely ground almonds
2/3 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
1 tsp. baking powder
Pinch of salt
8 Tbsp. (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
¾ cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs

For topping:
6 ripe apricots, halved and pitted
1-2 Tbsp. granulated sugar

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. In the bowl of a food processor, pulse the almonds until they are finely ground. Don't worry about overdoing it, I let mine whirl for a good while with no sign of almond butter in sight.

In a small bowl, whisk together the ground almonds, flour, baking powder and salt.

In the food processor, pulse together the butter, sugar and eggs until just combined. Add in the dry ingredients and mix in short bursts until the flour just barely disappears. Scoop the batter into a 9-inch spring-form pan and spread it evenly with an offset spatula.

Arrange the apricot halves evenly across the top of the batter and sprinkle with sugar (1 tablespoon if they are plenty sweet, or 2 tablespoons if they need a little boost. I find most apricots are fairly sour, so I used two).

Bake for 40-50 minutes or until the top is a bit crackly and golden brown. Cool for about 15 minutes before serving.

summer succotash.

2011-08-04T11:32:00.000-04:00

I haven't spent nearly as much time in the kitchen this summer as I'd hoped. That sounds awfully backwards given that this summer was one of the hottest to date and no person in their right mind would want to spend it next to the hot stove, but I can't help but feel I missed something along the way.

Perhaps it was the adjustment of married life that swallowed up the time, or that our house insisted on being an absolute nuisance more often than not, or that I found myself slurping up bowls of cereal for dinner (save for the tomato + fried bread which was positively divine) while my darling husband was out policing the streets, but I have that sort of hollow feeling in my belly. Do you ever get that? That strange sensation that you've forgotten something? I think, for me, it was the kitchen.

Now I know I must sound awfully melancholy and you might be thinking, "C'mon, Britt! You've still got a good chunk of summer left! Think of the tomatoes! The pie! Think of Arnold Palmer!" And oh, I suppose you might be right. But now that I am scheduled for a return to graduate school (I do hope I am not completely rusty after a semester's vacation), there's that sinking feeling floating just below my ribcage. I miss my free time already. I ought to buck up, really, I should. It's just that I spent the first half of my summer battling with that same graduate school after I ended up with a professor whose vacation was interrupted by his obligation to teach the class. Honestly.

It's possible you're wondering what on earth any of that has to do with succotash. You might even be sitting there, jaw squared and lip nearly curled, thinking of how much you hate succotash. The first time I ever had succotash, it was at an old boyfriend's grandmother's house for dinner. She made Swiss steak, mashed potatoes and succotash - better known as a humble mixture of corn and lima beans. I didn't see the hype at first, but with a little salt and a nub of sweet butter, it wasn't so bad.

But this is hardly succotash at all. It starts with a bit of bacon (or country ham in our case), then you toss in a few handful of juicy tomatoes, garlic, and onion right into the bacon fat. It will sizzle and pop and hiss for a moment or two and while you listen, you can spend a few moments cleaning up the rogue corn kernels that have bounced all over your floor like pearls from a broken necklace.

Once all the vegetables are cooked but still a bit toothsome, you mix in a good bunch of arugula and fresh basil, perhaps a cup of brown rice or chewy farro to round it out (one! bowl! meal!). We ate on the back porch with a tall glass of sweet tea and a fluffy cloud of Parmesan cheese while the sun sank down. And that's what I'll miss about the summer: No lingering thoughts of homework to be done, the clinking of silverware against a bowl on the porch, a bottomless pitcher of iced tea, and perhaps even a bowl of this succotash.

Adapted from Gourmet.

everyday chocolate cake.

2011-07-25T16:52:00.000-04:00

My Dad is a difficult man. You know my Dad, right? The one who is obsessed with lemon cookies, who gives a tiny fist pump at the table when dinner is especially nice, the guy who accuses me of adding "nuts and bolts" to a dish whenever he thinks there is too much going on - that's him.

He is especially fussy about dessert. Those lemon cookies I was telling you about? I'm sorry I ever made them. Seriously. At least once a week I get a text message from him (it usually reads something like: Britt I need lmn cks sugr shards pls when can u have them?) asking where the next batch is, and each time I tell him that I am sick to death of those cookies and I can't help him. Then I make a batch for him anyway.

He's especially tricky post-dinner, about the time the dishes are piled in the sink and we're all sitting on my back porch watching the dog chase an invisible ball (if you play fetch in the dark, he has no idea you're not throwing anything - brilliant!), he'll ask. I can almost predict it to the minute. We're all happily digesting and he'll shoot me a sideways glance and ask, "You got anything for dessert?"

And being me, of course, I have a kitchen full of sugary confections, but it's in his nature to be especially choosy. I'll offer a scoop of ice cream, perhaps a brownie, a slice of zucchini bread leftover from the Sunday before - but no. He'll continue nagging until I finally wave the white flag of surrender and he'll say, "You got like a chocolate cake or somethin'?" After one too many awkward situations involving back porch sittin' and a lack of chocolate cake, I started preparing ahead of time.

If you have ever found yourself in a similar circumstance, or perhaps your father is equally charming, or maybe you just need a good recipe for a no-fuss chocolate cake to whip out at any given moment, then this is for you. It's a humble looking loaf that packs an anything-but-modest chocolate flavor, a texture that I daresay borders on fudginess, and with a quick dusting of powdered sugar, you can put it on a fancy plate and call it dessert.

Adapted from Smitten Kitchen & Magnolia Bakery.

homemade peach ice cream.

2011-07-21T15:43:00.000-04:00

When it's smoldering hot outside, the kind of hot that makes sweat beads pop up on your forehead just walking to get the mail, the kind that makes you lay on top the air vents and suck ice cubes, the kind that seems so relentless even at ten in the evening and the air is still thick as mud, that awful sort of heat that you trudged through on your nightly jog only to have your puppy decide he's had enough during the last quarter mile and refuse to lift his paws another step so you carry him home instead, then it's time to make peach ice cream.

I don't use my ice cream machine nearly enough, and I blame it on the mechanics of it. It's one of those fancy numbers that require no rock salt or manual labor, but instead a canister that takes a full twenty-four hours to freeze before you can use it. If you've been reading this blog for even a little while, you know that most of my baking happens on impulse - a sudden craving, a late night baking spell - so when the idea for ice cream tickles my tummy, it's quickly diminished by the realization I still haven't put the canister in the freezer and by the time it's ready to churn the desire for ice cream has completely escaped me. I'm a little flaky that way.

But this? This I planned for. I was waiting on a few doughnut peaches to ripen on the counter, patiently preparing for their day to take a swim through frozen cream. They took forever. For-ev-er. And sadly, they weren't even that good. Really. They are fun to look at and it's super fun to say "doughnut peach," but really, they have no flavor. Thankfully, I was redeemed by a lone Eastern peach that was going soft with ripeness, so I tossed that in with the doughnuts and got on my way. (So if you have the choice, go with traditional, sweet-smelling peaches that are starting to squish in spots - they truly make the best ice cream).

