It’s been about what how has it been almost 8 years since I overhauled an old blueberry muffin recipe in the archives to turn them into what I consider the highest calling of the category, perfect in taste (not too sweet, dreamy crumb, lemon scented, absolutely riddled with blueberries, and finished with the crunchiest bronzed lid, perfect for lifting off in a satisfying shell and swiping the underside with salted butter) and ease (one-bowl, hand-whisked, even measurements, fuss free ingredients). Because who cares if a muffin recipe is perfect if I can’t throw it together half-asleep like the zombie I am most mornings? I’m thrilled that so many of you agreed.
Artichokes are my favorite vegetable. My favorite way to eat them is the way I have my whole life: cooked whole, each leaf dipped in a sharp lemony sauce until you get to the heart, whose choke you free with a butter knife then schmear with the sauce like you’re thickly buttering a piece of bread, and eat it while holding the stem like a lollipop, your eyes closed as you absorb the heady bliss of it all. Clearly, it means a lot to me but I’m not sharing a recipe with three words: Just boil them. A few years ago I started steaming artichokes instead of boiling them and found I preferred it — less wet, and seemingly more evenly cooked. But it still didn’t warrant mention here, though, too simple.
Over the pandemic, I quietly broke up with every pizza dough recipe I’ve shared to date. I know I have some nerve only telling you this now. The family wanted pizza for dinner weekly, and I was overdue for a homemade pizza reckoning. Why? Because after years of trying to get my home oven even half as hot as the ones at pizzerias that crank out gloriously blistered and glistening pies, and too often ending up with disappointing textures, I finally realized I was chasing the wrong pizza dream. Instead of fighting an uphill battle, I replaced my usual pizza dough with a no-knead focaccia-ish dough that bakes up beautifully in a regular oven, perfectly every single time.Read more »Continue reading at the publisher's website.
Hasn’t it always been too long since your last slice of profoundly perfect crumb cake? You know, the kind that’s a hefty square with at least as much height from big brown sugar and cinnamon crumbs as from a golden, buttery, sour cream-enriched and vanilla-scented cake? Yes, me too. I didn’t expect to be back here so soon, though. I truly believed I’d finished my Crumb Cake Degree in 2021 with the still-perfect-in-every-way Big Apple Crumb Cake. But sometimes, perfection is a process.
It’s been way too long since we had a showstopper of a dessert. When I look over the last four years of archives, it seems that practical, slightly boring and grownup things like salad and dinner have nudged out cooking purely for the purpose of generating and distributing decadent joy. The Celebration Cake category looks like the land that time forgot. And so on this very snowy/slushy day, and the day before Valentine’s, no less, I’d like to recommend: Not a weeknight dinner.
This is clearly not a pasta bake, but it was supposed to be one. From November to December, I was pursued by a vision of an oozy, decadent french onion pasta bake — that is, the flavors of french onion soup applied to baked pasta with a bronzed and broiled gruyere topping. What was not to love? How could it not be delicious? But it was never right. I made it a few times and I never wanted to eat it. It was too rich and didn’t have enough to bite into, even by the intended standard of holiday indulgence. In the last round, I added cauliflower to it so it felt like more of a pasta-and-vegetable bake and I liked it even less (damp? somehow).