The Absolute Best Carrot Cake Ever -- No Jet Plane Required

'Do it again!  Do it again!' is what Emilia says every time we are out on the trampoline bouncing around.  She loves to hold my hands (or dada's hands) and bounce in a circle singing, at the top of her lungs, 'Let's go fly a kite!  Up to the highest height!  Let's go fly a kite and send it soaring...'**  And at the end of the song we fall back, landing in a heap and staring up at the sky.  On sunny days, Emilia thinks it is quite hilarious to try to quote something I said to her on a very sunny day not so long ago: 'I don't want the sun on my face!  It's going to make me look old enough to be your mother!'  Now, really, I find that a rather funny thing to say.  But for the life of me, I can't figure out why she does. 

Anyway, while we are lying on our backs looking up at the sky (preferably Michael is right along beside side us) Emilia will point out all the planes that go by.  She is very good at deciphering between a sea-plane and a jet-plane, and every time she hears the latter, she happily exclaims, 'It's going to the airport!  Maybe we should go to the airport, too!'  Talk about a little girl after my own heart.  (I think she was just over a year and a half when she told me one afternoon, completely deadpan, and while holding my purse, the keys, and a Neiman Marcus shopping bag, 'I be right back, mama.'  'Oh, where you are going?'  'I going to the airport!  I going to Georgetown!')

And so, one evening the three of us were lying on the trampoline and gazing up at the sky (Governor was off barking at a squirrel somewhere), and we saw a plane high up in the sky.  Immediately I started singing, 'I'm leaving on a jet plane, I don't know when I'll be back again...'***  Michael quickly joined in, and once Emilia picked up enough words, she started singing, too.  And there we were, the three of us on a lovely summer evening, looking up at the sky and belting out one of the best songs ever.  It was quite nice, if you must know.  Now Emilia calls it 'her song' and randomly sings, 'Oh babe, I hate to go.'

Now then, why am I going on about a trampoline and airplanes and John Denver, you ask?  Well, it's really quite simple.  One of the cheapest ways to travel somewhere is to cook.  Sounds silly, but it's true.  You want to get to know a place, then eat its food.  Of course it isn't the same as actually being there, but it is the best substitute I've ever found. 

Blueberry Buckle

I stood in the kitchen this afternoon looking out the window and smiling as I watched Emilia eat nearly all of the very un-ripe blueberries off of the bushes.  'Are they yummy or are they sour?,' I called out to her.  'They're yummy,' she declared with a complete look of, 'yuck, these are so sour' right across her little face.  We told her a few days ago that the birds usually get to the blueberries before they have a chance to fully ripen, and I'm thinking she is determined to beat them to it.

It gladdens my heart though, watching Emilia roam around the backyard and exploring all the little things that are so new and fascinating to her.  And while I am the first to admit that I do not relish playing in the dirt anymore (at all), I do have very strong memories of loving it when I was little.  In fact, I can even remember eating my fair share of sour fruit — just because I could, and not because it was particularly good.

I've still been in recovery mode from the strawberry mayhem in our house last month.  And I've tried very hard to shun all thoughts of raspberries (unless, of course, Kari suggests we go... I do like me some raspberries...) and blueberries.  However, as we walked through Metropolitan Market yesterday, Emilia began pointing out the enormous containers of blueberries.  'Maybe we get some blueberries, mama?'  And what could I say?  They were local and dirt cheap.  Done.

Magdalenas — Spanish Tea Cakes

Today is the Feast of St. Mary Magdalene.  And rather than do Madeleines again, Emilia and I decided to make Magdalenas.  Magdalenas are essentially the Spanish version of the Madeleine, and they are marvelous with a cup of tea.  Or a cup of coffee, if you prefer.  Whatever suits your fancy, really.  I think when Emilia wakes up from her nap, she will have hers with a bit of Perrier.  Oh, and some whipped cream and berries — as she will likely feel jipped that her 'tuptate' does not have any frosting on it. 

