They call it cooking meth, but really, it’s a lot more like baking.

My dad’s a cook. He’s the kind of person who makes Indian food without a recipe, who can guess every ingredient in a sauce from one taste. The kind of person who opens the fridge, laughs a deep belly laugh, and assures you “there’s a meal in there somewhere.”

He approaches food intuitively, which is why he’s never liked baking—it’s too precise. You can’t throw in a pinch of this, a pinch of that, eyeball a teaspoon of baking powder, and leave it in the oven until it looks done.

Walter White would be an incredible baker.

Baking relies on precision. Four ounces of flour is always four ounces of flour. At the right temperature, butter and sugar become light and fluffy perfection in three minutes. I can make a sheet of cookies and recreate them a year later, at a friend’s house, on the other side of the country.

I love that different ratios of the same basic ingredients—butter, flour, sugar, eggs—result in a million different desserts. I think it’s incredible that a touch of salt makes chocolate sing, but a spoonful ruins ganache. Everything from the humidity of a kitchen to the size of the eggs to the style of whisk makes a difference. Who knew the art of pastry was such an exact science?

For some cooks, the exactitude of baking stifles their creativity. I like it. The chemistry excites me, challenges me. I think it’s sort of cool.

Maybe that’s why I look forward to the meth cook montages on Breaking Bad. Walt and Jesse might be making a questionable product, but I can’t help admiring their process. Plus, the visuals are stunning: glittering aluminum strips rain like confetti, gas bubbles through clear hose, yellow smoke puffs out a vent. Even the finished drug is pretty, big and opaque as blue raspberry rock candy.

Actually, it’s exactly like rock candy—that’s literally what they use for meth on the show.

The first time I saw it, I thought to myself, that’d look neat incorporated into a dessert. I pictured a cake, frosted pure white and topped with lots of sparkly blue crystals, marbled navy and white inside. But it wasn’t until now, as the second half of the last season is about to start, that I went for it.

My boyfriend took the first bite. I could hear the rock candy crunching between his teeth as he slowly nodded, eyes widening. He didn’t say anything, just took another bite, and I knew he was hooked.

The finished cake isn’t as chemically sound as Heisenberg’s Blue Sky. Maybe because I mixed it by hand, the white cake got a few air bubbles, and in the summer heat the cream cheese frosting stayed soft. My marbling didn’t come out perfectly, more blotchy than swirled. But the cake’s still beautiful. It grabs your attention. And above all, it’s definitely addictive.

Consider yourself warned.

I decided to make a mini version, so the recipe is for a 6″ cake. I also opted for cream cheese frosting, in an effort to combat the sweetness of the decorations. But since the rock candy is the real star, you can use any white cake/white frosting combo you’d like.

Breaking Bad Cake
Adapted from Baking: From My Home to Yours‘s Perfect Party Cake
Makes a 3 layer 6″ cake

2 1/4 cups cake flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/4 cups whole milk or buttermilk
4 large egg whites
1 slightly rounded cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 stick (8 tablespoons) unsalted butter, at room temperature
Blue gel or powder food coloring
Blue rock candy, for decorating

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F and put a rack in the middle or upper third of the oven. Butter three 6″ pans and line with buttered parchment paper.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt. In another bowl, whisk together the egg whites and buttermilk.

Cream the butter and sugar in a mixer on medium speed for a full 3 minutes until very light and fluffy. Beat in the vanilla extract, then add 1/3 of the flour mixture, still on medium speed.
Beat in half of the egg-buttermilk mixture, then half of the remaining flour mixture, then the last of the egg-buttermilk mixture, and finally the last of the flour, beating until the batter is smooth. Beat the entire batter on medium high for two minutes until completely smooth and mixed.

Divide the batter in two. Dye one blue, leaving the other white. Dollop alternating colors into the cake pans, then gently swirl a knife through. Tap the pans on a counter to level the batter. Bake 20 minutes, rotating halfway through, or until a thin knife inserted in the middle comes out clean. Cool in the pans five minutes, then turn out onto a cooling rack. When cold, frost with white frosting, and top with blue rock candy.

Cream Cheese Frosting
Makes enough to frost and fill a 3 layer 6″ cake
From The Joy of Baking

12 oz cream cheese
7 tbsp unsalted butter, softened
1 tbsp vanilla extract
3 cups powdered sugar, sifted

Beat the cream cheese, butter, and extract together until combined. Gradually beat in the powdered sugar until the desired consistency is reached.

I never thought I was the kind of person who would be fired.

I’d been waitressing since my freshman year. The restaurant hired me my first month in Boston, even though I’d never taken an order or carried more than two plates across a room. I think what ultimately sold them was my interview–I walked in with a firm handshake and no doubt I’d find a job, so I did.

I liked waitressing right away. My first day of training, I wanted to be the fastest learner my boss had ever seen, to earn solid 20% tips from every table and have fun doing it. Two years later, I felt pretty good. I was not only the server who’d worked there the longest, but also the server with top sales. I always planned to work at that restaurant until I finished school.

I can’t pinpoint exactly where things started to go bad, or which Bad Thing was the last yanked thread that made the whole thing unravel. One by one, most of the staff had either quit or been fired. My three favorite managers left, one after another. Turnover had never been so high, business so slow, or my earnings so meager. I didn’t look forward to work, but I kept coming in.

Then one morning last October, I had bad stomachaches and a forehead that could melt butter.

