Champagne Panna Cotta with Sugared Grapes

I'm not really much of a New Year's resolutions sort of person, so let's just get that straight right now. But each year, while enjoying the hair of the dog that bit me, I do like to ponder areas in which I might like to improve. Like, say, managing my time better and becoming more efficient in all categories. So I'm starting with Champagne Panna Cotta with Sugared Grapes, because hey, it's like cocktails and dessert all rolled into one! An awesome way to multitask, I'd say. Guess I'm already ahead of the game. Happy New Year to me!


Don't let the fancy-pants look of this dessert fool you--panna cotta is dead simple and one of my very favorite things to make. If you've never made panna cotta and are rather mystified by the whole thing, you'll be hysterically pleased to learn that it's nothing more than gelled cream. Unless you come to my house, then your panna cotta will probably have booze in it, too. And we'll eat it in on the couch wearing pajama pants to ring in the New Year. That's just the way it is.


The pretty little sugared grapes that adorn the main event here actually manage to be even easier than the panna cotta itself. You can turn just about any fruit into a sparkling little gem just by coating it with a thin layer of egg white and rolling it about in sugar. True story. Putting these little jewels on top of something as crazy and lovely as Champagne panna cotta might seem like gilding the lily, but why not? We're ringing in the New Year here, people! Not to mention that this recipe is basically a truckload of pizazz for very little effort, which, coincidentally, is also something I hope to experience a lot of in 2011.

Happy New Year, darling readers!


Champagne Panna Cotta with Sugared Grapes

Use whatever dry Champagne or sparkling wine that you like, but definitely choose one you enjoy drinking for the best flavor. I keep the sugar low here in the initial steps so that you can sweeten it according to your Champagne choice and your personal taste, so be sure to have a bit of extra sugar set aside so you can sweeten the custard to your liking before chilling. The sugared grapes can be made days in advance and frozen until you're ready to use them. The same technique can be used for tiny bunches of Champagne grapes, if you can find them, or any other fruit.

This is a great make-ahead dessert. In fact, the farther in advance you make it, the less boozy and more balanced in flavor the final result will be, up to 3 days ahead of when you're going to serve it.

With all its booziness, this is obviously an adult dessert, but I don't see why you couldn't swap out the alcohol for sparkling white grape juice or cider. Just be judicious with how much sugar you add to the cream before warming it.

Serves 8

For the panna cotta:

1 1/2 cups chilled Champagne or dry sparkling wine of your choice, divided
4 teaspoons unflavored powdered gelatin (just shy of 2 packets)
3 cups heavy cream
2/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar, divided (see note)
Pinch of salt
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

For the sugared grapes:

40 large green grapes
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 egg white, at room temperature
Pinch of salt
Squeeze of fresh lemon juice

Put 1/2 cup of the chilled champagne in a small bowl and sprinkle the gelatin over it. Let soften for 5 minutes.

Combine the cream, 2/3 cup of the sugar, salt and vanilla in a small saucepan. Warm the mixture gently over medium heat, but do not let it boil. When the cream is warm, whisk in the softened gelatin. Cool for 5 minutes.

Pour the remaining 1 cup of Champagne in a medium bowl. Slowly whisk in the cream mixture. Taste and add additional sugar if needed (I usually add about 2 more tablespoons at this point, depending on the Champagne I use). Divide equally among 8 individual ramekins, custard cups or coffee cups. Chill until firm, at least 4 hours, or up to 72 hours in advance (cover tightly with plastic wrap past the 4 hour mark).

To make the sugared grapes, wash and pat the grapes dry. Place the sugar in a shallow bowl.

Whisk together the egg white and salt in a separate bowl. Salt will help denature the protein in the egg white, so keep whisking for a minute until the white goes from gooey and slimy to something much more thin and liquidy. Whisk in the lemon juice.

Toss the grapes in the egg white mixture until coated. Place on paper toweling and pat until just moistened with the egg--you want them to have a bit of shine and still be damp, but with no visible drops of egg white clinging to them. Toss the grapes in the sugar and roll them around to coat completely. Use as garnish immediately, or refrigerate on a dry sheet pan until ready to use.

