Fluffy and soft, the sweet flesh of a homemade marshmallow gently billows under light touch. Wrapped in a blanket of fine, snow-like confectioners’ sugar, each chewy bite sticks to the gums, leaving behind nothing but feathery saccharine fingerprints.

I cannot recall the first time I tasted a homemade marshmallow, perfect pillowy clouds of meringue and sugar, whipped and set until silken and cottony. Though I’ve always had an unbridled love for anything gummy and chewy, I was never a fan of the mass-produced, waxy marshmallow, unless charred beyond recognition and stuffed between brittle graham crackers and oozing with warm dark chocolate. I much prefer their “adult” counterpart, a playfully bouncy confection with a sneeze-inducing, powdery jacket.

I had uncharacteristically decided to make rose marshmallows for my family on Valentine’s Day. Despite a decade with my husband, we have never been romantic Valentine’s Day devotees, in part because we feel V-Day is an overblown excuse for cheap chocolate. The one and only time we capitulated, we found ourselves waiting six hours for a less-than-mediocre meal and ended up at In-N-Out burger for a night cap. As a hard and fast rule we opt out of February 14. This year was no exception though I, somewhat shamefully, found myself craving ubiquitous chocolates and sentimental heart-shaped pastries and above all, sweet but exotic rose-scented marshmallows.

Traditional marshmallows are meringue-based. Many recipes require the use of raw egg whites, which are beaten and added to a hot, whipped mixture of sugar, corn syrup and gelatin. Alternatively, pasteurized egg whites or powered egg whites can be used in place of raw, unpasteurized eggs. Many people prefer eggless recipes, which I find yield less airy marshmallows and a stringier batter. Eggs add a weightless, bouncy quality to the marshmallows.

When making rose marshmallows pick your rose syrup or rose water carefully. I normally prefer rose water, a distillation of rose petals that has a heady perfume. This time I used red-hued rose syrup, which has the added benefit of tinting the marshmallows a subdued blush complexion, reminiscent of fluffy pink icing.

Make sure to taste your syrup or water before finalizing a quantity. Some are richer and more deeply concentrated than others. Too much will overwhelm the delicate nature of the confection. For a more subtle, aromatic quality, use less.

Rose Marshmallows
Adapted from Gourmet Magazine

3/4 cup confectioners’ sugar
1/4 cup potato starch or corn starch
2 tablespoons plus 2 1/2 teaspoons unflavored gelatin
1/2 cup cold water
2 cups granulated sugar
1/2 cup light corn syrup
1/2 cup hot water (about 115 degrees)
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 large egg whites
1 teaspoon vanilla
3 1/2 teaspoons rose syrup

1. Oil bottom and sides of a 13x9x2-inch metal baking pan, and dust bottom and sides with confectioners’ sugar/ starch mixture.

2. In bowl of a standing electric mixer, or in a large bowl, sprinkle gelatin over cold water and let stand to soften.

3. In a 3-quart heavy saucepan cook granulated sugar, corn syrup, hot water, and salt over low heat, stirring with a wooden spoon, until sugar is dissolved. Increase heat to moderate and boil mixture, without stirring, until a candy or digital thermometer registers 240 degrees, about 12 minutes. Remove pan from heat and pour sugar mixture over gelatin mixture, stirring until gelatin is dissolved.

4. With standing or a hand-held electric mixer beat mixture on high speed until white, thick, and nearly tripled in volume, about 6 minutes if using standing mixer or about 10 minutes if using hand-held mixer.

5. In a large bowl beat whites until they just hold stiff peaks. Beat whites, rose syrup and vanilla into sugar mixture until just combined. Pour mixture into baking pan and sift 1/4 cup confectioners’/starch evenly over top. Chill marshmallow, uncovered, until firm, at least 3 hours, and up to 1 day.

6. Run a thin knife around edges of pan and invert pan onto a large cutting board. Lifting up 1 corner of inverted pan, loosen marshmallow and let drop onto cutting board. With a large knife trim edges of marshmallow and cut into roughly 1-inch cubes. Sift remaining confectioners’ sugar/starch into a large bowl and add marshmallows in batches, tossing to evenly coat. Marshmallows keep in an airtight container at cool room temperature 1 week.

