Birthday Ice Cream with Cherries

Nice things arrive with Spring, many of them edible. I'm roasting asparagus for the second time in three days. Bright artichokes peeked out at me from a cardboard box at the Squirrel Hill Giant Eagle today. And the chives. Chives are sprouting up in my gastronomic fantasies like never before.

Yep, fresh, young things are wiggling their way into the world...it happens every March just as I shoulder another year on my way out of this world. I was a Spring baby. I am older <sigh> than I feel. Just when do we cease feeling older than we are and start being older than we feel? For me, I guess it happened around year 24. Hmmm...what a coincidence...the year I got married.

Yet, these very milestones, marriage among them, which seem to age us also ease the burdens of maturity. There's love, there's stability, there's security from weirdo dates and messy break ups. But today, folks, I'm talking about presents. Husbands give you presents, especially on occasions that mark the march of time, like anniversaries, and (we're coming to the point, here) birthdays. I have been given a birthday present with a powerful anti-aging capability.

To all who have found their way to this site by will, by fate, or by mistake, I here announce: I now own an ice cream maker. A pretty, shiny one. And, whoa boy, a noisy one. It was banished to the basement on its first day out of the box where it has added to the din of the washing machine, furnace, and water pump. Conversation and ice cream making apparently do not mix. This, by the way, makes ice cream making a perfect summer task--for those afternoons when it's just too hot to converse. While Patrick and I are sitting silent in our sweat on the back deck come August, there will be a sweet mechanical buzz in our basement, auguring refreshment for steamy lips and tongues.

I'm on my fourth practice batch. This is not a complicated machine, but I am a demanding ice cream epicure. And Patrick is even more exacting. The man eats ice cream for breakfast. The following recipe has been my greatest success to date, but I foresee quite a bit of ice cream experimentation in my future. Pink peppercorn, honey and thyme, Meyer lemon, peach, ginger and dark chocolate, burnt caramel...these are the future flavors of my strepitous little machine.

It was a combination of curiosity over a bag of frozen cherries at Trader Joe's and memories of a certain cherry ice cream I used to scoop for pay in high school that got me drafting a recipe for this cherry-studded vanilla ice cream.


Every member of my immediate family once worked in a certain ice cream parlor in Wake Forest, North Carolina. My dad, the only one who never scooped, ran a coin shop in the room neighboring it. This ice cream institution which went by the name, The Corner, and was run by Ms. Chandley, has recently abandoned its brick facade for a place in the memories of Southeastern Baptist seminarians, adolescent bike gangs, and us--the Rogers' family. During slow spells, I used to sneak a scoop of cherry ice cream drizzled with hot fudge...my favorite combination for a full year, and that's saying a lot for a fickle ice cream lover.

This recipe produces a velvety ice cream with a custardy mouth feel and an intense vanilla flavor. The cherries offer bursts of tangy iciness to balance this richness. I've always liked the paired flavors of almonds and cherries, so I made some almond tuiles to perch in my mounds of cherry ice cream. Crunchy, but delicate...these are the good cookies that good ice cream deserves. Tuile, by the way, means "tile" in French. This ice cream, I suppose, is the grout.

This was my first experiment with tuiles. They were really easy to make, despite all the injunctions to "work quickly before the cookies cool" which you find in tuile recipes. Because my cookies cooked rather unevenly, I had time to bend each one around a rolling pin as it was ready without feeling frantic. If your oven cooks evenly, you may find yourself more pressed for time. Who knew? Rickety ovens are good for paper-thin French cookies?


Vanilla Cherry Ice Cream
Serves 8. Adapted from Bon Appetit, June 1999.

I have been experimenting with combinations of half and half and whole cream for my ice cream. For this recipe, I went with the full-fat version, just to see how it compared with my other trials. The texture was noticeably smoother, but the flavor did not differ enough to steer me away from half and half for all future batches. If you would prefer a slightly lighter version, substitute a good (i.e. not non fat) half and half for the first two cups of cream in this recipe.

