With my camera around my neck, I carried my bowl of granola to the back door–the dappled light on our shaded deck is perfect for taking photos in the afternoon. I stopped short when I reached the door–just beyond the glass hundreds, maybe thousands of honeybees were flying in all directions, ricocheting off the window. Something was terribly wrong. I set the bowl on the counter and raced upstairs to the guest room. (Our beehive sits on the second story deck a few feet from the guest room window.) I can’t remember another time in my life when panic and awe have filled me at the same time. A dark cloud of bees was swirling around our hive like a violent tornado–I was witnessing my first-ever bee swarm. There are many things a beekeeper can do to prevent a swarm, but once it starts, there’s no stopping it. All you can do, all I could do was stand there completely spellbound.

In less than an hour calm returned to our hive. The loyal bees that had chosen to stay went about their usual tasks of gathering nectar. I stepped outside hoping to catch a glimpse of the mass of bees that had swarmed. I spotted what looked like a giant koala bear perched in the uppermost branch of our old maple tree. The swarm of bees was swaying in the breeze forty feet above the highest point of our roof. Shimmying up the tree and coaxing them into a five gallon bucket, as the internet experts suggested I do, was out of the question. Again, all I could do was watch.

Those same experts indicated that the bees would likely be moving on to their new home within the hour. I couldn’t miss a second once in a lifetime moment, so I plopped down on a soft patch of grass and waited. And waited. I was still waiting there when Greg arrived home from work hours later. When we woke up yesterday morning they were still there. As I type this, forty-eight hours after they swarmed, they are still gathered on the same branch of the maple tree. And I’m on my second batch of malted chocolate granola.

Malted Chocolate Granola

Inspired by Donna Hay‘s recipe for Malt-Roasted Chocolate and Almond Muesli in the Summer 2012 magazine. I used a mix of sunflower seeds and pepitas, but it’s equally tasty when you substitute coarsely chopped almonds for the seeds.

Ingredients

6 cups rolled oats
1 cup unsweetened coconut flakes
1/2 cup pepitas (pumpkin seeds)
1/2 cup sunflower seeds
1/2 cup malt powder
2 tablespoons cocoa
1/2 cup water
3/4 cup brown sugar
2 tablespoons coconut oil
3 1/2 ounces dark chocolate, chopped
3/4 teaspoon sea salt

Preparation

1. Preheat the oven to 325°F.
2. In a large mixing bowl stir together the oats, coconut, seeds, malt powder, and cocoa.
3. Combine the water and brown sugar in a small saucepan over moderate heat. Stir until the sugar dissolves. Bring to a boil and cook for one minute. Remove from the heat and whisk in the coconut oil, dark chocolate, and sea salt until the chocolate is melted.
4. Pour the hot syrup over the oat mixture and mix until well combined. Spread the mixture across a large jelly roll pan or two small rimmed baking sheets.
5. Bake for 30-40 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes, until crisp.
6. Let cool completely. Store in an airtight container.

Makes 8 cups.

If you’re a regular here you know that my posts often have little to do with the foods pictured. When, and if, I get around to talking about the food or the recipe, it’s usually at the end of a story about me, about Greg, about lots of things, and sometimes about food. But how do you put the likes of bacon brittle out there and prattle on about something else as if anything else really matters? If I told you about my new business venture it would be like listening to Charlie Brown’s teacher talk. Greg recently tried an egg with a runny yolk. A runny yolk! I was so moved I cried. See? You missed it, right? Because what we’re really talking about here is bacon.

So let’s just get right to it and leave the storytelling for another day.

B.A.C.O.N.

At the risk of heresy, I must first disclose that I’m a little tired of bacon. It’s everywhere–chocolate bars, vodka, doughnuts, and even macarons. How about a bacon macaron with a bacon port wine filling? No, thank you.

I like bacon. Heck, I love bacon, but not in a freakish, obsessive, “everything is better with bacon” kind of way. I’m a sucker for that salty meets sweet somethin’, somethin’, but I’ve resisted the urge to add bacon to my truffles and chocolate cakes. And not because everyone else is doing it, which they are. And not because it didn’t tickle my fancy, which it does. As it turns out I’m a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to my bacon. I love it lounging next to my buttered whole grain toast and drenched in bright orange egg yolk. The crunchy, salty surprise on a salad? Yup, that too. In a creamy pasta? You bet. Quiche? Uh, huh. Wrapped around a big, fat Medjool date? Oh baby, I like me a little Devil on horseback every now and again, yes I do. But bacon in my brittle, the very same brittle that I’m wont to fill with almonds or toasty pepitas? Hmmm.

Do you ever catch yourself getting comfortable? Too comfortable? That’s where I was at when I reached the crossroads of bacon meets brittle. Life had become a bit stagnant. I craved a few ripples in my pool–not a major drama, just a change of pace. So an otherwise ordinary day started with this bacon brittle.

THIS BACON BRITTLE.

This crunchy sweet goodness is intoxicating. Smoky, then sweet. Oh wait, what’s that? Ahh, a delicate smack of maple. Don’t be hasty about stowing it all away in that airtight container. Have a piece and then another. Admittedly, adding bacon to my brittle isn’t the stuff astronauts are made of, but this playfully delicious treat was indeed the spark I needed. With my teeth still full of caramel, I raced to the phone and scheduled the reiki session that I’d been considering for months. There, another ripple in my pool.

Later that night Greg declared the bacon brittle a hit by sneaking a third helping from the jar in the cupboard. And I went to bed with breakfast already on my mind–a perfectly poached egg, a slice of toast squishy with butter, and a side of crispy bacon, hold the brittle.

Bacon Brittle

Adapted from Tina Ujlaki’s Best-Ever Nut Brittle recipe for Food and Wine Magazine.

