I'm trying something new today. Live action video! I hope you like it. Thanks to the lovely Savvy team from Eater.com!
The custard-filled pastries aren't as intimidating as they look. In this video, Samantha Seneviratne (behind Love, Cake) walks through her recipes for chocolate-topped eclairs and cream puffs. Watch above to see how the pastry chef/cookbook author does it, starting with her fool-proof dough.
I’ve been creating sad, superfluous loungewear out of old clothes for years. And that’s not my only problem. I’ve also been treating my parents’ home as a “haven for mementos”, and I have a deeply rooted book-hoarding problem. Marie Kondo has me figured out! I’m reading “The Life Changing Art of Tidying Up” and learning so much about myself.
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We were just walking down the street when an elderly lady handed my dad a big, wide basket full of passion fruit. The bowl was lined with newspaper and filled to the brim. She had run out of her house as we were passing by and she beamed when my dad accepted her present. We were in Sri Lanka. I was eight. According to mom, who translated the transaction for me, the old woman had known my grandfather. The passion fruit were from her tree. They were her gift to my grandfather’s eldest son to welcome him back to the island after so many years.
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The other day my mom asked me not to go to the movies until after Christmas. She’s worried about the North Koreans. Thanks for that, Kim Jong-un.
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Last weekend my in-laws came to New York for a visit and we went back in time. During a blustery afternoon walk near the entrance to the Holland Tunnel, we stumbled on the most magical of places. A tiny brick house, complete with a sharply pitched roof, weathered wooden door, and enchanting vines creeping down from the window box above. Hidden amid the sleek glass buildings of Tribeca, it looked miraculously unchanged since the 1800s. Charming doesn’t even begin to describe it. We investigated a bit further. You’ll never guess what it turned out to be: a rare cookbook shop!
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I was nine when my parents took us to Paris. My brother Mohan was fourteen. The trip included all the requisite sites, statues, and paintings, but I can really only remember two things vividly. One: bird poop. Two: éclairs.
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First impressions get a lot of press. A firm handshake and a big smile can’t hurt, I suppose, but I’m here to tell you that it’s not impossible to come back after a goof. People are kind. This tart is a testament to that. This tart is all about redemption.
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I’ve seen the movie Titanic more times than I would like to admit. I saw it in the theater when it came out. We owned a copy on laser disc that I used to enjoy occasionally. And it’s been on TV a fair number of times. Let’s just say that I know the film pretty well. Well enough that the best way that I can explain my life is through a scene from the movie. Not that “I’m king of the world” business, either.
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For a while I had a spin teacher who ended every class imploring his students to spend a second being grateful that they were healthy enough to exercise. That seems right to me. I love to jog. I like the feel of the sun on my shoulders and the wind in my hair. Once I’ve gotten oven my initial laziness, I feel glad and grateful whenever I hit the pavement. That said, I also harbor no illusions about being an athlete. I’m clumsy and not light on my feet. But that’s why jogging is so great. You can just do it your way. Any way that happens to be.
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Let me tell you how I’ve been spending my evenings up here in Maine. We wrap up dinner around 6:30, nice and early. It’s wonderful to sit on the screened-in porch and watch the light change and feel the air cool down. At the end of the meal, we sit around and chat. Then my father-in-law John gets up and clears the plates and starts the dishes. And it’s usually about that time that I’m struck by a genius idea. Every night it’s the same idea, but somehow it always seems fresh. And then I ask:
Anyone want ice cream?
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This tart is for my dad. It’s right up his alley. Come to think of it, it’s right up my alley as well. I am my father’s daughter after all.
My dad is a like a squirrel when it comes to nuts. He’s not storing up for a long winter ahead – although you wouldn’t know it. He cracks me up. When I go home to visit, I’m always rummaging around the kitchen cabinets for a snack. I could attack the chocolate drawer. (Yes, our house has a drawer dedicated solely to chocolate. It's always stocked. It's always dangerous.) But sometimes chocolate just won't do. So I turn to my dad's special cabinets. At first glance, you'll see a bunch of old Nescafe jars and maybe some big bottles of aspirin or Metamucil. If you don’t know my funny dad, you might just keep on looking for a snack thinking, "there's nothing here for me." But let me tell you, the man is sneaky. Tucked away in all those old plastic bottles are treasures. Nut treasures. Sweet. Salty. Roasted. What have you. It’s all there, hidden away behind the empty promises of supplemental fiber and pain relief.
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Hooray for apple season! Perhaps you’ve already hopped over to your local orchard for some fantastic fall pick-your-own. If so, you probably have apple pie on the brain. Apple pies are beloved. There’s no doubt about that. This is America, after all. (Have you ever thought about why the saying is “American as apple pie” but cinnamon, the other significant ingredient, is native to a very special island all the way out in the Indian Ocean? Just a little food for thought.) Anyway, today I thought I’d take you out of your apple comfort zone. Give you a break from pie. Put apple crisp on hold. Let applesauce go on sabbatical. Today I implore you to make a new apple friend. Hello my name is…strudel!
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I have a dirty secret. I really love brownies from a mix. There. I said it. Don’t judge me too harshly. You know I really do like to bake things from scratch. I generally prefer homemade pie crusts and cookie doughs. But when the stand mixer is unplugged at home you'll find me in the baking aisle of the supermarket with my arms wrapped tightly around a box of Ghirardelli brownie mix. Maybe two. Especially when I’ve got a good friend to laugh with (I miss you, Jenny) and a couple of feel-good-foreign movies to watch. I would chose mix brownies over homemade any day. I know it’s a bit shameful for a baker but it’s the truth about me. Now you know.
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This pie made my niece cry. Not with joy or gratitude. I think it was disgust.
She’s three. I didn’t take it personally. (Well, maybe just a smidge.) You see there’s a little secret to a neat, sliceable berry pie. Once it comes out of the oven it has to sit and wait for hours and hours. Too many hours. It must remain untouched for way too long, torturing all that pass with its sweet, buttery, berry smells, so that it can relax, cool down, and firm up.Read more