Yield: Makes 35-40 marshmallows.

Chai has been my most beloved hot drink since college. My best friend and I would routinely escape the chaos of our senior seminars, papers and job applications and seek ephemeral solace in the dusky, dimly-lit basement of the town’s local coffee shop. We’d spend hours discussing romance, friendship and careers over piping hot bowls of pumpkin-spiced chai served under fluffy, weightless clouds of alabaster milk foam.

For me, late fall is chai season. Not only does it kindle nostalgia for my days as a hopeful, nascent undergrad but because chai’s spicy warmth restores the body and soul as the season transitions from crisp and brisk to bleak and raw.

Though I consider myself a tea enthusiast I have never attempted to make chai at home. Over the years I’ve experimented with loose tea but have been apathetic when it comes to chai. Always the hunter, I opt for the indefatigable coffee house crawl, in search of the superlative cup, rather than brew homemade. Chai is simple enough to make and I consider myself a pretty decent cook. And I am most definitely adept at brewing a meritorious cup of tea.

When my cousin David recently suggested I try his much-tweaked, much-loved and much-perfected recipe for chai, I resolved to finally kick my store-bought habit.

Masala chai, an Indian word literally meaning spiced tea, is made by brewing black tea leaves, milk and a sweetener with a potpourri of spices. The spice mixture varies from region to region in India but often includes cinnamon, cloves, ginger, cardamom, star anise, fennel, and pepper. My cousin uses cinnamon, green cardamom pods, fresh ginger, cloves, white peppercorns and star anise.

The tea base for traditional Indian chai is usually a robust Indian black tea such as Assam or Darjeeling. David also swears by Maté or Rooibos but I stick with Assam for my brewing experiment.

Making chai is a spirited, magical process. Crushing the spices with mortar and pestle releases a fresh, piquant scent. Watching the tea leaves bloom and unfurl in the boiling liquid is a thing of beauty, relaxing and addictive.

Sweeteners range from white refined sugar to brown sugar to honey to coconut sugar. One stop shoppers can opt for condensed milk, both the dairy and the sweetener rolled into one. Personally I prefer my chai with frothy whole milk and unrefined sugar.

David’s recipe is an intricately aromatic tea with high notes of cardamom and undertones of tongue-tickling white pepper and cloves. While he adds milk directly to the pan at the tail end of the process, I upped the ante and added milk foam using food science writer Harold McGee’s foolproof technique of vigorously shaking milk in a mason jar until frothy, and microwaving until the foam sets.

Remember, this is not Starbucks’ chai, which I find cloyingly sweet and overly spiced. True chai is subtle and elegant, almost understated in its flavor.

Masala Chai Latte

7 cups water
1 5-inch cinnamon stick, broken into pieces
2-inch long piece of fresh ginger, peeled
12 green cardamom pods
5-6 cloves
6-10 white peppercorns
2-3 star anise
1 vanilla bean
1/2 cup loose tea leaves, such as Assam or Darjeeling
Milk to taste, or about 5 cups
Honey or sugar to taste

1. Bring water, cinnamon and ginger to boil in a large saucepan. Simmer until fragrant and until the cinnamon starts to turn the water a light brown.

2. Using a mortar and pestle, finely grind the cardamom pods, cloves, peppercorns and star anise. Add the spices and vanilla bean to the simmering water.

3. Simmer another 5 minutes, or until fragrant, and add the tea leaves. Remove pan from heat and let the tea steep for about 4 minutes.

4. Strain the tea through a very fine mesh strainer into another clean saucepan. Add milk and honey or sugar to taste.

5. Alternatively, pour milk into a mason jar with a lid. The milk should fill the jar about halfway at most to account for the foam. Shake the jar vigorously until the milk is frothy and doubled in size, about 30 seconds. Remove the lid and microwave for 30 seconds. Pour as much milk as you want into your cup of chai and then scoop the foam on top.

