First, thank you so much for the comments and emails and kind words about our exciting news!  It was such fun to share the news here, and to hear from so many of you.  It makes me miss this site even more, which is unfortunate timing, since things are a little crazy around here lately.  Aside from the whole baby thing (the proof of which is growing by the day!), work is a whirlwind and is about to take me out of town for a few weeks.  I’m thinking the solution is this: I’m going to shake things up a bit here, and do a couple of photo-focused posts.  Today, it’s eggs two ways.

Dyed for Easter:

And diced into my mom’s egg salad:

See you soon. And thanks again, friends.

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

So, the thing is, I’m too busy to be writing this post.  Not to mention too exhausted.  But this recipe, for bourbon butterscotch sauce, is haunting me.  Since I made it on Saturday, I can’t get it out of my head.  I’m pretty sure the only way to exorcise this demon is by foisting the demon on you all. 

You’re welcome! But, don’t worry, I’ll make this quick.

Here’s the thing: when it is mid-October and Saturday and blindingly sunny and just plain hot, you really must have yourself one last barbecue.  (I speak from experience: we were bestowed with back-to-back 80-degree days last weekend!)   I’m talking burgers, juicy and draped in melty cheddar.  I’m talking crisp, salted oven fries.  I’m talking a salad with the very last tomatoes you can find.  And, boy oh boy, am I talking ice cream sundaes.

In particular, ice cream sundaes that involve a pristinely-white, vanilla bean-speckled scoop of vanilla-bourbon ice cream; a thick, dreamy butterscotch sauce, which is also spiked with bourbon; and roasted pepitas that are a little bit sweet and a little bit spicy.  To my mind, this sundae is the perfect marriage of fall flavors (butterscotch, while readily available all year around, somehow falls squarely into the fall category, in my mind—and then there’s the pepitas, which are about as October as it gets) and warm weather cravings (ice cream!).

And have I mentioned bourbon?  As it turns out, my husband is a Manhattan man.  This means that our liquor cabinet now boasts multiple bottles of bourbon and our fridge hosts a pot of booze-soaked cherries.  Oh, and it also means that I throw a splash of bourbon into just about everything I cook.  (See above re: ice cream and butterscotch sauce.)

The star of this sundae, hands down, was the butterscotch sauce.  It is exactly the color that you picture when you hear the word butterscotch.  It’s got a sparkle of salt and, thanks to the bourbon, a depth and an edge.  I think you’ll like it.  Well, at least, I hope you’ll like it, because it’s about to start haunting you too.

Again, you’re welcome.

Bourbon Butterscotch Sauce
Adapted from Gourmet

Yield: 1 3/4 cups

1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 cup water
1/2 cup bourbon
3/4 stick (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter
pinch salt
2 tablespoons heavy cream

I love the days that lead up to a holiday.  There is the last minute shopping, the many cocktail parties, the cookie-baking bonanzas, and the hall-decking that precedes Christmas.  And then you have the menu planning, the pie crust stashing, the gourd shopping that portend Thanksgiving.  And don’t forget the dress-shopping, ham procuring and jelly-bean-popping that mark the days before Easter.  But, given the date, it’s the build up to the Fourth of July that I’ve got on the brain at the moment.

Can you feel it?

It’s almost an electric excitement in the air.  There’s a three-day weekend coming and people are ready.  They’ve stocked up on charcoal, sunscreen and ice.  The frequency of the unsponsored fireworks displays has already increased.  The grocery stores are bracing for a run on strawberries and blueberries, knowing full well that the people demand flag cakes on this holiday.  Plans for the weekend, for firework-viewing and beer-guzzling and porch-sitting, have been laid.

Heck, I know I’m ready.  We’ll be home for the holiday and I can’t wait to indulge in a three-day weekend in my own city.  It’s been a while.  We’re planning to pick cherries, catch up on Friday Night Lights, walk a lot, soak up the sun.  We’ll also be spending a fair amount of time at the grill.  It’s the Fourth of July weekend, after all — and if there’s ever a time to get grilling, it’s now.

I’m guessing many of you already have your weekend menus assembled.  In the off-chance that you’re looking for suggestions—the kind that involve the grill—I’ve got just the thing for you: grilled soy-glazed chicken and scallions.  Now, I’m not the biggest fan of your everyday barbecue chicken.  But this? Sticky and charred, with a tingle of spice and the smoky bite of grilled scallions, this is a barbecue chicken recipe I can get behind.  I suggest you do the same.

