This year, I whipped up a batch of King Arthur’s Classic Linzer Cookies which were quickly devoured. I then had the idea of combining the cookies with one of my favorite summer beverages, the matcha + raspberry drink from Frothy Monkey, because did summer 2020 even exist? Was it before or after the Tiger King era of the pandemic? Honestly, I couldn’t tell you.
I didn’t have raspberry jam but sour cherry jam made a fantastic substitute. Use whatever jam you’d like, but I always recommend going with something tart for that flavor ~*contrast*~.
Anyways, here’s the adapted recipe!
Don’t let 2020 win. Devote whatever any energy you have left in you to making a gingerbread house. That is the only way to save this year. Or so the angels tell me.
December knocked on the door, and as one does, I swaddled myself in everything within my immediate grasp that even closely resembled Christmas cheer. I bought a tree. I bought a wreath. I hung garland for holiday cards. I bought a second wreath which fell thrice from the kitchen window. I listened to playlists like Christmas Cocktail Jazz and New York Christmas until Alexa shot silence back at me in stubborn demur. I placed candles on the dining room table (Fire! Wow! De fête!) and noticed something missing by its side. Ah, yes, a gingerbread house.
I harked back to an image I saw by Constellation Inspiration (cue the angels singing) of a delicately constructed gingerbread greenhouse. The “stained glass” made of gelatin sheets! The symmetrical windows and cuts! The filigree! The festivité!
I knew I had to make it. I quickly Amazon’d (it must be a verb at this point, yeah?) some gelatin sheets, of which I even shelled out the $3.99 for expedited² shipping. I spent that Sunday making a template so precise the windows were spaced .37” apart! I cut and baked the gingerbread (which recipe definitely needs a good tweak (read my review as cupofpoodles)). I let it cool and prepared the icing. I placed the pieces together gingerly (ha!) and piped until my hands crumpled from cramps. I tweezered hand-crafted (but not by mine!) papier-mâché poinsettias over every window like a mad woman with tunnel vision. It was perfect.
10 hours had elapsed. 10 HOURS. But it was done. Finito. Terminado. I threw away the leftover icing. I wiped the countertops. I vacuumed the table littered with decorative debris. I said aloud, “I should wait until tomorrow to lift it up,” and walked away.
But then there’s this: an unwavering disposition of impatience. Maybe some suppressed leanings towards masochism sprinkled in. Myopia in wanting this glass studded gingerbread house next to the candles (still de fête) now!
I walked back to the table. I lifted it up.
Hands seized. Sidings slid. Hands jerked. Sidings split. A screech. Nearby, a car alarm to ordain the occasion and morass of sugar, spice, and lost time. I fell to my knees, a forced genuflection to 2020 and the havoc it had just heaved onto my dining room table.
Sardine cans make great support structures. Travesty, but look at the swirl in the NW quadrant! How picturesque!
Okay, dramatic, I get it.
But 10 hours! 10 HOURS! Pictured above is my feeble attempt of sticking the mess back together with no additional icing. “Tough luck, kid,” I imagine Herald and his angels singing (where did he get all these angels!?). I threw it in the trash where it, and the rest of the year, belonged.
Fast forward to Monday. I’m retelling this now faraway fable of failure in frosting at work. This gingerbread house was supposed to be! If it did, I would have built a gingerbread house replica of Locust, the newly opened restaurant (if you have any iota of love for yourself you will order the dumplings and shrimp toast and anything and everything they sell. These are the prerequisites for self-love, as so the angels tell me). Through their encouragement, my mind started turning, yearning for a successful holiday confection. I ordered more gelatin sheets. This time, I would take it slow (no more expedited² shipping for this gal).
I won’t get into the nitty gritty, itty bitty details of the process. As you can see, it turned out! And turned out it did (who came up with this phrase? Out where!?). It sits peacefully and unmoving at Locust (sorry, candles!) where you can see it when you order your dumplings because you, yes you, are worthy of self-love.
But here are a few tips that I learned the second time around (fool me once, shame on the gingerbread house, fool me twice, shame on me and my dreams and my life etcetera, etcetera, etcetera).
I received a lot of love on this cake on Instagram, so I decided to put it up on the blog, so dadadada! Here it is!
This cake was inspired by all the flavor profiles I love to combine with peaches, and of course, classic southern flavors like bourbon to umph it up.
This was my first time really decorating a cake. I bought a spinning cake stand and cardboard cake rounds to make sure I had all the right tools to really practice properly, and it was worth it. I can’t believe I ever tried decorating a cake without a spinning stand; it seems impossible now! The real stunner of the cake is for sure, no question, duh, the marbling buttercream effect. Mijji Song of Mijji Cakes has an incredibly easy to follow tutorial on her Instagram (praises to her for sharing it with the rest of the world!). For this color scheme, I kept the majority of the bourbon buttercream white (about 1/2 of what I used to frost it), then mixed in about 1/3 light orange bourbon buttercream and the rest a dusty pink color of bourbon buttercream. But have fun with it and use whatever colors you like! I think I could have definitely shaved off some more of the outer layer to dramatize the marbling effect, but alas, at least I know for next time!
