Bob Vivant

My Story of the Pan Bagnat

June 30, 2012

You’re not going to find many sandwich recipes around here. Outside of a classic PB&J where my “J” is a chunky homemade strawberry jam or maybe an oozy, gooey, grilled cheese, sandwiches just don’t hold my interest. So it surprised me more than anyone when I became mildly obsessed with this French sandwich. The classic pan bagnat, which loosely translates as “wet bread,” is white bread stuffed with another French classic, the Niçoise salad. White bread? A tuna salad? They’re about as boring to me as a turkey and swiss on rye.

But sometimes a dish will win me over with a story rather than the ingredients. In the case of the pan bagnat, it was Melissa Clark‘s recounting of her family vacations to France where she and her sister would take turns sitting on the pan bagnat in the back seat of the car as they made their way to the beach. Melissa shared her story on an episode of The Splendid Table that was spilling into my ears when I was out for a run. Her vivid memories of textures and flavors, so different than the ones I carried from my own childhood were enchanting. By the time I made it back to the house I was laying plans to make my first pan bagnat.

Melissa’s story aside I have a fondness for foods that can be made ahead and actually improve with time. The still greater appeal is that while this sandwich is constructed with a bit of care, once it’s tightly wrapped it benefits from a little roughness. We don’t have a seven-year-old available to sit on our pan bagnats. Instead, I put the sandwich at the bottom of our insulated picnic bag and pile the rest of the fare–smoked salmon candy, Polish sausages and spicy homemade mustard, and a crisp rosé–on top. The one I made for our picnic last week was loaded with roasted yellow squash, crunchy arugula, smoky, sweet red peppers, and bright tasting artichoke hearts. Greg and I sat under the stars and enjoyed our pan bagnat at an outdoor Ramsey Lewis concert–priceless ingredients that certainly made the sandwich even tastier. The bread was still crisp on the outside while the inside was moist, salty, and garlicky. The flavors had melded together in a whole that was greater than the sum of its roasted and marinated parts. The pan bagnat may not have been a part of my childhood, but decades later on a warm summer night spent with the man I love, it became my own story.

Pan Bagnat

No two pan bagnats are ever alike. I’ve come to prefer mine without tuna, but I never skip the anchovies. And creamy roasted eggplant can send me into a state of nirvana. Consider adding cucumber slices, hearts of palm, olives, hard boiled eggs, capers, tomatoes, tuna—whatever you like, whatever you have. This sandwich gets better the longer it sits. Perfect for a picnic!

Ingredients

TAPENADE:

SANDWICH:

(I use an 8-inch boule.)

pesto

second

Preparation

For the tapenade, mash together the optional anchovies, garlic, mustard, pepper, and olives until a paste forms (A mortar and pestle works well for this.). Whisk in the olive oil.
If using a thick loaf of bread, pull out some soft interior crumb to form a cavity. If using a thin ciabatta, you won’t need to eliminate anything.
Spread the pesto on the bottom half of the bread. Spread the tapenade on the inside of the top half. Start layering in the goods. Bring the two halves together.
Wrap sandwich tightly in plastic wrap, then place in a plastic bag. Weigh it down with a brick or iron skillet and refrigerate for at least four hours or overnight. Unwrap, slice, and serve.

Another Trip Around the Sun and Coconut Raspberry Dainties

June 21, 2012

tags: birthdays, Christina Tosi, Gary Farrell, love, pure bliss

My husband Greg had a birthday yesterday. Or as he likes to put it, he “completed another trip around the sun.” It was his 43rd trip.

Few things make me happier than making my special man’s day special, but it can be a challenge to say the least. My plans always begin with an element of surprise, which I usually end up scrapping as the day draws near. For a man who relishes routine, Greg is impossibly unpredictable when it comes to his birthday. Here’s how the week preceding his big day went down this year:

“I’m planning to take the day off.”
“I might have to work a half day.”
“Let’s just have dinner here. I don’t want to spend any more money.”
“Maybe I’ll just take Friday off instead.”
“Let’s go out for dinner. Maybe a BYOB?”

