Every January, I end up on a citrus tear.  I’m not much for resolutions, and January is far from my favorite month (I grew up in Minnesota, and I live in Chicago, after all), but I do love the sunny spectrum of citrus that shows up at the grocery store this month.  Weekly, I haul home a heaving bag of ruby red grapefruits.  Each morning, I top segments of their tart flesh with yogurt and granola.  A pair of clementines accompany me to work every day; a crate of the little orange guys rarely outlasts the stretch between our weekly grocery trips.  Less frequently, but still dependably, I get hankerings for key lime pies, the urge to make a citrus-hued curd, and an inexplicable desire to squeeze blood oranges until my hands are stained with their brilliantly-colored juice.

And always, there is a lemon cake.

It might be a towering, layered affair, enrobed in billowy frosting.  Or a lemon-swirled cheesecake.  Or a pound cake speckled with poppy seeds.  Or a blueberry-studded bundt.  Or an olive-oil enhanced round, sliced into fat wedges and dolloped with creme fraiche.  This January, though, I was in the mood for something simpler.  Just a lemon cake, plain and simple.  Nothing folded in, no frosting, no unique pairings.

So I opted for an Ina Garten recipe, one that I made a long time ago and one that my mother-in-law makes frequently.  I checked my site for the recipe and was surprised to see that it wasn’t in the archives.  I figured I’d better fix that, and that’s what I aim to do today.  Because this is a recipe that should be in your repertoire, for when you need the perfectly fragrant, light and moist lemon cake—which is  to say, every January.

Lemon Yogurt Cake
Ina Garten

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup plain yogurt
1 1/3 cups sugar, divided
3 eggs
2 teaspoons grated lemon zest (from about 2 lemons)
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/2 cup grapeseed oil (or other neutral oil)
1/3 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Grease a loaf pan. Line the bottom with parchment paper.  Grease and flour the pan.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt into 1 bowl. In another bowl, whisk together the yogurt, 1 cup sugar, the eggs, lemon zest, and vanilla. Slowly whisk the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients. With a rubber spatula, fold the vegetable oil into the batter, making sure it’s all incorporated. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for about 50 minutes, or until a cake tester placed in the center of the loaf comes out clean.

Meanwhile, cook the 1/3 cup lemon juice and remaining 1/3 cup sugar in a small pan until the sugar dissolves and the mixture is clear. Set aside.

When the cake is done, allow it to cool in the pan for 10 minutes. Carefully place on a baking rack over a sheet pan. While the cake is still warm, pour the lemon-sugar mixture over the cake and allow it to soak in. Cool.

After a busy couple of months, I was just starting to think that I wouldn’t have much time for holiday baking.  But that’s when the urge to make these biscotti hit.  I was in the mood for a not-too-sweet cookie with crunch, and one of my favorite combinations (almond extract and poppy seeds) leapt to mind.  The dough came together in a flash, and I multi-tasked while the biscotti underwent their double-bake.  In no time, I had a tin full of festive, poppy seed-flecked cookies, redolent of almond.

With the biscotti behind me, I’m feeling less sorry for myself and my lack of time for holiday baking.

In fact, the biscotti have helped me resolve to finding little pockets of time for my baking.  A batch of thumbprints here, and a sheet of brittle there.  No rule against a late-night pan of fudge, right?  I might not have time for afternoons spent rolling truffles through multiple hues of cocoa powder (who was that person, and where did she find the time?), and I’ll leave the tedious spritz pressing and painstaking sugar cookie decorating to my mother (whose patience for such baking tasks did not pass on down to me).  But, by god, there will be some holiday baking in my kitchen.

I’ll leave you with some more holiday inspiration here.  I’m looking forward to a little time off around Christmas, and to a schedule that will slow down (fingers crossed) come 2012.  Merry merry to you all.

After a week’s worth of 70- to 80-degree October days, I’ve finally settled on the perfect solution for this unseasonal weather.

It’s this: Pumpkin Ice Cream.

With bourbon, naturally.

There is something deeply odd about wearing flip flips for a stroll through the crunchy leaves that are quickly lining Bucktown’s sidewalks.  Likewise, I’m having a hard time reaching for my sundresses over my sweaters.  And all I want to eat is the produce that peaked a while ago, leaving brussels and gourds in its wake.

