Blackberry-Bay Compote With Yogurt

because I misplaced my camera's battery-charger you get the joy of iPhone photos today!

It's snack time and we're little kids. You wanted "Ants on a Log" but Mom decided that we'd have yogurtandjelly instead. You have to say it like that: "yogurtandjelly." Even though it's arguably our favorite snack, we're not really sure if this is a real thing eaten any other place in the world besides 968 Smoke Tree Lane. In fact, there is a fair amount of evidence that would say yogurtandjelly was invented because individual packaged, flavored yogurts are too expensive to buy in the quantity our family needs them. Whatever the impetus for inventing it, yogurtandjelly is queen in our snack-dom. We tip-toe to peer over the edge of the counter and make the all-important decision of which jelly we want today. If you want to be like Mom, you might choose apricot. If you want to seem grown up you'll pick raspberry. But today we choose strawberry because strawberry tastes of summertime and besides all that, it turns the yogurt pink.

So This Is Your Mid-Twenties....

I think I've officially reached the epitome of being in your mid-twenties: not only do I identify with it in terms of age, but everything about my life lines up with the iconic "being a twenty-something": I'm full of ideas for the career I want, my current work looks nothing like the career I want, I'm single, I'm always busy, I do yoga every day, seldom eat at home, and have the freedom to make spontaneous decisions like waking up at 4 AM for a beach sunrise, or buying four packages of cream cheese and making a cheesecake at 9 PM. Most of my long-time friends are now family-people, my weekends are filled with events related to weddings, and if I have to buy one more baby shower gift, I'm going to have to go live in a Charitable Home for Destitute Twenty-Somethings.

#Cakespeare: An Alternative To #DrakeonCake

Look, y'all. Drake on Cake is a thing. There's an Instagram account. A piece on Delish. A Buzzfeed article. Essentially people anywhere and everywhere in the world are taking Drake's rap lyrics and putting them on cake, half because there are some good lyrics and half because "Drake" conveniently rhymes with "cake." I mean, I get it - #DrakeonCake is just the sort of purposeful, tidy, culturally-significant hashtag that would go viral. Many times I've been close to putting Drake on my own cake. The one problem is this:  I don't listen to Drake. I don't know Drake. Putting Drake on my cake would be like appropriating someone else's family photos and hanging them above my fireplace. I wish I could viably put Drake lyrics on my cake and get to join the super fun party. However, I don't know that I've ever listened to a single Drake song (rap?), let alone a whole album. Looks like the #DrakeonCake party isn't one I can conceivably attend. No. You know what's more my speed? Laugh if you will. Tell me it's nerdy (it is). You want to know the party I'm starting?

I Used To Be A Novelist: Monday In The Stacks

Most of you don't know (or don't remember) that before I embroiled myself in the food world, I thought I wanted to be a novelist. This phase lasted a good long while and spanned the writing of several unpublished novels and the publishing of three before I finally realized I liked people - and being with them - too much to lock myself away and rack up a word-count. Still, novels or not, I love writing fiction and sometimes browse through my file of old pieces. Funny enough, many of the standalone scenes I've written involved apt picture of real life: everyday dramas playing out across the breakfast table. I thought I'd start sharing some of the pieces on occasional Mondays to break things up a bit around here. If you like this one, leave a comment and I'll have a better idea of whether this is something you find entertaining. Cheers!

illustration by Neryl Walker

“Would mademoiselle like me to look out for her partner in the lobby?” The maitre d’ bowed over the table, over her arm, till the white breast of his uniform nearly brushed the pink carnations.
“No, merci,” she answered.
“Mademoiselle is waiting for someone, no? Allow me to page him.”
“Monsieur is most helpful but no, merci.”
“Mademoiselle came tonight alone?”
Corinna Demarque quieted her fretful hands like white doves in the lap of her black dress, and smiled. Allowances must be made for the man’s ill-concealed curiosity. He was, after all, French. Corinna, quite American herself, had an unusually deep well of patience where the French were concerned.
“As it happens,” she said, “I am celebrating tonight.”

Lemon Coconut Macaroons

Lemon coconut macaroons. Can you taste the sunshine? These bright, tropical cookies now encompass the idea of island time and vacation weeks for me. Macaroons aren't something I'm very familiar with. I've made macarons more often than I've made macaroons and I'm not ashamed to admit that when I baked up a batch of these tropical cookies, I was surprised to discover that you whipped egg whites to stiff peaks and folded them into the batter. I guess I was a clueless wonder - tell me, am I the only one who has reached the age of twenty-five without every making macaroons?