Persimmon Smash

Prior to this year, I had eaten exactly one persimmon in my life. One. And the past few weeks? I've been averaging one every other day. I LOVE PERSIMMONS.  I'm talking the firm fuyu persimmons (perhaps I'll leave hachiya for next year) — all orangey-salmon and squat, with their somewhere-between-tomato-and-peach texture, and tropical-yet-autumnal confusingly delicious flavor. Where have persimmons been all my life? It's like suddenly getting a whole new color added to the rainbow.

For the most part, as with any new love, I've been content to just loll about with persimmons, enjoying the simple pleasures. Wedge, peel, consume. Repeat. But as we've gotten to know each other a bit better, I've felt emboldened to play around.

The persimmon smash takes my new best friends and cooks them down into an essence-of-persimmon syrup, perked up with a bit of citrus. I stripped the spices out of the initial recipe (as persimmon itself has enough crazy layered floral notes to more than carry things through), cut down the citrus (same reason), and oh my it's delicious.

And if you're looking for more seasonal drinks to discover, might I interest you in a glass of switchel? You can find my story about this colonial cocktail (well, mocktail) and its resurgence over at The World.

Persimmon Smash

inspired by Marcus Samuelsson, but heavily tweaked
yields 2 drinks (with syrup for about 3-4)

Persimmon Syrup 

3 fuyu persimmons, peeled and chopped  (you can make this without peeling, but it yields a smoother puree)

2 cups water

3/4 cup sugar

Finished Drink

2 ounces whiskey

2 ounces persimmon syrup

3/4 ounce lemon juice 

1/2 ounce orange juice 

sprig of mint, for garnish (I decided to go with rosemary, rather than brave the rain and harvest some neighborhood mint, but mint really is best)

To Make Persimmon Syrup: 
Place the persimmons, water and sugar in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat until it's just high enough to maintain a simmer. Cook until the persimmons have softened and the liquid has thickened slightly, ~15 minutes. Cool, then puree in a blender. Chill.

To Make Cocktail:
In a cocktail shaker (or, as it's known in this house, canning jar), combine the persimmon syrup, whiskey,  lemon juice, and orange juice with a bit of ice. Shake well, taste to adjust as needed, and strain (or, if we're being honest, pour) into a cocktail glass with ice. Garnish with a sprig of mint.

Citrus and Ginger Hot Toddy

I often go all-out when it comes to potluck contributions — especially smaller potlucks. Partly to have an excuse to play around in the kitchen, and partly to ensure that there's a substantial veg-friendly option that I can actually make a meal of. But for my recent book club potluck, I decided to just contribute a beverage. The host had said that there'd be a vegetarian main dish, so I didn't need to worry. And also, I was sick. So I brought hot toddies.

In retrospect, I probably should have stayed home (as I was much, much more gross and snuffly than I'd thought I would be). But oh, those toddies. Everyone loved them. Perhaps because folks were still basking in a post-holiday glow, and perhaps because they wanted something seemingly healthy to keep them from getting what I was clearly dying of. And perhaps because this toddy was just really delicious.

When I've made toddies in the past, they've usually just been versions of lemony, honey-spiked tea, sometimes with a shot of booze. But this time I upped the citrus component (thanks to the last of my California backyard Meyer lemons), threw in some fragrant mandarins, and some sharp-hot ginger. I added a few optional touches that I happened to have on hand (a few shakes of bitters and a dozen piney-clean juniper berries), and stirred in some honey. With all that going on, I left out the tea bags, to let the flavors better come through. And yes, I also brought a bottle of bourbon on the side.

If you've got a winter potluck, this makes a phenomenal contribution (even if you don't have a cold). And if you've got an insulated airpot or similar thermos, it's even easier — instead of simmering and infusing on the stove, you can just toss everything in the canister, pour the boiling water over it, and let it infuse for an hour or so. It's great for toasting in whatever the new year may bring, or for just getting you through a snuffly night.

Citrus and Ginger Hot Toddy

yields ~8 servings

3 meyer lemons (2 juiced, 1 sliced)
2 mandarins (1 juiced, 1 sliced)
~2-3 inches fresh ginger (depending upon the thickness), thinly sliced
~a dozen juniper berries, thwacked with a knife to bruise them (optional)
a few shakes bitters
1/4 cup honey
scant 8 cups boiling water
bourbon

If you have an airpot/thermos, place the citrus (slices and juice), ginger, juniper berries, and bitters in the pot. Place the honey in a heat-proof dish, and pour about a half-cup of the boiling water in to dissolve, then pour that in as well. Add the remaining boiling water to top it off, then cover and let infuse for about an hour (if you don't have an airpot, you can just simmer things on the stove). Serve with an optional slug of bourbon on the side.

Spiced Chocolate Whiskey Cake

When I make chocolate cake, I almost always make the same one. My go-to recipe is moist, rich, and delicate, pretty much all that a chocolate cake should be. But recently I had a chocolate cake that made me realize that sure, tender delicacy is great — but there's something to be said for a cake of some heft. A cake with a crumb that is moist but a bit sturdier, all the better to support the chunks of chocolate within. And the booze. Did I mention the booze? It's a thing of beauty, though you may not be able to tell from these last-minute cellphone pics (again: the booze).