All of the above was peppered with a bunch of, “I don’t really care. It’s not that big of a deal to me.”

As for my side of the conversations, the early bits sounded like I was a private investigator searching for clues, my questions cryptic in order to conceal the surprise. The late bits, the bits that took place fewer than twenty-four hours before his birthday, were straightforward and desperate. Restaurants worthy of a birthday celebration often require reservations. Special meals are hard to pull off with just a pantry raid. Baking treats for his office takes care too. A food blogger wife can’t hardly send her man to the office–assuming he goes to the office on his birthday–with a package of Oreos.

When the clock struck midnight on June 20th, I kissed my Gemini happy birthday and good night even though my frustration had reached the level where I would have otherwise rolled to the edge of the very big bed with my back turned to him. Allowing my frustration to show hardly seemed fair, let alone festive. And why was I so angry? His version of the story is that he’s pretty low-maintenance, wanting little, needing nothing, happy with anything. My version is that his indecision made planning a bear. How can you make something special for someone who doesn’t see the importance of making it special? It felt like that Jerry Maguire scene when Jerry is begging Rod Tidwell to “help me, help you, HELP ME, HELP YOU.”

Lying in bed, too stirred up to sleep, I tried to imagine my life without Greg in it. My chest seized at just the thought of it. What if he’d never been born? What then? Maybe he didn’t need his birthday to be special, but I did. With or without his help, I intended to celebrate his birthday.

So that’s exactly what I did. I ignored his last minute request to go out. Instead I laid in supplies for a fancy dinner–a seared scallop on bacon grits kind of fancy dinner. Crab cakes to start. A Christina Tosi-style layered birthday cake and mint chocolate chip ice cream to finish. The big, pretty wine glasses that don’t fit in the dishwasher. Our last bottle of Gary Farrell pinot noir–the 2005 that we’d been saving for a special occasion. Pink Martini, The Boss, and Johnny Cash took turns serenading us. I even managed to pull off a surprise by showing up at his office in the afternoon with a box of homemade treats that included these coconut raspberry dainties. And somewhere between spinning his favorite ice cream and making the playlist, I realized that I didn’t need Greg’s help figuring out how to make his birthday special. I’d known all along.

Happy Birthday Sweetie!

Coconut Raspberry Dainties

I’m not a big fan of specialty baking pans, but my mini cheesecake pans are an exception. I use mine for more than just cheesecakes. They’re great for brownies and super chewy chocolate chip cookies. They make the perfect sized corn muffins too. If you don’t have a mini cheesecake pan and I haven’t convinced you to buy one, you can make these with a muffin pan and paper liners.

Ingredients

CRUST:

TOPPING:

(optional)

(optional if in season)

EQUIPMENT:
1 mini cheesecake pan

Preparation

Preheat the oven to 350°F.
In a medium bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar. Using a pastry cutter or two knives, cut in the butter. Bring the dough together with your hands. Divide the dough equally among the 12 cells of the pan. Using the blunt end of a wooden spoon or similar, tamp the dough until firmly and evenly compacted.
Bake for 20 minutes or until golden brown. Immediately make a deep indentation in each mini crust. You’re making a bowl for the jam to sit in.
While the crusts are baking, make the topping. Whisk together the melted butter, sugar, and egg. Stir in the coconut and vanilla.
Spoon two teaspoons of jam into each crust. Equally divide the coconut topping among the jam covered crusts. Bake for 18-20 minutes until the coconut is deeply toasted and golden.
Cool completely on a wire rack. Carefully remove the cooled treats from the pan. Sprinkle with powdered sugar. Top with a fresh raspberry.

Makes 12.

Here are two more of my favorite mini treats: Sweet Curry Chocolate Cheesecakes and Salted Caramel Pecan Cheesecakes.