6. Pour leftover tea into mason jars and store for reheating. Chai flavor improves with time.

Yield: Without milk, makes about 6-7 cups spiced tea.

The persimmon is a beautiful fruit: a vibrant, glowing coral-hued orb, smooth and shiny like a marble bubble. However, the persimmon is much maligned thanks to one of two commercial available varieties. The Hachiya, the more widely grown persimmon, is extremely tannic. If eaten prematurely, the tongue is treated to symphony of bitterness that lingers, an almost tangibly caustic sensation that envelops the taste buds. When ripe, the fruit, shaped like a glossy plum tomato, can be sweet and earthy, the flesh very soft and juicy. But eat them at your own risk. The window of opportunity for a ripe Hachiya is scanty.

The Fuyu, less available than the Hachiya, is a much more acquiescent fruit. This is the non-astringent variety, resembling a diminutive ochre heirloom tomato. Though not lacking tannins, they are less bitter than their counterpart and more quickly shed the nasty, tongue-puckering quality. They are also versatile. Consume them when firm like an apple or wait until they are soft and fleshy.

Despite the Fuyu’s more charming resume, the Hachiya is more commonly utilized in baking. However, I was determined to find a use for the dozen Fuyu I picked up in Chinatown other than diced in salads, wrapped in Prosciutto or a simple accompaniment to a roast protein. I wanted the Fuyu persimmons to take front and center, their sweetness playing off butter and sugar. So, I made a French tart.

I used a buttery tart shell: flaky, lightly browned and delicate, filled with a simple pastry cream that I folded into a bit of whipped cream. Instead of lining the tart with apples, citrus or berries, I candied autumn-ripe Fuyu persimmons until mellow and supple and lined the tart, overlapping the fruit like flower petals. The secret to properly candying persimmons is time, the heat low and the process slow. Cooking the hard fruit in caramel syrup over low heat renders them succulently sweet and tender, the glaze shimmery like freshly blown glass. Nutmeg and cinnamon permeate the persimmon with a fragrant, late-fall subtleness.

Persimmon Tart
Tart Shell:
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
Pinch kosher salt
1/4 cup confectioner’s sugar
1/2 cup (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into tablespoons
1 egg yolk, beaten
1 tablespoon ice water

Pastry Cream:
1 cup whole milk
1/4 cup sugar
1 tablespoon corn starch
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
2 egg yolks
1/2 vanilla bean
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1/4 cup homemade whipped cream

Persimmons:
3-4 Fuyu persimmons, thinly sliced, skins on
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1 cup sugar
1 cup water
1/4 cup light corn syrup
1/4 cup apricot preserves or marmalade
1 teaspoon orange zest

To make tart shell:
1. Preheat oven to 425 degrees with rack in the middle.

2. Pulse flour, sugar and salt in a food processor until well combined. Add butter one tablespoon at a time and pulse, about 10 times, or until mixture resembles pea-sized lumps.

3. Add egg yolk and water and pulse until ingredients are just incorporated and dough is very soft.

4. Roll dough out on a lightly floured work surface until about 1/8-inch thick. Transfer pastry dough to a 9-inch tart pan with a removable bottom. Press the dough up the sides of the tart pan and trim off overhang. Prick the dough with the tongs of a fork several times.

5. Line tart shell with a piece of greased foil and fill the shell with dried beans. Bake, on middle rack for 10 minutes. Remove the beans and foil and continue to bake until golden, about another 15 minutes. Cool tart shell on wire rack.

To make pastry cream:
1. In a small pan, mix the sugar and egg yolks. Sift flour and cornstarch into the egg mixture and whisk until you form a smooth paste.

2. In a small saucepan, bring the milk and vanilla bean to a boil, just until it begins to foam. Immediately remove from heat, remove vanilla bean, and steadily pour milk into egg mixture, whisking constantly. If the mixture curdles, pass through a fine mesh strainer to remove impurities. Scrape out seeds from vanilla bean and add them to milk mixture. Discard bean.

3. Return the pot to the stove. Over medium heat, cook cream, whisking constantly, until it begins to boil. Turn down heat to medium-low and simmer, whisking until thick. Promptly remove from heat. Pour pastry cream into a bowl and cover the surface with plastic wrap. Cool at room temperature.