Grilled Soy-Glazed Chicken & Scallions
Adapted from Fine Cooking

Serves 4

Cherries and I having a bit of a moment.  They showed up at the markets, suddenly, unexpectedly.  I remember them coming much later last year, but such memories are a tricky thing—they’re hard to trust.  In any event, the cherries have been here in abundance for the past couple weeks and I just can’t seem to get enough.  I’ve been happily eating them out of hand.  Firm, glossy and garnet, I’ll pluck one, stem pinched between my fingers, from the bowl, pop it into my mouth, revel in the tart, summery, juicy flesh and then, lips pursed and with a phwoottt! I’ll spit the pit into a cupped palm.  Discard the pit and stem; repeat as necessary.  I’ve spent several recent evenings repeating until my heart, and belly, were content.

But why stop there?  The cherries have me dreaming up baked goods.  They conjured a simple yogurt cake in my mind, a recipe born in a split second, in a dreamy thought.  I tinkered with the idea two Sundays in a row until I had a recipe, right there on paper, and a perfect cake, right there in the pan.

This tale alone is testament to the cherries.  I haven’t developed a cake recipe in a very long time.  It’s something I had time to do as a student, and then in the leisurely months after I took the bar exam and hadn’t yet started working.  Now, though, it’s a luxury that I can scarcely afford.  Instead, I rely on already-existing recipes, preferably those that come from trusted sources or those that come along with ringing endorsements.  These cherries, though, demanded an almond-yogurt cake.  Specifically, the one in my mind’s eye—almondy and ever so slightly sweet, cherries suspended in the nubbly crumb, more cherries still scattered atop the cake.  And, on my second attempt, that’s what the cherries got.

Then, just when I thought I was nearing the point of satiation, our waiter placed a slip of paper on the table before us after our meals were cleared on Friday night—a short list of desserts, no more than five.  Kevin was hoping to see a wedge of chocolate pie listed among them and I expected my eye to go no further than the migas bark, slabs of dark chocolate speckled with bread crumbs, of all things, that dependably anchor this restaurant’s dessert list.  Instead, we both zeroed in a chocolate marquise topped with roasted cherries.

Roasted cherries!  Why hadn’t I thought of that?  We ordered it, of course, and spooned up the thick, rich chocolate and the soft winey cherries.  The next night, as if I even have to tell you, I was sliding a tray of cherries into the oven in my own kitchen.  Once roasted, their transformation is not unlike that which a roasted cherry tomato undergoes: their flesh relaxes under the oven’s heat, their skins barely contain the jammy insides, their sweetness deepens, their tartness rounds out.  Atop sour cream ice cream, atop my morning yogurt, eaten hot straight from the pan, eaten chilled straight from the fridge, they are a wonder.

Had the roasted cherries sealed the deal?, I wondered.  Perhaps I’d finally had enough.  But then, on Sunday, the sour cherries had arrived at our market.  Which clearly means that this business with the cherries is far from over.

Happy summer all!  To ring in the first day of summer, I posted a new Summer Recipe Index, which you can access by a link over on the lefthand column.  It’s got recipes for BBQ’s and picnics, recipes featuring corn (quite possibly my favorite type of summer produce), and recipes for fruit desserts and (obviously) ice cream.  Check it out here!

I have the most intensely wonderful memories of summer evenings at my parents’ house.  The sun sank, the porch lights flicked on, the smell of hot charcoals scented the air, the crickets built to a slow crescendo.  Hours earlier, the action was in the front yards that lined the winding street, where kids pranced through sprinklers, pedaled down the sidewalk and played game after game, while their parents mowed the grass and weeded the flower beds.  When night fell, though, the action shifted to the backyards, where families had retreated for dinner on their patios and decks.  Burgers, grilled chicken, kabobs, corn on the cob, salt-and-peppered slices of tomatoes, steamed green beans: simple food, most of it cooked fast on the hot grill.

I can’t point to any real connection between this strawberry shortcake and those summer nights.  I don’t remember ever eating strawberry shortcake like this growing up and I happen to know that my mother harbors a deep fear of biscuit baking due to an unfortunate omission of baking powder in her maiden attempt, which scars her still, decades later.  So I’m quite certain that none of those evenings involved strawberry shortcake.  The aforementioned bowls of ice cream, sure.  Or maybe a root beer float, fresh split peaches, or, if we were very lucky, a trip to the Dairy Queen.

But, even so, this strawberry shortcake conjures those evenings.  Just like those summer night memories, there’s something nostalgic about this recipe, something happy and comforting, something almost too all-American.  Does this make any sense?  Do you ever connect a food with a memory, to a time or a place, even though you never actually ate the food in that time or place?  You do, right?  It’s not just me, is it?