Ingredients

8 ounces bacon, cooked your favorite way until crisp (I used a smoked maple bacon.)
1 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup water
1/4 cup unsalted butter
3 tablespoons light corn syrup or golden syrup
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
coarse sea salt (I used Maldon.)

Preparation

1. Chop the bacon into small bits about a 1/4-inch in size.
2. Butter a rimmed baking sheet or line it with a Silpat.
3. In a large, heavy-bottomed saucepan, combine the sugar, water, butter, and syrup. Bring to a boil over moderate heat, stirring occasionally until the mixture reaches 300°F on a candy thermometer, about 10-15 minutes.
4. Remove from heat and stir in the baking soda, then the bacon bits. Immediately pour the mixture on the prepared baking sheet. Use a large spoon (If it sticks, oil it lightly.) to quickly spread the brittle into a thin, even layer. Sprinkle with sea salt.
5. Allow the brittle to cool completely, then break into pieces. Store in an airtight container.

Makes about 3/4 pound.

In the quiet of the early morning or as I’m drifting off to sleep at night, I think about the blessings in my life. Friends are often high on that list, because blood isn’t always thicker than water. You choose your friends. And they must choose you.

Two weeks ago I whiled away my Sunday afternoon in the home of complete strangers. My friend Selga–the first friend I made when I moved to Chicago in ’97–thought it was a bad idea. “Let me get this straight. A man you’ve never met cast an open invitation to a party and you accepted?”

“Uhm, yes,” I had answered albeit a little defensively. Maybe it was a bit unusual, but I couldn’t say no–it was a cheese making party.

“What do you know about this guy?” Selga asked.

“I know that he likes cheese. Oh, and he’s Italian,” I said, adding the last bit as if his association with my favorite cuisine cleared him of all suspicion.

Selga’s concerned line of questioning continued, but I wasn’t swayed. Who’d ever heard of a serial killer that launched their spree with a mozzarella making party? Besides, our gracious host Michele, A Tuscan Foodie in America, and the designated Chicago host for Food52‘s Mozzarella Potluck, was opening his home to not just one, but ten, curious, cheese-loving strangers. I’d be in good company.

On the day of the party, Michele and his lovely wife Valerie greeted me with warm smiles and handshakes. I smiled back thinking of Selga. A rash of last minute cancellations turned our party of ten into a party of five; it would be a more intimate afternoon than I had imagined. Simone and Alain, who were also from Italy, arrived just as we were popping the cork on the prosecco and Michele was pulling a golden focaccia from the oven. Simone brought a tray of parmigiana. Alain had made a pepper-flecked crescia (“a flatbread with corn flour typical of the Marches region in Italy”). I slathered my warm focaccia with Michele’s silky, rich chicken liver pate. Standing comfortably in the company of strangers we shared slices of our lives outside of Michele’s kitchen. I didn’t care if we ever got to the matter of making cheese.

Hours passed. The mozzarella, which we finally got around to making, was a bit dry and bland. The creamy ricotta, however, that Michele made from the leftover mozzarella whey was the best I’d ever tasted. We enjoyed it for dessert alongside Valerie’s molten chocolate cakes and homemade rhubarb gelato. So much love had gone into the food we’d all prepared–for total strangers. Our hearts and bellies full, it was time to go. We parted not with handshakes, but with kisses on each cheek, promising to meet again soon in the name of delicious food.

If that Sunday was all about new friends, this past weekend was about old friends–twenty-two years and counting old friends. I made this cake, or a version of it, to share with two of my college girlfriends as we lingered over morning coffee and stories of life in Brooklyn, Richmond, and Chicago. I made their cake with love, but baked it in a flurry. Hoping that time would be on my side, I pulled it from the oven a little early so I could run to the store for a few weekend essentials. I returned home to find that the cake had collapsed in the center. It was the kind of cake I’m usually too embarrassed to share, the kind of cake that I’d never consider sharing with new friends, like Michele. But it was the kind of cake I could share with friends so firmly rooted in my personal history. These women have been the loyal guardians of my dirty secrets for more than half my life. They remind me that I’m fabulous at the precise moment when I stop believing it. They’re the kind of friends that savor every bite of your wilted cake as if they can taste the love with which it was baked.

Rhubarb Almond Crumb Cake

Pretty pink slices of rhubarb suspended in a dense, moist, golden cake. Have a little slice for breakfast with a spoonful of crème fraîche. Or serve it up for dessert, alone or next to a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream. The batter is versatile enough to work with most any fruit. If you make it with a sweeter fruit, consider reducing the amount of granulated sugar in the batter.

Ingredients

Butter for greasing the pan

THE CRUMB:

2 tablespoons white whole wheat flour (or all purpose)
2 tablespoons slivered almonds
2 tablespoons rolled oats
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons unsalted butter

THE CAKE:

2 large eggs
1 1/4 cups granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon almond extract
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1 1/4 cups white whole wheat flour (or all purpose)
1 1/2 cups rhubarb, cut into 1/2″ pieces

Equipment

8-inch, deep, fluted tart pan or 8-inch springform pan

Preparation

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter the bottom and sides of the baking pan.
2. For the crumb, combine the dry ingredients in a small bowl. Using a fork or your fingers, gently work in the butter until pea-sized lumps are formed.
3. Combine the eggs, sugar, salt, and almond extract in a large bowl. Beat on high until the mixture triples in volume, about five minutes. Fold in the melted butter, flour, and rhubarb. Evenly spread the thick batter into the prepared pan.
4. Bake for 60-75 minutes, until the topping is deeply golden and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Remove the cake from the pan when it’s completely cool.

Makes 8-10 servings.

Not a fan of rhubarb? Try this Cranberry Cake With Toasted Almonds instead.