I'm guessing that fresh cherries would taste better than their frozen variety, so use them if you have them. Trader Joe's cherries were good, but a little watery.

3 cups heavy cream, divided (or 2 cups half and half and 1 cup heavy cream)
1 vanilla bean
6 egg yolks (save 2 whites if you want to make the tuiles!)
1/4 cup white sugar
1/4 cup light brown sugar
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups cherries, cut into halves

1. Place 2 cups cream in a heavy sauce pan. Split vanilla bean and scrape out seeds with a knife into the cream. Add vanilla pod, and bring to a boil. Remove from heat and allow to steep for 20 minutes.

2. In medium bowl, whisk together egg yolks and sugars until combined.

3. Bring vanilla-cream to a simmer, and then pour it in a steady stream into egg yolk mixture, whisking constantly. Return mixture to the same saucepan and stir over medium-low heat until custard thickens and coats the back of a wooden spoon, 4-7 minutes. Do not allow the custard to boil.

4.Remove from heat. Mix in remaining cream and vanilla extract. Strain through a fine mesh colander into a bowl, cover with plastic wrap pressed down directly onto custard, and refrigerate until chilled.

5. Process custard in ice cream maker according to the manufacturer's directions. While ice cream is still relatively soft, add cherries. Continue to process until ice cream has achieved the consistency you want. Transfer to a covered container and freeze.


Almond Tuiles
Adapted from Ms. Stewart's recipe, makes 18 or so cookies.

I tried using both parchment paper and a silpat liner for these cookies. The silpat liner out-performed the parchment paper in every way. The cookies baked more evenly and more slowly. I have recommended scant 1/4 cup of flour because I found a full 1/4 cup to produce a thicker batter than I wanted. I imagine that the size of your egg whites will affect the amount of dry ingredients you'll need. The batter should be thin enough to spread easily with the back of a spoon.

vegetable-oil cooking spray or parchment paper
1/2 cup almonds, ground fine
scant 1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 large egg whites
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
about 2/3 cup sliced blanched almonds, toasted


1. Preheat oven to 325° F. Line a baking sheet with a silpat liner or parchment paper.

2. In a bowl whisk together ground almonds, flour, sugar, and salt. Then, whisk in whites, butter, and almond extract until combined well.

3. Drop rounded teaspoons batter about 4 inches apart onto baking sheet and with back of a spoon spread into 3 1/2-inch rounds. Sprinkle each cookie with about 1/2 tablespoon sliced almonds.

4. Bake in middle of oven 8 minutes, or until golden.

5. As cookies become done, remove them from baking sheet, 1 at a time, with a thin spatula and drape over a rolling pin to create a curved shape. (If the cookies become too brittle to form on the rolling pin, return baking sheet to oven a few seconds to allow cookies to soften.) Cool cookies completely on rolling pin and transfer to an airtight container.

6. Make more cookies with remaining batter in same manner, replacing parchment paper with fresh sheet for each batch (if you're using parchment paper instead of a silpat liner). Tuiles may be made 2 days ahead and kept in an airtight container at room temperature.

Spring Fever: Tagliatelle with Chive Oil

The snow has melted and crocuses are sprouting up all over the east end of Pittsburgh. Maybe it's been the sight of these lavender and yellow lovelies that has me wrinkling my nose at brussels sprouts, beets, and even the rutabagas which, mashed up with carrots and doused with sage scented milk, I so recently eulogized. Perhaps I am a foul-weather friend, but these wintry vegetables and their ilk are starting to look a little, well, dour. They've been delightful guests in my kitchen, but I can't have them over-staying their welcome when I'm making room for new peas, vidalia onions, and bunches of pencil-thin asparagus. The root vegetable spark is losing its luster. My affections are being pulled in the direction of spring green.