Before Emilia was born, Michael and I took a trip to Spain.  (I can safely say that Spain is my most favorite place in the world. Our old cabin in California would likely be my second.  Haworth, England, my third.  Anyway, I digress...)  While in Sevilla we hopped into this marvelous café/bakery/coffee shop every morning for our breakfast and for many of our late afternoon snacks, called Horno de San Buenaventura.  The café was always jam-packed, and you would have to move wicked-fast if you wanted a seat — either at the bar (our preference) or at a small table.  You could order café con leche any time of day along with whatever else floated your boat — Michael was rather taken with the enormous Zumex machine they had that squeezed fresh orange juice for you on the spot.  As for me, I was astounded that the same two men manned the enormous espresso machine for literally about fifteen hours a day.

Strawberries Part 4 — (Not So) Perfect Génoise and French Strawberry Cake

Yes, well, there is no need to be rude about it.  I'm well aware of the fact that my French Strawberry Cake looks far from elegant (as the recipe promises), and just plain wonky — excuse me, I mean rustic.  This was even my second attempt, if you can believe it.  As we sat to the table eating the first attempt, Michael says to me, 'what kind of crust is this?'  Of course I completely let loose and told him off.  'There is no crust!  It just cake, OK!  A very difficult and rather testy cake, in case you were wondering, not that you were.  And if you think you're so smart then make the damned thing yourself!  Hmpf!'  Or something like that anyway.  And if some of those words were left out of the actual exchange, then I can promise you that they were on the forefront of my thoughts.  I mean, really.  Crust?  For hell's sake.

Anyway, if you happen to find yourself thumbing through Baking With Julia, the ever so marvelous cookbook (and telly show) that Julia Child hosted once upon a time, then you will find yourself stumbling across the recipe for Génoise, or The Perfect Génoise, as it is called.  Apparently anybody who fancies themselves to know anything about cooking at all can whip up one of these little babies in no time.  And everyone then stands back to marvel at your most amazing and adept skill.  That being said, the recipe says something along the lines of this: 'this cake is wildly temperamental.   You must tread lightly and you will still completely fail.  People will probably even laugh at you for it.  So, bearing that in mind, you must make it at least five times in a row if you ever plan to master the concept.'  Well, I never!

The funny thing is that the cake is actually so easy to make.  The second time I made it I did not even pull out the cookbook because I remembered the whole thing. Yet there is still fear and intimidation; because, yes, it is easy — but it also requires a serious understanding of the technique.  And sadly, after all the work you put into it, if it is going to crumble and turn into a 'crust', that bit happens literally within the last thirty seconds of making it.  Drat, to say the least.  However, if it does turn disastrous, then you can always fall back on the divine, heavenly, beyond superb filling that goes in the cake — just sitting on top the crust, if you will.  Essentially you are meant to cut the cake into three, and then sandwich it with layers of macerated strawberries and cream.  It's superb.  In fact, the next time I make whipped cream for anything I am doing it in the manner of this cake — adding two tablespoons of sour cream.  The rest is a given: heavy cream, sugar, and vanilla extract.  After I made it the first time, Emilia and Governor stood in the kitchen cleaning the bowl for me — Emilia with the beaters and Governor with his little head lost somewhere inside the deep bowl.

And so, as my pièce de résistance, here is the last strawberry recipe I am giving to you.  In many ways it is my favorite.  The only problem with it (other than the sheer temperamental-ness of the cake) is that is does not store well in the fridge longer than a day or so.  (This is ironic as you are meant to put the cake in the fridge for at least an hour before you serve it.)  And having a rather small group to feed here, we cannot possibly eat that much cake (no matter how elegant/rustic it may be) in that short of time.  Particularly when you are already doing battle with jam, muffins, and ice cream — all of the strawberry nature.