When I called in sick for my shift that evening, the manager said I needed to find my own replacement. Determined, I called all of my co-workers, even the ones who worked at different locations, but nobody wanted to come in. Trying to stay calm, I called my manager again, and told him I honestly couldn’t do it tonight.

“People don’t get sick on a Saturday night, a few hours before their shift.” He continued that if I didn’t come in, things would be “very bad for my future there.”

If I’d been feeling sick before, it was nothing compared to the worry his words sent pinwheeling through my stomach. Just like that, I knew it was over.

I’d never been fired from anything before. I prided myself in being a great employee, a great intern, a great student, a great whatever. I actually liked learning. I always wanted to be the best I could be. Now, to be unceremoniously fired from the first real job I’d ever had? After two solid years? What was wrong with me?

It was around that fall I first realized something was different. Looking back I know it was depression settling in, but at the time, it was happening so slowly I hadn’t really noticed.

I was bored with my classes, which weren’t challenging enough. I was so comfortable with my friends, I never went out and looked for more. There was a time I could juggle two jobs, four classes, an internship, and all the relationships I wanted to maintain. But as I sat on my bed that afternoon, phone on my lap and tears welling in my eyes, I felt like I couldn’t do anything.

I was going to be fired. Fired. I felt like such a failure.

I didn’t know what else to do, so I called my dad. We hadn’t talked in a while, partly because I didn’t have anything positive to tell him, and I didn’t want him to know how I’d been feeling. When I heard his enthusiastic “Hey little girl!” I was ashamed to have this conversation. He heard it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Dad,” I said. “It’s not good.”

He let me explain what had happened without saying a word. At the end, I finished with a horrible, nasally “So I think they’re going to fire me.” I stared at my toes and hoped he wouldn’t be as disheartened with me as I was with myself. The dead air rang in my ears a few moments, and then he finally spoke.

“Screw them,” he said. Except he didn’t put it quite so nicely.

I was so shocked and so relieved I started crying, more emotional than I would’ve been if he’d yelled. “You’re not mad? You’re not disappointed?”

“Honey,” he said, “you work hard. You gave them all you have. And if that isn’t enough, you don’t need to take this. If you aren’t happy, by all means, get outta there.” He paused. “Mom says, ‘Tell her you’re right.’ So there you go. We’re with you.”

We talked until my tears were dry and a reluctant smile crept in. After hanging up I drank a cup of tea, watched some TV, and went to bed early, glad I hadn’t been too scared or too proud to call. I got better. And two days later, I went into work for my next shift, head held high, ready to face whatever happened.

Fragility is natural. It’s what makes porcelain and lace and new flowers so beautiful. It’s what makes a good meringue cookie so addictive. And it’s what makes us human.

In the end, I wasn’t fired. But I did quit. And when I finally left that job, I learned something else—it’s okay to feel breakable sometimes. It’s okay to let other people see that vulnerability. Because the people who care will always be there to support you, to comfort you, and to believe in you, even when you can’t do those things for yourself. Especially when you can’t do those things for yourself.

And they’ll be there for you when you can.

Cocoa Meringues
Makes about 3 dozen little meringues

3 large egg whites
1 cup white sugar
2 tablespoons quality cocoa powder
1/2 tsp vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

Whisk together the egg whites and sugar the detachable bowl of a stand mixer. Place the bowl over a pan of gently simmering water, making sure the bottom of the bowl doesn’t actually touch the water. Whisk the mixture, stirring as the steam heats the meringue and dissolves the sugar. When the sugar is completely dissolved, and the meringue is very warm but not hot, remove the bowl from the heat.

Re-attach the bowl to the stand mixer and whisk on high for 5-6 minutes, or until the egg mixture forms stiff peaks. Add the vanilla extract and whisk until incorporated. Whisk in the cocoa powder.

Pipe small meringues, or drop by the heaped teaspoon onto a parchment lined baking sheet. Bake in the center of the oven for about 15 minutes, or until the outside is crisp and crackled, the insides marshmallowy and soft. Cool thoroughly on a rack. Store in an airtight container.

I made this coconut rice pudding planning to eat it cold.

I was warned about the heat before I moved east for the summer, but growing up in the Pacific Northwest left me helpless. I thought it’d be a little warmer than Seattle, where July is sunny with a breeze. I figured I should probably pack a tank top or two.

I found out summers in New York laugh at summers in Seattle.

It’s hot here, but then again, it’s hot everywhere. I’m not used to this kind of weather, where the heat firms up against your shoulders like wax, and the humidity settles heavy as wool. My apartment is a fourth floor walk-up, which means I always come home out of breath and embarrassingly sweaty. We haven’t figured out how to install the AC yet.

Last weekend, I woke up before the heat crept in. I knew it wouldn’t last long, though, so I decided to cook while I could. I poked around my cabinets and found a can of coconut milk.

I’m surprised by how many people don’t like coconut. I’ve always loved the stuff—so smooth, sweet, and rich. I admire its versatility, delicious whether stirred into curry or scooped straight from the husk, and the smell of toasting coconut is one of my all-time favorites. I especially like it in desserts. Usually, when it’s not too overpowering, the coconut adds an elusive balminess. It shouldn’t taste like sunscreen, but add a special oomph.

I also found some white rice, leftovers from a Chinese take-out night, and that’s when I decided to transform the two into coconut rice pudding.

I like rice pudding because it’s so unfussy. This version is especially convenient. You use pre-cooked rice, which means you don’t need to make any beforehand, and you can throw in whatever you have. You can add any sized can of coconut milk, and make up the rest with skim milk (no heavy cream, half and half, or egg yolks needed!)