This recipe has the addition of sour cream, something I thought was a bit strange and my mother balked at when I told her what was in it. But really, it was quite lovely. It cuts the sweetness of the peaches just a bit and offsets the richness of the heavy cream just enough to allow for a second scoop. The original recipe doesn't call for the addition of chopped peach to be added, but when I saw the instruction to puree the whole batch, my heart sank a little. Half the joy of eating peach ice cream is the icy slivers of real peach woven throughout, am I right or am I right?

Of course I'm right. Now get on it.

Adapted from The Perfect Scoop, by David Lebovitz.

cinnamon iced oatmeal cookies.

2011-07-18T17:01:00.001-04:00

There are plenty of important things you should remember when heading to the beach, not the least of which is cookies. You should always remember to pack cookies. And even though you're headed to the sunny surf and you packed several bikinis, you should ignore the weather and your waistline and bake cookies that taste like autumn.

I have long been a fan of the oatmeal cookie, the proper sort that have chewy and thick and flecked with bits of chewy raisin throughout each bite, but oh, I don't know, sometimes I just need a little spice in my life.

First of all, these cookies toss the raisins and swap in ground up oats to the batter, a technique that made them pleasantly chewy and delightfully oatsy. Each bite fills your tongue with a warm, toasty feeling, not to mention the cinnamon-spiked glaze that crackles under your teeth.

So get on it while it's still summer and you can grin to yourself about how naughty you are for baking cookies out of season.

Adapted from Smitten Kitchen & Good to the Grain, by Kim Boyce.

chocolate babka.

2011-07-06T10:41:00.000-04:00

Beyond an episode of Seinfeld from years ago, I didn't know anything about babka. I tried figuring out what it was based on Elaine's insistence they have a chocolate babka as opposed to the "lesser babka" flavored with cinnamon, but then they started bickering about black and white cookies and I never did figure it out.

As it happens, babka can be one of three things: a yeast loaf stuffed with chocolate, cinnamon, and streusel, a more delicate cake dotted with raisins and a splash of rum, or a grandmother. Now, I have a distaste for the latter two, but a half bread/half cake swirled with chocolate and spiked with cinnamon? Sign me up.

It seems I have a knack for baking completely out of season, and this babka is no exception. Why, just this past weekend (on the 4th of July, no less) I made cupcakes with autumn-colored sprinkles baked in snowflake-flecked paper liners. I'm all over the place. It's difficult to focus when you have that eerie feeling you're being watched. I've been thinking of this recipe for so long, I thought it would be best just to get it on the table and out of my head so I could move on to other things like peach ice cream and dominating the CornHole Tourney.

As it turns out, babka is incredibly rich, devilishly chocolatey, loaded with butter, and with the help of crisp bits of streusel twisted through, it goes down incredibly smooth with a glass of ice cold milk.

I see what all the fuss is about, Mr. Seinfeld. But with this babka, you can have cinnamon and chocolate. The best of both worlds.

Now before I send you on your way, a few tips. First - the chocolate filling. The instructions say to use a pastry cutter or two knives to chop it up. This is a terrible idea. In case you've never chopped dark chocolate before, you can break a sweat doing so, and using two knives is pretty futile. I gave the chocolate a coarse chop with a knife, then added it to the food processor with the sugar and cinnamon and pulsed it until it was moist and crumbly. Worked like a charm.

Second - the streusel. The mixture looked awfully dry as I was mashing it together and I was skeptical it would ever turn into fat crumbs, but take heart! It does! If you don't break a sweat, you're not finished. It is awfully tricky making it stick into the center of the twisted roll, but you can do it!

And because SK's directions are clear and concise, I'll nudge you that direction for the recipe. Chocolate Babka from Smitten Kitchen - here.

black raspberry buttermilk cake.

2011-07-01T16:08:00.000-04:00

There's a lot of good things that come from living in the country. We can shoot guns off our back porch and no one says a thing. We have a creek that hugs the back edge of our yard - a creek that our pooches are most grateful to have discovered after a particularly hot day earlier this week. The view from our loft varies by season - in the winter, you can easily see the ski slopes just across the way, and in the summer, the sun seems to swell to triple its high-noon size as it drops below the horizon, sizzling bright pink and warming our porch with evening rays.

But when we moved in mid-February, it didn't look so promising. The previous owners hadn't taken care of the yard, so it was barren in the spots where there should've been pretty flowers (or at least the bulbs frozen below the surface), and nearly half of our three acres was overgrown with weeds, unruly bushes, and poison ivy. The basement flood didn't help me warm up to our little log cabin very much, but so far, summer has made up for it, full throttle.

There were rumors about the raspberry bushes when we first moved in. One of our neighbors told us that, come early July, we'd see them popping up against the field. I was skeptical. When my Pop first moved to West Virginia, he had a driveway over a mile long, completely lined with raspberry bushes. My cousin, Danielle, and I would tuck a plastic container under our arms and use our free hands to pluck the fat berries off the prickly bushes only to douse them in spoonfuls of sugar upon return to the house. But after a few years, and much to my disappointment, they stopped coming. My Mom thought it was because the bushes had just run their course, but in hindsight, they were growing rather troublesome and threatening to swallow the driveway right up, so my uncles hacked them back with a few rips of the chainsaw.

But lo and behold, the rumors are true. My backyard is filled with raspberry bushes in near equal amounts of black and red. It's really a fantastic sight to see at sunset, that golden hour when everything looks, well, golden, and the fireflies are twinkling like Christmas lights in the trees. But if you pause for a moment, you can see the endless dots of purply berries scattered (it will be a bit longer before the red raspberries are ready for pie) in the bushes where even the birds can't find them. Every few nights, Justin and I make a loop around the yard for our bounty, destined for oatmeal and muffins and cake. Yes, a cake.

The latest issue of Bon Appetit had a full section on berries toward the end of the magazine and since we were having our neighbors over for dinner that night, it seemed like divine timing to make good use of our raspberry loot. I was leaning toward a cherry-berry hand pie, but about halfway through reading the recipe it struck me as entirely too fussy for a Sunday night and I told Justin we were out of options. Leave it to Mr. Clever to simply turn the page, thump his finger down on a photo of a Blackberry Buttermilk Cake, and simply say, "This, then." He is as smart as he is handsome.

Now, a few things about this cake. It isn't quite like some of the other upside down cakes we've talked about in the past. It's made with cake flour, for starters, which gives an impossibly light crumb to hold up the juicy berry-stained topping. The original recipe called for a mere ten ounces of berries, and that's where I started, but the photo looked awfully sparse in the berry department and ten ounces hardly covered the bottom of the pan. You see, what I needed was a black raspberry topping with cake, not a cake with blackberry topping. So I tumbled in another six ounces to make it an equal pound (for good measure!) and could not be more pleased with the result. The cake is softly scented with orange and vanilla (orange and black raspberry are made for each other) and is perfect for a Sunday dinner dessert, or perhaps with your coffee and milk the next morning, or even sliced straight from the plate and eaten over the sink to catch the crumbs.