Strawberries, Part 2 — Strawberry Muffins

I have made this recipe for strawberry muffins several times over the last few years, and it seems to be better than most others.  The only other muffin recipes to give Ina Garten a run for her money are by Ottolenghi.  But the Ottolenghi recipes can be so fiddly sometimes that I have to build up a bit of stamina before starting one.  They are always well worth it though.  Anyway, this recipe calls for a nice mix of berries — blueberries, raspberries, and strawberries, and that is what I normally do.  (I also usually use frozen berries.)  However, with so many strawberries coming out of our ears, I skipped the medley and opted for just strawberries.  And they were divine — so divine, in fact, I've made them twice in a week.  And yes, a whole batch is currently residing in the freezer, because we'd have to be out our minds to eat that many muffins in such a short span of time.

When making these, do make sure to use paper muffin liners.  Every now and then I forget that berry recipes demand them.  If you simply brush the inside of your tins with butter, then half the muffin (the half with the berries making contact with the tin itself) will stay inside the tin and practically refuse to ever come out. Rather annoying — especially as your previously gorgeous muffins now look all mangled and disastrous.

Also, for some reason Ina Garten always calls for extra-large eggs.  She is the only cookbook author that calls for this and it drives me bananas.  Maybe I should start a petition or something against it.  Anyway, in the past I have taken an additional egg, whisked it, and then used only half, making me think that must be equivalent to two extra-large eggs.  But that is very wasteful, and besides organic eggs are nearly 5 bucks a dozen.  Now, if the batter looks somewhat dry, I'll simply add an extra splash of whole milk and say a prayer.

As I've already said, the muffins freeze beautifully.  Just pull them out the night before you want them, and let them come to temperature, fully wrapped, on the counter.  When you wake up, turn the oven on to 350°F, put the muffins on a lined baking sheet, and plonk them in the oven for 5-7 minutes to crisp up.  Nothing worse than a soggy muffin first thing in the morn.

A Bourgeois Trampoline and Mascarpone Jelly Thumbprints

Our strawberry picking was thwarted today because we woke up this morning to rain.  In other activities rain is not necessarily a problem; however, when it comes to standing in the mud while picking fruit, it can become a rather messy problem.  Several years ago while out picking raspberries after a lot of rain, my clogs were so caked with mud that I stepped right out of one of them and put my bare foot smack into the mud. I then had to turn around to look for my blasted shoe. 

This kind of thing is particularly a nuisance when you've got little people around you who are naturally prone to getting dirty, and you happen to be in charge of cleaning them up.  Although some of my sister's kids are much older now, so this isn't the problem it once was.  Nowadays my nieces and nephews listen to their i-pods and get told they are going to walk home if they end up too filthy to get back in the car.  However, Emilia still has a few years before I can make such feeble threats.

So anyway, as I went to get Emilia out of her bed this morning, flung open the drapes, and looked out at the grey drizzle before us, she immediately said, 'Want to go on trampoline!'  'Sorry Charlie, it's too wet today.  No bouncing on the trampoline when it's too wet.'  'Mama not say sorry Charlie!  Not sorry Charlie!'  And there you go, a glimmer of how our day has gone.

But, yes, it is true.  We have finally joined the ranks of the trampoline owners.  I know what you're thinking, 'well, la-di-da!  Aren't you so fancy!'  And I will completely agree with you.  When we were growing up it was all the rich kids who had trampolines.  We all looked at them so longingly, vowing that the very first moment we were grown up (and very rich), we would buy a trampoline and put it in our own backyards.  Michael laughs at me when I tell him this, and told me, as we were setting the trampoline up over the weekend, 'We're so bourgeois.'  In fact, when my sister got a trampoline at her house several years ago, I remember telling her 'I've never felt a chasm so great between us as I do right now.'  And then I refused to get off the thing.  Literally every time we went over to their house that summer I (after shamelessly kicking my nieces and nephews off) was on the trampoline — demonstrating my spectacular moves for everyone.