All this to say, I was primed to fall in love with this recipe. It was a culinary coup de foudre unlike any I've experienced in recent months, Valentine's tarts included. My first glance at the slick photo of chive-speckled tagliatelle in Saveur turned into a double-take, followed by a slow perusal. My stomach fluttered with hunger. My lips would not be satisfied until they met this dish.

The article by Molly Stevens that accompanied this and other chive-filled recipes in the April issue of Saveur left me longing for a backyard plot of freshly sprouted herbs. She waxed rhapsodic about her own love affair with early spring chives, and the recipes she included made me believe it. Seared steaks topped with bright green pats of chive butter. Crumbly chive and cheddar biscuits. They all struck my fancy, but it was this one that had me wanting to munch a bunch of freshly sprouted chives straight from the earth...to just bend over like some ruminating animal and take my fill of the taste of spring. This moment, I feel compelled to add, is unique as far as heifer transformation fantasies go. And, it didn't last long. I don't even have a chive patch on which to graze. The prepackaged sort would simply have to do.


My crush on this recipe deepened into something like awe-filled admiration after the first taste. Ms. Stevens has wisely called for a significant amount of chives, reminding us that this herb wants to be so much more than an omelet garnish. She has also wisely constructed a recipe that will not overwhelm the delicate flavor of her signature ingredient. There is the slight tartness of lemon, the slow bloom of pepper flake spice. This chive sauce soaks into every millimeter of tagliatelle, and made me thank the gods of the table, once again, for the miracle that is pasta.

Tagliatelle with Chive Oil and Cremini Mushrooms
Adapted from Saveur magazine, April 2007. Serves 4.



I heartily recommend a good tagliatelle for the pasta here. Fettuccine would do, but you certainly want a broad, toothsome pasta, one that will soak up the chive sauce and stand up to the heft of the mushrooms. Don't forget to save a cup of pasta water to mix in with the sauce. I'm always a little saddened to see my pasta water go down the drain with all of its sauce-perfecting starches. Since I'm prone to forgetting it, I put a measuring cup inside of my colander when I sit it in the sink to remind me to reserve some cooking water before I drain my pasta. Almost any sauce, but especially an oil-based one, benefits from a half cup or so.

I used the mini-processor attachment to my immersion blender to make the chive emulsion. This worked fine, just in case you find it a hassle to clean your stand blender as much as I do.

I wouldn't recommend substituting bland white mushrooms for the cremini ones here. They're perfectly delicious sliced thin on garden salads, but they just don't develop a rich, roasted flavor when they're cooked. Since creminis are immature portobello mushrooms (that's why they're sometimes called "Baby Bellas"), it would be fine to substitute for the baby type the adult type, cut down into bite-size chunks.

2 pounds cremini mushrooms, small ones left whole, large ones cut into halves
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon red pepper flakes
coarse salt and fresh ground pepper
3/4 pound dried tagliatelle
2 large bunches chives, roughly chopped (about 2 cups)
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1/2 cup finely grated Parmesan cheese

1. Heat oven to 475 degrees. Toss together mushrooms with 1/4 cup olive oil, 1/2 teaspoon pepper flakes, and 1/2 teaspoon coarse salt on a baking sheet. Spread mushrooms out in a single layer, and roast in oven, turning a few times, until browned, about 10 minutes.

2. Meanwhile, bring large pot of salted water to boil. Add tagliatelle and cook until al dente, 8-10 minutes. Reserve 1/2 cup cooking water. Drain pasta and transfer it to a large bowl.

3. Put remaining 1/4 cup olive oil, 1/2 teaspoon pepper flakes, 1 3/4 cups chives, lemon juice, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and several grinds of pepper into a blender. Puree until emulsified, about 30 seconds. Make the chive oil as close as possible to serving time as its greenness diminishes as it sits.

4. Transfer chive oil to bowl with tagliatelle, add mushrooms, reserved pasta water, and parmigiana. Toss well. Adjust salt and pepper to taste. Serve immediately, garnished with remaining 1/4 cup of chopped chives.

