For a long time, I’ve wanted to live in a city.

Two semesters in college have confirmed this. Sometimes I think Boston won me over just as much as the college tour. I see the parks as my quad, the neighborhoods as my library. When the sun dips, I love walking down the endless streets – light concentrates in the spaces between brick buildings, bathing the whole city in gold.

I like the way the sidewalks breathe at night. Even in the dark, people are everywhere, and insect wings glint under the streetlights. I love the way honking cars and buzzing neon signs become lullabies. In the morning, I wake up with the city. The bus exhales beneath my seat and happy smells waft out of the bakeries. Every day is new and full of possibility, of discovery and change. I feel alive.

My boyfriend I- isn’t like this. He appreciates the pizza parlors open until 2 am and enjoys late-night photography in Chinatown. But in the “real world,” he could never live somewhere with that many cars, with so many people.

He visited Seattle for the first time last week. I made sure we checked out downtown record shops and college student hangouts. But I-’s favorite things about Washington?

He loved driving east towards Fall City, where thick trees threaten to swallow the road. He’ll remember Snoqualmie Falls, the semi-decayed bridge we were too scared to cross, and the pie we ate at a tiny North Bend diner. He was impressed with rocky Mount Si and snow-capped Mount Rainier. And he liked our floating bridges.

He also liked my backyard. It’s large in proportion to our little house, wrapping around three edges of our home. One section is a grassy stretch, another features the stone path and garden Mom and Dad built two years ago, and the third area holds our herbs and vegetables.

There’s something magical about growing our own produce. Since our lettuce heads unfurled, I’ve eaten more salads than ever. We get on our knees to find the ripest strawberries, which are more tender and sweet than any grocery store berry. I like slicing them in half, pouring coconut milk over them, and sprinkling the top with raw oats. Food tastes better when it’s just picked, still sun warmed, still breathing.

Before we planted them in our garden, I’d never thought about red currants. Each berry is tiny, translucent, and unbelievably crimson. They’re a little sour and pop between your teeth. The morning every berry suddenly turned ripened, I picked currants until my fingertips and lips were perfumed red.

I have to admit that I don’t really know what to do with them. My mom and I picked every currant in a race against the birds, and now we have cups and cups of a fruit that remains a mystery to both of us. Our batch is a little too tart to eat raw but we don’t have any experience with cooking them. Mom simmered some into a syrup, and I swirled some into ice cream.

I dropped a tiny strawberry into the point of each cone (to seal the bottom.) The result? The last bite of ice cream cone includes a vanilla cream soaked berry. Amazing.

It takes a lot of currants to make not-so-much puree. I threw in a few of our strawberries to add sweetness, and some honey when strawberries weren’t enough. I layered the red berry puree with my favorite vanilla ice cream. The berries are so deep and vivid against the creamy white, freckled with black seeds, that I see galaxies and constellations in every scoop.

I spent an afternoon making gingersnap ice cream cones, and after an hour in the kitchen I was ready for fresh air. I went into the backyard to photograph them, and realized I didn’t want to go back in. The ice cream just tasted better outside. It made the berry swirl brighter and the vanilla more exotic, standing in the sun without a skyscraper or printed ad in sight.

I miss the bustle of living downtown, but I’ve learned something else. I want to eat like I’m tucked deep in the country. I don’t know how I’m going to make it work back in school, without soil or farm-fresh produce in sight.

For now, I’ll keep eating lunch outside, listening to the leaves rustle and feeling more alive than I have all summer.

This was my first time making ice cream cones! I made my own mold out of a semi-circle of cardboard, taped into a cone shape and wrapped in aluminum foil. The tuile batter is easy to make and pretty simple to bake. The hard part? Rolling them into cones.

The cookies were so hot when they came out of the oven, I could barely roll them around the mold. I tried wearing oven mitts, but really – you might as well not have fingers when they’re under that much fabric. In the end, I had some really tasty gingersnap cones that were completely open at the bottom. I dropped a tiny stemmed strawberry into the cone before topping with ice cream, and when I got to the last few bites, the vanilla cream soaked berry was magical.

Red Berry Swirl Ice Cream
Adapted from David Lebovitz
Makes a quart

Vanilla Ice Cream
1 cup (250ml) whole milk
A pinch of salt
3/4 cup (150g) sugar
1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
2 cups (500ml) heavy cream
5 large egg yolks
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Red Berry Swirl
8 oz red berries (I used 5 oz red currants, 3 oz strawberries)
1 1/2 tablespoons of honey (to taste, may be more or less)

First, make the vanilla ice cream. Heat the milk, salt, and sugar in a medium saucepan. (I waited until I saw the liquid steaming.) Scrape out the seeds of the vanilla bean with a paring knife and add to the milk, along with the bean pod. Cover, remove from heat, and let infuse for an hour.

Set up an ice bath by placing a 2 quart bowl inside a large bowl partially filled with water and ice. Put a strainer on top of the smaller bowl and pour in the cream.

In another bowl, stir the egg yolks together. Reheat the milk until warmed, then gradually pour some hot milk into the yolks, constantly whisking to keep the eggs from scrambling. Once the yolks are warmed, scrape the yolks and milk back into the saucepan and cook over low heat. Stir constantly and scrape the bottom with a spatula until the mixture thickens into a custard that coats the back of the spatula.

Strain the custard into the heavy cream and stir the mixture until cooled. Add the vanilla extract and refrigerate until thoroughly chilled, preferably overnight.

Meanwhile, make the red berry puree. Combine the berries and honey in a small saucepan over medium heat. Stir and mash with a spoon, bringing the mixture to a boil. Reduce the heat to a simmer and continue to cook until the berries are soft, about 10-15 minutes.

Press the puree through a very fine sieve into a bowl. Press down to get all the juice out, leaving behind the seeds. Cool to room temperature and store in the fridge in an airtight container until ready to use. (It’ll keep this way about a week.)

When you’re ready to churn the ice cream, remove the vanilla bean from the custard and freeze in an ice cream maker. Pour a third of the churned ice cream into a container, smooth the top with a spatula. Spread 1/2 of the berry puree over the ice cream. Top with half the remaining custard. Smooth the top and spread the remaining berry puree over it. Finally spread the last of the custard over the puree.

Freeze the ice cream until solid. When you drag the ice cream scoop through the container, the layers of berry puree will swirl through.

Printer-Friendly Version – Red Berry Swirl Ice Cream

Gingersnap Cones
Just barely tweaked from David Lebovitz
Makes eight 6” cones

1/4 cup (60 ml) egg whites (about 2 large egg whites)
7 tablespoons + 1 teaspoon (90 g) sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp ginger
1/4 tsp nutmeg
2/3 cup (90 g) flour
2 tablespoons (30 g) unsalted butter, melted
1 tablespoon mild molasses

Preheat the oven to 350 F.

Combine the egg whites, sugar, and vanilla in a small bowl. Stir in the salt, spices, and half of the flour. Mix in the melted butter and molasses, then stir in the rest of the flour until smooth.

Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Use a small offset spatula to spread 2 level tablespoons of batter into a circle with a diameter of 6″ (15 cm). I traced the circles onto the underside of the parchment to get even circles, and I was able to bake two per sheet. The smoother and more even your rounds, the prettier your cones will look.

Bake one sheet (two cones) at a time. Start checking after 10 minutes, but depending on your oven, the baking time will be 10-15 minutes. The cookies will be golden brown throughout, with some lighter and darker spots.