Brioche

This is without a doubt the best bread recipe I've ever encountered.  It is also the recipe that takes the longest to make.  Don't let that be off-putting though, because it is pretty easy. I know I've said it before, but any bread recipe that does not require me to knead for 3 days straight (or even 5 minutes), is a true winner.  In fact, all the work for this brioche is done in your KitchenAid mixer.  Other than that, most of the time involved is the phases of rising/proofing.  It is well worth the effort as it is surprisingly good.  And I don't mind telling you that I am always rather pleased with myself when I pull a loaf out of the oven.

Traditionally speaking, we are supposed to eat brioche like the French do — for breakfast (with a cup of coffee, plenty of cigarettes, and the perfect red lipstick, if you are really trying to be authentic).  As for me, I dream of a nice warm slice of brioche with a healthy smattering of butter and jam, and an enormous cup of tea.  Mmmmm. 

However, I am not the sort to wake up at 3 or 4 in the morning simply to get a nice breakfast on the table.  (Sorry, Michael.)  Instead, we do what Patricia Wells suggests, and we have it for dinner.  My favorite way to serve this brioche is with a roast chicken, a fresh green salad, and plenty of extra butter on the table.  Oh, and a nice crisp white wine also adds to the sheer loveliness of the table.

Hot Cross Buns for Good Friday

Now really, I've never understood why it is that we are meant to eat Hot Cross Buns on Good Friday when we are also meant to be fasting. Particularly since I have a tendency to let my hunger override my piety. As it turns out, Hot Cross Buns were originally intended to be eaten when one broke their Good Friday fast. (That would be in the evening after skipping the first two meals, in case you were wondering. And not what one is supposed to eat with a giant bowl of very strong tea for breakfast, even though that is when they sound heavenly.)

Anyway, I suppose this does make me feel a bit better. After all, I can still keep my image of Jo (from Bleak House) running about the streets of Charles Dickens' London with a little Hot Cross Bun in his hand. Although, I should really choose a different character — one not so tragic and who may have actually stood a chance of procuring one of these delectable little buns, perhaps. (How about Guppy? Is that any better? No, it's not — I'm sticking with Jo.)

If we are striving for accuracy, however, we should bump ourselves over to the Tudor period (1485-1603, give or take) when Hot Cross Buns originated. Apparently they used to be sold throughout the year. However Queen Elizabeth I decided to put her foot down (in her attempt to stamp out Catholicism) and restricted their selling to Christmas, Good Friday, and burials. (Not that I can blame her. I suppose little buns with images of crosses on them are rather menacing.)

Nowadays, if you happen to live in England, you can get Hot Cross Buns year round. (Or so I have read. I've never actually wandered into a Sainsbury or Tesco in hot pursuit.) Yet it is still considered traditional to eat them on Easter. But if you are trying to be right-proper, then the evening of Good Friday is the ticket. And not a moment too soon, if you're like me. Because by that time your head will be throbbing, and you're mad at everyone for absolutely no reason at all, and you have lost all energy to even be bothered with making dinner. And you will be frustrated because what you are supposed to be doing is thinking about Jesus on the cross. (See, I told you I wasn't a very good faster.)

I have actually tried my hand at these two times before with very disappointing results. And I very nearly skipped them this year altogether. I have Michael to thank for their presence, as he gently reminded me that seasonal cooking is, in fact, my thing, so snap the hell out of it. Or something like that anyway. This year they were divine, and I'm not sure if it was the recipe I used (that would be Nigella's) or allowing the dough to raise in the oven. Probably both, I suspect. That being said, they are actually a lot of fun to make. The recipe is rather long, but don't let that deter you. In fact, you are supposed to make the dough and then plunk it in the fridge overnight. That way you can get on with it the next day — in between grousing about and feeling very badly about the fact that you've been grousing about.

Also, every recipe I've looked at has called for bread flour, as opposed to all-purpose. Nigella seems to sum it up the best: 'There's no point going through all this effort and ruining your chances of success over such a small but significant point.' So there you go. Live dangerously if you'd like, but my lovely husband offered to run to the store for a bag and I'm very grateful that he did.