To candy persimmons:
1. Combine sugar, corn syrup, water, nutmeg and cinnamon in a saucepan. Bring to a boil over high heat and simmer for about 5 minutes, until slightly thickened. Add persimmons and reduce heat to medium-low. Simmer gently for about 45 minutes to an hour, turning the persimmons several times to coat, until very tender.

2. Remove pan from the heat and carefully remove the fruit from the syrup with a slotted spoon. Reserve the syrup.

Assemble tart:
1. In a medium bowl, fold whipped cream into pastry cream.

2. Melt preserves with 1 teaspoon of water in a small saucepan over medium-low heat. Add 1/4 cup of persimmon syrup and orange zest to the melted preserves. Set aside to cool slightly.

3. Spoon pastry cream mixture into cooled tart shell and spread evenly with an offset spatula. Line persimmons on top of pastry cream, overlapping them slightly. With a pastry brush, coat the top of the tart with the glaze. Tart is best served the day it is made.

Yield: Serves 8.

I ritually reserve candy-making for the holiday season. Even though we don’t celebrate Christmas, candy and confections are an essential part of our annual winter repertoire. From November through the New Year, the air in our house is rich with the provocative scents of sweet and salty chocolate sandwich cookies, sugar-dusted spongy marshmallows, hazelnut madeleines, fruit-flavored jellies, crystallized candied nuts and nutty marzipan cookies.

Jumping the gun on candy this year, I begin to think I’m compensating for something. Or perhaps I’m over-compensating. I’ve long since stopped feeling inadequate around the holidays. I stopped questioning, as a young child, why Santa skipped our chimney. But the feeling of missing out on the cheer, the food and the togetherness never fully subsided. And I’m feeling it tenfold this year.

As hard as it is to admit, I’m ready for the first light dusting of sugar-like snow. I’m ready for ice crystals to hitch onto our glassy, frigid windows. Ready for the overwhelming feeling of warmth that radiates from baked goods in my oven; the distinctly sweet, familiar aroma, wrapping itself around me like a hug from a long-lost relative. I’m feeling ready to set up camp and hibernate in my kitchen.

I’ve commenced my sugary bounty with a very simple, almost childishly easy candy: caramel apple cider lollipops, flavored with a hint of freshly grated cinnamon. The finished product resembles petite stained-glass rounds, glassy jewels perched proudly on a stick.

To make lollipops, boil a mixture of basic ingredients: sugar and water; alternatively, boil sugar, water and corn syrup until it just begins to caramelize. After quickly removing hot caramel from the heat, add flavoring. In this case, I used a small amount of reduced, super-tart apple cider and freshly ground cinnamon. The cinnamon lends an aromatic spicy flavor. While the apple cider is not immediately detectable, the spice works with the juice reduction to create the perfect autumn flavor. Keep in mind that the darker the caramel, the more bitter the final product. I happen to like dark caramel, the flavor almost reminiscent of toasted marshmallows.

There are many options for flavoring lollipops: fresh lemon or orange zest, fruit juice, extracts, spices, tea reductions or fresh herbs such as mint or rosemary.

I can’t wait to try other flavor combinations. And once we hit the inevitable February slump, I’m sure I’ll be ready for mojito flavored pops, or anything that tastes of sun and summer.

Caramel Cider Lollipops

4 tablespoons apple cider
Vegetable oil (if using parchment paper)
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup light corn syrup
1/2 cup water
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon

1. Bring apple cider to boil in a small saucepan. Simmer over medium heat until it is reduced to 1 tablespoon. Set aside.

2. Place a silpat or parchment paper on a cookie sheet. If using parchment, coat paper with a thin layers of vegetable oil.

3. Bring sugar, corn syrup and water to a boil in a small saucepan over medium-high heat. Stir until sugar dissolves. Insert candy thermometer and boil, without stirring, until the thermometer registers 310 degrees (hard-crack stage). Once the caramel reaches hard-crack stage, about 12-15 minutes, remove from heat and quickly stir in apple cider and cinnamon.

