It was Saturday morning and I was up to my eyeballs in apricots. That I was canning and jamming to beat the band wasn’t enough, oh-HO-no. I also had to try my hand at an apricot sorbet and a honey-roasted apricot ice cream, and then, just to put myself over the top, throw in an apricot cake, too. (Plus, I threw together a full-blown lunch of sweet and sour beef—using an apricot jam I made earlier—with cabbage, rice, and a zucchini skillet.)

This, after a week of baking a passel of apricot goodies: apricot crostata, apricot crisp, apricot crumble, apricot upside down cake, and that apricot sweet and sour jam. (And lest you be confused, the jam didn’t involve baking, but it was apricot.) There was also a dehydrator load of apricots and a failed recipe of apricot freezer jam. (Don’t ever try the apricot freezer jam that comes in the pectin box. It will make you pull out all your hair and call your aunt, the apricot canning queen, three times in one day. Consider yourself warned.)

The reason there’s been so much apricot tomfoolery going on in my kitchen is because I don’t really know what to do with the little plump critters when they come rolling in my door. I deal with fresh apricots only once a year and then I’m so busy preserving them that, before I know it, the apricots are all packed into jars without me ever learning how to cook with the sexy fresh ones. This year I determined not to miss my chances. I’d make as many apricot recipes as I could, and I would, by hook or by apricot crook, find something splendid.

And I have: this cake, the one I made on Saturday morning, a Honeyed Apricot Almond Cake.

It’s like this: a thick batter comprised of ground-up almonds, some whole wheat flour, and a healthy flurry of nutmeg.

Then, a large handful of apricots cut in half and nestled cut-side up atop the batter, their little hollows drizzle-filled with honey.

Finally, after a turn in the oven in which the apricots settle to the bottom (or perhaps only halfway down), a cake that, to all appearances is as plain as plain can be.

It’s anything but.

Bespeckled with almond flecks, rich with nutmeg and butter, and tangy-sweet from the occasional apricot, this cake is what I will make every single June when apricots are in season, forever and ever, amen.

Honeyed Apricot Almond Cake
Adapted from A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg

½ cup butter, at room temperature
1 cup sugar
3 eggs
1/4 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 cup milk
1/3 cup whole wheat pastry flour
2/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
3/4 cup whole almonds, ground to a fine meal in a blender
5 large, or 7 small, fresh apricots, torn in half, pits removed
1-2 tablespoons honey

In a medium-sized bowl, stir together the almond meal, flours, salt, baking powder, and nutmeg.

In a small bowl, combine the milk and vanilla.

In a large mixing bowl, cream together the butter and sugar, then add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the dry ingredients alternately with the milk, beginning and ending with the dry.

Grease a 9 or 10-inch cake, or springform, pan (you can see that mine, a 9-inch tart pan, got filled to the brim and nearly overflowed) and pour in the batter, smoothing it out with a spatula. Arrange the apricot halves on top and drizzle a little honey into their hollows.

Bake the cake at 350 degrees for about 30-40 minutes, until the cake’s center no longer wobbles and a wooden skewer pierced in the middle comes out clean.

Cool for ten minutes, run a knife around the rim of the pan, and then cool the rest of the way. Serve as is, or gussy it up with a flurry of powdered sugar and a dollop of whipped cream.

Yield: one 9 (or 10)-inch cake. Stores well for a couple days, covered with plastic, at room temperature, but if leftovers linger longer, it should be transferred to the fridge to prevent the apricots from souring.

Updated on June 30, 2010: use more apricots, perhaps four to six whole ones. Make sure to use a bigger pan, a ten-inch springform would probably be perfect.

About one year ago: Oregano, Garlic, and Lemon Roast Chicken with Potatoes and Asparagus and A Sketchy Character
About two years ago: Brown Bread, Simple Granola (it’s central to our existence, and it’s what my kids will think of when they remember home), and the spit rag. Aaaaand, Fancy Granola and French Chocolate Granola. Beware of the French chocolate granola. Be very aware.

Somehow, in the midst of this oppressive heat wave, I have developed the irrational impulse to cook.

Big time.

Up a storm.

To the thweaty death.

(Sorry. It’s what happens when you watch The Princess Bride three times in two months.)

Coleslaws, potato salads, crostatas, jams, blueberry cakes, cookie tarts, tacos, empanadas, more slaws, crumbles, cocktails, granola, fruit rolls, and more, have been created and eaten in my sultry kitchen. Plus, there’s the peas and apricots, and now the zucchinis are starting to roll—wheeee!