Pull the sheet out of the oven and run a thin metal spatula under a circle to loosen the edges. Quickly flip it over and roll it around the cone shaped mold. Press the seam firmly against the counter to close the sides of the cone, and press the bottom together to pinch the point at the bottom. Let the cone cool slightly on the mold until it keeps its shape, then let it cool completely in a tall glass. Roll the other cone (if the cookie has cooled too much to roll, return the sheet to the oven for a minute.)

Continue to bake and roll cones with the remaining batter.

Printer-Friendly Version – Gingersnap Cones

Pulled pork tacos. Mexican cokes in slim, tapered glass. A bowl of kumquats, gem-like, straight from tree to counter. And food trucks selling $21 foie gras PB & J sandwiches – welcome to LA!

It’s not my first time in the city of angels. I came at 15 with a couple friends, but the trip was forgettable. We stuck to downtown, mostly malls, and the Sunset strip. We tried to find celebrities and instead lost the chance to really dig into LA. Where were the farmer’s markets and neighborhood dives? Where were the local vendors? Where was the character? It’s no wonder the state left a bland taste on my tongue. California, that colorless word.

As a result, I spent the last four years telling people, “Oh, I don’t really like LA.” When pressed for reasons, I said the city was superficial, and for good measure, “I like seasons.” But I couldn’t resist when C-, an LA-based friend from college, invited me to stay and visit. I resolved to make this trip different, if I had to eat my way across California to do it.

I admitted defeat two days later, the car parked on a ridge overlooking all of LA. The sun had dipped past the horizon. The palm trees I thought looked so silly became unexpectedly beautiful against the blackening sky. As night fell, millions of lights edged the foothills, the city actually shimmering like a mirage. “Okay,” I told C-, who had known all along that I’d be easy to break. “I kind of love this.”

Maybe it’s naïve to think there’s a “real LA” to discover, but I’ve felt it everywhere. I waited in line for cheap, cheap tacos piled with cheddar in Culver City. In Santa Monica, I fell in love with a fashion designer’s tiny house, decorated with lime green plastic couches and funky glass lights. C- and I had dinner in a Hollywood club with a full jazz/swing orchestra. Unbelievable.

It’s hard to call California bland while you sip watermelon-rosemary lemonade, nibbling the last bit of salted caramel macaron.

When C- goes to work, I take advantage of California produce. His parents graciously opened the whole house to me, saying that every ingredient and kitchen counter was available. When I opened the fridge and saw quality coconut milk, spice flecked pumpkin butter, fresh avocado and more cherries than I could eat, my fingertips began to itch. I found their food processor, pulsed the butter, and had a tart crust chilling in the fridge in a heartbeat.

While I was in school, I bookmarked hundreds of recipes I wanted to try but couldn’t make. No tools, time, or ingredients there – but here the afternoon was mine. Right away I knew I wanted to tackle a white balsamic custard tart, topped with a mosaic of fresh berries.

C-’s kitchen is a lot bigger than mine. I opened almost every cabinet and drawer trying to find white balsamic vinegar. I felt vaguely like I was robbing the house, but they’d specifically said I could look around. Finally, tucked in the corner of a slim cabinet, I found a raspberry blush white balsamic vinegar. It was even better than I could have expected.

A few turns of the whisk, some gentle heat on the stove, and a yolk-colored custard came together. Opening the plastic cartons of raspberries honestly felt like unwrapping rubies. I snuggled the berries around the perimeter of the crust, circling the custard, one plump blackberry topping the center.

I was worried the balsamic vinegar would be too sour, but instead, the custard’s flavor is tangy and elusive. If I hadn’t baked it myself, I’d have no explanations for the mystery ingredient. Not citrusy enough to be lemon or sweet enough to be yogurt, but unusually pleasant. Paired with the fresh berries and buttery crust, the tart didn’t disappoint.

There’s a little less than half the tart remaining, and a full seven days to spend in California. Will there be any leftovers after my trip to the Hollywood farmer’s market? When I get back from Disneyland? Who knows, but I don’t mind. More raspberries magically appeared in C-’s fridge this morning. I can’t wait to see what else LA offers.

No, you don’t need a bottle Italian raspberry blush white balsamic to make this tart. But don’t be tempted to skip out on the balsamic vinegar. It’s just so interesting and unlike anything I’ve ever made. It’s also lovely with the fresh berries.

Next time I might try a different crust recipe. This one was delicious, but a little too crumbly. C- didn’t have any tart pans with removable bottoms, so I used a regular pie dish. Maybe that’s why I had a little trouble nudging each slice out of the pan. Oh well – still delicious.

Berry-Topped White Balsamic Custard Tart
Barely tweaked from Bon Appetit
Makes a 9″ tart

Crust
1 1/4 cups all purpose flour
3 tablespoons sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) chilled unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1 large egg yolk
3/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 tablespoon whipping cream

Custard
1/2 cup whipping cream
1 1/2 tablespoons cornstarch
2 large eggs
4 large egg yolks
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 cup raspberry blush white balsamic vinegar
3/4 cup water
3/4 cup sugar
1/4 (1/2 stick) butter
Fresh berries to top

Pulse the flour, sugar, and salt a couple times in a food processor to combine. Add the cubes of butter and pulse until the mixture forms little balls, like coarse meal. Add the yolk, extract, and cream, and pulse just until a dough comes together.

Press the dough into a 9″ tart pan with a removable bottom (I used a ceramic pie dish and it worked out okay.) Prick all over with a fork and chill for at least an hour.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Bake the crust until golden, about 20 minutes. Check carefully – the very edges of mine burned because I wasn’t paying attention! If the crust has bubbled up at all, use the back of a spoon to press it down. Let the crust cool completely.

To make the custard, whisk the cream and cornstarch together until lump-free. Whisk in the eggs, yolks, and vanilla until blended. Boil the vinegar in a small saucepan until reduced by half, to 1/4 cup. Add the water, sugar, and butter, and heat until the butter melts and the mixture returns to a boil.

Working slowly, gradually whisk the vinegar mixture into the egg mixture. Return to the pan and heat until the custard thickens and boils, about a minute. Strain into a bowl and let cool. Spread the custard into the tart crust and smooth with a spatula. Cover and chill for at least 3 hours or up to a day.

Top the tart with fresh berries and chill until ready to serve.

Printer-Friendly Version – Berry-Topped White Balsamic Custard Tart

So I’m officially a college sophomore. Could my freshman year have gone by any faster?

After classes ended, I headed up to Maine to spend a week with my boyfriend I- and his family in the pine tree state. My last trip was full of snow and bluster, but this time, sunlight broke through the morning fog and the coastline couldn’t be bluer. Maine is beautiful in the spring – all crabapple blossoms and forsythia flowers. It makes you want to grab plastic sunglasses, tumble through grassy fields, and buy fish and chips from the roadside seafood shack.

The food in Maine is good. My theory is that the town is so small, your business has to be solid or people won’t come back. In the mornings I ate eggs, sunny-side up, blueberry pancakes, home fries and chewy bacon. I tried a sweet potato and carnitas burrito (mind-blowing) and a triple-decker crab BLT. For dessert, we gorged on soft-serve hot fudge sundaes.

The food at I-’s home was delicious too. My first night there, I practically inhaled my dinner. It was such a comfort to eat a hot, home-cooked meal that didn’t come out of a can or a microwave. For dessert, I-’s mother gave me a spoonful of strawberry rhubarb crisp and a generous scoop of ice cream.

“By the way,” she added casually, “the rhubarb is from the garden.”

