Summer pavlova for a grand finale

At the end of a summer meal, I crave something that matches the season—something light and fun; refreshing as a dash through sprinklers; and, like any good summer mystery novel, imbued with a touch of drama. Is that too much to ask from a single dessert? Not if that dessert is what I’ve decided to call the summer pavlova.

Australians might find me a little cheeky, taking liberties with their creation. In my defense, I think I’ve stayed faithful to the spirit of the dish. With its layers of billowy meringue, whipped cream, and fruit, a pavlova is ethereal and dramatic. It’s fitting that it was named in honor of a prima ballerina.

The drama in a pavlova comes from the play of textures. Traditionally, it’s whipped cream that offers a counterpoint to meringue. Chasing the summer muse, I decided to try ice cream instead. What I ended up with was an even more dramatic texture contrast, and the extra satisfaction of something frozen. The crispy-chewy, light-as-air meringue shattered with a satisfying crunch when we cut down into it with our spoons. The vanilla ice cream on top was cool and smooth. This was a summer pavlova.

Strawberry cupcakes flush with pride

Strawberry cupcakes are easily misunderstood. Bright pink cakes topped with swirls of bubblegum-pink frosting can seem too absurdly pink for serious, self-respecting people. They’re like gaudy prom dresses, decorative lawn flamingos, and Barbie’s feather boa. We blush when we order them at the gourmet cupcake shop down the street. But, secretly, we love them.

Strawberry cupcakes don’t have to be shameful indulgences, though. Ditch the food coloring and artificial extract, and you’re left with the simple goodness of fresh berries. At the peak of strawberry season, cupcakes made with fresh berries are irresistibly pretty; they blush with the naturalness of spring.

The key is using real fruit. Forget the gummy pink gunk. Macerate fresh or frozen strawberries in sugar and then whirl them in a blender with their own juice. This elixir becomes your magic ingredient. Fold it into a plain buttermilk batter and the whole batch turns shades of pink and lavender. Pockets of berry remind you that you’re just one step away from biting into whole fruit. Whip the mixture into simple cream cheese frosting and all of a sudden you’re eating berries and cream.

Sweet & easy: fresh berry tartlets

When berries crop up at their sweetest and most succulent, I want nothing more than to eat big bowlfuls of them plain. This is the simplest of spring pleasures. That said, I’m not a fierce berry purist. When I want a classy way to show berries off without too much fuss, I turn to fresh berry tartlets.

The word “tartlet” throws people off. Put anything in little pastry shells and it sounds suspiciously like petits fours. All of a sudden, you’ve entered the realm of high-class patisserie, where miniature eclairs, tuiles and ladyfingers simper and preen and demand to be plated with silver tongs.

Banish these thoughts. It’s already reassuring to know that petit four simply comes from the French for “small oven”: These little confections were baked at the end of the day, when fading brick-oven fires emitted a low, even heat. And fresh berry tartlets are the least high-maintenance of the bunch. Less, in fact, than the familiar pie.

Leeks as solo artists in spring

With all the fuss about shamrocks and leprechauns, we could easily forget that St. Patrick was a Welsh boy, who first set foot in Ireland because he was kidnapped by Irish pirates. In honor of St. Patrick’s Day, I’m thinking about leeks, the Welsh national vegetable. There’s as much magic in them as in any leprechaun, especially if you know when to seek them out. Spring leeks are a revelation in their tenderness and delicate flavor.

For anyone used to the thicker, tougher specimens of fall and winter, leeks may seem as ordinary as their close relative, the onion. But I have a soft spot for spring leeks and the way they shine in simple dishes. Maybe it’s because of the time I’ve spent in France, where simmered leeks vinaigrette are served as a cold starter in the spring, when they’re newly in season. I was taught to hunt for the best leeks at springtime markets, the ones that are tender and slim, with a nice length of white stem. They need very little trimming before they’re simmered whole in a shallow pan of water, sometimes with a touch of white wine. It takes a little patience, but the texture is magically silky, the flavor is subtle and mellow, and the vinaigrette adds the perfect zing of acidity.