Mornings, I cook, oversee kids’ chores, and take them to swimming lessons. (Miss Beccaboo made the newspaper! A photographer took an underwater shot of her—Miss Beccaboo reported “she had a fish tank in her camera,” and I said “Don’t you mean ‘her camera in a fish tank?’”) Early afternoon, I rest, write, and drink coffee. And late afternoon, when the sun is at its hottest but the promise of cool is just around the corner (though still a good five hours away), I pull down the shades to ward off the killer sun, pour a glass of iced tea, crank up the fan, and cook till the sun goes down. And after that, I head out the garden to yank ugly weeds, then read books to the kids, take a brrrr-cold shower, do some recipe research and photo sorting, visit with my honey, and then off to bed I trot. The end.

I wonder how long it will be before I crash.

I get like this—exceedingly excited about life and all its endless possibilities, energetic and giddy and productive, and then, quite suddenly, I’m not. I do normal things at normal speeds with normal bursts of energy and normal draggy spells. All fine and good, yes, but without the lusty, ho-ho-ho, whee-this-is fun feeling. And I really enjoy that feeling. Whenever it comes, I rev up my engines and GO.

I know it sounds bipolar-y, and bipolar disorder does run in my family, but I’m not. I’m just an up and down person, gleeful and grumpy, and sometimes grumpily gleeful (or gleefully grumpy). That my family hasn’t sent me to the looney bin is a testament to their upstanding character more than anything.

And don’t worry. I don’t do anything rash when I’m zippy. Unless you count making two (or three) cakes in one day “rash.”

Or baking empanadas when it’s 96 degrees outside, 86 in the kitchen, and muggy as a wet sock.

But man-oh-man, did I have fun with these empanadas. They were a delight the whole way through, from boiling the eggs and chopping the raisins and green olives (and eating about a dozen straight up in a sodium-deprived craze) to biting into the flaky-tender pastry. The dough was a dream, mysterious and supple and beautifully roll-able.

Why mysterious, you ask? Well, because there was tequila in it! Ole!

Maybe I’m slow on the uptake, but I just now, as in three days ago, learned about the marvels of vodka (or tequila) in pastry dough. It’s simple, really: the alcohol moistens the dough without forming gluten strands. Then, as the pastry bakes, the alcohol evaporates without a trace of flavor (shucks), leaving a shattery crust in its wake. It’s brilliant, I tell you. Absolutely brilliant.

I did research on the topic and apparently lots of people are already doing this. I suppose I could feel dejected about my slow-learning abilities, but I’m too thrilled to feel anything but giddy-gleeful with my discovery.

I did a bunch of reading, post-empanada-making, and learned that the filling recipe—with the cumin, green olives, and boiled eggs—is fairly authentic.

Of course, you could fill these with anything you like—cheeses, curried vegetables, chicken and spinach—but for me and my household, we will eat these beefy things till the cows come home. Or the heat wave breaks, whichever comes first.

Beef Empanadas
Adapted from the May and June 2010 issue of Cooks Illustrated

While not quite as flaky-crispy as they are straight out of the oven, frozen empanadas, thawed at room temperature and then reheated in the microwave, are totally delicious. Mr. Handsome takes them in his lunch and devours them, un-reheated. He says he looks around at what the other guys are eating and feels sorry for them.

Notes:
*Ground chuck is leaner (and a little more expensive) than hamburger. If you use regular hamburger, omit the olive oil for frying and drain off any extra fat.
*Masa harina is not cornmeal. If you can’t find it (but do try!), just use another cup of all-purpose flour.
*I crimped some of my empanadas by twisting the dough, but I prefer the fork crimps. They make a thinner and lighter edge which balances better with the meat.

For the dough:
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup masa harina
1 tablespoon sugar
2 teaspoons salt
12 tablespoons butter, cut into pieces and chilled
½ cup cold tequila or vodka
½ cup cold water

In a food processor, blend together 1 cup of flour, the masa harina, sugar, and salt. Add the butter and process till the mixture resembles wet sand. Add the remaining flour and pulse to combine.

Dump the mixture into a large bowl and sprinkle the alcohol and water over top. Stir to combine, and then, using your hands, knead lightly to pull the dough into a ball. Divide the dough into twelve equal pieces, set them on a plate, cover with plastic wrap, and transfer them to the fridge to chill for about an hour (or up to two days).

For the filling:
1 piece white bread, torn into pieces
½ cup plus 2 tablespoons broth, either chicken or beef
1 pound ground chuck (see head note)
3/4 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon black pepper
1 tablespoon olive oil, plus more for baking
2 onions, about 2 cups, chopped fine
4 garlic cloves, minced
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1/4 teaspoon chipotle or cayenne powder
1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
½ cup packed cilantro leaves, chopped
2 hard-cooked eggs, chopped
1/3 cup raisins, chopped
1/4 cup green olives, chopped
4 teaspoons cider vinegar

In the bowl of a food processor, pulse the bread with 2 tablespoons broth until paste-y. Add beef, salt, and pepper and pulse till well combined.