I whipped this batch up in thirty minutes flat. But I wasn’t fast enough. As the milk simmered and the rice grew fat with coconut and sugar, the temperature rose in that little kitchen. It was scorching by the time the pudding was thick enough to give a spoon trouble. I thought I’d let it chill completely and eat some after lunch, but ultimately I couldn’t resist a taste.

Wholesome, comforting, creamy, decadent. The coconut was mild—-maybe not even strong enough for a coconut fanatic-—but gorgeously buttery. It was sweet, but not sugary, and luxurious enough to make me feel guilty.

In the end, I ate a piping hot bowl right then and there for breakfast. And that night, I tried a spoonful cold, and it was respectable. But this dessert comes alive when it’s warm. All the flavors breathe, the pudding melts into utter goodness, and your belly heats up like you might boil over with happiness, even if it couldn’t get hotter outside.

Maybe it’s time to install that AC.

[Happy 4th of July!]

[It’s the anniversary of my most popular post ever, my 4th of July Flag Cake from 2009.]

After all that talk about “convenience,” I actually ended up using a vanilla bean, because it was all I had. If you want to go that route, slice one lengthwise, scrape out the seeds, and simmer it with the pudding till the end. Otherwise, just stir in the extract.

This dessert is as adaptable as coconut itself. Mine was really simple, but you could add raisins, a splash of rum, coconut flakes, any number of spices, etc…

Coconut Take-Out Rice Pudding
Adapted from Gourmet
Makes 4 generous servings

1 1/2 to 2 1/2 cups cold unsalted cooked rice
Enough coconut milk and skim milk to make 3 1/2 cups liquid (I used a 14 oz can of coconut milk)
1/3 cup sugar
1/4 tsp salt
1/2 tsp vanilla extract

Simmer the rice, coconut milk, skim milk, sugar, and salt in a medium saucepan over medium-low heat, stirring often, until the pudding is thick (for me, this took 30 minutes.) Stir in the vanilla extract, and any other mix ins.

I bought a carton of strawberries.

I did it against my better judgment—the berries were suspiciously big and still a little out of season, not to mention overpriced. They were so red I couldn’t help but feel suspicious.

But I bought them anyway because I wanted to make panna cotta, and I thought berries would make the plate prettier. Plus, I’d found a half-cup of cheap cabernet in the fridge, forgotten by the apartment’s previous tenants, and I figured that would be enough to make mediocre berries taste good.

I went home and got to work, chilling the panna cottas and reducing the wine to a slow-bubbling glaze. After all that, I popped open the box of strawberries. I was surprised—they actually looked really good. Well, I thought, I’m glad they’ll photograph nice. I scooped up a handful, ran them under water, and let them tumble onto a cutting board, which slowly pinkened with juice. Before slicing, I picked up one of the smaller berries, pinched off the green, and popped the whole thing in my mouth.

Wow.

With one bite I was transported home to Seattle, to our front yard, to my mom’s strawberry patch.

She planted the seeds when I was a senior in high school. They’ve grown prolifically since then, the leaves a dense carpet. The berries are tiny, thimble-sized, and redder than roses. They’re profusely floral, like perfume in your palms, so fragrant you taste them before you’ve parted your lips. Each bite melts on your tongue and the sweetness probably causes cavities.

They’re the best strawberries I’ve ever had.

One year, I infused some into a jar of bourbon. Another time, I made shortcakes with thick dollops of real cream. But they’re always best as-is, still warm from the sun, by the bowl-full. My dad likes to dip them in black pepper, a preference I found off-putting until I tried it. You can’t actually taste the pepper—like salt on chocolate, it simply enhances the berry itself.

Once I’d settled on red wine strawberries, I added pepper to the panna cottas, without hesitation.

The grocery store strawberries weren’t as good as my mom’s. Not even close. But they were outrageously better than I expected. The panna cottas were, too.

I was nervous they would stick to their molds, but each panna cotta wobbled right onto the plate. The texture was perfect—-firm enough to hold a shape, yet soft and creamy as pudding. The edges were smooth as marble. I’d originally imagined the pepper sprinkled throughout, and I was disappointed they had settled down instead. But on second glance, I liked the way it looked—-pure white with black flecks crowning the top, like caviar, gently trickling down.

And the berries. Glossy, sweet, and superbly robust. The color contrast was gorgeous. I didn’t regret stirring them into the red wine reduction, even though I usually like to eat delicious fruit as-is.

I’ll save that simple happiness for the next time I’m home.

A few notes about this recipe. The pepper wasn’t as spicy as I’d hoped, but the subtlety was lovely. If you want to really taste the pepper, though, add more, maybe even twice as much. I used a vanilla bean, which I think made it better (and prettier,) but you can also use extract. Finally, if you aren’t planning to turn out the panna cottas (just keep them in the molds, wine glasses, teacups, whatever) you could try using a tad less gelatin for an even softer texture.

Black Pepper Panna Cotta
Tweaked from David Lebovitz, who tweaked from Judy Witts
Makes 8 servings

4 cups (1l) heavy cream
1/2 cup (100g) sugar
2 teaspoons of vanilla extract, or 1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
1 1/4 tsp finely ground black pepper
2 packets powdered gelatin (about 4 1/2 teaspoons)
6 tablespoons (90ml) cold water

Stir the heavy cream, sugar, black pepper, and vanilla bean (split lengthwise, using both the seeds and the pod) in a saucepan over medium heat. Bring the mixture to a gentle simmer, then immediately remove from heat, cover, and let sit for 30 minutes.

