Lazy Man's Caesar (for When You Can't Be Lazy)

I’ve been pretty harried this week. I feel like I've been smoking into rooms and sliding through doors, often with only a few moments to spare (or not); a poof of stress trailing in my wake. Picture an entrance that Kramer from Seinfeld might make; I just hope my hair isn't sticking up quite as much, though it's entirely possible. Sleep has felt like a drug, when I’ve been lucky enough to score some.

I’m not complaining. I’ve just been rather busy lately between work, school and writing. Still, I refuse to fall into the wasteland of bad Chinese food and frozen pizza. Eat well or bust.

Perhaps this will eventually be my tragic flaw, but—for the time being—my crutch is this quick homemade dressing. It’s really a lazy man’s Caesar and is ridiculously easy to make, even if you are hustling and bustling all over the place. So please don't judge that I use mayonnaise instead of raw egg yolks. The last thing I need is to be separating eggs and streaming their yolks into my food processor (when I really should be reading about the use of ginger in medieval times or better yet: sleeping).

This Caesar—on the other hand—is no slouch, it's creamy and bright with a hint of lemon and a good kick from the pecorino and Dijon mustard. For a moment, it plants me at a table at Figs on Charles Street, where Todd English makes a mean Caesar salad. I’m eating his salad, glass of red wine in hand—and perhaps some olive oil-dipped focaccia in the other; primed and ready to indulge in a slice of my favorite Figs pizza: a pie sauced with a light tomato base topped with arugula, hot peppers, lemon aioli and fried calamari. My blood pressure drops just typing all of this.

While I’m quite positive Mr. English uses egg yolks in his Caesar (in fact, if this recipe is correct, it confirms it), for now I’ll take a meal that at least reminds me of such an experience: especially if it’s quick to make. True to its word, my dinner came to be in less time than a pizza would take to order. In fact, I accidentally cut myself while chopping romaine and still managed to make a hefty Caesar salad—and eat it—before my thumb stopped bleeding. I’ll bet you haven’t heard that before: a meal that comes together faster than clotting.

Anyways, if you have a can of tuna or some chickpeas in a cupboard or have time to poach an egg (you lucky devil, you) you’ll have dinner in fewer than 10. And the dressing will keep for days, with no worry of salmonella, luring you to use it on veggies instead of leaning on greasy takeout. Because let’s face it: the last thing you need when you are superbly busy is to have to run out and buy a pair of elastic-waisted pants. So it goes: make a lazy Caesar, get to bed when you can, and try to avoid the waist land.

Lazy Man's Caesar Salad Dressing

2-4 tbsp mayo

Juice of 1 lemon and 1/2 peel, zested

5 anchovies

2-4 tbsp pecorino cheese, plus more for dusting

2 tsp dijon mustard

2-4 tbsp olive oil

Salt and pepper, to taste

Combine first 5 ingredients in a blender or food processor. Stream in olive oil and salt and pepper to taste. Toss with greens, a little more pecorino, and you're done.

Makes ~3/4 cup

Notes:

-As you can see, this is a taste as you go recipe. Start with about 2 tbsp of the mayo, cheese and olive and taste and adjust until you think it's right for you.

-While certainly not traditional, I mixed some radicchio in with the romaine because I felt like a needed a little purple in my life that particular day.

-I made a bunch of croutons by tossing chunks of bread with olive oil, salt, pepper and some oregano and my 425 degree oven did the rest of the work. Confession time: while they were crunchy and crisp on day one, the crouton leftovers did get a little stale by day two. That said, once covered in caesar, it didn't matter much. (Nothing did.)

A Coconut Paradise, Two Ways

I'll admit, I've been rolling my eyes at the mention of coconut water for weeks. No, not coconut milk: the luscious, creamy liquid intent to add richness to curries and infuse desserts with tropical whisperings. If you happen to be on any sort of rigid regimen, coconut milk practically shoves a mini drink umbrella in your hand and begs you to run off to the Maldives. Come right in, it murmurs, the milk's just fine.

While—on the other side of the island—coconut water is doing exactly the opposite. Instead of leading you to sanctuary, it’s guilt-tripping you: telling you to get off your beach chair, put down the rum, you lush, and go kitesurfing.