Musician's Bread (For Tea or Breakfast)

As I write, the wonderful smell of freshly baked bread is filling the house. It is amazing how that can instantly make one feel that all is right with the world.

Typically just the thought of making bread is a bit off-putting for me. Not only am I not a fan of kneading dough for half the day, I also am not a fan of putting so much time and energy (and flour) into something that may or may not be very good. I am the first to admit that I have not mastered the art (or is it a science?) of baking bread. Much to my chagrin, too, as my mother used to be a master bread maker when we were growing up. (She even used to grind her own wheat!)

And that is why I find myself this afternoon making bread for the second time in four days. Sophie Dahl's recipe is shockingly, almost scandalously, easy. All you do is mix everything up, give it a good stir, proof it, give it another stir, let it proof again, and bake. No kneading required — just a handy-dandy wooden spoon will do the trick. Also, thanks to the invention of instant yeast, it is relatively fast.

So anyway, as I made breakfast on Saturday morning, I thought it would also be a good time to get the bread going, with the idea that it would be fabulous to have later in the day. My newest trick (just learned on an episode of Cooks Country) is to put anything that needs to raise in the oven. All you do is this: turn the oven to 200°, right when it hits 200°, turn it off, put your dough in the middle of the oven and set about your other business. It works beautifully, too, particularly in a house that seems to run on the so cold go put a winter cardigan on even if it's July mode. While utilizing this brilliant trick on Saturday, I was also using the oven as a pancake warmer. When I reached in to get said pancakes for a very hungry little girl and her dad, I was rather annoyed, to say the least, to see that half the bread dough had fallen on top of our breakfast. I ended up tossing most of the pancakes out while trying to salvage the bread. (Thank goodness I still had lots of pancake batter left. And bacon, for that matter.)

One of the hazards (other than ruining your breakfast) of using your oven for proofing is what to do with whatever happens to be raising in the oven when you need to be pre-heating the very same oven. (I swear, I want two ovens in our next house! Oh, and maybe a bit more drawer space.) For some reason or another, it had seemed like a marvelous (and by marvelous, I mean desperate) idea to simply pre-heat the oven while the bread was still raising in it. Bad idea, I know. I'm open to suggestions. What happens is that the bread comes out terribly flat on the top and I'm sure all sorts of other scientific things happen as well. But even Miss Dahl's looks flat on the top. It just isn't so noticeable when it is placed in what looks like the middle of a gorgeous Anthropologie photo spread.

We ate the disastrous loaf of bread Saturday afternoon with lots of butter and steaming bowls of soup. Then we ate the rest Sunday morning for breakfast. Michael kept saying, 'what a nice little breakfast!', much to my vain heart's delight. And, strangely enough, I totally agreed. Despite the troublesome process, the bread was really very good. Even Emilia liked it. We toasted it with butter and jam, had little cups of yogurt, and broiled papaya with lime (also from Sophie Dahl's cookbook). Not to mention cup after cup of strong tea (for me), strong coffee (for Michael), and plenty of smiles from Miss Milia's happy and jam-covered little face.

The newest loaves have just come out of the oven. They still look slightly wonky, but I'm alright with that.

Soul Cakes

It is All Souls' Day today. And, in honor, I decided to make Soul Cakes. Soul Cakes are an Old English custom, being little cakes (half cake-half biscuit, really) that were given out for 'souling', as it was called, in the 8th century.

Unlike All Saints' Day, All Souls' is not a Holy Day of Obligation. While both days are essentially 'Days for the Dead', as it were, they stand in stark contrast to each other. All Saints' is a celebration of sorts, whereas All Souls' is a very somber day. On All Saints' we ask that the saints pray for us. All Souls', on the other hand, is when we are asked to pray for the dearly departed — to pray for their souls in purgatory, to be precise.