Freezer Friendly Chocolate-Whiskey Souffle Tarts

I once had a barren freezer. A bag of chopped spinach. Two ice cubes in a tray. A half empty can of tomato paste. A year-old Lean Cuisine. A few microwavable bean and cheese burritos. That was about it.

Now, my freezer runneth over. Opening the freezer door goes like this: take deep breath; with right hand on handle and left hand raised, fingers splayed and slightly bent to apprehend any thing making a sudden move, slowly perform two-inch safety-open; if movement is detected, move feet out of the field of falling frozen objects, and either shout for help or swiftly close freezer; if no movement is detected, continue with full-open, keeping left hand raised against sudden shifts. Really. I do this many times a day.

It's not like my freezer is some sort of disaster area. I routinely have to re-organize it in order to close the door. It's just chock-full of carefully arranged stuff.

Two tall stacks of dinner left-overs packaged into plastic containers for Patrick's lunches occupy more than their fair share of space. But I can't complain about my husband's total willingness--no, downright enthusiasm--for left-overs. I recognize this as a noble quality, particularly since I become mopey---no, utterly downcast--at the idea of eating Monday's braised chicken for lunch on Thursday. That is, though, the cook's prerogative.

Crowded around the left-over towers are several bags of edamame, at least three different sorts of fish fillets, ground beef, ground pork, plastic baggies of nuts, cardamom pods, whole cloves, and--the sign of stock procrastination--bits and pieces of chicken carcasses.

Into the nooks and crannies between bags of coffee beans and cans of orange juice, I've recently wedged several plastic-wrapped little disks. Yes, in my freezer right now are five tartlet crusts filled with whiskey-spiked chocolate souffle.

Little does my chicken carcass know that nestled up against his rib cage are diamonds in the freezer-burn rough. From freezer company to haute confections, these tarts want nothing but a 15-minute visit to the oven. They emerge all golden-crusted and poofed up, with crackled surfaces and interiors like brownie batter. Four egg whites, whipped up to stiff peaks and folded into the chocolate impart an airiness that perfectly tempers the chocolaty gooiness.




Adopting the premise that anything whiskey-laced counts as traditional Irish fare, I made these tarts for St. Patrick's Day. I prepared them the evening before, froze them, popped a few straight from the freezer into the oven right before dessert, and saved the rest for later to satisfy my own hankerings for chocolate and booze.

The recipe is from Bon Appetit magazine, and as I didn't make a single change to it, save maybe for an extra dash of whiskey, I'll simply link to it here.

A few bits of advice:
The crust is a lovely, crumbly, short-bread flavored thing. My dough would not hold together long enough to be rolled into a log, as the recipe asks. So, I divided it among the tins and pressed it in as I would a cookie crumble crust. Fine.

My tarts were crackly and ready to be eaten after about 15 minutes, whereas the recipe calls for 20.

Several of the cooks who have reviewed the recipe were successful with making one big tart instead of 8 small ones. I didn't have any trouble with my crusts over-browning, but since a big tart will require a longer cooking time, you'll probably have to place aluminum foil over the edges of the crust during its last few minutes in the oven.

I used 70% cocoa Ghirardelli chocolate. Unfortunately, I forgot that I already had several left over bits of it in my freezer. But, nibbles of these chased with swigs of whiskey might ease me through the withdrawal stage once my stash of tarts runs out.

Rooting Around in Gardens

Back in the West Virginia years, my family owned a small video collection of made-for-TV specials and (once my dad splurged on the second machine) dubbed video rentals. I watched certain videos in this collection until I wore them out.

