Case Study 96: "The Sweet Bourbon Pecan Spud"

Tomorrow is the first day of autumn.
  

The temperature has already dropped.  Women are wearing tights.  And that post-work promise of a few bright hours of sun, for lazy strolls and long runs, is quickly turning into a rushed dash home to grasp anything that resembles daylight. It's getting hard to keep up the summer fight...

So here is my promise to the new season.

For the rest of September, we will throw on boots, and crunch through the golden grass, as we remember the salvation of a fall weekend in childhood spent in an orchard, a pumpkin patch or a pile of leaves.  Clear blue Saturdays will be savored.  We will brush our fingers through the flannel in our drawers and take notice of the speckled corn husks in the markets. We'll accept it. 
 

When October rolls around, we'll miss the smell of barbecues at dusk, but smile anyways, because somewhere down the street a fireplace is burning midday. We'll get crazy at a Halloween soul shakedown in the woods, and make pies from the dozens of apples picked on a cool weekend.  The hot cider will get spiked with whiskey and cold fingers will get tucked into someone's jean pockets. 

 

By November, we'll celebrate. There will be big a raucous group of people and a birthday party, in an orchard, or a vineyard or a bar.  Rainy days will be the hardest days to wake up for, and so we'll complain and grumble, but carry on anyway with endless cups of tea, warm bowls of soup and a hot toddy to tuck us in before bed. We'll finally pack away those summer dresses for good, and wear wool over our tights.  

We'll make plans, and start counting back the days on the calendar, thinking about what we did, what we're going to do, and how to make sure we got it all in before the last good day of the year. 

"The Sweet Bourbon Pecan Spud" is a sweet potato cupcake topped with a bourbon pecan buttercream and a maple glaze pecan on top.  The cake is light and fluffy and surprisingly, not overmoist.  The buttercream is nutty, with a touch of vanilla bean and a boozy kick.   Tis' the season for gourds, for roots and for nuts, and in my kitchen, I say the more the merrier. 

  

Autumn to me will be for driving around the windy roads of Westchester County, top down and heat up, as the criss-crossing tree branches above bear new gold on their fingertips.  It will be for pulling wool socks over cold knees, an Aran sweater over the fading tan and lined leather gloves kept close enough in reach for the hands that holds the chill a little longer everyday. And it will be for the dusty records of Neil Young, crackling alongside the candles on the deck that no longer keep the bugs away, but rather shed a little warmth as the moon rises over the lawn.  

 

Although summer is over, I think I'm finally ready to make the most of fall.  Like I said, it's all about acceptance and promises.   

So, how will you celebrate the season? 

Notes from the Field: Cupcakes to go...

 

Lately this has been my favorite way to transport little treats.  It's mess free, reusable and even cheaper than an individual cake box.  Not to mention infinitely more charming.

Case Study 95: "The Big Apple"

"Chapter One. He adored New York City. He idolized it all out of proportion. Eh uh, no, make that he, he romanticized it all out of proportion. Better. To him, no matter what the season was, this was still a town that existed in black and white and pulsated to the great tunes of George Gershwin. Uh, no, let me start this over..."

-Woody Allen 

In two short weeks, I will celebrate one little circle around the sun here in New York City.

The Manhattan that I grew up with, the one I dreamed about as a child, was Woody Allen's paradise.  It was based on my parents' stories from the 70s and my own uptown dreams of romance on the steps of a museum at dusk.  Fueled by music and lighting, I imagined what I knew: ballets at Lincoln Center and family dinners before The Met.  New York was knishes at delis, bocce ball courts in restaurants and foie gras at Payard's.  I savored the painted walls of Bemelman's, the front pews at St. Patrick's, and the glamour of Fifth Avenue stone architecture lit by the evening sun through the trees of Central Park.   