4. Spoon the hot caramel onto the silpat or parchment. As soon as you pour the syrup, carefully place lollipop sticks in the candy.

5. Allow the candy to cool and harden, about 10 to 15 minutes. Use a pastry spatula to remove the lollipops from the silpat. Store in an airtight container for up to 1 week.

Yield: about 15 lollipops.

Apple picking is a childhood rite of passage. For me, apple picking at our local orchard is one of my earliest memories: crystal clear visions of glistening trees, drooping heavily with ruby red fruit; crisp, cool air laden with the hyperbolically heady scent of stale apples, rotten to the core, fertilizing the ground that gave them life.

Last weekend was my young son’s first apple picking experience. For him, it was a mind-blowing one. Not because he can yet marvel at a tree’s ability to produce life-sustaining food. Nor does he relish the spicy, floral taste of an apple, the experience of biting into its crispy flesh, sticky juice running down his youthfully round chin.

As the memory of the experience fades, we hope he will remember his first major fascination: apples. At 18 months, thoughts of apples consume every fiber of his tiny being. For the past three months, apple has been his favorite word. He has built an impressive and voluminous collection of toy apples, as well as books featuring prominent images of edible garnet and emerald orbs.

Since the munchkin isn’t much of a fan of eating apples but regularly partakes in apple sauce, I thought I’d introduce apple butter. I prefer to make my apple butter with crispy, bracingly tart Macintosh, the epitome of early autumn.

Apple butter is basically a highly concentrated form of applesauce. By slow cooking apples with liquid, the sugar in the apples caramelizes, resulting in a tawny-hued and deeply concentrated puree. Tangy, sweet and spicy, the ambrosial apple butter tastes of the holidays, pungent hints of cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg upfront, a smoother, vanilla flavor following, almost reminscent of cherries and chocolate.

I hope the munchkin approves.

Spicy Apple Butter
4 pound Macintosh (peel on) washed, quartered and cored
1 cup apple cider vinegar
2 cups apple cider
2 cups dark brown sugar
1 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
4 whole cloves
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 tablespoons lemon juice

1. In a large heavy-bottomed pot, combine apples, cider and vinegar. Cover pot and bring to a boil. When the mixture begins to boil, reduce heat to low and simmer, stirring occasionally, until the apples are soft, about 20 to 30 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool slightly.

2. Pass the puree through a food mill or chinois. For a smoother texture, add mixture to blender or food processor and blend until very smooth. Pour puree back into the pot and add sugar, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg and cloves. Simmer over low heat for one hour, stirring frequently, uncovered.

3. After the first hour, remove two of the four cloves. Add lemon juice and vanilla extract and simmer for another half hour to an hour. Stir frequently to avoid burning, scraping the sides of the pan with a spatula.

4. When the puree has reached desired consistency, remove the cloves. Place hot apple butter in hot sterilized jars. Seal with dry, sterilized lids and rings. Process in water bath for 10 minutes if you intend to store the apple butter long-term. Otherwise, seal jar and refrigerate for up to 3 weeks.

Yield: Makes about 6 cups.

As summer unfurls into fall, home cooks all over the four-seasoned states rush to capture and preserve the taste and feel of warmer months by pickling, saucing and drying fruits and vegetables. Although I missed the boat on canning heirloom tomatoes and jamming stone fruits, I made a few batches of fruit leather, a less-enduring method of preservation.

Though it doesn’t last as long as its canned counterparts, fruit leather is an attempt to briefly immortalize short-lived fruit. It is also a throwback to childhood, and nostalgia flows like water every autumn.

Like canning, fruit leather doesn’t capture the freshness of fruit, though it does bottle, so to speak, the bounty to savor during the cold, bleak months. And it can last for weeks, even months, if properly packaged.

There are several methods to make fruit leather. You can use a dehydrating machine or an oven set to low temperature. You can cook the fruit prior to dehydration or simply puree raw fruit and dehydrate.

