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.

I’m crazy for ramps right now.  Absolutely mad.  I see them in the grocery store, tucked beneath deep green eaves of chard and kale, and I can’t help but grab a bundle in my fist, lift them triumphantly over my head, and squeal to myself (or is it aloud?): Ramps! About this time, Kevin busies himself in the crucifer bin—suddenly fascinated beyond distraction by a seafoam green head of cabbage.  And, although the man does love his slaw, I’m beginning to think that maybe—just maybe—he’s embarrassed of my expression of ramp triumph.  But, no matter: my shopping cart is lined with a lush carpet of ramps.  Tra-lah-lah.

In truth, what I’m really crazy for is spring, and the ramps are just a little part of that.  They’re a middle piece of the jig-saw puzzle.  It seems that the perimeter of that puzzle  has taken shape (the trees are starting to fringe themselves in chartreuse; the tulips have begun to unfurl), but the rest of the zillion middle pieces seem reluctant to fall into place (creating the real-deal, warmer-than-60-degrees, local-produce-at-the-markets, full-on spring).

And, while we’re being honest, I’m hungry for more than just warmth and ramps.  It’s been a tough winter in a few ways—a sense of unrest; a tiredness; way, way too much work.  The months of winter marched by—one after the other, gone in the blink of an eye.  But the winter days?  At times, those seemed to stretch on endlessly.  In the midst of all this,  I haven’t had much of an urge to cook or bake or create.  This site has reflected that void.

But as spring has slipped in recently—in brief stints, but undeniable still—everything seems okay, better even.  Perhaps that’s why I’m so eager to complete the jig-saw puzzle.

This spring seems just like last year, and the year before it.  Years, just like this one, in which the magnolia trees burst into clouds of pink-and-white.  Years, the same as this one, that provided a spark in the form of fat asparagus, in the cinch of a trench coat, in the purple-streaked sunsets, in the bundles of beautiful ramps.  In a way, spring’s arrival seems to stop time—that relentless march of months.  But it marks the passage of time, too, all at the same time—it speaks to how far you’ve come, it speaks to the path that you’ve cut in the meantime, a path that leads you back, year after year, to unbridled delight over a fistful of slender ramps.  It speaks to the possibility of the summer to come.

Last Sunday, those ramps were minced into a chimichurri—a sauce (a condiment, really) that has the same effect as spring.  It’s bracing and  it’s bright—it demands that you take notice.

Drizzled over a steak, which was tucked between a pile of roasted fingerlings and a heap of salt-and-peppered grilled asparagus, this ramp chimichurri made up a meal—one that was eaten on the deck, by the way—that sung spring, loud and clear.

Ramp Chimichurri
Adapted from Food & Wine

Yield: 4-6 servings

1 bunch ramps (or 8-10 ramps), trimmed, leaves finely chopped and bulbs minced
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice (or 1 juicy lemon)
1 teaspoon crush red pepper
salt, to taste

Mix the ramps, oil, lemon juice and red pepper in a bowl.  Season with salt, to taste.  Serve over grilled beef, or roasted potatoes, or blanched asparagus or green beans (or—really—anything your heart desires).

[I'm in Napa, but I put this post together in advance.  If we can't all sip crisp whites and spicy reds together, I'm hoping this is the next best thing.]

Some recipes just have your number.   Call it destiny, or maybe love at first read.  But, before you’ve even made the recipe, you just know.  This recipe—for sweet cherry compote—was one of them.  It has all the elements of my kind of recipe: a project (cherry pitting); a tranformation (rendering cherries from firm globes to slouching folds); color (a deep, seductive ruby—one that flirts, even, with purple); and a marriage of flavors that is equal parts sweet, salty and sour.  Like I said, it was over before it began.

Speaking of destiny: this compote always had one destiny and one alone—a turkey sandwich.  Which is pretty shocking for a girl who, not so very long ago, simply could not abide the presence of fruit on her sandwich.  Be it banana-topped peanut butter, pear-threaded grilled cheese, or cranberry sauce over thick slices of leftover Thanksgiving turkey, my answer would be, emphatically, no thank you.  Maybe even just a firm “no,” dispensing with the “thank you.”  Heck, I didn’t even much like pb&j as a kid (the jelly, of course, being the problem).

