New Barbie is quite something. I had no idea how dramatically the fashion doll had changed until I sought one out at our local Target. Due to her upswing in popularity, pickings were slim. There was only one Barbie in the bunch who wasn't a mermaid, wasn't sporting rainbow Fantasy Hair and wasn't a pop star. The search for a no-nonsense Barbie was exhausting; so was trying to emancipate the doll from the hermetically sealed packaging. (It nearly cost me a finger.) In the end, New Barbie was an agreeable sort, stepping out of her denim shorts into yards of plastic wrap before being plunged into a bowl of vanilla ice cream swirled with rhubarb and raspberries. The doll stood perfectly still while I covered her in meringue rosettes, placed a candied rhubarb bow in her hair and snapped a photo. 

It's been a while since I've handled a Barbie doll. I've forgotten how tiny everything is; the snaps on her clothing, the plastic shoes that mold to her feet, the rubber bands that secure her ponytail in place. Somewhere, buried in a box that moved from NY to NJ to Philly and back again to NJ, are remnants of my Barbie collection, including knitwear and crocheted garments handmade by my grandmother. As of this writing, I was only able to unearth one stray box of odds and ends from my Barbie past. Amongst the corduroy jumper and pink sparkle sweater were a few "antiques." The cardboard television/stereo console, bookcase, lamp and blue ottoman from Barbie's original 1960s dream house were still standing. According to a recent NY Times article, apparently Barbie owned the dream house single-handedly. Good for you, Barbie.

It seemed only fitting that New Barbie should make herself comfortable in some vintage Barbie clothes, amidst some antique Barbie furniture. Should any future needs arise requiring Barbie to pop into a meringue filled pie plate, I'll know just where to find her.

When I was six, the Cedarhurst Bake Shop had a display case dedicated solely to Barbie cakes. I coveted a Barbie birthday cake, enrobed in white buttercream, festooned with blue botanicals. Traditionally, Jessie made my birthday cakes which honestly, were far superior in taste. But Jessie didn't "fuss" with buttercream roses and inscriptions which probably made the Cedarhurst baked goods more alluring. For my sixth birthday party, Jessie baked a towering white layer cake iced lavishly in whipped cream and decorated with maraschino cherries swinging from their stems. (I had a thing for Shirley Temples back then which ultimately led to my love of Manhattans; apparently red dye no. 2 didn't cause any lasting harm.) Jessie's cake was scrumptious and the envy of my classmates who only consumed commercially baked occasions cakes. Still, I was a bit crestfallen. 

The following year, my mother purchased Barbie cupcake 'picks' from Dennison Stationers in NYC and Jessie made both chocolate and vanilla cupcakes with two kinds of frosting. Decorated with the faux Barbies, the cupcakes were a big hit with my gal pals. For dessert that evening, my mother and Jessie decided I should have a Barbie cake from the Cedarhurst Bake Shop, blue roses and all. I was elated but honestly, a bit underwhelmed. The best part of the cake were the roses, piped in a shade of blue not found in nature. After dessert, the doll imbedded in the cake was washed and lived amongst the Barbies in my shiny black Barbie carrying case.
​
That was the first and last year of the Mattel-inspired cake. Jessie took up the reins once again, baking all the layers which she effortlessly filled and frosted with great swoops of chocolate or mocha buttercream; I loved coffee even then. I aligned myself with cake for every birthday, unlike my oldest brother who always requested Jessie's chocolate cream pie with freshly whipped cream and chocolate shavings. Sure, chocolate shavings are tasty but they can't hold a candle to a blue buttercream rose.

More about my Raspberry RhuBarbie pie coming up. We'll have to eat it tonight however, because Barbie is too tall to fit in the freezer and she's filled with ice cream...

If you stick around long enough, everything makes a comeback, even cottage cheese. A curd-centric cousin of farmer and pot cheese, the somewhat dowdy offering has circled back into the spotlight. My brand allegiance remains fickle, a reflection of my childhood. Breakstone, Sealtest, Axelrod and Friendship were on steady rotation in our fridge. Light and Lively poked its head into the mix for a brief visit in the 70s, but its low-fat content didn't align with Jessie's favorite cheesecake recipe. 

We enjoyed cottage cheese year round but particularly in the summer, teamed with cantaloupe and blueberries. It was also a quick/comfortable lunch regardless of the season, tangled up with egg noodles. My siblings preferred seasoning the creamy noodles with salt and pepper but I opted for a liberal sprinkle of cinnamon sugar. Closing my eyes between forkfuls, Lokshen mid kaese (Yiddish for noodles and cheese), almost tasted like cheesecake.

