Case Study 69: "The August Peach"

When summer gathers up her robes of glory,

And, like a dream, glides away.

- Sarah Helen Whitman

I notoriously clutch to every summer's end as it seeps through my fingers like the weakening light at dusk.  Of course, it's inevitable that September will always roll around. But we're summer people, after all.  And so year after year we stand, sweaters half-covering our swimsuits and bare shoulders, denying that we might be cold as the slight chill in the air at our door.  And it knocks earlier and earlier each day. 

I'll be right there!  We shout. But we secretly hide in the backyard, standing below the naked parts of the trees above, where the sun is still hot, and we swear it's still summer where everything gold can stay.  So we reason. The peaches are in season.  The fawns are out alone. And the children next door just learned to ride bikes, which certainly means it can be nothing but summer.

"The August Peach" is a sweet summer peach cupcake topped with a vanilla-bourbon buttercream.  It's ripe, boozy and filled with fruits of the season at their best.

We hunger, we desire, and we want to still lick the juices of the season off our sticky hands.  So we grill up burgers and dogs and summer fruits, making a mess everywhere and hoping nobody sees that all the while, everywhere we go, we are leaving traces of our summer hands and feet.  Hoping to keep the sadness of the colder months at bay.  Hoping to forget that we're ending another third of our trip around the sun. 

Case Study 68: "The Farfalle"

They say the butterfly is a symbol for many things: conscious evolution, transformation, and the personification of the human soul.  But whatever it evokes for the individual, when it comes to the family, it means a bit more. 

I spent a day this weekend at a reunion with dozens of my closest relatives on my maternal grandmother's side.  La familia.  An enormous and forever growing chain of life that itself has seen many metamorphoses as it's evolved over the years. We are a family that celebrates.  We are a family ruled by women.  We are a family all about life.  Lives themselves, and the act of livin' it.

   
"The Farfalle" is a vanilla cupcake with a vanilla bean buttercream and butterfly sitting on top.  My mother told me that when she thinks about the family, she sees us all dancing, and we look like a big bunch of butterflies.  And you know what?  I can kind of see it.  Young and old, wings spread, fluttering around the room. We all become the same thing when we hit the dancefloor.

We find pictures of great aunts and see ourselves in their eyes.  We hear stories about the old country, about the new country, and about how we passed between the two. Years pass, and we learn that just as we die, we are reborn.  Every single person, living or dead, is locked in time as an essential link that holds the whole chain together.  And that somehow helps us makes sense of everything: who we were, who we are, and who we might become. 

Resurrection, rebirth, re-life.  Like a butterfly, old life begets new life, and that is what family is about. 

Notes from the Field: Existential Cupcaketology

"By releasing the pressure of

reality upon our lives,

fantasy convinced us that

life itself had no hold upon us.

 We belonged to no place or country,

no class, profession, or generation.

Our truth lay elsewhere.

-Simone de Beauvoir

A cupcake is a cupcake... until's it's not.

Pink meringue takes the form of a cupcake, and gets stuffed to the gills with nutella and strawberries. 

Yeah.  Lots of deep thoughts over here lately.  

Meringue Recipe Courtesy of Martha Stewart.

Case Study 67: "The Cookie Monster"

There are certain gentlemen in this world that do not like sweets (you know who you are!).  These salty fellows stroll through life with a taste for the more refined and savory delicacies of the culinary world.  Or maybe, when it comes to sugarly delights, they frankly just don't give a damn.

Luckily, my big brother doesn't fall anywhere near that category.  Oh no, his appetite for the edible makes me proud.  I've seen him eat nearly an entire sleeve of graham crackers BEFORE dinner.  He's been known to wrap a bundle of shoestring licorice around his tongue in mere minutes.  And pitchers of margaritas?  Make them bottomless, especially on vacation, when we've got nowhere to go.

My big brubba.  The one who, at nearly six years old, wanted to send me back when I came roaring into the world.  The one who tickled me until I peed my pants and blew my budding eardrums out with the Steve Miller Band, The Doors, and Jimi Hendrix when he so graciously drove me to school in the 90s.  The one who sat higher up in the tree out back, a plastic desk nested in what seemed like miles above, while I manned the bottom branches and lowering the broken swing down for our mother to send up essentials (bandaids, juiceboxes, cookies).

He brought his older friends to stand guard when the boys teased me after school, and without fail he made light of every love interest I ever had, leaving me in the end with nothing but laughs, regardless of if it worked out or not.  He always let me tag along for all the best adventures, and he went all in when it came to his hobbies in life, like car-racing, fly fishing, and cigar smoking.  He has given me the gift-that-keeps-giving in the form of a nephew, who is so much his own shadow as he is his own little stubborn and silly bull. 