I haven’t posted a recipe in awhile, and I’m pretty rusty when it comes to blogging. So let me know if you have any questions by commenting below!
I bought dozens of ears of corn from the farmer’s market and carried them home on my back. I ate raisin fennel sourdough. I walked braless in Baltimore heat and stood in the shower for hours, the skylight casting a rainbow through the water. I sat in a sun-smoked attic barefoot with instruments and listened. I rode the bus downtown and up. I rode the bus to New York and back. I ate leftover ribeye from diners’ plates and passed around bottles of half-drunk, Spanish wine. I met a boy when I shouldn’t have. I met a boy at my doorstep, sleepy-eyed and all Tennessee smile. I snuck down South and fell in love with a boy strong with screams. I cried to a friend at Otto’s, a fork in hand to carve a path. I bought second peaches by the bushel. I ate them cold, bruised, and sweet.
Baltimore in the summertime carries with it a kindred kind of heavy heat. Cursed by and cradled in, the city heaves itself down its own streets through June, July, and August. It holds no exceptions for anyone. Soupy and sweltering, everyone is in it together.
The summer of 2014, I had started a job at Fleet Street Kitchen, a white tablecloth restaurant slipped into the Inner Harbor’s row of chains — Fogo de Chao, Hard Rock Café, obligatory Cheesecake Factory. It felt like a beacon of culinary; we sourced our ingredients from our farm twenty miles north. We poured cold water and held the ice. We served foie gras with maple banyul. It was thoughtful and thorough and something sort of sublime.
During the day I would arrive early, helping prep for that evening’s service — smoking duck breasts for charcuterie, clipping micro greens for garde manger. At night, I was support staff — hosting, bussing, assembling amuse-bouche and cutting bread for service until midnight. I worked for free in the mornings and for tips at night, just determined to be immersed in it all; happy to just be a part of it.
At 21 I was very much aware that this time next year, I would be out in the thrust of the real world. I wanted to spend this last summer teaching myself that I really didn’t need much, that saving mattered, and that as long as I was fully engrossed in food I would be happy. And I was.
My summer became a weird, food-fueled accretion, the center of which was my time at Fleet Street and orbiting around it was everything I could taste, make, consume.
I allowed myself $10 in groceries every week and to spend it only at the farmer’s market down the street from my college row house. Every week was the same — I would spend $3 on a dozen ears of corn, $1 on a pound of kale, $2 on seconds from the fruit farmer (most of the time peaches, but strawberries if I was lucky), and $4 on something new I had never tried before. I bought garlic scapes and made pesto, gooseberries which I ate by the handful and later made into jam, Cherokee Purple tomatoes so sweet I bit into them like apples. I would eat my farmer’s market finds for breakfast, devouring bowls of raw corn sprinkled with old bay. I’d lay on my blacktop roof to burn, biting into a peach in one hand, soft and sweet and cold. I would then go to work and subsist on family meal, taking its leftovers to eat on the bus ride home. The chefs would let me carry the remaining loaves of bread home and freeze them, hand them out to other students braving Baltimore’s sweltering summer.
Something in me began to shift – the way I lived, the way I talked, the way I thought and felt about food. That summer I fell in love with everything — with the corn I ate every day, with Baltimore’s weird, with riding the bus at one in the morning in my uniform, my lap stacked with loaves and loaves of bread.
That July I also met my fiancé, Tyler, at a post-hardcore show in a tiny Korean club hugged in that same heavy, heavy heat. It was only fitting that it was there and then that I dove, head and heart first, into love in that same heavy, heavy way I had with everything else around me.
I can never thank this city enough for the roots it planted within me, to the city that laid out so clearly for me these things I cherish so much. So this is my love letter to Baltimore – to its heat and its heart, pumping unhurried but hard beneath its movements and spaces that make it, truly, The Greatest City in America. I love you, and when I return and walk your streets, I’m sure of it that I’ll cry.
Below is a recipe that embodies a lot of who I was that summer. I hope that you enjoy it as much as I did making it. I made a sauce for it that of course I didn’t write down, but it had shallots and white wine, shrimp stock and old bay, crab fat and cream.
]]>
We’d listen to NPR on an old, dough’d up bluetooth speaker. The morass of dish water would turn cold as we laughed, of what, I can’t recall.I lost weight from standing, cooking, for hours, and eating only farm eggs. I procured parallel scars running up my arms from when sheets singed skin, a semaphore or such for carelessness, caprice.There are moments I remember from my time working in the kitchen of a coffee shop, and there are moments that I don’t. But there are two things that have forged forward, subsumed into my now every day.
There is Taylor, a woman and friend whose soul I imagine could swell and save just about anyone. And there are biscuits.
