Summer Berry Spectacular (and a Pie Party)

I am wrapping up a four day weekend in the summer sunshine. Four days of relaxed schedules, friendly cookouts, garden tending and patio parties. It's every bit of bliss inferred. On top of that, I baked every day. Saturday, Sunday, Monday all had a different ode to summer fruit in its finest forms (including juice-running-down-face-au-natural).

Today, though, we're talking about my favorite of the oven-plied loves...pie. When I heard Shauna speak at IACP in Austin a few weeks ago, the thing she said that resonated most was this:I bring pie just about everywhere. There are some photos below of what happens when we need to mix things up a bit but my first love is whatever is in season wrapped in a golden swath of crisp layers I made with my own hands. Thanks to Kate McDermott, I don't even use a food processor anymore. It's just not necessary and a pie crust is certainly not a thing to be fretted over. Hence the necessity of the Pie Party. As though a better occasion ever existed.

When Shauna announced her plan for a #PieParty, most of us didn't even have to consider an occasion. More of an "if you bake it, they will come" sort of thing. My friend Suzanne has recently taken homemade ice cream up as her personal passion so her place seemed to be the one most in need of a pie partner. Blueberry Pie it is. I had blueberries on my mind anyway.

This will be my second year "leasing" a blueberry bush from Joe's Blues in Bangor, Michigan. Last year's adventure is documented with great affection below. I'm told by those who would know that July 21st will mark the beginning of picking season this year. That's in two weekends for the planners out there.

I recommend the Corrado's operation highly if 20lbs of fresh, sustainably grown blueberries sounds good to you for $35. Seriously, clear some space in your freezer. Mananya is in on a bush this year as well. I don't think I've ever leant my face or massive orange sunhat to a more worthy summer cause though this was a hilarious surprise to find in our mailbox:Bring along picking companions who are by nature efficient beings and happy to be just the littlest bit filthy. If one of them happens to have a 4WD vehicle to make the post-pick venture to the "swimming hole" afterward, all the better, but it is not for the faint of heart.


This is an easy day trip from Chicago and close to a number of fine little beach towns if you're inclined to rinse off in Lake Michigan afterward. Hats are encouraged. Frank let Molly and Patty borrow two of his tango hats and they looked so cute we just about took them with us.

Thankfully we thought better of it and took our blueberries for a beer and a BLT instead. Incidentally no one raised an eyebrow when we walked into the tavern with pounds and pounds of blueberries. Goodnight I love Michigan. And blueberries. And the pies that are made in their honor.

Blueberry July Pie
Crust
1 package of Kerrygold (I typically do half butter, half lard but sacre bleu I was out of the pig's portion)
2 1/2 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
pinch of cinnamon
1/2 cup-3/4 cup ice cold water

Make sure that butter is really cold and cut it into rough 1/2 inch chunks. Drop in the flour that's been dropped into a cold bowl with the salt and cinnamon and start working your (cold) hands to pinch the butter into the flour mixture until you get it mixed into not quite uniform pea and almond size pieces. Add your water (remove any ice) and mix with a fork till you get a slightly sticky ball. Split in two, wrap each half in plastic and chill for 2 hours.

Roll out and lay the bottom layer carefully into your pie dish.

Filling
6 cups of fresh blueberries
1/2 cup orange juice
1/4 cup amaretto
scant 1/4 cup sugar
pinch of salt
2 TB tapioca

Add it all together and fill your bottom pie crust. Add the other crust on top, fold the edges under and pinch at even 1/2 inch intervals so the pie is sealed. Cut vents to your liking in the top and bake atop a foil lined baking sheet for 45 minutes-ish at 350.

Other Baked Berry Goodness for which ice cream is nonnegotiable:
Now pie is not the only way to show love and friendship. It's a good one but there are clearly lots of others, particularly this time of year. The summer berry crisp above is a story for a different day made for Jim and Michelle's housewarming cookout. It is easy and delicious and was based on Sandy's Summer Berry Crisp with amaretto used in lieu of cointreau, strawberries for blueberries and almonds subbed for walnuts. Negligible changes based on my personal pantry- the recipe is a good one!