As I grew older, of course, this all changed. I spent college summers catching the last train home to suburbia after spending long days trekking through labs uptown and monkey colonies downtown doing neuroscience research.  The classics turned old, and the grandeur lost its hold.  There were concerts at Rumsey Playfield, secret restaurants and movies in parks. I found art in modern galleries and photography.  I drank sangria in garden bars and martinis on rooftops, and on one hot night, I got piggy-backed through the streets in a miniskirt to see Pearl Jam.

When we change our lives, we jump into the unknown, and this time the depth of my abyss was three-fold.   The city I dreamed of, the city I knew, and the city that I realistically live in are very different things.  And so, the past year has been filled with experiences that, even with all of my expectations, I could have never imagined.   

On my first day of work, I accidentally drove through the Battery Tunnel and got lost in Brooklyn.  I continuously missed turns, subway stops and ran for trains in heels at the end the day.  When something in my life didn't feel right, I walked out the door and headed straight for the Brooklyn Bridge.  There I took in a light breeze and the understanding that if you stand right in the middle of something for just long enough, you can see all sides clearly.  
 

  I took myself to concerts and movies and cafes alone.  On my birthday, I sat for nearly an hour on the Bighorn Sheep bench in the Museum of Natural History at eleven o'clock in the morning.   I took the time to see my city in the eyes of a traveler, and when I started working again, those of cynic.  

I cursed at the subway and the deathly smells lingering over ten blocks on Broadway in midtown.  I danced in a graffiti-filled sweat den in the Village with a twenty-three year old filmmaker until three in the morning.  I was romanced by an academic with a vintage copy of Salinger on a grassy knoll in a Staten Island park.  I threw dinner parties in my apartment, on my rooftop and by the water.  I ran along the Hudson daily. I baked, I relaxed and I snuck into bed early more nights than I thought I would. 

"The Big Apple" is an apple and walnut cupcake topped with a brown sugar cream cheese buttercream.  It is sweet and earthy, crispy at the edges, and sturdy and strong. Just like good old New York City. 

I have met so many wonderful people in this city so far, who, whether they're still with me or not, have changed my life forever.


But the truth is, I'm still finding my place.  With my next move comes a new space, a new neighborhood and a new year to explore.  Everything is uncertain and opportunities are endless, because in New York City every turn could stop you short, or push you forward or leave you on your way.  My chapter one might be wrapping up, but our story has really just begun.

Notes from the Field: Sweet Sunny September Friday.

 No needs for words today.  

But the rain has finally stopped and the sun is out.  

I've been listening to Friday songs and dreamy tunes. I've been watching the afternoon light through the trees and feeling pretty elated about the fact that summer has decided not to go, yet.  An anniversary approaches, and I love New York City more than ever.  

This all, and a pending weekend on the beach away with friends, makes for one very happy cupcake.  

Banana cake with peanut butter buttercream, a chocolate dip, and sweet little flags that wave in the slight September breeze. 

 

For a birthday girl that I love real hard.

Case Study 94: "The Ultimate Maple Bacon Peach Donut Cupcake"

 This is the cupcake.

This is the cupcake that was inspired by a lazy New York City brunch of pancakes, summer fruits, bacon and love.  Bacon, in my book of course, is love, in case you didn't know.

This is the cupcake that you bring to your lov-ah on a cozy Sunday morning. The cupcake that you creep out of bed and brew coffee for.  The cupcake that you bring back to their bedside table, or if you play your cards right, it is your bedside table that you spy it on when you blink those bedroom eyes open.

  This is a Jersey peach cupcake topped with maple vanilla bean buttercream and a maple-glazed donut sprinkled with Applegate Farm bacon. 

  The second part of an ultimate breakfast cupcake series.  It is sweet and salty and creamy and crunchy.   It is oh-so-heavenly and completely sinful all at once. Which is how all the best things in life are, am I right?

This is the cupcake to take you into fall with a kick of June and the smokiness of October.  The cupcake to celebrate a summer of trips and parties, late nights, bare feet and all sand everywhere.  To toast the lovely little romances that took you on bikes and boats, from starry bays to warm summer rain.  The cupcake to slowly ease the pain of socks and sweaters, turning rum to whiskey and fireflies to fireside as you drink up the last golden light of the Indian Summer to come.