You could go with the original instructions and use blackberries for this cake, or red raspberries or even pitted cherries, if you have them. A word of warning to the wise (that's you) - put a cookie sheet on the rack below this cake when you bake it. While the extra berries are well worth it in the end, they do tend to push their juices between the cracks of the springform pan and onto the bottom of the oven. I wouldn't wish that upon anyone.

Adapted from Bon Appetit.

milton milkshakes.

2011-06-23T13:36:00.000-04:00

I don't have too many fond memories of my time at Liberty University. After a weekend visit (the kind where they break out the good food and overload you with concerts and activities and convince you that it's like that all the time), I signed on to attend the Fall semester after high school graduation. Less than two weeks in, I realized it wouldn't be quite what I expected. Sure, I knew there would be rules, but the entire hall gasped during a meeting one night when our RA's (a.k.a. disinterested grad students looking for free housing) put on a "fashion show" of all the clothes we weren't allowed to wear.

After ditching half my already modest wardrobe (apparently a knee-length skirt with a 2 inch slit in the back is considered incredibly sleazy), I figured that would be the worst of it and I'd find my way eventually. I picked up a part time job scooping ice cream at a restaurant called Sundae Grill and ended up quitting a month later after the owner scolded me for "not smiling enough" and asked me to scrub the cabinets with a toothbrush for five bucks an hour. Smiles cost extra.

After two years of legalistic shenanigans, I snapped. Well, I snapped after some random chick I had never met told me that during church one evening, the guy sitting next to her said he could see my tank-top straps through my shirt and it looked like a bra and he was offended by it. Offended by it. I know, blows my ever-lovin' mind. I love Jesus, okay? Like, heart and soul, through and through. What I don't love is some 18 year old sassafrass telling me what to wear, how to act, and what time to be in bed to make sure I love Jesus the way the school dictates is best. Not happenin'. I'm a free bird.

At any rate, all was not lost! Just a mile away from my dorm (and off campus! the madness!), there was a little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop called The Drowsy Poet. Around campus, everyone simply referred to it as "Drowsy," and it was situated just a few doors down from the dollar-theater, making it a most affordable college date-night. Really, it was the first time I remember drinking coffee to be a big deal, I'd never seen people pack into a place like that before. I haven't thought of it in years but for some reason, three days ago, I remembered the Milton Milkshake. It was their signature drink, and I have no idea who Milton is, but he makes a fine shake. I didn't know what was in it (besides magic) for a long time, and I desperately tried peeking over the counter to watch what the barista was putting into the blender, but my efforts were futile. I couldn't see anything over the bakery case of cappuccino muffins.

When I transferred after my second year, I forgot all about Drowsy and the Milton Milkshake, so no one was more surprised than me when a memory of it popped into my head a few nights ago, just as I was dozing off to sleep. Of course, I immediately became obsessed with recreating it, and milkshake obsession is the worst thing you can do when trying to count your Z's. So I did a little research and found two things, one good and one bad.

The Bad: The Drowsy Poet was purchased by a new owner who added a line-up of Caribbean food to the menu and renamed it Smiley & The Drowsy Poet. That just seems silly.

The Good: Someone equally desperate for a Milton Milkshake outside of Lynchburg, VA tried their hand at guessing the recipe...and succeeded. Now at this point, you are probably ready to punch your fist through the screen and demand to know what exactly IS a Milton Milkshake, and you'll probably be disappointed when you hear it because really, it's no big deal. You take a bit of hot espresso and whip it together with ground cinnamon and a splash of hazelnut syrup. Then you top it off with a drizzle of milk and a mini-mountain of ice cream and whir it all together until it's creamy and luscious. This milkshake, and you must believe me, is greater than the sum of its parts.

Kona begged for a taste, but I reassured him he wouldn't like it.

A quick word on presentation - don't sprinkle extra cinnamon on the top. I did, thinking it would look nice in the photo (it made no difference, obviously), only to have my sister and her manfriend choke on the first sip like the Cinnamon Challenge. Don't let this be you.

Inspired by The Drowsy Poet.

about my dad.

2011-06-19T13:50:00.002-04:00

He was dating another woman, Dee, when he met my Mom. She was friends with Dee and seeing someone else, and the four of them went on a double date. Mom's date and Dee excused themselves to the restroom at the same time and my Dad swapped seats to sit next to my Mom. Naturally, the two dates were ticked and hit the street. Mom suggested they go look for Dee since she didn't have a car, but they somehow ended up making out on some back road in their search. Poor Dee. Tough breaks.

He smoked and drank and raced cars in his early 20's. He used to work at a gas station and a feed store, and Mom says he was just a dream hauling those feed bags around. His friends used to call him A.J. after some race car driver. In his old love letters to my Mom, he signed them A.J. What a dork.

Two weeks after he and my mother started dating, he had their names painted on the side doors of his truck. Dave & Justine. My grandmother flipped out. What a badass.

He's a firefighter. Has been for almost 25 years. And no, he's not a volunteer. He's a paid Lieutenant who worked his butt off to get where he is and don't let anyone ever tell you there's no difference between volunteers and career firefighters. There's a huge difference. You get what you pay for.

He met the President. When Hurricane Katrina hit, he drove for nearly three days (fire engines do not do well in hot weather and high speeds for extended periods of time) to get to New Orleans to help. He cleaned out fire stations to help put the local firefighters back to work and he met President George Dubya in line waiting for food. We have a signed picture. It's the coolest.

His wardrobe mostly consists of navy blue t-shirts regulated by the County, he probably has at least thirty. But if my mother throws one out, he knows about it. He used to wear Bike shorts in the early 90s. Those aren't a good look for anybody.

He wore Jovan Musk cologne for decades. It's cheap and strong, and his pillowcase always smells like a mix of the cologne and the firehouse garage. My mom buys him more expensive stuff every Christmas, and he puts it on at bedtime. I don't ask questions.

His hands look like baseball mitts. Like, each finger is equivalent to a cooked bratwurst. When my parents renewed their wedding vows on their 25th anniversary two years ago, they bought new bands for each other. Turns out, the one he'd been wearing was two and a half sizes too small.

He is a determined camper. We've upgraded to an RV these days, but we spent the majority of my childhood using a hand-me-down tent that had more holes in it than Swiss cheese. It would rain every single time and he'd buy us all chocolate eclair popsicles from the camp store to make up for it.

He doesn't take crap from anyone. You should hear him on the phone when Sprint messes up his bill (every month!). He takes no prisoners. I would not want to be on the other end of some of those phone calls. People say that mothers have Mama Bear Syndrome when someone messes with her cubs, but in our family, it's Papa Bear you'll want to watch out for. He's a friggin' beast.