As a convert to the Catholic Church, I always had a not-so-nice view of purgatory, owing entirely to the fact that I simply did not understand it. In my defense, it is rather easy to misconstrue this concept! Strangely enough, now I actually derive comfort in the thought of purgatory. To put it in the most simplistic terms, purgatory is where most of us go after we die. (Some are lucky enough to go straight to heaven. However, I do not anticipate being one of them.) If you have not gone through a purification of the soul before you die — this is your shot. I guess you could say that purgatory is a 'purging' of sorts (it's where the word comes from, after all) — getting rid of the yuck we have accumulated along the way, and purifying both our hearts and minds in the process.

Purgatory (Purgatorio) is not a level of hell in Dante's Inferno either. Rather it is a separate volume comprising The Divine Comedy (along with Paradisio). For some reason, there seems to be a bit of confusion about this. So there is no need to fear pushing a boulder up a hill for all time and eternity. Or even getting your eyeballs plucked out over and over again by some nasty ol' bird. Although, interestingly enough, a level of hell in Dante's Inferno is apparently dedicated to a member of my own family. That's right — I am descended from the line of a horrifying mass-murderer. On par with Hitler, from what I can gather. The story of this lovely 'uncle' can be found in a book called Studies in Ferocity: A Book of Human Monsters by Raymond Rudorff. Ahhh, such pride I must have, I know.

Anyway, back to Soul Cakes. Rumor has it that this is the way that trick-or-treating began, oh, so long ago. In Old England the poor and the children (why do they always get lumped together, I wonder) would go knocking door-to-door, and in exchange for a Soul Cake, they would offer prayers for the dead. One Soul Cake for one soul, or something like that.

Making Soul Cakes is very easy. (Not at all like my disastrous Hot Cross Buns last year.) And I was more than a little surprised to discover that they were, in fact, not just edible — they were actually pretty good. Michael ate his with an oatmeal stout (probably the perfect compliment, truth be told), While Emilia first picked off all the raisins (which she promptly ate), and then proceeded to polish off both hers and most of mine. For some reason, she much preferred these to yesterday's Sweet Beans.

Soul Cakes
2 cups flour
½ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
½ teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon salt
generous pinch of saffron
½ cup milk
1 stick unsalted butter, at room temperature
½ cup sugar
2 egg yolks
½ cup currants or raisins

Preheat oven to 400°, and line a baking sheet with parchment.

Combine the flour, nutmeg, cinnamon, and salt in a bowl. Mix well.

Crumble the saffron threads into a small saucepan. Turn on the heat to low and warm the saffron just until barely fragrant. Pour in the milk and heat until the milk is hot to the touch. Remove and set aside. The milk will have become bright yellow. (Something tells me that the saffron is a modern addition, as I can't imagine it being an ingredient readily on-hand in England back in the day. Although, maybe I'm wrong.)

In a mixer, using the paddle attachment, cream the butter with the sugar. Add the egg yolks, one at a time, and mix until thoroughly combined. Add the dry ingredients and mix until well combined. The dough will be very dry and crumbly.

Add the milk, one tablespoon at a time, mixing well after each addition, until you have a nice soft dough. You should not need all the milk.

Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead gently. (I had to add a bit of flour here because, apparently, I went nuts with the milk.) Using your scone or biscuit cutter, make as many rounds as you can. You should get about 12 in all.

Transfer to your baking sheet, and stud the tops with the currants. I made little crosses on the tops of mine, but feel free to be creative. Maybe try your hand at fashioning my evil uncle, or something. Although something tells me he would have needed more than a few soul cakes.

Brush the tops with the beaten egg yolk (I added a bit of the extra saffron milk to my egg yolk, to good effect.) Bake for 15 minutes until golden. Serve warm. (Recipe from T. Susan Chang, for NPR, October 24, 2007.)