This is the cupcake.  Just trust me on this one.

Case Study 93: "The Hurricake"

"Regret, by definition, comes too late;

Say what you mean. Bear witness. Iterate." 

-John M. Ford 

We interrupt this end-of-summer cupcaketology posting hiatus to bring you a very very important message:  

Don't panic.   

I have two memorable hurricane experiences.  My first was in 2003.  On the weekend of my uncle's wedding weekend in Long Island, Hurricane Kyle blew into town for the party, bringing wind, rain and thunder for days.  I took the SATs, my uncle got married, and two years later, they named their firstborn son after the storm that ruined our hair.  

The second took place early in college.  I was a radio DJ at the time, and whipped up a clever playlist of all the great apocalyptic songs.   I remember being twenty and looking for trouble.  We ran through the streets, after too many beers, in tank tops and rubber boots, screaming for Hurricane Ivan.  It just rained a lot.

 

Now listen, I'm not an expert at these things.  I am from Connecticut, and we're historically a pretty boring place when it comes to weather.  Where the Housatonic and Hudson valleys meet, there are four perfect seasons, and they are done well.  Our autumns are long, and the weather turns crisp just as slowly as the leaves and the light turn golden and the earth grows cold.  We ring in the winter with Nor'easters and the summer with humidity. We don't really do extremes. 

 

"The Hurricakes" are homemade funfetti cupcakes with tropical storm swirled vanilla buttercream.  They are as serious as I hope that this storm actually gets.  

  

We are children of war, actual natural disasters and uncertainty.  The weather is the only thing we cannot manipulate with buttons and machines.  I think this makes us realize that every time we part might actually be our last.  We learn that we take time itself for granted and don't just say what we want to say right when we mean it most.  Because more often then not we forget that we're survivors when every yesterday becomes tomorrow and we are still here. 

Today my little part of Manhattan was ordered to evacuate, and I spent latter part of the day floating in a quiet lake under a pretty clear sky.  Surely this couldn't be the calm before a storm.  Tomorrow I'll ring in Irene surrounded by friends and family, food and music.  Because whatever happens, in the end, this is a really great excuse to be absolutely nowhere but together.  

Say what you mean.  Bear witness.  Iterate.   

Notes from the Field: Until fall...

Taking a little hiatus to enjoy the rest of the fairest season.  All normal broadcasting will resume in the fall.   

Happy Summer!

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Notes from the Field: Cup's half full...

Midsummer.

Well, we've made it.

 Oh, but it's already August, you say?

No no no.  You see, in my book, summer lasts until at least the end of September, in which case we will likely enter the Indian summer.  So before we get to sharpening our pencils and skipping through orchards, in my opinion, all we've got is time.  

In honor of the weeks left on our summer books, let's celebrate with an abundance of fruity freshness... 

We've got chocolate cupcakes, with raspberry buttercream, a chocolate drizzle shell and a fresh raspberry on top.

Some Kentucky straight bourbon and vanilla bean cupcakes topped with maple buttercream and fresh peaches on top.

And last, but certainly not least, Victoria sponge cupcakes with vanilla buttercream and fresh blueberries on top.

I know they say that summer is a state of mind, but lest we forget what's looming right around the corner.  Our summer cups are still half full.  So get outside and get after it!       

Case Study 92: "The Eton Mess"

When I was a kid, I had a pair of undies with a Union Jack on the bottom.  And that's when the trouble began.

 

My favorite Beatle was George.  I liked Monty Python more than Adam Sandler.  My mother had a dog of an English uncle named Terry, and well, to be honest, he seemed like kind of a good time.  And from the first moment my brother sat me down and forced me to watch Top Gear, I kind of wanted to makeout with Jeremy Clarkson (I know, what?  Gross. I can't help it).  