The recipe that actually made it to the Fourth of July was a request from Gina, our hostess for an especially patriotic Monday dinner. Our almost-new-mom-friend-in-Sweden had shared some perfectly craveable Peach Cupcakes with Blackberry Buttercream Frosting and they were every bit as good as advertised. Laura, I don't think we can ship one to Scandinavia before it melts/the baby arrives but you should feel good that another lovely pregnant blondie benefited from your find.
All in all just a really lovely weekend. I almost said "with a few of my berry best friends" but then I remembered I am a pie person and not a shortcake. Pies don't suffer that level of foolishness. I think they revoke your lard license.

The Italian Word for "Pause": Strawberries and Cream

A note from the start…I’ve been waiting. Waiting to say so much because it felt like I’d never have the time to do it. It’s not the first time I’ve done this but, as happened before, just because I’m not writing about it doesn’t mean it’s not happening. It’s been an adventurous couple of months. Marked by more travel than I’ve ever done so close together. By the end of June, it will be 18 airplanes, 7 cities and three places I’d never been before (Austin, Asheville and Oklahoma). 19,710 miles all told. Most of those miles garnered on an Italian vacation with my family in which I felt a million miles away from anything but was in fact only 2% of that.

Vacation sounds pretty Griswoldian. Not bad (and not always inaccurate) but not the best word. 2011 by definition seems to move about a mile a minute and several fast-paced projects have had me rotating at an occasionally brutal clip. I love it but eventually I needed a break. It couldn’t have been timed any better. So yes, it was a vacation. But more than that, it was a rosemary-scented, sun drenched, mossy tile roof-topped, highly tannic, golden garlicky pause. To the tune of rolling bouts of laughter as only your immediate family can provide. I start with this picture because it’s the view from my bedroom window that week, taken very, very early in the morning. It is the beginning.

My parents rented a house on a working vineyard in a tiny town called Pianella, 20 minutes outside of Siena. It was a grand old farmhouse that had been lovingly kept seemingly for the full 500 years it’s graced the crest of a characteristically Tuscan hilltop. The trip in was pleasantly uneventful. Feeling the need to always dress in character (casually posh European jet setter, natch), I arrived in Florence wearing red suede heels and a favorite straw hat though in the 12 hours of travel post-Chicago, the person between those two items was rumpled and dazed with a bit of melted chocolate on her white button-down. I’d been re energized by a sparkling conversation with a retired Stanford Physics professor on my way in from Munich. Then the entire family met me at the airport (Dad, Mom, Brother, Aunt and Uncle) so that level of enthusiasm just about counts for an extra couple hours of sleep.

Day 1: Rain, sleep and a bath with perhaps the prettiest view in the house from the tub. It was the only real rain we had the whole trip and it was the perfect opportunity to catch up on the rest I’d been missing while being unapologetically immersed in a new book. Various family members tried their hands at making coffee from the French press and the fridge had been stocked with various meats, cheeses and fruit prior to our arrival (a girl could get used to this). As had the wine closet. With the windows open, all those rich, related smells of coffee and bath steam, ripe pears and rain on dark soil, fresh pages and a juice glass of Chianti (because we couldn’t find the wine glasses) made it easy to imagine never going home.

Oh yes, for those of you new to TKTC, the toothy foursome first pictured here would be my true, nuclear north. My friend Danielle made note when I was first back that I am, at 5’9, a shortie in my family. We all drank tall glasses of milk with dinner (or at least that was what my Dad attributed it to growing up). I like that none of us can quite believe our luck here.

Day 2: A different day entirely. I was up with the sun to snag the second shot above and it was one of about 10 I took, not quite believing it to be real. Along with Mom, Aunt Pat (Mom’s sister as will become rapidly apparent to you, the reader, when you seem them in photos together) and Uncle Bill (Pat’s husband and the co-chairman of I Married a Kirwan Anonymous) and I struck out early toward Cortona, nestled on something more akin to a mountain than one of the rolling hills in our bit of countryside. We toured a museum, had some lunch and I slowly started to get that familiar feeling of insignificance whenever I’m in Europe. Everything is so much older. That town was settled and civilized 1,000 years ago.