While the flavors infuse, lightly grease eight custard cups with a neutral oil (I used canola). Sprinkle the gelatin onto the cold water in a medium bowl and let sit for 5 – 10 minutes.

After the half an hour is up, remove the vanilla bean pod and gently reheat the mixture.

Pour the warm cream over the gelatin. Stir until the gelatin is completely dissolved. Pour the panna cotta into the prepared molds and refrigerate until set, 2 – 4 hours.

To unmold the panna cottas, I dipped the molds part-way into a bowl of warm water, then ran a knife around the edge of each cup. Flip onto a plate and gently wiggle the cup until the panna cotta lets go. Serve with red wine strawberries, or whatever you like.

Red Wine Strawberries
Also adapted from David Lebovitz
Makes enough to accompany the panna cottas

1 cup (250ml) red wine
6 tablespoons (100g) sugar
1 to 2 small baskets of strawberries (about 8 ounces, 200g)

Heat the red wine and sugar in a saucepan over medium heat until it thickly bubbles. Let the red reduce into a syrup, until only half of it remains (1/2 cup, 120 ml). Remove from heat and let cool completely.

Toss the strawberries (washed, hulled, and sliced) in the red wine reduction. Let sit for a minute or two, then spoon beside the panna cottas. They would also be incredible on cheesecake or vanilla ice cream.

I thought I’d write about how grown up I feel interning in New York this summer… but that’s not really true.

More honestly, I’m playing dress up. I hardly recognize myself in the mornings, in an ironed button up and pencil skirt. Then I see the goofy photo on my employee ID—the one where I was about to say, “What?” and my bangs are too long—and I feel like a kid again.

Surprisingly, I’ve never worked full time outside the school year. Even after college began, I’ve spent summers making ice cream and hoping for a tan. While my schedule this semester might be less open, I do love living in New York. For a long time I wanted to go to school here. And though I ultimately ended up in Boston, I always wondered if I might secretly be a New Yorker.

It takes more than a summer to become one, but I’m slowly getting used to the subway, the pace of the city, the feel of different neighborhoods. I’m learning to walk with purpose, and crossing restaurants off my list. And I’ve got a beautiful apartment I’ll be heartbroken to leave after August.

The kitchen is the first room off the apartment’s long hallway, and the first room I come home to. If you’ve ever lived in this city, it won’t surprise you that it’s the size of a shoe box. It’s narrow and dishwasher-less, with a fold-up table and two chairs an arm’s reach from the fridge. There’s outlet space to plug in either the microwave or electric kettle—only one—and the oven runs so hot you can burn yourself without opening it.

But the cabinets are stocked all the way back with spices, herbs, sugars and extracts, five flavors of instant macaroni and lots of tea. There’s a small window that looks out onto absolutely nothing but lets in a gauzy pool of light. And even though I wasn’t impressed upon first glance, this kitchen has grown on me.

I didn’t expect to use it much. But when I found myself wanting to bake, I did.

I wanted something quick, inexpensive, and delicious. So I made rice krispies, a no-bake recipe that only took twenty minutes from start to finish. The recipe is as easy as melting butter and marshmallows, stirring it into the krispies, and pressing the whole mess into a pan. For fun, I added chocolate chips and graham crackers, since nothing says summer like s’mores.

Simple as they are, there’s something thoroughly satisfying about these little squares. I’ve always liked rice krispies—gooey, soft, and crunchy all at once, with a sweetness that sticks to the back of your teeth. These ones feel especially nostalgic. The chocolate chips melt a little, thanks to the residual heat of the marshmallows. The shards of graham cracker lend a wholesome crunch. The whole thing sticks stubbornly to your fingers, and it’s great.

It might be my first summer away from home, living with my first long term boyfriend in my first New York apartment, working 40 hours a week at a company with 30 other interns. But one bite of these rice krispies and I feel like a little kid again, like it might be another summer spent in the sun.

I hope I never get too old to chase that feeling.

Smore’s Rice Krispies
Altered a bit from Mallow and Co
Makes a 9×9″ pan

3 Tbsp butter
6 cups mini marshmallows, divided
3 cups rice krispies
1 1/3 cups broken up graham cracker pieces
3/4 cup chocolate chips

Mix the rice krispies, graham cracker pieces, chocolate chips, and 3/4 cup marshmallows together in a large bowl. Set aside.

Melt the butter in a large pan over medium heat. When it starts to brown a little, add the remaining 5 1/4 cups marshmallows and lower the heat to low, gently flipping and stirring until the marshmallows are melted.

Moving briskly, scrape the melted marshmallows into the cereal mixture and stir quickly to combine. Dump the whole mixture into a 9×9″ pan and spread evenly into the corners. Let sit until set, then turn out and cut into 9 delicious squares.

I just finished my junior year of college. Which seems impossible, and exciting. I’ve signed the paperwork on my first two apartments—one in New York, where I’m interning this summer, and another in Cambridge for my senior year. On top of everything else, I’m finally 21. But for some reason I can’t stop thinking about 17.

I haven’t posted in a long time. I didn’t forget or stop trying to. But my life has gone through a lot of changes in the last four years. I moved to the opposite coast, took classes, interned, worked, met new people, studied abroad, and lived on my own for the first time. I was in college and there was so much to do! So much to figure out about myself! And there were so many reasons why I wasn’t blogging.

Occasionally I tried to bake, but it felt like going through the motions. I couldn’t explain why it no longer made me happy, it just didn’t, even before my blogging hiatus began. The last thing I wanted was for 17 and Baking to feel like homework, so I didn’t force it. I wanted to want to write. I just didn’t expect it to take this long.