Fear and Sweet Pea Crostini with Crispy Pancetta

June 15, 2012

tags: Alzheimer's Research UK, dementia, fear, phobias

I’m afraid, very, very afraid–of losing my mind.

We are all born with the same two fears and only two fears: falling and loud noises. All other fears must be learned.

Nyctophobia

Acrophobia

Mysophobia

Arachnophobia

Coulrophobia

Well, you weren’t born that way.

I’m particularly intrigued by the, uhm, unusual ones:

Aulophobia

Consecotaleophobia

Eurotophobia

Linonophobia

Syngenesophobia

Maybe that last one isn’t so unusual.

Most of my fears are out of my control. I’m afraid that my sisters will die before I do, delivering the final blow to the orphan I became at twenty-nine. I’m afraid that Greg will cut his fingers off on the table saw like my dad did one snowy Christmas Eve. My fear of driving on any urban highway with more than three lanes is one that I presumably can control though I haven’t figured out how. Above all, I’m afraid that I’ll lose my mind without even knowing it. And research shows I’m not alone. A 2011 survey conducted by Alzheimer’s Research UK found that 31% of people feared dementia more than death or cancer.

My biggest fear smacked me in the face yesterday when I watched an elderly woman get on my standing-room-only bus. She stepped on with a sense of purpose and an able body–so able she declined every offer for a seat. She stood next to the driver and turned to face the front window. The driver and the old woman appeared to be having a conversation though I was too far away to capture the details. Suddenly the driver’s face tightened into a puzzled look. “Ma’am, are you trying to get home?” she asked, her voice raised.

The old woman nodded.

“Where do you live?”

The woman that had boarded the bus moments ago, looking so certain about her destination, was now scanning the faces of the nearby passengers as if we held the answer that escaped her. She clenched the handrail, her knuckles white against the dark skin of her worn hands. At last she turned to the driver and said, “I just want to go home.”

“And where is home? Ma’am, do you know where your home is?”

My heart was racing. This woman was likely someone’s mother, their grandmother, their neighbor, their friend. Did they know she’d gone missing, their own hearts racing with fear?

The bus kept moving, but time was suspended.

Finally the fog began to lift and the homebound woman recited an address to the driver. Was it her current home address or an address from days gone by? My stop was next. I made my way to the door squeezing past her. She smelled like lavender. The old woman and the driver were casually trading smiles and memories now. Peas. The old woman, stable once again, gestured with her hands as she described shucking peas when she was a child. “How I love me some peas.” The gap between our worlds narrowed with every word she spoke.

I easily found my way home though I could no longer take the twelve-year habit for granted. Did the old woman find her way home too? My fears of dementia have fed on her memory ever since.

Sweet Pea Crostini with Crispy Pancetta

This recipe is as versatile as they come. Trade out the peas for edamame (fresh green soybeans). Not a fan of goat cheese? How about some fresh grated Romano? Basil or tarragon can be substituted for the mint. Looking for a vegetarian option? Skip the pancetta and garnish them with some crispy shallots instead.

Ingredients

Feta or Parmesan are nice too.

Preparation

In a large skillet, cook the pancetta over moderate heat until crisp, about 6-8 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the pancetta to a paper towel-lined plate.
For the crostini, heat a large skillet or griddle over medium-high heat. Lightly brush both sides of the baguette slices with olive oil and grill each side until golden brown, about 2 minutes.
For the sweet pea puree, combine remaining ingredients in the bowl of a food processor and puree.
Top each crostini with a generous dollop of pea puree. Garnish with crispy pancetta and additional pieces of chopped fresh mint.

Marshmallow Hair and Hazelnut Brown Sugar Biscuits

June 6, 2012

tags: Christina Tosi, dreams, fire, love, marshmallows, Milk Bar, Momofuku

I woke up with marshmallow in my hair this morning. And while that’s not my idea of a storybook start to a day, it made me smile. Last night Greg and I skipped our usual after-dinner walk in favor of a backyard fire and the last two glasses of last summer’s Rumtopf. There’s something magical about watching a fire whether it’s blazing and the flames are licking the night sky, or it’s smoldering with a sensually pulsating amber light.