I first had this cake at a birthday party for my friend Leela (who, of course, made it herself). It's a rich, solid chocolate cake, with the unmistakable-but-not-overpowering whiff of whiskey, studded with chocolate chunks and generously filled and topped with a bittersweet mascarpone frosting. The original recipe was served with a simple dusting of powdered sugar, but it makes for a surprisingly good layer cake. And so when I had the opportunity to bake a cake for a joint birthday party for two lovely ladies, I knew the two-for-one bang of chocolate and booze would be the perfect choice for a double festivity.

I'll probably return to my beloved standard chocolate cake for the next party, with its more traditional sweet and glossy buttercream frosting. But sometimes it's nice to mix it up a bit. Especially on birthdays. Because if there's anything we learn as time marches on, it's that things do change. Often deliciously.

Spiced Chocolate Whiskey Cake

cake adapted from Bottega Restaurant, as told to The New York Times, frosting adapted from Leela Cyd
yields one birthday cake

1 1/2 sticks butter (12 tablespoons), cut into pats
3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder (85 grams), plus additional for dusting cake pans
1 1/2 cups brewed strong coffee
1/2 cup whiskey
1 cup granulated sugar (200 grams)
1 cup light brown sugar (156 grams)
2 cups flour (240 grams)
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon coarse salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
3 large eggs, at room temperature
1/4 cup sour cream (optional)
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 cup chopped chocolate

Frosting:
8 ounces mascarpone
1 cup sifted powdered sugar
1/2 cup sifted cocoa powder
1 teaspoon vanilla
hefty pinch salt
squirt corn syrup (optional, to keep it glossy)
1/2 cup cream
1/4—1/2 cup milk, as needed

Preheat your oven to 350° Fahrenheit. Grease to 9-inch cake pans, and dust them with cocoa powder.

In a medium saucepan, melt the butter. Turn off the heat, and add the cocoa powder, coffee, and whiskey, and stir until dissolved. Add the sugars, and cool completely (seriously make sure it's cool, lest you later cook your eggs/melt your chocolate).

 

In a large bowl, sift or whisk together the flour, baking soda, salt, pepper and cloves. Set aside.

 

In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, sour cream (if using), and vanilla. Add the chocolate mixture, whisking to combine. Add the dry ingredients, whisk until just combined, then fold in the chocolate chunks. 

Quickly pour the batter into your prepared pans, then bake until a tester comes out clean, ~20-25 minutes. Let cool.

To make the frosting, simply mix all of the frosting ingredients together until smooth, adding more milk or cocoa powder as needed for consistency. Turn out the cooled cake and frost, then serve with candles and sprinkles and all sorts of festivities.

The 44 Cordial

When I was young, I had piles of books. Given my lifelong literature consumption, this should be no surprise. But it wasn't just the usual kiddie lit -- there were all sorts of practical how-to guides, science manuals, craft instructions, and the like. I had a book about evolution that, in addition to detailing the living fossils growing on every forest floor, explained how to pan-fry puffballs for dinner (I don't think I ever did). I had kid-centered almanacs that have made me a fount of useless knowledge (although quite useful on trivia teams), and volumes of experiments leading me to set up balloon-taped-to-straw ziplines criss-crossing my room, and even, thrillingly, set a cylinder of tissue paper on fire and watch its ashes rise, ghostlike, towards the ceiling (sometimes, terrifyingly, still aflame -- thanks, Dad!). Often I tend to live in my head, and forget how much fun these sorts of projects can be. Like making a 44 cordial.

To an extent, all cooking is an experiment, a transformation of ingredients into a new whole. But making a 44 cordial really makes you feel like a kid again, holding your breath and sticking out your tongue slightly as you navigate the blunt-ended scissors. It reminds me of those pomander projects kids can diligently labor over for hours, pushing dozens and dozens of cloves through the thick skin of an orange. Except here, instead of studding an orange with cloves, you use 44 coffee beans. And then, to take the project into the grown-up realm, you submerge it into a jar of booze. You sweeten it up with sugar (44 teaspoons), and let it sit for 44 days, enough time for the flavors to infuse, age and soften.

Most versions of the 44 cordial seem to use rum, although there are variations with vodka or grain alcohol. The coffee beans can be bolstered with a vanilla bean, or swapped out (partially or entirely) for cacao beans. I've seen this concoction credited to Madagascar (which, given its delicious coffee, vanilla and chocolate, would make any of these variations credible), though it's also similar to France's vin d'orange.

I realize that it's a bit dangerous to post a recipe before I've had a chance to fully appreciate the finished product, but I wanted to tip folks off while citrus season is in full swing. And, as with any hands-on experiment, it piques the curiosity. Do the acids inside the orange do something to the coffee beans? Would the result be as good if you just stabbed the orange a few times to release the oils and expose its innards, and then just tossed the coffee beans alongside? I suppose I could do a side-by-side comparison and see. But, given the type of all-too-grown-up week I've had, I'm happy to just sit back, meditatively poke a bunch of coffee beans inside an orange, and dream of the boozy sweetness to come.

The 44 Cordial

traditional, as per various sources

This yields a strongly-flavored apertif -- you can sip it on its own, or use it as an element in building ridiculous cocktails. It also makes for a great gift. 

1 orange
44 coffee beans
44 teaspoons sugar (aka a scant cup)
4 cups light rum

Taking a paring knife, make 44 small stabs into the orange, and slip the coffee beans inside (they should stud the skin, making it look like it has some sort of pox). Marvel at how fun it is. Then place the coffee-studded orange in a large jar, and add the sugar and the rum. Let age in a cool, dark place, swirling occasionally, for 44 days.

