This is a quickie. It's for those of you still casting about for the ideal, luscious Valentine's Day dessert. (Not that it wouldn't be just as irresistible any other day of the year.) I made it yesterday and it was an astonishing sight to behold, considering that it's a chocolate mousse made only of chocolate and a bit of water. No eggs, no cream, no fuss. Melissa Clark of the Times got the recipe from molecular gastronomist Hervé This. (Not to be confused with his colleague Henri That.) It's intense and ridiculously simple, sort of like falling in love. But with more whipping.

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As you may well know from being an Anglophile or watching Bridget Jones, the Brits use "pudding" as a generic term for dessert. It's a bit perplexing given that no shortage of actual pudding is served for pudding there, but it's a rather comforting word and in the end there doesn't seem to have been too much confusion. But to further complicate things, what we call pudding they would most likely refer to as custard. No matter; I think we can all agree that steamed puddings—the stuff of Dickens novels and old-time American holidays—are simply delicious. You don't see them on menus much any more, but with so many traditional folkways and recipes being reclaimed, it wouldn't surprise me if we were in for a resurgence. And we should be. If you've never made a steamed pudding, it will be a revelation. All you do is stir together a batter, pour it into a mold or casserole and steam it. It emerges thick, dense and slightly sticky, ready to be eaten warm topped with a cool cloud of cream. From the rich spices to the stovetop preparation, for dessert or breakfast, steamed pudding is the ultimate winter indulgence.
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As I mentioned in this post the other week, one great thing about restaurant food is the diversity of flavor and technique on the plate. I'm always thrilled to get a dessert that combines tastes and textures without being too overwhelming. A simple panna cotta becomes so much more interesting when it comes with a pile of velvety macerated fruit or even just a generous pour of aged balsamic. I remember dining at Aureole way back when it was still in its original townhouse location and ordering a dessert that was a symphony of lemon—fluffy curd in a pastry shell, decadent ice cream, candied peel. This may seem like way too much work to attempt at home, but I recently managed to put together a layered dish with a few elements I had on hand to pretty great effect. The combination of a cinammon-scented roasted pear with a creamy smear of intense blue cheese, a drizzle of cider syrup and the sweet crunch of walnut brittle made a festive (and not too heavy) ending to a holiday meal. Everything was made ahead so it could be quickly plated at the last moment—a must when I'm entertaining.
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Don't get your knickers in a twist, I'm not giving you a recipe to prepare strange and frightening innards. Not that I wouldn't! But no, this is considerably more tame. Although I hope it make take you out of your comfort zone as far as baked goods go. Why? Because it's made with a lot of buckwheat flour and that can have scary health-food store connotations. Trust me, you don't need to be wearing Birkenstocks to go for this delicious cake. It's actually inspired by an incredible muffin from Peels that I've enjoyed on several occasions. The pastry chef there, Shuna Fish Lydon, really rocks, as you can see by her blog, not to mention her addictive graham crackers, brown butter rice krispie cubes and other tweaked-homestyle treats. I've lauded her skills before.
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If any cookie can be said to have a cult, it would be Tate's. G was an early convert, after discovering them during his summers in the Hamptons. The original Tate's Bake Shop opened its celadon-green doors more than 20 years ago in Southampton. Founder Kathleen King eventually capitulated to the near-hysterical demand for her insanely crisp and addictive chocolate chip cookies (and other divine baked goods), and they can now be found at select, discriminating retail venues, as well as the brand's online store. Through a coincidence that I prefer to think of as destiny, I wound up practicing yoga with someone who works with Tate's and, learning of G's love of the cookies and sad intolerance of gluten, he very generously sent us a large box of their gluten-free products! Frankly, we did not have high hopes. Gluten-free versions of things so very rarely live up to the originals. But these? Just as good. No less than a miracle.