From there we drove to meet my Dad and brother in Montepulciano. I’d been there for the first time in 2005 on an exquisite post-college adventure with the one and only Molly McGuffin and was excited to be able to go back with family. We tracked down some Brunello to fortify ourselves for the trek uphill to the main piazza and were again rewarded at the top, not just with wine but with a view that was quite simply the most remarkable set of views in the entire region.

Alright maybe I’m exaggerating but if I am it’s only because there are so many views to choose from so until I see all of them, it would be impossible to properly judge. I agree with you, I should really start committing myself to seeing every vista in Tuscany. It would be irresponsible not quit now.

Brother greeting the sun in Montepulciano. Poor Boston had it worse than Chicago last winter and he was locked away with some intense projects for what Spring Beantown did have. We both showed up looking a little sallow so every uninterrupted sunbeam in Italy was gulped from a crystal cup. This picture reminds me both of the Rapture and of Twilight. I’ve made peace with that.

You guys know how much I adore brother dearest. I will likely tell you again but right before we arrived in Italy, Brother found out he'd be moving to Chicago in August for grad school. First time in 10 years that we'll live in the same city and I'm a big ball of joy for it. Tack that bit of awesomeness onto Dad's retirement, parent's 30th anniversary, aunt and uncle's 40th...keep the wine opener out and maybe buy a spare.

The rest of the afternoon was spent tooling around town, Brother and I sharing my Dad’s old D100 and my humble point and shoot (the family mantra is “Langsens share” after all). We even managed a short, wonderful stop at Susanna Crociani’s cantina. She’d introduced herself via Twitter prior to my trip and I was so pleased to find her there when we were in town. I walked out with a few beautiful bottles, my favorites being the one she made for her brother George and her “experiment”…a sweet, almondine VinSanto. This made it's way into the first of a few Italian kitchen concoctions I've brought home to keep. More on that later.

Onward to Florence. This is where I can be fully judged. I was maybe dragging my heels a bit Tuesday morning. I’d been to Florence and have a sadly notorious lack of patience when it comes to churches and museums. Small galleries? One after the other after another. But I’m not crazy about crowds, particularly on vacation. I want to be where no one else is. I like the find. I like the local joints. This occasionally leads me to forsaken alleys and mild food poisoning but at least there’s a story there.

Alas, this was the view that greeted us at the top of the driveway that morning (36 cypress trees per side, Aunt Pat counted). You don’t come across a view like that without wanting plow toward it, Manifest Destiny intact. So I gathered my angst and slept most of the way there, covered in crumbs from my Italian breakfast sandwich special (crusty bread spread with Gorgonzola, pears, prosciutto, greens and a dab of jam). To the city we go.

I was wrong in my hesitation. You told me so. Moreso, Mom could have told me so but she has too much grace to actually say it if I am properly abashed. We had a guide for the Uffizi who told all kinds of stories about the Medicis and the art their empire inspired. Even in packed galleries, in unwise shoes (“but I want to look Itaaalian,” said the 14 year old Jessi who follows me on all family vacations), it was fascinating. I was still craving some solo adventuring by the end of it but how fantastic are the photos my brother caught of us with our guide at the end?

The main place in Florence that didn’t exist to me when I was there many moons ago was Santa Maria Novella. The apothecary, named for the beautiful church and piazza above, produces gorgeous scents and it’s a bit of a mecca for fans of fancy lotions and potions. Hundreds of years old, produced by a monastery and a singular luxury I found when I was in no position to have any luxuries. When I moved to Wicked Park, I smelled their potpourri in a shop and fell for it so intensely that I tracked it down at LAFCO in New York. It’s strong but I love it and a little bit goes a long way. So I’ve been using it in my apartment since and I was thrilled to pick up two little packages straight from the source. I managed a few other goodies too. I think I’d have bought magic beans from them if they left me in there long enough. Even Garance loves it.

On the way to meet the rest of the family, I picked up some pistachio gelato using the two full phrases I know in Italian and the man with the scoop spoke Italian back to me, winked and then continued in Italian. As though we were in on some charming little joke I’ll never know the punchline to. I’m good with that. Si si si (wink back)- Buon giouornato! And off I went. Joy in heart.

