Desserts

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Baba au rhum may be the most fabulous French dessert of them all

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By Leslie Brenner

“A forkful of rum-soaked baba and Chantilly is one of life’s great pleasures.” Coming from Aleksandra Crapanzano, that’s really saying something: The food columnist for The Wall Street Journal counts Gâteau, a volume filled with recipes for 117 French cakes, among the three cookbooks she has authored. She grew up in Paris and New York, and currently lives in New York, and no doubt she’s eaten some pretty delicious forkfuls.

Nor is she the only one who feels that way about baba: For eons, whenever I’d ask my husband Thierry what dessert he would like for various special occasions, he’d say “baba au rhum.”

If we were in France, fulfilling that wish would be easy: You find baba au rhum in just about every pastry shop, and pastry shops are everywhere. Chez nous, in the U.S.? Not so easy. I’d gladly have been baking babas all these years, but I didn’t have the requisite savarin mold — a speciality baking pan that’s not easy to source. Baba recipes aren’t exactly a dime a dozen, and one that read as legit never crossed my path. Until last year: For Christmas, Thierry finally got his baba.

I found the recipe in Crapanzano’s latest book, which had recently been published. (It is included in our Ultimate Cookbook Gift Guide.)

RECIPE: Baba au Rhum

It’s a splendid recipe, and Crapanzano solves the problem of the mold by calling for a Bundt pan. In fact, if you use a 6-cup Bundt pan, which I never knew existed, it’s the same size as a savarin mold. Eureka! I ran around the corner to the cookware shop and found one.

A year earlier, I spent many hours researching the history of the dessert, so that if one day I was able to make one I could provide background. I needn’t have bothered; Crapanzano supplies it:

“The history of this classic dates back to the early 1700s, when exiled Polish king Stanislas Leszczynski complained to his pastry chef, Nicolas Stohrer, that the kugelhopfs — the prized cake of Nancy, where he was living — were too dry. Stohrer responded by brushing his next kugelhopf with a rum soaking syrup, and a classic was born. Stanislaus named it baba after his favorite fictional character, Ali Baba, and the name stuck. When Leszczynski’s daughter married King Louis XV, she moved to Paris and brought Stohrer with her — smart woman. He went on to open what remains today one of the great pâtisseries of Paris.”

In case you’re wondering about the Chantilly part of the equation, the stuff that’s on Crapanzano’s happy forkful, that would be crème Chantilly — French for whipped cream. You can either serve each slice, as Crapanzano suggests, with an “excessive dollop” of it, or just before serving you can fill the center of the Bundt-shaped cake with a giant cloud of it.

This, of course, would be a delightful extravagance to finish any kind of holiday dinner. But you could also make a baba between the holidays — or on a dreary afternoon in January or February — and invite friends over to devour it.

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Recipe for Today: Nectarine Sorbet

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By Leslie Brenner

All of a sudden, we’re in the height of stone fruit season, and nectarines have been spectacular. This simple sorbet — adapted from a recipe in The Perfect Scoop by David Lebovitz — is fabulous on its own, and even more special with dropped into glasses of red wine.

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Last-minute holiday sweets: Easy desserts to pull together from stuff on hand

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Torta al Cioccolato — flourless chocolate cake — from ‘Via Carota’ cookbook comes together with butter, eggs and two bars of chocolate.

By Leslie Brenner

Got a couple of chocolate bars, four or five apples or a pack of sliced almonds? If so, with a couple pantry basics you can pull together a festive last-minute dessert that will dazzle and delight.

For those of us who resist planning ahead (it wasn’t our fault, right?!) I’ve pulled together a few of my favorite easy treats — including ways to adapt to what you have on hand.

A sumptuous torta al cioccolato

The magnificent flourless chocolate cake shown above, with its crackly crust and moist, rich center, can be yours if you’ve got half a dozen eggs, two 3.5-ounce chocolate bars, sugar, salt and cocoa powder or flour for dusting the pan.

Apple-Calvados (or -Brandy, -Rum, or -Whiskey) Cake

During apple season, I try to make sure I always have four or five apples on hand — first because I love eating them, but also in case I feel like baking up this easy beauty. Any kind of apples will do.

The cake evolved from a Dorie Greenspan recipe that called for rum. I love it with the French apple-brandy Calvados to double up on the apple flavor, but any kind of brandy (American apple-brandy, Spanish Brandy de Jerez, French Cognac or Armagnac, etc.), rum or even bourbon or other whiskey work, too. The types of flour you can use are flexible, as well.

Your Favorite Chocolate Mousse

Here’s a chocolate mousse you can make if you have two 3.5-ounce chocolate bars and four eggs. Flavor it however you like: with vanilla or almond extract, just about any kind of liqueur, or espresso. The garnish is a free-for-all, too.

Almond Tuiles

Got sliced almonds? Make these crisp and pretty almond tuiles — which are lovely on their own or serve with ice cream or cake.

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Easy, fabulous and just a little boozy: Say 'bonjour' to Apple Calvados Cake

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By Leslie Brenner

If you’ve got a few apples, a springform pan and a splash of brown liquor, have we got a cake for you.

Easygoing and pretty much foolproof, this spirited apple cake is majestic enough to impress celebrants around a dinner table, casual enough to nibble with a cup of coffee on a rainy afternoon, and laid-back-festive enough to feature at brunch.

One very much like it first grabbed my attention when Dorie Greenspan published her wonderful book Around My French Table more than a decade ago. In it, I found a dessert called Marie-Hélène’s Apple Cake, which Greenspan described as “more apple than cake.” Ah, oui!

Over the years, I’ve played with it — first swapping out half of the all-purpose flour for whole wheat flour, and then getting rid of both and using spelt flour instead, for maximum ancient-grain goodness. Then I switched Greenspan’s dark rum for Calvados — France’s famous apple brandy. Wowie kazowie! That double-apple thing is spectacular. Apple jack works just as well.

Don’t have apple brandy? And kind of brandy — Cognac, Armagnac, Spanish Brandy de Jerez, whatever you’ve got will be great. Or use whiskey, such as bourbon or rye.

It’s all good. So is the apple situation: Grab four apples, whatever kind you happen to have, including mix-and-match. Cut them into big chunks, and fold them into a quickly whisked batter that doesn’t even require you to plug in a mixer.

Baked up, the apples melt into softness, gently cloaked in cake. It’s so nice that all through fall and into winter, I try always to have apples on hand in case the mood strikes. Thank you, Dorie — and Marie-Hélène, whoever you are.

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Showstopper dessert encore: Make Ottolenghi's fabulous rolled Pavlova while we still have peaches!

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EDITOR’S NOTE: This story was first published on July 30, 2021. Yotam Ottolenghi and Helen Goh’s rolled Pavlova continues to be one of our favorite desserts ever. Peaches should be available from somewhere in the United States for at least two or three more weeks, so now’s the time to thinking about making it.

By Leslie Brenner

Looking for something fabulous and sweet to make this weekend or next? Or maybe you want something to wow a crowd during your upcoming August vacation?

Look no further: This rolled Pavlova from Sweet: Desserts from London’s Ottolenghi is absolutely smashing. Dramatic and gorgeous, it makes a hell of an impression — but it actually requires surprisingly little effort.

If you’ve never had or made a Pavlova, it’s actually quite simple: just whip egg whites with sugar until they’re thick and glossy, add a little vanilla for flavor and a touch of vinegar and cornstarch to stabilize, spread it on a parchment lined sheet pan and bake. When it comes out of the oven, it’ll be super-light, crisp and crusty on the outside and marshmallowy-soft on the inside. Round ones make great bases you can use in place of the shortcake for strawberry shortcake, or you can make a big one, dollop on whipped cream, top it with fruit and nuts and make a gorgeous statement. We’ve been doing both of those for years. Pavlovas are particularly wonderful for anyone needing or wanting to eat gluten-free.

But we’d never heard of a rolled Pavlova until we were flipping through Sweet last weekend, looking for a fruit dessert that we hoped would wow some wonderful new friends we’d invited to dinner.

And wow, did it! Not only was it a show-stopper; it was actually a show — everyone wanted to watch the dramatic roll-it-up maneuver. Then cutting the slices (thick ones! delightful crackly noise!) was its own entertaining moment.

The recipe probably reads a little scary if you’ve never made a Pavlova before — rolling a flat, crisp, thick meringue could seem perilous — but I knew it would be soft enough inside that rolling it up should be no problem. More than a show-stopper; it was actually a show — everyone wanted to watch the dramatic roll-it-up maneuver. Then cutting the slices (thick ones! delightful crackly noise!) was its own entertaining moment.