I can count the number of times I’ve eaten rhubarb on one hand. I know it’s not an uncommon ingredient, but we don’t grow it, and my family generally passes it as overpriced in the grocery store. Rhubarb is a luxury for me, something that elicits oohs and ahhs. “Will you make it again with me?” I asked.

I-’s family has made this crisp for years. I-’s mother pulled a card from a tightly packed box of recipes. His parents cut the recipe out of a newspaper 30 years ago – the paper is yellow and faded, and they can’t remember which paper it came from anymore. The clipping is full of cross-outs, changes and substitutions as they made the recipe their own over the years. I told them that made it officially theirs.

She cut a bunch of rhubarb from the plant outside. They sat on the counter, striped red and pink and cream, billowing into dark green leaves. I couldn’t believe how vivid and thick the stalks grew. Then I tried fresh rhubarb for the first time. I bit off an end, gnawing down the fibers, and slowly chewing. It was definitely more bitter and stringy than I’d expected, but I dipped the end into sugar and discovered tangy bliss. I-’s mother peeled off the rhubarb skins, like glossy ribbon on a birthday present.

We tossed the rhubarb chunks and strawberry halves into a bowl, and let them macerate in sugar and their own juices.

After dinner, I made the topping with I-’s father. He popped the butter in the microwave until it was just shy of melty. I used my fingers to rub it into the almonds, oats, and flour. Together, we tumbled the fruit into a pan, blanketed it in crumble, and slid the dish into the warm oven. “It’s that easy!” he said, smiling at me.

As the fruit bubbled and I walked up the stairs, I realized how much I’d missed family time in the kitchen. It’s not just about good food, though I ached for that too. I missed the intimacy of standing side by side at the counter, slicing potatoes and whisking salad dressing. I haven’t danced around my parents in so long, the three of us weaving among each other to grab pots and pans in our too-small kitchen. I suddenly wanted to sit at the dinner table after a long meal, listening to water run while my mother filled the dishwasher, a sleeping dog against my toes.

In my year away, I’d started to forget that family is the smell of simmering beef broth, and that home is the warmth of hot oven air. I called my mom, dad, and grandma that night. As much as I loved Maine and half wanted to stay forever, deep down I also wanted to see my family.

I’m home at last. I already long for the bustle of Boston. Sometimes I get bored without the rush of classes, work, and extracurriculars. I miss my friends, my roommate, and especially I-.

But Seattle is sunny and even greener than I remembered. I love the familiar murmur of rain on the roof at night, the way the towering trees nestle around our house. When I came home my mother showed me around the yard, pointing out where the groundcover had spread and the plants that had burgeoned forth.

She led me to the vegetable garden, dotted with slender green stems and tiny leaves. I saw the apple trees, lush and fragrant with blossoms – I can’t wait to see the branches bowed over with ripe fruit. But most hopeful of all? Our strawberry plants, which have seriously flourished, carpeting the entire ground.

They make me crave rhubarb.

Strawberry Rhubarb Crisp
An I- Family Original
Makes a 9×9″ pan

Crisp Topping
1 cup toasted slivered almonds
1 cup flour
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
Pinch of salt
8 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
1/2 cup oatmeal

Fruit Filling
6 stalks rhubarb
1 1/2 pints of strawberries
6 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons flour

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Combine flour, brown sugar, salt, oatmeal, and almonds. Mix the softened, room temperature butter into the flour mixture with a fork or with your fingers until crumbly.

Peel off outer skin of rhubarb and cut off the ends. Cut stalks in one-inch pieces, enough to make three cupfuls. Hull the berries, cut in half. Toss fruit together with the sugar and flour until evenly coated. Place the fruit in a 9×9″ baking dish. Sprinkle the topping evenly over the fruit. Bake for 1 hour, or until bubbly, brown and crisp.

Printer-Friendly Version – Strawberry Rhubarb Crisp

I’ve wanted to be a journalist ever since the 9th grade. My reasons then were few but passionate – I wanted to use the written word to uncover the truth, to change my community, to travel and inspire and burgeon forth with knowledge. My sense of direction grew stronger with every internship and workshop. When I left Seattle for Boston, I left as a journalism major.

But ever since I got here, I’ve been tainted with doubt. I ignored it for months and tried to enjoy my journalism classes. They sent me into the city for man-on-the-street interviews and to city hall for public records. I learned how to use cameras and microphones to record audio and video packages. And though I’ve loved hearing my voice on the radio and coming up with stories, I don’t like where I’m headed.

The reality I have to face is this – I don’t like hard news. Sifting through police reports, breaking essential details into short graphs, learning the broadcast aspects of journalism necessary to survive today’s newsroom… This isn’t for me. But when you’ve been so sure of your path for so long, the thought of starting fresh terrifies.

I scheduled a visit with my academic advisor. We looked over my schedule for next semester (which was limited, since I’m studying abroad in Europe in the fall). I was clearly less than enthused about the journalism class I’d be taking, the next step on the journalism major ladder. He folded his fingers into a triangle on his desk, leaned forward and asked, “What do you want to do with your life?”

“Well, I want to write,” I said. “I’m interested in freelancing for different magazines, maybe writing a column.”

“Yes,” he interrupted, tapping his pencil on the course catalogue. “Half the kids here want to write. But think about it, seriously. What are you really passionate about?”

That’s when I realized I already knew. Maybe I’d known all along. I flipped to a junior-level class – Creative Writing: Nonfiction Travel Writing – and declared, “This is where I want to be.”

He leaned back in his chair and shrugged his shoulders, like, that’s that. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be a journalism major, if you’d like to get into that class. You know, the only one you seem genuinely excited about.” He handed me a major change form and said, “Mull it over.”

I walked out of his office shaking. Daunted by the work that changing my major conjured. Scared of making the wrong choice. I headed to the mailroom to pick up a package that had arrived for me, trusting my feet to take me there while my head spun.

I don’t frequently receive packages, and at that moment I was unprepared for the lovely surprise that was Heidi Swanson’s (of 101 cookbooks fame) new cookbook, Super Natural Every Day. I tore off the paper as the elevator lurched, and I was already flipping through when I got to my floor.

The cookbook was a relief. This was familiar, well-traveled territory, a path I’d always know was right for me. This cookbook was like breathing.

I worked my way through the sections. Every page offered breathtaking photos, Heidi’s beautiful writing, and recipes that made me want to be a more wholesome eater. I was starved for cookbooks, having left my entire collection at home. This one satisfied a hunger sorely missed. The sides of the book became frilly with scraps of paper, marking the recipes I wanted to try first. I couldn’t bear to dog-ear the corners.

I settled on Heidi’s Honey & Rose Water Tapioca, and walked to the store.

I made the pudding using the stovetop in the common room. I left out the rosewater and used raspberry blossom honey, but otherwise stuck true to Heidi’s recipe. Everything about this all-milk, honey-sweetened dessert comforted. While the common room emptied bags of Fritos and put on a movie, I stirred constellations of tapioca pearls. The custard slowly thickened and the pearls grew plump and opaque. Sometimes people asked what I was making, and the floor taste-tested with plastic spoons.

As the dessert set, inspiration came. I grabbed a notebook and scrawled down the phrases that came to mind – “raspberry honey marries with a flurry of lemon zest,” “bright and wholesome,” “creamy pudding studded with chewy tapioca beads.” Writing and food are inseparable, and good food puts my pencil to paper.

I smoothed the pudding into some Tupperware and looked again at the notebook. Maybe my path has always been this obvious… It just took a little trial and error to figure it out.

