Ginger is one of the most versatile ingredients in my kitchen. I have ground ginger in the spice drawer, fresh ginger root in a ceramic crock and crystallized ginger in a jar in the pantry. I make ginger tea by simmering slices of fresh ginger in water with a bit of brown sugar. Served cold, it is a caffeine free substitute for iced tea that I enjoy in the evening. I put ginger in everything from to stir-fries to meatloaf, and it is always present in the form of gingersnap cookies. They are a mainstay in Charles’ diet. He can resist chocolate cake, banana splits and candy bars but he has an undeniable gingersnap habit – he ends every lunch with a gingersnap.

So, when he reached into the Chinese cookie jar on Monday and found only a teaspoon of crumbs, something had to be done so I suggested that we make a batch of gingersnaps.

Spiced cookies were popular during the Middle Ages, not only because they tasted good but also because the ginger and the honey used to make them were valued for their health benefits. Ginger flavored cookies are called brunkage in Danish, pepparkakor in Swedish and lebkuchen in German and ginger nuts in the UK, Australia and New Zealand.

It may be the zip of ginger, cinnamon and cloves or the sweetness of molasses and brown sugar that has made them so popular, but I think it’s the childhood memories that this sweet treat triggers that make them the favorite of so many.

Gingersnaps are crisp sugar cookies that are easy for even an inexperienced baker to make. Charles’ gingersnap lesson began by gathering the tools and ingredients we would need. I took the butter out of the fridge so that it could warm to room temperature and he gathered measuring spoons and cups. Our first problem was that there was only half a teaspoon of dry ginger and our second problem was that the molasses jar was nearly empty. Things weren’t looking good. Our neighbors were at the beach so we couldn’t borrow molasses and ginger from them and we wanted to fill the cookie jar without driving to the market. With a bit of improvisation we succeeded. Here’s how we did it: … read more

It’s birthday season in our neighborhood. Last week, we celebrated Michael’s New Decade Birthday. Michael is a foodie and one of the best cooks I know and I like to make over-the-top cakes. Michael asked for a cake with berries and cream. I decided to make a not-too-sweet, white cake that would show off bright pink raspberries.

The magic of science in the kitchen is why I like to bake. I have always been fascinated by chemical reactions–vinegar and baking soda volcanoes, milk curdled with lemon juice, sugar changed to an amber solid with enough heat. Cake recipes must be followed much more carefully than recipes for soups or salads because, when you bake a cake from scratch, you are a chemist in the kitchen. Substitutions are possible but they must be made with an understanding of the role each ingredient plays in the cake. Precise measurement and proportion are even more important to consider when baking cakes.

My kitchen is well equipped, I have a stand mixer, an oven with an accurate thermostat and timer, a dependable refrigerator, measuring cups and spoons, and, assorted pots and pans. Until last week, my kitchen was lacking a user-friendly kitchen scale. I found a measuring cup with a built-in scale at my favorite kitchen supply store and bought it. This was just the tool I needed to turn my American kitchen into an international one. Except in recipes written for the United States, measurements are given in weight rather than by volume. Not only is it a more precise way to measure, but with the right scale, it’s much easier. The scale I bought measures in ounces and grams as well as by volume. The Raspberry Buttermilk Coconut cake I made for Michael is the first recipe I have written using this scale. Here’s how I made it: … read more

My mother gave her mother, my Nana, daffodils three times each spring, in February on her birthday, in March for Nana’s birthday and in May for Mothers’ day. When I was ten, we were buying daffodils for Nana’s birthday when I saw bundles of strawberry plants for sale.

I convinced my mother that since Nana loved to garden, strawberry plants would be a perfect present. There were June bearing plants and everbearing varieties. Everbearing was the obvious choice. Naively I assumed that everbearing plants meant strawberries all the time, strawberries every day, long after the small, dark red strawberries in square, wooden baskets with red stains disappeared from the market at the end of June. In fact it everbearing means that there would be a berry harvest in June and a second in August. It wasn’t until years later that strawberries were flown from California to markets around the country and available year round.

Nana was delighted with both the daffodils and the strawberry plants. After lunch we went out to her garden to make a strawberry bed. When she unwrapped the bundle of plants, she said that there were enough plants for two strawberry beds, that I was old enough to have my own garden and that she would help me. I picked a sunny spot near the climbing, pink rose bush and it didn’t take long to make my garden. I watched the plants carefully and learned that each flower held the promise of one sweet red berry.
I watered the plants with gentle streams from my watering can and Nana taught me how to recognize weeds. My first crop was less than the bounty I had hoped for – only one harvest and three and a half cups rather than two pails but there were enough berries to make my first ever, strawberry shortcake for Sunday dinner with Nana and my grandfather.

I wasn’t sure what traditional strawberry shortcake was. I had seen curious sponge cake cups and aerosol cans of whipped cream displayed next to the strawberries at the market, but they were not what I wanted for the strawberries I had tended for nearly two months.

I would make proper shortcake and top each dessert with real whipped real cream. When I found a recipe for shortcake at the library, I was surprised to learn that shortcake was really a biscuit and nothing like the shortbread cookies we had at Christmas time. Here’s how I made it: … read more

Last May, I made a perfect Mother’s Day brunch even though I had forgotten that it was Mother’s Day. I had found strawberries and local yogurt at the market and decided to make a sweet Yorkshire pudding for Sunday breakfast for our friends Annie and Andre who were spending the weekend with us.

Andre and Charles had shared an office and architectural practice in Washington, DC, and Annie and I were pregnant at the same time. We talked late into the night about Annie’s current theatrical role, Andre’s newest project, Charles writing, my blog and shared the latest news about our children. Bleary eyed, we agreed to continue our conversation at breakfast.

We began with cups of tea and coffee and considered how we would spend the day. Breakfast was a cooperative affair – Annie set the table, Andre worked a Sudoku puzzle, Charles cleaned the strawberries and cooked the sausages, and I made the sweet Yorkshire pudding.

It was easier than making a traditional breakfast of eggs and bacon, pancakes, or omelets, and more festive than bagels and cream cheese. The batter, a combination of eggs, milk, and flour, is similar to a crepe batter and not temperamental. It will wait patiently until everyone is awake, showered, coffee’d and ready to eat, to be put into the oven to bake. Half an hour later – breakfast is served!

Here’s how I made it: … read more

This post, focusing on Blood Oranges, is the first in a series of Ingredient Posts. I welcome your thoughts on ingredients that you are curious about, love or hate, use frequently or have never tried.

The fields outside of Siracusa are filled with citrus groves. The distinctive dark green, round trees that grow in orderly rows were visible when my plane circled Mt. Etna. Some of trees are so full of uniformly yellow fruit that it is possible to identify them as lemon trees from the air. Although Arabs are creditedwith bringing lemons and bitter oranges to Sicily sweet oranges were brought to Sicily in the15th century by Portuguese crusaders.

I have been taking full advantage of the possibilities that fresh lemons and oranges in the market offer.

Today, I am celebrating the blood oranges that fill the market.

I eat a blood orange before my morning cappuccino, I drink blood orange juice at lunch.

Insalata Fantasia di Arance is what I order if I want a salad of blood orange segments simply dressed with olive oil, salt and pepper at dinner. It may be topped with onion, anchovy or olives but however it comes, it is delicious.

Freshly squeezed, pink, blood orange juice, with or without a splash of vodka, is toast worthy. Salute!

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