 And so, in my dreams, I would move to the UK and marry a dark and handsome man and he would bumble on and on and I would laugh forever.  We'd live in a stone cottage with big wet gardens and dogs, I would make roasts and trifles and drink Pimms all the time.  I would be the next Nigella Lawson, but with a tinier chest (!!).  We would have lots of children with the loveliest names and nicknames, and they would call me mummy.

To my English friends, past, present and future, I am sorry.  

But, well, I was biased from the start. 

 I tried everything to get there.  My dad nearly got us transferred there for work.  I lived abroad, in a big house, with Englishmen who studied physics and rolled cigarettes and charmed me with their horrible North London Italian accents.  I spent weekends in a penthouse over Hyde Park watching the clouds roll by on Sunday mornings after too many drinks.  I tormented myself with a trip to the South Coast, and traipsed about Brighton and the beaches with a dear friend and her gracious family.  I applied to graduate school, only in the UK, and was an inch away from acceptance, until the universe and admissions at Oxford told me they had other plans.

And about this time last year, I came to terms with the fact that I was going to remain an American for the time being. 

Luckily, I had a friend who loved America a lot, in fact, enough to make me realize that it was A-OK to stay. So I moved to New York, I fell back in love with my home state, with New England, and I immersed myself in it all.  I got a great job, and it even gave me the option of someday moving to where I always thought I would be.  

Well.  All of my friends are starting to plan moves to England.

And I am coping with it by baking cupcakes. 

Let's just call it proper kitchen therapy, ok? 

These Eton Mess cupcakes are made up of the simplest ingredients. Victoria Sponge cakes, topped with a light whipped vanilla buttercream, strawberries and crunched up meringue. No really, God Bless the Queen and you, my English friends, for making this such an easy and simple delight.  The recipe was even sent by an old friend in Chichester, and the wrappers from a friend in Brighton. It tastes like summer, even in the heart of winter, which was, to be frank, the last time I had it, and there is no crime at all in something like that.

For now, I am still here.  I might even be here forever. I mean, it sure is great in the U,S of A.  I have sunshine and close family.  I can afford many things.  And lucky me, I will have plenty more people to visit in the good old U.K.

But, well, it sure does make me wonder...

Case Study 91: "My Mother's Tart Cupcakes"

It seems I love to start my posts with a disclaimer, so here I go with another one:   

I am made up of the contents of this cake.

My mother is a fantastic cook.  She is an even better baker.  She is the reason that I am who I am in the kitchen today.  But she is even more so the reason who I am in general.

She is strong.  She is brilliant.  She could problem solve her way out of a paper bag, and is the reason that I found myself actively seeking to climb Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs while still changing the glitter rubber bands in my braces.  

She is so very good at what she does, but she never acts out of anything but compassion.  She is proud of everything that she has and we do.  She is the most humble person I know.  She appreciates a good cocktail, a good pair of shoes, and is completely aware of when it is just necessary to get to a spa.  She is the worst singer I know, but this is counteracted by the fact that she has totally natural rhythm.

She is so beautiful it hurts, but she is also so unassuming that her aloofness lights up a room.  She likes to worry, but she says that's her job.  I always thought that was a general mom thing to do, but as you grow up and realize that not everyone was dealt the same mom card, you learn to appreciate it even more. This is because she loves unconditionally.   

 "My Mother's Tart Cupcakes" are vanilla cupcakes filled with vanilla bean pastry cream, topped with vanilla buttercream and an array of fresh summer fruit.   They are cold and refreshing, sweet and simple and decadent.  They are a version of the fruit tart we have always eaten in the summertime.

    My mother was born in July.  She began making this tart before I was born, and still has the recipe cut out to prove it.

  I know because I used it to make the famous custard that normally fills cold pie shells before getting gloriously crowned with fruit.  I know because as a child, like most children wait for their jello to set up, I remember waiting not so patiently for this hot divine custard to cool in little cups in the refrigerator, and wondering how hard it was to sneak a spoonful and not let its indent be seen.  And I know it because although my mother's first hospital meals when I was born were coconut cake, the recipe cut out of the magazine is dated several months prior to my own birthday.  