He looks identical to Sam Elliot. Or Hulk Hogan. Or a mix of both. It's the overgrown mustache. I think it's mandatory for firefighters or something.

He has a wicked sweet tooth. He blames it on his mother - growing up, they were never allowed sweets, treats, real milk, chocolate, lunchbox snacks...nothing. So now that's he grown, he indulges his sweet tooth at every opportunity. Like at eleven p.m. when he calls to ask if I have any cake.

He's got five kids, four on earth and one in Heaven. The four of us are ridiculously good looking, so I assume the fifth one is as well. He's got good genes.

A few summers ago, I went on a lemonade kick and made several batches in one day. My Dad drank most of it then told me he felt sloshy inside. Sloshy! I love that.

Speaking of lemons, lemon desserts are sort of his thing, and I've got a lemon cake in the oven right now, so off I go.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. ;)

zucchini spaghetti.

2011-06-16T11:29:00.000-04:00

I wasn't ready to jump back in the saddle when it came to the mandolin, especially not after what happened with that pie, but the show must go on. My right thumb has what I assume will be a permanent scar, a battle wound I'll wear with shame for the rest of my life. It does give me a solid excuse in skipping my pie-making duties, I just thrust my thumb and bottom lip out and insist I can't bear to go back to such a traumatizing place.

It hasn't worked so far.

I bought a mandolin a few years ago, just for this recipe, which is a silly reason to buy any piece of kitchen equipment, but I'm grateful to report that despite multiple injuries, it's found a permanent home in the cupboard, right next to the food processor. The first one I bought was just ridiculous, it was heavy, came with entirely too many parts (none of which fit properly or easily) and I was sweating after just trying to assemble it one afternoon in August. No appliance should make you break a sweat, my friends. Quite the opposite.

I retired it to the shelf in my parents basement after my first failed attempt at this recipe, but I've since bucked up, bought a cheaper, sharper, much more streamlined version and tried this recipe again. Friends, this might just be my go-to summer night dinner.

You start with a tangle of spaghetti noodles - nothing out of the ordinary here. But while your pasta is cooking, you make a quick sauce of sorts, a pinch of red pepper flakes sizzled in some hot olive oil alongside garlic and basil. You let it go for a few minutes until it's fragrant and makes sort of a spicy haze above the pot before tossing in a few handfuls of zucchini shaped like spaghetti noodles, to boot. We ate it warm with a fluffy cloud of Parmesan cheese (reapplied after each layer, of course), but it was equally delicious cold the next afternoon.

Oh, and before I forget - that little link over to the left, the one that says "b.e. photography"? It's a little adventure I'm starting, and I'd love for you to come with. You see, sometimes I like to take pictures of things besides food. People, mostly. And the more I use my camera, the more I find myself wandering away from the bowl or the pot or the plate and onto objects that are non-edible. I don't know where it will go or what it will become, but it will be a place for photographs and thoughts and art and trying new things. That's a good start.

Adapted from Michael Chiarello, Food Network.

lemon cornmeal cake & crushed blueberry sauce.

2011-06-13T10:19:00.000-04:00

I made another caramel apple pie last week at my husband's request. Well, I don't know if coming to a dead halt into middle of the cereal aisle and shouting, "APPLE PIE" counts as a request, but it seems his brain zeroes in on one thing and it completely immobilizes him until he gets it. So I made the pie and the apples were so juicy that it overflowed onto the bottom of the oven because yours truly forgot to put a cookie sheet underneath of it.

Then it started to smell like something was burning. Then the smoke detector went off. Then I pulled the pie out while Justin used a metal spatula to scrape the burning apple juice off the bottom of the oven. Then I vowed to never make apple pie again because I didn't even like it all that much anyway and it was definitely not worth the fuss.

But I told you that story to tell you this story: apparently we missed some of the juice on the bottom of the oven, because when I baked this cake a few days later, it came out with the faintest whisper of smokey flavor to it, the kind of taste that can only happen when your oven fills with the vapor of burning caramel sauce, unseen to the eye, but absorbed by every single crumb of your cake.

At first, it was only my sister and me who tasted it, and that's saying a lot for her since her diet mostly consists of pizza rolls and Sour Patch kids, but everyone else at the table denied any sort of odd flavor. But the next day, the smokiness had completely saturated the cake, every last morsel, and my Dad called from work to report his leftover slice now tasted like "smokey joe." I don't even know what that means, but it was enough to chuck the last bit of cake into the garbage.

Now, I don't want my silly mistake to deter you from baking this cake. Really, it is worth your time. You start with a humble looking round cake, tart with lemon but with a bit of grit from the cornmeal. Then you slather it, still hot, with a thick and gooey lemon glaze. While that cools and crisps into a shattery lemon crust, you make a quick and dirty crushed blueberry sauce with a few spoonfuls of brown sugar to help the ~~smokiness~~ cake go down that much easier. Then, the next day, you can pour that extra sauce all over a stack of buttermilk pancakes. And then again with a scoop of vanilla ice cream after dinner.

Really, the sauce alone is enough to forget all about that pie and the woe it caused. But I'd like to encourage you to try the cake, too, as it had unlimited amounts of potential were it not for my husbands insistence we have pie. So I guess what I'm saying is...this is all his fault.

Adapted from Bon Appetit.

the best day.

2011-06-08T12:19:00.001-04:00

I spent the majority of my day yesterday thinking about dinner. This is not an exception to the norm by any means, but I usually don't have a clear picture of what dinner looks like until I'm standing in front of the pantry. But yesterday, it was different. I knew what I'd be having, I even pre-planned it the night before when I set out a pot of Great Northern beans to soak for the white beans and cabbage I was going to eat. (Don't worry, it will still happen and it will still be delicious, although I suspect you don't feel you have missed anything with a name like "white beans and cabbage," but you'll see what I mean.)

So I hurried home to what would've been a My Husband Isn't Home So I'm Not Making Meat night, only to find said husband manning the grill, complete with button-down shirt and tie, grilling steaks, shrimp kabobs, romaine lettuce (yes!), sweet potatoes and for the love of everything good - he even made homemade Ranch dressing. The trickery of it all! The way he called off work! The way we hmm'd and haw'd over that meal! The way I still sit here, smiling smugly to myself, as to how I could ever be so lucky. And he took me to see the new X-Men. Yes, that was my choice.

That, of course, got me thinking about our wedding. The wedding that started this ball rolling. The wedding that had to happen if that grilled dinner was to ever exist. God knew what he was doing. And then I thought how I never really shared the day with you, and really, that just wasn't cool. Sure, there was a slight teaser photo, but that was nothing. I feel I skipped over it, breezed on by, moved right past pre-wedding weight to post-wedding weight, the ol' I'm Married So I'm Letting Myself Go. I've seen it 100 times.