Cottage cheese is rich with history. The USDA sang its praises in the 1918 booklet, Cottage Cheese Dishes: Wholesome, Economical, Delicious. It was promoted as a cost effective alternative to meat during wartime and considered a creative appetizer option in The Sealtest Food Advisor of 1940.  In 1950, the American Dairy Association tempted 'homemakers' with the pamphlet Creative Cooking with Cottage Cheese. Lately, cottage cheese has been popping up with some regularity on-line and in print while also holding court as a social media darling. As someone who recalls color images of hollowed out cantaloupe halves, scoops of cottage cheese and canned fruit cocktail splashed across menus, I find this amusing. Once dubbed the "diet plate," you could find this rather isolated offering somewhere between overstuffed corned beef and pastrami sandwiches and just before rice pudding, cheesecake and egg creams. Baking/consuming a full size cheesecake seemed excessive in the summer heat so I slimmed down Jessie's recipe by half. Fitting neatly in a seven-inch springform, there was plenty of room across the top for a finish of melon and berries. Maybe not considered heart healthy by my cardiologist, but certainly a boost to one's state of mind.

Inspired by Toronto's Farm Boy market, sweet Ontario strawberries and tart rhubarb invited red currants to tag along in an open-faced pie. Rich in pectin and acidity, red currants help thicken a notoriously juicy filling.
And when you're working against the clock, I cannot say enough about Williams Sonoma Gold Touch pie plate which delivers a well baked, crisp bottom crust without the extra step of blind baking. 

Bright red currants are having their all-too-brief moment in the sun and at select farm markets; if you spot them, pick up a pint. They are particularly good added to stone fruit or berry pies, and highly coveted by jam makers. Most non-bakers associate red currants with jarred jelly served alongside savory dishes. The truth is currants add brightness to fruit desserts, in all seasons, but especially when stone fruits and berries are ripe for the picking. Which they are. Thankfully, I'll be returning to Toronto later this summer and can't wait to take advantage of Ontario's fruit bounty. In these instances, it's good to know folks who welcome you into their kitchens and happen to have rolling pins as part of their baking supply arsenal. Fortunately, there's a Farm Boy Market conveniently located a peach pit's throw from each of those kitchens.

If you're venturing out for produce this weekend, don't be surprised to find yourself swimming against the tide of peach seekers. The sweetest peaches won't hit their stride until later, but peach fans are impatient. They tend to jostle and elbow in their quest for the perfect clingstones, squeezing and sniffing with gusto before deciding yay or nay. One market table retaining a semblance of of order will be the table dedicated to the apricot. 

Dubbed praecocum by the Romans, it Is loosely defined as "precocious one." To be fair, apricots are temperamental; fragile, difficult to ship, too often picked before ripe and easily bruised. Apricots often get a bum rap because they don't scream summer the way peaches do. But devoted apricot lovers applaud the tart flavor and hint of almond tucked within the diminutive fruit. True, on more than one occasion apricots have broken my heart with a mealy interior and lackluster flavor. But teamed with sweet cherries, the two stone fruits complement each other, intensifying in flavor as they bake. The end result is not only jammy but bright, assertively tart in the best summer vacation kind of way.

A Guinness cake walks into a bar and orders one bowl of popcorn, one of peanuts and one of pretzels. The barkeep also brings a shot of whiskey. There are many ways to celebrate St. Patrick's Day but I can think of few better options than baking a dark chocolate Guinness Cake. You can ice it any which way you choose, bit I prefer salty caramel over cream cheese or ganache. And if you're feeling festive, caramel popcorn spiked with whiskey dresses things up nicely. Add some salted peanuts to the mix of dark brown sugar, maple syrup and your favorite whiskey, and party on until you decide to close down your favorite kitchen for the night. 

I will leave the Guinness cake recipe up to you (lots of choices out there), but here is the Whiskey Caramel Corn:
​
POPCORN
2 tbsp vegetable oil
1/2 cup  popcorn kernels
1/4 tsp. Diamond Crystal kosher salt or 1/8 tsp. table salt
2/3 cup lightly salted peanuts
​1/3 cup miniature salted pretzels
 
WHISKEY CARAMEL
1/2 cup unsalted butter
1 1/4 cups packed light brown sugar
1/3 cup light corn syrup or Lyle's Golden Syrup
1/4 cup whiskey 
3 tbsp pure maple syrup
3/4 tsp Diamond Crystal kosher salt, or 3/8 tsp table salt
1/2 tsp baking soda

1. Position oven racks in bottom and top thirds of oven. Preheat to 250°F . Line two baking sheets with parchment paper ; have two heatproof rubber spatulas or wooden spoons handy.
 
2. To make popcorn, heat oil in a large pot over medium-high heat until very hot; add popcorn kernels and shake the pot to form a single layer on the bottom. Cover, and reduce heat to medium once you hear the first pop. Shake pot a few times; listen for steady popping. Remove from heat once the kernel pops slow down to a few at a time. Transfer to an extra-large bowl or large roasting pan and sprinkle with 1/4 tsp. kosher salt or 1/8 tsp. table salt. Sprinkle with peanuts. You should have 12 to 14 cups.
 
3. To make caramel, melt butter in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add sugar, corn or Golden syrup, whiskey, maple syrup and 3/4 tsp. kosher salt or 3/8 tsp. table salt, stirring until combined. Raise heat to medium-high. Once mixture begins to boil, cook without stirring until mixture reaches 250°F, 4 to 6 minutes. Remove from heat; immediately add baking soda and stir until mixture foams then settles.
 