When it has aged, discard the boozy coffee orange, and strain the liqueur through a cheesecloth. You can enjoy right away, chilled or at room temperature (although, like all good booze, it will improve with age).

Celery Julep

When you're a kid, it's hard to parse out what in life is universal, and what's particular to your specific situation (be it family, region or country). Growing up in suburban New York, I had no idea that Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, wasn't a national school holiday. Or that getting bussed in to a theater to see productions of weird Swiss pantomime wasn't an annual rite of childhood. Or that some people had never even heard of Cel-Ray soda.

For the uninitiated, Cel-Ray is a celery-flavored soda. And it's much better than it sounds. It's got celery's snappy vegetal notes, but tamed into a sweet fizzy drink. Cel-Ray's traditional lot in life is to serve as a perfect foil to a fatty deli sandwich, where its bite cuts through like ginger ale. And like ginger ale, it's great in a whiskey drink.

This recipe, from the Lee Brothers, differs from Cel-Ray in some substantial ways (namely that it's much more delicate and fresh-tasting, and missing the high-fructose corn syrup). But it creates a deliciously balanced cocktail. Celery stalks are blitzed and strained, along with some celery seeds, and the resulting bright-green juice is just barely heated with a scoop of sugar to create a syrup. This leaves the celery still tasting bright and clean, so it can stand up perfectly to a bit of whiskey (they favor Bourbon, but I think it's great with whatever you've got). Lifted with lemon and lightened with seltzer, it turns into a great summer cocktail. The only downside is that you've got to drink it quick -- the celery syrup tastes snappy when fresh, but slightly bitter after a day or two. Fortunately, this is not hard.


Celery Julep

adapted, very slightly, from The Lee Bros. Simple Fresh Southern: Knockout Dishes with Down-Home Flavor
yields enough concentrate for ~5-6 drinks

4-5 large stalks celery, roughly chopped (plus additional whole stalks for garnish)
1/2 cup plus 1 Tbsp sugar
1/2 tsp celery seeds
hefty pinch salt
whiskey
lemon juice
seltzer

Put the celery, 1 Tbsp of the sugar, celery seed and salt in a food processor. Pulse until the mixture is reduced to a puree. Pass it through a fine-mesh strainer, pressing on and discarding the solids.

Place the strained celery juice in a saucepan, along with the 1/2 cup sugar. Heat gently until it just dissolves, then cool.

To assemble the juleps, shake together 2 ounces whiskey, 1 Tbsp lemon juice, and 2 Tbsp celery syrup with ice. Pour into a glass with ice, top off with seltzer, and garnish with a celery sprig. Adjust to taste.

Hot Toddy

There's a picture of me at age one or so, sitting in the middle of a bucolic field, wearing adorable footed pajamas, and screaming my head off. We had taken a family trip to a local educational farm, where in addition to viewing the antique harvesters and free-ranging chickens, you could purchase bottles to feed to the wet-eyed baby goats and cows and such. But when I saw those bottles, chocked full of Purina Instant Goat Formula, I wanted them for my very own, and no amount of logic could convince me that they weren't for human consumption. Screaming ensued.

My parents were undoubtedly trying to protect me from some species-jumping zoonotic virus and the like, but they were also protecting me from this sad fact of life: often the things you covet end up not being what you'd thought they'd be at all. As any kid who has chomped a square of baking chocolate can attest, this is one of the disappointing realities of growing up.

I experience this same oh-I-thought-this-would-be-much-better wash of disappointment whenever I drink mulled wine. It promises toasty happiness, a boozy warm blanket on cold days. But instead, it often delivers a heavy, overly-sweetened and overly-seasoned concoction, too cloying to enjoy. I'm someone who normally lightens up my sweet sangria with a good splash of something bubbly to cut through, so I suppose it's no surprise that mulled wine is often a let-down for me. I much prefer a hot toddy.

Toddies take many forms, but my favorite is simple cup of weak tea, brightened up with lashings of lemon and ginger, sweetened (but not too much) with a bit of honey, and spiked with a shot of bourbon. It's barely a recipe at all, but is one of the most satisfying ways to warm up (and slow down) on cold days. The grown-up world has its disappointments, sure. But man does it have its benefits.


Hot Toddy

yields 2

1 1/2 cups boiling water
1 bag black tea (use decaf if your constitution requires)
1/2" ginger, scrubbed and sliced into thin coins
1 lemon
1-2 tsp honey, or to taste
2 shots bourbon (rum is also fine, if you prefer it)

Set the teabag and ginger in a container with the hot water and let steep. While steeping, juice the lemon (reserving a couple slices for garnish if desired). Add the lemon juice and honey to taste. Remove the teabag, and divide the liquid between two cups. Add a shot of bourbon to each, stir and enjoy.

Frozen Watermelon Daiquiri

While there are many times I use my freezer for the purpose that God and Whirlpool intended, more often than not it serves as sort of way station en route to the trash. Sure, I've got a useful bag of trimmings for vegetable stock, piles of frozen garlic naan for impromptu Indian, and tubs of homegrown tomatoes. But then there's the dark side. Cooking experiments that are too terrible to stomach (but too nutritious to compost) get apportioned into neat serving sizes, tucked into the freezer, and left there. For a good long time. Sometimes the better part of a year. Oof. I end up with a somewhat fraught relationship with my over-full freezer. But that relationship has been wholly repaired by the frozen watermelon daiquiri.