The boys looked incredibly sharp.

I have no idea who this is. It could be the headless horseman for all I know. Or maybe the headless groomsman. Sorry, that was lame.

I was taped, stitched, sewn, and packed into that dress. More or less. It was all good until our server put a plate overflowing with prime rib, crab cake, bacon-wrapped asparagus and macaroni and cheese in front of me. Then I thought I might explode.

They are bad. Very, very bad. And this right before they came to the church!

And if I may digress for just a moment here on the matter of finding a church for your wedding - it was a miserable task. You see, the church I attend meets in a school, so all we really needed was someone willing to rent us their building for a few hours. Sweet Maria, never in my wildest dreams did I think we would've been put through the ringer that way. In my mind, I thought, "Shoot! We're Christians! Surely a brother or sister would understand our situation and sympathize." But no. They did not. We were given a flat-out "no" from more than half of the churches we called, others wanted an obscene amount of money (I'm sorry, but it does not cost $800 to run a building for 2 hours), and others questioned us on our religion, date of baptism, testimony, last Bible verse we memorized, insisted we use their preacher, their pre-marital counseling, attend their services for X amount of time prior to the wedding, etc.

It was nuts, I tell you, nuts. And not nice. And frustrating. Someone finally took pity on us. Gold star in Heaven for them.

But oh, swoooon. He looked so very handsome. And not nervous.

But not my Dad. He was...well, you know.

So there we are, gettin' ready to say some vows to each other. It felt sort of surreal and strange and like we were in a movie. I tried to remind myself that it was real, even though I so badly wanted to do this.

And then we thanked God for everything He had done (so far!).

And I was so glad to be outside in the breeze. I was so afraid it would be freezing, that our guests would be chattering and our day would be icy-miserable. But no, it was in the 60s and breezy and sunny and glorious. And if memory serves me right, I'm fairly certain it was the only weekend in March that wasn't terrible.

And we had some friends.

Lots of people we love.

And we had each other. Forever, now.

And look! Already! Our first effort in teamwork!

And oh, how nice that breeze felt. That dress was awfully warm, possibly due to the fact that I didn't bother shaving the top half of my legs, not even for my wedding. I could've spun there all day long, just me and that dreamy police officer.

And then we went and partied for hours and hours. And Justin was inappropriate and made me blush.

And we had hoards of cookies. It's a Pittsburgh thing. I married a Pittsburgh boy. But I will forever loathe their sports teams. Just so you know.

My younger brother brought those hipster glasses to the reception, and I think by midnight, every single guest had worn them. It was actually sort of gross.

I just love her.

And him, too.

shaved asparagus pizza.

2011-06-07T10:23:00.000-04:00

When I was a young-gun, getting the mail was one of my favorite things. My mother would give me her key ring, point to the tiny brass one and send me out to the community mailbox to bring back all our letters and coupons. I don't know why it was such an exciting chore for me, or why I never lost that cheery feeling that there might be something in the mailbox for me (even when my birthday was months away).

Silly as it sounds, and silly as I feel, I still get a twinge excited when I arrive home before Justin and I know there is a modest pile of mail waiting for me at the back of the box. And I literally mean at the very back, the absolute depths of our mailbox where the cobwebs are. I think our mail-lady must use a slingshot to get it all the way back there, and I always end up stretched out the car window, awkwardly reaching for the stack while the door digs into my ribs. Why don't I just get out and walk to the box, you say? Well, because we have a gravel driveway and I always arrive home in high-heels. That's why.

So while I pretend not to see the bills and junk mail addressed to the previous owners that we are still getting, I often contemplate hiding bits of mail from my husband - namely, Handyman magazine. If you're not familiar, this particular publication is chock-full of Do-It-Yourself ideas for the average Joe - cabinet installation, deck staining, etc. I usually pass it off to him without a second thought while I move on to the latest issue of Bon Appetit, but since Bon Appetit is now run by a globe-trotting playboy who sucked out all quality writing and replaced it with GQ-esque photos of 1960's Italy, I'm left to flip through Handyman.

The longer I am married, the more I learn about my husband. Not only is he an excellent marksman, he's incredibly savvy about home repair. Busted valves! Leaky basements! Faulty smoke detectors! The DVR deleted all my re-runs of The Office! He's got it under control.

Now, most women might count this as a blessing, and really, I do. But you see, he is also the type of person who gets an idea and then it takes over his mind and it's all he thinks and dreams about until its done. I blame Handyman magazine for this. When he sits at our breakfast bar flipping through the glossy pages, I can see his pupils enlarging, his fingers tapping the counter top, the ol' wheels churning. The latest issue included an article and how-to for constructing your own brick pizza oven. In the backyard. Like, a huge one.

Long story and much battle later, I sweet-talked my way from "We need this, trust me!" to "How about I show you how good a pizza can be in the regular oven and you build a fire ring for s'mores instead?" Marriage is all about compromise, kids.

So about this pizza - it will most likely put all other pizzas to shame. I must warn you though, you will need a bit of time as far as the dough goes, so this pizza shouldn't be grouped into the It's Friday Night I'm Starving Let's Get Pizza category. But with a bit of planning, you, too, can have a crisped crust (with unsurpassed flavor thanks to the addition of wine and honey), bubbly cheese pizza with a pile of freshly shaved asparagus tangled across the top. With a slip of red pepper for a bit of heat and the spritz of fresh lemon juice and raw scallion, making dinner has officially replaced getting the mail as the best part of my day.

Adapted from Smitten Kitchen.

baked oatmeal with strawberries.

2011-06-02T10:56:00.001-04:00

A few winters ago, my parents, younger brother, and I packed a bag for a weekend camping trip to Lancaster, Pennsylvania. We were going to see a show, but when you're in Lancaster, you really ought to plan to stay for a few days. Once you get there, you'll quickly realize you need much more than an afternoon to soak up the handmade quilts, chicken corn soup, and horse-drawn carts of whoopie pies.

I can't remember if we left early in the morning and arrived just in time for breakfast, or if we left the night before and ventured out into the icy chill to fill our bellies, but I do remember the baked oatmeal. Every Friday morning, there is an enormous farmer's market called The Green Dragon that calls itself a "unique carnival experience you have to see to believe!" While you won't find a Ferris wheel (but you might have luck finding a funnel cake stand), the market is a bustling hub in the center of endless fields. Naturally, we planned our trip around the odd hours of the market - it shouldn't be missed.

When we arrived in the early hours, the wind was so cold, so sharp, the kind of wind that cuts through your jeans and makes it impossible to bend your knees. I wore a purple thermal shirt under a checkered vest [complete with fuzzy faux-fur hood] and my mother didn't take her winter coat off all day. We tucked our chins into our collars and moved as quickly as our stiff jeans would allow, our boots crunching against the graveled parking lot with our eyes set on the prize: breakfast.