Leeks make another stunning solo performance in leek tart, called flamiche in Northern France, where it’s a specialty. (The word flamiche actually comes from the Flemish word for “cake.”)

I heart cupcakes

Lots of people get flowers or candy for Valentine’s Day. I got both or neither, depending on how you look at it: Some rather insightful someones got me a set of paper cupcake liners printed and shaped to look like crimson roses in bloom.

They were so pretty, I almost wanted to display them as a paper bouquet or put them on a shelf and admire them, like art. But my kitchen gallery already has an exhibit of frilly pink liners that came in my Christmas stocking. Enough fond ogling. These cupcakes should bloom into a different kind of art. And what better guide than loves and obsessions? This would truly be a cupcake from the heart. Luckily, I’m someone with plenty of loves and obsessions.

Panna cotta will steal your heart

Who bakes on Valentine’s Day? Most of us don’t, but we should. And the first thing you might want to try is panna cotta. A few minutes at the stove suffice to bring together this simple Italian dessert, a mixture of cream and sugar, thickened with gelatin. Though it’s easy enough to make by hand, the magical and sensuous texture will make any heart swoon. Its simplicity can be your little secret.

The only reason I waited so long to make panna cotta myself is that, to be honest, gelatin scares me a little. It’s not that I’m squeamish in the kitchen. I have a habit of baking elaborate desserts. But gelatin? There’s something mysteriously scientific about it. It reminds me of pipettes and Bunsen burners. As it turns out, there’s really nothing simpler. Pour your cream mixture into ramekins, and you can focus on what’s important—time with the person you love. The magic happens as the panna cotta chills and gels into a dessert that’s creamy without being heavy. 

Super Bowl Sunday: Making the Team

I’m one of those girls who never played team sports. The Super Bowl is coming to my new hometown this weekend, and I could very easily write a post like The New York Times’s Melissa Clark,who, on Sunday, will be having a tea party with crumpets, marmalade and clotted cream—a militantly anti-Super Bowl party if there ever was one. But I’m game for the Super Bowl. I may never have played team sports, but I do have a team—my new family and new city. I’m baking on Sunday, but I am not having a tea party. For the first time in my life, I’ll be part of Super Bowl Sunday.

Panforte takes the cake

[I'm always happy to write for the Town Crier's wedding section, because it's a chance to think about fancy desserts. This piece was inspired by my holiday baking.]

After the reception, with its magnificent, multi-tiered cake, wedding favors can seem like an afterthought. But in choosing the favor, you’re choosing how your wedding will be remembered. What do you want to send home with your guests? One thing comes to mind—something unusual and sophisticated.

Three kings and a log

“Texas is the land of cowboys,” one of my Parisian cousins wrote to me this week, having learned that I recently moved here. The worlds of others are inevitably filled with caricatures. Cardboard cowboys under big blue canvas skies. Things are obviously not that simple. Traditions are funny, though, because they can seem like cutouts from the outside, but still be full of depth. Take, for example, the wonderfully elaborate pastries the French concoct this time of year—the whimsical bûche de Noël, sculpted and adorned to resemble a Yule log and eaten on Christmas Eve, or the flaky, frangipane-filled galettes des rois (kings’ cakes) that fill bakery windows to mark Twelfth Night, the Feast of Epiphany, the arrival of the three kings to Bethlehem. I realize that few Texans know about these traditions, but, far from France, they take on a special importance to me. Which is why I was shocked to hear that this Christmas my father had eaten the most unorthodox bûche I’d ever heard of, with banana cream and passionfruit glaze.

Bring home the pâté de campagne

Mousse truffée topped with aspic, pheasant terrine herbette, and duck paté with prunes and Armagnac can make an hors d’oeuvre tray sound like a tongue twister. Pâtés may intimidate, but they’re really just pies that have lost their crusts. Their pastry-enveloped cousins even made their way into nursery rhymes. And while four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie may sound unappetizing, a slice of pâté de campagne, attractively swaddled in bacon and studded with strips of ham, is nothing more than pig pie. And not hard to make, as it turns out.