The other day we split a watermelon between three people. Not one of these teensy personal-sized melonlets that are apparently all the rage, but a full-on, armload of melon. It was huge. Even on a hot day, we only put a dent in it. What remained was literally too large to fit in the refrigerator. So I hacked it into cubes, filling one container after another, until we filled the refrigerator. In desperation, I tossed the remaining tub of watermelon cubes in the freezer. Maybe I'd get to them someday? Or maybe they'd just end up in the compost a few months later, like my other frozen good intentions. But then the heat rolled back around, an internet search revealed a slushy, boozy cocktail, and oh man am I now the biggest fan of frozen watermelon.

This cocktail is quite simple, especially if you've got a tub of frozen watermelon in your freezer. If not, just cube some up, toss it in, and wait a few hours. The sweet icy cubes are blended up with rum, lime juice, a splash of soda if you've got it, and a sprig of mint. The combination of frozen watermelon and cooling mint makes this one of the most refreshing cocktails I've ever slurped.


Frozen Watermelon Daiquiri

adapted, heavily, from Cooking Light
yields 1 drink, but can easily be multiplied by number of drinkers

1 cup cubed and frozen watermelon
juice of 1/2 small lime
1 tsp sugar
1 sprig mint
1 shot light rum
splash seltzer (~2-3 Tablespoons)

Place all ingredients in a blender, and pulse until well-mixed into a slushy, frothy mix. Pour into a glass and enjoy.

Raspberry Liqueur

When I was in high school, a friend of my father's introduced us to the previously-unknown world of Spanish cooking. She brought us paella and sangria, and strange as it may seem in these days of global cuisine, I don't think I'd even heard of them before. But of course, regardless of your level of familiarity, these foods are pretty easy to love.

After we enjoyed the feast (Exciting! Exotic!), there followed a few days of leftovers. A tupperware container of boozy fruit sat in the fridge, and I would pull it out after school. Now mind you, I was a seriously lightweight teenager. After a day or so, my mother figured out why I was giggling through the house, and cut me off. "Deena!" she admonished, "This is not a snack!"

I have a similar problem when it comes to this raspberry liqueur. It's so delicious, so sweet and full of deep berry flavor, that I just want to sip it all day. Which would have the unfortunate results of

a) depleting my raspberry liqueur stash
b) leave me ready for bed by around 7pm

And so, I have to constantly check myself. Deena, this is not a snack!

But oh, is it lovely. Like rhubarb liqueur, this is ridiculously easy to make. Easier, arguably: you don't even have to chop the fruit. Just give the berries a quick rinse, toss them in a jar with grain alcohol, and let sit for a few weeks. Strain, sweeten and dilute, and you're ready to go. When you're as busy as I am catching up on the local arts, you appreciate the ease. Perhaps someday I can find another (preferably non-boozy) snack I like half as well.


Raspberry Liqueur

as with my rhubarb liqueur, this is more a loose template than a recipe, easily adapted to whatever quantity of raspberries you have

raspberries
grain alcohol
sugar
water

Rinse the raspberries and place them in a glass jar. Pour in enough grain alcohol to cover by a few inches, screw the lid on, and allow to steep 3-4 weeks. Over this time, the flavor and color will leach out of the raspberries, leaving the alcohol a deep ruby color, and the raspberries a weird ghostly pink.

When the raspberries have finished steeping, strain them from the alcohol, discard, and filter the solution through several layers of cheesecloth or, preferably, coffee filters. Measure the final amount of alcohol -- this is your base number. In a saucepan, heat 1.5 times that amount of water, and 1/4-1/2 that amount of sugar, depending on how sweet you like things (note that this is less sugar than required for the puckery rhubarb). To give an example: 4 cups raspberry alcohol would need 6 cups of water and 1-2 cups sugar. Let the sugar syrup cool, then add it to your filtered alcohol. Taste (the flavors will be a bit harsh), and add more sugar if desired. Let age for at least a month before enjoying. Raspberry liqueur keeps at any temperature, but is especially delicious straight from the freezer.

Tonic Water

For all their bad rap as the source of our modern poor health, sodas can be surprisingly old-fashioned. Sure, nowadays they're pumped full of modern additions like high fructose corn syrup. But their origins are almost confusingly antiquated. Dr. Pepper is supposed to taste like prunes? Colas were flavored with some kola nut in the 19th century? And what exactly is tonic water made of, anyway?

I recently learned the answer to the latter question firsthand. Tonic gets its characteristic bitter edge from quinine, a compound found in the South American cinchona tree. Quinine helps ward off malaria infection, making it a favorite drink in tropical climates. The amounts of quinine needed for effective protection were pretty steep, leading to a drink so bitter that Brits with the East India Company decided that you really needed a good lashing of gin to make it go down. I'm not one to argue. The floral/piney notes of gin's juniper berries work well against tonic's bitter edge (and a wedge of lime, in my opinion, makes everything better). Like most cocktail drinkers, I love a good g&t on a hot day. And we've certainly been having a lot of hot days lately. But since I'm not really a fan of high fructose corn syrup, I decided to brew my own.