The Pavlova was dreamy to eat: Lots of ripe and super-flavorful peak-season peaches and juicy blackberries mingling with whipped cream inside the soft and crunchy meringue roulade, with more whipped cream, fruit and toasted sliced almonds on top. Our friends had brought along a delightful Muscat de Beaumes-de-Venise — one of my all-time favorite dessert wines — a glorious match, thanks to the peaches.

OK, I know what you’re thinking: Need to run out and buy peaches, blackberries, cream and eggs. Do let us know how you love it.

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Duck season? Rabbit season? Maybe — but dessert-wise, it's . . . Pavlova season!

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By Leslie Brenner

One evening fifteeen years ago, when I was living in Los Angeles, my friend Jenni wowed me at dinner with a magnificent dessert: a cloud-like pouf of meringue, crunchy on the outside and soft-chewy in the center, topped with a glorious mess of berries snuggled on a cushion of whipped cream and scattered with toasted chopped pistachios.

My spring and summer desserts would never be the same.

The dessert, called a Pavlova, has a down-under pedigree, invented about a hundred years ago, either in Australia or New Zealand (it’s unclear which), where it first showed up laden with strawberries, kiwis and passion fruit. It was named for the Russian prima ballerina Anna Pavlovna Pavlova, who visited both countries in the 1920s. My friend Jenni, born and raised in South Africa, had fallen in love with the dessert there as a young girl.

When Jenni feted us with one back in 2007, Pavlovas were something you’d usually only see in restaurants (if you saw one at all) and probably mostly on the coasts, in New York, San Francisco or L.A. But those restaurant versions were small, smooth, perfect and formal-looking — nothing like that wild, craggy, irresistible mess I fell in love with at Jenni’s.

The cake that launched the Ottolenghi empire

Since then, Pavlovas’ popularity has grown — fueled in no small part by London chef Yotam Ottolenghi, whose 2017 cookbook Sweet (co-authored by Helen Goh) features on its cover a magnificent full-sized cinnamon version slathered with praline cream and covered with gorgeous slices of ripe figs and pistachios. Sweet!

In fact, spectacular lofty Pavlovas were essential in launching Ottolenghi’s restaurant and global cookbook empire. For his first professional kitchen job, as the Israeli-born chef tells us in the introduction to Sweet, he spent much of his time whipping egg whites for vanilla soufflés. And then, he writes:

“I ended up making my name on egg whites, sugar and lots and lots of air. The famously giant Ottolenghi meringues, which have adorned our windows for many years, have become our trademark.”

When it comes to busy home cooks, Pavlovas have a wealth of advantages. Surprisingly easy to make, they’re not only impressive and dramatic, but also forgiving — as their vibe is abundantly fruity and disheveled. Perfection is not required, nor even recommended.

Whipped meringue disc, ready to go into the oven

The Pavlova’s foundation is a thick disc of meringue — which you make by beating egg whites and sugar until stiff, spreading on a parchment-lined baking sheet, and baking slowly. As it cools, it becomes crisp on the outside and soft on the inside. Use that time to macerate fruit. Whip some cream, slather it on the meringue, top with fruit, add enhancements like nuts (if desired), and voilà.

The baked meringue disc: Don’t worry; it’s not supposed to be perfect! The crags and crannies will catch the whipped cream and fruit juice.

Pavlovas are adaptable — make them full-size, individual, or anything in-between, and top them with whatever fruit is available and great-looking. You can flavor the meringue with extracts, liqueurs, spices or chocolate, or play with their texture by using brown sugar (as Ottolenghi does in his cinnamon-flavored fig and pistachio Pavlova).

This time of year, as strawberries are coming into season (no doubt they’re already resplendently displayed in Southern California on the beloved Harry’s Berries stand at Santa Monica Farmer’s Market), I like to make simple small ones featuring the juicy red fruit. (Happy spring!)

For the one shown here, I macerated the berries in orange liqueur and used them to adorn individually sized meringues. Want to dress them up a little more? Sprinkle on a little citrus zest and finish with toasted sliced almonds. They’re just the thing for spring holidays, like Easter or Mother’s Day. And if you’re looking for a flour-free dessert for Passover, look no further! (Which means yes, they’re gluten-free.)

Of course a full-on assortment of berries — blackberries, raspberries, strawbs and blueberries, as shown in the photo at top on a full-size Pavlova — is wonderful, too.

In summer, once stone fruits come into play, peaches, plums and apricots dance delightfully atop meringues. Or they can even get rolled up into them, as in this inventive spin by the Pavlova master himself, Ottolenghi.

To achieve that one, you make a meringue that’s rectangular rather than round. Spread a filling of whipped cream, berries, peaches and toasted sliced almonds on top, and roll it up. Yes, it probably sounds crazy if you’ve ever made meringues, but it works. Then more fruit goes on top, with a dusting of powdered sugar. Served in slices, it’s crazy good.

One of the glorious things about Pavlova season is that it’s luxuriously long. Late summer and fall, you could make make Ottolenghi’s sliced fig number. Or mix it up with late-season plums, or persimmons, or some roasted grapes. Toasted walnuts would be lovely on that.

But for now, we have spring, with all its delicious possibility. My recommendation for making most of the season? Get all messy with meringues and fruit and treat yourself (and friends and family, of course!) to one.

RECIPE: Strawberry Pavlovas

RECIPE: Berry Pavlova with Pistachios

RECIPE: Showstopper Rolled Pavlova with Peaches and Blackberries

READ: “Make this showstopper summer dessert: Rolled Pavlova with Peaches and Blackberries, from Ottolenghi’s ‘Sweet’”

Read: “Messy, gorgeous and dramatic: The berry Pavlova is a spring-into-summer stunner”

FIND: More Cooks Without Borders desserts

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This glorious plum-and-blackberry buckwheat tart is way easier than pie

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Plum and Blackberry Buckwheat Tart

By Leslie Brenner

Lazy bakers, this one’s for you.

If you know anything about galettes, you know that the free-form pastries are super-forgiving, nearly foolproof. Hard to imagine, then, that the enticing tart shown in the photo above is actually (ahem!) a failed galette.

Here’s how it came to be. (I promise to make the story snappy and get right to the super-easy recipe.) On a recent trip to France, my husband Thierry and I lucked into a kilometers-long stretch of wild blackberry vines. After picking our way into purple-fingered, mûre sauvage happiness — with about a kilo of wild blackberries as our prize — I thought, time to bake a galette. I was looking for ease, didn’t want to make a pastry cream, and didn’t have a tart pan (or a rolling pin, or measuring tools, or a full-size oven) in Thierry’s mom’s kitchen.

I reached for Melissa Clark’s excellent New York Times master recipe for Fruit Galette. I had to make the galette oval, not round (to fit in the tiny oven!) but the wild blackberry galette was pretty damn wonderful! In fact, quick and easy as it was, it was one of the best tarts I’d ever made.

Wild blackberry galette

Wild blackberry galette

And so, when I returned home to Texas and wanted to make a lazy-person’s dessert featuring summer-into-fall blackberries and plums, I thought — naturally — of a galette.

Thing is, I’m crazy about whole grains and ancient grains, and love to incorporate them in baking projects whenever possible. Buckwheat, I thought, would be particularly nice with those deep early autumn fruit flavors, so half the flour would be buckwheat flour (and the rest all-purpose flour). I’d cut back the sugar and cornstarch — as I did with the wild berry galette — expecting success.

But when I tried rolling out the dough, it refused to hold together.

Aha!, I thought. Buckwheat does not have gluten, so the dough is not elastic enough to roll, even after resting an hour.

I pivoted, grabbed a 9-inch tart pan with a removable bottom, and pressed the dough into it: a perfect fit. Much easier than pie. (Anyone with fear of crust-rolling should be delighted!)

I chose not to blind-bake the crust, and didn’t give the dough time to rest after pressing it into the pan: This is truly a lazy baker’s tart. No need to peel any fruit, nor meticulously arrange carefully cut fruit into concentric circles. Just cut the plums in eighths (removing the pits), toss them with blackberries, sugar, cornstarch and a pinch of salt, dump the mixture into the crust, scatter sliced almonds on top (no need to toast first), and bake. It’s that simple.

And it was amazingly good. I’ll be baking this baby again and again. (Can’t wait, in fact!) The buckwheat flavor was right on; the crust was tender and flaky; the almonds were lovely with the the fruit, whose flavors concentrated gorgeously.

Want to try? Here’s the recipe.

Happy autumn!

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Cookbooks We Love: David Lebovitz's 'The Perfect Scoop' is the only ice cream book you'll ever need

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Our photo of ‘The Perfect Scoop’ shows the 2007 first-edition paperback, but our review refers to the 2018 updated and revised edition.

Our photo of ‘The Perfect Scoop’ shows the 2007 first-edition paperback, but our review refers to the 2018 updated and revised edition.