Now, perhaps these generalizations occurred because I associated this fairly new to market coconut water with people who relentlessly talk about their calves; who seem to be in a constant panic about their hydration status; and, perhaps, who are perpetually wearing Lycra.

Not that there is a thing wrong with any of that, it’s just that I was unimpressed with the novelty of drinking the water—instead of the milk—of a coconut and had certain presumptions. I wasn’t all that interested in coconut water’s purported natural ability to replenish electrolytes. Nor did I fancy myself much of a kitesurfer.

But then free coconut water samples showed up at yoga. And in a goodie bag I received at a hotel event. And in a box that was suspiciously mailed to my office. Someone—or some coconut deity—was trying to tell me something. And it finally hit me over the head.

This coconut water was meant to make a guest appearance in the basmati rice I had been planning for dinner. I wanted fluffy rice, with a side of tropical escape from this wintry slop: and coconut milk would have mucked that up, making rice that was too sticky and heavy. Coconut water, on the other hand, is extracted by drawing only water, not fat; serving as a perfect liquid to bathe my rice in.

And since the water I received was lightly flavored with passion fruit juice, its slight sweetness brightly complimented the pinch of saffron and healthy dose of cardamom I threw into the pot. It was just the ticket. Rice to help you remember that winter won't last forever, while gently nudging that bathing suit season is closer than you think.

Admittedly—ahem—a fleeting sentiment, as I soon realized that this slightly spicy, floral rice would be perfect for coconut rice pudding. So I put down the bathing suit and picked up the coconut milk. At this very moment, I can’t think of a more quintessential dessert than creamy coconut rice pudding to counteract the slush outside: which a bikini just ain't gonna help with.

I suppose, all in all, I actually wound up with two tickets to paradise this week. Which is fine by me. Turn out the coconut water’s just fine too. As for bathing suit season: best reach for a spoon and wait for the snow to stop.

Coconut Cardamom Rice Pudding

2 cups cooked coconut spiced basmati rice (recipe suggestion follows)

3/4 cup whole milk

3/4 cup coconut milk

1/4 cup sugar

1 vanilla bean, split and seeds removed

Pinch of salt

Zest of 1 orange

Pinch saffron

3 cardamom pods, smashed, shells removed and seeds ground

Ground pistachios (optional)

Combine rice, milk, coconut milk, sugar, vanilla bean (seeds and pod) and salt in saucepan and cook on medium heat, stirring occasionally for about 5 minutes. Add remaining ingredients and continue to cook stirring occasionally, to make sure milk does not burn, for about 15 minutes more, until mixture thickens. Remove vanilla bean pod. Pour into cups and chill. Top with crushed pistachios if desired.

Makes about 2 cups

Coconut Spiced Basmati Rice

1 cup basmati rice, rinsed

1 1/4 cup coconut water

Pinch of saffron

8 cardamom pods, smashed, shells removed and seeds ground

Pinch of salt

Combine all ingredients, cover with a lid and bring to a boil. Once boiling, turn heat down and simmer 15-20 minutes or until all liquid is absorbed. Let sit 5 minutes before fluffing with a fork.

Makes about 3 cups

Notes:

-The coconut water I had was Vita Coco's passion fruit flavor. There was only 11 ounces in the bottle I had, so I added enough plain tap water to get to 12 ounces (1 1/4 cups) for cooking the rice. I like firm rice; if you like your rice a little more moist, you could add up to 16 ounces (2 cups) liquid.

-If you'd like to add your own flavoring, I'd estimate there isn't more than 4 ounces of fruit juice in the bottle I had (judging from the grams of carbs on the nutrition label).

-Use your best judgement on the saffron; it's easy to over or underdo. I used a generous pinch, but not so generous that it made the rice taste like a dishwasher.

-I use a mortar and pestle to grind both the cardamom (and the pistachios). I also suspect my cardamom is beginning to turn and loose flavor, so you may need less than I have specified.

-Anyone humming "Two Tickets to Paradise" by Eddie Money? Anyone?

Glazing Over Resolutions with Ginger-Glazed Carrots

Carrot: n. a reward offered for a desired behavior; an inducement

Glaze: v. to give a smooth, glossy surface

At the top of a new year we tend to pause, take a step back, look ahead, and perhaps start to envision a more together life. A life in which your socks match on a regular basis, a life in which you don’t feel chronically bloated and, perhaps, a life in which you are awarded a Pulitzer.