It was a lovely day but a particularly exhausting one. In Italy for three full days and jumping headfirst into meat, cheese and pasta almost exclusively makes one especially wan and in need of a home kitchen’s sustenance. On the drive home it was decided this would be a good night for dinner in. We stopped at home to drop off the menfolk and Mom, Pat and I rolled down to the tiny market in Pianella. Beyond a rather hilarious driving mishap in which we couldn't figure out how to get the stick shift into reverse and thus pushed the car into a forward facing position while it neutral, dinner was easy, simple fare.

Roasted asparagus with orange zest and olive oil made on the same land we were living on. Fresh farm eggs scrambled and slow cooked with tomato, herbs and prosciutto and a fresh green salad with vinaigrette shaken in an empty olive jar.

But we had dessert too, of course. A team effort that made everything taste even a little bit better.

Photo by Dad, styled by Brother. I was still finishing dinner so the guys took the tray out to the patio to ensure I'd having blog photos. There is nothing about any of this that doesn't make me smile.

Strawberries and Cream Parfaits
1 quart fresh strawberries as red and ripe as you can get them
1 pint heavy whipping cream
1 box/package of light crispy cookies (we had yogurt cookies on hand but crisp ladyfingers or even vanilla wafers would work)
3/4 cup Vinsanto or good Sherry
1 Tablespoon sugar

1.) Slice your strawberries into a bowl and toss with 1/2 cup of your Vinsanto, cover for at least 20 minutes.

2.) Load your cookies into a zip top plastic bag and beat them to manageable, uniform bits. Including the cookies was Aunt Pat's moment of genius. I think she meant to serve them on the side but that would require anything be beaten and why skip that part if you don't have to? Don't feel bad for the cookies, they recover beautifully.

3.) Whip your cream and when you start to get soft peaks, add the remaining 1/4 cup of your Vinsanto and your single Tablespoon of sugar. Keep beating until you've got a whipped cream that sits tall on a spoon.

4.) Put it together. Crumble in the bottom then the gorgeous cream, then the tipsy strawberries. Repeat. You see why we don't pity the cookies. Sandwiched between sweet wine-soaked summer berries and drunken, full fat Italian whipped cream. Cookies never had it so good.

5.) Throw them in the fridge until you're ready to serve. After about an hour the whipped cream and strawberry syrup will just be beginning to compromise the cookies. You'll have just the loveliest bunch of textures.

If an unexplained breeze passes under your spoon on your second bite and it smells ever so vaguely of lemons and cypress trees, take a deep breath and enjoy that perfectly Italian pause. Then fill up your spoon again.

There's Always Time for Pie. Always.

These are strawberries that ripened two miles down the road from my parents' house. The air on Cape Cod is sea salty and all bakers worth their sel know what a little salt does for sweetness. It fundamentally moves the sweetness of a berry and, in my personal experience, leads to a juicy mouthstain Sephora would be behooved to copyright.

Not pictured is the rhubarb, which is a shame. There are children who don't know what rhubarb looks like. Rhubarb is stocky with an exterior not unlike celery. It is one of those lovely pinky reds not frequently found in edible nature. It is tart and and is glorious cooked down into compote and served over Greek yogurt. Or vanilla ice cream. Or Couer a la Creme. Or a spoon.

This is a pie that's been filled up with goodness. I do understand that goodness is a subjective term but strawberry and rhubarb grown in running distance of where said pie is being rolled out absolutely qualifies. Particularly since I can't run very far, very fast. Unless it's toward pie, which has been my exercise momentum in one form or another to date.

This is a pie that's been basted with yolk using the back of a teaspoon. Teaspoons work when your mother has a beautiful kitchen and too many drawers for brushes to hide in. Just be gentle. Pies are more sensitive than they are ticklish.

This is my pie. Strawberry Rhubarb. It was the first pie I made from scratch, for Jaimeson. It was the pie I made with a broken Honeyed heart. It was the pie I greeted a baby with. Last weekend it was the first pie I made for my family who I'd love to cook for more often if we weren't always dashing around, miles apart.