Basic Buttermilk Scones for Tea (or Breakfast)

I find it very comical that Julia Child has become vogue and fashionable again because of that ridiculous book Julie & Julia. I never even knew that she had become unfashionable. Shows what I know, I guess, because I have always been an ardent fan of hers. And really, how could one not be? You don't even need to cook to be a huge admirer. The woman was truly magnificent.

I suppose that, like everybody else, when you first begin to dabble with Mastering the Art of French Cooking, you make the first recipe in the book — Potage Parmentier, which is potato and leek soup. When we lived in New Jersey a million years ago, I would make this soup all the time — because not only is it simple and good for you, it is cheap to make. Considering I was in graduate school and Michael was in law school at the time, this was very helpful indeed. And if we ever got down about feeling poor, we could console ourselves with the fact that our dinner was French and therefore very fancy. Or, at least I could. Michael was typically just glad when I laid off the lentils for a bit. Incidentally, lentils are another cheap (and very healthy, mind you) soup-making ingredient.

Anyway, what I am trying to get at here (in a not very efficient way) is that many times the simplest recipes are often the best. And that is where buttermilk scones comes in.

I have long been obsessed with the idea of Afternoon Tea, or High Tea, if you will. Not only is it clearly the time of day when one can use a pick-me-up, but there is almost something ceremonious about it. And the idea of deliberately pausing from the daily chaos in order to do this is ingenious. Michael knows a federal appellate judge (who hails out of Texas) who takes High Tea every day. This judge has the right idea, too, because he refuses all phone calls and such during this time. Smart man — no wonder he's got the job he does.

So anyway, getting back to the marvelous Mrs. Child. A handful of years ago I discovered the book Baking with Julia, which was also done as a PBS series. In this, Julia works with the country's best bakers and gives myriad recipes, techniques, and what have you. It is actually a great idea — she scouted out the person who was best known for a particular baked good(s) and invited them into her kitchen to do a demonstration. And the recipe range is spectacular: from Whole Wheat Bread and Bagels, to Espresso Profiteroles and Chocolate Truffle Tartlets, to Pizza Rustica and Milanese Torta. See what I mean? Spectacular. And those are just a few of the recipes.

The recipe for Buttermilk Scones in Baking with Julia is hands-down the best scone recipe I have ever come across. They are a breeze to make, which is nice if you are serving them for afternoon tea, and even nicer if you are serving them for breakfast. Breakfast is now when they usually appear on our table. However, I have recently learned that the baked scones freeze very well. So whatever you have left from your lovely breakfast table you can put in a few layers of heavy-duty aluminum foil and put in your freezer. Then a week or so later you can pull them out in the morning and have them for your tea later. Just be sure to have lots of butter and jam on hand. I have always preferred Bonne Maman's Four Fruit Preserves, although their Strawberry or Raspberry Preserves are also very good. You can find Bonne Maman at most any grocery store, within reason.

Scones

3 cups all-purpose flour

⅓ cup sugar

2 ½ teaspoons baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

¾ teaspoon salt

1 ½ stick cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

1 cup (approximately) buttermilk

1 tablespoon grated orange or lemon zest

½ stick unsalted butter, melted, for brushing

¼ cup sugar, for dusting

Preheat oven to 425°, and position the racks into thirds in the oven.

Mix flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a medium size bowl. Add the cold butter and mix it with your hands until it resembles coarse cornmeal. (You could also use a pastry cutter, but your hands are really the best option.) It's OK if there are a few bigger pieces of butter remaining because they add to the flakiness of the scones.

Pour in the buttermilk and the zest and mix with a fork until it is just combined. Do not be tempted to mix it until it looks pretty! Gather the dough into a ball and press it gently so that everything sticks together. Place on a lightly floured surface and knead a few times. Don't go crazy here. When it comes to this dough — truly, less is more.

At this point I flatten the dough until it is about ¾ of an inch thick. Pull out the handy-dandy scone (or cookie) cutter and go to work. Place the scones on a baking sheet, lined with parchment, brush them with melted butter, and sprinkle with a little bit of sugar. Alternatively, you could form the dough into a large circle and cut into triangles, like a pie or a pizza or something. However, my favorite happens to be the rounded scone.

