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Creamy Coconut & Banana Tart

Imagine sitting by the sea one lazy afternoon, focused on the tattered nets of nearby fishing boats, when something big and hard bumps against your foot. When you look down, you see a giant, two lobed coconut has washed up, onto the sand. From end to end, this coconut is as long as your forearm, with tufts of hair poking out between the brown, oblong lobes. She would have traveled hundreds (thousands!) of miles to reach you, all the way from the Seychelles. And you’d know she came from there, because it is the only place where these incredible coconuts grow. Once you saw her, you’d never forget her. She’s called Coco de Mer, or coconut of the sea. And she really is quite… shall we say… graphic. I had the awkward pleasure of sitting next to one this week, hand delivered from the Seychelles by my friend Barry. Weighing in at 40-50 pounds, these are the world’s largest coconuts, stars of countless legends and pirates tales (one of which we’ll hear from Barry in a …

Chocolate Ice Cube Cake | ledene kocke

If there was a giant table strewn with every cake, brownie, custard, and pie, ever, I’d be the first in line. But I wouldn’t be there to eat them. Not initially. I’d be there to soak in their beauty, to enjoy the geometry. Circles, rectangles, towers of truffles. Cubes, even. I’d languish to revel in the colors – chocolate browns, raspberry reds, vanilla-cream whites, mint-leaf greens, passion fruit golds. I’d eat with my eyes until ever bit of my spirit was nourished. Then I’d sink my teeth into the sweetness. When I happened upon Ledene Kocke, I fell immediately for the geometry; a grid, stacked in shades of cocoa and cream. Little did I know, translating the recipe would hold it’s fair share of challenges. I so wanted to make the recipe, though. With cold, hard stubbornness I powered through and, in the words of Tim Gunn, I made it work. Let’s start by talking about the name. Ledene Kocke. Translators generally make this “Ice Cube Cake” which is completely adorable. It was only after I thought about how the cake is …

Sweet Semolina Cake with Lemon & Rose water | Basboosa

Love’s every whimsy can be found in the tender, fragile curve of a rose. Arab cooks must know this in their hearts, as they imbue many of their desserts with the essence of this great flower. Rose water is made from hundreds (thousands!) of rose petals and I’m convinced there is magic in every drop. Today’s cake, called Basboosa (also called Basbousa), is heavy with such magic. This sweet cake is conjured up with durum semolina, then soaked in a pool of syrup made with sweetened rose water and fresh lemon juice. Some versions are dense while others are fluffy – I’ve provided options for both below. No matter how you slice it, each bite is like a garden at sunrise. The dreamy perfume of roses and lemons unite, overflowing the senses like King Fahd’s Fountain in Saudi Arabia (the tallest fountain in the world… “The water it ejects can reach a speed of 233 miles per hour and its airborne mass can exceed 18 tons.” Wiki). This magic is glorious with a cup of strong tea (I’m talking …

Easy Banana Mousse with Chocolate Curls

When I first read that bananas are popular in West Africa’s island country São Tomé and Príncipe, I envisioned them eaten raw on the surf-swept beaches… or perhaps sold battered and fried with a cloud of powdered sugar. While all this certainly does happen, I never imagined I’d see them folded inside of a fluffy mousse, decked out with indulgent curls of dark chocolate. But I’m sure glad I did. In my reading I learned that this mousse could be made any number of ways – with or without eggs (I even read one account of some part of a leaf being used to thicken the cream, perhaps they meant agar agar?) – but however you make this, the simpler the better. The method I chose is a ready-in-15-minutes kind of mousse and there are so few ingredients it’s silly. The key to the mousse are 1. really, really ripe bananas and 2. really, really ripe bananas. In fact, they are perfect when they fall into a smooth puree with the slightest of pressure from the …

Fig & Honey Apple Polenta Cake | Bustrengo

Sometimes life calls for a little something extra-ordinary. A toothy smile on a cloudy day can be enough. A favorite pair of fuzzy, polka-dotted socks can even do the trick. But on other days I want something a smidge bit … well… gourmet. I want something that says this day – this meal – this time – is more special than you know. That you’re more special than you know. And so, it’s not without a little irony that Bustrengo fits the bill. You see, this Fig and Honey Apple Cake is traditionally made in San Marino (and Italy) after dinner chatter dies down, while sitting around the embers of a dying fire. In this way, she’s a real casual sort of affair. Something to satisfy that sweet tooth, without going to too much of a fuss. As easy as a smile but as tasty as good love. Inside you’ll find all manner of diced apples, dried figs, golden polenta, olive oil, and pools of honey. Oh, and curls of orange and lemon zest. No biggie. These …

Samoan Steamed Spice Cake | Puligi

When Samoans want to bite into the holidays, their kitchens fill with the warm scent of cinnamon, clove, and nutmeg. If you try to peer under the lid to see what’s cookin’, you’ll more than likely get a full steam facial, so watch out. Within that foggy cloud of vapors, you’ll find cocoa brown puligi, a steamed bundt cake made dark with the unusual addition of “burnt” sugar. The cake is traditionally steamed in an underground oven known as an imu, although many now steam it on the stovetop, or as I have done in the oven. We ate this treat one early morning, as part of a Samoan Saturday breakfast which included our Koko Rice (a.k.a. chocolate and coconut rice pudding). I was so bleary-eyed from my too-early wake up (thanks to my ever-eager Miss Ava) that I completely forgot to serve it with the traditional accompaniment – vanilla custard – and instead passed around some softened butter. It was only days later that I remembered what I’d read, cut myself a new slice, …

