Make Ahead

Lots of people eat grapes out of hand, but they don’t quite know what else to do with them. Well, I do. I use them to make sorbet. Though seedless grapes are great for snacking, they’re the least flavorful varieties. If you’re lucky enough to live near a farmers’ market, or if you can get your hands on grapes that are good for wine making, like Chardonnay, Merlot, or Zinfandel, you’ll find they make the most amazing sorbets. I have a few older Jewish aunts who swear that Concord grapes make good wine (that comes in a square bottle). I’m not so convinced about the wine, but Concord grapes do, indeed, make one of my favorite sorbets.

In the ’80s, sangria’s reputation took a nosedive when it came to be known as a syrupy-sweet wine sold in green bottles with a toreador deftly skirting a charging bull on the label. But if you go to Spain, you’ll quickly realize that real sangria isn’t a sugary liquid confection, but a fruity, icy cold drink that goes down easily, especially when the temperature outside is soaring. This simple-to-make sorbet turns sangria into a frozen dessert that’s even more refreshing than it is as a beverage. And that’s no bull.

There were quite a few things I missed about the Bay Area when I packed up my bags and moved to France. Burritos, bean-to-bar chocolates, and “centered” people were some of them. Okay, I didn’t miss the centered people. But I was surprised at how much I missed Meyer lemons, which are sweeter and more perfumed than regular Eureka lemons. Their vibrant, deep yellow color makes other lemons pale in comparison. If you’re lucky enough to know someone with a Meyer lemon tree, you’re likely to be handed a large sack of them when the fruits are in season. Some greengrocers and specialty markets now carry them, too. Otherwise, you can use regular Eureka lemons in this recipe, but increase the sugar to 1 cup (200 g).

Somewhere along the way, mint sherbet got a bad rap. Perhaps too many catered wedding receptions began with a pallid artificially green scoop melting away in the middle of a melon half, the sherbet chosen because it matched the bridesmaids’ dresses rather than for its taste. Thankfully, any color you’ll find in this mint sherbet comes naturally from a big handful of fragrant, zesty fresh mint. Unlike ice cream, sherbet is usually made with milk, and no cream or eggs, so I never feel guilty about indulging in a couple of scoops. Nor do I feel deprived if I’m craving something a tad creamy. Light yet creamy—it’s a recipe for a perfect marriage.

Some folks tell me they don’t like white chocolate. “It’s not chocolate!” they’ll say with a bit of smug certitude. True, but that’s like saying “I don’t like Champagne because it’s not white wine.” Both have merits and to say you don’t like one because it isn’t the other isn’t very logical. I fall into the camp of white chocolate lovers. To convince people of how good white chocolate can be, I often make ice cream with it and add fresh ginger for spicy contrast. And if that’s not enough, I stir in shiny, dark chocolate–covered roasted peanuts to give it nice crunch. If anyone still has any resistance to white chocolate, I call it their loss and am happy to eat the ice cream all by myself.

My parents were pretty strict with desserts. I wasn’t completely deprived, but sweets were few and far between. (I’ve since made up for lost time.) One treat they did keep on hand was a bag of store-bought pecan shortbreads, which were quite thick, had a sandy texture, and seemed a bit more sophisticated and “adult” than most other supermarket snacks. Whenever these cookies were in the house, I ate as many as I could and left a seriously plundered bag for my parents to discover. Times have changed and I’m sure the quantity of pecans in those cookies has dwindled since the good ol’ days. Now that I’m all grown up, I can enjoy pecans in any way I choose, and that doesn’t mean just pecan shortbread, but also this rich pecan-studded ice cream.

This is the world’s easiest ice cream. It takes literally a minute to put together, and doesn’t require an ice cream maker. You just toss everything in a blender, then pour the mixture into a container and freeze it, so there’s no excuse for even the machineless not to enjoy homemade ice cream. The one caveat is that the generous amount of alcohol is necessary to prevent the ice cream from freezing too hard. The good news is that all that booze means you don’t have to share your ice cream with the kids.

The first time I went to Mexico, I had no idea that ice cream was such a popular treat there. I had always associated ice cream with Italy, France, and the United States. Who knew? During that first trip, and more than a few subsequent ones, I made it a point to try the more unusual flavors, like ice cream flavored with cheese, smoked milk, and kernels of corn, and even fried ice cream (which was delicious!). But as much as I enjoyed trying new ice creams, I always found myself going back to chocolate. Here’s a recipe inspired by those coarse chunks of chocolate for sale in Mexico. They taste nothing like the disks of Mexican “drinking chocolate” sold in America, which are mostly sugar and rather skimpy on the chocolate. For this ice cream, use real chocolate and add freshly ground cinnamon for the best flavor.

When you live in San Francisco, it’s likely that at least 50 percent of your friends are real estate agents. One of my realtor friends is whippet-thin because he’s always watching what he eats. But he met his match with this frozen dessert. When he isn’t trying to talk me into buying or selling something, he talks about this gelato. People often ask about the difference between ice cream and gelato. As with most things Italian, it depends on whom you ask. But most people agree that gelato has a lower-fat base, which allows the flavors to shine through. This chocolate gelato has no cream and is proof of that theory. As is the waistline of a certain San Francisco realtor. This gelato is inspired by a recipe from Marcella Hazan.