When making fruit leather, pick your fruit or vegetable at its peak. The finished product delivers more of a punch than fresh fruit, so make sure to account for changes in sweetness, tartness and acidity when adding flavor enhancers such as lemon or honey.

White Peach and Meyer Lemon Fruit Leather
4 ripe white peaches, skin on (should yield 4 cups diced fruit)
1 tablespoon good honey (if needed, depending on sweetness of fruit)
2 tablespoons Meyer lemon juice, or to taste

1. Preheat oven to 140- 150 degrees.

2. Wash the peaches thoroughly. Remove pits and chop roughly. Put peaches, honey and lemon juice in blender and puree until smooth and slightly frothy. Taste the puree and adjust for sweetness or tartness.

3. Wait until the froth subsides and pour the puree onto a parchment lined baking sheet. Spread with a spatula making sure the puree is even, about 1/4 inch thick.

4. Bake for 8-12 hours until dry and no longer sticky. Cooking times vary depending on juiciness of the fruit.

5. Cool at room temperature for several hours until the fruit leather softens.

6. Cut into strips and store in either parchment or plastic wrap, rolling each sheet tightly. Place in an air-tight container and store in a dry place, or freeze.

Late this spring, Culture: An American Yogurt Company opened one block from my apartment. I surmised it would be yet another amalgamation of overexposed Pinkberry and Red Mango. I supposed it would quickly become a page in the prodigious book of failed NYC eateries.

Color me mistaken. Their fro-yo is off the hook, kids! Sweet and smooth, tart and tangy, it is like crack for 99.9% of customers. With toppings like key lime pie (lime curd, honey and graham crackers), fresh or muddled fruit, dark chocolate chunks or pina colada (fresh pineapple, caramel sauce and coconut macaroons) and flavors that run the gamut from mango strawberry to white peach to Nutella, they blow the competition out of the water with creativity and flavor.

The yogurt is made in Culture’s back room from hormone-free and antibiotic-free milk. The eatery itself is a certified New York State dairy, which means they make their product on site, soup to nuts, including milk pasteurization.

Not only have I become a regular patron, I’ve got a full-on, unequivocal addiction. They post their daily specialty flavors on a sidewalk chalkboard, an evil little ploy to add patrons to their already long line. And it works; the sign, in pretty pastel colors, begs you to “come hither” like a sexy sea siren luring lost mariners. It takes a heaping bucket of willpower not to fall prey to a Culture yogurt habit.

To ward off the demons, I decided to play yogurt god in the kitchen and create my own evil-good fro-yo masterpiece- lemon meringue frozen yogurt “sundaes.” I made a fairly simple vanilla bean and white chocolate yogurt from thick Greek yogurt and wrapped it in a coat of silken, creamy lemon curd. The addition of sweet white chocolate created more of a creamy semifreddo rather than a tart, icy frozen yogurt. Paired with the sweet-tart lemon curd, the flavors are perfectly balanced although the “sundae” ultimately feels more like a dessert splurge than Culture’s refreshing product.

Culture: An American Yogurt Company
331 Fifth Avenue
Brooklyn

Lemon Meringue “Sundaes” with White Chocolate Frozen Yogurt and Lemon Curd
White Chocolate Frozen Yogurt:
1 vanilla bean
4 cups whole milk Greek yogurt
1/4 cup superfine granulated sugar
1 ounce finely grated, high-quality white chocolate

1. Remove seeds from vanilla bean pod. In a large mixing bowl stir sugar and vanilla bean seeds into yogurt.

2. Melt chocolate in a double boiler and let cool slightly. Incorporate into yogurt, whisking briskly. Cover and refrigerate overnight.

3. Process in ice cream maker according to manufacturer’s instructions.

Yield: 4 servings.

Lemon Curd:
3 large eggs
3/4 cup sugar
1 tablespoon finely shredded lemon zest
1/3 cup fresh lemon juice (from about 3 lemons)
1/2 teaspoon cornstarch
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 teaspoon olive oil

1. In a double boiler or stainless steel bowl placed over a saucepan of simmering water, whisk together eggs, sugar, lemon zest, lemon juice and cornstarch. Cook, stirring constantly, until the mixture thickens, about 5 minutes.