Strawberry Angel Pavlovas

Let's just get one thing straight right now: I'm a Midwestern person at heart. Born and raised in Illinois and proud of it. It's a wonderful place to be from, and to me, there's no better place to be in the summer. But I've lived in California for seven years, and although I used to think that someday I'd return to where I'm from to raise my kids, now you'd have to drag me kicking and screaming. Or at least grumbling the whole way. Because I've been brainwashed in that crazy way that so many Californians are, which is to say that, generally speaking, I totally believe that there's no better place to live. I still can't believe that I get to live here. The mild weather, the ability to see the mountains and the ocean in the same day, and all our year-round crazy sexy produce. I never understood the appeal of an avocado until I moved to California, and the strawberries, people. The strawberries!


Now, we have access to decent strawberries pretty much all year, but man, when prime strawberry season really hits here, we've got insanely gorgeous ones coming out our ears at criminally cheap prices. Pints at the registers in corner stores, full flats being hocked on street corners, even the organic berries are a steal right now. The fragrance smacks you in the face as soon as you walk into even the largest supermarket, piles of the kind of glistening, plump fruit that reveals a bleeding red interior all the way through when sliced. Like strawberries on Mother Nature's steroids, I tell you. So awesome. And although I love a sparkling sorbet or a great shortcake recipe to showcase them, I think I've found my new favorite way to love on strawberries in their prime. I give you Strawberry Angel Pavlovas.


This recipe was inspired by one from the grande dame of the California culinary scene, she of the famous waffle recipe, Marion Cunningham. Her recipe for Strawberry Angel Pie got an instant bookmark--what's not to obsess over when you're dealing with a pie that involves a crisp meringue crust, billows of freshly whipped cream dotted with strawberries and dreamy lemon cream? Huminuh, huminuh.


As I'm wont to do with recipes with which I become obsessed, I thought about making that dang pie pretty much nonstop as soon as I found it, but hesitated because of the high risk of wasted delicious food. See, despite the insatiable sweet teeth that reside in this household, I really doubted we could demolish an entire pie in a day (not that I mentioned this to the husband, for fear he'd take pause, raise an eyebrow and ask if I'd care to make it interesting). And the reason it would all need to go down within one day is that with a base of delicate meringue and temperamental whipped cream, this is the sort of thing that you have to assemble and put in your face before it all starts to break down. But then I got all smart all of a sudden and opted to make pretty-pretty individual Strawberry Angel Pies, Pavlova-style.


Pavlova, for the record, would probably be up there for dessert after my very last meal. Not that I'm anticipating having my last meal anytime soon. That's a horrible thing to say. How morbid. Sorry. But really, guys--crisp on the outside, marshmallowy-inside meringue shells topped with a bright lemon cream and whipped cream and peak of the season strawberries? Perfection. So perfect, it should be someone's very first dessert. So let's say that instead. The first dessert for a brand new, sweet-smelling little baby angel from heaven. There, that's much better.


Strawberry Angel Pavlovas
Adapted from Marion Cunningham's recipe in The San Francisco Chronicle Cookbook

If you'd like to make this recipe into a pie like the original, then just spread the meringue in a buttered 9-inch pie plate, and bake just like you would for the shells. Fill with the lemon cream, then pile on the strawberry whipped cream.

Whether you make the individual Pavlovas or just one big pie, save your assembly for right before your serve it. The meringue can be baked a day in advance (store airtight), the strawberries sliced, and the lemon custard made the day before, stored in the fridge with a sheet of plastic wrapped pushed right on the surface (rewarm it a bit by placing the bowl in a pan of warm water and stirring well, just too loosen it up a little). This recipe can be halved to make four Pavlovas--just use a handheld mixer for the smaller amounts of eggs and cream.

Serves 8

4 eggs at room temperature, separated
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon grated lemon zest
2 cups fresh strawberries, hulled and sliced, plus more for garnish
1/3 cup powdered sugar
1 1/2 cups heavy cream

Position an oven rack in the center of the oven and preheat it to 275 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone baking mat.

For the meringues: In the bowl of an electric mixer, place the egg whites, salt and cream of tartar. Beat on medium speed until soft peaks form, then slowly rain in 1 cup of the sugar. Beat on high until the meringue is stiff and glossy. Beat in the vanilla extract.