And so the resolutions for a better being begin. Lose weight. Eat better. Improve grammar. Comb hair regularly. Marry George Clooney. These goals are nice, but nothing has really sparked any change: just a big sparkly ball dropping from the sky. Just time passing, as it always does. And so resolutions typically don't last. And even if they do, they don't ensure happiness. (Not even you, Clooney.)

Which is why I’m not really a big fan of them. I don’t despise resolutions. It’s just that they tend to be arbitrary and lofty; forced progress towards achieving a perfect version of yourself. A feat that is downright unattainable.

It brings to mind the old “carrot on a stick” routine. Boy holds a stick with a carrot tied to it. Boy dangles carrot in front of the donkey he is riding. Donkey moves to get the carrot. Carrot remains slightly out of reach. (Clooney is also famous for this, as an untamable bachelor.)

With resolutions, you often do this carrot tomfoolery to yourself. But you can also do it to others. And others can do it to you. And we can live for years like this, dangling carrots and chasing them all over the place.

So while I applaud those that manage to create thoughtful resolutions (and marvel at those that keep them), I gave my New Year’s resolutions (version 2.011) the old heave-ho. This year I want to eat my carrots instead of chase them. And decided to start in one of the most un-resolution-y ways: with butter. I also had a large quantity of ginger ale in my fridge that was taking up space and making me pretty anxious. Enter Alton Brown. Untamable in the kitchen, he had me glazing carrots with my soda surplus, and chuckling to myself at how easy it all was.

And while I won’t say these glazed carrots were perfect, they were pretty darn good. Sweet, tender, healthy—sort of—with a little gingery bite.

So I suppose if you had to pin me down to a resolution, I’d say it's to glaze over resolutions and eat more carrots. I wish you great success with all your carrots in the coming year, may there be more glazed than dangled in your days ahead.

Ginger-Glazed Carrots

Inspired by Alton Brown

2 tbsp butter

1 tbsp fresh ginger, minced

1 bunch carrots (about 1 pound), peeled and cut so that they are all about the same size

8 ounces ginger ale

pinch kosher salt

pinch coriander

pinch allspice

pinch cayenne pepper

Heat a saucepan (that has a lid) on medium heat. Add butter and ginger and stir; add carrots, ginger ale, salt and spices. Cover and bring to a simmer (this will take about 10 minutes or so). Once liquid is simmering, remove lid, stir, and reduce heat to low. Continue to cook carrots uncovered until ginger ale reduces to a glaze and carrots are tender, occasionally spooning liquid over carrots as they cook (about 10-15 minutes more).

Serves 3-4 people

Notes:

-For a less sweet, fewer additive-containg beverage you could try using GuS ("Grown Up Soda") ginger ale, which can be found at Whole Foods.

Luck Be A Lentil

My family was one big walking Italian cliché over the holidays. We had 3 pies, 2 trays of cookies, and a bowl of red grapes for dessert ... for 12 people. We discussed making homemade ricotta for ravioli, as we sopped up leftover red sauce with Italian bread. We debated Aunt Marion’s meatball recipe: parsley or no parsley? We drank Chianti.

My mother even saved the red and white string I used to wrap gifts because it reminded her of the stuff they used to package old fashioned baked goods—which she'd walk to fetch for her grandmother—at Harrison Bakery, in Syracuse. (Which, truthfully, I bought because it reminded me of the string used to tie up boxes of cannoli at Modern Pastry in the North End—Boston’s version of Little Italy.) In short, we all but broke out singing "Dominick the Donkey."

But it really hit home just how Italian my family was when I broached the tradition of making lentils on December 31st each year. Italians believe that eating lentils on New Year’s Eve provides luck for the year ahead. Since lentils are shaped like little coins and are often green in color, it’s said that they signify good fortune: a legume-backed insurance policy of sorts. And so growing up, my mother would make us lentil soup at the start of every year.

This year at the Christmas table, my grandmother piped in to say she still made lentil soup, as did my aunt, and my mom’s cousin: a tradition that my great grandmother brought over from Italy, 98 years ago.

