Use up all those summer damson plums with this showstopping cake.
Welcome to my blog. I document my adventures in travel, style, and food. Hope you have a nice stay!
All in Summer
Use up all those summer damson plums with this showstopping cake.
English springtime hits like a bomb, bringing with it flowers galore, hay fever a plenty, and produce extraordinaire.
If you’ve ever met me, been to my house, or even to my Instagram, you know I love cake. What’s not immediately apparent is how much my family loves ice cream.
This is a milestone post – the very first of the Shortlists’ storied existence that hasn’t been written on my 2009 MacBook Pro. The old girl can’t handle much excitement these days so processing and publishing a crumb cake recipe was out of the question.
It’s early September but NYC is holding on to the heat. If I had my way, winter would be a place you visit, summer would drag on forever and salads for dinner would never go out of season
We’ve had quite the winter in Boston. It was cold, it was bitter and now that it’s finally over I can’t help but wear sandals and leave windows open despite the chilly April wind. I don’t care if it’s too cold – we survived a 5-month arctic night, the last two months of which were particularly bleak weather-wise – we deserve to celebrate any way we want.
It’s a summer of firsts for me. My first summer in the U.S. in a decade. My first summer not in Italy in a decade. My first summer working (at a not-summer-job job). My first summer not traveling. My first summer in many years not married, and my first summer without Stella.
This cake converted a non-believer. Someone who, before tasting this cake, did not see the beauty in a kitchen counter top cake with a crumbly knife perched casually, innocently nearby.
It’s summer in my mind. Sydney is still graciously warm, though the days are distressingly short.
Sometimes summer gives way to rain. The dog refuses to go outside and the thirsty plants explode upwards.
Stella and I safely and soundly arrived in Boston just in time for Thanksgiving. It would be our first at home, the first time my mother would make the stuffing and the pies.
Who doesn’t like pesto?
Even picky eaters – “what’s that green stuff?” people – love it. My basil-hating brother would eat his own arm if it was slathered in the stuff.
Just the other day, my precious 5-month-old went to daycare for the first time. It was a big moment for many reasons, not the least of which was that we’ve been on that waiting list since last February.
Our dinners of late have been odes to efficiency. The baby usually starts to lose her cool around 7:30 pm, at which point Francesco picks up making dinner where I left off (that is, if I even got around to starting).
In preparation from our two-month stay, my mother stocked up on mascarpone. And by stocked up, I mean she purchased all the mascarpone this side of the Atlantic.
Spaghetti with tomato sauce: the simplest and most beloved of all of Italy’s dishes, a symbol of her cuisine, a staple in every region. Every mamma makes it, everyone slurps it up with masterful twirls of the fork on the side of the bowl.
Hello dear readers! I don’t mean to make you jealous or imply that we don’t work around here.
It’s still stinking hot here in Sydney and will be for the next few months. Not that I’m complaining. Sure, I miss my hearty baked pastas and braised everything, but summer eating is full of simple pleasures. Like ice cream, which we’ve taken to eating by the carton.