Portion the meringue into 8 mounds on the baking sheet, a generous 1/4 cup full each (a standard ice cream scoop works well to keep things even). Using a spoon, shape each mound into a little meringue nest, each about 4 inches in diameter. To create a small well in the center of each meringue shell, first rest the bowl of the spoon in the center of each meringue, horizontal to the baking sheet, then hold the spoon by the very end of the stem and turn it in a circle as you pull it up and off the meringue.

Bake the meringues in the center of the oven until they are firm and lightly golden, about 1 hour. Let them cool completely on the baking sheet in the turned-off oven with the door open.

For the lemon custard: Beat the egg yolks with an electric mixer until they are thick and pale yellow. Gradually beat in the sugar, then the lemon juice and zest. Scrape the mixture into a small, nonreactive saucepan and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until thickened, about 5 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat and let the custard cool completely.

For the strawberries: Place the strawberries in a medium bowl. Sprinkle with the confectioners' sugar and toss well to coat. Set aside.

When you're ready to assemble the Pavlovas, whip the cream until it hold stiff peaks (you should have about 3 cups whipped cream). Fold 1 cup of the whipped cream gently into the lemon custard. Fold the strawberries into the remaining 2 cups of whipped cream.

Place the meringues on individual plates. Divide the lemon cream equally among the 8 meringue shells, and top with the strawberry whipped cream. Garnish with more strawberry slices. Serve immediately.

Blood Orange Panna Cotta

In relation to my number of years on Earth, I have probably worked more jobs than anyone else you know. I'll provide just a few examples. Upscale stationary shop girl. Nanny. Celebrity interviewer. Envelope stuffer. Makeup artist. Lecturer on random topics. Law office helper girl. Movie and TV extra and stand-in. Newsroom intern. Workout place counter girl. Proofreader of office supply catalogs. The list is insane and endless. Now, to be clear, this does not mean that I am a workaholic--no, far from it. My wacky patchwork of a resume absolutely comes from the sometimes practically negative length of time spent at each place. Apparently, for quite some time I reversed the old adage to say, "Winners always quit".


In truth, I didn't quit every single job flippantly. No, each quitting would have me all wound up with ulcer-level angst in the days leading up to it. As much as I may have wanted to leave each job, I never really wanted to let anyone down. Except for the time I left a job in the fashion of asking to be fired. I'd been trying to let them down for months.


They'd even issued me a corporate "Back on Track" plan, a document which encouraged me to stop letting them down by a certain date lest I be fired, which only made me try to let them down harder. And at the expiry date of the "Back on Track" plan, they still didn't fire me, so I was forced to point out the calendar date to my manager and inform her that it was clearly time to fire me. Which she did, after a very, very long and befuddled pause. True story.

There was also the time I was fired without my knowing. This was in college, a part-time job that had me calling up a recurring list of delightfully chatty old people and asking them to donate their blood for their platelets. I actually really liked that job, so much so that I was there right up until Spring Break. My boss, a no B.S. type named Judy, asked when my school break was, I told her. Done annnnd done, right? Um, not quite.


I left town for a week for vacation, blissfully unaware that she'd scheduled me for extra hours since I wouldn't have classes that week. Apparently they had a rule that if you didn't show up for work for three days without calling, you were automatically fired. Which I found out when I showed up all tanned and ready to work the Monday after Spring Break and was informed that I'd been fired three days earlier. Further evidence that college students don't actually live in the Real World, even if they have a part-time job in it. I was all, "Hel-lo, Judy! It was my Spring Break!" Ha. That one still makes me laugh.


But there was one job that will always hold a special place in my heart and on my demented resume. And no, I'm not talking about motherhood (a job that's schooled my quitter behind in reality--there's no way I can get outta this gig). Several months before moving to San Francisco, with my pre-motherhood pluck and a whole lot of emphasis on my food and recipe obsession and writing background, I landed the most amazing opportunity to write recipes for Joe's Restaurant in Venice, California. Had my ambitious, brilliant and almost annoyingly successful husband not gotten a job that moved us up to San Francisco later that year, I'm sure I'd still be there at Joe's in the late afternoons, all scrappy for hours so I could experience the energy and artistry of the place, learning volumes about food, wine and the amazing dishes they turn out of that tiny, Michelin-starred kitchen.


