Last Friday night, I returned to Chicago after a three-week work trip.  To say that I was glad to be home would be an extreme understatement.  I missed my husband, my city, my kitchen, my food, my easy routines.  I spent the weekend reacquainting myself with all of these things, reveling in them and appreciating them all as though they were brand new.  The weather was pretty uncooperative, but that didn’t stop us from walking miles and visiting the farmers’ market (opening day in Lincoln Park!) and churning ice cream and sliding a bouquet of peonies into a mason jar.

It was a spring weekend to make up for the several that I had missed while I was away.

From the farmers’ market, we hauled home a couple of sacks, heavy with spring’s first produce: two bundles of asparagus, one with pencil thin spears and the other with spears about as fat as my index finger; slender stalks of deep-red rhubarb; a tuft of French breakfast radishes, begging to be swiped through good soft butter and sprinkled with coarse salt; spring onions, whose purple bulbs were so fragrant they stung my eyes; and a few handfuls of fingerling potatoes, just-dug if the wet dirt clinging to them was any indication.  We visited stalls we’ve visited year after year, and we searched in vain for the stall that normally turns out freshly-fried zeppole (fingers crossed that they’ll be back in coming weeks).

Truth be told, I’ve been on an asparagus bender for weeks.  That grilled asparagus from Saturday night was only the latest installation.  This pasta—bucatini, tangled with spicy, lemony, garlicy, barely-cooked shaved asparagus and topped with freshly-toasted breadcrumbs—is what started it all.  I made it just before leaving town, and it haunted my cravings (so much for pickles-and-ice cream—if not for the bump, you might not think I was pregnant) while I was away.  I’ll be making it again soon, this time with a bundle from the farmers’ market.

Shaved Asparagus & Bucatini
Serves 4

2 thick slices hearty bread, torn into about 1-inch pieces
extra virgin olive oil
salt
1 pound bucatini
red pepper flakes
1 clove garlic, minced
2 bundles asparagus, shaved
1 lemon
1/4 cup grated parmesan

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.  Pulse bread in food processor to make bread crumbs.  Spread the crumbs on a small baking tray.  Drizzle with olive oil and a pinch of salt; toss.  Toast for 15 minutes, or until golden brown.

Meanwhile, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil.  Cook bucatini until al dente.  Reserve a bit of the cooking water.

Just before the pasta finishes cooking, heat about a tablespoon of olive oil in a skillet.  Add garlic and a pinch or two of red pepper flakes and cook until fragrant, about a minute.  Add asparagus and a pinch of salt; cook until the asparagus until slightly softened.  Add juice of the lemon.  Toss.

Add the cooked bucatini and parmesan to the skillet with the asparagus; toss to coat.  Add reserved cooking water a tablespoon at a time, if necessary, to achieve your desired consistency.  Serve, topped with toasted breadcrumbs.

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.

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.

With February upon us and January behind us, I think I can finally bring you a recipe that is truly a beacon of health, without running the risk of appearing to be a New Year’s resolution cliche.  With grains and greens and beans and citrus, this soup is certainly January fare.  I would know.  I ate the soup for lunch and dinner umpteen times last month.

Of course, as you know, I also ate bowls of stovetop mac and cheese and slabs of lemon cake in January.  So, right, no resolutions here.

But the point is that I can’t wait to keep eating it this month, too.  And all through the winter (if that’s what you call this very mild weather we’re having).  Probably right into spring, while I’m at it.  It’s that good.  It’s got a spicy broth, punched up with lemon; silken strands of kale; chewy farro; and my go-to soup bean, the chickpea.  Or, at least that’s my version.  You can switch up the greens, beans and/or grains, as well as the liquids, and I’d bet you’ll still have a winner on your hands.

I cook the greens and the grains separately.  The farro simmers in a skillet while the greens braise in a big squeeze of lemon juice, under a smattering of chile flakes.  After about 30 minutes, the two come together in a big pot, along with the soup’s remaining ingredients.  There’s something magic about the lemon in this soup, so be sure not to skip that.