There was the "Wizard of Oz" phase, which was accompanied by the "fear of tornadoes" phase. Somewhat later, there was the "Desperately Seeking Susan" phase, which ushered in the "Mom, can I please buy this Madonna tape, please?" phase, and which coincided with the slightly embarrassing "Miss America 1989" phase. In this period, I obsessively watched the grainy recording I had made of Gretchen Elizabeth Carlson playing her violin so hard that her hair ornament fell off, and later donning the crown in a flood of mascara. [I just googled her name to make sure I had remembered it correctly, and--who knew?--she's working as a Fox news anchor.]

But between the stretches of time I spent marveling at the gowns of Glenda the Good Witch and Miss Minnesota, there was the "Secret Garden" phase circa 1987. This phase involved lots of hunting around in the forest and practicing my English accent by reciting lines from the movie.

Orphan Mary: "Could I have a bit of earth...to make a gah-den? I love gah-dens."

Volatile Guardian: "There was once someone...someone very, very dear to me, who loved gah-dens too. [Cue dramatic music; then, emotionally:] Take your bit of earth wheh-eveh you may find it, and do with it what you please...Leave me now!"

All of this is leading, oh-so-circuitously, to the announcement of a new phase, one that has its roots in 1987:

I have a bit of earth, and I love gah-dens. With some luck and some good manure, I'll soon have herbs, a lettuce bed, tomatoes, and a row of root vegetables where now I have scraggly bushes and brownish clumps of grass. I've sketched out a plan. I've ordered the seeds. I've interviewed my mother (who has at least three green thumbs), and taken copious notes. Now, I foresee in 2007 a raking, weeding, and watering phase, to be followed by a rooting, pinching, and picking phase.

Unless I manage to kill everything, I'll eventually be making a certain root mash with parsnips and carrots dug up from my own little backyard row instead of hermetically sealed Trader Joe's bags. And I'll be making this mash a lot, as this is, to date, my favorite parsnip recipe. With hardly any effort, especially if you have a good vegetable peeler, it can be yours too.

You can substitute any combination of rutabagas, sweet potatoes, celery root, or turnips for the parsnips, carrots, and baking potatoes to create your own signature root mash. It's a good idea to throw in a few potatoes of some sort, though, to keep the mash from becoming gloopy. Parsnips and carrots make a sweetish mash, but the garlic, which takes on an almost roasted flavor, mellows it out. Blended with a bit of herb-infused cream, humble root vegetables suddenly become, well...sexy. And because mashed parsnips are naturally silky, they don't require a lot of fat. Sexy and healthy: a bit of Madonna and Glenda the Good Witch. What you get is a rich-tasting, comfy, vitamin-packed dish good enough to edge mashed potatoes out of their Sunday-side-dish monopoly.

Any sort of roasted or grilled meats, including this chicken, would do well by this vegetable dish. I can attest to its goodness when spooned alongside barbecued short ribs, and so can my table-mate, who will never outgrow his rib phase.


Herb Infused Root Mash
Serves 4-6. Adapted from a Tyler Florence recipe.



1/2 pound carrots
1/2 pound parsnips
2 large baking potatoes (Russet, Idaho, Yukon Gold)
4 cloves garlic
coarse salt and fresh ground black pepper
1/4 cup cream or half and half
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
two bunches fresh thyme
2 fresh sage leaves
dash of nutmeg

1. Peel vegetables and chop into 1- to 2- inch pieces. Place them (including garlic) in a pot, cover with cool water. Add 1 tablespoon salt. Bring to a boil over medium heat and continue to boil until vegetables are tender, about 30 minutes.

2. While vegetables are boiling, place butter, cream (or half and half), and herbs in a small pot and warm over low heat. Before mixture begins to boil, turn off heat and cover pot. Allow the herbs to infuse the cream mixture while you finish preparing the vegetables.

3. Drain vegetables, and return them to the same pot. Mash with a large fork or potato masher until there are no longer any big clumps.