When I left Joe's, I made sure to take note of a few recipes that I'd bookmarked among the hundreds of splattered, crinkled pages in the restaurant's archives. I could prattle on all day about the fabulous savory dishes at Joe's, but some of the desserts would probably make you cry with joy. I've been wanting to tell you about this Blood Orange Panna Cotta recipe for ages, and with my citrus obsession in full swing, it's the perfect time to finally get to it. That, and the fact that Valentine's Day is right around the corner and this would be the absolutely perfect button on a romantic meal a deux, or even just pour un, because you're worth it.


Panna cotta is one of my very favorite desserts, even though it amounts to little more than gelled cream. So simple, so right. The addition of the bright, sweet-tart juice of blood oranges really makes the dish here. And the color, people! The color! So beautiful. I served mine with a little extra dollop of unsweetened whipped cream because, you know, more is more, and could not have felt better about the whole experience. Oh Blood Orange Panna Cotta, I wish I knew how to quit you.



Blood Orange Panna Cotta
Loosely adapted from Joe's Restaurant in Venice, California

Serves 4

1 1/2 teaspoons unflavored gelatin powder
3 tablespoons cold water
1 cup freshly squeezed blood orange juice
1 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
3/4 cup buttermilk

Sprinkle the gelatin over the cold water in a small bowl and let soften for five minutes.

Pour the blood orange juice into a small saucepan and bring it to a boil. Reduce by half, about five minutes. Pour the reduction into a small bowl and set aside to cool slightly.

Give the saucepan a quick rinse and dry and set it back on the stove. In it, place the cream and sugar and warm it over medium heat, stirring occasionally, just until it begins to simmer--do not boil. Meanwhile, heat the softened gelatin in the microwave on high heat until it's melted, about 15 seconds. When the cream is ready, whisk in the melted gelatin and vanilla until the mixture is smooth. Pour the cream mixture into a metal bowl set over an ice bath. Stir until cool to the touch. Whisk in the buttermilk and the reduced blood orange juice. Pour into four custard cups or ramekins set in a large shallow dish. Chill until set, at least 2 hours, or up to 24 hours.

When the panna cotta is set, unmold by dipping each dish in a pan of warm water, nudging the edges of the panna cotta from the dish with a thin knife if necessary, and invert them onto serving plates.

Meyer Lemon Pot de Cr�me

So I figured as long as we're on the citrus train, why stop at cake? Why not share a recipe with you that not only celebrates the totally fabulous Meyer lemon, but pairs it with cream, an ingredient that just makes the whole thing so right that you may just shed a tear? I give you Meyer Lemon Pot de Cr�me. And a dollop of fresh raspberry sauce to boot.

Now, guys, I make a lot of desserts. Some might say an alarming amount, but that is neither here nor there. It's quite a feat for something to be declared a real winner. For my main taste tester (that would be my darling husband) to have more than just a few cookies from a batch or one slice of a cake is a Big Deal these days. The results of my baking abilities were much more exciting when they were newly revealed in the beginning of our marriage. But before this unintentionally goes into a downward spiral of a metaphor gone horribly wrong, let me get to my point--boyfriend had two helpings of this pot de cr�me the day it was made. It was that good.

So Meyer lemons are basically the definition of ubiquitous these days, aren't they? But man, they totally live up to their reputation. With zest so fragrant and juice so sweet (for lemon juice, anyway), they are worth stealing if you happen to have a neighbor with a Meyer lemon tree. In this case, though, I did not actually steal these particular lemons.


I bought them from this charming old lady parked out in front of our corner market. She'd set up a little stand with mounds of bright Meyer lemons and enormous grapefruits and a handwritten cardboard sign that was curling at the edges and advertising a price so low it was practically criminal. And when we got to talking about how her son drives the fruit all the way from Stockton into the city, and how they don't really make a profit anyway, but that day he'd gotten a speeding ticket on the way down and so now they were really in the hole, well, guess who ended up guilt-purchasing an armload of Meyer lemons? Anyway.


Since I've already told you about my favorite lemon bars, and it hasn't exactly been sorbet or lemon meringue pie weather around here, I went for a pot de cr�me recipe I'd bookmarked in recent months that paired the vibrant fruit with a swirl of cream and the Rhoda to its Mary--a perfectly simple, fresh raspberry sauce.