Or maybe I’m just strange.  Either way, a few days ago, I did my very best to establish a link—a real, historically accurate link—between this shortcake and those suburban summer nights.  I made a platter of the shortcakes last Saturday, when Kevin and I were in Minnesota visiting my family.  The weather was cold, so we were huddled around the dining table, rather than out on the back deck, but we hardly cared because there were still burgers and these strawberry shortcakes.

Preheat oven to 350°F. Line rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper.  Pat chilled dough into a round about an inch thick.  Using a lightly-floured 3-inch biscuit cutter, stamp out rounds.  Repeat with scraps.  Place rounds on prepared sheet, spacing 2 inches apart. Bake until tester inserted into center comes out clean, about 20 minutes. Cool completely.

Make strawberries: Combine strawberries, 1/2 cup sugar and balsamic vinegar.  Set aside, allowing the flavors to develop for at least 1 hour.

Make mascarone cream: Whisk together sour cream, mascarone, remaining sugar, vanilla, lemon juice and remaining salt in a medium bowl.  Chill.

Assemble:  Slice the biscuits in half horizontally.  Divide the strawberries and mascarpone creams among the biscuit bottoms.  Top with the biscuit tops and serve.

There are a number of criteria for selecting a perfect party food, don’t you think?  For starters, it should require only one hand to eat it and, relatedly, should not require a plate.  In most cases, this rule applies because your other hand is occupied by a beverage.  I could also see one employing her second hand to wield a camera, hold a kid, shake a stranger’s hand, high five a friend’s hand, flash a thumbs up across the room (I do this; I say goodness and whoopsie and you don’t say, too—now you know), hold a hand of cards, gesture wildly.  You get the picture — party food, at its best, is one-handed (and plate-less).

Second, and almost as important as the uni-hand feature, a perfect party food should be pretty.  Beautiful, breathtaking, stunning, even.  This is not the time for your favorite slap-dash dinner (which, incidentally, very likely requires two hands and a plate, or a bowl at the very least).  This is not the time for a monotone palette of brown and beige (ahem, I should really follow my own rules).  This is the time for color and flair.

Third, it should be delicious.  Of course.

These cheese straws easily satisfy all three criteria.  (1) One handed: check.  In fact, you really only need two fingers—a thumb and an index finger, pinched together.  (2)  Pretty: why I should say so!  Standing on end in a variety of drinking glasses—a juice glass, a tumbler, a stemless flute, and  the list goes on—you’ve got a spiky bouquet that catches the eye.  (3)  Delicious: oh, yes.  I hope I’m not doing these straws a disservice by likening them to Cheese-Its (or is it Cheez-Its?), but I can’t help myself.  They’re so much more honest though: all that’s going on here is flour, butter, salt, milk, cheddar (the sharper the better) and a healthy pinch of cayenne.  Simply put, they hit all the right notes: savory, salty, rich and spicy.  They’ve got a delicate crunch and you can’t help but reach for another.

I made these on Saturday for my friend Maggie’s bridal shower.  My friend Brynn and I did all the cooking (you can see some of the other things we made here!) and, of the things I made, these straws were my favorite.  So long as we can discount the tiny strawberry shortcakes, that is.  More about those very soon.

Cheese Straws
Adapted from Gourmet

Perfect party food should also be plentiful.  I suggest you double the batch — you won’t be sorry.

Yield: about 2 dozen straws

1/4 pound coarsely grated extra-sharp Cheddar (1 1/2 cups)
1 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 stick cold unsalted butter, cut into tablespoons
1/2 teaspoon salt
Rounded 1/8 teaspoon cayenne
1/4 cup milk

Preheat oven to 350°F with racks in upper and lower thirds.

Pulse cheese, flour, butter, salt, and cayenne in a food processor until mixture resembles coarse meal. Add about half of the milk and pulse until dough forms a ball.  Add additional milk, if needed (I used almost the entire 1/4 cup).

Roll out dough on a lightly floured surface with a lightly floured rolling pin into a 12- by 10-inch rectangle (1/8 inch thick). Cut dough with a lightly floured pizza wheel or lightly floured sharp knife into 1/3-inch-wide strips. Carefully transfer to 2 ungreased baking sheets, arranging strips 1/4 inch apart. (If strips tear, pinch back together.)

Bake, switching position of sheets halfway through baking, until pale golden, 15 to 18 minutes. Cool completely on baking sheets on racks, about 15 minutes.

