As you may have noticed, over the past few (ahem, or maybe more than a few) months, my posts have been sporadic.  The time between updates has slowly stretched and, to be honest, there have been times when I wondered if I’d return.  Sometimes the thought of walking away would carry an immense sense of relief: one thing off my over-crowded plate.  But, more often than not, the thought made me sad.  There have been a lot of  reasons for the less-frequent posts (one of which is more visible than others), but every time I’ve returned to this space, I’ve been grateful that I didn’t let it go.  I draw so much energy and inspiration from this site, and it’s something I don’t want to fade away.

A lot of things have fallen into place for us recently (we’re moving, for one thing!) and a very welcome slow-down at work is finally here.  So, I’m hoping to be able to post a bit more frequently over the next couples of months, and then we’ll see what happens when the baby arrives later this summer.

The funny thing is, even as I added to this site more and more infrequently, I still visited it often.  The busier I am, the more I rely on recipes I’ve made numerous times, and the vast majority of those recipes reside on this site.  This site, I’ve realized, has become my personal recipe file.  Just like my mom pulls down a wooden box stuffed with splattered, handwritten recipe cards and rifles through it to find her old favorite recipes, I often Google my prior posts.

Along these lines, when I decided to make some whole wheat chocolate chip cookies to add to the gift bags for the hostesses of my baby shower (the bags were otherwise stuffed with Chicago treats, and I concluded that they wouldn’t be complete without a treat from my own Chicago kitchen), I turned first to my site for the recipe.  I make these cookies so often that I just assumed I had already posted the recipe.  But, alas, it wasn’t there.  And then I remembered that I usually turn to Jess’ site for this recipe, and while that’s always a lovely site to visit, I knew I needed to add the recipe to my own virtual recipe file.

So in the waning sunlight hours after work (spring!), I whipped up a batch and snapped a few photos.  I feel better already, knowing that this recipe is safely tucked away on this site, and that I’ll be returning more frequently to this space in coming weeks.

Whole Wheat Cookies
Adapted from Good to the Grain by Kim Boyce, via Sweet Amandine

Dry ingredients:
3 cups whole wheat flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt

Wet ingredients:
2 sticks (8 ounces) cold, unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1 cup light or dark brown sugar
1 cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
8 ounces bittersweet or semisweet chocolate (chopped or chips)

Sea salt or kosher salt, for finishing

Pre-heat  oven to 350 degrees and line two baking sheets with parchment.

Whisk together the dry ingredients in a large bowl.

Put the butter and sugars in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, and mix on low speed until just blended. (It should take about 2 minutes.) Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a spatula. Add the eggs one at a time, beating until each one is incorporated. Mix in the vanilla.

Add the flour mixture to the bowl, and blend on low speed until the flour is just incorporated. If there are any small pockets of flour lurking in the dough, rub them in with your fingers.

Scoop the dough – about 3 tablespoons per cookie – onto the baking sheets, keeping about 3 inches between cookies.

Just before baking, press a few flakes of salt into each dough ball.

Baking 16-20 minutes.  Transfer the cookies, still on the parchment, to the counter to cool. Repeat with the remaining dough.

Yield: a little over 20 cookies

I have a good excuse.

For weeks, I’ve been meaning to tell you about this hot fudge sauce, which is decadent and thick and glossy and everything a hot fudge sauce should be.  The recipe has been on the docket since Valentine’s Day, in fact.  I had a post planned, half drafted in my head.  I intended to come clean that my annual protestations about Valentine’s Day were something of a hoax.  For several years running, I’d posted a chocolate dessert in honor of the mid-February holiday (“holiday”?), so there was no denying that I was on board for at least one part of Valentine’s Day: the chocolate part.  That would be the post’s title: “The Chocolate Part.”  I quite liked that.

But then mid-February slipped into late February, and then it was Leap Day, and then March was upon us, coming in equal parts lion and lamb, so typical of a Chicago spring day.  And, still, I haven’t told you about the sauce.  It’s sure to become a new favorite, and one that I plan to make often, particularly in the summer months, when ice cream sundaes will be de rigueur.

Did you see what just happened there?  I’m telling you about a hot fudge sauce that I made in early February, a winter setting if ever there was one, and nevertheless I managed to mention both spring and summer in the very same paragraph.  I’m not all that surprised, I confess.  These days, I’m looking ahead.  To early August, to be exact.  A time when the third member of our little family is due to arrive.  And, that, of course, would be the excuse.  The thing that’s been distracting me.

Yes!  You read that right.  I’m still not talking about the recipe (a winner, to be sure).  Instead, I’m talking about a baby.  Our baby.  Our baby girl.  On the way.  Due this summer.

We’re absolutely thrilled, and I’m really excited to be sharing this news with all of you.  So, with that, I’ll leave you with the recipe.  Finally.

Hot Fudge Sauce
Martha Stewart

Yield: About 1 1/2 cups

1/2 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup corn syrup
6 ounces dark chocolate, chopped
1 1/2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon coarse salt

Place heavy cream and corn syrup in a medium saucepan; bring to a boil over medium-high heat, stirring, about 2 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in chocolate; whisk until melted and well combined. Stir in vanilla and salt. Transfer fudge sauce to a glass container and let cool at room temperature until thickened, about 1 hour. Hot fudge sauce can be stored in an airtight container, refrigerated, for up to 2 days. Bring to room temperature or gently reheat before using.

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.

.

.

.