I learned that long before I was born, it was also tradition for my grandmother to (try) to avoid the lentil soup if there was garlic in it (she doesn’t like it). My great grandmother would then enact her deny, deny, deny garlic-in-the-soup policy until someone inevitably found a large chunk. (I imagine she must have felt like her hands were tied, being handed a garlic restriction: why bother to cook at all?) She’d shrug, wrinkle her nose, and act confused as to how—precisely—the garlic got there. But she knew exactly how.

And how can you mess with a stubborn tradition like that? Though, in the interest of full disclosure, staying in on New Year’s Eve to make lentil soup—instead of drinking champagne and wearing an obnoxious amount of sequins—sounded downright depressing this year. So for good measure, I made sure to get my lucky lentils in on the eve of New Year’s Eve at Addis Red Sea, an Ethiopian restaurant in Boston’s South End. You just can’t take any chances when it comes to an entire year of prosperity. And the lentils they served were all I had hoped for: spicy and a refreshing change of pace, just what I wish 2011 to be.

But being a bit of a traditionalist—and a bit superstitious—I made sure to whip up a pot of lentil soup this week. Just in case. It couldn’t hurt to have a little added insurance; a little extra lentil currency to ensure good fortune and most definitely, unabashedly, some garlic in the coming year.

Italian Lentil Stew

1/4 cup olive oil

1 large yellow onion, diced

4 cloves garlic, minced

1 tbsp fresh thyme, minced (divided)

1 bunch carrots, diced (about 2 cups)

8 cups chicken stock, homemade if possible

2 cups lentils, preferably Puy

2 tsp fresh rosemary, minced

1/2 tsp allspice

1/2 tsp red pepper flakes

2 cups canned diced tomatoes, with slightly more tomato juice and less diced tomato

Kosher salt and pepper to taste, season throughout soup

Heat a large saucepan or dutch oven on medium heat and add olive oil. Add onions and cook until translucent, about 5-7 minutes, adding a pinch of salt as the onions cook. Add garlic and half your thyme and cook 2-3 minutes more. Add diced carrots and stir until combined. Add another sprinkle of salt and bit of pepper and cook carrots until they begin to soften, about 5 minutes more. Add stock, lentils, rosemary, allspice and red pepper flakes and cook for about 15-20 minutes. Add tomatoes/tomato juice and rest of thyme. Let cook for 10-15 minutes more and taste to adjust for seasoning. Continue to cook until lentils are soft but still retain their shape, about 10-25 minutes more.

Makes 9 cups

Notes:

-The cooking time of the lentils will depend on the type of lentil you use and how old the lentil is. Adding an acid will also increase the time it takes to cook the lentils. So if you are in a hurry it may be best to forgo the tomatoes, as much as it pains me to say so.

-I am a sucker for Puy lentils. Technically, they are French. And I love them. They hold their shape wonderfully and have an almost nutty flavor. They are also charmingly dark green with little blue specks and were originally grown in the volcanic soil of Le Puy, France.

-This is definitely a recipe where you can take some major creative license. Don't dig the pine of rosemary? Use oregano. Or sage. Or whatever else you'd like. Though, it definitely helps to salt as you go with a recipe like this, adding it only at the end may make it taste more salty and not necessarily more flavorful.

-This makes a thicker, hearty soup/stew. You can always add more broth if you'd like to thin it out.

-Adding parmesan cheese will only help your cause.

Eight Maids a Drinking Espresso Vanilla Bean Liqueur

I really felt it this year: Christmas, as the most wonderful time of the year. There certainly have been years when Christmas seemed like the least wonderful, very worst time of the year. But not this year: it was one of the best in recent memory. I decided to relish in all things Christmas. I decided to sit back and succumb to the holiday madness.

And I also decided to show my Christmas gratitude and pass out homemade liqueur to folks I don’t usually exchange gifts with. A way to say thank you, for being you. For being a wonderful presence in my life: and for sustaining the nuttiness. I soon realized I was limited in recipe yields only, running out of liqueur long before running out of people to share it with.

I made this espresso liqueur right around the time I made the cranberry cordial. Like the cordial, there isn’t much work involved. Just a fair amount of time straining out espresso grinds, if you aren’t paying attention and/or are lured by the sound of freshly ground organic espresso beans instead of the instant kind. Then you might spend, say, 2 hrs instead of 20 minutes in the kitchen.

Though I can’t speak for the original instant espresso version, my idiot-infused version came out an unctuous celebration of coffee and vanilla bean. It’s lovely with a heavy-handed splash of cream after dinner.