Chocolate & Coconut Rice Pudding with Sweet Orange Peel | Koko Rice

I used to say I wasn’t a chocolate girl but, as the year’s go by, I’m realizing that it’s really more about finding the right time to eat chocolate. After dinner? Certainly. At 3pm? I’m game. For lunch? Maybe. Midnight? Definitely. 3 am? No way. I’m sleeping for goodness sakes. But breakfast? Am I game for a chocolate breakfast? Let’s just say it’s an arrangement I’m willing to get out of bed for and I know of at least two other people who are as well. After all, who couldn’t use a jolt of dark chocolate goodness to start the day out right? Which brings us to today’s Koko Rice from Samoa. I originally dubbed it “choconut” because I thought I was clever. Unfortunately, Google quickly informed me that I had not, in fact, invented a word so I had to go back to the much simpler, but wordier expression “chocolate and coconut.” Whatever you decide to call it, koko rice is a rich and creamy blend of chocolate and coconut milk with just the lightest hint of orange zest. Each …

Cocoa Tea

When I told Ava that the fine people of Saint Lucia like to wake up in the morning and drink Cocoa Tea, she squinted her eyes, titled her head, and said “what mama?” “It’s like hot cocoa,” I smiled, “but richer, and seasoned with cinnamon and freshly grated nutmeg.” Her eyes instantly popped open in recognition and the corners of her lips curled impishly. I showed her my mound of chocolate chips and added that in Saint Lucia they use cocoa sticks and balls to make their Cocoa Tea, but we’d be making it with chips since that’s all we can get in Tulsa, Oklahoma. “Don’t worry,” I added, “It’ll still taste amazing and feel completely snuggly.” Truth is, the end result is a rich, thick blanket of goodness… each sip is almost like dreaming underneath a giant bar of ooey-gooey warm chocolate. This is the kind of drink you want after a chilly walk or sledding. After a breakup. Or an engagement. It’s the exact right statement for any sentiment, in fact. A giant mug …

Caribbean Fry Bakes

This week I’ve completely given up: – shooing the cat off our bed – working so hard, I can’t see straight. – being in a hurry – doing the laundry – eating boxed cereal Instead, I’m now: – snuggling my cat – not-so-accidentally forgetting my phone at home – dancing with my daughter with the curtains wide open – playing board games with family – gobbling up bakes Thanksgiving week is a time for a little closer look at what matters. It’s about family, not work. It’s about noticing each other and taking the time to interact without twitching, finger first, towards our cellphones. It’s about looking each other in the eyes. And it’s about cooking together. While I value a good pancake (and even a good Russian-style pumpkin pancake) most of the time, I’m a new convert to the Caribbean breakfast treat called “Bakes.” I’ve made three batches in as many days. Despite the name, bakes are only occasionally baked. More often than not, Bakes are fried discs of dough. Confused? Don’t worry. The only thing you …

Pumpkin Olad’yi

Sometimes it’s hard being a mom. Take this week, for example. People I don’t even know have been throwing candy at my daughter from giant parade floats. They call it Halloween, but I call it “the reason why my daughter is still awake an hour and a half past her bedtime, thrashing around like a junkie in withdrawal.” You see, I don’t let Ava eat all her candy in one sitting. She gets a couple of pieces at snack time for a few days in a row. That’s it. Any candy that remains gets donated to the Laura Dester Shelter, for kids in crisis situations. Ava’s reward for sharing? A fun adventure to either Incredible Pizza or the Zoo. Her choice. All this to say that Ava clearly hasn’t consumed a ton of candy but what she has eaten went straight to her crazies. Now is the time for something wholesome. Something nutritious. Something unabashedly Russian to sort her out. Enter Pumpkin Olad’yi. It’s practically science: whenever I mention Russian food, 9 out of 10 people suggest we try …

Romanian Easter Bread | Pasca

In my dream Romanian house I am surrounded by tall, sunny windows overlooking cobblestone streets and green, leggy hills. As I sit in a velvet window seat, I nibble copious amounts of Pasca, a traditional sweet bread enjoyed on Easter morning. The bread is filled with sweet cheese (think something like cheesecake) and sometimes raisins. Between bites, I sip a cup of steaming, hot tea. The nearby oven radiates gentle heat that drifts through the house and takes the chill out of the air. In real life, my kitchen has no windows and, instead of warmth floating through the house, my stand mixer tosses my made-with-love Pasca dough off of the counter. Instead of daydreaming by the window, I spend my afternoon Googling what kind of mixer to buy this time. You see, as my stand mixer kneaded the soft dough, she shimmied off the table, crashed onto the tile floor and broke the arm mechanism for good. Even JP Weld wouldn’t put those pieces back together. I know because, love him, Mr Picky tried. The scene …

White Cucumber Salad | Mizeria

Misery. When I get out of a steaming hot shower in the icy heart of winter and frost settles onto my damp neck before I can towel off. When I eat too much food at the fair and go to bed immediately afterwards. When my feet are tired and hot after a long, long day but – for whatever reason – I can’t take my shoes off yet. When I eat cucumber salad? I feel fresh. Happy. Not exactly miserable. But misery is the Polish name of this crunchy, creamy cucumber salad made with sour cream, dill, a bit of sugar and a splash of vinegar. As for whether or not it lives up to its name? I’ll let you be the judge. Serves 2-4 Ingredients: 2 cucumbers, peeled and sliced medium thinly sour cream 1/2- 3/4 cup, to taste 1 Tbsp chopped fresh dill 2 tsp sugar, or to taste 2 tsp vinegar, or to taste Method: Don’t blink, or you’ll miss the instructions. Toss everything together and serve. Enjoy the misery. Preferably …