All the flavors here--the zing of lemon, the counterpoint of lush cream and the sweet, lusty raspberries offering a perfect finish--work in a way that reminds you that some things were just meant to be together. Sort of like the way all those Meyer lemons found me that day.

And you know what they say--when life guilt-trips you into buying an insane quantity of lemons, make pot de cr�me.



Meyer Lemon Pot de Cr�me with Raspberry Sauce
Adapted from Food in the City

Can you use regular lemons? Yes, yes you can. But seek out organic ones so you don't end up zesting a bunch of pesticides into the dish. Also, sometimes I bring the flavor of regular lemon juice a little closer to that of a Meyer lemon by holding back a few tablespoons of lemon juice and replacing them with orange juice. There's also no reason not to use frozen raspberries for the sauce if you'd prefer.

Serves 4

For the cr�me:

1 1/4 cups heavy cream
2 teaspoons Meyer lemon zest
3 large eggs
1 large egg yolk
3/4 cup superfine sugar
1/2 cup freshly squeezed and strained Meyer lemon juice

For the raspberry sauce:

1/3 cup raspberries, fresh or frozen (thawed and drained)
2 teaspoons superfine sugar
1/2 teaspoon Meyer lemon juice

In a small saucepan over medium heat, heat the cream with the lemon zest just until small bubbles appear around the edge--do not boil. Remove the pan from the heat and let steep for 20 minutes.

Position a rack to the center of the oven and preheat it to 325 degrees. Place four 6-ounce custard cups, ramekins or coffee cups in a small roasting pan.

Return the pan of cream to the stove, and bring it to a simmer over medium heat. In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, egg yolk and superfine sugar and pour into the simmering cream, whisking constantly until the sugar dissolves. Whisk in the lemon juice. Remove the pan from the heat and pour the custard through a sieve and into a large measuring cup for easy pouring. Bring a large kettle or pot of water to boiling.

Divide the custard evenly among the four custard cups. Open the oven door, pull out the oven rack, and place the roasting pan on the rack. Slowly pour boiling water into the roasting pan until it reaches about halfway up the sides of the custard cups. Carefully slide the rack back into the oven, being careful not to splash water into the cups. Bake until just set, about 35-40 minutes.

Remove the cups from the pan and let cool completely on a wire rack. Cover with plastic wrap and chill for 2-24 hours before serving.

To make the sauce, puree together the raspberries, sugar and lemon juice. Serve each pot de cr�me with a dollop of the sauce, plus extra on the side.

Puddin' for My Puddin'

You know what's less fun than taking care of a sick baby? Oh, wait, that's right. THERE IS NOTHING LESS FUN THAN TAKING CARE OF A SICK BABY. I-yi-yi. Little C got a case of something nasty a while back (just a bad cold, thank God, a small bright spot of the whole ordeal in our H1N1-fearing times), and the frustration and exhaustion was akin to the early weeks of motherhood. And by that I mean the time period during which half of my waking moments were spent devising a plan to crawl unnoticed into a dark closet with a bottle of Wild Turkey so I could sob and question why I decided to become a parent in peace.

Yeah, taking care of a sick kid is no fun, indeed. Night wakings. Crying, whining, crying, whining (from mother and child). Child vibrating with overtired energy, screaming and struggling violently with pudgy limbs against a mother wielding the thermometer/Tylenol/Kleenex/nose suction thing--roughly one hundred times per day. Child sobbing and desperately wanting something she can't express, mother frantically trying to guess what that thing might be just to make something better for at least five flipping minutes so I don't lose my ever-loving mind. Repeat.


And on top of all of that drama comes the not eating. Naturally, when we're sick, we don't feel much like eating, but to a worried mother of a sick baby, this logic goes out the window. I was convinced my daughter was going to wither away and die from starvation if this vicious, exotic illness didn't take her first. So I inanely pushed food in my child's poor, snuffly, puffy face every chance I got, driving my own stress levels higher as the child refused all of my lame attempts. So much untouched food went into the trash in our home during those few days, I started looking over my shoulder for Sally Struthers to come read me the riot act.