The paperwork is official. When people ask what I’m studying, I don’t hesitate to say, “I’m a writing major with a minor in journalism.” And I swell with joy every time.

Maybe somewhere down the road, I’ll try to design my own major. I’ll combine elements of print journalism with writing and publishing and some solid English literature. It isn’t completely clear yet, but I have faith in myself. For now, I’ll enjoy my summer, spend a sleepless semester in Europe, and continue to write and eat.

[PS: I also have some incredible news to share! I've been invited to speak at BlogHer Food '11, on a panel with my Kitchen Generation co-founders about food blogging and the younger crowd. I'll finally get to meet my fellow teen food bloggers in person after a year of Skype chats. I'll get to meet scores of food bloggers I truly admire. I almost can't contain myself.

The conference is May 20-21 in Atlanta, Georgia, and there's still time to register. Maybe I'll see you there?]

This tapioca pudding brings back childhood with a decidedly sophisticated twist. It’s thick, creamy, and full-bodied, brightened with lemon zest. The flavor of the honey really shines through true, so pick a milk honey with a flavor you like enough to lick off the spoon.

Make sure to use small pearl tapioca, not instant tapioca. I found a box for $2.99 at Whole Foods (that’s also where you can pick up raspberry honey and rose water.) Bob’s Red Mill small pearl tapioca is a good brand.

The only thing I’d suggest is to make sure the lemon zest is very fine so the texture of the pudding stays utterly smooth.

Raspberry Honey Tapioca
From Heidi Swanson’s Super Natural Every Day
Serves 4-6

3 cups / 710 ml milk
1/3 cup / 2.5 oz / 70 g small pearl tapioca
2 large egg yolks, lightly beaten
1/4 tsp fine-grain sea salt
1/3 cup / 80 ml mild honey (I used raspberry honey)
Grated zest of 1 small lemon
1/4 to 1 tsp rose water (I left this out)
Chopped toasted pistachios or sliced raspberries to garnish

Soak the tapioca in 1 cup / 240 ml of the milk in a medium, heavy saucepan for 30 – 60 minutes. Whisk in the yolks, salt, honey, and remaining milk.

Bring the mixture barely to a boil over medium-low heat, stirring. This will take about 15 minutes. Decrease the heat so the mixture gently simmers, stirring constantly, for another 20 minutes or until the tapioca is fully cooked (this depends on how large your tapioca pearls are.) The tapioca is fully cooked when the pearls swell up and are nearly translucent – tasting is the best way to tell. The pudding itself will also thicken into a custard. Continue to taste and stir, preventing the tapioca from scorching.

Remove the pan from the heat, stir in the lemon zest, then let the pudding cool (it will thicken a bit.) Stir in the rose water, if using, and wait another few minutes. Heidi likes to eat it warm, topped with pistachios, but I liked it cold, with fresh raspberries.

Printer-Friendly Version – Raspberry Honey Tapioca

One of the most important lessons I’ve learned so far second semester? Bundle up. Sometimes when I step outside it hurts to inhale, like the breath freezes in my lungs. Snow packs into the spaces between bricks.

The other morning I took an extra long, extra hot shower and found myself running late to class. I got dressed, swept up my books, and headed for the elevator. I didn’t give my towel-dried hair a second thought until I was on the sidewalk. I couldn’t have been outside longer than a few minutes, but when I got to the classroom, my skull was so cold it burned. My hair had frozen solid, waves of ice brushing against my cheeks.

When the temperature is in the single digits, I try not to leave my building. But between classes and shifts at the restaurant, I’m getting the full New England winter experience.

Way back in September, one of the things I immediately loved about Boston was its color palette. Seattle is splashed grey and green and blue, with chrome and glass and buildings that reflect the clouds. While it’s gorgeous and familiar, Massachusetts was a welcome change. Boston is all brick and gold and off-white, rich with history and equally beautiful. But four months later the cars and streets and trees are burdened with dirty snow, and that’s all I notice.

I walk to work with the same philosophy I have towards other unpleasant things – get it over with quickly. Salt crystals crackle beneath my boots every step of the way. Scarf, gloves, earmuffs, two coats and a pair of tights under my jeans… Every accessory means the longer it’ll take me to change into uniform once I get there.

When my shift ends long after midnight, the sidewalks are quiet and clear. Sometimes a fresh blanket of snow has fallen and untouched white stretches in all directions. The air is just as chilly before, but windless, and the street feels unreal. I’ve caught myself standing in the restaurant’s doorway, breathless, suddenly reminded why I love living here.

The walk home is so dark, it’s like a different set of streets. The blackness swallows up the lampposts, so the bulbous orange lights seem suspended in midair. Taxi headlights cut through the darkness in wide, white sweeps. I watch my breath curl into itself and dissolve up towards the sky, which is either greyed purple or orange thanks to light pollution.

Boston is painted with an entirely different color theme at 1 AM. And as I walked home last night, past leafless trees embossed with snow, I suddenly thought of semifreddo.

When the semifreddo is made, a quick custard folded with whipped cream, it’s marshmallowy and soft. But after an overnight freeze, it becomes an entirely different dessert, with the creamy richness of ice cream. And this semifreddo has a gorgeous color palette, too. The base is flavored with dry white wine and a hint of orange, the color of eggshells. Every slice is studded with vibrant dried cranberries and sharp crystalized ginger, like gems held up to the light.

I realize it’s still the dead of winter, but I’m one of those people who orders iced coffee and eats gelato all year. I can get home from work, clap my snow-packed boots together, and enjoy a cold fruit smoothie straight from the fridge. I’m one of the lucky people who happily makes semifreddo whenever the whim strikes. This dessert is unusual and beautiful, worth a hurried walk through the chill.

Ginger, Almond, and Dried Cranberry Semifreddo
Adapted from Bon Appetit
Makes a 9×5” “loaf”

8 large egg yolks
2/3 cup sugar
1/2 cup dry white wine
2 tablespoons grated orange peel
2 3/4 cups chilled whipping cream
1/3 cup almonds, roughly chopped
1/3 cup dried cranberries, roughly chopped
1/4 cup minced crystallized ginger

Line a 9x5x3 inch metal loaf pan with plastic wrap, leaving a 3 inch overhang on all the sides.

In a medium metal bowl, whisk together the egg yolks, sugar, and white wine. Set the bowl over a saucepan of simmering water, making sure the bottom of the bowl does not touch the water. Whisk constantly until a candy thermometer registers 160 degrees F, about 5 minutes. Remove the bowl from heat and beat with an electric mixer until cool and thickened, about 5 minutes. Beat in the orange peel.

Whip the cream in a large bowl until peaks form. Add the egg mixture and gently fold together with a rubber spatula. Fold in the almonds, cranberries, and ginger. Transfer the mixture into the prepared pan. Fold the overhanging plastic wrap over the top so the semifreddo is completely covered. Freeze overnight.

When ready to serve, turn the semifreddo out onto a plate and peel off the plastic wrap. Let it stand 5 minutes to slightly soften, then serve in slices.

Printer-Friendly Version – Ginger, Almond, and Cranberry Semifreddo

Dear Mom and Dad,

I know it’s been a while. A long while. I’m sorry that I’ve stopped sending daily photos – it’s because I don’t have any photos to send. And I know I haven’t called in weeks. Every day is a jumble of classes, radio, clubs, essays, work, and somehow the things I used to be so passionate about have been pushed aside in the struggle. But I also know how much I care about you, and more importantly, you know it too. Four days until I fly home.