For the twelve years that we’ve called this place our home, the fire is where we come to dream. What if we win the lotto? Italy, oh Italy. Our farm. Our pizza shop. Maybe a little B&B with a quiet river running through it.

The fire is where we hatch our overly ambitious plans for home renovation projects.

We gather with friends around the fire. And it’s where I go when I need to be alone.

Fires are great for problem solving too. Ours, yours, the worlds.

Confessions.

Catharses

Debates.

But never arguments. That’s part of the fire’s magic too I suppose.

Sometimes we just watch the flames dance in an easy silence broken only by the snap and crackle of hot sap escaping the logs, captivated by the Rorschach-like parade of images in the glowing hearth.

I ran back to the house for the fixings for s’mores while Greg collected the dry twigs that peppered our lawn. When I returned to the fire Greg was scanning the woodpile for his perfect marshmallow stick. I reached for a slender, six-foot long maple branch. Greg didn’t approve on the basis that my stick was too long to be practical. The stick was slightly unwieldy, but I was smitten with the notion of roasting a marshmallow while reclining in my tired adirondack chair. I prefer to reserve “practical” for things like, well, for things that don’t involve marshmallows. Unfortunately, the tip of my roasting stick was nearly as thick as a marshmallow. “If you get me a utility knife, I’ll fix it for you,” Greg offered. The gentle glow of the fire deepened the lines on his face. He looked so serious. And so handsome.

I was back in a flash, and Greg got to work whittling the tip of my clumsy stick into a sharp point. It goes like this a lot with us. I get a half-baked idea. Greg does his best to talk me down using words like “practical”, “realistic”, and “sensible.” Sometimes he’s convincing, but when he’s not, he’s by my side as a loyal accomplice anyway. More important, he’s always there for me when my ideas don’t go exactly as planned, and I need someone to help me wash the marshmallow out of my hair.

And these nutty little biscuits are my thank you.

Hazelnut Brown Sugar Biscuits with Vanilla Bean Glaze

It’s a biscuit. It’s a scone. It’s a biscuit. You decide. The crumble is a riff on the dessert crumbs that are featured in Christina Tosi’s Momofuku Milk Bar cookbook. Consider making a double batch, it’s addictive stuff.

Ingredients

BROWN SUGAR CRUMBLE:

(or melted butter)

BISCUITS:

(or all-purpose flour)

VANILLA BEAN GLAZE:

Preparation

BROWN SUGAR CRUMBLE:

Preheat the oven to 300°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a Silpat.
In a medium bowl, combine the sugar, flour, baking powder, and salt. Add the oil and vanilla. Mix with a fork pressing the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients. Bring the crumble together with your hands and form small clusters. Sprinkle the clusters on the prepared sheet pan.
Bake for 20 minutes. Stir once halfway through and break up the clusters. The crumble will harden as it cools. Let cool completely. Store in an airtight container for up to two weeks.

BISCUITS:

Preheat the oven to 400°F. Line a large baking sheet with parchment paper or a Silpat.
Combine flour, baking powder, and salt in a mixing bowl. Using a pastry cutter or two knives, cut in 6 tablespoons butter. Stir in the milk. Bring the dough together with your hands. You want a soft but not sticky dough.
Turn the dough onto a lightly floured board and knead for 30 seconds. Roll the dough out into a 1/4-inch thick rectangle, 10 x 12-inches. Spread the remaining, softened butter over the dough. Evenly sprinkle the brown sugar crumble over the butter, followed by the hazelnuts.
Roll the long edge of the dough up, gently patting it as you roll so that it holds together. Lightly pinch the seam together and roll the finished log so that the seam is on the bottom. Cut the log into 1.5-inch thick slices. Lay the slices on the lined baking sheet about 2 inches apart. Give them a squeeze to tighten them up and shape them into rounds.
Bake for 18-22 minutes, until lightly browned on tops and dark golden on the bottoms. Allow to cool for 10 minutes on the baking sheet, then transfer to a wire rack.
When completely cool, drizzle the vanilla bean glaze over the tops.