"The Cookie Monster" is just that.  A vanilla cupcake with a sparkly blue vanilla buttercream, and the face of one beloved monster with a mouthful of sweet delicious baked confection goodness.

So to my big cookie monster on his 31st birthday.  Thank you for sparing me those tortuous years of yellow school buses, all while making me appreciate the wonderful music of generations before us.  Thank you for being so crazily passionate and not giving me the option to not learn about your hobbies.  Having all of that knowledge always makes me feel like one hell of a refined woman when faced with a room full of men.  Thank you for giving me someone to look up to.  Whether it was in tree branches or adoration, you set an example for radness and success that pushed me far beyond my years.  And thank you for being there always, when I needed you most and when I didn't need you at all. 

I guess that's just what big brudders do.

Case Study 66: "The Summer Secret"

“There are no seven wonders of the world

in the eyes of a child.

There are seven million.”

- Walt Streightiff

Some things in life are sacred: space, Baby Jesus, and the teachings of Buddha.  And then other things in life are sacred, as in family summer ritual sacred.  In my opinion, among this second type lie some of the most amazing wonders of the world.  

Growing up, summer weeks were spent up on the Cape, and we made the most of our location, surviving mostly on the fruits of the sea alone, along with as much Emack and Bolio's ice cream and Cottage Street Bakery Dirt Bombs we could get our hands on.  But time spent on the sand was different. 

We'd drive out to Race Point, the far reaching tip of the great Massachusetts arm, also known as The End of the World, as far as I was concerned.  While the dads released the air from the truck tires, us kids would run out towards the dunes, bathing suits half on and grass between our toes, catching the sweet perfume of beach roses and salt spray from what waited for us on the other side of that tall grass.

Riding over the sand was like driving on the moon.  Up and down we went, reckless and bumpy as we rose, and weightless as we dropped down the dunes, with our windows down and some old Eagles tape singing a lullaby "Hotel California" to the nesting piping plovers on the beach outside.  Our chosen parking spot always depended on two things: extreme distance from other human beings and the ability to back the trucks toward each other, bumper to bumper, where the rear doors opened to create a closed canopy above, under which lay the perfect serving space for the Ultimate Beach Sandwich.

Bread. Peanut butter.  Banana.  Nutella.  Hershey Bar.  Marshmallow Fluff.  Who knew that six ingredients could lead to salvation?  Assembled and wrapped in tin foil for an hour, unwrapped and BAM.  World hunger: SOLVED.  Ok, well maybe the hunger of five kids, tired from having spent a few hours swimming back to shore after they've drifted nearly to the other end of the Cape on inner-tubes guided by umbrella sails, was what was solved.  But you get the idea.

"The Summer Secret" is a banana cupcake, filled with Nutella, and topped with a whipped Peanut Butter buttercream and a Hershey's chocolate dipped Marshmallow.  Fruity, nutty, creamy, sugary, chocolatey cake goodness all in one bite.  Heaven. 

I'm not quite sure how many wonders of the world exist nowadays.  I once believed there were seven, but maybe that was back in the day before the internet, or when I took the lyrics of related Fleetwood Mac songs as my bible and our family did a lot of traveling in the canyons and mountains out west.  But regardless, if I controlled the list, on it would sit this holy flavor combination.  And though I'm not sure if it holds such high revere in my heart because of nostalgia or true awesomeness, I just don't care.  Some things, my friends, are just sacred. 

Notes from the Field: Here Piggy Piggy

Nothing to see here....

 Just a few sweet little piggies hanging out atop homemade funfetti cupcakes and neon pink vanilla buttercream.  

Notes from the Field: Going...going...GONE

Birthday cake, Cupcaketologist-style, Newport, RI.

Just a little note to say that I am currently in the process of making the move from Philadelphia to New York for an exciting new job opportunity and life chapter.  Philadelphia has treated me like gold for the past 7 years, and I am nothing but grateful, if not in awe of, the experiences and people that have come into my life there.  

In addition, cupcake catering has moved north as well!  Any inquiries for parties and events in the NYC-Metro and New England area, please contact via: thecupcaketologist at gmail dot com.

As my favorite poet, Stanley Kunitz said in his poem The Layers: "I am not done with my changes." 

I am thrilled to see what is to come...  

Case Study 65: "The Summer Fleur"

“A man does what he must - 

in spite of personal consequences, 

in spite of obstacles and dangers and pressures -

and that is the basis of all human morality.”

