Could I tempt you with ribs that are simultaneously fiery and sticky sweet, falling tender off the bone, slightly charred, and richly meaty? I have a hunch it would be easy. Like tempting a duck with water.

This is the recipe for the most excellent sticky-faced, dripping-fingers, don’t-wear-a-white-shirt, ribs. They pack enough heat to make you want a limed Corona, but they aren’t so tongue-numbing that you will be left crying “Pleath, pleath! Wada! Would thum-wud pleath path me thum wada!”. (*I think I just qualified myself as a nutter among my fellow coffee shop patrons – it took me several minutes muttering to myself with my tongue out to figure out those phonetics).

I served them last night with a puree of celery root, and a side of mixed greens sauteed with olive oil, garlic, and crushed red pepper. You could also do mashed potatoes. But my hands-down favorite way to soak up the sticky sauce is with a big scoop of creamy soft polenta. You might have to put aside your fashion instincts and tuck a makeshift paper-towel bib into your collar. But it will be so worth the sacrifice in pride, to eat these ribs without utensils or inhibitions. (more…)

I bought myself a new toy! An ice cream maker. It really actually looks like a toy, too, in all its hard plastic glory. But despite its rather un-extraordinary appearance, with its moving parts that snap together like a tonka truck, I have to give it credit. My new toy produces eye-widening, silence-inducing ice cream.

I must admit that my first attempt was less than impressive. In my naive, if enthusiastic, efforts, I didn’t follow a recipe. With what confidence did I think that I was born knowing how to make ice cream? I don’t know. To my credit I began by loosely following a jumble of ideas I nabbed from a variety recipes, but decided half-way through making the custard that I would split it in two and make two flavours. (Mango and White Chocolate). The White Chocolate ended up being far too sweet, the Mango not nearly mango-y enough, and only the first was frozen because I didn’t realize you needed to re-freeze the bucket between batches. Lessons learned.

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When the weekend rolls around, there is nothing that seems more decadent to me than a hot breakfast followed by a long, lazy walk on the beach. Accompanied, of course, by my handsome dog Oliver, who is utterly charming in the way he lies down for every dog or child, and who smiles (full-on toothy grins!), at anyone whom he suspects might find him adorable – most do.

This weekend was perfect for both lazy walking and breakfasting. After a week of being sequestered in a library, hunched over textbooks until every blood vessel in my eyes was visible and the bags beneath them had bags of their own, a weekend of perfect weather and nothing to do was embraced with delight.

As guilty proof that I almost never ate from home, I was left with a stale loaf of bread – it was meant to become lunch sandwiches but, owing to midterm sluggishness, was left to dry up in favour of sushi. A happy outcome, when the weekend arrived, because nothing beats a stale loaf of bread finding new life in a bath of sweet custard.

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On a grey winter day, it’s usually easy to justify an afternoon kneading dough, isn’t it? Particularly if you know there’s a ball of fresh mozzarella in the fridge begging to become a blanket of bubbly goo on a chewy, homemade pizza. On days like this, I find endless comfort in classics – a movie I’ve seen a thousand times, my favorite cozy sweater, or a perfect chewy, cheesy, tomato-y margherita pizza.

Today is not just a any grey winter day. It is a grey winter day 48 hours before two gargantuan midterms for which I have mountains of information to stuff into my brain, wherever I can find an empty crevasse. So, however justifiable it would be to spend another afternoon kneading dough, today’s time constraints demand that the breadmaker should have all the fun. (Although, in retrospect, beating the bajeebers out of a lump of dough might have been significantly more therapeutic than hearing the loud, mechanical throbbing of a machine echoing the throbbing in my temples).

The sauce is gorgeous and simple, bursting with fresh tomato flavour, and mercifully – takes no time at all. A swirl of olive oil in a saucepan, toss in some garlic to brown, then empty a can of tomatoes. Let it bubble for about 15 minutes, then blend with a few whirls of an immersion blender. I like to keep mine quite chunky.

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I just finished devouring a cinnamon bun hot from the oven. A swirl of soft dough, oozing with buttery brown sugar and cinnamon and thickly gobbed with cream cheese frosting. Actually, for the sake of truthfulness, I just finished devouring two. Oops.

(Don’t worry – I ate a carrot straight after to make up for it).

This is what I do when I am supposed to be studying “Advanced Topics in Clinical Nutrition”. With midterms next week, I should probably feel ashamed at being covered in flour when I should be covered in something studious like post-it notes. But really – what would you do if the thought of warm cinnamon buns kept floating into your mind in place of something like Chapter 18: Diseases of the Hepatobiliary. Hmm? Would you think about bile? Or would you think about the cinnamon buns? Come on, you know you’re on my side.

This recipe is from Molly Wizenberg, written for Bon Appetit magazine. It is the best cinnamon bun recipe I have ever tasted. Ever. Since I found it, I ceased my faithful pilgrimage to the local jewish bakery. I like mine better.

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