By Leslie Brenner

The Perfect Scoop: 200 Recipes for Ice Creams, Sorbets, Gelatos, Granitas and Sweet Accompaniments (revised and updated), by David Lebovitz, photographs by Ed Anderson, 2018, Ten Speed Press, $24.99

Backgrounder: Paris-based former Chez Panisse pastry chef David Lebovitz has a wonderful blog and website (which you should be following if you love sweets or French cooking); we always refer to his section on Paris restaurants when we find ourselves in the City of Lights. He is the author of many excellent books, including Drinking French, Ready for Dessert, My Sweet Life in Paris and others (he has published nine in total), and The Perfect Scoop is our favorite of them all. Originally published in 2007, Lebovitz revised and updated it in 2018, adding a dozen new recipes, and it is that edition that’s the basis of this review and the recipes we’ve adapted.

Why We Love it: Lebovitz is the undisputed king of ice cream, and we’ve been making his frozen desserts since way back when the book was first published. The recipes always work perfectly as written, but they’re eminently riffable, and even provide such a strong foundation that if you’re a confident cook, you can probably start creating your own recipes. Besides chapters on the frozen desserts themselves, there are also chapters on Sauces and Toppings (Classic Hot Fudge, Cajeta, Candied Red Beans), Mix-Ins (Butter Pecans, Peppermint Patties) and “Vessels” (Ice Cream Cones, Crêpes, Profiteroles, Brownies).

We’ve made or tasted probably at least a dozen frozen desserts in the book, which besides ice cream, also includes gelatos, sorbets, sherbets and sorbettos, frozen yogurts, ices, granitas and ice pops. Recently, we made up a batch of Lebovitz’s Watermelon Sorbetto, pouring into ice-pop molds and turning it into not-too-sweet watermelon paletas (so good!). His Lavender-Honey Ice Cream is one of our favorites ever; Peach Ice Cream is a Philadelphia-style (no eggs) classic you’ll love all summer long; Cinnamon Ice Cream is classic as well. At Christmastime, Egg Nog Ice Cream is killer, and any time of year, Lemon Sorbet is a terrific version of classic lemon Italian ice. (You’ll have to buy the book to get those recipes, but believe me, you won’t be sorry.)

Gianduja Gelato with Straciatella from ‘The Perfect Scoop’

Gianduja Gelato with Straciatella from ‘The Perfect Scoop’

Recently we fell in love with (and wrote about) the Gianduja (hazelnut-chocolate) Gelato swirled with the Stracciatella (Italian-style chocolate chips) found in the Mix-Ins chapter.

Matcha Ice Cream from ‘The Perfect Scoop’

Matcha Ice Cream from ‘The Perfect Scoop’

Lovers of Japanese sweets will adore Lebovitz’s green tea ice cream. Made with matcha and rich with egg yolks, it is quite simply the best we’ve ever tasted.

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You’ll have to save for the winter, when mandarins (also known as tangerines) are in season and at their most flavorful, to fully appreciate Lebovitz’s Tangerine Sorbet. But do keep it in mind — with an incredible purity of flavor, it’s one of our all-time favorite winter desserts.

Nectarine Sorbet from ‘The Perfect Scoop’

Nectarine Sorbet from ‘The Perfect Scoop’

You’ve Gotta Try This: In Southwest France, where I’ve spent a lot of time over the last three decades, my French in-laws have a delightful custom of slicing a ripe peach into their red wine glasses at the end of dinner. The peaches get macerated, turning them into a glorious, light dessert, so fab with the red wine. A few years ago, I tried to develop a peach ice cream recipe that would replicate those flavors, but never succeeded. Lo and behold Lebovitz’s recipe for Nectarine Sorbet, which he suggests scooping into wine glasses and letting everyone pour in red wine to their taste. Dare I say it’s even better than the real thing!? The sorbet on its own is pretty magnificent — and easy to make, especially as nectarines don’t require peeling.

Nectarine Sorbet is marvelous in a glass of red wine.

Nectarine Sorbet is marvelous in a glass of red wine.

Still Wanna Make: Oh, man — where do I start?! Chartreuse Ice Cream is high on the list (will do that soon!), and so are Toasted Almond & Candied Cherry; Aztec Chocolate; Toasted Coconut; Dried-Apricot-Pistachio; and Prune-Armagnac (all ice creams). Among the dairy-free recipes, I feel a batch of Pineapple Sorbet coming on soon. And doesn’t Cucumber-Gin Sorbet sound like fun?

I’m guessing you’re half-way out of your seat and ready to churn; make sure your ice-cream-maker insert is in the freezer.

If You Don’t Yet Have an Ice-cream Maker: Do spring for one — it’s well worth it if you love ice creams and sorbets as much as we do. Our 15+ year-old Cuisinart finally died a month ago, and I bought a new one with a larger capacity — the Cuisinart ICE-70. It’s not inexpensive, at about $139 (at the moment), but I appreciate that it can churn up to 1 1/2 quarts of ice cream. (Note that it is not the 2 quarts its specs suggest; a full review is coming soon!) The New York Times Wirecutter highly recommends the much less pricey Cuisinart ICE-21 (my purchase was also based on a positive Wirecutter review, among others), but at three-quarters capacity, I believe that would cause overflow problems with many recipes, including some of Lebovitz’s.

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For a luscious frozen treat this weekend, make Gianduja-Stracciatella (hazelnut-chocolate) Gelato

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Gianduja-Stracciatella (Hazelnut-Chocolate Chip) Gelato, adapted from a recipe in ‘The Perfect Scoop,’ by David Leibovitz

By Leslie Brenner

Given the unwanted Covid-19 pounds I’m still carrying around (dieting soon, promise!), I have no business making ice cream like it’s going out of style. But recently when I made a batch of fresh Bing Cherry Ice Cream and put it in my ice cream maker, the ancient yet trusty machine chose that moment to die.

I bought a new ice cream maker — a bigger, better version of my beloved Cuisinart machine that had been with me for something like 15 years. (I’ll write about that soon.)

The maker worked perfectly for the cherry ice cream, but then I suddenly had to know whether it also made perfect gelato, as it has a dedicated gelato setting. Although gelato is simply the Italian word for “ice cream,” as David Lebovitz points out in my favorite ice cream book, The Perfect Scoop, it is “usually less sweet than traditional ice cream, and it is very thick and somewhat sticky.” He goes on to explain that its “distinctively dense texture” is the result of very little air being whipped into it.

Lebovitz’s recipe for Gianduja Gelato jumped out at me, as I love classic gelato flavors, and you can’t get much more classic than giandiuja. Pronounced jahn-doo-yah, the Piedmontese hazelnut-chocolate confection (which is sometimes spelled gianduia) is the sweet that inspired Nutella — but it’s a hundred times better, with much purer flavors.

Although traditionally gianduja is made with dark chocolate (along with ground hazelnuts), Lebovitz’s recipe calls for milk chocolate. It sounded wonderful, but I wondered whether the four ounces of milk chocolate would make the gelato as chocolately I hoped it would be.

Gianduja-Straciatella (Hazelnut-Chocolate) Gelato in a waffle cone, set in a cup. The gelato was prepared from a recipe by David Lebovitz in ‘The Perfect Scoop.’

Then I noticed that the photo in the book showed Gianduja Gelato with an upgrade: stracciatella, or chocolate chips. Made by pouring melted dark chocolate into the gelato just as it’s finishing its churning routine, stracciatella may be one of the most important inventions every to come out of Italy — easily as significant as the radio, the Julian calendar, or confetti. “The flow of chocolate immediately hardens into streaks, which get shredded (stracciato) into ‘chips’ as the ice cream as stirred,” Lebovitz explains.

Yes! I had to have stracciatelli in my hazelnut gelato. And man, oh, man, is it awesome.

I’ve been parsimoniously rationing the gelato, allowing my husband Thierry as much as he’d like, but myself just very small scoop every couple of days. Not much help for my waistline, of course, but it is definitely making our heat wave here in Dallas a wee bit more delightful. In fact, it’s one of the best desserts to come out of my kitchen in a long while.

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Capture Bing cherries' spectacular flavor in a glorious ice cream (sugar cone and bare feet, optional!)

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Bing cherry ice cream with black pepper and optional fresh bay leaf

By Leslie Brenner

Bing cherries bursting with flavor. Santa Rosa plums, with their tart-taut skins and juicy-sweet interiors. Blushing ripe peaches whose juice runs down your arm when you bite into them.

These are the things I love most about summer.

Santa Rosa plums don’t show up where I live in Dallas, Texas, but fabulous cherries are easy to find, and I devour them like they’re going out of style. They’re not — in fact, scientists are more excited than ever about their likely health benefits.