It is my pie of summer, always perfectly in season around my birthday in any place I care to be. I have yet to do a lattice perfectly but I also can't say I'm paying that much attention once I'm working on it. Detail orientation eludes the pie and I. Light dustings of flour will coat the entirety of the kitchen and someone may have a snowy handprint on their back. No matter what, the juice always bubbles up in the oven. My pie is excitable and imperfect and mostly sweet but those little bits of tart rhubarb will catch you off guard every third bite or so.

It's been a wild week but there was time for pie and that counts for everything.

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie
Filling adapted from Smitten Kitchen, Crust adapted from Orangette
Serves 8

Crust
8 Tbsp. ice water, plus more as needed
1 ½ tsp. apple cider vinegar (combined with water and kept in fridge till needed)
3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 ½ Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. salt
2 sticks cold unsalted butter, cut into cubes

Filling
3 1/2 cups 1/2-inch-thick slices trimmed rhubarb (1 1/2 pounds untrimmed)
1 16-ounce container strawberries, hulled, halved (about 3 1/2 cups)
1/2 cup (packed) golden brown sugar
1/2 cup sugar (scant)
1/3 cup cornstarch
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt

1 large egg yolk beaten to blend with 1 teaspoon water (for glaze)

Crust: Combine flour, sugar and salt using a pastry cutter or food processor. I went with the cutter because I tell myself it burns calories later consumed and forgotten. Cut in butter until coarse meal forms. Blend in enough ice water 2 tablespoons at a time to form moist clumps. Gather dough into ball; cut in half. Flatten each half into disk about 1/2 inch thick. Wrap separately in plastic; refrigerate until firm, about 1 hour. Keep chilled. Let dough soften slightly at room temperature before rolling. Can be made 1 day ahead and you could also do a double batch and wrap two disks of your four discs tightly to freeze for future pies.

Filling: Preheat oven to 400°F. Combine first 7 ingredients in large bowl. Toss gently to blend.

Putting it Together: Roll out 1 dough disk on floured work surface to 13-inch round. Transfer to 9-inch pie dish. Trim excess dough, leaving 3/4-inch overhang.

Roll out second dough disk on lightly floured surface to 13-inch round. Cut into fourteen 1/2-inch-wide strips. Spoon filling into crust. Arrange 7 dough strips atop filling, spacing evenly. Form lattice by placing remaining dough strips in opposite direction atop filling. Trim ends of dough strips even with overhang of bottom crust. Fold strip ends and overhang under, pressing to seal. Crimp edges decoratively.

Brush/Spoonback yolk over crust. transfer pie to baking sheet. Bake 20 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 350°F. Bake pie until golden and filling thickens, about another 25 minutes.

The Salty Sweet Life: Chocolate Peanut Butter Torte*

* Alternatively titled: "If Sex Was Baked It Would Have an OREO Crust and a Peanut Butter Chocolate Cream Cheese Middle"

Long absences aside, I'm not much of a hugger. But I will make you a pie with butter crust and serve it with hand-whipped cream melting off the top. I have a devout tendency to protect my space but the affection hasn't baked off of any cake I've ever made. There's just a balanced bit of bite in the frosting. A stack of lemon bars with shortbread crusts isn't made less sweet by a whiskey chaser.
In that way, I am a human equivalent of a quintessential combination- salty sweet. Never fully committed to one or the other, I am unlikely to provoke insulin shock with a superbly sweet nature but am incapable of hardening a heart on purpose.
This is my kind of dessert. Savory hits of peanut butter, creamy folds of cream cheese and then the chocolate. Goodnight...the chocolate.

In the midst of a folded-peanut-butter-cream-cheese-whipped-cream-mousse, bits of bittersweet chocolate and roasted peanuts rolled in cinnamon and espresso appear to break up that milky heaven with a toothsome crunch. It embarrasses me that one sentence was just that long but how do you break that up without the grammatical equal of a toothsome crunch?

As you've likely gathered if you've hung around for more than a post or two, I'm on the road a lot. What you might not realize is that for as much as I'm gone, I have a full family of friends who travel 10 times the amount I do. Jaimeson is my personal pied piper of musical gypsies but over the years the troop has widened considerably. I occasionally envy their rootlessness but, more than anything, I love the ability to provide an edible anchor of sorts when they appear in a 5 mile radius of Wicked Park's winding brick path.