4. Remove the herbs from the cream mixture, and pour it over the mash. Add a dash of nutmeg. Stir to combine. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

What to Eat with your Morning Coffee

I am the first to acknowledge that breakfast is personal. It's not a meal for socializing or trying new and interesting flavors. Breakfast is about making the transition from groggy zombie to human being in whatever way works for you. For me, that means coffee. Forget the food...it just interferes with my veins' caffeine absorption rate. Yet, because ravenous attacks of hunger at around 10:30 am tend to interfere with productivity, I've tried to make more of a breakfast effort. Still, I find myself shuffling towards buttered toast or a couple of graham crackers instead of the "balanced" breakfasts de rigeur among the health conscious. I like a banana or grapefruit just as well as the next person, but they make my coffee taste funny.

Patrick's favorite breakfast was once a half pound of bacon and a donut, but citing concerns for his blood pressure, he gave up this combination in favor of pumpkin pie and whipped cream or chocolate cake topped with vanilla ice cream. Should the kitchen be empty of dinner party and holiday leftovers such as these, he makes do with a spartan breakfast of two chocolate croissants from Sweetie Sweetie bakery or a stack of blueberry pancakes. My sister, on the other hand, has taken to early morning tamales with tomatillo sauce purchased from a van that sits outside her apartment building from around 5 - 6 am.

So, breakfast is personal. Although I tend to like to drink my breakfast from a green Fiestaware mug, I've dabbled in danishes and sticky buns, mostly to satisfy my husband's sweet tooth while trying my hand at some of the scarier recipes in Martha Stewart's Baking Handbook. But today, I'm offering you my personal favorite, the breakfast that makes my morning coffee taste better and my newspaper less bitter. When I have good butter in the house, I can hardly keep from making up a large batch of shortbread. It's super easy to make, keeps for a week or more, and turns any cup of coffee or tea into a moan-worthy occasion.

Generally speaking, I prefer my shortbread plain, on the thin side, and cut into wedges. I never really wanted to risk muddling up all that buttery goodness with superfluous additions. This time, I gave into the experimental itch, and the results were not bad at all. I have to admit that, dunked in dark chocolate and sprinkled with salted cashews, these short breads become something altogether different than their simpler, naked kin. Given the option, I might prefer my plain shortbread wedges over these treats at 7 am, but this is coming from someone who is perfectly happy eating a stack of saltine crackers for breakfast.


Short Bread (Chocolate-Dipped and Cashew Sprinkled)
shortbread recipe from Ms. Stewart's Desserts, makes one 9x13 pan, about 27 cookies

You could add all kinds of stuff to this shortbread. Orange zest, candied ginger, chopped dried fruit. I have plans in the works for a savory batch with rosemary and toasted walnuts.

The butter really is important, so use a good one. I have been very impressed with Trader Joe's butter, but, as far as your average supermarket varieties go, Land-O-Lakes hasn't failed me.



1 pound (4 sticks) good butter, cut into small cubes
1 cup packed light brown sugar
5 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
16 oz. bittersweet chocolate
1/2 cup roasted and salted cashews, finely chopped

1. Preheat oven to 275 degrees F. Butter a 9x13 baking pan (metal or glass) and line with parchment paper.

2. In the bowl of a blender fitted with a paddle, blend butter and sugar on high until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes.

3. Add flour, 1 cup at a time, blending on low speed in between each cup just until flour is incorporated.

4. Add salt and blend until no more flour is visible.

5. Turn out cookie dough onto prepared pan and press down with fingers until relatively even and smooth.

6. Using the back of a knife blade, score shortbread dough into the shapes you desire. (I usually use round pans and cut the shortbread into wedges, but here I've used a rectangular pan and cut the shortbread into strips). With a fork or toothpick, prick shortbread all over at even intervals.

7. Bake 45-50 minutes. Allow to cool. Cut shortbread along scoring lines.

8. Melt chocolate in a double broiler. Dip shortbread into chocolate, allowing excess to drip off. Sprinkle with cashews, and then allow to cool on a cookie rack set above a baking sheet.