Dad, it was so good to see you over Thanksgiving. I opened the car door and saw you standing in the garage. You just looked at me like you were seeing sunlight for the first time in months. I had just woken up; I didn’t care that you were in work clothes and covered in dust when I fell into that hug. I love that it didn’t take more than ten minutes for one of your smart aleck comments to get on my nerves. You probably missed the way I roll my eyes.

I missed your cooking. I was glad you remembered I like my spaghetti swimming (drowning) in tomato sauce, even though I knew you wouldn’t forget. Did you see how quickly I shoveled that potato-celery root puree down? Yes, I was hungry, and no, they don’t cook food like that in our dining hall. But what really made it good was the way it tasted like twilight on the patio, too many dishes on the counter, the warmth of a dog under the table. Even though I slept for two days straight that week, it was good to be home.

Also, it was fun kicking your butt in Wii boxing.

Mom. I can’t believe I haven’t seen you since August. When we parted, our red currants were still in season and it was so hot in Boston, I almost passed out that afternoon at the T station. Now, the metal spokes of my umbrella are mangled from wind and my rubber rain boots have split along the sides. We’ve had little flurries of snow, but I still stubbornly wear sundresses to class. You’d throw a fit if you saw me walk out like that. I’d point to my tights, and you’d tell me to put on another coat. (You’d be right.)

I always think about the last time I saw you. We were sitting in Neptune Oyster, having our last dinner together. I had finished eating a while ago, but I kept watching you pick at your calamari. I couldn’t bring myself to get up and leave because I knew I would be gone for good. There was no chance of me saying it aloud, but I was terrified. I remember our last hug, and rushing to leave before it overwhelmed me. The last thing I remember is your face – so conflicted.

I know you stress. I hear it in your voice when we talk on the phone, even though you try not to mention your anxieties. You’re worried I’m not eating right, not sleeping enough, working too hard. Maybe. But I hope you know I’m happy despite everything. I’ve grown up a lot in a semester, in most ways for the better. I can’t wait to make you proud with what I’ve accomplished.

The first half of my freshman year went by in a blink. The other day I got in an elevator with the director of undergraduate admissions. He recognized me, and he was seriously interested: was the school a good fit? Was I finding a good balance between challenge and creativity? I told him I was. When I visited in April, I was uncertain. Today, I am sure.

Dad, when we flew out six months ago to check this place out, you remember how much I liked the radio station and the internship opportunities. I was impressed with the students I met and the professors I spoke with. But sometimes I think the decision really came down to… nougat.

It was spring, and cherry blossoms lined the North End like pale pink bridesmaids. We were walking down the brick streets when we saw a huge group of people standing outside Modern Pastry. We’d never heard of it, but we figured we couldn’t argue with a wait like that. When we finally got into the bakery, we bought a bar of nougat – simple, unassuming, and a little out of our comfort zone.

The first bite. Sticky sugar on our fingers and the way every piece melted in our mouths. I thought I’d never had anything so good before. We fought over the last bite. I can’t remember who let who have it. I don’t go into the North End as often as I’d like, but I never forget that nougat.

I tried to recreate it myself, a version with orange blossom water and pistachios. It was, well, utterly inedible. Recipes involving candy thermometers are my weakness, so the nougat never came together. Even after I stuck it in the fridge, it was a sticky disaster, caught between solid and liquid, and a total waste of nuts. It did make me laugh.

But I still had half a bag of pistachios, so I split their shells and poured whole milk into a saucepan. A good fit for another Italian dessert, gelato. Elegant, subtle, and a buttery green, it captured the spirit of my favorite nut perfectly. I also had a bag of frozen blackberries – remember how we picked them over the summer? – so I thought I’d make a blackberry creamsicle sherbet too. It turns out, blackberry and pistachio go beautifully together, the nuttiness of one balancing the sweetness of the other.

Maybe I’ll try the nougat again when I’m home. But most likely not. I’ll spend every day with you two, Mom and Dad, and with Grandma (I’m studying hard and having fun) and Tilly and Otis. I’ll gorge myself on some real food, catch up on a lot of sleep, and find that new balance between child and adult I’m still discovering.

I know how obsessively you two check 17 and Baking, so you’ll read this before I’m home, probably within hours of its posting. I’m not going to say how much I love you, because that’s the kind of thing you do in person. Four days, Mom and Dad.

Elissa

Unfortunately, I don’t have the recipe for the blackberry sherbet – that’s what I get for making a recipe up as I go along without taking notes. Luckily, I do have the recipe for the pistachio gelato. It’s such a snap to make – really, the hardest part is shelling those pesky nuts. The result is a thick, creamy gelato, not completely smooth but a little textured, an all-natural pale green. It’s beautiful. It’s something I’ll make again when I have a bag of pistachios (I’ll leave the nougat to the experts.)

Pistachio Gelato
Tweaked from Bon Appetit
Makes about 3 cups

3/4 cup unsalted, shelled pistachios
Scant 3/4 cup sugar
2 cups whole milk
1/2 tsp almond extract
4 large egg yolks

In a food processor, grind the pistachios and 1/4 cup sugar into a fine powder. Combine with milk and almond extract in a medium saucepan and bring to a boil. Whisk the yolks and remaining sugar in a medium bowl. Ladle a spoonful of hot milk mixture bit by bit into the yolks, stirring constantly, to heat the yolks without cooking them. Add the egg mixture to the saucepan and stir over medium-low heat until the custard thickens slightly. The custard should leave a clear trail on the back of a spoon when you run a finger through it. Remove from heat and strain into a medium bowl. Refrigerate until cold. Churn through an ice cream maker.

Last night, someone put up a video of my high school’s 2010-2011 homecoming assembly. For a moment I was brought back to senior year – I knew exactly how the new seniors felt sitting in those bleachers. It was so surreal to suddenly realize that high school was continuing without me. All the sophomores and juniors I knew are upperclassmen now, my old friends are scattered across the country, yet life goes on like normal back home.

Then I realized that Boston is home.

I still haven’t felt homesick yet. I just don’t have the time. My journalism homework is very hands-on, sending me into the city for interviews and investigations. I’m submitting short stories and articles to the literary magazines. I joined the photography club in a heartbeat, and I’m smitten. Every week we get a new assignment and arrive with a new photo to critique. It’s inspiring me to look at the world from new angles and keep a camera with me at all times.

And for 15 hours a week, I’m a reporter and writer in the news department of my school’s radio station. I’m learning so much (mostly from my mistakes) and absorbing as much as I can from the experienced vets. I’ve never read the paper as often, stayed so up-to-date with the news, or known so much about Massachusetts politics. I’ve also never heard my voice coming out the radio until now, but there’s a first for everything.

After a long day, when I get off the T and see my dorm in the distance – I get the same feeling I used to get when I pulled into the driveway of my house. The comfort of knowing you’re safe and just seconds away from where you belong.

Every day, I have to remind myself that I’ve only been here a month. I feel like I’ve known my new friends for years – we have classes together, late night talks, we support each other without judgment and love each other like family. The city of Boston, too, already feels familiar. I’m spending enough time off campus that I can navigate parts of Boston based on street names and landmarks, without a map. In four weeks, I’ve fallen into a steady rhythm.

I didn’t know I could be so busy. Every Monday morning I drag myself to my 8 am class, clinging to sleep until I sit down in the cold classroom. I’ve written pages and pages of notes for my literature of the Americas class, the most difficult course I’m taking. And I adore my photography class, even though it’s in the furthest building from my dorm, even though I have to cross rainy streets and climb the stairs up because the elevators are full.

