We officially have just one more day of summer left, so I’ve decided to celebrate with a happy hour tipple that combines the imbibable trend of the sunny season (the frozen drink) with a cocktail I inherently associate with fall: the dark and stormy. It gets its name from the tempestuous blend of dark rum and spicy ginger beer that results in a comforting cocktail that’s both bracing and refreshing.
If you’re wondering exactly how to toast the end of the season, scroll down to get the super simple recipe.
As surprising as it might sound, baked goods are not really my vice. I love baking cakes and pies and cookies, but once I’ve had a few bites of my creation, I’m satisfied. That’s why it gives me such pleasure to bake for other people. Other chocolate-loving, dessert-devouring, sweet tooth-having people.
My boyfriend and I recently hosted a birthday party for his sister, who has some dietary restrictions: she doesn’t eat refined sugar, dairy or gluten. I firmly believe that birthdays should never be celebrated sans cake of some sort, so I took this occasion as a challenge to create something that was safe for Alex’s sister to eat and truly delicious for those of us who are used to eating “regular” cake.
The toast phenomenon is alive and well in Seattle, and I’m not mad about it. Toast, as a food, is both disarmingly simple and eternally comforting. All it requires is a slice of crisped up bread and an ever-changing array of toppings. It’s a simple meal, so it demands a certain attention be payed to the ingredients. As Ina says, you’ll want to use only the best.
Mayonnaise is my enemy. It has been since I was old enough to eat solid foods. Something about the tangy smell and wiggle-prone texture of the white substance that lived in the ever-present jar in our fridge just grosses me out. And for that reason, I’ve spent the last 30ish years skipping politely over each and every potato salad that appeared on buffet tables and picnic spreads. And then, on a trip to Munich, I discovered the vinegar-laced joys of the German potato salad and it was off to the races.
When I was a kid, I was a really picky eater, and there was virtually nothing I hated more than a bowl of tomato soup. The sound of a hand-cranked can opener inching around the rim of a Campbell’s can was my version of nails on a chalkboard. And although I shed most of my weird food proclivities as I aged, I never got fully on board with tomato soup—until about a year ago.