Vegetarian

If you can’t decide whether to serve something chocolatey or fruity for dessert, this sorbet is for you (and your guests). It’s incredibly easy to make, and even people like me, who aren’t especially fond of chocolate and fruit combinations, will be won over.

I read an article in a magazine about the difference between being “frugal” and “cheap” and was relieved to find myself in the frugal category. I’m certainly not cheap when it comes to buying ingredients, but it does go against my frugal nature to throw anything away. Here, oranges do double duty: the insides supply the juice and the rinds become the serving dishes for the sorbet. Those who are extra thrifty can candy some of the leftover peels to go alongside (see Candied Orange Peel, page 254). Egg whites left over from another project can be used to make the fluffy meringue that hides the sorbet surprise underneath.

The first time I split open a passion fruit and slurped down the dripping juices, the intense flavor knocked me for such a loop that I felt as if a tropical bomb had gone off in my head. From then on, I was hooked. Depending on where you live, fresh passion fruit may be hard to find, but they’re well worth tracking down. Don’t shy away from ones that are a tad wrinkled, as the creases indicate ripeness (they’re often marked down in price, too!). You can also buy frozen passion fruit purée (see Resources, page 270), which is inexpensive and convenient. It’s great to have on hand in the freezer: I’ll often lop off a chunk and add it to a pitcher of orange juice for a morning tropical blast.

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.

In case anyone thinks that the Internet is a cold, impersonal place, I’ve got evidence to prove them wrong. One day, completely out of the blue, I received an e-mail from a server who worked at a restaurant where I’d been the pastry chef, saying that not only did I have the sweetest smile, but that she loved the sherbets and sorbets that I made there. I don’t know which compliment was more touching, but I take any and all whenever I can, and via whatever medium they are sent. This was one of the sherbets I made at that restaurant, where I remember a different server taking a bite and her face lighting right up. “This tastes like a Mounds bar!” she exclaimed with a mix of surprise and delight. For me, that was another compliment, since that’s one of my favorite candy bars.

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.

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 feel sorry for people who tell me that their mother’s cooking was terrible: I can’t imagine eighteen years of eating bad food. Fortunately, my esteemed lineage included a mom who was a fantastic cook. Unfortunately, though, she was lacking the baking gene, so cookies and cakes were few and far between. She did, however, make wonderful tapioca pudding, which she served warm in a bright-red ’60s-style glass bowl. She always added an entire capful of aromatic vanilla extract to the pudding, stirred in at the last minute. Being hopelessly nostalgic (especially when it comes to desserts), I can still smell it to this day. Of course, back then there wasn’t much fusion cooking going on, but nowadays Thai coconut milk is readily available, and I use it in my version of tapioca pudding. In addition to vanilla extract, I include a vanilla bean for good measure. I don’t have any children, but if I did, I would hope this pudding would be just as memorable for them as my mom’s is for me.

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.

I don’t think I have a bright future as a food stylist. For my first book, Michael, the photographer, insisted that I make and style all the food, even though I had no experience food styling. When it came time to shoot soufflés, I panicked and asked a real stylist for tips on how to keep them aloft while the camera clicked away. He suggested adding yeast to them, which sounded like it might work, so I gave it a try. But when I opened the oven door to pull out the first batch, they’d risen way high and arched over, looking like custardy Slinkys. So I went back to making soufflés a few at a time the way I knew best—without yeast—and ran them from the oven to the set to be photographed. I breathed a sigh of relief each time the photographer was able to capture a few shots before the soufflés’ inevitable descent. As soon as they started falling, we dove in and quickly polished them off before the next take. Later, when we looked at the proofs, we noticed my face clearly reflected in the spoon resting alongside the soufflés, which was pretty amusing—and completely unprofessional. Although my future as a stylist was in question, no one in the studio doubted my ability to make fantastic, if not long-lasting, soufflés.

My grandmother used to throw a fit if I ordered something as simple as fruit salad or soup in a restaurant. “Why pay for that? You can make it at home,” she’d say in a voice that made you feel like a fool if you had the temerity to disagree. “Order something else!” Anyone who met my grandmother knew it was best not to cross her. Otherwise, you’d hear about it, repeatedly, for the next three to five years. Minimum. I feel that way about bread pudding. It’s something I want at home, not in a restaurant. My version mingles orange and almond and is a much more refined and luxurious than the usual bread pudding. Enjoy it in the comfort of your own dining room, but pretend you’re eating it in a restaurant, without anyone to harp on you about it. In case any of your guests decides to leave a tip, I’ll gladly accept my 15 percent.

Sweet, creamy mashed banana pulp is an ideal soufflé base, but if you think bananas are just too humble to be turned into an elegant dessert worthy of serving to guests, try these simple soufflés spruced up with some warm chocolate sauce passed alongside. Be sure the bananas that you use are really ripe—the skins of yellow bananas (as opposed to red ones that are less common) should be covered with black speckles and their texture should be soft.

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.

When I worked as a pastry chef, I became known as “the crème brûlée bully” because I decided one night that I had had enough of crème brûlée and stopped serving it altogether. The reason? It was all that was ever ordered, and everything else on my menu went ignored. I realize now that I should have been flattered that guests liked my crème brûlée so much, and I apologize to anyone who left the restaurant feeling denied their favorite dessert. As reparation, I offer this recipe for lemon-ginger crème brûlée, the most popular flavor of the many that I’ve made, and hope I’m forgiven.

A few years back, I attended a class at a French pastry school that was, of course, taught by a French chef. If you’ve not worked with French chefs before, you quickly realize that to them, there’s one way to do things—and only one way. Our chef, for example, insisted on doing a cold infusion for tea, letting it steep in the refrigerator overnight. To prove his point, he steeped some tea in warm cream as well so we could later compare the results. The next day, when we had the tasting, there were muted murmurs amongst the students that we much preferred the warm infusion, but no one dared say anything to the chef. We just all nodded in agreement that the cold infusion tasted better. I still infuse tea in warm cream for custards because to me, the proof is in the pudding. Or, in this case, the crème brûlée.

These light, lean soufflés get their lively flavor from the intensity of readily available dried apricots, so this dessert offers the added bonus that it can be made all year. It’s imperative to use the highly flavorful dried apricots from California rather than imported varieties, which are bland and uninspiring. You won’t be disappointed.

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.