In the evenings my floor hangs out in the common room, passing around a bag of honey pretzels and a tub of Nutella. I stop at the cafe to wolf down a panini between classes. But best of all, every weekend I visit the nearest Trader Joe’s for soy milk, yogurt, crackers and veggie chips. Then there are the farmers markets – Copley on Tuesdays, Haymarket on Fridays – and it almost feels like Seattle again.

[In an effort to make my front page load faster, I'm putting more of each post after the jump. Click through to read the rest of the post, and the recipe!]

I’ve been visiting the local farmers markets since my first weekend here. Haymarket, especially, offers the cheapest produce around. Six plums for a dollar? A huge plastic bag of bright green grapes for two dollars? I circle around the market in search of the perfect buy, like a lost bird looking for home. Two weeks ago my roommate E- bought a mini fridge for us to share, and I lost any excuse not to stock up on fruits and veggies.

The markets were overflowing with August’s bounty during my first visit. I passed over papery zucchini blossoms, like half-folded origami cranes. I couldn’t resist a tiny jar of blackberry jam at one vendor, an almond pastry at another. I tried my first concord grape. Over the past few weeks I’ve watched the summer produce slowly transition into baskets of butternut squash, dusty beets, and sweet potatoes heavy as stones. And… pears.

For some reason, nothing feels more like autumn to me than a ripe pear. The trees in the Boston Common have begun to turn scarlet at the tips. Some afternoons I step outside to fat raindrops splattering in every direction – yesterday, it was so blustery, my umbrella broke. But nothing has made it feel more like October than those green farmers market pears, bent stems and brown freckles and all.

I like to eat pears in just about every way imaginable. Raw, consumed in large, unashamed bites. Sliced and spread with a slathering of peanut butter, or poached in white wine. Maybe best of all? Diced and tossed with fresh raspberries, baked into a soft loaf with oats and a crunchy topping.

I’ve wanted to make this for ages and ages and ages, since I bought the cookbook second-hand three years ago. I thumbed through it and dog eared this recipe that very day, but didn’t bake it until this summer. I made it twice. The first time it came out all wrong, but I tried again with some significant tweaks, and found the perfect balance.

The loaf is moist, and the brown sugar granola topping is crisp and crumbly. I was surprised by how strongly the loaf tasted like rolled oats, but I liked the rustic, homemade feel it gave every slice. The center is marbled with a ribbon of raspberries, the occasional burst of sweetness… I’m sighing as I write this. I miss mornings when I used to bake breakfast and eat it at noon.

Oat, Pear, and Raspberry Loaf
Adapted from bills open kitchen
Makes a 8 1/2” by 4 1/2” loaf

Crunchy Granola Topping
1/4 cup (25 g) rolled oats
1/4 cup (55 g) brown sugar
2 tablespoons all purpose flour
2 tablespoons (1 oz) chilled butter, cut into small pieces

Oat, Pear, and Raspberry Loaf
1 cup (100 g) rolled oats
1 cup (250 g) boiling water
11 tablespoons (150 g) unsalted butter
1/2 cup (115 g) brown sugar
1/4 cup (55 g) granulated sugar
2 eggs, room temperature
1 tsp vanilla extract
Zest of a tangerine
1 1/2 cups (185 g) all purpose flour
Pinch of salt
1 tsp baking powder
Few generous shakes of ground cinnamon
1 pear, peeled, cored, and diced
3/4 cup (90 g) raspberries, fresh or frozen

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter a 8 1/2” by 4 1/2” loaf pan and line the bottom with parchment paper (not 100% necessary, but it’s nice to be safe.)

To make the topping, combine all the topping ingredients in a small bowl and rub with your fingertips until the mixture is well incorporated and forms small clumps.

To make the loaf, pour the boiling water over the rolled oats and set aside until lukewarm. Squeeze out the extra water.

Cream the butter and sugars until light and creamy. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well between eggs, then mix in the vanilla extract and tangerine zest. Sift the flour, salt, baking powder, and cinnamon over the creamed butter. Add the drained oats and half of the diced pear, and fold the whole mixture with a rubber spatula until combined.

Spread 2/3 of the batter into the loaf pan. Sprinkle the remaining diced pear and the raspberries. Smooth the remaining 1/3 of the batter over the fruit, then sprinkle the topping evenly over it. [The batter will probably completely fill the loaf pan without leaving any room – it’s okay, mine went all the way to the top but didn’t rise much or spill. You might want to put a rimmed baking pan on a lower rack of the oven just in case it overflows.]

Bake for an hour and ten minutes, or until a skewer inserted into the cake comes out clean (keep in mind that the pear and raspberries will stay moist.) Cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then run a knife along the edges and turn out onto a cooling rack to cool completely.

Printer-Friendly Recipe – Oat, Pear, and Raspberry Loaf

It’s August, and that means it’s blackberry season in the pacific northwest.

The blackberry bushes here are inescapable, weeds even. I pass the thorny plants growing along our neighborhood, behind my school, and against the sidewalks. We had some in our backyard when we first bought the house, until my mother hacked the branches away in a fit of determination. Every year, when I spot the fat berries hanging low on their vines, like clusters of black beads, it feels more like summer than anything.

I’ve been seeing them all month, but I haven’t been craving them… Until a few days ago. I was sitting at the dinner table, thumbing through the pile of cookbooks that live there permanently. It’s my habit when I’m bored. I flip back to the dessert section and try to make myself hungry. That day, I saw a marionberry tart, but for some reason it made me want blackberries.

Because they’re so expensive, I didn’t eat a lot of berries growing up. Even today, in my mind they’re exotic. Raspberries, blueberries, marionberries – they should be reserved for special occasions, like a birthday or celebration. But blackberries are so plentiful here, and so easy to get.

When I was in elementary school, my mom and I liked to visit a park by our old condo. I’d never seen so many blackberry bushes before. They towered high over my head like a maze, and the air between them seemed to buzz with insects and filtered sunlight and the sweetness of sugar. It all came back to me in a rush as I sat there with the cookbook in my hands.

I couldn’t get blackberries out of my mind. When I decide I want something, I just can’t avoid it. I mentioned the berries over and over to my parents. My mom said she remembered where the park was, so after breakfast we headed out. We were nearly there when my dad pulled the car onto a fence-lined stretch of gravel in a rare patch of shade.

“This isn’t the park,” I protested, but he pointed along the side of the road.

“They’re everywhere,” he said, pointing at the blackberry brambles twisting in and out of the barbed wire.

I was doubtful as I opened the trunk and passed out bowls to my parents. This didn’t seem as nostalgic and serene as my memories at the park. Even in the shade we couldn’t escape the hazy swelter of the afternoon sun, like hot breath on our backs. Spiders dangled from leaves and cars sped behind us in a whirr.

We spaced ourselves several meters apart from each other. I reached for the darkest, plumpest berries on the highest vines, straining on my tiptoes and stretching up. As gentle as I tried to be, they burst out of their skins when I dropped them into my bowl. Before long my hands were perfumed with juice, which stained the ridges of my fingerprints purple-red and smelled like August.

The whole way home, I breathed the fragrance in and dreamed of dessert.

And I got it. The blackberries are truly the star of this blackberry, peach, and ginger crumble.

The peaches are really delicious too. I like peaches, but I can’t say that I love them. I don’t think I’ve ever had a perfect peach, or even a really good one. The rest of my family has – every year my grandma wistfully describes fresh peach ice cream and lattice peach pie. Or better – fresh and still sun warmed, eaten off the tree. But me? I’m satisfied to cut them into rough chunks and toss them with berries in a crumble.