Curiously, great cherry desserts are not easy to come by. I love the idea of clafoutis — France’s famous cherry-packed eggy baked thingy — but I’ve never found one I’ve loved. (Got one? Please send it our way in a comment!)

Cherry ice cream always sounds so wonderful, but most of the recipes I find either require candying the fruit or contain much more cream, milk and sugar than fruit. I want cherry ice cream that’s seriously cherry-packed.

Cherries.jpg

This season, I came upon a Serious Eats recipe that sounded seriously wonderful, so I dove in. The recipe does without eggs, to focus the cherry flavor, which sounded wise. Unfortunately, the cherries exploded in the oven after about 35 minutes of roasting with sugar (40 minutes did sound long!), leaving my oven walls caked with the aftermath. I free-styled my way through the rest, loving the idea of steeping the cherry pits in the cream, but not getting why we’d strain the juice and not use the pulp (especially as the recipe noted that it’s delicious to eat as a jam or dessert topping). So I threw it back in. The ice cream was fabulous, with super-intense cherry flavor, but the recipe needed lots of tweaking. Roasting was smart, but I’d roast mine half the time — just long enough to intensify the flavor and make pitting easy.

Bing Cherry Ice Cream with Black Pepper and Bay Leaf

As I was putting it together, it occurred to me that a little fresh bay leaf flavor could be lovely with the cherries, so I steeped a couple of fresh leaves with the cream. Then, as I was whirring up the cherries, black pepper suggested itself as a complement, so I added that as well. If you want to go more purist, you can certainly skip these; alternatively, you can amp up the pepper a bit, as the amount called for is very subtle.

It’s delicious on its own, but also goes well with thin, crisp almond wafers. What I really want, though, is to scoop some into a sugar cone and lap it up like a kid. Maybe I’ll even take it outside, so I have to eat it before it melts.

Hope you enjoy it.

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Cookbook Review: Roxana Jullapat's 'Mother Grains' has all the makings of a new classic

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‘Mother Grains: Recipes for the Grain Revolution,’ by Roxana Jullapat. Jullapat is the renowned baker and co-owner of Friends & Family in Los Angeles.

By Leslie Brenner

Mother Grains: Recipes for the Grain Revolution, by Roxana Jullapat; photography by Kristin Teig, 2021, W. W. Norton & Company, $40.

As we begin to break through to the liberation side of The Great Confinement, finding the silver linings of what we’re leaving behind feels like a sunny way to try to make sense of the world and what we’ve been through.

One of those silver linings is that as a society, we seem more able to take some control of our food choices, and we are moving on from long-held assumptions about the foods available to us. Sourdough obsession illustrates that in microcosm. People couldn’t get great bread. They dove in, devoted themselves to the science and feeding of sourdough, to the baking of bread, and figured it out. It has been transformative for many.

Related to that phenomenon is a new interest in grains: where they come from (geographically and historically), who farms them, how they’re milled and how supporting, purchasing, baking or cooking with and eating them can improve lives all around and in many ways.

I’m not a frequent bread baker, but when I do make my occasional no-knead, Dutch-oven number, it is always whole grain. During pandemic I became hooked on the heritage flours offered by a local(ish) miller, Barton Springs Mill. Outside of baking, I also became obsessed with the heirloom corn sold by Masienda, the Los Angeles-based purveyor that sources its dried corn (and masa harina made from it) from small-scale farms in Mexico. That has been life-changing for me, as I no longer have to settle for tortillas made from commodity corn and bread made from commodity flour. The flavors and textures I’m enjoying are so much better — as is the way I feel about supporting the farmers and millers who make it all possible.

Both Barton Springs Mill and Masienda are part of a larger “grain revolution” — which is the subject of Roxana Jullapat’s outstanding new cookbook, Mother Grains.

Spelt Blueberry Muffins with streusel topping, from Roxana Jullapat’s ‘Mother Grains.’

Spelt Blueberry Muffins with streusel topping, from Roxana Jullapat’s ‘Mother Grains.’

Jullapat, the renowned baker and co-owner of Friends & Family in Los Angeles, became inspired by the grain farmers and small mills whose products she worked with back when she and her husband, chef Daniel Mattern, had a restaurant called Cooks County (it opened in 2011). “I began using whole grains in our breads and pastries and, for the first time, paid attention to how these new ingredients could transform the way I baked,” she writes in the introduction.

Born in Orange County, CA to immigrant parents — a Thai mother and Costa Rican father — Jullapat lost her mother when she was just two years old; her father moved the family to Costa Rica and remarried. She grew up there, then studied journalism in college, contemplated grad school after getting her degree, but wound up returning to California and attending the Southern California School of Culinary Arts. There she met Mattern, and they both wound up working at Campanile, Nancy Silverton and Mark Peel’s celebrated restaurant. Jullapat went on to serve as pastry chef at two other wonderful restaurants — Lucques and A.O.C. (Mattern was chef de cuisine at A.O.C.)

After she and Mattern closed Cooks County in 2015, Jullapat took two years to experiment with heirloom grains from all over the United States and around the world — and to travel. “I went to Bhutan,” she writes, “where I tasted Himalayan crepes thin and thick and sampled earthy Bhutanese red rice. Then I headed to Turkey, where whole ancient wheat berries are common in savory dishes . . . . Back in Costa Rica, I discovered heirloom blue corn grown organically in the northern region of Nicoya.” Between trips, she visited Southern California farms that were leading the local grain movement.

The book offers a wealth of knowledge about the eight ancient “mother grains” that inspired the title: barley; buckwheat; corn; oats; rice; rye; sorghum and wheat. Did you know that rye is a newer grain — only 2,000 or 3,000 years old — and that it originated in Anatolia, near modern-day Turkey? That it thrives in cold, damp climates, which is why it’s ubiquitous in Scandinavia, Russia and Eastern Europe? Or that buckwheat is a pseudograin, like quinoa, which means it comes not from a grass but from a leafy, flowering bush?

Did you know that flour — especially whole-grain flour — is perishable, and that purchasing from artisan mills or local distributors is a great way to ensure freshness?

Spelt, I learned from the book, is probably the best-known “ancient” wheat, the one Jullapat considers a “gateway” for bakers starting to explore ancient grains. (Other ancient wheats are einkorn, emmer, also known as farro, khorasan wheat and durum.)

Want to discover spelt’s charms? Treat yourself to Jullapat’s Spelt Blueberry Muffins. I did, and they turned out to be far-and-away the best blueberry muffins I’ve ever tasted.

In fact, Jullapat’s recipes are generally spectacular — which is why I think her book deserves to become a classic. I’ve marked dozens of pages of recipes I want to try, and nearly all of the seven I’ve made so far have been exceptional.

The Macadamia Brown Butter Blondies that Jullapat has baked “every day since opening Friends & Family opened in 2017” are a case in point. Brown butter and barley flour give them a wonderful depth, but don’t worry — they’re rich and decadent enough to charm all comers, including kids.

Macadamia Brown Butter Blondies, from ‘Mother Grains’ by Roxana Jullapat. Jullapat writes that she has baked them ‘every day since opening Friends & Family in 2017.’

Macadamia Brown Butter Blondies, from ‘Mother Grains’ by Roxana Jullapat. Jullapat writes that she has baked them ‘every day since opening Friends & Family in 2017.’

They’re baked in a round cake pan, “ensuring that each piece has a chewy, toasted exterior and a soft center.” Jullapat points out that because they’re so easy to make, they keep for a few days and they travel well, “they’re an ideal homemade gift you can ship to friends and family all over the country.”

Not all the recipes are sweet. In fact one of my favorites is a savory: Buckwheat Blini with Dungeness Crab Salad.

Blini, as you may or may not know, are leavened pancakes that are traditional in Russia. There, they’re topped with sour cream or melted butter and treats like smoked salmon, whitefish, herring or caviar. According to Anya von Bremzen, author of Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking, blini are saucer-sized, “never cocktail-sized, and these days people prefer wheat to the archaic buckwheat.”

That’s fodder for another story, one about blini culture. In any case, I so loved the archaic buckwheat mini-blini in Jullapat’s book that I’ve made them twice in two weeks. Or maybe we could say four times: Her recipe makes enough batter for about 3 dozen blini, and both times I made them, I saved some of the batter to cook blini the following day. They’re so good — and so much fun to make — that I’m contemplating making them again tomorrow.

On the subject of the topping, Jullapat suggests that if you’re not a West Coaster, and don’t have access to Dungeness crab, using whatever is locally available. I used defrosted frozen lump blue crab, and that was fine, but I know it would be spectacular with Dungeness. I have also topped these with a smear of crème fraîche and a bit of smoked salmon or smoked trout, a squeeze of lemon and a sprig of dill or snip of chive. So good.