In the interest of getting some calories in my poor babe, any at all, really, I gave up on forcing the "right foods" and just went for what I hoped would be a Sure Thing: a silky, homemade vanilla pudding with lots of comforting milk and eggs and an all-ages-palate-pleasing dose of brown sugar.


Like peace and quiet and the general wellness of my family, I'm kind of obsessed with homemade puddings of all sorts. They're just so delightfully real--the most basic ingredients, so simple, everything coming together with little fanfare, right on the stovetop with a wooden spoon. It just feels right. If there's a chicken soup of desserts, a sweet tooth's tonic to cure all ailments, homemade vanilla pudding has to be it. I would bet my Mommy Card on this claim.

So sure was I of the magical powers of this pudding, I was going to send this child back from whence she came if this tactic didn't work. But lo, it did. In fact, it was all she ate for two days straight. And if we're being honest here, it made up the bulk of my diet, too. Not a bad way to ease the suffering, for all parties involved. And even if you find yourself in gloriously good health this winter, there's really nothing like hunkering down with a cozy bowl of homemade pudding, maybe slightly warmed, or just straight from the fridge with a serving spoon.





Brown Sugar Vanilla Pudding

Using brown sugar in this recipe gives a really lovely caramel note and a great depth of flavor to the dish. But if you prefer a more straightforward vanilla pudding, just use all regular granulated sugar. You can also jazz up this recipe even more by scraping half a vanilla bean into the pot, and dropping the scraped pod into the mix as well.

Makes about 2 cups

3 tablespoons lightly packed light brown sugar
3 tablespoons granulated sugar
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt (or 1/4 teaspoon table salt)
2 cups whole milk
3 egg yolks, lightly beaten
2 tablespoon unsalted butter
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

Whisk together brown sugar, granulated sugar, cornstarch and salt in a medium saucepan. Whisking constantly, add about a third of the milk to the pan until the mixture is smooth. Whisk in the egg yolks, and then whisk in the rest of the milk.

Set the pan over medium heat and cook the pudding, whisking often, until is is thickened and just begins to bubble, about 6 to 7 minutes. Reduce the heat to low and switch to a rubber or silicone spatula to stir the pudding constantly for another 5 minutes or so, scraping the bottom and sides of the pan as you go. When you can run a track through the pudding on the back of the spatula with your fingertip and the track remains, remove the pan from the heat. Stir in the butter and the vanilla.

Set a sieve over a large bowl and strain the pudding to catch any wayward lumps of cooked egg yolk or cornstarch, using the spatula to encourage the pudding through the sieve. Lightly press a sheet of plastic wrap directly on the surface of the pudding to prevent a skin from forming, and refrigerate until the pudding is completely chilled and set, at least 2 hours.

Virtuous!

Happy New Year, darling readers! I hope you had a fabulous time celebrating with family and friends. I told you my big plans involved couching it in my stretchy yoga pants with a glass (or three) of Prosecco. Well, the couch and attire was a go, but unfortunately the bubbly was traded for a steaming cup of Theraflu and my poor husband rang in the New Year alone as I was knocked out cold by 9:30. Rock. Star.

But! One of the bonuses of forcing myself to sloooow dooown earlier in the day was that I got to leaf through cookbooks and long-bookmarked recipes and found one for a delightfully ambrosial and surprisingly virtuous strawberry mousse, just perfect for resetting after the holiday feast-fest and starting off the New Year right. Which is to say that I will be getting all up in your face with a buttery crumb cake before you can say "low fat". So don't worry, I'm not going to get all Susan Powter on you in 2010. But this mousse came out so dreamy and lovely that I just had to share it with you, virtue be damned.

This recipe is adapted from Nick Malgieri, he of phenomenal dessert cookbooks and recipes of all sorts. My love for his work comes very close to my near restraining-order-sized love for Lynne Rossetto Kasper and my coveting of all things Ina Garten. I celebrate his Entire. Catalogue. (name that movie!).

So I knew this recipe would at least be good, and that Malgieri wouldn't let a silly thing like lightening up a dessert get in the way of great flavor and texture, even a mousse, which is classically based on lots of egg yolks and whipped cream. And that definitely was true. This mousse is cloud-like, creamy and has huge strawberry flavor with just a few grams of fat and a wee bit of sugar. And, if you're counting, a good amount of protein and fiber as well. With some fresh strawberry slices added before serving, the whole thing feels like a simply delicious, edible spa treatment. Everyone together now: spoon, inhale, exhale, ahhhhh...