It also looked quite festive bottled and decked with "12 Days of Christmas" tags. The tags were a suitable addition; the song is one of my favorite holiday numbers, probably because it combines such a perplexing collection of extravagant peculiarities. (And who can’t relate to that during the holidays?)

Somehow the "12 Days of Christmas" manages to come off gilded and high-spirited, with no one questioning what exactly a partridge in a pear tree is doing in the company of leaping lords and golden rings (five?!). Similarly, this Christmas no one questioned the extraordinarily eclectic band of occurrences: which made this year one of my favorites.

So without further ado (at this juncture perhaps you can imagine 12 drummers drumming) …

My most very favorite 12 things from Christmas 2010:

Twelve boozy rum balls

Eleven minutes spent listening to The Polar Express on YouTube, as read by William Hurt

Ten homemade ravioli (a Doucette family Christmas Eve tradition)

Nine pieces of sour cherry pie: made and pitted by my Grandma Lee (using a paper clip as a cherry pitter)

Eight mentions of Marilyn Monroe, broads, and drinking before noon, from my Uncle John

Seven minutes spent laughing, after my 87 year-old grandmother told me I'd “been around the block” (the “right way,” she clarified)

Six new ways I can make pasta using my new KitchenAid attachment

Five times I thanked my grandma for giving me her vintage golden clutch

Four main ingredients needed for my great great Aunt Marion’s meatballs*

Three hours spend watching TLC's "Next Great Baker" with my mother and brother (and realizing I need to start using the signature sendoff from Buddy “the Cake Boss”: “Get in the box truck, baby”)

Two witnesses hearing “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas” sang to the tune of “Stairway to Heaven”

And a ... kind of Christmas that makes you cry from laughter

I hope you enjoyed your Christmas with family and friends to the fullest. And fully recommend starting the year of fresh, perhaps with a batch of espresso liqueur. It will be ready for you just in time to toast the last of your New Year’s resolutions away.

Espresso Vanilla Bean Liqueur

2 cups water

2.5 cups sugar

3/4 cup instant espresso powder

2 vanilla bean pods

3 cups of vodka

Bring water and sugar to a boil to dissolve sugar. Add espresso powder and reduce to a simmer. Stir to dissolve espresso powder, about 2 minutes or so. Remove liquid from heat and transfer to a glass jar with a tight-fitting lid. Split vanilla beans open and scrape out seeds, add seeds and pods to espresso liquid. Let cool until mixture is no longer hot. Add vodka. Cover and store in a cool, dark place for 4-6 weeks.

Makes ~5 cups

Notes

-I started this on November 18th, stored it in my fridge, and bottled it 4 weeks later; as promised the results were magnificent.

-To keep some sanity I posted a version of the original recipe that inspired me from Sfgirlbybay. Yes, technically, in my version I used freshly ground organic espresso beans, which sounds very alluring until you spend some quality time in the kitchen straining out the grinds using a gang of cheesecloths and strainers. Don't get me wrong, it was well worth it, but I'm not convinced you can't achieve the same result by following the recipe.

-*My Aunt Rose called Aunt Marion's meatball recipe the "2-2-6." 2 pounds of ground beef, 2 cups of bread crumbs, 6 whole eggs ... and a handful of parmesan cheese (and a partridge in a pear tree).

Cranberry Christmas Cordial To Keep You Warm

The snow is snowing. The wind is blowing. But I can weather the storm. What do I care, how much it may storm? I've got my love to keep me warm …

Wait, hold that Christmassy note: I meant my vodka, not love.

I came across a recipe in early November from Diary of a Locavore, aptly named “homemade Christmas spirit.” It was right around thanksgiving time; in fact, it was the last week the farmers’ market was open here in Boston. It happened by chance, but I scored the sweetest, most inspiring New England cranberries I have ever seen.

And so I doused them in vodka with some citrus, cinnamon, and cloves and just like that, this gorgeously festive spirit walked right into my life. And much like a long-lasting romance, with the right amount of forethought and a smidgen of coddling, a beautiful, beautiful cordial was made.