We’d bake trays and trays of them — the hours in a lifetime spent deep in flour and cold, cold, butter; salt and buttermilk, sour and thick. Lined up in the oven, they’d stretch up and out each morning with a croon. We must have baked thousands.
One day my hands will be petal-textured and roiled. I will look at them with wonder at all they have done. I will remember waking before the sun and baking biscuits with Taylor in our own trove of flour and steel, forted by bags of beans rising to roast.
Some things are better kept simple, like buffalo wings, and better yet, this post!
This recipe is as easy as it gets. The addition of miso is subtle but no doubt takes it to the next level. If you need me, I’ll be here adding miso to everything.
Team Empty Plate Club 4eva.
An English muffin split in half. Butter melting, settling into the refuge of warm, toasted crevices. There’s a trickle of Tennessee honey, a few slivers of salt.
It’s a simple but spirited breakfast like this that has always served me best. It’s what the first thing you taste every day should deliver. There’s a life blood to it, and it elevates.
This recipe is from the cookbook Baking with Steel. Andris Lagsdin has revolutionized the pizza/bread/overall cooking game with Baking Steel, and if you haven’t already, definitely check him out!
This recipe is very simple and straightforward, and one of the easier bread recipes I’ve come across. Bread can be daunting, but I’ve learned as long as you’re patient with it (it’s alive and it takes time, so always treat it with care), you’ll be fine!
Zoë François, one of my favorite recipe developers, has a great step-by-step walk-through of these English Muffins in her Instagram stories. Definitely refer to it if you want a safety net!
I’ve been hoarding overripe bananas in my freezer for months. So in an attempt to start the new year a little bit cleaner, I decided to finally put them to use.
This is my go-to banana bread recipe. It works perfectly for this cake, but it’s completely adaptable as a loaf with whatever you want to add to it (nuts, crushed pineapple, etc.).
After trying to recreate Dominique Ansel’s Banoffee recipe (a future post I’m sure!), I discovered that bananas and dulce de leche is one of my faaaavorite flavor combinations. But it definitely lends itself to the sweeter side. The salt in the buttercream definitely balances the whole cake, and if you have it on hand, a few flakes of fleur de sel would taste fantastic sprinkled on top.
When I asked my friend Paul what dessert he wanted waiting for him when he arrived in Nashville, he responded without any hesitation, “Blueberry Crumble Pie.”
I’ve been baking a lot of pies. Partly because it’s pie season, partly because, after practice and patience, I think I finally have a knack for it, but above all because they’re goddamn good. But when Paul asked for a Blueberry Crumble Pie, I admit, I was pie’d out.
Alas, I found myself in my very own butter-and-flour-induced variations on a theme. So here we are. Introducing Blueberry Crumble Pie Bars.
They turned out to be a clever trick to conceal pie as breakfast, a covert operation to consume a massive amount of sugar before 10am.
The filling holds firm so you can cut these bad boys into perfect little bars and take them on the go. Or I guess you can eat them on a plate if you want. Just make sure you eat every last crumb.
Team Empty Plate Club 4eva.
When I think about food, I think of memories. There’s the smell of fresh garlic sizzling in a pan on Saturday mornings, the shells of garbanzo beans floating in water like shedded summer skins. But one that stands out in its amber emblem of love is leche flan.
When my Abuelita lived with us, she would prepare a leche flan (and yes, just one) for Christmas Eve every year. She would spend the night before carefully and tenderly whisking eggs and milk, caramelizing sugar in a pan.
When I was around eleven years old, she asked me to help her make the Christmas flan (a Filipino/Spanish caramel custard), a privilege and a memory I wish I had absorbed more completely.
She showed me how it’s imperative to not touch the sugar as it caramelizes, to pay attention to how long you whisk the eggs. “Con cuidado,” she told me, as she guided my hands in coating the pan with the caramel. I remember moving the pan faster than what she instructed, impatient with the process and being pulled away from sister and brother playing in the other room. My Abuelita was quick to scold me for my carelessness. And now, I recoil at the thought of not savoring those extra seconds patience would have given me with her.
But despite my rushing, the flan sat on a cake stand on the Christmas dessert table, unrivaled and (quite literally on a pedestal) above the other confections.
Coating the pan with caramel has become my favorite part of the process. And whenever I see leche flan, I always think of her – deceptively simple but luxurious and rich, a symbol of patience and cultures (my Abuelita’s parents moved from central Spain to the Philippines, and leche flan is a signature dessert of both countries). If cooked too fast or too long, the flan will turn from silk to rubber, a result of the flan’s stubbornness and defiance (two beguiling yet beautiful qualities of every Spanish woman).
I haven’t made a flan that could hold a candle to my Abuelita’s, and I don’t ever want to. But I hope you take the time to play patience with this recipe, and I hope when you try it you can taste my Abuelita’s Spanish stubbornness, her Filipino nature to love.