As soon as you walk through the muddy door, the one on the far side near the furniture and craft shops, you're met with the noise. It's difficult to explain the way it is, loud, yet muted, as if you hear chatter and cash registers and silverware clanking against plates but you can't seem to find where exactly each sound is coming from. As difficult as it was to bypass the pearly rhubarb on the produce stand and to ignore the art galleries, we shuffled toward the back of the market, the hodge-podge diner popped up on the right side across from the bakery, the one with the smoky warm haze of cooked sausage floating over top the booths.

Still frozen to the bone, we ended up sitting at the bar, if you want to call it that. It was so tiny, with stools so short that our knees banged off of the counter wall. It reminded me of something from a fairytale and I half expected a few of the Seven Dwarfs to come sidle up beside me. The paper menus were stained with coffee and grease but the counter was shining bright white under the fluorescent glow overhead. A waitress, who must've been about seventy or so - bless her heart, poured us hot cups of coffee and put her hand on her aproned hip when my father asked for ever more creamer each time she stopped by.

I think he ordered a sausage sandwich of some kind, but I had the baked oatmeal, and it was perfect. It came in a small plastic green bowl, a ragged square of it topped with golden raisins and a splash of milk, with a crisp top and a creamy interior, and it reminded me of creme brulee, only I was thwacking my spoon through a layer of oats instead of sugar. After a few spoonfuls of it, and I didn't even realize I was still shivering, my shoulders relaxed and I was filled with that sleepy-full feeling, not unlike the milk-coma that babies slip into after a warm bottle.

A few months after we returned home, I thought about that oatmeal again, and I tried to recreate it. Now, I didn't go flying blind into the kitchen all willy-nilly, I did use a recipe, but it was an unimpressive one. The oatmeal wasn't creamy in the least, and I'm not looking for porridge here, but there ought to be a noticeable difference between the crispy lid and custardy interior. I was left to a huge pan of it as no one else was remotely interested in something as bland sounding as oatmeal, and I didn't enjoy it all that much, so I tossed it and forgot about it for a good while, opting for homemade granola and yogurt instead.

Enter: Super Natural Every Day. The book that lives on my nightstand with an occasional trip to the kitchen. The book all the buzz is about. The book that finally put baked oatmeal back in my belly and forever in my heart. It's everything baked oatmeal should be - crackly topped with a milky interior, studded with juicy berries and crunchy almonds [or walnuts, I had almonds on hand, but you can use whatever you like], and piled on top of a layer of ripe bananas, it's a hearty, not-too-sweet breakfast to get you going on a weekend morning.

Now, I liked it fine and well, but I did sprinkle a fair amount of extra sugar on the top as it isn't very sweet, so I've increased the sugar from 1/3 cup to 1/2 cup in the recipe below. You can certainly scale it back down without adverse affect if you don't like your oatmeal quite as sweet. Also, my love for bananas is nothing if not loud and proud, but when I went for leftovers the next morning, they were too soft and mushy for my taste. Next time, I'll try a layer of thinly sliced apples (like this). If you try this, too, please report back.

Adapted from Super Natural Every Day, by Heidi Swanson.

fried bread & heirloom tomato salad.

2011-05-31T12:52:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, I like to eat alone. It's nothing against all-out dinner parties or quiet pasta nights with my husband, but I find real pleasure in cooking for one, especially when that one is me.

When I was single and living in the Big City, eating alone was my habit. I didn't mind it, and it wasn't all the time. A night or two each week my then-boyfriend would come by and we'd go out or stay in, sometimes just for pizza and other times for a crabcake at Clyde's. Back then, eating alone was something I didn't think much of, and therein lies the problem.

I suppose much of it had to do with money, or lack thereof. Solitary dining in my tiny apartment usually consisted of a bowl of cereal, perhaps some toast, leftover pasta or a few boiled eggs. It wasn't that I wasn't hungry [I am always hungry], but cooking for one seemed like a waste of time. Why bother pulling out the pots and pans for just me? Why fill the sink with dishes when there aren't any guests to hmmm and haw over their plates?

But to eat alone is one of the best things we can do for ourselves. Now, I don't do it out in public quite often, mostly because I don't feel truly alone with a small crowd of people glancing my way, wondering if I feel very pathetic sitting there by my lonesome. What I mean is to cook at home, to take the time to prepare a meal for yourself, one that will likely have no leftovers and no complaints. Now, I don't mean you should prepare a full course meal each night you find yourself staring into the cupboard without a friend, but do put some thought into it. It's not unlike treating yourself to a new pair of jeans, or an iced coffee after a long meeting mid-day - it's a little bit of you time.

Now that I'm married, the opportunity for dining alone doesn't come quite as often as it used to. This past week, I was feeling particularly greedy and especially grateful that my husband wasn't home because I had a wicked craving for, and this is a little embarrassing, the bruschetta from Julie & Julia. I'd never had it before, and I think I am in the minority when it comes to being grossed out by Chris Messina shoving great gulps of it into his mouth [how can anyone find that sort of gluttony endearing?], but I've been thinking about it a lot. Mostly about the close-up angle of fat slices of bread crisping in a hot frying pan, the rainbow of juicy tomatoes tumbling off each piece and onto the plate. That's what I've been thinking about.

So on Wednesday evening, sans husband [and sans complaints about the missing meat], I made my version of that bruschetta. Let me stop there - I don't want to lead you down the wrong path by letting you believe this is a small wedge of toasted bread with a delicate tomato topping. It is anything but. This is a much more rustic, hearty version of traditional bruschetta, so I've changed the title accordingly: fried bread with a tomato salad. Really, that's all it is.

You drizzle a good glug of olive oil into a hot pan, slice up a few farmhouse-thick pieces of seeded bread and fry them until they turn a handsome shade of golden brown. While the bread is frying, you cut up a few juicy heirloom tomatoes, toss them a bit of oil and sea salt, and maybe some basil if you're feeling fancy on a lonely night. When the bread is good and crisp, you rub a bit of garlic all over the top, taking care not to punch your finger right through the toasty of it all, then heap piles of tomato salad on top the bread, juices and all.

Now, I'm not a savage, and I don't wish to eat like one, so I used a knife and fork. You could go without it, and if you do, I certainly hope you are eating alone as there will undoubtedly be streams of tomato juice dribbling down your chin. The next time I'm alone, staring into the pantry, I think I'll make this. And perhaps I'll do the same for every other lonely night this summer.

vanilla roasted pears.

2011-05-24T10:21:00.000-04:00

Yesterday morning, Justin and I woke up before the sun, stumbled to our car in the hazy morning fog, and made the long haul across my home state to meet our new little nephew, Carson. We stopped to pick up a box of diapers, but not just any diapers - the kind that look like little blue jeans and made me squeal with delight at the thought of a chubby baby butt being stuffed inside a pair.