Heat the oil in a heavy skillet, add the onions and cook for about 5 minutes, or until they start to brown. Add the garlic, cumin, cayenne, and cloves and cook for one minute. Add the beef and cook for about 7 more minutes, or until it begins to brown. Add the remaining broth and simmer for about five minutes (you want the mixture to be moist but not wet). Remove the skillet from the heat and let the mixture cool for about 20 minutes. Add the remaining ingredients (cilantro through vinegar) and, if needed, more salt and pepper. Transfer the mixture to the refrigerator to chill completely. (You can also make it weeks ahead of time and then freeze it till you need it.)

To assemble:
Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

Roll each ball of dough into a 6-inch circle about 1/8th-inch thick. Place 1/3 cup of the filling in the bottom center of each circle. Brush some water around the edges of the dough (it helps the dough stick together). Using a metal spatula, carefully fold the dough over the filling, Crimp the edges together using a fork.

Once you have filled and crimped six empanadas, generously coat the bottom of a rimmed baking sheet with olive oil and place it in the oven for five minutes to heat up. Remove the pan from the oven and carefully set the empanadas in the hot oil. Liberally coat the empanadas with more olive oil. Bake the empanadas for 20-30 minutes, turning the pan (and/or individual empanadas) if one side is browning faster than the other. (I also slid another cookie sheet under the baking pan half-way through because the empanadas were browning too quickly on the bottom.)

While the first tray of empanadas is baking, finish rolling and stuffing the remaining balls of dough.

When the empanadas have finished baking, transfer them to a wire rack and cool for ten minutes before serving.

Yield: 12 large empanadas

About one year ago: One whole year. Well look at that! It’s been two whole years that I’ve been blogging. Look at me go!
About two years ago: Reasons and Lemon Donut Muffins and Painter on the roof and Weird. Back in the beginning I was a crazy-happy blogger. Geesh.

I buy limes every time I go to the grocery store whether I need them or not. I think I had about four bags of limes knocking around in my crispers yesterday afternoon, but now there are only two.

Because I made this.

I’m not really a cocktail girl. I like them plenty, but I don’t usually go out of my way to make them because they entail doing one more thing in the midst of the pre-supper crunch. Plus, they imply that you might be relaxing prior to supper and I don’t relax prior to supper—I crunch. So therefore, I have no cocktail glasses and these lovelies had to make do with wine glasses. Not that it made them any less delicious.

This drink has inspired me in a big way. Not only do I want to go thrift shopping for cocktail glasses but I also want to throw a party so I can share the slushy goodness with the world.

But throwing a party would mean I would have to vacuum the floors and wash the kitchen windows and pick up the bazillion socks, shoe liners and plastic cups that litter our yard. So I think I’ll skip the party and just drink them all myself. Sorry.

I fixed up the drinks last night (it was hot as the dickens so it was salad night which meant I wasn’t crunching) before Mr. Handsome made it back from taking the van to the garage to get it “listened to.” (Not good news, and have I told you that our washing machine on spin cycle sounds like a freight train and that it pees water all over the bathroom floor? We’re going to have to get that machine a diaper if this behavior continues.)

Anyway, before he even got home I had drunk half of mine, and when he walked in the door I yelled, “HEY!” which made him jump, and then I sprinted to the freezer where I had stashed his drink, thrust it into his hands, and demanded, “Now tell me what you think!” Then I scrutinized him while he tentatively licked the rim and took a sip.

“Well?” I said, ever impatient. “What do you think, huh? Do you like it?”

“It’s good,” he said. (Lick, sip.) “It’s really good.”

“Shoot,” I said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t like it so I could drink yours.”

(Lick. Sip.)

(Scrutinize, scrutinize.)

(Lick. Sip.)

“Aren’t you even going to ask me about the van?” he prompted.

“Oh yeah. So how’s the van?” And then he proceeded to tell me something about shafts and belts, but I was so focused on watching him sip that beautiful drink and brush sugar crystals off his lips (I went a little overboard on the sugar rim) that I heard nary a word.

Slushy Mojitos
Adapted from the July 2010 issue of Bon Appetit

I halved the rum since I’m a modest drinker (and wanted to save room for a rum and coke [with lime!] later, shhh), but if you’re feeling frisky, go ahead and increase the amount to a half cup.

1/4 cup fresh lime juice
1/4 cup Gold rum
3 tablespoons sugar
2-3 cups ice
6 mint leaves, plus extra for garnish

To prepare the glasses, rub a wedge of lime around the rims, wetting about 1/4 inch down on the glass, and then dip the glasses into your sugar canister.

Combine the lime juice, rum, and sugar in the blender and blend till the sugar is dissolved. Add two cups of ice and blend till creamy smooth. Add the mint leaves and some more ice (up to a whole cup) and blend till smooth.

Divide the drinks between two glasses, garnish with sprigs of mint, and serve.

Note: These can be made ahead of time and stored in the freezer for 20 minutes, longer if you’ve doubled or quadrupled the recipe. Stir and serve.