As expected, Napa was enchanting.  But perhaps I should start with San Francisco, which wasn’t half bad either, lavishing us with a gorgeous sunset that cast a pinky-golden light across the Ferry Building and Bay Bridge; it made for a some lovely cocktail hour gaping.  Post-cocktail hour, we finally made it to Zuni Cafe where we had the fantastic roast chicken (of course!), among other things.  In the morning, we were up early for a jog along the Embarcadero and a stroll through the Ferry Building farmers’ market.  A cup of Blue Bottle coffee and a lovely jar of yogurt later, we were Napa bound.

And, Napa.  Sigh.  Between the rolling rows of vines, the wrap-around porches and lush grounds at wineries, the just-blooming rose bushes, the smell and taste and blur of wine, and meal after wonderful meal, it was all enough to make a girl not want to leave.  Honestly, I would’ve been quite content to move right into the little cottage we stayed in for the weekend.

That is, I’d be happy to move in, provided that the innkeepers continued to deliver the little breakfast basket filled with Bouchon Bakery pastries and breads each morning.  (The s’mores kit would be nice, too, but it’s nowhere near as a big a deal-maker as the Bouchon delivery.)

At home, of course, there is no breakfast delivery.  But I like to think I do an adequate job of keeping some sort of breakfast treat on hand—a quick bread, a muffin or a cake.  This cake—a jam-swirled crumb cake—was the most recent example.  And while it doesn’t near measure up to those Bouchon treats, it reminds me of them in a few ways: the jam swirls are a reminder of the jam I spread on a cracked-open baguette; the crumb topping is remniscent of Sunday’s banana-nut muffin; the buttery cake not so far off from the palm-sized coffee cake delivered on Saturday.

Yes, I suppose this crumb cake will do for now—until our next trip to the Bay Area, at least.

You can see all of our photos from the trip here.

Strawberry Jam Crumb Cake
Adapted from Gourmet

Serves 8-10

For cake:
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup sugar
1 3/4 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
3/4 stick unsalted butter, melted
1/2 cup milk
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 cup strawberry jam or preserves

For crumb topping:
3/4 stick unsalted butter, melted
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup granulated sugar
3/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

Make cake:
Preheat oven to 400°F with rack in middle. Generously butter a 9-inch springform pan (or a 9-inch square or round cake pan).

Whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt.

Whisk together butter, milk, egg and vanilla in a large bowl, then whisk in flour mixture until just combined. Pour batter into cake pan. Dollop jam all over surface, then swirl into batter with a knife.

Make crumb topping:
Whisk together butter, sugars, cinnamon, and salt until smooth. Stir in flour, then blend with your fingertips until incorporated. Sprinkle crumbs in large clumps over top of cake.

Bake cake until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean and sides begin to pull away from pan, about 25 minutes. Cool in pan on a rack 5 minutes.

Recipes that are regional specialties seem to require a hidden ingredient—one that cannot be picked up at the grocery store or procured by mail order.  In my mind, they require, implicitly, that you’re a native.  And the catch, of course, is that you can’t choose where you were born, where you grew up, the food on which you were raised.  For this reason, as a midwesterner and a northerner, I tend to shy away from recipes like North Carolina barbecue, New England clam chowder and Texas chili.

Shrimp and grits, too, is a dish that fits squarely on this list.  It gives the distinct impression that northerners need not apply.

My shrimp-and-grits hunch—that northerners shouldn’t bother—was repeatedly confirmed as I ate the dish in the south itself (including a recent, ridiculously delicious, andouille sausage-strewn iteration at Lüke in New Orleans)  and when I’ve happily tucked into the dish right here in Chicago, noting that the menus on which the dish appears always boast a chef with southern roots.  So, despite the fact that I can saute shrimp with ease and I can make a decent polenta (grits by another name, in my book), I long ago resigned myself to eating shrimp and grits in restaurants only.

For the life of me, I can’t figure out what took me so long to try my yankee hand at this.  But I can tell you that I’ll be doing it again real soon.

Shrimp and Grits
Adapted from Paula Deen by way of Bobby Flay

Yield: 4 servings

4 cups water
Salt and pepper
1 cup stone-ground grits
1 tablespoon butter
2 cups shredded sharp cheddar cheese
1 pound shrimp, peeled and deveined
6 slices bacon, chopped
4 teaspoons lemon juice
2 tablespoons chopped parsley
1 cup thinly sliced scallions
1 large clove garlic, minced