Spicy Greens & Grains Soup

Serves 6

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, divided
1 onion, diced
1 cup semi-pearled farro
salt, to taste
freshly-cracked black pepper, to taste
1/4 cup white wine
red pepper flakes
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 bunches Tuscan kale, trimmed and thinly sliced
2 lemons, juiced, divided
1 quart (4 cups) chicken stock
1 can chickpeas, drained and rinsed

In a skillet, heat 1 tablespoon olive oil.  Saute onions until translucent.  Add farro and pinch of salt and pepper; stir.  Add wine and stir until evaporated.  Add 2 cups water, cover and simmer for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a large, heavy pot, heat remaining tablespoon of oil.  Add pepper flakes and garlic, and cook until fragrant (30 seconds).  Add kale, juice of 1 lemon, and a couple pinches of salt; stir.  Cover the pot and braise until the farro is cooked.  Check on the kale every five minutes or so, and add a little water if the kale appears dry.

Add the cooked farro to the greens, along with the stock, 2 cups water, remaining lemon juice, and chickpeas.  Simmer for 10 minutes or so.  Taste and add salt, if necessary.

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.

It’s been quiet here, for too long.  Christmas and Hanukkah slipped by without a hello, or a recipe.  The new year rang in without a word.  We’re a ways into January, now, and the site has remained dormant.  Still and silent, like an early winter morning—one that’s been blanketed in a fresh coat of sparkling snow.  The same cannot be said about my real life, the offline one, which had been consumed by work.  I emerged on Sunday after a major deadline, and I’m slowly readjusting to a more normal pace of life.

It’s been nice.

Before Sunday, during the weeks that disappeared in what felt like moments, I was relying heavily on a stable of go-to recipes.  All the while, the new cookbooks I’d received for Christmas and the cooking magazines to which I subscribe piled up.  There was no room for new recipes, so instead we shopped for our regular ingredients, quickly cooked our standby dinners, and ate them up hungrily.  The new recipes would be there in January.

But, I still haven’t gotten to those cookbooks and magazines.  On Sunday, when I finally had the time and energy to cook something new, a thought jumped into my mind, and it wouldn’t budge:  stovetop mac and cheese.  My mind’s eye could see a bowl of curly noodles bathed in a smooth cheese sauce—warm and rich and familiar and comforting.  So, I made it happen.

I think I’m going to like this slower pace.

Happy new year, friends.

Stovetop Mac & Cheese
Everyday Food

Yield: 6 servings

3 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/4 cup finely chopped onion
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
Coarse salt
4 cups whole milk
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
3/4 pound small shell pasta or elbow macaroni
4 cups coarsely grated sharp yellow cheddar (3/4 pound)
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce

In a medium saucepan, melt butter over medium; add onion and cook until softened, about 4 minutes. Add flour and 1/2 teaspoon salt; cook, stirring frequently, until mixture is pale golden, has a slightly nutty aroma, and is the texture of cooked oatmeal, about 5 minutes.

Whisking constantly, pour in 2 cups milk; add 2 more cups milk and cayenne and whisk until smooth. Cook mixture, stirring constantly along bottom of pan, until boiling, 6 to 7 minutes. Reduce heat to low. Simmer gently, stirring occasionally, until sauce thickens and does not feel grainy when a small amount is rubbed between two fingers, about 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a large pot of boiling salted water, cook pasta until al dente; drain thoroughly and return to pot. Remove sauce from heat and let cool 10 minutes. Quickly whisk in cheese, mustard, and Worcestershire. Pour cheese sauce over pasta and stir to coat.

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.

I have so much to say, but no where to start.  When I’m at a loss, I usually retreat to the kitchen, so that’s what I’ll do now, and I’ll tell you that today, my kitchen was a hub of productivity.  We’re hosting Thanksgiving this (this?) Thursday (this Thursday?!), and I’m in full-on preparation mode.  Today alone, I dispatched several sticks of butter (pie crusts, resting in the fridge, awaiting their fillings; buttermilk biscuits, frozen hockey pucks at the moment, but flaky rounds, with any luck, come Thanksgiving), mixed together a batch of ice cream (bourbon-vanilla bean, of course), and baked up a thin pan of cornbread, destined for stuffing, after a nice few days of drying out.