VANILLA BEAN GLAZE:

While the biscuits are baking combine the milk and vanilla bean scrapings.
When you’re ready to glaze the biscuits, whisk in the salt and powdered sugar until completely smooth.

Makes 8 biscuits.

Speaking of nutty biscuits. How about these Whole Wheat Walnut ones?

Happy Hour and A Rhubarb Ginger Fizz

June 1, 2012

Guess what? It’s happy hour!

So. It’s five o’clock somewhere. Besides, you’re going to love this cocktail.

Oh stop, I’m making one for both of us. I’d originally planned to bake you a rhubarb cake. It’s got this dreamy lemon ginger filling and a brown sugar glaze.

Sorry! Well, I can still make it for you. It’s just that I thought you needed a cocktail more than you needed a cake.

Stop it. I didn’t say you were fat. What I said is that you need a cocktail. You’re little high strung lately that’s all.

I’m not judging you. Who wouldn’t be high strung if they were in your shoes? Seriously, I don’t know how you do it. You’ve had a lousy go of it these last six months. Okay, so here, try this and tell me what you think.

See? I told you.

No, I’m not always right. Just ask Greg. I wish…I wish I could do more for you. It’s hard to stand by and watch what you’re going through and not be able to help. I want so much to help you, to take care of you. It’s easy to see that you’re coming up dead last on your very long list.

Yes, I know. You’ll be fine. You’re always fine.

It’s rhubarb schnapps with a muddled strawberry. Oh and a little fresh ginger. Are you changing the subject?

Okay, I know, I’ll stop. It’s just that–I love you.

A refill? Sure, coming right up.

Rhubarb Ginger Fizz

Ingredients

rhubarb schnapps

(I used Stirrings brand bitters.)

(optional)

Preparation

Muddle the strawberry, sugar, and fresh ginger in a high ball glass.
Add the rhubarb schnapps, vodka, sweet vermouth, and bitters. Stir to combine.
Fill the glass with ice and top off with ginger ale. Finish with a fresh sprig of mint.

Our Bee Swarm and Malted Chocolate Granola

May 25, 2012

tags: Donna Hay, honeybees, malt

I’m downright giddy about this granola. I whipped it up Wednesday afternoon and ate a big bowl of it with strawberries and yogurt before the chocolaty oats even had a chance to cool. It’s sweet, but not cloyingly so, and that malt flavor is a return ticket to the best parts of my childhood. “Why don’t I use malt powder more often?” I thought as I scraped my way to the bottom of my first bowl. My plan was to snap a quick pic and immediately share it here with you. But life seldom goes as planned.

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

Preparation

Preheat the oven to 325°F.
In a large mixing bowl stir together the oats, coconut, seeds, malted milk powder, and cocoa.
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.
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.
Bake for 30-40 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes, until crisp.
Let cool completely. Store in an airtight container.

Makes 8 cups.

Bacon Brittle, Enough Said

May 18, 2012

tags: Charlie Brown, Devils on Horseback, Maldon Salt, reiki, risks

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

(I used a smoked maple bacon.)

(I used Maldon.)

Preparation

Chop the bacon into small bits about a 1/4-inch in size.
Butter a rimmed baking sheet or line it with a Silpat.
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.
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.
Allow the brittle to cool completely, then break into pieces. Store in an airtight container.

Makes about 3/4 pound.

Friendship and Rhubarb Almond Crumb Cake

May 7, 2012

tags: A Tuscan Foodie in America, Food52, friendship, Italy, mozzarella

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:

or all purpose

THE CAKE:

or all purpose

Equipment

8-inch, deep, fluted tart pan

Preparation

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter the bottom and sides of the baking pan.
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.
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.
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.