There are some kitchen activities that lend themselves to metaphor. Even if you are not a cook, you will likely know what I mean if I tell you about someone getting roasted at work. Or how I steep in the silence of the early morning before anyone else is up. Or how I have an idea percolating on the back burner.

But then there are other activities that only come to mean more through seemingly endless repetition. Whether specific recipes, chores, or rituals, these processes tend to become very personal symbols that are hard to communicate to anyone else. It goes beyond dog eared cookbooks and even beyond consciously recalling a recipe from memory. The process becomes some kind of psychic extension of yourself. You do them not just to have food in the fridge but because the making  feeds your soul.

Making lemon curd is like that for me.

Every winter I not so patiently wait for the email notice from Local Harvest that meyer lemons and blood oranges are in season. I quickly order several boxes, always afraid that my favorites from Beck Grove will be sold out before I get any. It’s how I imagine the people camping in line for the newest tidbit of technology feel. About a week later, I hear the boxes thud by the door. For the next several weeks my time is spent processing 20 pounds of meyer lemons and another 25 pounds of blood oranges. Dried orange and lemon rings, citrus vinegar, “bloody” marmalade, limoncello… each year I seem to run out of fruit before I’ve finished preserving.

I love everything about preserving these fruits. From lining them up on my window sill against the steely winter sky to the blood red stains on my counter.This year I had the privilege of sharing that joy with one of my favorite people. Theodore helped me haul the heavy boxes up the steps and into the kitchen. He helped open the boxes and wasn’t the only one that squealed when the glowing yellows were revealed. It was with a small sense of loss that I let him carry one around the house, knowing that it wouldn’t be salvageable for any recipe after he was done with it. But the loss was recuperated as I got to watch his curiosity lead him to knead, squish, poke, roll, and taste that lemon. Now whenever he sees the lemons sitting on the counter, he insists whoever is at home come smell them, even the cats. I hope to be the kind of parent that will protect and foster that pleasure into his adulthood. Someone who sees such a gift in just the scent of a lemon would truly be a gift to the world.

But the part that speaks to my soul is making lemon curd. Somehow, I become the eggs that break. The lemons that are squeezed so hard they bleed. The butter that finds itself melting away with no way to come back. And I feel the whisking. Endless whisking. As I stand over the pot, I feel the flame a little to close to my hand, but I keep whisking. I feel the disturbance in my soul. Beaten to a froth and then beaten some more. Constant constant motion. Never reaching equilibrium. Ceaseless whirling. I begin to wonder when it will end. How long? How long? I don’t know how much more I can take.

Suddenly.

There’s a thickness that wasn’t there before.  The whisk moves more slowly, disturbing less with every stroke.  Things become still in the center of the pot. I can see the tracks of where I’ve been. The heat is removed. I can almost hear the curd take in its first breath. And I breathe more deeply too.

Is it any wonder that the result of this process is a food that I can’t seem to get enough of? Though it may be possible to point to all the good fats in the butter, the selenium in the pastured eggs, or the vitamin C in the lemon juice, I think there is more going on here than mere nutrition. It is soul food of a different dimension.

I was in denial about Nutella for quite awhile. It held great emotional significance for me. Capped under that white lid was countless sleepy mornings in the dorm packing my brown bag lunch next to my roommates. Swirled amidst the chocolate and hazelnuts was a rooftop picnic in Italy with crusty bread and fresh fruit. Sticking to the sides of the jar next to the reduced minerals whey….

Wait, what?

I told you I was in denial. Even though I’m an obsessive ingredient list reader, I refused to check the Nutella label for about two years. I didn’t want to know. In this one instance, I desperately wanted to believe the front of the label with the bright cheery apples and oranges next to toast spread with Nutella.

One day I took the plunge. I turned the jar around and read this label:

(For those of you who can’t read my jiggling-baby-on-hip-camera-phone-quality picture, the ingredients are: sugar, palm oil, hazelnuts, cocoa, skim milk, reduced minerals whey, lecithin, vanillin.)

Just as quickly I stuffed that memory down into my subconscious with miscellaneous childhood humiliations. I bought several more jars of Nutella over the next several months in this state of forced forgetfulness. Finally I had to be honest with myself; this was not the kind of food-like substance I wanted to eat.

While I’m sure if I looked hard enough I could find an artisanal chocolate hazelnut spread that some guy makes using nuts from his backyard and chocolate imported from his Swiss grandmother all packaged in a vintage heirloom glass jar, I have too strong of a DIY gene for that nonsense.

A quick check with Uncle Google revealed that homemade Nutella is nothing new. Still, none of the recipes were quite up to my real food standard. They either included massive amounts of sugar or dry milk powder, a product that gives me the heebie jeebies. Was it not possible to make a chocolate hazelnut spread that contained only whole fresh ingredients- ones that I’d eat separately anyway?