But pumpkin ice cream?  Now that is profoundly right.  It tastes of cinnamon and wears an autumn shade of orange, but it’s cool and it’s clean, making it just right for the past few days.

Pumpkin Ice Cream with Bourbon
Adapted from The Craft of Baking

Yield: About 1 quart

5 large egg yolks
1/3 cup granulated sugar, plus 2 tablespoons
1 1/2 cups whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 vanilla bean, split lengthwise, seeds scraped out, bean/seeds reserved
1 teaspoon freshly-grated ginger
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 cinnamon stick
1/2 teaspoon freshly-grated nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1 can (15 oz.) pumpkin puree
1/4 cup bourbon

In a large bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and sugar until the mixture is pale yellow.

In a large saucepan, whisk together the milk, cream, brown sugar, vanilla bean and seeds, ginger, ground cinnamon and cinnamon stick.  Bring the mixture to a full boil, and then, as soon as it begins to rise up the sides of the pan, remove the pan from the heat.

Pour about 1 cup of the hot milk mixture into the egg yolk mixture in a slow and steady stream and whisk to combine.  Return the egg yolk mixture to the remaining milk mixture.  Whisk in the nutmeg and salt.  Cook over low heat, constantly whisking, until the mixture thickens and coats the back of a wooden spoon.

Pour the thickened mixture through a mesh strainer into a bowl, discarding the cinnamon stick and vanilla bean.  Whisk in the pumpkin puree and bourbon.  Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate 6 hours or overnight.

Churn the custard in an ice cream maker, following the manufacturer’s directions.

Transfer the ice cream to an airtight container, and freeze until firm (about 2 hours).

The last few days of cooler weather and earlier sunsets have me nostalgic for the summer that’s all but slipped away.  For long nights on the deck.  For meandering walks through the neighborhood.  For fireflies and hoses and ice cream on a Wednesday evening.  There was all of that this summer, and there was a perfect weekend in the northwoods, too.  One I won’t forget soon.

Kevin and I drove from Chicago to the south shore of Lake Superior, to meet my family for a night of camping.  (Note to self: camp with my parents more often.  Their version of rustic is one that I can definitely get behind.)

Then we went into Minnesota, up along the north shore of Lake Superior—the shore I know like the back of my hand.

We spent two nights at my grandparents’ house.  We tried to pick wild blueberries (and failed—we’d missed the season).  We rode the Alpine Slide.  We drank beer brewed in Ashland, Wisconsin and Duluth, Minnesota.  We saw the sunset over Lake Superior, before that same sun glittered across the same lake the next day.

When we left before dawn at the end of the weekend, we saw the sunrise over the lake, too.  For as many times as I’ve seen that lake—that lake that has my heart—I’ve never seen the sun arch up over its waters.  It was spectacular.

We left with that sunrise in our rearview mirror, a tub of just-picked blueberries and raspberries from my grandpa’s garden in the backseat, and the familiar bittersweet feeling of a too-short visit home.  It’s not unlike this end-of-summer feeling.  To stretch that trip out, and I suppose to stretch out the summer too, I baked the blueberries and raspberries into a simple buttermilk cake, ribboned with the berries’ crimson and sapphire juices.

Berry Buttermilk Cake
Adapted Slight from Gourmet

Serves 6 to 8

1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 stick unsalted butter, softened
2/3 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 large egg
1/2 cup well-shaken buttermilk
1 cup fresh berries (about 5 ounces)

If I had to pick one thing—a single, solitary thing—that I loved most about June, it just might be the strawberries.  There are peonies, and fireflies, and graduations, and kids out of school, and the true start of the BBQ season, and car washes in the sun, and baseball every night, and sunshine past 8 pm, and farmers back at the market in Wicker Park on Sunday mornings, and new swimsuits, and marshmallows burnished by the bonfire.  To be sure, these are all fantastic features of June—a month that, if you ask me, has got exactly the right idea.  It begins (Memorial Day) and ends (Independence Day) with 3-day holiday weekends, for Pete’s sake!

But, between those bookends, there are strawberries.

Of course, there are strawberries year-round at the grocery store, the golf ball-sized, pale shouldered variety that come housed in a plastic container.  But the strawberries I’m talking about, the June kind, are an entirely different animal.  They’re more diminutive for one, and crimson all over.  They’re juicy, in a stain-your-fingers kind of way.  They’re wonderfully sweet and fragrant, and speckled with tiny yellow seeds.  You can find them at your local farmers’ markets, and—truth be told—I’m a sucker for those baby blue crates that hold them.