Buckwheat blini with crab salad, avocado and dill, from Roxana Jullapat’s ‘Mother Grains’

Buckwheat blini with crab salad, avocado and dill, from Roxana Jullapat’s ‘Mother Grains’

We do need to end with a sweet though, and Mother Grains’ Chocolate Dynamite Cookies are winners. Called “dynamite” because of Jullapat’s observation that they elicit explosively positive reactions in those who try them, the fudgy, brownie-like cookies are wheat-free (made with dark rye flour) and completely whole grain. Pretty astonishing for something that tastes so indulgent. Jullapat promises that if you make them, you’ll be invited to “every potluck, picnic and dinner party.” I’m sure she’s right!

Chocolate Dynamite overhead.jpg

I did have a small problem with them the first time I baked them, though I can’t exactly say that it’s the recipe’s fault. The cookies turned out as wonderfully as promised, but I lost my favorite Oxo mixing bowl in the process, thanks to some quirk of physics in which a vacuum was created by the chocolate-melting set-up Jullapat prescribed. I had to throw away that bowl and the pot to which it became permanently and irrevocably adhered. My adaptation won’t get you into that quandary, because I tweaked the melting method, substituting one favored by chocolate expert Alice Medrich.

I also tweaked the mixing instructions for cooks who, like me, do not own a stand mixer, but have a hand-held mixer instead.

Which brings me to the one small wish I have for the book. Because I’d like it to stay in print forever — finding a wide audience and passionate fans — I’m hoping that a future edition will get a fresh round of closer editing than it got the first time around. Among the 7 recipes I tested, nearly all lacked helpful info — particularly about what size bowls to use for various tasks — requiring more guesswork and/or extra dishes to wash than is ideal in a classic cookbook.

There is also a significant error in the book — of the sort an attentive editor or copy editor should have caught. A recipe for Vegan Pozole Verde calls for “2 cups, or 170 g.” of dried hominy. In my kitchen, 2 cups of dried hominy weighs more like 300 g., while 170 grams is 1 generous cup. I prepared the pozole using 170 g. rather than 2 cups, which was the right guess.

In any case, these are small flaws, easy to fix on the next go-round, should that come to pass. The important thing is Mother Grains is a wonderful book, one whose surface I have barely scratched. There are so many more things I want to try: Nectarine and Blackberry Crisp made with rolled oats. Grapple (grape and apple) Pie made with Sonora Wheat Pie Dough. Semolina Cookies with Fennel Pollen. Oatmeal Date Cookies. Crepes Suzette with Blood Orange and Mascarpone.

I could go on and on.

Want in on the deliciousness? Try one or more of the recipes we’ve adapted here at CWB. If you love them as much as we do you’ll want to buy Mother Grains lickety-split.

But wait; there’s more! You’re invited to join us as we host Roxana Jullapat, along with our favorite artisan miller, David Kaisel — founder of Capay Mills in Northern California — at a live video event, part of our new Cooks Without Borders Makers, Shakers and Mavens Q & A series. Attendance is free (limited to 100 people), and we know you’ll want to be there with your questions for Jullapat and Kaisel.

Cooks Without Borders Makers, Shakers and Mavens: The Grain Revolution with Roxana Jullapat and David Kaisel
Thursday, May 27, 3 p.m. PST, 5 p.m. CST, 6 p.m. EST

Sign up now to reserve your spot!

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Made in a flash, intensely chocolatey and ludicrously easy, molten chocolate cake deserves a comeback

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Jean-Georges Vongerichten’s Molten Chocolate Cake

By Leslie Brenner

There was a time when chocolate molten cakes were so ubiquitous that they became a runny joke — especially because the more it went, the less they were cooked. In went your spoon, and liquid eggy chocolate spilled out all over the plate. Ick.

Over the years, we’ve been subjected to so many mediocre versions of the dessert that we forgot how appealing they were way back when, as they poofed — pillow-like and fabulous — onto the scene. They were like small chocolate dreams — something between a soufflé and a mini-flourless chocolate cake, but preternaturally light, and intensely chocolatey. The middles were molten, but not liquid, just a bit oozy and soft. They were a way to show off great chocolate.

That was back in 1991, in New York City. I was a fledgling food writer there, molten chocolate cakes were everywhere, and they were wonderful.

I remember eating one at JoJo, Jean-George Vongerichten’s restaurant (his first), where he called it Chocolate Valrhona Cake. They’d been invented sometime before that, either by Vongerichten himself or by star pastry Jacques Torres, or maybe by someone in France, depending on whom you talked to. Vongerichten had served them a few years earlier, when he was chef at a restaurant called Lafayette, in the Drake Hotel, but apparently they were too early for their time. (I was still a starving grad student when Vongerichten was at the Drake, so I never made it there.)

In any case, as a society, in the intervening decades, we OD’d on them.

Now, at a time when we need small, easily achieved pleasures, it feels like a great time to rediscover them. A molten chocolate cake may be the biggest dessert bang you can in under a half hour, start to finish, and it’s ludicrously easy. All you need to have on hand is two good chocolate bars, four eggs, a stick of butter, a quarter cup of sugar, a pinch of salt and a couple spoonfuls of flour. If you want to impress a date, a spouse, a friend, a child — or anyone else in your orbit — you can whip this together in a flash and make quite a splash.

I thought about them the other night when my pod clamored after dinner for dessert, something rare and special in our small world. What could Wylie (our 24 year-old son) and his girlfriend Nathalie conjure quickly? I thought about this recipe, verified that we owned two bars of chocolate, and we found a perfect recipe penned by Vongricheten, published in Food & Wine magazine, 22 years ago.

Five seconds later, there Nathalie and Wylie were in the kitchen, melting the chocolate with butter, whipping eggs with egg yolks, folding in the melted chocolate and butter with a spoonful of flour and a pinch of salt, turning the batter into soufflé molds and baking. The cakes spend just 12 minutes in the oven. Maybe leave them in one extra minute, so they’re glossy and molten in the center, but no longer liquid. Pull ‘em out, let ‘em sit for one minute, and unmold.

Anyone can do this. And any of us — event the most well traveled and sophisticated — might well be dazzled all over again.

Happy Valentine’s Day! ❤️

RECIPE: Molten Chocolate Cake

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A chocolate mousse for every mood: This classic, easy-to-make French dessert is yours to customize

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Chocolate Mousse landscape.jpg

The first time I had chocolate mousse was when I was five or six years old and my dad took me out to lunch — just the two of us — at a fancy French restaurant. I don’t know what the restaurant was called, but it was on the same plot of land in Los Angeles where Eataly now stands, in Century City. The restaurant was cozy, dark, and — to my five-year-old mind — terribly elegant. I wore white gloves.

I don’t remember most of what we ate, only that I couldn’t wait for dessert. We were going to have a chocolate moose, my dad told me. How fantastic — a chocolate moose! An edible Bullwinkle!

And then it landed, and it was something much better than a moose: It was a Champagne coupe filled with something chocolate, crowned with a dollop of whipped cream and topped with a candied violet.

A sugar-coated tiny purple flower you could eat! This was the best thing ever. And that mousse! In that Champagne glass! I still remember the sensation, the flavor, the mouthfeel: It was like eating a rich, chocolate cloud. Heaven.

Chocolate mousse served in a Champagne coupe with a dollop of whipped cream and dried rose petals

Recently, my extreme bouts of culinary adventurism have been punctuated with longings for nostalgic French foods. Onion soup. Quiche. Chocolate mousse.

Anyone can make chocolate mousse, but you do need the right recipe. I like a classic one, which is basically melted chocolate with egg yolks mixed in, folded gently into egg whites. Chill it for three hours, and dessert is yours.

The nice thing is you can dress it up or dress it down for any mood. Spoon it into Champagne coupes if you’re feeling fancy, or jelly jars if the vibe you want is chill. Some people like to leave it in a big bowl and serve it from that, or just give everyone a spoon. You could use pretty tea cups, or ramekins or custard cups — whatever you have.

Make the mousse as sweet or dark chocolatey as you like. We’ve based our recipe on two 3.5 ounce bars of chocolate; choose the one you most love to eat. If you’re a 70 or 72% cacao person, use that. If you like sweeter (60%) or darker, adjust accordingly. My chocolate of choice is 85%. That might be a little un-desserty for dessert, so I use one 72% bar and one 85% bar: That’s perfect for me.

You can really get creative in that melting bowl of chocolate. I like to add orange liqueur, such as Grand Marnier. David Lebovitz, whose chocolate mousse proportions informed our recipe, favors Chartreuse. Julia Child called for strong brewed coffee as well as orange liqueur (which she whipped into the egg whites). Cognac could be nice, or Turkish coffee kissed with cardamom. You can use vanilla or almond extract, or even peppermint (just a touch).