For months, I could explain to everyone—especially myself—why I “couldn’t” blog. My freshman year dorm didn’t have an oven, ingredients were expensive, I didn’t have the free time I did in high school. But my explanations were starting to sound like excuses. For what, I wasn’t sure.

I began noticing I felt unmotivated about other things too. I’d stopped taking out my camera, even though I loved photography. I kept writing for classes, but the joy and creativity had noticeably packed up and gone a long time ago. I didn’t feel like hanging out with friends or going out on the weekends. I didn’t want to waitress. I just wanted to cozy up at home and watch TV.

At first I thought feeling like this was a natural part of growing up. In addition to all the changes in my life, I stressed about my career, my future, and my “potential,” which I worried wasn’t turning into “reality” fast enough. I convinced myself I no longer enjoyed baking to avoid facing a much more unpleasant truth—that I didn’t really enjoy anything anymore.

I didn’t feel sad exactly, but I felt empty a lot of the time, and for no real reason. Boredom and anxiety pushed out positivity and ambition. Sometimes I realized I didn’t even know why I was upset. The bewilderment and frustration was just as bad as the unhappiness itself. I felt like I was living in my own empty exoskeleton.

Depression is terrifying. There’s no denying that. But I’m learning it touches a lot of people and is nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s also not necessarily a life sentence. Though I can’t explain why, I’ve been feeling better these days. The fog is still there, but I can see beyond it, and I’m excited by the hazy future I can make out.

A few weeks ago, I felt like baking, so I made these blueberry thumbprint cookies. There isn’t a cute memory or anecdote to recall. I couldn’t even tell you why I rolled them in cornflakes (for texture? I don’t know. I didn’t question it.) But I did feel a little better, watching them cool on the counter. I didn’t get my hopes up, but I smiled a little when none of the cookies made it to Day 2.

And today, I found the motivation to publish this post, which I’ve been writing in my head and second-guessing for months. I’m not going to question that either, just keep looking forward.

I don’t know if it was a mistake to let the blogging slow down for so long. Ultimately, I try not to blame myself. I’ve realized it wasn’t something I could just chin up and power through. But it is something I can start again, if I want.

I don’t feel 17 anymore and I won’t pretend to. But that doesn’t mean I’ve outgrown 17 and Baking. Instead, I’d like to think it can grow with me. There are so many things I have yet to do, places to visit, people to meet. There are more wonderful things to look forward to than ever before. I’m going to start with 21.

Blueberry Cornflake Thumbprints
Makes 2-3 dozen cookies

1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature
2/3 cup white sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/4 tsp salt
2 1/4 cups all purpose flour
Blueberry Jam
1 cup crushed cornflakes

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F.

Cream the butter and sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer until smooth, light, and fluffy. Beat in the vanilla extract. Gradually add the flour and salt until the dough comes together.

Roll tablespoon-fuls of dough into 1 1/2 inch balls. Roll in the crushed cornflakes. Place an inch apart on a sheet lined with parchment paper. Using a teaspoon, press a small dent into the center of each ball. Fill with a teaspoon of blueberry jam.

Bake for 20 minutes, or until the cookies are just beginning to brown around the edges. Cool completely on a wire rack.

1. The water.

The Atlantic Ocean, as deep and true as denim, so blue it melts into the sky, horizonless. And the Charles River. Years from now, I’ll remember riding the Red Line from Boston into Cambridge at night – the way the lights streak across the black water like crayons lined up in a box.

After my childhood in Seattle to my college years in Boston, I don’t think I could live anywhere but a coast.

2. The seasons. 

I always come back to school right at the tail end of summer. Heat sinks into the subway stations like poisonous gas, and whatever you wear, it’s too much fabric. With October right around the corner, though, fall settles in. I love the way golden light fans out from behind buildings and through alleyways. Yellow leaves get stuck in the rain currents along the sidewalk. It’s my favorite time of year.

Boston has also taught me the true meaning of winter. Winter is wet hair freezing solid on the way to class, two pairs of socks, ears tucked into scarves. Torrential flurries of snowflakes that burn skin. Frankly, winter is miserable.

But then there’s that one morning – and it’s always a morning, and you’re never quite prepared for it – when you step outside and every tree in Boston has bloomed. Cherry blossoms opened like pale pink popcorn, blue skies, tender green leaves. It’s such a miracle that this can happen despite the sheets of ice and crazy wind tunnels, it makes everything worthwhile.

3. The quirkiness.

I love the farmer’s markets all over the city, the narrow brick alleys begging to be explored, the late night restaurants in Chinatown. Boston constantly surprises me. Today I discovered the food trucks – why didn’t I know that Boston has food trucks??

4. The history.

A handful of the founding fathers are buried mere blocks from campus. I walk through the oldest park in America to get to my boyfriend D-‘s apartment in Beacon Hill, a neighborhood of gas lamps and weathered brick. Everywhere you look, historic churches stand between skyscrapers. The contrast is astonishing.

5. These amazing people.

Sure, most of them aren’t from Boston. A-‘s from Colorado, C-‘s from LA, and S- is all the way from Guam. But nine months of the year, they’re all mine. They make Boston feel like home.

Why do you love _______?

Last Thanksgiving, with only a few weeks left in my study abroad program, I packed a bag and flew to Barcelona. Although I visited a dozen countries that semester, for the first time I was traveling by myself.