2. Remove from heat and immediately pour through a fine strainer to remove lumps. Cut the butter into small pieces and whisk into the mixture. Add olive oil and whisk. Let cool.

3. Cover immediately with plastic wrap so a skin doesn’t form and refrigerate for up to a week.

Yield: 1 1/2 cups.

In a rare moment of New York’s atmospheric history, temperatures soared well above 100 degrees with a blistering heat index of 120. Not even the frigid caress of air-conditioning soothes fiery skin. Seductive thoughts of crystallized ice blocks and luminous snowflakes leave the mind weightless and the body aching for relief from the obstinate weather. Sometimes the only solution is to heal from within, to eradicate the feverish exterior by ingesting a melty, frothy, shiver-inducing ice cream, popsicle or iced beverage.

My favorite cooling treat of the moment is my version of the iconic Orange Julius. Founded in 1926, the Julius has stood the test of time (despite being sold to the ubiquitous Dairy Queen). One sip of creamy orange frost is enough to viscerally transport me to my childhood summers when my dad would treat us to chili dogs and a Julius, the apex of our summer cravings. And despite all the food that has since passed through my adult lips, the Julius still does it for me. Perhaps it is the memory of simpler times, but when I need a good cool-down, I frequently turn to the sugary, vanilla-spiked liquid creamsicle.

It doesn’t take much to concoct a thick, creamy, frosted Orange Julius in your own kitchen. A homemade Julius only requires a few minutes, several ingredients and a good blender. A lot of people use egg whites to arrive at the frothy consistency but I find that Greek yogurt does the trick.

Homemade Orange Julius
2/3 cup frozen orange juice concentrate
1 cup whole milk
1 cup fresh squeezed orange juice (store bought is fine)
8-9 ice cubes
3 tbsp sugar
1/4 cup whole milk Greek yogurt, such as Fage
2 tsp vanilla extract
Orange for Garnish

Combine all ingredients in a blender, adding orange juice concentrate and ice cubes last. Blend until ice cubes are broken down and beverage is smooth and frothy.

Yield: 2 16-ounce glasses or 4 8-ounce glasses.

I used to cower away from baking desserts. With cooking, a misstep can unfold into a surprising success. Accidents in baking, on the other hand, yield unwanted trash weights. Searingly salty cookies and sunken soufflés weigh down garbage cans all over the world.

That’s why I always bypassed pastry-making. I was unable to handle the precision, an ironic turn for a type-A cook like myself. However, as of late, I have become increasingly drawn to baking. Blame it on my newly anointed sweet tooth, but sugar has wormed its way into my salt-encrusted heart.

So, when life gives you lemons, make French lemon tarts! This recipe, which I gleaned from epicurious.com, is as indelible and it is delectable.

The almond crust tastes earthy and buttery, which contrasts and balances the sweet and mouth-puckeringly tart lemon curd. Olive oil acts as a secret ingredient, giving the crust a complex flavor and crumbly texture and deepening the richness of the lemon curd. I recommend topping individual pieces with slightly sweetened homemade whipped cream. C’est bon!

French Lemon Tart
Updated from Epicurious.com

For tart shell:
2 tablespoons almonds with skins, toasted and cooled
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 cup confectioners sugar
Pinch of fine sea salt
1/2 stick cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1 large egg yolk
3 1/2 tablespoons fruity olive oil

For lemon curd:
3 large lemons
3/4 cup granulated sugar
2 teaspoons cornstarch
2 whole large eggs plus 2 large yolks
1/2 stick unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
2 tablespoons fruity olive oil

Equipment:
a 9-inch round tart pan with removable side; a small offset spatula

Make tart shell:
1. Preheat oven to 425 degrees with rack in middle.

2. Pulse almonds with flour, sugar, and sea salt to a fine powder in a food processor. Add butter and pulse until mixture resembles coarse meal with some small (roughly pea-size) butter lumps.

