Basking in the familiar.

Amen Hall, my home for four years.

I took a little walk down memory lane at my 15-year high school reunion this weekend. I went to boarding school in New Hampshire, and the campus is as lush and beautiful as ever.

Ms. Eggers' history classroom in the Academy Building.

Whenever  I return, I am struck anew by how unbelievably lucky I was to attend such a wonderful school, and how impressive the people I spent those four years with were and still are.

The marble steps to Assembly Hall.

On this trip, I was also lucky enough to sample one of the region's classic delights, a frequent late-night snack in every dorm on campus: the chicken finger sub.

Chicken finger sub from Romeo's.

Crispy, piping hot chicken fingers stuffed onto a giant bun, topped with shredded iceberg, chopped tomatoes and, preferably, pickles. I like mine with a side of mayonnaise, too.

After all, it couldn't possibly be all essays, exams and lively intellectual debate.

A decade.

Ten years ago today, I moved to New York City. My first apartment was on a slightly desolate block of the Upper West Side. Today, there's a Whole Foods a block away, and four high rises have gone up within a two-block radius. Times, you could say, have changed.

I've spent my entire adult life here in Manhattan, and I wouldn't trade the experience for the world. My first few weeks were, obviously, colored by the September 11th attacks. I didn't even have my cable hooked up yet and wasn't due to start work for another week, so I spent the day curled up in my hallway listening to the radio. When I left to walk 20 blocks downtown to Caroline's apartment for company, cable and dinner, I passed Brooke Shields on the street.

That's New York, you know? The gritty reality crossed with the glamour of art and, in this case, celebrity - writ large.

My first forays into grown-up cooking were, to say the least, less than exciting. There were many grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (a trick I learned from my slightly older and much wiser roommate), a lot of bottled marinara sauce, and tons of macaroni and cheese. But always a green salad. I've always been addicted to vegetables.

I spent my money at the bars and skimped on my food budget. A fancy night out was dinner at Big Nick's, an all-night pizza and burger joint on Broadway. I came home most nights by way of the local pizza place, slice in hand. I'd leave it in the oven to keep warm, hop in the shower to get rid of the bar smell (those were the days before the smoking ban, when I'd have to hang my coat on the fire escape overnight to air out the cigarette fumes), then eat the cheesy, greasy goodness while watching a movie on my hand-me-down sofa.

Today, I drink booze with flavor (bourbon or gin, not vodka), the dinners are nicer and the nights (mostly) earlier. The produce is fancier and more local, and the apartment a bit more pulled together. But the joy I feel every time I see the New York skyline, the rush I get every morning when I walk out the door, the satisfaction I take in having made it in this most insane and exciting and glorious of cities - that hasn't changed one little bit.

Thank you, New York, for raising me so well. I love you. Which is a good thing, because we seem to be stuck with one another.

Nostalgia.

This past weekend, I visited my alma mater, Bryn Mawr College, for my ten-year reunion. It was, in a word, amazing. I'd never exactly forgotten how much I loved my time at Bryn Mawr, or how inspiring it was to be surrounded, every single day, by such brilliant, driven and remarkable women, but I'd forgotten the sense of wonder that experience gave me. No more, friends. Never again will I take those four years for granted.

And it doesn't hurt that the campus is unbelievably lush and full of breathtaking neo-Gothic architecture. I mean, this place was designed by Calbert Vaux and Frederick Law Olmstead (they of Central Park in Manhattan) - how could it not be stunning?

I visited most of my old dorms, even peeking into my senior year room, which was a ridiculously palatial single with thirteen-foot ceilings, a fireplace and a wall of windows (windowseat, too, natch).

I also paid a too-brief visit to Haverford College, just a mile down the road. Bryn Mawr and Haverford have an unusually close, cooperative relationship (same class schedules, same meal plan, ability to live, take any class or major at either college, and so on), and I majored in religion there.

I had cocktails with my thesis advisor and two of my fellow majors, and managed to snap a photo of Haverford's undeniably picturesque Skating House.