These visits have punctuated the last five years. Once a month or so, someone will turn up to do something wholly wonderful onstage. New people, new sounds, new fun to be had and stories to be told... it's not a conscious effort but you would be hard-pressed to find a more interesting group of humans to spend time with on occasion. I just try to err on the side of mindful when talking about those occasions- we all have a right to determine our own level of public.

All this to say that it was one such visit that gave me a real good excuse to make this dense bit of magic so Amen for that. And on that note I'll throw out two related recommendations.


1) Food people love music and music people love food. I mean if you had to name the two concepts that gave you the most basic level of joy on a consistent basis, these two go together like peanut butter and jelly. Or peanut butter and chocolate, as the case may be. That link has never been more pronounced than it is now. Allie is a master bread baker and sends secret salad dressing ingredients. Elliot started a whole Tumblr dedicated to eating healthy on tour. And Jaimeson. I think you know by now.

If these kinds of things excite you (as they clearly do me), you should really check out the Epicurean Musician. Andrew interviews bands and musicians of all kinds to get the inside track on all the best ingestibles.

This week? He interviewed Cary Brothers. Cary released his second full-length album, Under Control (link is to iTunes, you will need that), on April 6th. The title kind've says it all, "Reformed Fast Food Addict Turns Toward Greener Pastures." Yes, I recognize the full irony of his TKTC love directed in the same breath with kale and asparagus while I'm here today posting about sex on a cakestand a Chocolate Peanut Butter Torte. However I will happily take the nod that this oft-neglected corner d'Internet helped point the way to greener living. It's nice that we can all feed each other in different ways.

I realize that's cheesy. Pop a Lactaid.

2) While I'll probably keep to my ambiguous personal guidelines regarding what to post and why, I think I could probably do a better job of speaking up when some of these folks are coming to Chicago...they give good (great) show, as the saying goes.

Starting with Bess Rogers and Lelia Broussard at the Elbo Room, this coming Monday, April 19. Be there- it's gonna be a rock show.

Without further ado (and thank you for your patience with all ado above), the instructionals for a pretty piece:

Chocolate Peanut Butter Torte
Ingredients:
For the crust:
32 Oreo cookies, finely processed into crumbs
5 1/3 tbsp. unsalted butter, melted and cooled
Small pinch of salt

For the crunch:
1 1/4 cups salted peanuts, finely chopped, divided (for the filling, crunch and topping)
1/2 cup mini chocolate chips (I used bittersweet chips chopped down)
2 tsp. sugar
1/2 tsp. espresso powder
1/4 tsp. ground cinnamon
Dash of ground nutmeg

For the filling:
2 cups heavy cream
1 1/4 cups confectioners’ sugar, sifted (I found 1 cup perfectly sufficient)
12 oz. cream cheese, at room temperature
1 1/2 cups creamy peanut butter (not natural)
2 tbsp. whole milk

For the topping:
1/2 cup heavy cream
4 oz. bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped

Directions:
To make the crust, preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter a 9-inch springform pan and place it on a baking sheet. Combine the Oreo crumbs, melted butter and salt in a small bowl. Toss with a fork to moisten all of the crumbs. Press into a thin layer covering the bottom and sides of the springform pan. Freeze the crust for 10 minutes. Bake in the preheated oven for 10 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack and let cool completely before filling. Yes, that is the only baking that needs to be done. It's awesome.

To make the crunch, in another small bowl combine 1/2 cup of the chopped peanuts, mini chocolate chips, sugar, espresso powder, cinnamon and nutmeg. Toss with a fork to mix and set aside.

To prepare the filling, in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, whip 2 cups of the cream until it holds medium peaks. Beat in 1/4 cup of confectioners’ sugar and whip until the cream holds medium-firm peaks. Scrape the cream into a separate bowl and refrigerate until needed.

Wipe out (do not wash) the mixer bowl, replace the whisk with the paddle attachment, and beat the cream cheese with the remaining 1 cup of confectioners’ sugar on medium speed until the cream cheese is satiny smooth. Beat in the peanut butter, whole milk, and 1/4 cup of the chopped peanuts until well combined.