-Winston Churchill

We talk a lot about what makes a good man, and I think in general, many of these marked qualities are pretty synonymous with what makes a good woman.  But to be honest, there are just some characteristics that are simply set apart, and I have one reason to hold them high: my dad. 

I could write novels on the places he traveled alone.  I remember as a kid, searching for the smell of his cologne and crispness of his suit during the days, the weeks, the months at a time he spent on business in Venezuela, Brussels, Toronto, and India.  The returns were welcomed by our rugby games and swim meets, the nights watching the Yankees, him in his leather chair and me on the floor, and the fall evenings when he picked me up from swim practice with the top down in the convertible, the heat blasting, and Van Morrison's Moondance on the radio. 

When he started working from home, I thought, who has it better than this guy?  But he wasn't content to keep it at that.  He embraced his Italian instincts, and took over as head house chef, learning first from recipes, then taking flight on his own culinary adventures.  A martini in one hand, a plated feast in the other, and a snarky quip on the tip of his tongue, he paints the portrait of a true man of style and grace, with a kick of perfect inappropriateness.  I remember the one winter the two of us stood outside for hours, teeth chattering, as we made zeppole in our Fry Daddy for Christmas.  Promise we'll do it again, Dad!

"The Summer Fleur" is a dark chocolate and zucchini cupcake with a creamy goat cheese frosting, and a pan fried zucchini blossom on top. The chocolate cake beneath is deep, sweet and swirled with chunks of zucchini, which is offset by the tangy kick of the goat cheese on top.  The blossoms, now in season, are simply one of the most succulent Italian summer delights when sizzled up with a little egg, a pinch of flour and a pan of hot olive oil.  A well rounded cupcake, I'd say.       

 

I could talk about how my father has a full head of dark hair that would make men half his age shiver in their shoes, how his golf game is a lot better than he'll ever admit it to be, or how he always checks my tires for air before I leave.  But to be honest, those are things that could make a man, well, just anyone else.  

 

Mother's can be so much more wonderfully irrational and quick to act.  But like Churchill said, a very good man, just gets it done.  In a dire situation, a good man just diffuses all of his hope, his wealth of knowledge, his trust and respect into the matter at hand. He might not say anything right away, and he might speak carefully at first, but when a good man talks, it's stops you in your tracks, and you just know, without even knowing it right away.  

And so, to my big Daddoo, I say thank you for being an honest to God good man. Though you might have beat me during our first half marathon (no biggie!), and sometimes I ask you to keep it down when you are oh-so-passionately serenading us with your amazing guitar skills, you are truly a beacon of knowing light.  And without it, this girl wouldn't be half the woman I grew up to be.

Notes from the Field: Summer Hands and Feet.

Hello there.  

It's been awhile, huh.

In the weeks since we last talked, 

these tired feet have traveled miles. 

To mostly good places, 

like fields and woods, various city streets, 

and lots of sand.  

But finally this weekend, 

they walked back into the kitchen,

and let the hands take over again.  

And they said, "Let's take it nice and easy, ok??"

And so, the hands did.  

With good old American double vanilla cupcakes. 

 

The hands will try hard to keep up with 

the feet as they roam this summer.

After all, that's what summer feet do.

Case Study 64: "The Drunken Sailor"

What are springs and waterfalls? 

Here is the spring of springs, 
the waterfall of waterfalls. 

A storm in the fall or winter 
is the time to visit it; 
a light-house or a fisherman’s hut the true hotel.

A man may stand there and put all of America 
behind him. ”

- Henry David Thoreau

I'm not quite sure when I developed my recent affinity for whiskey.  Perhaps it resulted from being a lady member of a Gentlemans' Club.  Or maybe it came after one debauched night, when after leaving said club, we bootlegged a makeshift flask of Jack in the nosebleed seats of a black tie Christmas concert and got reprimanded by a gang of septuagenarians.  Regardless of mode, all I really know is that it was the naughtiest acquisition I've had in awhile, and I think I know why: it reminds me of the sea.

I know what you're going to say- real sailors were all about the bottle o' rum, about salt, about scurvy-repelling citrus. But both Barnacle Bill and I beg to differ. Whiskey.  Give it to me cold, on the rocks, the smooth crisp bite hitting the teeth like white-capped breakers against the harbor rocks. Give it to me warm, with a touch of lemon, honey, and water, and it's like mother's milk on a misty night, medicinal magic to physical and spiritual pains alike.  Give it to me straight, and I'll give you wicked laughter, a wild run of the town, and the honest-to-God truth all at once.  

"The Drunken Sailor" is a chocolate whiskey cupcake, stocked with chopped pecans and topped with a vanilla maple buttercream.  It's dark and musty, nutty and sugary, and capped off with a shot of pure distilled malt joy.