Therefore meaning...

I am made up of the contents of this cake.  

I sometimes jokingly fear that I am destined for a Gray Gardens-esque life with my mother, you know, minus the feral cats and plus my father.  She is, after all, my best friend and my confidant, my partner is crime, and quite possibly the most effortlessly glamorous person that I know.  But in the end, I am so thankful to be bound to her for reasons of fruit tarts and coconut cake.  And I am even more grateful that she is the most marvelous example of a mother that could ever even exist. 

Happy Birthday to my big Momoo.

Case Study 90: "The Ultimate Blueberry Donut Cupcake"

This is a very naughty cupcake.

Pure goodness, tastebuds dripping, sensory wonder and awe.

I love breakfast.  I talk about this often.  I could eat a thousand breakfasts and no dinners and be happy as a clam. That being said, I've never really been a donut girl. 

 Give me poached eggs, give me greek yogurt with a handful of fruit, give me a box of cereal and I could probably finish it in one sitting. Give me a cookie, and make it crispy and I will dip that thing in coffee all day.  

But there are certain donuts that I most certainly break for, and this is one of them(I'll also eat anything by Fleming's Donuts on the Outer Cape, but that's another story).

  Cakey goodness, dipped in butter and rolled in cinnamon sugar. 

 Oooooarrrrghhhhhhhhhh. 

(That is the gut-wrenching sound that comes from my stomach and out my mouth when I think about it)

So naturally, when I finally invested in a donut pan (because seriously, who wants to fry when it's ninety degrees and scorching outside?), it somehow made sense to me that the first things these donuts needed were blueberries.  And not just any blueberries.  Maine blueberries (they're the best, clearly).

Sweet Maine blueberry cupcakes topped with a light amber maple vanilla buttercream and homemade cinnamon sugar donuts.  

To me this tastes like every summer dream breakfast table all rolled into one scrumptious delight.  Like I'm sitting outside in my skivvies and an old t-shirt, barefoot by a lake in the late July shade at 8 AM with a hot cup of coffee and a wet dog by my side, under the watch of a big ass American flag. 

Breakfast, donuts, cupcakes, summer.  BOOM. 

The Ultimate Blueberry Donut Cupcake.

Case Study 89: "The Red Velvet Rope"

I play a little game called court tennis.

 

Maybe you've heard of it?  Maybe you haven't.  But for what you do know about modern lawn tennis, squash, and any other game of racquets today, just understand that this sport is the granddaddy of them all.

Though it's history is a bit murky, court tennis evolved from a type of jeu de paume from the twelfth century, and was played in the courtyards of French monasteries. It was enjoyed by Napoleon and Henry VIII, and rumor has it that Anne Boleyn herself was arrested whilst taking in a match.   It was played in the Louvre and at Versailles, and is mentioned in literature more than any other game.  Perhaps this is why they called it the "sport of kings."

Court tennis is a game of short chases, played off penthouses, the floor and walls.  There are only nine courts in the USA, seven if you count the ones used regularly, and a handful in the UK, France and Australia.  It is played by a small population who like to travel up and down the east coast for tournaments, black ties and general debauchery.  

"The Red Velvet Rope" cupcakes are red velvet cupcakes with a whipped cream cheese buttercream on top.  They're topped by a vintage 1960s gentleman and lady tennis-playing duo, donning their finest whites appropriate for the court.  They will make their way up to Newport tomorrow for the annual Velvet Rope tournament.  It's a weekend of long nights and short chases, and, well, I'd say more about that, but... I think I'll stop there.

They say that court tennis is a mix of lawn tennis and chess, with the precision of billiards and the quick judgment of polo.  I say that it is a damn good time.  So here's to stiff drinks, swift racquet swings and a great weekend for all, behind the velvet rope. 

For more on court tennis, check out this article.

For the best red velvet recipe, see here.