It turns out that homemade tonic is surprisingly easy. And delicious. The hardest part is securing the cinchona bark--I picked mine up from a local produce market with a huge bulk section (or, rather, I meant to but ended up filching it from a friend because the market was on back-order), but it's easy to find online. The concentrate keeps for several weeks in the fridge (more if you make the simple syrup separately, but that involves too many containers for my lazy self). In addition to simmering the quinine out of cinchona bark, you also add the juice and rind of several types of citrus, a pile of lemongrass, and a scattering of spices. I keep meaning to bring this as a gift to summertime parties, but I end up hoarding it all to myself. I don't know how this stacks up to "traditional" tonic water, but I'd venture to say the Raj never had it so good.


Tonic Water Concentrate

adapted from Portland's own Jeffrey Morganthaler
yields ~5 cups concentrate

This recipe is adaptable -- you can swap allspice berries for the coriander and cardamom (as in the additional recipe), or substitute grapefruit for the other citrus (a nice variation). I've tried this twice with cinchona from different sources, and the results have varied (and, surprisingly, the shredded bark ended up more potent than the powder). The lower amount of cinchona ensures that it doesn't overwhelm the other flavors, but if you favor the bitter, have a less-potent cinchona, or just need something to cut through the heat, go with the larger amount.

4 cups water
1 cup coarsely chopped lemongrass (~4 stalks)
3/4-1 ounce cinchona bark (see note above)
12 caradamom pods, bruised
1 tsp whole coriander seeds
zest and juice of 1 orange
zest and juice of 1 lemon
zest and juice of 1 lime
1/4 cup citric acid
1/4 tsp coarse salt
3 cups sugar

Toss all ingredients except the sugar in a pot, bring to a boil, and reduce heat until it just maintains a simmer. Simmer, covered, for 20 minutes. Let cool, and pour through a cheesecloth-lined strainer (you can also pour through a coffee filter if you like, depending on how much sediment remains and how clear you like your beverages). Place back on the stove, and add the sugar and an additional 1 cup water. Heat and stir until the sugar is dissolved. Taste, and add more sugar if needed (note: this is difficult to taste on its own, so you might need to pour a bit into some soda water to get a good read on the finished product). Pour into jars and chill.

To serve: Pour an icy glass of soda water, and stir in enough tonic concentrate to suit your taste (this is generally just a few tablespoons). Gin and lime optional, though highly recommended.

Pineapple Mojito

If I were a good food blogger, I would have posted this cocktail recipe in advance of this past holiday weekend. Oops. But luckily there are many more barbecues ahead of us this summer. And besides, once you taste this, all will be forgiven.

Several years ago, I came across a recipe in a Jamie Oliver cookbook for pineapple topped with fresh mint that had been mashed up with sugar. Or, I should say, "recipe," as that's literally all that was involved -- just those three ingredients. But for some reason, it's amazing. The clean, almost piney edge of mint is softened by sugar, and sparks up the tangy perfume of pineapple. You wouldn't think you could improve upon a drippy-sweet pineapple, but it somehow does just that. And so, I naturally turned towards the next ingredient that improves all situations: alcohol.

Many people are familiar with mojitos, the Cuban highball that has become a favorite summer cocktail. Rum (the alcohol of choice from sugar-producing countries) is mixed with bashed-up mint and sugar, perked up with lime juice, and lightened with a bit of soda water. Adding pineapple brings a tropical sweetness to the herbal drink, and makes it my new favorite cocktail.

And speaking of things to toast, yours truly was recently profiled on Food52! For those unfamiliar with this lovely site, they've been holding recipe contests every week for the past year. Participants submit original creations inspired by weekly prompts, and site members vote for their favorites. The whole project will culminate in a cookbook of the winning recipes. Some stellar cooks have been participating, and their recipe archive has become one of my go-to sites when I'm looking for inspiration. Had I thought more about the possibility of a wider audience, perhaps I would have used something other than a teenage nickname as my username. Oops. But on the bright side, evidently my kale and quinoa pilaf is legendary. I'll drink to that.

Pineapple Mojito

Brown sugar does a lovely job of underscoring the caramel notes of pineapple, but you can substitute white sugar if needed. The exact proportions will vary, depending on how drippy-sweet your particular pineapple, and how you like your cocktails, so feel free to play around.

yields 2 cocktails

~1/4 cup fresh pineapple chunks
1 1/2 Tbsp brown sugar
1 handful mint leaves
2 shots rum
1 1/2 shots lime juice
ice
soda water

Place the pineapple, brown sugar, and mint leaves in a cocktail shaker (or, as it's known in our house, mason jar). Mash together (you can use the handle of a wooden spoon if your muddler is in the shop) until the pineapple is reduced to bits and small chunks, and the mint is well-bruised and torn a bit. Add the rum and lime juice, and shake with ice to mix and chill. Taste, and adjust as desired. Pour into ice-filled glasses, and top off with soda water.

Rhubarb Syrup

Am I getting a little tiresome with the rhubarb? First I infuse it into liqueur, then bake it into a custard tart. Forgive me. Ye rosebuds, they must be gathered. At least until the strawberries ripen.

But this rhubarb syrup needs no apology. And you need something to sip while you're waiting for the rhubarb liqueur to age, right? If you are a cocktail hound, like myself, you'll find this syrup perfect for slipping into all sorts of cleverly-named drinks. Rhubarb collinses, rhubarbaritas, rhubarb mojitos, etc. And if you're a mocktail drinker, the syrup can be combined with fizzy water and a squirt of lime for a not-to-sweet refresher with a nicely layered flavor.

