Recently in Sweet Recipes Category

We were so lazy on Tuesday. Seriously, I don't know if there were four people on the planet having more trouble keeping their heads up than Tejal, Glyn, Stephen, and me yesterday. We were old dog lying in a warm spot on the porch lazy.

Tejal and Glyn had attended a going away to-do the night before while Stephen and I saw an A's game, stayed for the fireworks afterward, and indulged in midnight BLTs at Mel's. Naturally, we chose not to mount an elaborate Independence Day hullaballoo. I roused myself long enough to make a chickpea and goat cheese dip with some spicy olive relish, Glyn made burgers and some terribly yummy vidalia onion spread. Dessert would have been a no go had I not recently come into an enormous amount of strawberries.

I have a habit of buying huge qualities of fruit from roadside stands, despite the fact that as a member of two-person household, five pounds of nectarines are likely to rot before they ever get eaten. I recently fell prey to eight pints of very ripe strawberries for five dollars. I knew chances weren't great that I'd think of a way to use them before they went squishy, but darn it, I had to try. After two days, the berry smell that rolled out of the fridge when the door was opened almost knocked me down. It was time for action

Today, during the hour or so which I rest my crêpe batter, I learned of an extraordinarily coincidental fish that made the BBC headlines. A two and a half kilo tuna caught fifty miles south of Mombassa whose scales, apparently, had grown into a verse of the Koran: "you are the best provider," it read. This Kenyan Koranic tuna.

When the National Museum came to get the fish, they found it had been stolen a few hours previously by National Museum impersonators! Who knows what they're planning--a careful textual-tuna comparison, a bumpy, ice-packed matatu ride to Nairobi experts, sashimi? There are photos of course--for who'd believe such a thing without photos ?--on the BBC for sceptics to dismiss.

This confession explains the coincidence: a Madonna and Child once appeared to me on a fairly ordinary evening, cooking with friends (witnesses!) in Maida Vale: a clear, olive skinned duo on one side of a delicate, brown butter scented crêpe. Really! And not the usual crêpe bubble that, yeah, fair enough, might pass as mother and baby if you cocked your head, squinted, and licked a psychoactive toad--and don't, The Church of the Toad Light is fed up with people reporting visionary pancakes, not to mention the misleading term "licking"--but a proper woman's soft-featured face, and chubby baby, seated on a chair. And, as one sober witness declared, possibly breastfeeding.

Many Halloweens ago, I had a fairly wild party at my apartment in Boston, though it did not even begin to compete with my neighbour's wild parties: weekends of electron-polka, screaming into the night, and a floor made entirely of mattresses--you could sort of see on tiptoes, standing on my garden wall. But that's my business.

The point is: Martha dressed as eighties style Strawberry Shortcake. She was a little bit too sexy to be the freckled cartoon character, but she paid respects to the original Strawberry we all loved from old Strawberryland, the one who skipped about in a pair of barely peeking bloomers, striped stockings, and an enormous bonnet, trailing a green ribbon and sweet Custard the Cat close behind.

Strawberry, to my complete distress, doesn't look like a lovely human cupcake anymore (Martha doesn't either, she changed right after the party). And I find they've modernised Strawberryland to seduce a whole new generation with a world that hints at the delicious psychedelics of scratch n' sniff dolls: where one's hair is perpetually perfumed by berries, unlocked houses are built of eternally ripe, massive strawberries, the gentle landscape is a rolling frosted cake layer, and the only chocolate tree-forts are in a neighbouring land run by a boy, obviously--most likely banished from society for his embarrassing, dessert theme name and naughty pet, Devils Food Ruddy Shelduck. Or something.

My sweets consumption has noticably increased in recent days. I can only attribute it to all the time I spent thinking, planning, cooking (and then consuming) my Whats for Pud? entry. I guess I'm having a hard time snapping out of sugar high mode.

I had every intention of using the half can of coconut milk to make a Thai curry for dinner some time this week. I swear, as I pressed down the translucent blue lid on the storage container, I said aloud, "It'll be nice to have some curry. I can use some of the pork loin in the freezer. All we'll need to get is veg. How thrifty." I really think I mean it.

Last night, a cold wind blew in off the ocean, obliterating the fine sunny weather of days past. I tucked a blanket in around my feet and said, "Stephen, should I make some hot chocolate?"

Never one to deny himself the possibility of a treat, he readily consented. So I guess I could as easily blame the jet stream, the Pacific Ocean, or Stephen for the fact that I've had to rummage through the cupboards, looking for alternate dinner inspiration.

When I was a child, I ate ice cream as a child, but when I became an adult, I put childish ice cream away. I no longer revel in ice cream loaded full of enormous candy chunks and topped with both gummy bears and sprinkles. I prefer my ice cream creamy, without undue textural intrusion. Even some Ben and Jerry's flavors I used to adore now strike me as excessive; all the ice cream melts away while I'm chewing the chunks. I just don't want a whole section of a chocolate bar in my ice cream. The pleasure of chocolate is that it melts, sensually, at just below body temprature. When it's frozen in ice cream, chocolate just strains the jaw and waxily coats the teeth.

This morning, I received the folllowing e-mail from my parents:

"We are enjoying Portugal. Warm people, great weather and fresh food (if somewhat simply prepared). Today, we go to Belem to see the sights and try the pasteis de Belem!"