Serve it naked for the full-on, chocolate-forward mousse experience, or top it with whipped cream, lightly sweetened or not, depending on how sweet you went with the mousse.

And then the (totally optional) final flourish, geared to your audience or expressive of your mood. Multi-colored or chocolate sprinkles! Slivered candied orange peel or cacao nibs! Dried rose petals! A candied violet!

If you love this recipe as much as I do, you’ll want to keep a couple of extra chocolate bars on hand for whenever you might want to conjure something special with very little effort. As long as you have four eggs, you’ll be good to go.

RECIPE: Your Favorite Chocolate Mousse

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Inspired by Diana Henry, this ridiculously easy autumn fruit-and-almond cake is a show-stopper

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Autumn fruit and almond cake

This time of year, when late-season plums are offering one last chance, and black Mission figs beckon plumply, I love to throw them together with juicy blackberries and bake them onto an absurdly easy-to-make cake.

The Autumn Fruit and Almond Cake was inspired by a summer fruit and almond cake from the 2016 cookbook Simple: Effortless Food, Big Flavors by the British author Diana Henry.

Although it bakes for quite a long time (an hour and a half to an hour and 45 minutes), the actual work involved is minimal. For the fruit topping, slice figs in half, slice two plums, toss with berries and a little sugar. For the cake, dump all the ingredients in a food processor and blitz them. Pour and spread the batter in a parchment-lined springform pan. Arrange the fruit on top. Bake, cool, remove pan ring, sprinkle with powdered sugar.

Not overly sweet, it’s a spectacular treat for lovers of fruit desserts. Almonds in the form of marzipan adds a wonderful toothsome texture, and the almondy flavor marries beautifully with the figs and other fruit. Sour cream keeps it super-moist.

RECIPE: Autumn Fruit and Almond Cake

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Tres leches cake is having a big moment. We love the super-luscious version from Mely Martínez's new cookbook

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Tres leches cake garnished with thin slices of peach, shown on a white plate with a silver fork

Pastel de tres leches, or tres leches cake — Mexico’s star dessert — is enjoying a drenchy-sweet moment of glory.

The fluffy-creamy vanilla sponge cake, soaked in a mixture of creams (usually condensed milk, evaporated milk and heavy cream, and topped with whipped cream, has become an Instagram and Tik Tok star during the pandemic.

As G. Daniela Galarza wrote last week in an excellent story in The Washington Post:

“This past May, the month in which Trinity Sunday often falls, searches for “tres leches” were up 25 percent from May 2019. More than half a million posts are tagged #tresleches on Instagram, and on TikTok, nearly 25 million videos feature hands and pans whipping up batter for a tres leches cake.” 

Galarza’s story points to MM Pack’s illuminating 2004 story for the Austin Chronicle, “Got Milk?: On the trail of pastel de tres leches,” and then goes on to provide illuminating context and background.

The cake does not have a long history; it is probably only about a quarter-century old, according to Pack’s superb sleuthing. Nestlé, a major canned milk producer, introduced manufacturing plants around World War II in Mexico, and a recipe for pastel de tres leches was included. More investigation led Pack to find its antecedent: a dessert involving bread soaked in wine and layered with milk custard and fruit or nuts) came to Mexico in the 19th century.

All that is well and good, but The Great Confinement of 2020 continues to trigger cravings of comfort food and sweets. Fortunately, there are 9 and a half grillion versions to choose from.

The New York Times’ Melissa Clark, who may be some kind of dessert psychic — and who confesses to enjoying eating sweetened condensed milk straight out of the can — presciently published a recipe for a Seis Leches Cake (“A Milky Cake Where More is More”) in January.

We love the version Mely Martínez offers in her just-published cookbook The Mexican Home Kitchen, which we reviewed last month. Hers is not a sponge cake, but a somewhat denser vanilla cake with a lovely crumb; it takes longer (overnight) to soak up all those leches, but the result is outstanding.

About to attack my second slice of Martínez’s cake, on a whim I poured over it a splash of Plantation Pineapple Rum. Holy moly — it was insanely, wildly, wickedly good! Next time I’ll follow Martínez’s suggested variation and add a quarter cup of it to the milk mixture to soak in overnight.

RECIPE: Mely Martínez’s Tres Leches Cake

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Effortless summer baking: The (life-changing!) joy of frozen puff pastry

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How much fun can a (relative sane) person have with a box of frozen puff pastry? Quite a lot, as it turns out.

I spent most of my adult life avoiding puff pastry. Well, I'm always happy to eat it, but make it? Not so much. I made it from scratch exactly once, a hundred years ago; that was enough. I'm not the type of person to spend endless hours rolling out layers of dough and butter and chilling it and waiting and rolling, etc. etc.

Until very recently, it never occurred to me that there were good brands of pre-made frozen puff pastry made with actual butter rather than hydrogenated vegetable oils. 

I know, right?! How out of it can a person get?!

Some months ago, I happened upon a box of frozen puff pastry in the freezer case at Trader Joe's that boasted an all-butter situation, snapped it up, stuck it in my freezer and nearly forgot about it. Then, when I was visiting friends in London last month, my dear friend Jenni’s wonderful sister Alison invited us for dinner. It one of these off-the-cuff affairs for 20 or so. What I love about the way these girls entertain is that they don't stress (even when 20 people are coming!); they don't worry if everything's not ready when people start arriving. Sometimes Jenni doesn't even start cooking until people start walking in the door! She and Alison understand that the important thing is to hang out with friends and family, and whatever winds up on the table will be delicious just because. 

They also happen to have some very good ideas up their sleeves. On this particular evening – a regular weekly Friday night dinner with extended family and friends – Alison pulled a savory tart out of the oven, placed it on a table out in the garden, and wheeled a pizza cutter through it to slice it into hors d'oeuvre bites. 

This is Alison's savory appetizer tart, before it was sliced into pieces. Doesn't it look *fantastic*? It was!

This is Alison's savory appetizer tart, before it was sliced into pieces. Doesn't it look *fantastic*? It was!

The thing looked so delicious, I was mesmerized. Free-form, golden-crusted, beautifully messy, it was strewn with greens and mushrooms and slices of some kind of marvelous-looking washed-rind cheese melted into it. It was even more delicious than it looked – some kind of serious umami savory action on that perfect, flaky crust. I stayed there, parked next to it, trying with all my might not to eat piece after piece until it was demolished.

After showering her with compliments, I asked how she made it. "Frozen puff pastry!" she said. "All butter."

That was then (about a month ago). Now, four savory tarts, three fruit tarts and a set of cheese straws later, I can't imagine life without a box of the stuff in my freezer. At. All. Times.

All-butter frozen puff pastry, where have you been all my life?

All-butter frozen puff pastry, where have you been all my life?

So far, I have found three brands. Perhaps there are more out there. Both the Trader Joe's and the Dufour Pastry Kitchens' brands are far superior to the Pepperidge Farms non-butter frozen puff pastry I used to use occasionally in the past (that's the one with the hydrogenated vegetable oil; it also includes high-fructose corn syrup). The Dufour Pastry Kitchens classic puff pastry contains only butter, unbleached unbromated flour, water, salt and lemon juice. It's not inexpensive: I paid $10.99 for a 14-ounce box at my local Whole Foods Market and $10.49 for a box at my local Central Market. The Trader Joe's pastry was nearly as flaky and delicious, and much less expensive: $3.99 for an 18-ounce box. The Dufour brand is one single large rectangle, which comes folded; the Trader Joe's brand is two rectangular pieces, wrapped separately, which is nice (you can defrost one at a time); they come rolled.

Just one problem with the Trader Joe's brand: According to a clerk at my local store, the chain only sells it during the last quarter of the year, presumably for fall and holiday baking. So unless you keep a box in your freezer for more than six months, you can forget about it for summer baking. (Mr. Joe, please change your policy! If you do, I'll make you a summer tart!)

Mr. Trader Joe, if you start stocking your frozen all-butter puff pastry year-round, I will make you one of these. I promise.

Mr. Trader Joe, if you start stocking your frozen all-butter puff pastry year-round, I will make you one of these. I promise.

A third brand, White Toque, was $12.99 for a one-pound box at Whole Foods, but this brand is two rounds – which struck me as less wonderful for a savory tart to cut in small rectangles to eat as pre-dinner nibbles, but very nice for a fruit tart. The White Toque brand – which I've only spotted once – did not rise as high as either the Dufour or Trader Joe's brand, but it's possible it was because my refrigerator died, and after defrosting it sat in a less-than-optimal temperature for more than a few hours. I will give it another try next time I find it. Still, it worked just fine for a cherry-plum tart that I will blog about soon.