I love brand spankin' new babies. I love Carson, especially. I love how he goes a little cross-eyed when he wakes up. I love how soft his armpits are. I love how he does the Jersey Shore fist pump in his sleep [for the record, I have never seen an episode of that show - but I'm aware of the fist pump]. I love how he heats up like a tiny human stove when you hold him and you're sweating after five minutes but you endure it because you don't want to put him down.

So the night before we were going to visit, Justin and I thought it might be nice to bring a little sustenance along, mostly in the form of chocolate chip cookies, cranberry bread, and honey crunch granola. We decided this was a good idea at midnight, just four hours before we set our alarm clocks. Clearly, this idea was not our best.

In other completely unrelated news, I made these pears a few weeks ago. We ate them with vanilla ice cream over the vintage edition of Life. It was my favorite game as a kid, one of the few board games we had at our lakehouse, and my mother always said we couldn't take it home with us because it was a "lakehouse game." We got the old school version as a wedding gift, and it didn't have the same charm it did when I was little. I think my grown-up understanding of life and what it really means to pay bills put a damper on things. Plus, when we first started, I told Justin that however many kids we ended up with by the end of the game would be how many we'd have in real life.

There were seven. Seven. I'm never playing Life again.

But these pears helped soften the blow. They're fragrant and soft, scented with lemon and vanilla bean and just enough sugar to give you an excuse to add a scoop of ice cream. And they are, I think, perfect for summer. You can eat them cold, straight out of the fridge, or for breakfast alongside a bowl of oatmeal. But be mindful not to overbake them - the tip of a knife should slip right through the fruit when they're ready without causing it to fall apart. Mine were a bit too soft and with each bite I'd wished they'd give my teeth a bit more resistance. But this doesn't have to be you.

Adapted from Smitten Kitchen, who adapted it from The Atlantic.

honey oat bread.

2011-05-20T09:54:00.001-04:00

I originally wrote this post for Honest Cooking, but then I was struck with panic that some of you who do not frequent that particular neighborhood might've missed it, and that would be a shame. Nobody should miss out on chewy, oatsy, jam-smeared bread. Especially not when it just came out of the oven. So get on it.

I have a long, torrid relationship with yeast. I don’t mean that in a sexy way, as if we were star-crossed lovers, destined to forever pass each other by the most improbable of circumstances. I mean that yeast has been the culprit behind most of my major kitchen failures – that challah bread that never rose more than a centimeter despite my coddling and pleading; the brioche au chocolat that seemed to be going well until I realized I made a calculation error and ended up with mostly brioche and minimal chocolat; or the Portuguese sweet bread that looked deceptively delicious but wasn’t worth the effort in the end – the common perpetrator is forever yeast.

Now, I’m no quitter, so I’ve continuously tried my hand at bread baking time and time again, yet the yeast conquers me every time. I’ve tried different brands, new recipes, and varying techniques. I checked out every self-help book in the I Hate Yeast But It Doesn’t Have to Be That Way section of my local library. My efforts have consistently been in vain.

One of the driving factors behind the madness is the insistence of most recipes that you “feel” your way about the dough. Now, I am all for feeling our feelings, but it’s quite impossible to know how something ought to look or feel when you’ve never had success with it, especially when it comes to quantities that are often less than helpful, like an ingredient list that reads “4-6 cups of flour.” There is just entirely too much room for error with a margin like that.

Lately, I’ve become more and more discouraged when it comes to yeast baking. I used to be all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed about it, making notes as I went and trying to figure out what went wrong so I could tweak it for next time. But after multiple flops, I was waving my little white flag of surrender from behind the kitchen island, covered in flour and despair. But this past weekend, I’m not sure what came over me, but I marched into the kitchen with a crazy look in my eye and pulled out my King Arthur Flour Cookbook. I don’t use it very much, and after flipping through it, I’m not sure why because it’s loaded with smart tips and quality recipes, and I turned to the recipe for Honey Oat Bread. My palms were already sweating at the prospect of it; just thinking about twisting the top off the jar of yeast makes my nervous system kick in.

Holding my breath the entire time, I kneaded and mixed and floured and rolled until I had two perfect little almond colored loaves resting on my back porch for their second rise. Feeling incredibly proud already, I re-read the directions for baking and was instantly stumped. It said to put the loaves in a cold oven and heat it to 400 degrees F for 15 minutes. Did that mean 15 minutes after it hits 400 degrees or 15 minutes from the time I put it in the cold oven? Fortunately, the lovely people at King Arthur Flour have a baking hotline for dilemmas like this and they set me on the straight and narrow.

Now I am careful to never proclaim victory over yeast until after I’ve tasted it, after all, I’ve had countless yeasted treats look and feel just perfect, only to pop them in my mouth and immediately want to spit it back out. So I smeared a bit of soft butter and a nudge of raspberry jam onto a slice of the bread after it had cooled a bit, closed my eyes and took a bite. It was dense at first, and I mean that in a very good way, a bit chewy with a tightly woven crumb and little nubbly bits of oats freckled throughout the loaf. The crust isn’t terribly thick, but it’s just craggy enough to require an extra chew. I took another bite, and then cut myself another slice, then another until I realized I’d eaten nearly half the loaf and declared victory.

Adapted from The King Arthur Flour Cookbook.

apron winner!

2011-05-19T09:59:00.000-04:00

Congrats to Trish K. for winning the Jessie Steele apron giveaway! Since the contest was hosted through the If You Give a Girl a Cookie Facebook page, I'll contact you via private message to get the details.

The apron winner was chosen at random using random.org.

Hope you love it - happy baking!

salted caramel apple pie.

2011-05-18T16:07:00.000-04:00

There were other things I wanted to tell you about today, but I have to get this pie out of my brain so I can move on with my life.

At the risk of sounding incredibly un-American, I'm not a huge fan of apple pie. Sure, it's got it's high points: everyone likes it, it imparts feelings of patriotism when we see it nestled next to a bowl of potato salad on a fourth of July picnic spread, and apples + cinnamon will always equal true love, but I find it to be a bit overplayed. And I feel like I can't get away from it - and not just the pie. You've got apple crumbles, apple crisp, apple turnovers, apple tarts, apple dumplings - all of which are still apple pie as far as I'm concerned, just with a different shape. Call me cynical, but I just don't believe the hype.

This past weekend, I had a rough spell in the kitchen. I blame it all on Justin - he started the ugly ball rolling when he asked me to make this particular pie, this salted caramel apple pie that we saw on the Cooking Channel a few months ago and he hasn't stopped talking about since. I was already in the middle of making pot roast for dinner, plus a second stew that contained last year's bounty (rabbits) that my carnivorous huntsman asked me to make and freeze. All was going well until I took the bunny brew out of the oven and saw bits of enamel flecked throughout and I dug down deep to the bottom to find the coating on my beloved cast iron pot had splintered and chipped. It was a sad day.