Happily, yes it most definitely is. With soaked and sprouted hazelnuts as a base, real cream, and no sugar other than what’s in the chocolate, this recipe is genuinely nourishing without sacrificing tastiness. Soaking and sprouting the nuts increases the availability of protein, vitamins, and minerals while decreasing the effects of nutrient inhibitor phytic acid. The resulting spread is not as creamy as store bought Nutella. Little nibbles of hazelnut remain, which I find quite enjoyable. If you’re seeking imitation perfection though, strain the spread through a fine mesh sieve before storing it in jars.

Have you ever happened to walk outside alone on Christmas Eve? It’s something of a private tradition of mine. On some pretext I leave the gathered family… must get something from the car…. anyone checked the mail?…just a moment. In that moment I step outside, the cold and the silence are indistinguishable. The chill cuffs my nose and swipes at my fingers. (I am inevitably under dressed, mistaking the warmth of good company for warmth of weather.)  The silence thumps against my ears as the door closes behind me. Everything is muffled, from the boisterous sounds of family inside to the thrum of traffic. There aren’t even any summer insects to break the silence. It is still. And cold.

In that moment I am aware of the weight of tradition. I feel the presence of Christmases past, both those I’ve been a part of and those that aren’t mine to remember. So much expectation, merry-making, disappointment, loneliness, and hope bound to one night hangs heavy in the damp dark air.

I know the mysteriousness is mainly an invention of my own mind. Perhaps that the same stillness could be felt on other nights if only I were to take notice. But still.

This cake reminds me of that moment I seek out every year. It is combines the warm spice of gingerbread decorating, the stillness of dark chocolate melting on your tongue, and the malty tang of a stout drink enjoyed with friends. And it is most mysteriously dark. Because I used part coconut oil instead of all butter, this cake will stay moist for several days. I like it iced with a frothy whipped cream cheese icing. The cake seems to need it, just as we need to celebrate the light during the darkest time of year. However, neither the cake nor the frosting are extremely sweet. If you’d like a sweeter rather than tangy frosting, feel free to add more honey.  I made my cake in a angel food cake pan, but I’m sure this would be beautiful baked in a more decorative bunt mold or even a simple loaf pan. (Note that this recipe makes 2 loaf cakes. If you just want one, cut the recipe in half.) Though if you do use a decorative pan, you might want to consider leaving it unfrosted and instead dusting it with some powdered sugar or even finely shredded coconut.

Sangria will always have a special hold on my taste buds. In my pre-married days I lived at a house where there was always a frosty pitcher of Sangria in the fridge. It was the accompaniment of many a weekend backyard cookout and afternoon share-more-than-you-meant-to  conversations. To this day I cannot make Sangria without thinking of my much cherished roommates.

This summer, however, while a sangria pitcher is not a stranger to my fridge, I needed something different. I’d been itching to try some of Mark Bittman’s adult ice pops and given my penchant for sangria, figured that would be a good place to start.

It was.

Normally part of the appeal of sangria is the wine soaked fruit at the bottom of the glass. But I wasn’t sure that would work for an ice pop, so I blended the juice in with the wine. While I personally used blackberries for this recipe, any berries (or fruit for that matter) would probably work. Although, if it’s something like peaches, you can probably skip the straining step.

I feel like this post ought to start with some quip about the inferiority of Fig Newtons and Pop Tarts. But anything I think of either sounds lame or pretentious. “Fig Newtons are only a figment of your imagination compared to this!” or  “Pop Tarts: the illegitimate child of a tart.” See? I told you– I somehow manage to be lame and pretentious (and slightly risque) at the same time.

But seriously, when this

is compared to this

who can resist being a little lamtentious?

The amounts for the filling of this tart (goat cheese, figs, ect) are just approximations. So use more or less of each ingredient to suit your tastes. The only thing I’d recommend is using a light hand with the lavender; if you overdo it your tart can end up tasting like perfume. Ideally the sliced figs would be about 1/4 inch thick. They lay better that way and are easier to eat. However, if you like me are wearing a wiggly baby, feel free to just cut them in half and be done with it.

Also, this recipe very nearly begs to be photographed. So, indulge with me in some more sexy food oggling:

Pie crust has always been a big deal to me.  My dear sweet Grandma Rolf was a pie making goddess from crust to crumbs. A visit to her house was never complete without some sort of pie, though most commonly it was a sweet spicy-scented apple pie that came out of her oven. As a child I didn’t realize what a perfect slice of Americana I was as I sat at the table digging into my warm apple pie and melty vanilla ice cream. I only knew it was good.

She set the bar high. When my friends would scrape out the filling and leave the crust behind, I was confused. The crust was my favorite part! It wasn’t until I tasted a commercially prepared crust that I understood and empathized with their behavior. When I became my own cook there was never even the option of a store bought crust. To do such a thing felt on the order of building a cold, tough, mealy sidewalk over her grave.