Until my week long stay in Lisbon with Portuguese and Brazilian friends, my understanding of Portuguese culture was basically defined by Bossa Nova made in the 60's (Tip: Brazilian women are tired of being referred to as the Girl from Ipanema. Seriously, no matter how tall, tan, young and lovely they may be. Stop it. Right now, stop). So the first time I heard the term "conventual pastries" I simply thought that my friends were mispronouncing the word conventional. Because pie crust plus eggy custard filling equals a pretty conventional sounding, fuddy-duddy, unadventurous, formula for mediocre pastry. Forgive me.

They meant conventual as in convent. Pasteis de Belem are perhaps the most famous, but almost all of the pastries lining Lisbon's pastelerias were mastered in convents by nuns with an excess of eggs and time, who I imagine found their sweet, guilty, pleasures of the flesh in the making of pastries...the sensual kneading of the dough, the careful lining of small tins, the furious thrashing of the yolks and sugar, the quick stiffening of that wobbly, golden custard, and finally, the teasing aroma of cinnamon, caramelising butter and sugar, that filled the grounds, distracting their sisters and neighbouring clergymen from their vegetable patches, endless copying of manuscripts, counting of gold, self-flagellation--or whatever they were getting up to.

You can still buy pastries from some of the convents directly if you want to: it may involve sliding money towards a pair of eyes behind a tiny, sliding door, and in return, getting your pastries and change through another tiny, sliding door further down. Creepy.

Every afternoon, all over England, people sit down with a cup of tea and a biscuit. A daily reminder of Queen Victoria and and a long vanished empire, this ritual occupies a position of utmost social and cultural importance. It is a snack that defines a nation. However, when it comes to dessert, the English palate tends toward richer, sweeter, more indulgent treats. This is, after all, the nation that thinks nothing of enriching desserts with rendered beef fat, that reveres custard so much, the French named creme anglaise in their honor, and the nation that invented a tart so sugary we reference it when we call a sappy movie treacly.

To celebrate St. George's Day, I wanted to make a dessert that combined these the English devotion to Camellia sinensis and their love of all things pudding. Tea and a biscuit that was suitable for afters, if you will. The Jaffa cake seemed like the ideal way to bridge the institutions. Either a biscuit or a cake, depending on who you ask, this often contentious treat is restrained enough for a snack, but elaborate enough to seem like dessert. The 2 Tasty Ladies are clearly passionate for marmalade and chocolate together, so I couldn't help but be drawn to the marvelous little cookie. I borrowed the combination of sponge cake, chocolate, and "smashing orangey bit" to make my Messy Jaffas. Made with a fluffy genoise, and soaked with a mixture of marmelade and caramel, unlike original Jaffas, they are unequivicably cakes rather than biscuits. To go alongside, I made Earl Grey Ice Cream, essentially a frozen creme anglaise perfumed with the fragrant bergamot tea. Since it is, technically, both a snack and a dessert, I plan on having some this afternoon at four and again later after dinner. All to honor St. George, of course.

In the tradition of giving Stephen things for which he is too old--em, not that he's old...

Last year: Zap Brannigan ray gun

This year: rice krispy treats

These chewy squares are serious birthday food, made just like on the side of the box, and sprinkled with coloured sugar.

6 cups rice krispies
10 oz bag of marshmallows
4 tbs butter
pinch of salt

In a large pot, melt the butter over a low heat. Once melted, add the marshmallows and salt and stir till melted. Take the pan off the heat and add the rice krispies. Stir till evenly coated. Then, scrape out into a flat tray and roll to shape. In ten miniutes or so, when the shape doesn't give easily, cut with a sharp knife and eat trimmings only (the real squares are for when Stephen gets here, it's his birthday!)

It was during Queen Victoria's sovreignty that the British Empire made its enormous expansion to superpower, a water mould destroyed the potatoe crops of Ireland, and the country entered into the Crimean War. She was the first known carrier of haemophilia in the royal line--the disease that would not affect her, but her great-grandson Alexei, you know the one. She is famous for evading numerous assasination attempts and outliving three of her children; and she is remembered still for the white dress of her wedding--which sealed the tradition of white weddings, if it did not begin it--and the black she wore after her Albert died, til her death. Among other things.

And yet, when I think of her--the Empress of India, the Famine Queen, the Widow of Windsor, the Monty Python Skit--it is not her porcelain profile on a Red Penny postage stamp but a yellow sponge cake that floats to the front. The cake is sandwiched with raspberry preserves and served, if it be that time of the month for her majesty, with a cup of cannabis tea. The Victoria Sponge.

It's hard to say which was the first of my happy accidents yesterday. Without a mobile phone--I forgot--or my friend's apartment number--I forgot--I was stranded on a sunny afternoon outside El Dorado Apartments, scanning the list again and again for my friend's name. I crossed out married couples and gay couples--this left me with about twenty apartments. I knew she was in one of them, expecting me. I began to ring each bell.

The unmistakable sound of an electric wheelchair came closer, accompanied by the smell of smoke, a throaty cough. Bob, a resident of El Dorado for the past thirty-three years, finished his afternoon cigarette and offered to help me find my friend.

"I have an idea," he said. He punched in his code.
"Get the door," he ordered as the buzzer sounded, putting forward a purple finger with a long, yellow nail.