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I’ve been making this bruschetta—a classic tomato-basil version—for a very long time. I’d love to say that it was my first “signature dish,” but my mom might call me out. Because I’m sure she remembers the Cool Whip-Raspberry “Surprise” that I used to whip up for family BBQs, church potlucks (if you thought my story about Minnesota “bars” was amusing, you should just see the line-up at one of these potlucks) and holidays. While that “surprise” (read: horror) is probably best forgotten, the same cannot be said for the bruschetta.

Holidays at my house are almost entirely focused around food. Sure, we might throw in some gift-opening on Christmas, perhaps a quick trip to church on Easter, and definitely more than one heated game of dominoes, but besides all that, it’s about the food. And not just the eating, the cooking too.

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Whoops. Did I mention last Friday that I was making donuts? And did I then let nearly an entire week elapse before writing about them here? It seems that way, doesn’t it? Well, I am most apologetic. But, here’s the bright side: today is Thursday, which means you can go out and buy any necessary ingredients (this step might not be necessary, if you have decently-stocked baking pantry) tonight or tomorrow. And then you can make and shape the dough on Saturday afternoon and store them overnight in the fridge. Then, simply wake up on Sunday morning, give the donuts a last quick rise, slide them in the oven, brush them with melted butter and sprinkle them with cinnamon and sugar. And then—oh, then–experience homemade donut nirvana. See, I’m actually bringing you these donuts just in time.

As I said last Friday, I made these donuts for Kevin, who is an avid donut connoisseur, on his birthday. It was actually the second of Kevin’s birthday mornings that have involved piping hot donuts, made by me. You see, I made him birthday donuts a couple years back, shortly after we moved in together. Truth be told, I always chalked up that first pre-dawn-deep-frying-donut-excursion to some sort of co-habitation honeymoon haze—one that severely impaired my judgment. When I went to work that day smelling as though I had bathed in cooking oil, I came to my senses and put a mental end to the donuts-for-birthday-breakfast traditional right quick.

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Whew. I am finally getting this recipe for crispy black bean cakes to you! The first two times I made it (that’s your first clue it’s good; there are not very many repeat performances in my kitchen), we ate all the black bean cakes before I could take any photos. Sure, it’s a little embarrassing, but I hope the confession will lead you to forgive me for the delay.

This was certainly the first time that a Salad Monday offering has pulled such a disappearing act. So, after the first two false starts, I wised up and doubled the recipe. I suppose that when I turned Salad Monday into Practically-Nachos-Parading-Around-as-a-Salad Monday, I should have expected this result.

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I went to my first baby shower ever on Sunday. In the past half-decade, I have become an accomplished (and well-traveled) bridal shower-goer (and guest of honor, for that matter, but those days are over). I’ve been to showers of all themes (entertainment, lingerie, linen, etc.) and sizes. And, by now, I know the drill. But a baby shower? Well, for that festivity, I am apparently way out of my league. Let’s just say that Kevin and I spent 30 bewildered minutes in a baby boutique last Saturday, staggering between displays of brightly-colored toys and shelves of plush blankets, and bobbing and weaving among an astonishing array of strollers. All to the tune of some sort of Baby Mozart-type overhead music and the squeals of glee from the approximately 700 kids in the store.

Once we finally managed to make a selection, we grabbed our gift (bedecked, appropriately, in It’s-a-Boy-colors) and hightailed it to our next baby shower-related destination: Crate & Barrel, where I was going to pick up a slew of mini-bundt cake pans to make a treat for the shower. I swear, I’ve never been so relieved to see that place. There, I know exactly what I’m doing. I proceeded directly to the baking nook, training my eye on the exact shelf where I know the mini baking molds reside. But my this-is-my-house attitude evaporated when I realized that the absolutely perfect molds that I saw on crateandbarrel.com were out of stock in the store. It was just that kind of day (raining cats and dogs too, I might add).

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At a restaurant, I love to peruse the menu and think about what the people at the table with me will order. It’s too bad that this isn’t a game in Vegas, because—frankly—I’m prett-y, prett-y good at it. When it comes to predicting Kevin’s order, I’m usually spot-on. And, while I’d love to claim prescience, it’s not exactly rocket science: he’s a man who knows what he likes. If there’s anything on the menu involving deep-frying, a delicious steak or molten-chocolate-ness, you can safely bet Kevin will find it, order it and love it. (At this point, I should mention that Kevin is, inexplicably, quite thin and in very good health. We don’t recommend, however, that you try this at home.)

So, when Kevin lodged a very specific request for his birthday cake—white cake with chocolate frosting—I knew better than to deviate. But, predictably, I had to gussy it up just a little bit, which led me to a vanilla bean cake with chocolate ganache frosting. I ran it by the boss, of course, and he graciously granted his consent.