Thanksgiving, I own you.

Nothing else seems much in control, though.  I look at my last post, and I absolutely cannot believe that it’s been over a month since we last talked.  For the most part, I’ve got good excuses—family and friends, and travels.  But, the truth is, there’s been a lot of work too, and a fall that slipped away in the blink of an eye.

Out of these busy weeks, a new weeknight staple has emerged—a quinoa salad that features roasted broccoli, the florets sweet and nutty, against a bright, sour dressing that softens beneath the creaminess of feta.  The whole thing is confetti-ed with diced red onion and red pepper flakes. And I cannot get enough.

We’ve been making it over and over.  And we’ll make it again tomorrow night, in fact, while the Thanksgiving preparations continue (turkey pick-up!  dry brine!  cashews!  ice cream churning!).

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Looking for Thanksgiving inspiration? Check out the Thanksgiving recipe index.

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Quinoa with Roasted Broccoli, Arugula & Feta

Yield: 2 main dish servings (or 4 side dish servings)

1 cup quinoa
2 cups water
kosher salt
1 head broccoli
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, divided
red pepper flakes
1 tablespoon grainy mustard, divided
1 lemon, freshly squeezed
2 cups baby arugula
1/4 cup crumbled feta

Preheat oven to 475.  Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and set aside.

Combine quinoa, water, and a big pinch of salt in a pot.  Cover and bring to a boil.  Reduce heat and cook for 20-25 minutes, until the quinoa has absorbed the water.  Remove from heat and set aside (keep covered).

Meanwhile, prepare the broccoli. Cut the florets into bite-sized pieces.  Trim the woody end from the stalks, and, using a vegetable peeler, trim the tough outside layer from the stalks.  Slice the stalks into coins.  Toss the florets and coins in 1 tablespoon oil, a pinch of salt, and a healthy pinch of red pepper flakes.  Roast in the preheated oven for 20-25 minutes, until the broccoli is browned in spots.

In a big bowl, whisk together the grainy mustard and lemon juice.  Whisk in the remaining olive oil.  Add the arugula.  Add the quinoa and broccoli, when they are cooked, and toss to wilt the arugula and coat the salad with dressing.

Top with feta and serve.

I cooked what felt like a million things over the weekend, and I’ll eat almost none of them.  Instead, the dishes are stashed in my parents’ freezer—a stockpile for my mother’s recovery from back surgery, which will be slow and tough for her, but (by god!) she will not be hungry.

On Saturday, I chopped and simmered and stirred all day, making a spectacular mess with which my sister tried to keep up (she’s a saint).  I was on my feet for hours and hours, at my mother’s stove, her counter, her sink, using her knives, her pots and pans, her pantry ingredients.  All the while, she was in bed.

I brought her bites of things as I finished the various dishes, and she ooh-ed and ahh-ed.  She said she loved the smells of garlic and roasting tomatoes and savory soups, which wafted from the main floor kitchen all the way upstairs to her bedroom.

I left on Sunday, and of course it felt too soon.  But I knew a piece of me—a piece of my food—would stay behind, feeding my parents in the coming days.  That helped me, and I hope it’s helping my mom, too.

This stew wasn’t on the roster of soups and salads and such that I made on Saturday, but it would’ve been a perfect addition.  Instead, I think I’ll make if for my mom when she’s well again, when we can sit at the table and eat together.

Beef Stew with Carrots & Mushrooms
Slightly Adapted from Cooking Light

4-6 servings

olive oil
1 pound small cremini mushrooms
2 cups chopped onion
3 garlic cloves, minced
1/3 cup all-purpose flour (about 1 1/2 ounces)
2 pounds lean beef stew meat, cut into bite-sized pieces
3/4 teaspoon salt, divided
1 cup dry red wine
1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme
28 ounces less-sodium beef broth
1 bay leaf
1 pound small new potatoes (halved if large, kept whole if small)
1 1/2 cups (1-inch) slices carrot (about 12 ounces)
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Fresh thyme sprigs (optional)

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).