You may think I have gone off the rails by adding curry powder to cookies, but along with the ground and candied ginger, the combo really wakes up a classic American cookie.
The tart looks homey, but it's oddly sophisticated in its own way and not-so-oddly very satisfying, particularly after a hearty meal.
Every year for the holidays, Mormor would make her famous gravlax. It wouldn't have been Christmas without it.
This is the James Bond martini, named for Vesper Lynd, the doomed love interest in Casino Royale.
Our wine-making pal, Nan Bailey, is the local Tom Sawyer. At harvest time at her Alexis Bailey Vineyard we are all invited to lunch, but first we have to pick. Kids and bees are everywhere, and appetites build to farmhand stature by noon.
If you're going to take on an ambitious dessert, it had better look and taste spectacular. This is one of those creations — a dome of cake filled with alternating layers of almond and pistachio mousses, fresh raspberries, and finished with billows of whipped cream. It comes to the table looking like a great white snowdrift studded with fresh raspberries.
In this recipe, Nicoise olives are marinated in flavorful rosemary oil with masses of rosemary leaves, a simple technique that imparts a wonderful flavor to the olives and seems to intensify their own. The rosemary is cooked in the oil, so it keeps its green color for several weeks. Packed into French canning jars, these olives look like they were homemade in Provence. They make a perfect instant hors d' oeuvre with chilled wine or cocktails.
These are my rendition of my grandmother's sugar cookies, the ones she used to make for us every week, sprinkling the tops of the cookies earmarked for my brother and me with cinnamon sugar and the tops of those meant for our parents with poppy seeds. Actually this recipe is a composite of grandmother recipes, from mine and my husband's (with an Aunt Bertha recipe tossed in for good measure), all of which were written on small recipe cards and fingerprint-stained long before they came to me.
In our house, Chanukah means latkes, potato pancakes. All five of us love latkes. What's not to like about potatoes fried in oil? We always have them at least once on Chanukah; often more, as our kids clamor for them. Over the past decade, my husband, Jeffrey, became our household's chief latkemaker, in part, I think, in response to my tendency to try to make them a little healthier. "Lots of oil is key," he'll declare as I attempt to demonstrate that you can make "perfectly good" latkes with only a thin film of oil or, even worse, with cooking spray instead of oil. I have to admit that, while a minimal amount of oil does make "perfectly good" latkes, a substantial amount of oil makes perfect latkes.
We're always game for a good ceremonial burning.