Using a large rubber spatula, gently stir in about 1/4 of the whipped cream just to lighten the mousse. Still working with the spatula, stir in the crunchy peanut mixture, then gingerly fold in the remaining whipped cream. Scrape the mousse into the crust, mounding and smoothing the top. Refrigerate for at least 4 hours or overnight; cover with plastic wrap as soon as the mousse firms.

To finish the torte, put the chopped chocolate in a heatproof bowl set over a saucepan of simmering water. Leave the bowl over the water just until the chocolate softens and starts to melt, about 3 minutes; remove the bowl from the saucepan. Bring the 1/2 cup of cream to a full boil and remove it from heat. Pour the cream over the chocolate and, working with a rubber spatula, very gently stir together until the ganache is completely blended and smooth.

Pour the ganache over the torte, smoothing with a metal icing spatula. Scatter the remaining peanuts over the top and chill to set the topping, at least 20 minutes. When the ganache is firm, remove the sides of the springform pan. Refrigerate until ready to serve.

Source: adapted from Baking: From My Home to Yours by Dorie Greenspan and Annie's Eats, where I saw it first.

This last picture brought to you by a great show at the Riviera, the end of what I imagine to have been an awesome tour (Jaimeson was on it for a few weeks, dance moves and all), some deliciously obscure beer, two kinds of whiskey, two full bands and crew on one tour bus, a torte that turned out worthy of its alternate title (at top courtesy of Elliot) and one song made popular in a little film called Beetlejuice. Salty, sweet and delicious the whole way through.

Of Pancakes and Patios

It started with pancakes.Specifically, these pancakes.

Jaimeson and I were presented with a beautiful, office-free Chicago morning and no plans to speak of. I clearly love making plans so I have very little explanation for why this feels so incredible. Our conversations first thing sound like an extended word association game where onomatopoeic sounds count. One of those words? Buttermilk. I giddily remembered that I had some in the fridge. Buttermilk in the morning only means the good kind of pancakes.

Alas...we've no real fruit to speak of.

Time to text these two.

You see Molly (right) has been my best friend since high school and frequent co-adventurer. And in a coup that can only be described as Napoleonic (with much larger hair), she has moved to Wicked Park. To the only other apartment in my building. Directly across the hall. The mirror image of mine. I could get into other aspects of best case scenarioism but I think that will reveal itself. She and her Jaime were playing a similar game of mumbled Good Mornings across the hall and she confirmed that she was in possession of...a banana.

Thusly, banana pancakes with syrup and blueberry compote were born. The four of us sat around with bedhead as I flipped pancakes onto plates as each was released from its buttery cast iron haven. Even Ala, landlord extraordinaire, came by for a couple of "whatever smells so good." At this point we were all wondering about what the day might bring...maybe grilling out later?

As the day meandered (lazily), it became abundantly clear that a cookout was in order. The previous weekend yielded Jaimeson running back and forth from the grill with lambchops in the middle of a thunderstorm so we were abundantly grateful for a warm, dry evening. Enter, Bon Appetit, August 2009.

I am not a current subscriber to Bon Appetit but a coworker had received two extra copies and offered me one so I greedily accepted...and proceeded to read cover to cover. One recipe, one photo essay after the next...I was enthralled and craving. You know the term "food porn" exists because photos of ingestibles can be an incredibly sensual experience, yes? Welcome to a 1977 Playboy.

The piece on peaches was particularly inviting but we were nothing short of inspired from cover to cover. We chose some must-haves and set about to the Mexican market and Jewel. First course is pictured above. Melon and prosciutto has been a long time favorite but a fresh basil leaf into the mix? It just works (inspired by p 56). I did the full recipe of sorts on Tumblr.


Smoky corn salsa. I hate to start with what could have been a standout of the whole night but I'm feeling especially chrono-sensitive. We grilled it all. Thanks to Jaime, we grill our corn husk-on which is not what the recipe calls for but I refuse to eat corn any other way now so there it is. When it comes in from the Coleman (as on the far left) it smells so sweet, earthy. And then you peel back the husk and you've got nothing but gold with little spots of light char on the kernels. From the corn to the peppers to the green onion it was all perfectly toasted. With sauteed cumin and garlic? Hot chipotle sauce? It sang. It sang ballads. Page 48. Trust.