If you have the rosy-hued rhubarb (versus its greenish cousin), this syrup creates drinks that are unabashedly pink, of the sort that might as well be sporting a tiny paper parasol. If you're aiming for a manly air, the sweetly blushing appearance won't help. But the flavor is all grown up. If you like, you can fancy it up further by steeping it with a few coins of fresh ginger, a slice of dried star anise, or a splash of rosewater. But purist that I am, I like it straight up best of all. I also make this much lighter than a traditional simple syrup: instead of the 2:1 sugar:water ratio of a standard thick syrup, I make it a less than 1:1. Rhubarb's taste is much more subtle than a brassy lemon or pungent berry puree, and the lighter syrup allows you to pour in more of the rhubarb flavor without being overwhelmed by sweetness.


Rhubarb Syrup

yields ~2 1/2 cups

1 lb rhubarb, washed and cut in 1/4" slices
1 1/4 cups sugar
1 3/4 cups water
optional: a few slices fresh ginger, a slice of star anise, a splash of rosewater or orange flower water

Toss the rhubarb, sugar and water in a pot, stir, and bring to a boil. If you're using any optional herbs or spices, add them now. Lower the heat until it's just enough to maintain a simmer. Cook until the rhubarb breaks down entirely, ~20 minutes. Pour through a strainer, giving the rhubarb goo a stir to allow all the syrup to drip through. Stir in the orange flower water or rosewater, if desired. Cool, and add to the beverage of your choosing.

Rhubarb Liqueur

If there were some sort of Church of Spring, I think rhubarb would be among its primary sacraments. I know that many people would lobby that that role go to asparagus, with its jaunty spears poking through the barely-thawed ground. I can see their point--I totally adore asparagus (more on that later), it has a wholly unique flavor, and the ridiculous brevity of its season makes it all the more dear. But when it comes down to it, there are always green vegetables to be had, even in the depths of winter. But fresh fruity flavors--those I have truly missed. My fruit intake has been restricted to too-much-already citrus, mealy wintered-over apples, and canned plums and pears. Rhubarb, with its punchy, berry-like brightness, is a clear sign that things are coming around again. Hello, Spring!

I'm fond of rhubarb in many forms, from stewy compotes to cocktail syrups. But as soon as the first harvest appears, I start thinking about rhubarb liqueur. Mostly because it has to sit and age for so darned long to achieve its most delicious destiny. Rhubarb is cleaned, chopped, and steeped in grain alcohol for a few weeks until the color and flavor leaches out. Then it's strained to a ruby clarity, and sweetened and diluted to a drinkable concentration. Then the aging begins--a month minimum, but the longer the better. The liqueur gradually loses its harsh edge, but still maintains that characteristic rhubarb bite. I like it mixed with seltzer for an instant cocktail, or enjoyed straight up, still cold from the freezer. It's become our favorite celebratory toast, reminding us of the sweetness of Spring at any time of the year.


Rhubarb Liqueur

this is more a loose template than a recipe, easily adapted to however much rhubarb you have

rhubarb
grain alcohol
sugar
water

Chop the rhubarb finely to expose maximum surface area -- I like to pulse it a few times in a food processor. Place in a glass jar, cover with grain alcohol by an inch or so, screw the lid on, and allow to steep 2-4 weeks. Over this time, the flavor and color will leach out of the rhubarb, leaving the alcohol rosy and the rhubarb a sickly yellow-white (the exact amount of time this takes will vary).

When the rhubarb has finished steeping, strain it from the alcohol, and filter the solution through several layers of cheesecloth or, preferably, coffee filters. Measure the final amount of alcohol -- this is your base number. In a saucepan, heat 1.5 times that amount of water, and 1/2 - 3/4 that amount of sugar, depending on how sweet you like things (I tend towards the middle). To give an example: 4 cups rhubarb alcohol would need 6 cups of water and 2-3 cups sugar. Let the sugar syrup cool, then add it to your filtered alcohol. Taste (the flavors will be a bit harsh), and add more sugar if desired. Let age for at least a month before enjoying. Rhubarb liqueur keeps at any temperature, but is especially delicious straight from the freezer.

The Scandopolitan

There are some dishes you prepare because they are ridiculously delicious. And others because they are just too pretty for words. And others, like the scandopolitan, because they are just too much fun to say. Seriously. I can't stop. Luckily, this aquavit-based cocktail is delicious as well, in addition to being Christmas-bright, and a good way to use up any leftover schnapps.

Aquavit is definitely something of an acquired taste. It's the traditional booze of Scandinavia, flavored with a variety of spices. The particular combination varies by distillery, but caraway is usually front and center. In my rigid view of the food pantheon, caraway seeds have one acceptable place: rye bread. And the occasional loaf of Irish soda bread. But that's pretty much it. Certainly not in my beverage. And I don't think I'm alone in this view. Aquavit can be a hard beverage to like, especially straight up, as it's traditionally enjoyed. A few years ago we bought a bottle to celebrate the summer solstice. Come winter, it was still lurking about in the back of our liquor cabinet. Which led to the development of the Scandipolitan.

The basic template for the cocktail, as the name suggests, is shamelessly borrowed from the Cosmopolitan. If you want to go for a full-on Scandinavian theme, you can mix the aquavit with lingonberry juice, made from the cold-climate berries that grow there. But if you'd prefer to be a bit more domestic, cranberry juice makes a fine substitute. The remaining ingredients of lime, Triple Sec and seltzer temper the fusty edge of caraway, easing it into a sweet context (much like the aforementioned Irish soda bread). It takes aquavit from something to be thrown back (followed, in my case, by an involuntary full-body shudder) to a drink to be savored. I'm still trying to figure out the perfect garnish, since sprigs of lingonberries aren't readily available. A twist of liquorice? A few sprays of fresh dill? Skewers of herring? I'm open to ideas. Skål!