It’s been “maturing” in my fridge since November 22nd (and was well worth the wait). Last night, as I sat typing this, I looked out onto the streets of Beacon Hill from my full wall of windows to see the wind whipping Boston’s first snowflakes around: big and fat, but light as they fell. Gas lampposts, dressed with bright red bows, casted light onto the fallen snow. Watching all of this (and sipping some Christmas spirit) I’m not sure that I’ve ever felt more alive. Or warm—especially on the eve of a winter solstice.

This cranberry cordial may be the perfect antidote for a blustery winter night. It also reminds me of the cranberry vodka that I drank quite a bit of one cold winter at Café St. Petersburg, a Russian restaurant in Newton Center. They served little carafes of their homemade, jewel-toned—strong yet syrupy—cranberry vodka with hot cabbage pirozhok, a buttery pastry worth a commute to Russia. I typically left slightly starry-eyed from the vodka, but always in good spirits. (They might have patched up the cold war a longtime ago, if both sides had simply settled on more pirozhok and vodka and less bombs.)

This cranberry cordial is quite a match for the one they serve at Café St. Petersburg. And though I’m probably asking for it by comparing my vodka to that of a Russian’s, the Christmas notes in this recipe may be the perfect way to cap off your holiday.

The warm spices wrap around you like a blanket; allowing you to drink the cordial pleasantly, comfortably on it’s own (even if you aren’t Russian): should you care to do so. And for some holiday cheer, I passed the cordial out as gifts this year. (If there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that vodka never goes to waste, especially around the holidays.) One friend inquired as to what she should drink with it. Gee, I said, it never crossed my mind to drink it any way other than straight.

It occurs to me it would probably be lovely a number of ways. You could reduce it and drizzle it over some roast duck (or Christmas goose?). Or simply pour it over cinnamon ice cream.

I have a feeling this cranberry cordial is going to be a new Christmas tradition, at least for as long as I can get fresh cranberries. After all, I live in New England. I need a way to weather the storm. Though, I really don’t care how much it may storm: I’ve got my Christmas spirit to keep me warm.

Cranberry 'Christmas Spirit' Cordial

2 cups sugar

1 orange, the juice and the rinds (pith removed)

about 1/4 cup water

2 cups of whole cranberries, divided

2 cinnamon sticks

5 cloves

2 cups vodka

Heat sugar, juice and zest of your orange, water and half of your cranberries in a saucepan until your cranberries just start to split. Add the rest of your cranberries and spices and cook about 5 minutes more. Let sit until the cranberry mixture comes to room temperature and then add the vodka.

Store it in a jar or container with a tight-fitting lid in a cool, dark place (the fridge works great if there is room). Let it sit for at least 2 weeks before drinking. Strain out the cranberries and spices and bottle the remaining cordial.

Makes about 4 cups

Notes

-I saved the vodka-soaked cranberries and moved them straight to my freezer (and then to my mouth). I've been snacking on them all week. They are strong, but delicious.

-If you are making this for the holidays be sure to start early: at least 2 weeks, preferably longer, before bottling (I waited a month).

-They have lovely food-grade bottles at The Container Store that work very well for bottling; you'll see them next week when I post about another liqueur I gifted. Tis the season!

Santa Baby, Have a Cupcake

I thought long and hard before I settled on a post about cupcakes in mid-December. In fact, I originally felt quite grinchy doing it; tisk tisk-ing myself for not posting about Christmas cookies. Christmas cookies are the quintessential holiday dessert. You wouldn’t serve Santa a cupcake on Christmas Eve. Though such a sentiment makes me worry that I sound like a 50’s housewife, which I am not.

While I do own an apron and a set of pearls, I could hardly be described as quintessential or mild-mannered, especially if I’ve had more than one or two manhattans. Last weekend, my (snow leopard print) stocking was hung by the chimney with care, but not without a good deal of cursing. And truthfully, if I were to leave Santa cookies on his most important day of the year, I’d also leave him a white Russian or a nice cold beer. (Working through time zones, where the work clock literally moves backwards, has to be trying.) And so I’m stuck in some sort of domestic purgatory, caught between June Clever and Zelda Fitzgerald.

Which worked in my favor last week when I stumbled across a cupcake recipe from Magnolia Bakery just in time for a dinner I was hosting Saturday night. It was in honor of my sister, who was in town to shop for her wedding dress. After getting teary-eyed at the sight of her in a birdcage veil, it was time to get down to business. A day of dress shopping had left me with 30 minutes to make a meringue buttercream and frost cupcakes before company arrived.