I really can't wait ten more years before I go back again. Even five might be a challenge.

Gooey goodness.

There are few things in this world that I love more than s'mores. While my urban lifestyle means I typically only enjoy them when I roast marshmallows over my gas stove, I still can't get enough. I've always loved everything related to marshmallows, and that includes the slightly disgusting, sublimely wonderful processed food product known as Marshmallow Fluff.

Fluff is the sort of processed, pure junk food that never graced the shelves of my mother's house; I first experienced its wonders at a babysitter's home, where we were fed fluffernutter sandwiches. I recall these as being transcendent; I'm still trying to get my hands of Momofuku Milk Bar's croissant version.

When I recently ran across Crepes of Wrath's recipe for s'mores cookie bars, I knew I had to give them a go. S'mores? In transportable, cookie-esque form? Could such perfection actually exist? Yes, in fact, and mostly thanks to the miracle of Fluff. Fluff has less gelatin than fully-grown marshmallows, so it never hardens, even when cooked. That's how these bars retain their gooeyness all the way through the baking process. Genius!

The original recipe called for milk chocolate, but between the brown sugar in the cookie crust and the sweetness of the fluff, I decided semi-sweet chocolate would be a better bet for me and my fellow eaters. (My long-time testers Jeremy and Miriam, along with our friends Ken and Celeste.) I also upped the graham cracker content by 1/4 cup, to make sure the flavor of the crackers came shining through.

Whatever you do, make sure to enjoy these with a glass of milk and a couple of napkins at the ready.

S'mores Cookie Bars

Adapted from Crepes of Wrath

9 graham crackers

1/2 cup unsalted butter, room temperature

1/4 cup dark brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 egg, room temperature
1 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
1 1/3 cups all-purpose flour

1 tsp. baking powder

1/4 tsp. salt
8 oz. semi-sweet chocolate, roughly chopped
1 1/2 cups Marshmallow Fluff

Break the graham crackers into large pieces and place them in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the blade attachment. Pulse several times until the crackers have become a relatively fine, even crumb.

Meanwhile, pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Grease an 8x8 baking dish and line with parchment paper.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugar together until light, at least 3 to 5 minutes. Beat in the egg and the vanilla.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the graham cracker crumbs, flour, baking powder and salt. With the mixer on low, gradually add the dry flour mixture in, continuing until the dough is evenly mixed, but only just. Don't over-mix, or it will get tough.

Press half the dough into the bottom of the pan, covering the surface area evenly, all the way to the edges. Spread the fluff on top of that, then evenly spinkle the chocolate on top of the fluff. Cover with the remainder of the dough, spreading it as evenly as possible across the top. (Your hands may work better than a spatula here.)

Bake the bars for 25-35 minutes, until the top is a deep golden brown. Remove from the oven and allow to cool completely before slicing and serving. The bars keep well for up to two days, so long as you cover the pan tightly and store at room temperature. (Slice them only just before serving.)

Makes 15 bars.

Besties.

My friend Louisa is the best best friend ever. She spoils me, she cooks with me and for me and eats my food, she knows exactly what I want even before I do, and she even gives me a talking to when such is required. (Infrequently, I assure you.)

She has purchased and raised two adorable dogs (clearly and exclusively for my petting and cuddling purposes) and married one of the most wonderful men on the planet. I mean, come on - is there a greater blessing than loving your best friend's spouse almost as much as you love the friend herself? I think not.

This first trip to Austin has been amazing, and the vast majority of that fabulousness is due directly to Louisa's planning, which is in turn based on her ability to know exactly what I will want and when I will want it. Tacos? Obviously a Sunday afternoon thing. Is there a slight lull in the action? Clearly time for champagne! Sushi? Last two nights before I leave, so that I will be waiting with baited breath until my return. She's crafty, that Louisa.

So, thank you, Lou, for the best first visit to Austin of ALL TIME. Here's to you, here's to us, here's to Austin, and here's to my next trip!

Memory lane, it beckons.

