Desayuno

Today I made my first real sourdough. Well, to be precise, today I baked my first real sourdough. Overall, the making of it was a three day process. I am posting a picture for now, and will be filling in the details, with a recipe, later.

I spent December at home, between jobs, and devoted the whole month to concocting new plans to fatten up my parents and sisters. This recipe for chocolate cakes from Louis XV’s pastry chef Becary, posted at La Tartine Gourmande, seemed to work best. My family is always glad to have me back at home for a while, but I get the feeling their stomachs are a bit relieved when I leave. Read more

In response to Teresa’s orange tart, I offer a dessert that is both complex and inelegant. But it is very good.

I had my first gob (I did not name them) less than a month ago, but I already consider myself a devoted fan. The concept is simple: A soft, cake-like chocolate cookie, filled with vanilla cream. It almost sounds like something you would buy wrapped in plastic at a corner store and regret eating. But home made, with the tang of buttermilk and the richness of good cocoa, it’s a thing of beauty.

The original gob is from a friend’s old family recipe, and my only modification is in form: I have made them much smaller. As someone commented the first time I made the recipe myself: “this isn’t a cookie, it’s a commitment!” And it was. As a generous dessert, or a light meal, the cookie was well portioned. But for a snack, it was just too daunting. I made the next batch about 1/4 of the original size, and they were perfect. Two bites each, and you can always have a second. After brief consultation, it was named “the goblet.”

(My best friend immediately doused one in brandy and ignited it, to create a “goblet of fire.”) Read more

When I was little I didn’t have a very good sense of holidays and special occasions. Sure, I loved Christmas as much as any kid, but at five years old, as far as I was concerned Christmas was something that had happened three times in the history of the world. It couldn’t be counted on, and it was unrealistic to try to think far enough in advance to see it coming next time. Being told that my birthday was in eight months was like being told that Ghana is to the west: Entirely true, but I’d never make it all the way there, even if I packed a lunch. No, I celebrated smaller and more frequent holidays: Beach day; dad letting me ride on the hood of the car up the driveway day; going to the movies day. And perhaps the most important of them all was baking day. Read more