4. Pour over popcorn mixture. Using two heatproof spatulas, quickly stir to coat evenly. Sprinkle with  pretzels, if you wish. Divide among prepared pans and bake on top and bottom racks, stirring every 15 minutes, and switching and rotating pans until mixture is evenly coated and crisp, 30 to 45 minutes total. Remove from oven and cool completely. Caramel corn is best within first 3 days, but can be stored in an airtight container at room temperature up to 1 week.



Makes about 14 cups

The calendar flip from January to February triggers a food memory involving neither chocolate nor conversation hearts, but one of pineapple. A former stint turning out desserts in an Italian restaurant coincided with February 14th. Hours spent in tiramisu purgatory were paused to accommodate several cases of baby pineapples. The executive chef rhapsodized over a dessert for two; a baby pineapple, halved, scooped out, filled with oven-roasted pineapple, topped with gelato, garnished with cookies. Good news- mini pineapples lack a tough inner core. Bad news- they still require plenty of painstaking knife skills. Turns out that dunking Savoiardi in espresso is far less fuss. 

With the fruit resting comfortably in a large Cambro container, my attention turned to cookies. Biscotti played nicely, but Pizzelle, less so. Requiring a brief spin through an antiquated iron, the anise spiked waffle cookies were needy. The waffle iron was cranky, with a history of shorting out mid-bake. Pizzelle were finicky and fragile and popular amongst the line cooks. During service, the same person responsible for salads was the person plating desserts. (That always troubled me; pesto and pineapple sharing tight quarters.) Pleading with the kitchen crew not to snack on the cookies, I pitched my hours old cappuccino in defiance. Due to its popularity (with both patrons and back of house), the dessert special became a regular menu item, pausing only briefly when the Pizzelle iron drew its final anise scented breath.

A recipe suggestion tagged along with each case of baby fruit. One was no different than a recipe from a 1920s cookbook for "stewed pineapple compote." I incorportaed the compote into a classic Italian crostata, sandwiched between a short-crust pastry, aka pasta frolla. What makes this filling particularly appealing now is that it doesn't call for eggs, and if you opt for a cookie crumb crust, there's not much butter involved. I'd be lying if I didn't acknowledge that pineapples trigger some less-than-stellar memories for me. I'm still a little skittish around anise extract, Pizzelle irons and baby pineapples, but that's strictly a personal problem.
​

The Captain seated behind the Trader Joe's Customer Help desk assures me that both Peppermint Jo-Jos and Candy Cane Crunch Chocolate Bars are strictly seasonal items. Any hopes of dunking chocolate cookies sandwiched with peppermint cream into a cold glass of milk have been dashed. Like most shoppers steering their cart between dairy and produce, I am inevitably drawn to an expansive wall unit in the rear of the store, an area that pre-pandemic, was generously outfitted with coffee urns and small cups so you could caffeinate and shop simultaneously. Those were the glory days.  Over time, the wall became a haven for seasonal/feature items. Currently, the area is awash in orange. It seems that each time I peruse this display,  the oranges are assembled in a slightly new formation, a marketing ploy created as a subliminal pull of my coat sleeve, encouraging me to buy another bag.  These purchases have caused some disgruntlement at my house; namely between other members of the citrus family fighting for elbow room in an already congested refrigerator. Clementines, Satsumas, Blood Oranges, Tangelos, Valencias and Cara Caras leave little room for lemons and limes, let alone Ruby Red grapefruits. Sure, I could leave them sprawling all willy-nilly across the countertops, but I have my hands full just wrangling the mesh bags into a semblance of order. Crafty, I'm not, so repurposing them into kitchen scrubbies or gift wrap is highly unlikely.   

Freshly squeezed orange juice is a small luxury that my grandmother swore by. I don't remember oranges confined to mesh bags, more clearly I recall my mother pausing by a mountain of oranges at the A & P and hand picking each one, placing them in a large brown paper bag  What I vividly remember is the daily wake up call of the Sunbeam juicer, a steady whirr-pause-whirr as the machine reliably separated pulp from juice, always wanting a second glass because it was so delicious. It took a little digging but it appears that in the early 1960s, oranges sold for 89 cents/dozen.

As a family dedicated to breakfast sweets, our allegiance was to Jessie's cinnamon swirled sugar buns.  Crumb cake was something I enjoyed at a friend's house (hugely popular after slumber parties) but made infrequent appearances alongside my father's Chemex coffee maker.  Fortunately, my grandmother had a fondness for the occasional slice of Entenmann's crumb cake, and when she moved to  Florida, she would pick one up at the Publix, placing the box on top of her refrigerator for safe keeping.

I'm a devout believer in a cake-to-crumb ratio hovering near 50%. Spiking the cake batter with zest and a little orange juice (that has been reduced to concentrate the flavor) plays nicely against the sour cream cake. And though some might protest, you can add a thin layer of fruit or jam or curd, (all in the name of flavor and freeing up fridge space). But most critically, what distinguishes crumb cake from ordinary coffee cake is the heft of the brown sugar crumb. Ask any New Yorker and they'll tell you