If there’s anything better than a big, melty scoop of caramel ice cream, I don’t know what it could be. On second thought, I take that back. How about a big scoop of caramel ice doused with lots of warm chocolate sauce and sprinkled with toasted pecans? To make this ice cream the most perfect caramel ice cream you’ll ever eat, it’s crucial to cook the sugar until it’s dark amber in color and as close to—but just shy of—burnt as possible. I call it “taking it right to the edge.” I like the flavor of the ice cream made with the larger amount of salt, but because some people are salt sensitive, the recipe says to start with less, then taste the custard and add more if desired. No matter how long it’s frozen, this caramel ice cream stays scoopably soft, a big relief to those of us who are irked by homemade ice cream that freezes rock-solid and delays immediate gratification.

I definitely have obsessive-compulsive baking disorder. I’d hoped to recreate the classic gâteau de riz, a French cake made by baking rice pudding in a mold. I tried fourteen times. The first time I made it, it was perfect: custardy and topped with a deep-golden crust, the top and sides bathed with a slick of glossy, thick caramel. When I attempted to reproduce it, it came out completely different with each try. Flummoxed, I sent my recipe to a friend in California. She made it two or three times and each time she also had completely different results. After a transcontinental tossing up of our hands, in her last anxiety-ridden response she told me, “but right out of the pot, it was the best rice pudding I’ve ever had.” And when I made it again, for the fifteenth time, I realized she was right.

Panna cotta quickly became a popular restaurant dessert for many of the same reasons that make it an ideal dessert to serve at home: it can be prepared well in advance and it tastes good. It’s a win-win dessert if there ever was one. I used to refer to this as “ranch panna cotta” because it was inspired by a tangy buttermilk-based drink that I had at a south-of-the-border spa. But because people said that moniker brought to mind ranch salad dressing, I decided to keep the name simple and straightforward—just like the dessert.

Many countries have a version of caramelized custard turned out of its mold for serving—from Mexico’s flan to France’s crème renversée. No border seems to be a barrier to the migration of this universally popular dessert. Cardamom is rather an exotic spice, but it is sometimes used in classic American coffee cakes and other familiar baked goods. Do not buy preground cardamom because its flavor dissipates quickly and you’ll miss the wonderful aroma released by cracking the seeds yourself. Oftentimes, cardamom seeds are sold still in their papery husks or pods, which should be peeled away to reveal the seeds within.

The surprising zip of fruit chutney counters the richness of mousse au chocolat and adds a whole other dimension to this unconventional dessert. I don’t know if it’s a combination the French would approve of, but when I made it as a pastry chef on a cruise line, a few thousand people gave their consent. Each plate that came back to the kitchen was scraped clean. Unlike traditional chocolate mousse that uses uncooked eggs, this one has a cooked custard base. So, there’s no reason for anyone with concerns about consuming raw eggs to jump ship rather than dive into this dessert full-steam ahead.

Some people might consider it overkill to mix caramelized sugar with the lush flavor of butterscotch. But since the beauty of being an adult is that we can do pretty much as we please, I don’t feel the need to apologize for mixing the two in one cool custard. If you want to ramp up the flavor of the butterscotch custard with even more flavorful molasses notes than dark brown sugar can supply, try using one of the unrefined brown or cane sugars that can be found in natural food stores. Look for ones that are dark and ruddy, since they tend to have the most flavor.

This tart exemplifies what the French do best: combine just a few top-quality ingredients, doing as little to them as possible. Ganache is a mélange of cream and chocolate, reportedly named after a young baker who accidentally spilled some cream into the chocolate the chef was melting. The chef called him a ganache, which is slang for “idiot,” but when he stirred in the cream, they realized the mistake was probably one of the most brilliant things to ever happen to chocolate.

The almond-scented French cakes known as financiers are traditionally baked in small rectangular shapes meant to resemble bars of gold. Unless you’re loaded, you likely don’t have 12 fancy, expensive French rectangular baking molds lying around, so I’ve adapted this recipe for baking in a standard-size muffin tin, which works beautifully—and won’t lead you to finanicial ruin.

I once worked with a French waiter known for a fierce scowl that could cause even the most self-assured chef and diner to wither. He tasted one spoonful of these peaches and told me that this was his idea of the perfect dessert. It was one of the few times I saw him smile. But what’s not to like? Icy peaches floating in sweet red wine is pretty close to perfection, if I do say so myself. His good mood didn’t last very long. But after that, every time we passed each other, I knew from the tiny gleam in his eye that I’d won the admiration of my toughest customer.

If you’re starting to feel a little, um, bulky as summer approaches, keep this fruity cobbler in mind because it’s a lean, but delicious, dessert. The biscuits are moistened by a healthy pour of buttermilk, and the modest amount of butter provides flavor without weighing the biscuits (or you) down. The other great thing is that the biscuits are made in a bowl and simply spooned over the fruit, rather than rolled out and cut, making this a no-sweat dessert (another plus in summer).

I once found a long-forgotten jar of homemade quince marmalade in the back of my refrigerator. Rather than throw it out, I took it with me to a friend’s house out in the country with the hope that one morning I could slip it onto the breakfast table and no one would be the wiser. But I was so mesmerized by the gorgeous rosy hue of the quince preserves that, instead, I used the marmalade as a filling for this amazingly easy-to-make jam tart. The tart is easy for a couple of reasons. The first is that there is no filling to make or fruit to cut up—any type of thick jam or marmalade, homemade or otherwise, is all you’ll need. The second is that the dough doesn’t require rolling: two-thirds of it is pressed into the tart pan, and the rest is formed into a log, sliced like refrigerator cookie dough, then layered onto the tart to create the top crust. Truly a piece of cake to make, this tart serves as a wonderful breakfast pastry. In the end, the marmalade did indeed make an early (well, not too early) morning appearance on the table, and I didn’t have to be sneaky about it.