But there wasn't much time to mourn - there was a pie to be made. I didn't make it past the first apple before my peeler slipped off the apple and took half my thumbnail with it. But oh, that was nothing, really. Nothing compared to the slice my other thumb endured as I insisted on using my bare hand to wedge that last tiny piece of apple across the blade. Dear friends, do not do as I do.

About that time, my darling husband walked through the door, covered in dirt after demanding obedience from our disrespectful flower beds, and gave me a concerned speech about my kitchen safety habits while he bandaged up my bum thumb. But my apple pie troubles were still to come - oh yes. This recipe is a little different than my former apple pie experience - you layer thinly sliced apples between generous smears of warm, salted caramel sauce and package it all up in a flaky, all-butter crust topped with crunchy sugar and flakes of sea salt. And that sounds fine, but I refuse to believe the recipe was without error. In its instructions, it adds the butter to the melting sugar & water mixture before the sugar has a chance to caramelize (adding the butter only after the granules have dissolved but not cooked). It says to allow it to boil until it caramelizes - something it never, ever does. Do you know what happens when you boil butter and sugar, praying for it to darken? It crystallizes. It solidifies. It turns into one solid lump.

After two failed attempts and some words I have already asked forgiveness for, I chucked the caramel recipe and made my own - sans butter. With so much butter in the crust, this pie was hardly lacking in buttery flavor, quite the opposite. It was rich, plump with slices of juicy apples, with an oozy caramel sauce that is equal parts sweet and salty. I had some reservations about using uncooked apples in the pie, that method usually produces a soupy mess for me, but it wasn't any trouble at all this time.

Justin pronounced it the "best pie he's ever had," and I believe our dinner guests that night agreed, and after all the trouble this pie caused me, I didn't want to like it, but I did. I liked it very much. I've tweaked this recipe quite a bit - everything from the caramel sauce to the spices to the number of apples. The recipe also called for Angostura bitters as their secret ingredient, but after years working in a hotel restaurant next to the bar, the very sight of that white-papered bottle makes me cringe, so I skipped it. It wasn't missed.

A few notes before you get started:

Spend the few extra minutes to make your crust from scratch - it will be worth it. I used my absolute favorite all-butter pie crust.

Any variety of apples will work. I used a combination of Granny Smith, Cortland, and Gala apples.

If you go with the cookie-cutter route for the top crust, be sure you over lap the shapes just a bit. I didn't do this and when the pie baked, the shapes sagged down a little bit. It was perfectly delicious, but if you really want the most crust for your buck, nudge them in pretty close together with some apple filling still showing through.

The apple slices don't have to be layered in any particular pattern - just squeeze and nudge them in there.

Adapted, quite a bit, from 4 & 20 Blackbirds.

apron giveaway!

2011-05-16T11:10:00.000-04:00

See this apron?

I love this apron. I mean, I really, really love it.

I love the soft, feminine colors. I love the vintage style - the big buttons, the side pocket, the little button-hook for your dish towel. The stripes on the top with the lovely flowers on the bottom? I dig it.

Those ladies at Jessie Steele - they know what they're doing. I spent barely thirty seconds on their website before my mind completely blanked out at the sight of so many vintage, sassy, womanly aprons and all I could think was: I WANT.

Thankfully for me, those same ladies are incredibly generous, and they gave me not one, but two aprons. And you know what that means? One for me and one for you! Now I feel I've led you on a bit and by now you are probably thinking you are getting the gorgeous lime and rose colored beauty you see here, but you're not. That one is mine. What you will be getting is the exact same one in blue! Hooray!

To enter the giveaway, simply "Like" the Give a Girl a Cookie Facebook page. That's it - easy as pie! If you're already a Facebook fan, you're already entered, baby! I'll assign each Facebook fan a number and then choose one number at random on Thursday, May 19. No entries after midnight (EST) on May 18, please.

Many thanks to Jessie Steele for sponsoring this perfect giveaway!

banana caramel walnut cake.

2011-05-16T10:31:00.004-04:00

This cake has been a long time coming. And it's not that I didn't try, because I think we all know my passion for banana baked goods is not lacking.

But you see, I could never find exactly what I was looking for. It's sort of the way you date a man for a few months only to find out he really isn't your type after all but it was okay while it lasted and you might keep in touch with him for a few months post-breakup because you're bored and haven't found anything better yet. But I'm married now, so that's irrelevant. But you get what I'm saying?

Banana bread is my faithful standby, the one baked good that nearly everyone loves (me especially) and can be pulled together without a trip to the grocery store. But what my heart truly longed for wasn't just banana bread, but a banana cake. And not just any cake - a cake with caramel, and maybe some coconut, and perhaps a handful of crunchy, toasted walnuts for good measure. I am a simple woman with simple desires.

I didn't set the bar too high, I started my search with banana + caramel as my only two requirements. Most recipes included a caramel frosting, but that was all wrong. I wanted a real burnt sugar, bubbling cream caramel sauce to sop up off the plate. So I expanded my search to include walnuts, and the one recipe that continuously made an appearance was this one, and I had no interest in a cake whose top complaint is a caramel sauce that turns rock solid and must be sliced with a knife and fork before eating only to induce a sugar coma immediately following. No cake should require a knife. That's just plain silly.

After much searching, trial, error, weeping, and gnashing of teeth, I gave up completely. I stuck by my trusty banana bread recipes and thought that perhaps this would be as good as it gets. I stuck out my bottom lip, pouted to anyone who would listen about my banana woes, and stuffed banana muffins into my cheeks while the tears streamed down. But as my mother always says, when you least expect it - expect it.

So I got an e-mail last week from my sweet mother with a subject line that read, "Lookey lookey what I found for you, little Cookey." I love her. She's just nuts. But in that e-mail was a tiny ingredient list that sounded an awful lot like the banana cake of my dreams. A banana cake with caramel sauce, coconut, and walnuts. My stomach jumped up a bit with a glimmer of hope - this may just be it. A colleague of hers caught word of my quest to conquer the world of banana caramel cake and offered up a humble recipe that had a definite old-school approach. For the caramel recipe, no measurement of cream was given - it simply said, "Add cream to a good consistency." There was no pan size suggested and the bake time was way off, but I had hope. With a few tweaking and twisting, this recipe is everything I'd imagined and more.

The cake is fluffy and moist, not too sweet (you'll be grateful once the topping hits), a bit like a banana scented pillow. That's a place I want to be. So while your banana cake is making your kitchen smell dizzyingly good, you make a quick and painless caramel sauce, throw in a handful of toasted walnuts and shredded coconut, dump it all over the top of the hot cake and praise the good Lord you finally found the recipe you'd pined for.

Now, a word of warning. This is the sort of thing you may have to excuse yourself from the table to enjoy alone. It's likely to induce oooh's and mmm's that would make your guests uncomfortable. Unless they are doing the same thing, which they probably are.