Virtuous Strawberry Mousse
Adapted from Perfect Light Desserts

Fresh or frozen berries can be used for this recipe. Experiment with other fruits with this formula and switch out the liqueurs accordingly raspberries (framboise), peaches (peach Schnapps) and cherries would be especially good. Be sure to use a small bowl for whipping the egg whites--it can be nearly impossible to get enough air into them if they're spread out in too large of a bowl. This recipe doubles easily.

Serves 4

2 cups (1 pint) whole strawberries, rinsed and hulled, fresh or thawed and drained frozen
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
1 1/2 teaspoons Kirsch (a clear cherry Brandy, optional)
2 1/2 tablespoons cold water
1 1/4 teaspoons unflavored powdered gelatin
1 cup low-fat ricotta cheese
1/3 cup egg whites (from about 2 large eggs)
Pinch of salt
1/4 cup sugar
1 cup sliced fresh strawberries, for serving


In a blender, finely puree the 2 cups of whole strawberries. Pour the puree into a small saucepan and simmer over medium-high heat until the puree is reduced to about 3/4 cup. Stir in the lemon juice and Kirsch and cool to room temperature (pouring it into a chilled bowl will move the cooling along quickly).

Place the water in a small, microwave-safe bowl and sprinkle the gelatin over the water. Let it soak for about 5 minutes.

When the strawberry puree has cooled, pour it back into the blender, along with the ricotta. Heat the bloomed gelatin in the microwave on high for about 15 seconds or until the gelatin is melted and clear when stirred. Add the melted gelatin to the blender and blend on the highest speed for 1 full minute, stopping to scrape down the pitcher if necessary. Pour the strawberry mixture into a large bowl.

Half-fill a small saucepan with water and set it to simmer over medium heat. In a small, heatproof metal bowl, whisk together the egg whites, salt and sugar. When the water is simmering, place the bowl over the pan and gently whisk until the egg whites are hot to the touch and the sugar has dissolved.

Beat the egg whites with an electric mixer on high speed until the egg whites form a stiff, glossy meringue and the bowl had cooled completely--it should not be warm at all. Gently whisk the meringue into the strawberry mixture until no traces of white remain (a whisk can help with blending). Spoon the mousse into 4 dessert dishes, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until ready to serve, at least one hour. Top the mousse with the strawberry slices just before serving. The mousse can be made up to one day ahead.

Only the Good Stuff

Dilemma: I recently worked with a recipe that I wanted to love so much because I am obsessed with the book from which it came and consequently am also in pink-puffy-heart love with the authors of said book. Unfortunately, when I tried this recipe, I was underwhelmed and have debated sharing it with you. However, there was a part of this recipe that was truly spectacular and definitely needs your attention, like, today.


The dilemma is this: do I hack the recipe and just share the good part even though I have nothing but major admiration for the recipe writers? Or do I talk about the recipe as a whole and hope that the not-good part was just something I did wrong even though I followed the recipe to the letter and am still so bitter about it? Let me eat more of the delicious butterscotch filling out of this bland-ass tart shell and think about it for a minute.


When a book has photos as glorious as Baked, my expectations for a recipe are sky-high before I even preheat the oven. They're the sort of images that pull you away from whatever else you're doing and propel you to make a trip to the market at an ungodly hour to get that one ingredient you don't have on hand. In this case, that was Butterfinger candy bars. I already had Scotch whiskey. Naturally.

My point is, I really, really wanted the exact Butterscotch Pudding Tarts that were in the photo. That was not to be. Now, I don't know if the image in the book was heavily warmed and saturated in Photoshop or somesuch, but my tart seriously paled in comparison. Literally.


I still don't get it. I am shaking my head as I type this, in fact. The golden, tweedy, oaty crust I could practically taste when I looked at the picture fell apart like lumpy sawdust while eating, even though I'd been so careful to only pulse the oats just a touch to keep their texture intact. I thought it may have been due to my halving the recipe to make one larger tart instead of eight individual ones, but when a small amount of leftover dough was baked in a tiny tart pan, I got the same beige result. I had double-checked my mise before starting, my ingredients were on point. And we can safely assume it was not a baking temperature issue, given my Type-A dedication to that. Wah-wuuuhhhhh.