And the ginger was almost an afterthought, but such a good one. I loved dicing the crystallized ginger into tiny cubes, because it left big sugar crystals and the sharpness of ginger all over my cutting board. You only get a little in each bite, but you know it when you find it.

The original recipe calls this dessert a crisp, but I substituted some cream cheese into the oat topping. I had some leftover to use up, and the result was delicious. I could taste a subtle tang, and it made the topping a little soft and chewy. I’m not sure what makes a crumble a crumble, but somehow “crisp” didn’t seem right. All I know is that I shamelessly dug into whatever-you-call-it straight out of the pan, hot or chilled, for breakfast or for dessert in the warm twilight.

Blackberry, Peach, and Ginger Crumble
Inspired & Based on 101 Cookbooks
Makes an 8×8″ pan

Fruit Filling
1 1/2 pounds ripe peaches (about 3 large peaches)
8 oz (about 1 1/2 cups) fresh blackberries
1/4 cup brown sugar
2 tablespoons cornstarch
Zest of a tangerine
1/4 cup finely chopped crystallized ginger

Cream Cheese Oat Topping
3/4 cup rolled oats
3/4 cup flour
1/2 cup brown sugar
3/4 teaspoon ground ginger
Big pinch of salt
1/3 cup butter, melted
1/3 cup cream cheese, room temperature

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F and place a rack in the center.

Rinse all the fruit. Cut the peaches into bite-sized chunks. I quartered my peaches, and cut each quarter into 4 chunks. Set the blackberries and chopped peaches in a medium bowl.

In a small bowl, whisk together the sugar, cornstarch, orange zest, and chopped ginger. Sprinkle it over the fruit and gently toss to thoroughly combine. Transfer the fruit mixture to an 8×8″ baking pan.

To make the cream cheese oat topping, whisk together the oats, flour, sugar, and ground ginger. Stir in the butter with a fork, then stir in the cream cheese until a coarse, dough-like topping forms. Sprinkle it in chunks over the fruit in the pan.

Bake the crumble for 20-25 minutes, or until the topping is golden brown. I like it hot, warm, and (though my mother can’t believe it) straight from the refrigerator.

Printer-Friendly Version – Blackberry, Peach, and Ginger Crumble

These past few weeks, I’ve felt suspended in limbo. In a lot of ways, this summer feels like my last. The last summer I can get away without having a steady job. The last summer where my high school friends are all in town and trying to keep us together. The last summer I’ll see the world the way I do right now. I keep having to remind myself that I’m a high school graduate, and that everything is about to change in September.

I don’t feel like a college freshman, the way I still don’t feel like a legal adult. Once in a while, when I hear from a friend or spot the square graduation cap in my closet, I’m stifled with hesitation. There are moments where I don’t think I’ll survive if I’m tossed into the depths of the unknown. But sooner or later, I walk past someone with a Red Sox tee or tell someone about my expected major – and then I’m overwhelmed with a desire to pack up and move to Boston already.

The morning after I graduated, I thought to myself, “This is it. This summer is like the eye of a hurricane.” A month in, though, I’m seeing it a little differently. The next two months aren’t the calm before an unstoppable storm… they’re a window of opportunity. The opportunity to relax while shouldering a bit of responsibility, and to enjoy every second of this limbo.

So what have I been doing with my last days in Washington? Even though Seattle is currently going through a miniature heat wave, I’ve been spending most of my hours in the kitchen.

It started about a week ago. My dad and I were at the dinner table, talking about college and 17 and Baking. Up until then, I’d felt unconcernedly confident about maintaining the blog through the school year. After all, it simply had to work out. How hard could it be to keep up the blogging?

But little by little, tiny cracks chipped away at my optimism. I came to the unpleasant conclusion that I can’t bring the KitchenAid mixer with me. It’s so heavy, how we would transport it across the country? And where would I keep it – my dorm? Would I carry it down the streets of Boston in search of a kitchen? I reluctantly admitted there were flaws in my idealism, all the way down to the simple issue of where I’d store flour and eggs. Would I even have time?

So I’ve begun baking like crazy to stock up on photos. While I’m thrilled that I’ll be able to keep blogging through the blustery chills of October and the January freeze, it contradicts my general philosophy of only using seasonal items. In the past week, my searches for wintery produce and dabbles with autumn spices have only reinforced my appreciation for seasonal ingredients.

It’s July, and it’s also a window of opportunity for the fruits and vegetables I’ve waited for all winter. I’ve missed the satisfaction of a real tomato, heavy with juice and sweeter than sugar. It’s been too long since I last eased a knife through the streaked hull of a watermelon. I’ve been craving the fuzzy blush of a peach and the first seed-studded bite into a strawberry ever since January. They just aren’t good in April – some things are worth waiting for.

Gosh, I’m hungry again.

And with the ingredients come the dishes I’ve been lusting after. Spontaneous fruits-of-the-moment fruit salads, cold cucumber soup, sparkling herb lemonade! Even water tastes better when you’re drinking it between forkfuls of grilled salmon with grape and melon chutney.

I know I’m not the only foodie in town excited by summer produce. My parents have both been waiting, and it’s finally the time of year for my dad’s zesty blueberry corn salad with lime, and my mom’s avocado and sundried tomato eggrolls with chili dipping sauce. There’s only a short window of time when we can indulge ourselves in these savory summer dishes, and we’re taking full advantage of it.

I love my mother’s eggrolls. She first came up with them last summer, and when avocado season rolled around this year we began eating batch after batch. She starts with a gorgeously ripe avocado – as creamy and thick as butter, the kind of green that sends happy flutters in your stomach. Add sun dried tomatoes, fresh cilantro and sharp red onion, and you’ve hit upon something special – smooth, crispy, chewy, and indulgent.

My dad loves the combination of fresh blueberries and gently cooked corn. The corn is still a little warm, still has a little pop to it. The blueberries are cool and sweet. Spritzed with lime, they become like dark pearls, stunning against the light yellow kernels and flecks of zest. There’s only a small period of time when blueberry season and corn season cross, so now’s the time to make this refreshing salad… over and over again.

In the coming weeks, as summer draws to an end, I might get sick of flaky eggroll skin or juicy corn. Before long, I’ll be longing for pumpkin puree and for the give of a ripe pear, the way it smells like crisp leaves and November rain. But everything is worth the wait. And for now, I’ll enjoy the summer’s bounty as long as it blooms, ripens, and warms in the July heat.

Blueberry Corn Salad with Lime
A 17 and Baking Original
Makes 4 cups of salad

2 ears of sweet, ripe corn
2 cups fresh blueberries
A teaspoon of salt
1/2 lime, juiced and zested

Put the corn in a pot of cool water. Bring the water to a boil and cook for about 5 minutes, or until the corn is lightly cooked – you don’t want it to be raw, but you still want it to have some crisp. Cool the corn until you can cut the kernels off the cob (should yield about 2 cups corn.) While the corn is still a little warm, toss with the salt and the lime. Add the blueberries and toss gently. Add more salt or lime to taste. Eat the salad at room temperature, or slightly chilled.

This salad doesn’t keep well overnight (perhaps it’s the blueberry and the acidic citrus together.) If you want to make this salad ahead of time, simply leave out the blueberries until serving time.