It seemed daring and spontaneous when I booked the ticket. But as I walked into the rich Spanish sunshine, my nerves kicked in hard. I didn’t speak Spanish. I didn’t have companions. I hadn’t even read a travel guide or looked at a map. Nope, I went in blind and alone, a recipe for disaster.

Continued after the jump…

The next morning I visited La Sagrada Familia, a church designed by the Catalan architect Gaudi. I didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t what I saw. Eight towers distinguished La Sagrada Familia in the orange-tan Barcelona skyline. From a distance, they could pass as Gothic style spires, perforated with elaborate cut outs and classic rose windows. But closer up, each tower tapered into an orange bulb, like flower stamens stretching towards the sun. One of the gargoyles was – wait – a frog? What kind of church was this?

That’s when I turned the corner and saw the front of the church. I’d been studying the back that whole time, oblivious to how much more surprising this church could get.

Inside, columns textured like bark split into branches and bloomed into leaves, sheltering the nave like a forest canopy. Meticulous starbursts and carved foliage covered the ceiling, which glowed gold and green where sunlight reflected against the tile mosaic. The staircases spiraled up like a conch heart.

And the windows. The panels illustrated not biblical scenes, but the sheer beauty of intense color, abstract patterns in the otherwise familiar arched frames. Each individual window worked aesthetically, and yet, together they transformed La Sagrada Familia into a jewelry box, its white walls smudged with rainbow light. The geometry, the whimsy, the overwhelming color and movement! I’d never seen a church so organic, so whole, one I could actually feel breathing as I stood in its ribs.

I took stairs up into a spire, which offered a clear view of the city sprawl: a landscape of orange brick and flat black rooftops, dotted with palm trees and bordered by hazy blue mountains. I stood there a long time, looking out at the blend of modern and ancient buildings, breathing in golden Barcelona heat.

That semester I happened to take a Renaissance and Baroque art class. It was the kind of elective I would have never considered back in Boston. I enrolled because the selection of study abroad courses were limited, not realizing how perfect it would be. All semester I saw famous churches and cathedrals throughout Europe, monuments I’d just studied in class. And while La Sagrada Familia, designed in the late 1880s, wasn’t covered, we did review the Gothic era.

Studying La Sagrada Familia’s sculptures, cross-shaped layout, vaults and saturation of light, I recognized the Gothic influence, and admired Gaudi’s interpretation. Visiting the church uneducated upped the surprise factor and imparted a kind of magic, but knowing some art basics enriched my appreciation.

I visited a handful of Gaudi’s other works in Barcelona, each one spectacular, and brought my fascination back to the states. When I signed up for my Fall 2012 classes, I noticed a cool seminar on Magical Realism in the Arts. Too bad I’m not a VMA major, I thought. That’s when I saw that my Renaissance and Baroque art class was a prerequisite.

Two weeks later, I declared an art minor, the last thing I’d ever predict from a weekend in Spain.

I figure you need to sometimes follow your whims and let the unexpected take you. Take these Cornmeal Lime Cookies – how could I resist a flavor combination like that? I love a sense of surprise in my food, from unusual ingredients to a hidden ribbon of cream cheese. Something playful and unpredictable, because dessert is supposed to be fun.

Maybe you’ve had corn and lime together (my dad’s Blueberry Corn Salad with Lime, anyone?) Maybe it sounds completely impossible. All I know is these cookies are soft and chewy, studded with tart cranberries, and completely addictive. The lime is bright but the cornmeal is the real shocker, adding crunchiness to cake-y cookies. They were good out of the oven and even better the next day. My mom likes them plain, but I prefer a paper-thin coat of icing, sugary sweet and flecked with lime. They’re good enough to make again.

We’ve had that tub of cornmeal in the cabinet forever, simply because we don’t know how to use it up. Mom sprinkles it onto pizza dough and occasionally crusts chicken, but I haven’t been trying. I know some of it will go into another batch of Cornmeal Lime Cookies, but the rest? Consider me open to suggestion.

There’s a good amount of butter here, but believe it or not, I’ve cut back from the original recipe to hinder spreading. I think I hit the jackpot – they’re moist and cake-y tender rather than crisp. If yours are spreading too much, try chilling the dough in the fridge for thirty minutes.

The glaze is admittedly sweet, but I can’t get enough of it. I especially like that it firms up in thirty minutes, so the cookies are stackable and smudge-free. But my mom liked the cookies plain, so I won’t judge.

Finally, some more Barcelona pictures:

Cornmeal Lime Cookies
Adapted from The Kitchn
Makes around 3 dozen

Cookies
1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
3/4 cup cornmeal
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
14 tablespoons (1 3/4 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature
3/4 cup sugar
Zest of three limes
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
2 large eggs, room temperature
2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
1/3 cup dried cranberries

Icing
2 1/2 cups powdered sugar, sifted
1/4 cup + 2 tablespoons lime juice
1/4 tsp vanilla extract
Zest of two small limes

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

Whisk together the dry ingredients – flour, cornmeal, baking powder, and salt. Set aside.

Pour the sugar into the bowl of a stand mixer. Add the lime zest and rub in with your fingers – this’ll marry the sugar with the fragrant citrus oils, leaving the sugar damp and full of lime flavor. Add the butter and beat on medium-high with the paddle attachment, creaming until light and fluffy. Scrape the bowl, add the lime zest and fanilla, and beat until just combined.

Next, beat in the eggs and lime juice, mixing only until incorporated, around 30 seconds. The batter might seem to separate here, and that’s okay.