I’ve long taken my sandwiches seriously and fruit, for many years, was seriously out of bounds.  My sandwiches fit a predictable pattern: some sort of brownish bread, maybe studded with whole grains or seeds; super-thin slices of turkey; a good heap of greens; a slick of spicy mustard; a white cheese, maybe cheddar, swiss or gruyere.  It was a formula I developed over time, starting, I think it’s fair to say, as early as my elementary school nights, when I dutifully packed my lunch.  (Don’t forget the pickle.)

But I’ve clearly grown up, clearly let my hair down, clearly gone just a little bit nuts in the sandwich department.  Because, these days, fruit is welcome.

And that’s how this cherry compote—saucy and complex and very ready to stain your best white shirt—came to its final resting place: atop a turkey sandwich, built high upon a bretzel roll.   There’s just no messing with destiny.

Sweet Cherry Compote
Adapted from Martha Stewart’s Body + Soul

2 cups sweet cherries, pitted
1-2 tablespoons sugar (adjust based on the sweetness of your cherries)
1 tablespoon sherry vinegar
1 tablespoon water
fresh-ground black pepper, to taste
sea or kosher salt, to taste

Combine the cherries, sugar, vinegar and water together in a heavy pot and bring to a gentle boil.  Reduce heat to medium-low, cover, and simmer until cherries are nice and tender and liquid is slightly thickened, 12 to 15 minutes.

Remove from heat and season lightly with salt and liberally with pepper. Let stand at room temperature until cool. Serve or store.

As the late summer has slipped into a very autumnal mid-September, I find myself selecting recipe after recipe that allow me to sit on the fence. I don’t want to give up on summer just yet and the continued appearance of summer produce at the farmers’ markets, the occasional sunshine-soaked day and the fact that I still haven’t started my job at the law firm all combine to convince me that I don’t have to give up—not just yet. But there are other things—the early sun sets, the chilly evenings and my daily desire to pull out my sweaters and scarves—hurtling me toward fall.

As my brain see-saws between the two seasons, my palate does the same. One minute, I am craving a light, tart sorbet and the next minute I am hankering for pumpkin, baked into something sweet and tinged with baking spices that must have been born in the fall: cinnamon, nutmeg, mace, clove, ginger. And, well, it’s all rather confusing.

(Click “more” for the rest of the story, more photos & the recipe.)

So, instead of choosing sides, I’ve found recipes that don’t force me to. For instance, the recipe for my mother’s corn chowder: a steaming bowl of soup serves my need to eat cozily, but lacing the soup with golden niblets of fresh corn satisfies my desire to savor summer produce. Friday’s post—a summer squash gratin—did the exact same thing.

Today’s recipe falls into the same category. It’s a pesto—a sauce made for quick summer meals: pop out onto your fire escape/deck/backyard garden, snip a bundle of fresh herbs, and blitz it up in the food processor along with some toasted nuts, freshly-grated parmesan and a few glugs of olive oil. One can of course make pestos all year long, but the muted flavors and the sticker-shock-inducing price tags of the herbs in the little plastic containers in January make the whole experience rather unhappy. So, to me, it’s a summer sauce.

This pesto recipe trades the traditional basil for sage, a fresh herb that to me tastes like a mouthful of fall—earthy and woodsy. In short, it lets me have my cake (fresh herbs, a summer sauce) and eat it too (a fall flavor, comforting and warm). What about you all: is your cooking still staunchly summery? Or have you let summer drift away, preferring gourds and apples and the like? Or are you, like me, deciding not to decide?

Sage-Walnut Pesto

2/3 cup sage leaves
1/3 cup flat-leaf parsley leaves
1/3 cup walnuts, toasted
1/4 teaspoon fine-grain sea salt
1/4 teaspoon fresh-cracked black pepper
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons freshly-grated Parmigiano Reggiano

Place the sage, parsley, walnuts, salt and pepper in the bowl of a food processor. Pulse the mixture until a coarse paste forms. Scrape down the sides of the bowl. With the processor running, stream in the olive oil until a sauce forms. Transfer the sauce to a small bowl and stir in the grated cheese.

Up Next: Stay tuned tomorrow for a recipe that puts this pesto to use!