The Scandopolitan

yields two drinks

feel free to adjust the proportions of sweet Triple Sec (or orange liqueur of your choice) and lime to suit your tastes, and the sweetness and tang of the juice used

2 shots aquavit
2 shots lingonberry juice concentrate (or unsweetened cranberry juice)
1 shot triple sec
juice of 1/2 lime
seltzer

Pour the aquavit, lingonberry juice, triple sec and lime into a shaker with a few cube of ice, and shake until chilled and well combined. Pour over ice into a cocktail glass, with a lollipop (sugared) rim if you like. Top with a bit of seltzer, stir, and enjoy.

Limoncello

All cooking involves a feeling of alchemy. You take a bunch of ingredients, some heat and some water, some fancy knifework, and you end up with a whole that's far greater than the sum of its parts. When friends and loved ones are involved, you often create an experience -- a night to be remembered, or a feeling of home to draw upon. You transform raw materials into nourishment, in all senses of the word.

Making liqueurs can be one of the more dramatic examples of this. You take fruits or grains, and with some time, fermentation or infusion, create something that can last almost forever. And bring people together. In this case, I took some sunny lemons from neighboring California, drew out their oils with alcohol, and made a digestif that can sit in the basement and age for as long as we like. The flavor actually improves with time, and it can be given to friends as gifts, or uncorked whenever you'd like to cap off a lovely evening. Which is all to say that I've been drinking again.

In all fairness, I started this batch of limoncello three weeks ago. I took my own advice and joined in a bulk canning date, where several friends turned 80 lbs of Northwest apricots into a seemingly endless river of jam. We divided into teams and washed, pitted and cut the fruit, measured out sugar and pectin, juiced lemons, sterilized jars, and boiled and stirred and poured and processed until the kitchen table groaned under its load of jam. And then we did it again. The burners on the stove ran for ten hours straight. Preserving on this scale takes a lot of time, sugar, fruit and citrus. In addition to my trove of jam, I went home with an unexpected present: zest from a dozen lemons.

Limoncello is a digestif, or after-dinner liqueur, made from the zest of lemons. Traditionally it's made with a special variety of lemons grown on Italy's Amalfi coast. But the domestic version isn't too bad either. I've made batches with ordinary supermarket lemons (Eurekas), as well as Meyers from the backyards of my lucky California friends, and both are delicious. And shockingly easy.

Making limoncello involves grating the peel off of the lemons, sealing it up with some alcohol to draw out the oils, then sweetening the end product and watering it down to a drinkable consistency. The best alcohol to use is often debated: some swear by high-proof fancy vodka, some recommend the cheap stuff, while others use grain alcohol. I've used them all, and find I like the latter best. Even the nicest vodkas make a limoncello that tastes, essentially, like lemon-flavored vodka. Grain alcohol, with its crazy high proof, draws out more oils and other citrusy compounds, and the end result has the truest lemon flavor.

Limoncello

adapted from several Italian cookbooks by my Italian friend Alex

In general, grain alcohol produces a slightly cloudier limoncello than vodka. Also many have observed that the mixture will be further clouded if the sugar syrup is added while still warm. Some prefer a clouded digestif to a urine-clear version, so use your discretion. If you don't have a zester or microplane grater to expose the maximum lemony surface area, just peel the lemon with a vegetable peeler, and allow it a few extra weeks to infuse.

12 lemons

1 fifth (750 ml) bottle of grain alcohol

1 1/2 fifths water (about 4 1/2 cups)

1 1/3 cups sugar

Grate the zest from the lemons using a microplane grater or a zester with small holes, making sure to get only the yellow skin and none of the white pith (this can impart a bitter flavor). Place the zest and grain alcohol together in a glass jar, seal with a lid, and let sit for about three weeks. Shake occasionally. At the end of this time, the alcohol will have drawn out most of the lemon color from the shreds of peel. Pour through a strainer, pressing down to release any remaining oils, and then discard the peels.

Dissolve the sugar and water together in a pot. Mix this syrup in with your strained alcohol. Filter the combined mixture through several layers of cheesecloth, or, preferably, a coffee filter to remove any remaining impurities. Letting it sit for a month or so before sipping allows the flavors to mellow and develop, although I'm seldom that patient. Chill thoroughly in the freezer before enjoying.

Sueño (Rosemary-Cucumber Tequila Cocktail)

I don't want to give the impression that all we do is drink. But people, it's hot outside. Record-breaking hot. Yesterday my entire food consumption for the day consisted of yogurt and jam, a few scoops of gelato, some guacamole and chips, and a few crackers with cheese. It's not a good time for solids.

But drinks, yes. I've been downing them by the icy glass. I finally ran out of iced tea, and the thought of heating the kettle to make more is too much to bear. Luckily, in these cases, there's tequila.