While I hear tell that my grandma used lard and butter for most of her pie baking days, near the end she had switched to an oil based crust because it was “healthier.” While this is probably the crust I grew up on so I can attest to its goodness, ironically I’m too uncomfortable with the unhealthy aspects of low quality vegetable oil to make it. So I had to start from scratch finding my own recipe.

That recipe I’ve never quite perfected. Working with butter and lard can be finicky. They need to be really cold (best if frozen) and stay that way (multiple stints in the freezer between steps). All this requires much forethought, planning, and big chunks of time. I have none of those things at this point in my Life With the Little. But I still wanted to make things with crusts… pies, quiches, tarts both sweet and savory. I still refused to buy crusts as even early motherhood doesn’t justify such brutishness to my heritage. (A little melodramatic you ask? Of course. But it’s times like these where a girl’s gotta hold on to some culinary ethics. After all, not everything can be all cheese toast and boiled eggs.)

Just a few days ago, I found myself craving quiche. (I’ve had more postpartum cravings than I did pregnancy cravings. Weird, right?) But my energy to make anything, let alone a good pie crust, lay sprawled on the floor next to my cat. I could not rouse it. For the first time I allowed my thoughts to roam to the oil crust. Would it really be so bad? Just this once? I never got far enough to answer that question because on its heels came another one. What if I just used a better oil? And then: Why have I never thought of this before?

Coconut oil makes a very nice crispy crust. If you are sensitive to coconut flavor, you might be able to taste the coconut. If this is a problem for you, you could just use this recipe for dishes that would benefit from a little coconut essence.

Olive oil and Gelato won’t make it. That’s what you’re thinking, right? They’re one of those couples that would rather bicker and roll their eyes at each other than anything else. They’re just too incompatible. One prefers to savor life, especially long leisurely meals full of good wine and even better conversation. The other, while sweet, prefers life on the go, rarely loitering around for anyone no matter how interesting.  How could such a couple ever resolve their differences?

With some quality time in the freezer I say.

The idea for this recipe was a result of a delightful saunter down memory lane. In college I participated in a Study Tour to Italy. It was there that I was introduced to both olive oil and gelato. I’d brushed shoulders with olive oil in salads and such of course, but I had never appreciated it as a food in it’s own right. In Italy, however, olive oil graced every table- lunch, dinner, and even breakfast- whether it was drizzled over pasta or pooled in a dish for dipping bread in.

Gelato was no less ubiquitous. Shops like this one seemed to be on every corner.

Unlike olive oil, I had no passing acquaintance with gelato, so our first meeting was without foreshadowing. My first night in Italy, a few of my friends and I braved the Roman streets in search of the nearest gelateria. We pointed and mimed our orders and then took our scoops outside. As we sampled each other’s flavors, I felt like the children in the Lickable Wallpaper room at Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. The espresso gelato tasted like a shot of espresso! The orange gelato tasted like oranges, not the fake orange flavor of Tang! Had there been a snazberry flavor, I have no doubt it would have tasted exactly like snazberries. Somehow the Italians had managed to distill the essences of the best food into their gelato.

So, when I was thinking of the best way to showcase olive oil, my thoughts naturally turned to the tables of Italy. And, as with any of my thoughts of Italian food, gelato was not far behind. And then it occurred to me- why not? Why not make an Olive Oil Gelato? It seemed true to all I had tasted and learned in Italy about food. Gelato let the essence of a food shine. No mix-ins, no extra flavors to distract the tongue. It made what was socially unacceptable, acceptable – eating olive oil straight off a spoon. Now the only problem was creating it.

A question to Mr. Google proved that as fresh as the idea of olive oil gelato was to me, it was not so original as I thought. It seems celebrity chef Mario Batali has been serving it in one of his restaurants for several years now. However, with recipes ranging from 1 to 2 cups of refined white sugar, there was still work for me to do. I substituted raw honey for the sugar, and because I think honey is much sweeter that sugar, I was able to cut it down to 1/2 a cup. However, from previous ice cream related research, I knew that the sugar content was what kept the gelato from turning into a solid block of ice in the freezer. To keep the creamy texture, therefore, I added a shot of limoncello, an Italian lemon liqueur, which I think compliments this Italian inspired treat beautifully. I’d imagine you could use any alcohol- from flavorless vodka to a strong brandy. Just don’t be tempted to add more than a shot, or else your gelato will never ever freeze. Also, unlike other ice cream recipes, this recipe begins with an emulsion instead of a cooked custard. Not cooking it not only allowed me to keep all the delicate (and heat sensitive) flavors of the olive oil intact, but also all the nutrition of the oil, egg yolks, raw milk, and cream. Because the emulsion is what keeps the gelato together, don’t skimp on the beating times, even though they seem long. The most important thing to remember in this recipe, however, is to use the best unrefined extra virgin olive oil you can get, because there is little else to disguise the flavor of a bland oil.

However you eat it, savor the rich taste of olive oil, but don’t dilly dally too long or your gelato will melt!