But the point is: they’re delicious.  Straight up.  On the deck.  As the sun sets.  At 9 pm.  Because it’s June!

But they’re delightful in baked goods, and atop your morning yogurt, too.  And they were completely perfect in this icebox pie, which could not be simpler.  It’s just a graham cracker pie crust (doctored up with some spicy cinnamon and a big pinch of kosher salt); strawberries, some of which are cooked into a sweet, jammy consistency over low heat, while the rest remain raw; and softly whipped cream, made better with a few drops of vanilla extract.  The crust is baked, the strawberries (cooked and raw) are poured in, and the fridge does the bulk of the work—a four hour chill helpsthe whole thing firm up.  Then, rev up the mixer, whip the cream, and grab your spatula: dollop the billowy cream atop the chilled pie and slather away.

The icebox part is the kicker, I think.  June is no time to be chained to the kitchen, and this recipe appreciates that fact.  So, slide this into the fridge and get out there: there’s a June to be had.

Strawberry Icebox Pie
Adapted from Martha Stewart

Serves 8-10

10 graham crackers (2 1/2 by 5 inches)
1 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, divided
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1/2 cup fresh-squeezed lemon juice
4 cups strawberries, hulled and thinly sliced
1/4 cup cornstarch
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a food processor, blend graham crackers with 2 tablespoons sugar, cinnamon and 1/4 teaspoon salt until finely ground; add butter and pulse until crumbs are moistened. Press mixture into the bottom and up the side of a 9-inch pie plate. Bake until crust is lightly browned, 12 to 14 minutes. Transfer to a wire rack and let cool completely.

Meanwhile, in a medium saucepan, combine 3/4 cup sugar, lemon  juice, 2 cups strawberries, cornstarch, and 1/4 teaspoon salt. Using a potato masher, gently mash strawberries. Bring to a boil; reduce to a simmer and cook, stirring frequently, until very thick, about 1 minute. Remove from heat and let cool slightly. Stir in remaining strawberries. Pour into cooled pie crust. Refrigerate until set, at least 4 hours (or up to 1 day).

In a large bowl, beat cream until soft peaks form. Sprinkle 2 tablespoons sugar and vanilla extract over cream and continue to beat until soft peaks return (do not overbeat). Spread whipped cream over pie, leaving a 1 1/2-inch border around edge.

Hello!  Happy June!  Happy belated Memorial Day!  Happy summer!  Happy farmers’ market season!  Man, I’ve been gone longer than I thought I would be.  I’ve missed all these beginnings, but—the good news is—I have cake.

Well, okay, the cake was for my mother-in-law’s birthday, but you don’t mind if I recycle it for all of the aforementioned occasions, do you?  No?  Good!  You’re so kind.  But, really, a cake like this—two thick layers, covered in frosting—is best suited for birthdays.

Because birthdays call for cake, right.  And cake calls for frosting.  And candles.  And a pretty cake plate.  But I digress, because the story here—the thing to write home (or, rather, to you) about—is the frosting.  In the case of Kevin’s mother’s recent birthday, it was buttercream.  It ensconced a chocolate cake (of the devil’s food variety) that was lovely enough, and the whole two-layered affair was perched atop a new cake plate (thanks, Mom!), in a shade of blue (robin’s egg?  baby?  cerulean?) of which I’m fond, and next to a thin vase filled with a bouquet of peonies.  But, don’t let that cake, or the plate, or those pretty peonies distract you.

It’s about the buttercream.  A vanilla whipped buttercream.  A perfectly thick, rich, swipe-your-finger-through-it buttercream.  I hope you’ll try it—to ring in summer, a holiday that came and went two weeks ago, or—of course—the next birthday that you celebrate.

Vanilla Whipped Buttercream
Epicurious

Yield: 3 1/2 cups frosting (enough for one 8-inch layer cake)

2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, softened
1 cup cane sugar
1 cup whole milk
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 1/2 tablespoons vanilla extract

Cream the butter on medium speed, 3 to 5 minutes, in a standing mixer or with a hand mixer until soft, about 30 seconds. Add the sugar and beat on high speed until light and fluffy, 5 to 7 minutes.