I came upon this cocktail called the Sueño last summer, and it is dreamy indeed. Rosemary often gets ignored in the heat of summer, unless it's being adapted as a grill skewer. Which is a shame, because it has a wonderful cooling effect, much like mint. In this cocktail, it's muddled together with the equally brisk cucumber and lime, and then shaken with tequila. Its sharp and light, but with an underlying depth from the tequila. (Am I the only one who think tequila has a sort of sesame-like nuttiness? Anyone? Okay, just me.) The resulting cocktail is like the margarita's sophisticated continental cousin. It's great with Mexican food, but the Mediterranean rosemary also makes it suited for European fare. Or, if I'm to be any example, just for sipping by itself, as you try not to sweat.

Sueño
adapted from Food and Wine Cocktails 2008
makes 2 drinks

1 large sprig rosemary, plus more for garnish
6 thin slices cucumber
3/4 shot lime juice
1/2 shot simple syrup
2 shots tequila
ice
tonic water

In a shaker or lidded jar, muddle together the rosemary, cucumber, lime juice and syrup, until the herb is well-bruised and the cucumber is a bit pulpy. Add the tequila and some ice, and shake well. Strain the drink into two glasses with plenty of ice, and top with a bit of tonic (about half a shot per glass, depending on your taste). Garnish with rosemary.

Peach Basil Sangria

I have some friends who recently opened a pizza cart. Which means that they've spent the bulk of the recent 90 degree evenings sharing 84 square feet with a 1,000 degree oven. It's hot, sticky work. The sort of work that requires a cold drink.

Last night my neighbor and I biked over to share a pie, and I also mixed up a batch of Peach Basil Sangria to share as well. I saw the recipe on a blog a few weeks back, and just had to mix some up for myself. And I'm very glad I did -- it is so summer. It's sweet, crisp, light, and perfect for the season. Make some before the too-brief stone fruit season is gone. If you have the patience and forethought, get your peach a few days in advance, and allow it to sit on your windowsill until it becomes obscenely fragrant and juicy.

Peach Basil Sangria
Gourmet Magazine, July 2005, adapted by notmartha.org, further adapted by me

This recipe calls for peach nectar, which is usually a hybrid of a neutral fruit juice like apple, and some peach puree. Many varieties are sweetened with high fructose corn syrup, so read labels carefully if you'd like to avoid that sort of thing.

23 ounces peach nectar (2 cans, or 2/3 of a Looza brand bottle)
zest and juice from 1 lemon
1 cup basil leaves, plus a few additional sprigs or leaves for garnish
1 bottle white wine
1 ripe peach, diced or cut in wedges (depending on whether you'd like it easy to mix into your drink, or easy to fish out)

In a saucepan, combine the peach nectar, basil leaves, and lemon zest. Bring to a simmer, and then remove from heat. Allow to come to room temperature, and then cool in the refrigerator until fully chilled. When chilled, pour through a strainer to remove the zest and basil. Combine the strained infused nectar with the white wine, lemon juice, peach, and the basil leaves that you reserved. Serve over ice.

Raspberry Basil Collins

After a hiatus so long I'm surprised Blogger still remembers me, it seems a re-inaugural toast is in order. To borrow last year's sentiment: why haven't I been posting? I've certainly been drinking.

A Tom Collins is a basic gin cocktail, containing gin + lemon + simple syrup + soda water. It's a perfect template to use as a springboard, which I do frequently. And it has the added bonus of letting you call the resulting drink "a (Something) Collins," which conjures up a speakeasy boozy vibe, like tough Old New York, rather than a girly fruity cocktail (which, in actuality, most of my variations are).

This current variation was borne of necessity and internet inspiration. Well, perhaps not so much necessity as laziness. I often play a game I call "Iron Pantry Chef," the subtitle of which is "What can I make to eat/drink without leaving my home to purchase additional ingredients?" The raspberry bushes in our backyard had a few handfuls of fruit, the basil finally had enough leaves to pick a bunch without killing the thing, and the cucumber vine had one lone cucumber. I had gin (and gin alone), lemon, and fizzy water. The results made for a perfect refreshing summer drink. I tend towards cocktails that are sweet and citrusy, and while this drink has both elements, the herbs and cucumber keep it from being cloying, giving a nice change of cocktail pace.



Raspberry Basil Collins
makes ~4 drinks

Basil Syrup:
1 large handful basil leaves (about 1/4 cup), chopped or roughly torn
2/3 cup sugar
2/3 cup water
zest of 1 lemon, removed with a peeler

Raspberry puree:
1/3 cup raspberries (or more, if your bushes are more fruitful than ours)
juice of 1 lemon
splash of Basil Syrup

1/2 cucumber, thinly sliced (optional, but provides a nice clean taste, one that saves it from too much sweetness)
Gin
Soda Water

To Make the Basil Syrup:

Toss the basil leaves, sugar, water, and lemon zest in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil, then remove from heat and allow to infuse for half an hour (if you've got the time -- and longer won't hurt). Strain, discarding the leaves and peel and reserving the syrup.

To Make The Raspberry Puree:

Place the raspberries in a blender with the lemon juice, and enough of the syrup to allow for smooth processing (generally 2-4 Tbsp should be fine). Puree until it's blitzed into a smooth sauce. If you don't fancy seeds in your beverage, pass the puree through a strainer to remove them, scraping it with a spoon to make sure all of the puree passes through.

To Assemble Your Raspberry Basil Collins:

In a glass, mix together:

1 shot gin
1 shot raspberry puree
3/4 shot basil syrup

Top this mixture with an equal amount of soda water, toss in a few slices of cucumber, and taste, adjusting to your drinking preference. Drink languorously, with plenty of ice.

Needless to say, the variations are infinite.