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I knew it was going to be like this. When I fall for something, I fall hard. Take, for instance, my love affair with Fage yogurt, my obsession with a bake shop down the street, my new baseball crush on Fukudome. Oh, sure, and Kevin too. But the most recent addition to this things-that-make-me-weak-kneed list is rhubarb. I told you about me and rhubarb a couple weeks ago, after I used it in a quick bread. And as you might have guessed from my semi-swoon back then, it wouldn’t be long until rhubarb showed up on this blog again.

Well, it’s back. And it’s still wooing me with its sassy red hue and juicy tartness. I caught a glimpse of this crisp—which is (duh) a Rhubarb Crisp—on Martha Stewart’s web site a few weeks back. With just one peek at the magenta juices creeping up at the edges of the crisp’s topping, I knew I had to make it. I told you, I’ve got it bad for rhubarb.

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My husband joins me today in becoming an age that is one year closer to 30, so I have to start by saying: Happy Birthday, Kev! And if you are wondering what kind of woman posts about vegetables on her husband’s birthday, you should rest assured. You see, I’m in the midst of making donuts (birthday breakfast) as I type this. And, later today, while the Birthday Boy is at work (I don’t have class on Fridays), I’ll be baking his birthday cake and wrapping his gift. And, then, we’ve got a big weekend of birthday festivities lined up. So there.

Okay, so maybe I’m the one who’s feeling a little guilty posting about veggies on Kevin’s birthday. But I don’t know why—because this warm zucchini salad, which we ate alongside our burritos last Saturday, is really pretty terrific. I’m constantly on the lookout for accompaniments for fajitas, enchiladas and the like. Don’t get me wrong: I love a heap of black beans or (even better) a pile of tortilla chips and salsa, but both of those things always feel a little … redundant. Not to mention heavy.

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In college and for a couple years afterwards, burritos were a pretty substantial part of my diet. The burritos were as big as my head and they were wrapped in shiny foil: yes, I’m talking about those burritos. In college, my main excuse for my burrito habit was that the purveyor awarded you with a free soda to accompany your burrito when you brandished your student ID. My days of soda drinking are pretty much over (thankfully) and my Wildcard long since expired (sniff) and I haven’t ordered a condiment-laden, 16-inch-tortillaed burrito in at least a year.

But every now and again, the burrito urge strikes. Apparently, old habits die hard. So, I’ve attempted to recreate a healthier, more reasonably-sized burrito at home on several occasions. In contrast to my fairly good luck with making fajitas and tacos at home, my burritos had always fallen pretty flat. And I could never put my finger on the specific downfall.

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We’ve had a couple cold, grey, blustery days. Essentially, it’s been spring in Chicago. So what can I do? I could sit here and lament the fact that I had to pull out my full-length, wind-battered down jacket again this morning. I could explain just how odd it is to watch the Cubs play when I am huddled under a snuggly throw, wondering how Kevin would react if I asked him to light up the fireplace. I could describe how close I come to weeping when I see the first buds of spring, shivering sadly in the stiff breeze.

Sure, I could do all of that. But nope, not this time. Instead, I’m going to focus on the positive. It’s going to be a glass-half-full spring, if I have any say in it. So, instead of complaining about the temperatures (seriously, are we still dipping into the 30s?) or the bleak skies (and I thought seasonal affective disorder ended when the calendar flipped to April), I’m going to choose to remember—no, bask in the remembrance of—the weekend past.

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This blog has hatched a variety of phenomena in my life: cooking weekly family dinners with Kevin and my sister, spending hours sending recipe links to my sister over Google Chat, creating a spreadsheet of recipe links (I mentioned this list the other day and implied that it was bordering on out-of-control; I lied: it’s definitely out-of-control), constantly trying to stanch the overflow from my pantry and spice rack. I could go on, but I’ll stop there. Because it’s the newest phenomenon that I want to tell you about today: I call it Sunday Treats.

We often see Kevin’s parents during the weekends because they usually trade their weekday suburban locale for the city on Saturdays and Sundays. We might meet them for a late-night drink on Saturday night, but more often, we’ll have brunch (in or out) or an early dinner on Sunday. And if either of Kevin’s sisters are visiting, they’ll be there too. This nearly-every-weekend thing has always been fun and it’s undeniably nourishing to see family. But now it’s become functional too!

You see, now I don’t just get to catch up with my in-laws, I also get to foist leftovers upon leftovers upon them! In recent weeks, before heading to brunch or dinner, I have tucked bags or tupperware filled with tiny key lime bars, a selection of assorted bagels, or cubed blondies from one of my test batches in my purse. When the check comes, I pull out the treats and simultaneously clear our pantry, avoid the temptation of a full cookie jar and, um oh yeah, share a good-natured, totally unselfish gift of fresh baked goods.

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