Slowly mix in the flour in three stages, beating only until incorporated. The batter should come together into a dough. Beat in the dried cranberries until just combined.

Scoop out the dough in rounded teaspoons and roll into balls, placing them 2 inches apart on a parchment lined baking sheet. Bake 12 minutes or until set and just barely golden on the edges. Let cool completely before icing.

To make the glaze, whisk together the powdered sugar, lime juice, lime zest, and vanilla extract together. Dip the cookies into the glaze and set on a wire rack. The icing should firm up in around 30 minutes.

Printer-Friendly Version – Cornmeal Lime Cookies

Today, after work, after eating lunch in my car and then driving home, I found myself back in bed. Even though it was only three o’clock. For some reason that made me feel old – shouldn’t I be outside, doing something fun? So I compromised by sitting up and writing for the first time in a long time.

What’s new? Still missing the excitement of studying abroad, this semester I got busy. I took a British literature class tougher than leather. I juggled two jobs, maintaining a 50 hour work week. I declared an art history minor and surprised myself, mostly, by taking a solo trip to New Orleans. In April I celebrated my 20th birthday. Best of all, I landed an editorial/social media internship with America’s Test Kitchen and Cook’s Illustrated Magazine, which I’ll be continuing in the fall (more on that later!)

What I didn’t do was bake. I blamed it on my lack of time, on the fact that my dorm’s mousy kitchen didn’t get any natural light and constantly smelled microwaved, and on the expense of ingredients. But truthfully, there at the midpoint of my college career, many things that seemed everlasting in high school had changed. I found myself drawn to new opportunities. Like finding an apartment – living in the freshman dorms was fun and kind of campy, but it was a drag this year, and moving on felt right.

I scoured Craigslist and contacted realtors, explaining our budget and requirements. We’re looking for three equally sized bedrooms, a big living room, and windows. We don’t mind commuting to campus, but proximity to the T is a must. Finally, because I couldn’t help myself, a nice kitchen.

A week later I fell in love with the third apartment we saw, and then nothing else could live up to its standard. A ground floor apartment, we were warned that its upstairs neighbors could be “rowdy” and that mice lived in the walls. The price didn’t include heat or utilities. The apartment looked more like a house than a complex, which I liked, but it was 40 minutes away on the B line, which was notorious for filling up and breaking down. As the last straw, it was a twelve minute walk from the subway stop, and that was enough for my friend S- to reject the place altogether.

“You realize how cold that’ll be in the winter?” she’d later say. “Plus, I don’t want to get mugged at night.”

I overlooked all of that because the apartment had charm. So many places we went on to consider were convenient, sure, and met our requirements on paper. But none of them felt as much like home as this one. I liked the character of the crown molding, the funky bamboo door to the bathroom, the stained glass detail at the top of the windows. But the kitchen sealed my fate.

I’d buried my interest in cooking for so long that I was surprised to care. But walking in and seeing the clean countertops, new-enough oven, and ample sunlight stopped me cold. While my friends snapped photos of the other rooms, I opened all the cabinets and stuck my head in the fridge. I saw myself setting out eggs and sifting spices. Making cupcakes for birthdays and cookies for the holidays. The kitchen was big enough for a lot of people to hang out, big enough for a fold up table in the corner (maybe I could sit there and blog?). Big enough to make me miss baking.

In my head, my future with baking hitched itself to my future with this kitchen, and I fought hard. I debated with my girlfriends the entire ride back, pleaded for a few more days, then finally, reluctantly, agreed to drop it.

We continued looking for another month. Then one of my friends bowed out due to financial reasons. April loomed and I panicked when the on-campus housing deadline approached. At the last minute I requested a single room in a six-person suite, locking in a junior year of dorm life. Disappointment steeped through me like bitter tea, hot and lingering. But then finals were around the corner, and then one by one my friends said goodbye, and when the semester ended I’d stopped thinking about a kitchen of my own.

Now I’m home for the summer. Away from Boston, I’m finally realizing how stressed out I was. Stressed out by work and the looming prospect of My Future. By my friends, and by my parents – my relationship with them is evolving faster than I can keep up. Somewhere along the way, responsibility and anxiety squeezed out the last of my creativity. I wish it hadn’t. But then this week, just as quietly as it snuck in, my writer’s block packed up and left. I’m walking on tiptoes, hoping it’s gone for good. It’s taken me a few days to write this post, but I want to be here.

After I started writing, I started brainstorming. I rummaged through our pantry and emptied out the fridge, possibilities unfolding. I was drawn to this recipe because I liked the idea of a simple dessert (what could be more classic than pound cake?) with a twist – the addition of sweetened condensed milk, a lot of it. The result is a moist, vanilla-studded cake, densely crumbed and uniquely sweetened. Adaptable enough to serve with macerated strawberries or a curl of ice cream, intriguing enough to eat plain.

It’s enough to pull me back into the kitchen again.

Three quarters of a cup of sweetened condensed milk? My first concern was that the pound cake would be too sugary, but the condensed milk made the loaf unbelievably moist and dense. The result was sweet enough that I didn’t need icing, but it wasn’t cloying. Three days later the cake was still soft and tender. We have a winner!

I added the cognac to balance the sweetness and it ended up lending an interesting flavor. It could be left out, but I’d recommend trying it.

Condensed Milk Pound Cake
Slightly adapted from Pichet Ong’s The Sweet Spot
Makes an 8.5 x 4.5″ loaf

1 cup unsalted butter, room temperature, plus more to grease the pan
1 1/3 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/3 cup sugar
1 vanilla bean, chopped, or 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup sweetened condensed milk
1 tablespoon cognac
3 large eggs

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F. Butter an 8.5 x 4.5″ loaf pan and set aside.