Bake for 10-12 minutes, until both the tops and bottoms are golden. Transfer to a wire rack and let cool slightly. Best served warm.

If you pull these from the freezer, then let them defrost as they are on the counter. When ready to serve them, take off the foil and bake for 5 minutes at 350°. (Recipe from Marion Cunningham via Baking with Julia, by Dorie Greenspan, William Morrow and Co, 1996.)

Raspberries, Part II — Peak of Summer Berry Crisp

This is the dessert I look forward to all year long. I typically make it several times throughout the summer until both my husband and I simply cannot bear the thought of it. It looks and tastes like the Fourth of July — raspberries and blueberries baked into a crisp with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream melting into it. And strangely enough, I can completely justify it as a health food. Well, maybe not completely, but you get my point. After all, the recipe calls for four cups of fruit. And being a lady of smaller bone structure, the serving of calcium in the form of vanilla ice cream cannot be all bad.

The recipe for the topping calls for six tablespoons of cold butter. I have finally learned after six or seven years of making this crisp that a bit more butter is better. I now add an extra two tablespoons, which I melt in the microwave before adding. Otherwise the topping seems a bit dry and does not have a uniform consistency. Also, I typically cut the amount of sugar added to the berries down quite a lot. While I certainly don't want the crisp tart (two thumbs down for mouth-puckering tartness), I do not want to ruin the natural sweetness of the berries. Besides, it feels slightly wrong to add so much sugar to something that is (theoretically) already sweet.

Tom Douglas, from whence the recipe came, suggests serving the crisp with either vanilla ice cream or sweetened whipped cream. Personally, I cannot be bothered with the cream. It isn't cold enough and the consistency is not thick enough. Besides, the whipped cream seems a tad too fancy for me. (What!? Did I really just say that!?) And the ice cream gives it a decidedly more American feel. The two ice creams that we prefer are Julie's Organic and Häagen Dazs (their new Honey Vanilla is rather nice...). But whatever you do, don't get the cheap stuff unless you absolutely must. It is worth it to pay a smidge more for better quality and just eat less — as it typically comes in a much smaller container. (See, I told you it was a health food.)

Michael, my lovely husband, who is annoyed I have not referred to him by name, loves this crisp and happily eats it with me every time I make it. However, I can promise that despite the not-humongous-portions, he will still lay down afterwards and moan "Ooooooh! I ate too much crisp!" Whereas I have just fought the urge to go for round two. To each their own, I suppose.

The recipe yields four-to-six servings, which means we always have leftovers. To reheat, I usually put it back in the oven with a foil for a few minutes, without foil for a few more. The topping is a little softer — not so 'crisp' the second time around, but still good, nonetheless. If you do not use foil, then have a good time cleaning the dish later on!

For the Crisp Topping:
⅔ cup old-fashioned oats

⅔ cup firmly packed brown sugar

⅔ cup all-purpose flour

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

6 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into dice

(If desired, 2 more tablespoons butter, melted and cooled)

For the Berries:

2 cups raspberries

2 cups blueberries

½ cup sugar (I cut the amount in half)

2 tablespoons flour

Preheat oven to 350°.

For the crisp topping, it is similar to making scones. Add all the dry ingredients to the bowl and stir. Add the butter and work into the dry ingredients — trying not to pulverize it. It is best to use your hands, but you can use a pastry cutter, if you prefer.

In another bowl, mix the berries with the sugar and flour. Pour into a pie dish and cover with the topping. Bake until the juices are bubbling — 40 to 45 minutes. If you are not feeling like living dangerously, then you may want to put a lined baking sheet under the crisp while it is in the oven, on account of the aforementioned bubbling juices. (Recipe from Seattle Kitchen by Tom Douglas, Harper Collins, 2001.)