First I need to tell you the two ways all-butter frozen puff pastry has changed my life (and no, I'm not exaggerating). 

The first is the savory tart. I managed to approximate Alison's, although Alison used a really nice aged washed-rind goat cheese on hers, and I haven't been able to find anything like it 'round these parts.

But the great news is once you grasp how to put one of these tarts together, you can make one out of just about any kind of summer veg. The general idea is this: Thaw the pastry, unwrap it, and fold up the edges to make a rim, painting a little egg wash on them if you want glossy look. Make a filling of sautéed veg, add a couple of eggs beaten with a little cream or half and half, and either put some grated or crumbled cheese in the egg (feta, goat cheese, cheddar, etc.) or strew crumbled feta or goat cheese on top. Pop it in the oven. So easy.

 

You can riff on it endlessly, changing up the cheese or the sautéed veg, adding sliced fresh or chopped sun-dried tomatoes. It always turns out great, even if you're in such a hurry that you make a terrible mess of it – as I did with a zucchini, tomato and okra version in which I used too much egg and had a sloppy a edge, so egg spilled out all over the parchment.

My hastily-assembled zucchini, tomato and okra tart. With too much egg and sloppy edges, it spilled all over the parchment.

My hastily-assembled zucchini, tomato and okra tart. With too much egg and sloppy edges, it spilled all over the parchment.

It was still pretty fabulous. (For that one I sliced the okra in half vertically and grilled them before laying them atop the tart, along with sliced fresh tomatoes, before popping it in  the oven.)

Even so, it looked – and tasted – pretty great!

Even so, it looked – and tasted – pretty great!

The point is, these savories are so easy and impressive that they have already become a go-to appetizer for me for laid-back summer entertaining. A glass of rosé, a slice of savory tart – who needs anything else?

OK, here's the other way in which all-butter frozen puff pastry changed my life: They are brilliant to use for summer fruit tarts, including those that star unbaked fruit, like berries.  

Until I learned the joys of frozen all-butter puff pastry, I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to make a good tart using fresh strawberries. All you do is make a quick pastry cream – which is way less involved than you might think (much less tricky than making most custards), blind-bake a crust, spread the pastry cream on top, and cover with berries. If you want to be fancy you can melt some fruit jelly and glaze the berries, but you don't have to. 

I also made a pretty wonderful tart using mixed berries – blackberries, blueberries and raspberries. That one is super easy because you don't have to stem or slice or pit anything -- just toss the berries with a little orange liqueur before dropping them onto the pastry cream. 

Easy berry tart. How festive would this be for the Fourth of July -- or Bastille Day?

Easy berry tart. How festive would this be for the Fourth of July -- or Bastille Day?

 

I'm thinking it could be the perfect, patriotic-hued dessert to serve on the Fourth. Or for Bastille Day! What the recipe? Here you go. 

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Mini strawberry Pavlovas may be the most brilliant Passover dessert ever

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If ever there was a dessert meant for Passover, it's this one: mini strawberry Pavlovas. 

So, what's a Pavlova, anyway?

It's an Australian dessert named for the Russian ballerina Anna Pavlova (so the story goes), following one of her tours through Australia. Traditionally it's a large, thick meringue disk – hard and crisp on the outside, soft and pillowy on the inside – topped with whipped cream and berries or other fruit. Made this way, it's sliced into wedges to serve. 

Sized individually, mini Pavlovas are just as impressive, not to mention great for entertaining as they're so easy to make and serve. 

Why are mini Pavlovas so brilliant for Passover?

Let me count the ways:

1. There's no flour, making the dessert welcome at the Passover table.

2. They star strawberries, just as the fruit comes into the full flush of its season. 

3. They're beautiful and impressive-looking, yet easy and fool-proof to make.

4. You can make their meringue bases ahead of time – even the day before – and cut and macerate the berries in advance. All that's left to do last-minute is whip cream and assemble the Pavlovas, which is no harder than assembling strawberry shortcake. They're easy enough to manage during the craziness of a seder. 

Pavlovas aren't just for Passover

Pavlovas are having a moment in restaurants – at least here in Dallas, where one of the city's top pastry chefs, Keith Cedotal, is turning out beautiful individually sized versions, filled with citrus mousse and mixed berries, at fashionable Mirador restaurant. 

Besides being chic and delicious, Pavlovas also happen to be gluten-free – just the thing for gluten-intolerant berry lovers who are accustomed to passing up the strawberry shortcake. 

When I say Pavlovas are easy to make, I'm not kidding. All you do is whip up some egg whites, beat in sugar and, if you like, a touch of lemon or orange liqueur. If you want to get fancy, add some lemon zest. Spoon them into messy circles on a parchment-lined baking sheet and bake for less than an hour, till they're light golden and hard to the touch. 

Layer them with whipped cream and strawberries (macerated in a touch of lemon liqueur or orange liqueur if you like), and there you are. If they're messy, or the meringues break that's OK – disheveled is part of their charm. 

Brilliant, right? Here's the recipe:

 

 

 

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Luxuriously rich, easy-to-make, flourless Mexican-chocolate cake is blow-them-away fabulous

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It all started with a recipe in Michael Solomonov's Zahav: A World of Israeli Cooking. The recipe, for a flourless chocolate cake – in which Solomonov and co-author Steven Cook use almond flour in place of wheat flour – is called "Chocolate-Almond Situation." I was drawn to the recipe because of its unusual name. Why "situation"?

Also, it looked so easy and good I couldn't resist. I melted chocolate, heated the oven, and went for it. 

Rich, luxurious and profoundly chocolatey, with a wonderfully moist, velvet-cream texture, the dessert was a big hit. And it was as easy to make as brownies. Another bonus: It's gluten-free. I posted a snap of it, with a description, on Instagram, tagged Solomonov and Zahav and added, "But still dying to know, Chef, why it's called a 'situation.'" 

"Gorgeous!" came the comment from Zahav. 

"Thank you!" I wrote. "Now why is it called a 'situation'?"

No answer. 

Meanwhile, I had an idea I couldn't get out of my head: Mexican chocolate. Wouldn't it be cool to make this cake using Mexican chocolate instead of regular dark chocolate? 

Last winter, my friend Michalene and I had enjoyed the most amazing Mexican hot chocolate at El Cardenal, a Mexico City restaurant known for its epic breakfasts. The drink, silky and incredibly rich, was prepared at the table by a waiter who used a molinillo, a traditional wooden chocolate whisk. I had to rush off early to catch my flight home, but Michalene surprised me by sending me a box of Doña Oliva chocolate tablets, which they use and sell at the restaurant. I was stunned to find that I could use a tablet to make a cup of chocolate almost as delicious as El Cardenal's; I've been rationing them ever since.

Since I'm always craving a cup, Mexican chocolate has been on my mind for months – especially since the start of winter. 

Could I maybe use the tablets to make a Mexican-Chocolate Situation? 

Nah...those tablets are too precious.

Meanwhile, I'd seen really cool-looking Taza organic Mexican-style stone-ground chocolate tablets at the supermarket. Maybe I could use those! But when I saw the price – they're $5 per 2.7-ounce tablet on the Taza website – I realized they'd be way too expensive, as we'd need four or five tablets for one cake.

Instead, I tried hunting down the Ibarra Mexican chocolate I grew up with. I didn't find it at my local supermarket, but found and purchased a box of Abuelita, another industrial brand.

What a disappointment: I brought it home and tasted it. It tasted nothing like chocolate. Just like sugar and chemicals. No way was this going into my cake (or yours). 

I was back to the drawing board.

Then, as she often does, Michalene came to the rescue. She suggested using the same high-quality 72% cacao chocolate I first used for the Situation and adding spices and other flavorings you'd find in Mexican chocolate. After all, I already had almonds in the almond flour. She suggested not just cinnamon and vanilla, which is what I'd naturally reach for, but also ancho chile powder and brandy. 

I made a couple other little tweaks to the recipe, for instance, changing the amount of chocolate to equal three 3.5 bars (10.5 ounces) rather than the 11 ounces the original called for. 

I whipped up the chocolate batter, added the ancho chile (just a touch), the cinnamon, the vanilla and brandy, mixed in the almond flour, spread it in a pan and baked.

Eureka! Same wonderful texture and richness, and now it had that dreamy Mexican chocolate flavor.

It was such a hit at dinner that one of my guests would not leave until I wrapped up two slices for him to take home.

You can bake it in a round pan and slice it into wedges, but be sure to make them small, as it is very, very rich. I'd say one 9-inch cake serves 10-12, rather than the 8 you'd expect. For an elegant dinner party, you might want to garnish it with a dollop of whipped cream, or whipped cream mixed with crème fraîche. You know what would be wonderful? Nata, the Mexican-style clotted cream El Cardenal serves at breakfast with the pan dulce known as a concha.