Unfortunately, I forgot I had finished the vanilla extract the day before. Fortunately, Clever and Fitzgerald joined forces, raided my liquor cabinet, and settled on some Kahlua instead. This, I’m quite sure, was an improvement and while I served homemade butternut squash ravioli and gingerbread punch, these cupcakes got all the attention.

I’ve already had a request from one of the bridesmaids for the recipe and after bringing my neighbor some of the leftovers, I literally heard her boyfriend yell into the street the following night, "Emily, we need more cupcakes!" He almost sounded angry about it. I even brought a few to a dear, typically mild-mannered friend: she sent me an “OMG” email later in the day that was written in all caps.

So I'm going to try to let my hair down about the whole cupcake v. Christmas cookie thing; after all, being able to share them is the true spirit of Christmas (there goes my Clever side again). And if they are good enough to rouse the neighbors, they have got to be good enough for Santa. I hear he is chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf; so I suspect he won’t be complaining. Especially if I leave him a little extra Kahlua.

So Santa baby, a chocolate buttermilk cupcake will do, for you. I’ll wait up for your dear, Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.

Chocolate Buttermilk Cupcakes with Kahlua Meringue Buttercream

Adapted from Cannelle et Vanille (from The Magnolia Bakery Cookbook)

6 oz unsweetened chocolate, melted and slightly cooled

2 sticks of butter

1 cup sugar

1 cup dark brown sugar

4 eggs

1 tsp vanilla

1 cup buttermilk

2 cups flour

1 tsp baking soda

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Melt chocolate in a saucepan on low heat until most of chocolate is melted, remove from heat (the residual heat will melt remaining chocolate). Cream together butter, sugar and brown sugar; add eggs one at a time. Add melted chocolate and mix until combined. Add vanilla and half the buttermilk. Mix in flour and baking soda. Add remaining buttermilk and mix until thoroughly incorporated. Scoop into muffin tins filled with muffin liners. Bake for about 20 minutes or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean.

Makes about 18 cupcakes (enough for Santa, his reindeer, and some friends)

Kahlua Meringue Buttercream

Adapted from Bake! by Nick Malgieri

4 large eggwhites

Pinch of salt

1 1/4 cups sugar

3 sticks unsalted butter

~2 tbsp Kahlua (to taste really)

Fill a saucepan big enough to fit a mixer bowl (of an electric mixer) about half full with water. Bring to boil and decrease heat so that water is at a slow boil. Whisk egg whites, salt and sugar by hand in the bowl of an electric mixer. Place bowl over the boiling water and continue to whisk constantly until the egg whites are hot (~140 degrees) and the sugar is dissolved about 3-6 minutes.

Place the bowl on your mixer with its whisk attachment and whip on medium speed until the meringue becomes frothy and the bowl is no longer hot to the touch. Switch to the paddle attachment and continue to beat the meringue on low speed until the bowl is no longer warm to the touch. (Do not add the butter until you reach this step or it will ruin the buttercream.)

Add the butter in quarters on low speed. Scrape the bowl to fully combine all ingredients and increase your mixer's speed to medium and beat until smooth, thick and shiny (about 5 minutes or so). Add Kahlua and mix until thoroughly combined.

Makes enough to frost about 18 cupcakes

Notes:

-Nick mentions that you can test to see if your sugar has fully dissolved by rubbing some frosting between your fingers (you shouldn't feel any grit). I never fully had this grit-less experience he spoke of and was worried I'd scramble my frosting if I continued, so I eventually gave up. My guests didn't notice and my skilled pastry chef bride-to-be of a sister said she liked (!) the frosting that way; that it added a pleasing texture. I really don't think she was just being nice, though if you can get your icing smooth as a baby's bottom, I applaud you. Don't fret if you can't. I loved it just the way it was and it still frosted extremely well.

-I used Scharffen Berger unsweetened chocolate 99% cacao and had some extra so I shaved some to top off the frosted cupcakes.

-You can mix the cupcakes a day ahead and refrigerate them until you are ready to bake. The batter may look thicker than you'd expect, but it makes for a lovely cupcake. (I tested both versions.)

-I used homemade buttermilk because I had some in my freezer and am always looking for ways to use it up. How bad could that be?