In a small saucepan, combine 1/4 cup of the milk, the flour, and the vanilla extract, and whisk until there are no lumps. Over medium heat, slowly add the remaining 3/4 cup milk, whisking constantly, and cook until the mixture comes to a low boil. Then reduce the heat to low and keep whisking for a few more minutes, until the mixture starts to thicken.

Immediately remove the pan from the heat, but keep stirring. (After you have removed the pan from the heat, the mixture will continue to cook for a minute or two on its own. If you overheat it and get small lumps, try to whisk vigorously to get them out, or pass the mixture through a fine-mesh sieve.) If necessary, place the pan over a bowl of ice water to stop the cooking process and allow the mixture to cool.

Once the milk mixture has thickened, set it aside to cool to room temperature. You can stick it in the freezer to rush the cooling.

With the mixer on low speed, slowly pour the milk mixture into the butter-sugar mixture. Increase the speed to medium and beat until the frosting is light and fluffy, 3 to 5 minutes. Add vanilla to combine.

Last weekend, Kevin flew west (for a weekend with his friends in Yosemite) and I flew north (to Minnesota, to see my family).  The camera went with Kevin (filed under “The Things I Do For Love”).  But my iPhone came with me and I kept it busy documenting a rainy, chilly, but still-perfect weekend with my parents and sister.  There was beer (Fulton and Summit and Surly,  but not Grain Belt, alas):

And fat spears of asparagus shaved thin and tossed in lots of lemon, olive oil, parmesan and coarse salt:

And four perfect pizzas, from Pizzeria Lola, mixed and matched among us, after a trip to the photo booth (I died) and before a dish of softserve grapefruit sorbet (I died again):

And an old pup (the family dog, Bailey, pictured) and a young pup (my sister’s newest roommate, also named Lola, not pictured—tragically):

And a flight home on Sunday that prickled with homesickness, before I was even really gone, and made my heart feel tight:

And a bundle of pale pink peonies, to ease the return to Chicago, since Kevin wasn’t back yet to do the trick:

And, lest I forget, there was a remarkable rhubarb crisp, topped generously with vanilla bean bourbon ice cream—a dessert that was bittersweet, much like the weekend, or the leaving part, at least:

Strawberry-Rhubarb Crisp
Adapted from the Gourmet Cookbook

Serves 8-10

Well, I’m here to report that it worked!  The kale-centric goodbye gala for winter that I staged last time I was here really, really worked.  Not more than two days after that post, spring arrived—and decidedly so.  The winds were suddenly warm and the trees were all-at-once producing buds.  As we walked the sidewalks near our apartment last weekend, we stopped to gawk at the fringey-yellow bushes that had burst into bloom and the pert daffodils, tucked up against the houses, that had opened up their bonnets.

Spring’s like that, I think.  It arrives every year, yet it still manages to stun you.

Banana bread’s not so dissimilar.  No matter how many times it shows up, each time, you’re reminded how lovely it is.

And this banana bread—floral and bright with its undertones of olive oil and lemon zest—was especially lovely.  Gilding the lily, this loaf boasts a generous cup of semi-sweet chocolate chips.  Last weekend, spring gilded the lily, too, with summery heat and humidity.  It was a treat, for sure.  The banana bread, too.

Melissa Clark‘s (whose blog I’m really enjoying) recipe for Lemony Olive Oil Banana Bread with Chocolate Chips is here.  I swapped in semi-sweet chips for the hand-chopped chunks of chocolate.  I also skipped the glaze.

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It’s been one of those weeks.  The weeks where you feel like you’re hanging on for dear life, one day hurtling toward the next, and then the next.  Suddenly, it’s nearly Friday and you’ve barely caught your breath since Monday.  Barely stopped to think.  Barely said boo to your husband.

But so much of it has been good—the kind of good that’s completely out of the ordinary, in the best ways—so you can’t complain.  Your sister-in-law got engaged.  (!!!)  Your sister came to town.  (!!!)  The sun has been out all week.  (!!!)  It’s been light out well before 7 a.m. and enough past 5 p.m. to make a difference.  (!!!)

And also?  It’s March.  March!

But the quiet, normal moments have been missing.  Leaving me out of sorts.  Leaving me feeling like I miss the guy I sleep next to every night.  Two ships, and all that.