Printer Friendly Version – Blueberry Corn Salad with Lime

Avocado and Sundried Tomato Eggrolls with Chili Dipping Sauce
A 17 and Baking Original
Makes six eggrolls

Eggrolls
2 large ripe avocados
1/2 cup diced red onion
1/2 cup fresh cilantro, chopped
1/2 cup sundried tomatoes, chopped
Salt and pepper to taste
Package of eggroll wrappers
One egg, beaten
Oil for frying

Chili Dipping Sauce
1/4 cup mayonnaise
2 teaspoons spicy sweet chili sauce (like Sriracha. Adjust to taste.)

To prepare the chili dipping sauce, combine the mayonnaise and the chili sauce in a small bowl. Make sure to taste it and add more mayonnaise or chili sauce depending on how much spice you like. The sauce needs to rest for 15 minutes, so you can make the eggrolls in the meantime.

Mash the avocado in a medium bowl. Mix in the red onion, cilantro, sundried tomatoes, salt, and pepper. Spread a little onto an eggroll wrapper and roll up, closing the two ends and using a little bit of egg to help seal it. Deep fry in a saucepan of sizzling oil over medium heat until the eggrolls are blistered and golden brown. Serve with the chili dipping sauce.

Printer Friendly Version – Avocado and Sundried Tomato Eggrolls with Chili Dipping Sauce

It was no surprise to anyone that after 8th grade graduation, I sobbed for weeks.

I didn’t just cry at the pre-ceremony event, the actual ceremony, and the post-ceremony party. Instead, weeks into summer, I broke down whenever I heard the Vitamin C graduation song or saw a friend’s face. Looking back at the past, it’s ridiculous and a little embarrassing, but not surprising. I was always an overly sensitive kid.

I remember once, when I was in middle school, unearthing a box of old school reports from my elementary school teachers. I’d opened and read every report written about me since the first grade. I don’t know what I expected, but I was disappointed to see the same thing written every year: “While Elissa shows a clear passion for learning, she needs to control her emotions. She feels everything a little too much.”

Reading those papers, I felt like my sensitivity was a major weakness, my biggest flaw. If only I could learn to make my heart a little tougher, life would suddenly make sense. But I felt like I couldn’t change what was so clearly part of me. My life was overflowing with sensitivity.

Fast forward four years, and my sensitivity certainly hasn’t left. I’m consumed with sympathy when I hear about earthquakes or hurricanes or oil spills around the world. If I make a rude offhand comment to my mother in the morning, it drenches my entire day with guilt. And I still cry when I watch the Lion King. It’s just so sad.

But somehow, something has changed. I graduated Monday night on my school’s football field. I didn’t cry when I walked into the main gym for the last time and saw my entire senior class in blue gowns and square caps. I kept it together when my mother presented me with the purple lei she’d secretly bought for me, just for this occasion. My heart didn’t break when I finally saw my parents in the crowd, smiling like 150 watts.

Because I didn’t spend the entire time crying, I’ll remember things about this graduation that I can’t remember from 8th grade. I’ll remember how A- kept knocking off my graduation hat, so I couldn’t get it straight during the actual ceremony (thanks a lot.) I’ll remember the way the knots of my cords felt against the back of my neck, and the melody that C- and M- played on their cellos. And surreal and dreamy as it might be, I’ll remember the snapshot image of everyone’s caps suspended in the air, like they could float there forever.

It’s Wednesday – a lifetime of hugs, handshakes, photographs, laughs, and memories later. I still haven’t shed a tear. It’s not that I’m not sad to leave high school, because I am. I’ll miss my morning carpool with C-, my doodles in first period with M-, and watching Battlestar Galactica in E-‘s basement with a pillow clutched to my chest. In a few months, I’ll begin to miss things that I haven’t even thought of, the little things I took for granted every day I went to class.

But something fundamental has changed in me. In 8th grade, I clung so fervently to the past that I had to be dragged into the next stage of my life. I was terrified of change, even though I couldn’t admit it. And now? Well, I’m still terrified of change. But I’m also ready for it, eager for it. The thrill of college is tangible and overwhelming – it’s electric.

And while I don’t think I’ll ever stop tearing up when Simba takes his rightful place in Pride Rock, I’m no longer held back by sensitivity as a weakness. In fact, wielded in the right way, I think it’s a strength. It’s what fills my head with imagery as a writer, it’s what lets me empathize with everyone around me, and it’s what makes life so much richer an experience.

My life is no longer overflowing with sensitivity – it’s flowing with inspiration. Everywhere I look, I am surrounded by potential and motivation. I want to take everything I’ve learned in high school and change the world with knowledge. I want to throw myself into Boston head first, arms open. I want to read every book in existence, and let the words push me forward.

I devoured A Homemade Life in one afternoon several weeks ago. It’s by my hero Molly Wizenberg, the blogger behind Orangette, and it’s beautiful. She weaves every story with family and food and love, tying everything in her life to the meals she remembers. “Inspiring” feels like an understatement – I want to write a book like that someday.

But for now, maybe I can be satisfied with baking food like that today. When I saw her recipe for white chocolate coeur de la crème, I couldn’t stop myself from making it that very evening. It’s a mousse made with cream, cream cheese, and white chocolate, chilled and served in dollops with berry puree. It was everything she’d described – creamy, soft, simultaneously airy and substantial – brought to life.

It’s incredible how my view of the world has changed in four years. What will the next four bring?

I’ve never been a fan of white chocolate. It’s too sweet, doesn’t melt the same way on your tongue as dark chocolate, and it can even be a little waxy. But here, the white chocolate is the star in a very good way. You get the flavor of white chocolate, sweet and vanilla scented. But it’s balanced by the cream cheese, and the whipped cream folded in keeps the whole thing light and fluffy. The blueberry lime puree adds tang and color – just an overall gorgeous dessert.

You chill the dessert in any mold you like overnight. I picked one of my metal mixing bowls and ended up with a shallow dome. It’s traditionally made in a heart-shaped mold, but you could use just about anything.

White Chocolate Coeur de la Crème with Blueberry Lime Puree
Slightly adapted from A Homemade Life
Serves 6-8

Coeur de la Crème
3 oz good quality white chocolate, finely chopped
8 oz cream cheese (not low fat), room temperature
1 1/4 cups heavy cream
3/4 cup powdered sugar, sifted

Puree
10 oz frozen blueberries
Zest of one lime
3 tbsp sugar

Cut two sheets of cheesecloth big enough to fully line your mold, plus a little overhang on all sides. Dampen the cheesecloth with water, wring it out, and put them together to make a double layer. Press it into the sides and bottom of the mold, leaving some hanging over the sides.

Microwave the white chocolate in a microwavable bowl in 20 second intervals on high. Stir between intervals, and heat only until smooth and just melted.

Mix the cream cheese, 1/4 cup cream, and the sugar in a mixer on medium speed until fluffy. Scrape the sides of the bowl as needed. Then add the white chocolate and beat for 2 minutes, until very smooth.

In another bowl, beat the remaining 1 cup cream to stiff peaks and fold into the cream cheese mixture. Spoon into the mold, smooth the top with a rubber spatula, then fold the overhanging cheesecloth over it to cover the top. Place the mold unto a rimmed sheetpan or plate and chill for 8 hours or overnight.

To make the puree, blend the thawed berries, their juice, the zest, and the sugar in a blender or food processor until smooth. Push the puree through a sieve to remove the seeds into a small bowl. Cover and chill for up to 4 hours.

Carefully peel the cheesecloth off the top of the coeur de la crème and invert it onto a plate. Peel off the rest of the cheesecloth. Serve in dollops in teacups or shallow bowls along with a spoonful of puree.

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