Sift together the flour and baking powder and set aside.

In the bowl of a food processor, pulse the sugar and chopped vanilla bean until the bean is finely ground. Sift to remove the large bits of vanilla, then return the sugar to the processor. (If you’re opting for extract, simply put the sugar in the processor.)

Add the butter and salt and process until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes, scraping down the sides and bottom of the bottom occasionally. Add the condensed milk and pulse until well incorporated, about 15 times, scraping down the sides of the bowl once. Add the sifted dry ingredients and pulse until no traces of flour remain, about 10 times. Add the eggs and pulse just until combined, about 5 times. Scrape down the sides and bottom of the bowl, add the vanilla extract, if using, and finish mixing by hand to fully incorporate the eggs.

Scrape the batter into the prepared loaf pan. Bake until deep golden brown and a tester inserted in the center comes out clean, about 60 minutes. Cool completely in the loaf pan on a rack, then turn out onto a plate. Serve in thick slices.

Printer-Friendly Version – Condensed Milk Pound Cake

I caved the other day and bought a box of raspberries.

When I saw the carton at Trader Joe’s, I remembered Bainbridge Island. Our family friends live there, a tiny island off the coast of Washington state, and my mom and I were lucky enough to visit last summer. I fell in love with the ocean, still icy cold in July, and with the sky, an endless band of blue pressed against the beach. One morning I woke at sunrise to go crab fishing. Another afternoon I walked “downtown,” which referred to two buildings – a general store and the post office.

But my happiest memories are the times I spent grazing in their garden. Fresh artichokes, several potato varieties, the sweetest snap peas I’ve ever tasted. And raspberries. I ate handfuls of raspberries until I just couldn’t. I craved the way each section burst with juice, still warm from the sunshine. Some berries were so tender they broke in my hand, staining my fingertips pink.

Standing there in the grocery store, I thought about all that, and about all the other good things that came with the garden. Sundresses and lolling dog tongues and a boat that smelled like crab bait. And I knew I couldn’t leave without those raspberries.

I hadn’t had a raspberry since July! I was so excited I didn’t even wait to get back to my dorm, just opened the carton right on the train. These berries definitely looked the part. Big as thimbles, red as lipstick, the tops curved into perfect “O”s. I popped one into my mouth and waited for magic.

I felt the seeds crack between my teeth. The berry barely yielded any juice. Bitter disappointment.

It’s not that I can never eat another raspberry unless it’s just-picked and still breathing. I’m not on Bainbridge Island. I don’t expect that level of fantasy perfection in everyday life. But I think I’ve learned my lesson about buying imported raspberries in the dead of winter.

Instead, I decided to make some new memories using a jar of raspberry jam. I still have my baking box – a steamer trunk my dad and I refurbished the summer before college – snuggled beneath my dorm bed. Inside, I’ve stashed cake pans, half sheets, piping tips, cookie cutters, ceramic ramekins for baking custards… and one very weathered, very humbled 9×9” pan. I washed the pan twice, piled it high with ingredients, and carried it down the hall to the kitchen.

Raspberry Oat Crumble Bars don’t disappoint. They look good on a picnic table in July, and in a college common room in February. The bars bake up into three layers of shortbread goodness, sweet raspberry, and buttery crumble. They taste like brown sugar and old-fashioned oats, with a healthy smear of jam oozing out the middle.

But what I especially like about these bars is that you can tweak them to make your own memories. Add toasted coconut or fresh fruit. Throw in a handful of pecans, some chocolate chips, or a couple healthy shakes of cinnamon. Use apple butter, blackberry jam, or your neighbor’s homemade peach preserves.

Here’s what I’ll remember next time I make these bars: the weight of the jar in my hand as I stood in the grocery store and considered the possibilities. Bubbling jam as I scooted the pan out of the oven. The crackle of parchment paper, buttery crumbs all over the table, and the look on my RA’s face when she walked in and blurted, “That smells so good!”

I like to think I’ll remember being a college student who still liked to eat well all year long.

My only note for this recipe – I decreased the sugar from the original recipe and thought they were great, but they’re definitely on the sweet side. I’d recommend using a quality jam that isn’t too sugary.

Raspberry Oat Crumble Bars
Tweaked from Gourmet
Makes an 9×9″ pan

1 1/4 cups flour
1/3 cup packed light brown sugar
1/2 tsp salt
5 oz (10 tablespoons) cold unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1 tablespoon milk
1 1/2 cups old fashioned oats
3/4 cup seedless raspberry jam

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.

Mix the flour, sugar, and salt in the bowl of a food processor, then add the butter and pulse until a dough starts to form. Blend in the milk. (If you don’t have a food processor you could do this with an electric mixer, a pastry cutter, or even a fork and man power.) Transfer the dough-bits to a bowl and knead in the oats until well combined.

Put 3/4 cup dough off to the side (this will be used as the crumble.) Press the rest of the dough evenly into a buttered 9×9″ metal baking pan (I lined the pan with parchment paper and skipped the buttering). Spread the jam evenly over the top (if the jam seems tough to spread, heating it a little could help.) Crumble the reserved dough evenly over the top.

Bake in the center of the oven until golden, 20-25 minutes, and cool completely in the pan on a rack. Use a knife to loosen the sides, lift it out, and cut into bars on a cutting board.

Printer-Friendly Version – Raspberry Oat Crumble Bars