Or you can bake it in a square or pan and cut it into brownie-like bars. Dust them with powdered sugar or not, as you like. Honestly, they were so creamy, chocolatey and rich, they didn't need any adornment. 

Here's the recipe:

As for why it's called a "situation," well, that remains a mystery. Chef Solomonov, care to comment?

 

 

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Blood orange panna cotta makes a dramatically divine (and surprisingly easy!) dessert

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Blood oranges are the beach vacations of winter ingredients.

Huh? What? 

You know: It's cold out, and maybe gloomy. Maybe it's snowing. Maybe you have cabin fever. Maybe you're dreaming of stretching out on the sand on the Mayan Riviera under the sun, with crystal clear turquoise-colored water lapping at your toes. 

I'd love that, too. 

But instead, I'm going to reach for the next best thing: blood oranges. How lovely that something so juicy, so deliciously vibrant and summer-like comes into season in the dead of winter – and sticks around till May. 

A good part of their allure is visual. When they're whole, they look almost like regular oranges, but notice their slight rosacea blush. Slice one open, and it's gorgeous, its segments streaked in shades of crimson and and ruby red and blackberry. Now taste: They have a lovely flavor, sort of like oranges tinged with berry, or yes – cassis. 

In the United States, they're grown in California and Texas (two of the three states I have called home!). But I associate them with Rome, I think because once upon a time when I visited, I breakfasted on a hotel rooftop where they served crusty rolls with good butter – and glasses of fresh-squeezed blood orange juice. 

For cooks, blood oranges are a boon, as they're both delicious and dramatic. Count on them to elicit oohs and aaahs at the dinner table – especially if you spoon them over a delicately sweet, trembly-soft blood-orange-flavored panna cotta, Italy's famous custard-like dessert. 

Made from warmed, sweetened cream set with gelatin, panna cotta isn't a Roman dessert; it comes from Piedmont, according to The Oxford Companion to Italian Food, which also points out that it is "usually flavored with vanilla" (which I knew) "and peach brandy" (which I did not know). Often, the entry continues, it is served with fruit after it is unmolded, or with genuine balsamic vinegar. (Something to try! Though not with the supermarket stuff that passes for balsamic vinegar.) "It is increasingly popular with enthusiasts of the lighter side of Italian food," the 2007 book's entry concludes.

Indeed. Over the last decade, panna cotta has become a hugely popular restaurant dessert.

Happily, it is incredibly easy to make at home: In most versions, you bloom powdered gelatin over cold milk, then stir in cream that's been warmed just enough to dissolve sugar in it, cool the mixture, pour into custard cups, chill till they're set, then unmold just before serving. David Lebovitz, one of my favorite food bloggers, wrote recently, "if it takes you more than five minutes to put it together, you're taking too long!" He's not exaggerating.

Blood orange compote

Flavoring a classic panna cotta with blood orange juice gives it a delightful new dimension.  It's wonderful on its own, but top it with a compote of blood oranges and it becomes positively spectacular.  

A few thoughts about the panna cotta itself, before we get to the blood orange compote. Traditionally, it's made with cream, which makes a really rich and thick panna cotta. I like my panna cotta lighter – and more silky than velvety – so I swap out most of the cream for half-and-half. And I don't want it too stiff: soft and trembly is the idea, so I use the minimum amount of gelatin possible in order for it to hold its shape (more or less) after unmolding. (If you want yours to be a little stiffer, add an extra half a teaspoon of gelatin to the three teaspoons my recipe calls for.) 

Because it involves blood orange juice, my recipe is a little different from the traditional one: You sprinkle the gelatin over blood orange juice, let it sit, then heat it up and dissolve the sugar in the juice. Let it cool a little, then stir in the half-and-half, cream and either vanilla or orange liqueur. Pour it into custard cups (which you've lightly oiled) and let them set up in the fridge. 

While they're setting, you can make the compote; for this the only real work involved is cutting the oranges. If you're comfortable slicing suprèmes, go for it – they make a beautiful presentation. (That's what's shown above.) To do this, use a sharp paring knife to cut all the peel and pith off each orange, then slice between each membrane to release the segments, freeing them of all the membranes. With a little practice, it becomes very easy. (Here's a good walk-through on the technique from Serious Eats – scroll down to "Citrus Suprèmes" to find it.)

If you don't want to sweat it, just cut the peel and pith off the outside of each blood orange, slice it, then quarter the slices. It'll still be really pretty.

When you're slicing, be sure to capture all the juice that escapes –  you'll need half a cup for the compote. You might want to have an extra blood orange or two on hand just in case you don't capture enough juice. Heat that juice with some sugar, and cook it down till it's syrupy, then stir in a spoonful of Cognac or other brandy and pour it all over the orange segments. 

When you're ready to serve it, run a small, sharp knife around the edge of each custard cup, then invert it onto a plate or shallow bowl and let the panna cotta unmold. Sometimes you have to give it a little nudge with butter knife to release it. Divide the blood orange compote over the panna cottas and serve.

Alternately, if you don't want to unmold the panna cotta – either because it makes you nervous or you prefer a different look – you can serve the panna cotta in a wine glass or dessert glass and simply spoon some of the compote over it. 

I happen to think it's the perfect light dessert to follow a rich holiday dinner. Yes, like roast duck! Or a crown roast of pork, or a prime rib.  It's also a great finish to a lighter New Year's Eve dinner – maybe steamed lobsters, or other seafood. 

I know what you're thinking: Recipe, please! Here you go . . . 

Meanwhile, here's some good news: Blood oranges have a nice, long season – they're usually available into May in California and Texas. So if you happen to fall in love it this dessert – or with the blood oranges themselves (they're wonderful eat out of hand, as long as you're not wearing a white tee-shirt) – this could be the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship. 

 

 

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Gorgeous, fabulous and ridiculously easy to make: This autumn fruit and almond cake has it all

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For years I'd been meaning to cook from one of British author Diana Henry's beautiful cookbooks, like the one she won a James Beard Award for last year, A Bird in the Hand. And so when a review copy of her new book Simple: Effortless Food, Big Flavors landed in my inbox, I seized the moment. So many of the recipes look wonderful: toast with crab and cilantro-chile mayo; Indian sweet potatoes with chickpeas and coconut; roast lamb loin fillets with a minty-almondy Sicilian sauce called zhoggiu; roast eggplants with tomatoes and saffron cream.

I know, right?

But it was a sweet from her chapter on fruit desserts that I couldn't resist making right away last month – a summer fruit and almond cake. Here's what's amazing about it: You throw all the cake ingredients into the food processor, whirr them up, pour them in the pan (an 8-inch springform pan), top them with fruit (arranged "higgledy-piddledy" – how great is that?!) and pop it in the oven. Can you imagine anything easier? The recipe calls for ripe nectarines, unripe plums and raspberries; I used blackberries instead.

Summer fruit arranged "higgledy-piddledy" on top of the batter

It turned out great! Super-moist, with a nice crumb, lightly (but not overpoweringly) almondy, with just the right balance of fruit to cake. The fruit became lushly flavorful with that nice long stay in the oven. 

I would have happily made it every week or two, except for one thing: Summer ended.

Since we are now into early autumn, I thought the same almond cake featuring shoulder-season fruit – figs, plums and blackberries – could be fabulous, and Henry mentions in her headnote that you can swap out other fruit. I jumped on the occasion to feature some gorgeous ripe Mission figs I found in the supermarket, along with late-season plums and plump blackberries.

I gathered the ingredients: the usual flour, butter, eggs, sugar, baking powder, salt and vanilla, plus sour cream, almond extract, crumbled marzipan. Henry's recipe called for superfine sugar, which I can never find in the supermarket, so I tried regular sugar, which worked just fine. The fruit gets tossed in sugar too; I used less than Henry suggests, as ripe figs are sweeter than nectarines. 

I popped it in the oven and baked it, for a very long time – her recipe calls for an hour and a half, but mine took longer both times. Start testing it after an hour and a half; you know it's done when a wooden skewer inserted in the center comes out pretty clean (the fruit will mess it up a little; you just don't want raw cake batter on the skewer). Let it cool in the pan, then remove the ring and dust it with powdered sugar. (Pro tip: Put a spoonful of powdered sugar in a fine-mesh strainer, and use the spoon to tap the strainer on the side over the cake for a soft, even dusting.)

Ready to give it a spin? Here's the recipe:

And hey – I'd love to hear what you think if you try it! Or even if you don't – does it look good? Awful? Might you bake it in the future? What do you think??? We could have so much fun if y'all would leave comments!