They say that "what whiskey cannot cure, there is no cure for," and to some extent, I agree.  We go to the city to enrich our minds, to teach us about the world through people and experience, to create new neural pathways with art and voice and sound.   We go to the mountains to stand miles above land, breathe in the fresh air, and feel the reign of humanity in a vast world.  

But for clarity, for soul, for peace, just give me the sand in my hair, the salt mist in my mouth, the rocking waves beneath my hull, and a glass full of cubes and amber-hued booze. For there really is no truer self then he who is reflected in the waters from whence we came.

Notes from the Field: Un petit déjeuner français...

Just having a little French breakfast as the spring rain falls out back in the garden. 

My song au courant is spinning between Gainsbourg and Polnareff favorites and the globe string lights are casting a morning glow through the dogwood off the deck as I delve into a sweet berry clafoutis, sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar.

And for a moment, I am back in France, and it's spring, just as it was many years ago. 

Case Study 63: "The Cakebomb"

On a boardwalk bench, sandy feet up against a sky dotted with a few lazy clouds trailing the sparkling caps of slow rolling waves... 

In the slight breeze under an overgrown oak, the fingers of the sun piercing through, on a humid dog day.... 

 

On a city stoop, prey to the window glares and sizzling sidewalks, aflame with the steam from an underworld rail...  

Is there really anything more delectable, more lusciously refreshing, and more full of dripping drizzling oozing goodness...

Than a cold ice cream delight on a hot summer's day?

"The Cakebomb" is a double vanilla cupcake topped with Burnt Sugar gelato and a smattering of jimmies.   

That, my friends, is summer in a bite.

Case Study 62: "The Hidden Fruit"

"Fish, to taste right, must swim three times -

in water, in butter, and in wine."  

- Polish Proverb

I have friends who are vegetarians, friends who are vegans, and friends who are "pescatarians."  There are the locavores, the brocavores, the ones who ascribe to a shot of cod liver oil and apple cider vinegar, and the occasional worshiper of a caffeine-free god.  I know people who work out in the early morning, people who play squash every night, and people who can't even stomach the idea of exercise.  But regardless of the health trend au courant, in the end, I've always tried to stick to two practices:  try anything at least once and keep everything in moderation.
 
As an Italian, I was genetically pre-destined to be a culinarian, a foodie, a gourmand.  By the time I harnessed dexterity in my index finger, I sampled the foods of my elders.  Nothing was off-limits, even the baccala I so voraciously desired at 16 months to the delight of my Neapolitan great-grandmother. Growing up, although our family processed food ban cultivated a much handy kitchen prowess, my parents were stellar cooks, and evenings were spent either passionately whipping up meals or relaxing with a bohemian board of cheeses and charcuterie. But throughout it all, we ended up more than aware of the amazing powers of honest-to-God good food in fueling the body and satiating the soul.

"The Hidden Fruit" is a vegan zucchini and dark chocolate muffin topped pillows of (non-vegan) cream cheese frosting and a cinnamon sprinkle.  Made with carrot puree and lightly sweetened cereal, agave, lemon peel and unbleached flour, it's jam-packed with antioxidants and protein, a musty chocolate punch, and a citrusy kick.  Though it's unlikely that I'll put an end to my carnivorous ways, these organic power bites are enough to reignite the flames in any lackluster culinary affair.


Many of my most memorable life moments occurred at the table. I recall squealing in delight over the creamy funk of foie gras at Payard's, grilling up white Connecticut corn in the summer, or sucking down just-harvested oysters in Wellfleet, the freshly shucked cold brine dripping down our chins as we chased them with a crisp dry vin blanc.  Or maybe it was the tart passionfruit and chocolate Pierre Hermes macarons or the Coeur de Chevre I carried back from Paris, stinky and oozing in it's brown paper between my leather journal and a dried lavender bunch in my purse.  And don't even get me started with the time we holed up in Pietro's in Trastevere for hours one January, the Tiber flowing gently outside as we salivated over plates over the most musty and divine organisms this earth has ever created: black and white truffles.  My weakness for these divine sporous fungi is so evident that I once had a boyfriend whose pheromones reeked of something along the lines of a paradiso tartufato to me, and in the end, I'm pretty certain that's what aroused (and sustained) the attraction. 

What I have learned over 25 years of good solid eating is that in the end, what we eat is very much a part of who we are.  Whether we stick to a plan, modify as we go, or just simply don't care what we stick in our mouths, the act of eating shapes and enhances our sensory experience as we travel throughout life.  So don't forget to open wide and eat it up.  In the end, you'll never be hungry for anything but more.