3. Add yolk and oil and pulse until just incorporated and a very soft dough has formed.

4. Spread dough evenly over bottom and up side of pan with offset spatula. Chill until firm, about 30 minutes.

5. Bake shell until golden brown all over, about 13 minutes. Transfer to a rack to cool completely, about 30 minutes.

Make curd:
1. Grate enough zest from lemons to measure 1 tablespoon, then squeeze 3/4 cup juice from lemons.

2. Whisk together lemon zest and juice, sugar, cornstarch, whole eggs, and yolks in a medium saucepan and bring to a boil over medium heat, whisking constantly. Boil, whisking, 2 minutes.

3. Remove from heat and strain through a fine mesh strainer to remove lemon zest and other lumps. Whisk in butter and oil until smooth.

Assemble tart:
Pour lemon curd into cooled shell and chill until set, at least 2 hours. Serve with homemade whipped cream.

After a several month hiatus from food blogging, I return with glory. And nothing exemplifies glory like my mom’s luscious brownies.

My mother makes the world’s best brownies. Her brownies could save the world: peace in the Middle East, global warming, America’s healthcare crisis, and even Rush Limbaugh’s drug problem. Debonair men have been seen obsequiously begging to lick the batter-coated spoon. Genteel women throw manners to the wind, picking the crumbs from the baking dish (or the floor). My mom’s brownies are a coup in the world of baking.

Everyone who knows my family knows that my husband gets killers sugar cravings. His sweet tooth is uncanny, something of ancient myths. I’ve never seen a man single handedly wipe out a pint of ooey-goey ice cream with such fervor, or inhale a dozen chocolate cookies in seemingly one superhuman breath. Mike’s appetite for sugar destruction is bordering on otherworldly. If he could, he would live and thrive in Willy Wonka’s candy factory, living happily amongst the sugary tea cup and larger than life candy trees.

However, this is reality and many store bought cookies contain suspicious toxins and bizarre unpronounceable ingredients. If he’s going to single handedly decimate the world’s sugar supply, I’d like him to do it with homemade baked goods. Furthermore, my mom’s brownies never fail to feed his monstrous sugar craving, yet another coup in the world of baking.

The brownies are densely rich, fudgy and deeply chocolately. The brownie itself is not overly sweet, yet we do something not commonly seen in the world of brownies: we frost them with a rich, slightly cocoa-infused butter-based frosting. The combination is sinful: smooth, moist, rich cake slathered in velvety ripple of extravagance. I’ve also added a pinch of cayenne which is more or less tasteless in the final product, but really deepens the chocolatey richness.

* Let it be noted that my mom uses the Silver Palate Cookbook’s recipe as a skeletal template for her own brownies. However, she’s managed to make them her own. I’ve had other people’s versions of the Silver Palate brownie recipe and nothing comes close to my mom’s.

Frosted Brownies

Brownies:
1/2 pound salted butter, unsweetened
4 ounces unsweetened baker’s chocolate
1/2 cup unbleached flour
1 1/2 cups sugar
4 eggs
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
Pinch of salt
Pinch cayenne (optional)
Butter for greasing the pan (or nonstick spray)

Chocolate frosting:
1/2 cup of butter, softened
3-4 cups confectionary sugar
1-2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
1-2 tablespoons whole milk
Vanilla extract to taste (optional)

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 10×10 baking pan with butter or non-stick spray.
Melt chocolate and butter in a double boiler over high heat until melted (you can also do this in the microwave).

2. While the chocolate and butter mixture melts, beat eggs and sugar until thick and add salt and vanilla. Mix until well combined.

3. Once the chocolate and butter melt, pour immediately into egg mixture and fold quickly so as not to cook the eggs. Sift flour and fold into the batter until well blended.

4. Poor batter into the greased pan and bake for 25 minutes. Make sure not to overbake–the edges will be firm and the center will appear unset.

5. Cool brownies in pan for 20-30 minutes before frosting.

6. To make the frosting: beat butter with a mixer at medium speed and slowly add sugar, beating well. Add cocoa and continue mixing until well combined, scraping down the sides of the bowl as necessary. Beat in milk and vanilla until the icing reaches a spreadable consistency.

Yield: About 12 brownies.