But the Piece of Cake kitchen thrives on pulling itself up by its bootstraps and foraging ahead in the face of adversity and recipe-induced confusion. And the future involves making the luscious, just-boozy-enough butterscotch pudding all by itself and eating it out of a mixing bowl with a giant spoon. People, this stuff is manna from heaven. For real.


Even though my disappointment with the crust had me feeling a little like I'd gotten my hair pulled by my playground crush, I still love this cookbook and the concept of this dish--a lush, deeply caramelized filling with an earthy, not-too-sweet crust (that alluded me. Okay, that's the last comment about the crust. I swear. I'm over it, okay?). Like many of the recipes in this book, this one runs on an innovative preparation, a lot of flavorful dark brown sugar and just the right amount of salt to make things interesting.


The crushed Butterfinger candy scattered on top of the pudding is kitschy, but oh man, it's just the thing here. The touch of chocolate and the toothy crunch and the sweet-saltiness of the candy pairs like a fine port and...whatever goes really well with a fine port. This is late-night straight-from-the-fridge noshing at its finest.


So after much consideration, I think I'll leave you with a recipe for only the good stuff--the awesomely delicious butterscotch pudding from the original tart recipe. My reasoning is that on its own, this pudding is a dish I will be making again and again and can add it with great confidence to the Piece of Cake Recipe Box.

But if you're feeling adventurous, open up your copy of Baked (you do have one, don't you?) and make this recipe as it was intended, crust and all. Make the whole thing perfectly delicious and beautiful, just like the photo in the book, and leave me a comment about it with a photo so I can sob and whine about my failure a little more. Sound good? Awesome, thanks.


Butterscotch Pudding
Adapted from Baked: New Frontiers in Baking

Makes 8 servings

For this recipe, you will essentially making a caramel first, and then whisking that into a traditional pudding base. How dark you cook the caramel with determine the depth of color and flavor in the finished pudding.

Wait to garnish the pudding with the Butterfinger crumbles until just before serving, because the candy will begin to sort of dissolve and leak, er, Butterfinger juice (?) all over the surface of the pudding. Any leftovers will keep for about two days, refrigerated with plastic wrap pressed right onto the surface of the pudding. If you want to fill tart shells with this pudding, it will make 8 4-inch tarts. Halve this pudding recipe to fill one large 9-inch tart shell.


6 large egg yolks
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup firmly packed dark brown sugar
1/3 cup cornstarch, sifted
1 teaspoon salt
3 cups whole milk
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
2 tablespoons whiskey
1 Butterfinger candy bar, coarsely chopped


Put the egg yolks in a large heatproof bowl and set aside.

In a small saucepan, combine the granulated sugar and 1/4 cup water and stir it gently with a heatproof spatula, being careful not to splash the sides of the pan. Cook over medium heat until the sugar is dissolved, then raise the heat to medium-high and boil the syrup until it begins to smoke and turns a deep amber color. Swirl the pan if necessary, but do not stir. Remove the pan from the heat, let stand for one minute, and then carefully stir in the cream--the mixture will bubble and may splatter. Transfer the caramel to a small bowl and set aside.

In another small saucepan, combine the brown sugar, cornstarch and salt. Whisk in the milk and vanilla until well-blended. Put the pan over medium-high heat and whisk occasionally, until the mixture comes up to a boil. Remove the pan from the heat, and whisk in the caramel. Now whisk one third of of this hot milk/caramel mixture into the egg yolks until smooth. Scrape the egg yolk mixture back into the saucepan with the rest of the hot milk/caramel mixture. Turn the heat back up to medium-high, and whisking constantly, boil the pudding until it is very thick, about 2 to 3 minutes.

Remove the pudding from the heat and whisk in the butter and the whiskey. Whisk about one minute more to help the pudding cool down. Let the pudding rest for about 10 minutes before transferring it to a large measuring cup (or similar vessel with a pouring spout). Pour the pudding into 8 ramekins or custard cups. Place squares of plastic wrap directly on the surfaces of the puddings, and refrigerate them for about 2 hours before serving. Just before serving, sprinkle the top of each pudding with some of the crushed Butterfinger pieces.