Jaimeson going in for the corn salsa. Our guests are starting to look like a wine advertorial. If it weren't for all the beer bottles.

Speaking of beautiful grilled things, welcome to Jaimeson-burgers. 1 lb ground sirloin, 1 lb ground chuck, six cloves of garlic. Yes, six. They are incredible. And don't take my word for it, take the word of our friends still outside who didn't know we could hear them RAVING about the burgers with aged cheddar draped over the tops, raving with pungent garlic breath in each other's faces and joy in their eyes.

Beer bucket.

Now would be a good time to say that just because it now appears I'm skipping to dessert doesn't mean that we didn't have something other than burgers. We also managed Horseradish Potato Salad (page 44) with fresh asparagus tips added in. It was good but my shots and interactions were a touch blurry at that point so let's just leave it there.

Back to peaches. I know I already mentioned the sexy involved with this peace but talk to me about roasting high-season peaches with Italian almond cookies and butter. Talk to me and notice the glazed, open-mouth response you get. It was an easy recipe that allowed for me to prep the amaretti crumble ahead of time but roast the peaches on the spot, leaving lots of time for friends and merriment. Low-maintenance and smoking hot...my kind of dessert.

I urge you to click the picture for the close-up but it was prett-straightforward. Pit the peaches, sprinkle crumble generously and bake till glory (page 89). Serve with a generous helping of vanilla bean ice cream and a kiss of amaretto over the top.

The terrible twosome after another fabulous co-hosting job. I am not jaded into thinking I'm anything but a pawn on these nights. All the charm is with these two. I just chop things up and keep pouring cold red wine on top on my sangria fruit.

Ice Cream: What a Dish

My mind has been all over the place this week. All over the place in a way that tells me to eat as many vitamin-rich meals as possible but slips in at the last second and says nothing but "pie" or "ice cream." Neither of which are things I tend to keep around the house (distance makes the heart grow fonder). Tonight ice cream was louder. And the chorus was Jaimeson's voice going "We're adults! We can do whatever we want!" which usually does lead to something like pancakes for dinner or an extra glass of wine. Cause I live on the edge like that.

I emailed a couple college buddies who live behind me and one came back thrilled at the idea of a cup of ice cream and a glass of wine. While I waited for them I got to thinking about ice cream more than any sane person who is not David Leibovitz should.
This is really my ultimate ice cream. It's chocolate, it's high quality and it's likely pricey so it could take me a month, 1-2 bites at a time to get through a pint. From a portion perspective this is good, hits my sweet spot without creating a binge.

This is next because the chips are about the same size and evenly distributed. It's still more of an ice cream shop purchase but from a portion control perspective, this works. It's good, it's a classic and fits the bill when I'm in a York or Junior Mint kind of mood. Also my Dad's favorite.


Now Cherry Garcia is where I start to run into real trouble and I'll tell you why. When an ice cream is filled with large chunks of goodness it's feast or famine if you're a "stuff" kind of person like TKTC. I'm in it for the extras. The cherries, the chocolate chunks. And I won't put my spoon down until I hit a drought. In other words, if I hit an oasis of "stuff," be it cookie dough, brownies bits or *ahem* caramel cone, I'm digging till I get everything in plain sight. This is much too dangerous to keep in the house.

But then there is an isolated night like tonight. When Amanda walked over, she'd brought a cake she'd made on a whim Monday. With sprinkles. Neither of us had eaten dinner. You know you're in trouble when wine is the healthiest thing being consumed at a meal. But it was fun and it's now 9:45 and I'm headed to bed so all's well that ends well. And by ends well, I mean ends with a long walk tomorrow after work and edamame for dinner.
In case you were wondering what tonight's poison was, it is Haagen Dazs Caramel Cone. Just as lethal as Cherry Garcia. Thank God we had cake to fill us up before more than half the pint was demolished.

Just go with it.