So, it’s been nice to know this week that I’ve been sending him off to work each morning, whether he’s leaving the house after me or before me, with a slice of orange-rind-flecked, olive oil-spiked cornmeal cake.  And, this week, that’s enough.

Blood Orange Cornmeal Cake
Adapted Slightly from Martha Stewart

1/2 cup olive oil, plus more for pan
2 large eggs
1 cup sugar, plus 1/3 cup for topping
1/2 cup fresh-squeezed blood orange juice
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour, spooned and leveled
1/2 cup coarse-ground yellow cornmeal
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon kosher salt
Finely grated zest of 2 blood oranges

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Brush bottom and sides of an 8-inch round cake pan with oil; line bottom with a round of wax or parchment paper, and brush paper with oil.

In a large bowl, whisk together oil, eggs, 1 cup sugar, and juice until smooth. Add flour, cornmeal, baking powder, salt, and orange zest; whisk gently to combine.

Pour batter into prepared pan; sprinkle top evenly with remaining 1/3 cup sugar (topping will be thick). Bake until cake begins to pull away from sides of pan and a tester inserted in center comes out clean, 35 to 40 minutes.

Cool in pan 20 minutes. Run a knife around edge of cake; invert cake gently onto a plate, and remove parchment paper. Reinvert cake onto a rack to cool completely. Serve with orange segments, if desired.

I’m not much of a Valentine’s girl, as I’ve said here before.  To recap: the whole thing is just a little silly, in my view.  The chocolate and the booze that it encourages, however, are not silly in the least.  Oh, no.  Champagne on a Monday night?  Don’t mind if I do!  A palm-sized turtle offered up last Friday night, just before I was about to head to the gym and then dinner (the confection threatening to negate the first and spoil the second)?  Of course, I’d love one!

So, for this February 14, I’ve baked a cake that combines the two, all in a lovely bundt ring—a seductive cake shape if ever there was one.  For the booze, this cake wisely selects bourbon.  And, chocolate-wise, the cake goes for super dark and brooding.  The result is astonishingly good.

Because I’m posting this recipe on the eve of the actual holiday, you’ll be pleased to learn that this cake couldn’t be easier.  First, you bring brewed coffee, cocoa powder, whiskey and butter to a simmer, whisking and inhaling the ridiculously delicious scent of this concoction.  Into that, whisk a goodly amount of sugar (remember: it’s a (fake) holiday!!).  This must cool a bit, which is the perfect time for sampling.  Go on, you won’t be sorry.

Next, crack in two eggs, whisking the thickened mixture.  This is slowly beaten into the dry ingredients and, then, the batter goes into a bundt mold.  An hour later, you’ve got a gorgeous, nearly black cake.

Have a slice (alongside a scoop of this—a natural fit) and call it a (Valentine’s) day.

Chocolate-Whiskey Bundt Cake
Adapted from Gourmet

Yield: 12 to 14 servings

1 cup unsweetened cocoa powder (not Dutch-process) plus 3 tablespoons for dusting pan
1 1/2 cups brewed coffee
1/2 cup American whiskey (I used bourbon)
2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch pieces
2 cups sugar
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/4 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla

Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 350°F. Butter bundt pan well, then dust with 3 tablespoons cocoa powder, knocking out excess.

Heat coffee, whiskey, butter, and remaining cup cocoa powder in a 3-quart heavy saucepan over moderate heat, whisking, until butter is melted. Remove from heat, then add sugar and whisk until dissolved, about 1 minute. Transfer mixture to a large bowl and cool 5 minutes.

While chocolate mixture cools, whisk together flour, baking soda, and salt in the bowl of a standing mixer, fitted with a whisk attachment.  Whisk together eggs and vanilla in a small bowl, then whisk into cooled chocolate mixture until combined well.  With the mixer running on low, slowly add the chocolate mixture to the flour mixture.  Beat until just combined (batter will be thin and bubbly), stopping at least once to scrape down the bowl. Pour batter into bundt pan and bake until a wooden pick or skewer inserted in center comes out clean, 40 to 50 minutes.

Cool cake completely in pan on a rack, about 2 hours. Loosen cake from pan using tip of a dinner knife, then invert rack over pan and turn cake out onto rack.