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Pretty soon there won't be much fresh fruit to rave about. I'm looking forward to quinces, Bosc and Bartlett pears and of course apples all winter long, but while they're still available, I'm eating plums. The late-season varieties have an intensity of color and sweetness that is like the farewell kiss of a summer romance. There's no better way to showcase them than in a simple crumble. The fruit is the star, and you can accentuate its flavor by imbuing the crunchy topping with some subtle complements. For plums, I like to add a little almond and cardamom. (I know, I put cardamom in everything, but it really does go so well with plums!)
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Mark Bittman posted one of his great roundups of recipes in the Times Magazine this weekend, featuring less-expected ways to eat apples. I'm particularly taken with the cheesy apple fritters and that apple tempura! I'm prone to tossing diced apple into lots of salads—with oil-cured tuna, with walnuts and blue cheese, with all kinds of herbs. And when I make oatmeal, I always grate an apple into the pot. This really supports good digestion. We have a big old apple tree on our property at the lake, and it's covered with mottled green fruit that looks dubious but tastes great. Our friend Julia up the road has an orchard of craggy old trees that produce a lot of fruit, including some of the most flavorful red apples ever and a few pears, too. I've already eaten some super-crunchy and juicy Honey Crisps this year, and I'm a big fan of the Pink Lady with its wonderfully tangy sweetness. There are so many things to be made with all these apples, from pies, crumbles, betties and cakes to butter, fritters, cider...and, pedestrian as it may sound, applesauce.
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In the summer of 1976, I was allowed to fly out to New York by myself to visit my aunt, uncle and cousins in Long Island. It was the bicentennial year, and I vividly recall the red-&-white-striped pantsuit my mother made me for this occasion, embroidered with navy blue stars. I was taken into the city to have lunch at Maxwell's Plum, and we drove through the caverns of Wall Street where the skyscrapers soared dizzyingly up into the wild blue yonder. It was at Bloomingdale's, though, where I was most intoxicated by the glamour, the excitement, the sheer abundance. For a thirteen-year old girl with a head full of frizzy curls and a mouthful of metal, the enormous caramel apple they sold there—a kitschy symbol of the Big Apple—was unattainably enticing. As volputuous as a Botero sculpture, one glistening end dipped in chopped nuts, it's remained forever a fantasy.
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These are the best ice cream sandwiches. Yes. I know we all have a certain fondness for those semi-industrial rectangular ones we enjoyed as children—with that thin, cakey cookie that sticks to your fingertips, right? But these trump those. These are so big and fat they turn Chipwiches to shame and bring grown men to their knees. These are rustic, hand-hewn beauties. It's about the cookie, sure: melted bittersweet chocolate, best-quality cocoa and semisweet chips make for a lot of rich, fudgy goodness. But what you put between that dark embrace can send you soaring to the heavens. Might I suggest homemade mint ice cream? Or perhaps a creamy vanilla speckled with real seeds and offset with a slather of sweet, sticky cajeta (goat's milk caramel)? We served both on the 4th and I heard no complaints, only soft moans of ecstasy. If you have a big mint patch out back in some shady spot, all the better. I use our spearmint with its subtly cooling, herbaceous flavor, but you can experiment to see what you like. And no, it doesn't taste like toothpaste. By the way, forget the food coloring. The very pale green you'll get is so much more beautiful than that lurid artificial hue.
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That's me. Did you know I've been married four times? And I'm not that old. Twice divorced and widowed once. But in it for the long haul now. I'm so glad I finally found what I was looking for and it turned out to be even better than what I had imagined. I'm in the zone! And so will you be when you spoon a big bite of tart, creamy and dreamy gooseberry fool into your mouth. Allegedly dating back to the 15th century, this dead simple treat is nobody's fool; or rather, anybody's. It's just a cooked puree of sweetened gooseberries folded into whipped cream. Chilled and served in a wine glass or a coupe with a long spoon, it's among the most elegant desserts you can make without breaking a sweat.
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