Last weekend, I went out to Connecticut to keep my friend Ellie company. She was home alone at her parents' house, studying for her medical boards. We grew up in the same town, but my mother moved away when I was a senior in college, which makes homecomings (despite their requiring little more than a fifty-minute train ride from Grand Central) hard to come by.

My friend Cristin came out on Saturday afternoon, but before she arrived, I dropped Ellie off at the library and headed down to the water and to my old stomping grounds. I grew up near the beach; only a block from the water, as a matter of fact. My friend Caroline and I used to ride our bikes all over the place, sneaking onto secret little beaches and into tiny little coves. So, I parked the car and took a little walk.

And promptly discovered that trespassing, while cute in the 1980s and at 8 years old, is just plain creepy at 30 in 2010. Yeah. I only made it to two or three little spots before deciding it was time to admit that I am now too old to sneak onto people's property and stopping the madness in exchange for an iced coffee.

Of course, I had to make one last stop, at our home itself, a beautiful old (built in 1898) shingle-style house. A good number of the houses in the neighborhood were built in the late 19th century as summer homes for New Yorkers, our house among them. It was a decidedly summery place, even in the coldest, snowiest of winters.

Sigh. I do miss it.

Cold weather treat.

Much to my delight and chagrin, FreshDirect is finally carrying Mallomars. This will be my downfall.

I remember trying to order these last year (Mallomars, you see, have a season - their delicate chocolate shells can't survive harsh Northeastern summers.), but with no luck. But just last week I thought it was worth searching FreshDirect's site for them - and there they were!

For those of you who've never experienced their awesomeness, Mallomars consist of a graham cookie topped with marshmallow and covered in a thin, dark chocolate shell. They are, to say the least, delicious. (They're also famous, having made their big screen debut in When Harry Met Sally.) They're also vastly more popular in New York than anywhere else; according to Nabisco, who manufacture the cookies, more than 70% of all Mallomars are sold in the New York-New Jersey-Connecticut Tri-State area.

For the most part, I believe in making cookies, and not buying them - particularly not when they're mass-produced. But Mallomars are where I make an exception, because there's just nothing quite like them.

Now excuse me while I go try to forget that I still have half a box left.

Road trip!

This past Saturday, I drove up to Rhode Island to visit my aunt and uncle in Bristol. They were hosting a 30th birthday party for my cousin Kate, who's been one of my closest friends pretty much since time began. (See the photo below for evidence.) We had a fantastic time - my Aunt Cathi cooked up a storm, including some of the most delicious chicken Marsala of all time (the secret is roasting the mushrooms and onions separately and with lots of balsamic vinegar).

Yesterday, on the way back to the city, my cousin Jason, his wife Abby and I stopped at a McDonald's in northern Connecticut for a road trip fix. I only indulge in Mickey D's a couple of times a year, and always when traveling. It's my airport and highway rest stop food of choice, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Chicken nuggets, fries and Sweet & Sour sauce: pure, salty perfection. Yum.

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas, my lovely readers!

I hope that today brings you all kinds of delightful gifts and togetherness, be it family or otherwise. I'll be spending the day with family and friends - a group fairly similar to the one that accompanied me to California to celebrate my 30th birthday, including my best friend, Louisa - and I couldn't be more excited about it. Add to that the fact that I didn't have to travel this year, and I'm practically over the moon.

My mom sent me this shot of my grandparents' Connecticut living room on Christmas morning (I'm guessing it's 1984 or 1985). That there on the left is my first kitchen, which, much like my current version, has no dishwasher. I feel, therefore, that it prepared me well for Manhattan living. Well done, Mom!

What Christmas present do you remember best from years past? And what are you all up to today? Can't wait to hear all about it!

All right, already!

There are recipes you make once, forget about, and leave behind you forever. And then there are those you make once that haunt you, confronting you at every opportunity, screaming, "Make me!" You find excuses, reasons not to - and then, one day, the perfect scenario materializes, and you finally scratch the itch.

I first made the BLTomatoes from the Gourmet Cookbook back in 2004, for my friend Louisa's 25th birthday party. The night was a blur of delicious food and bounteous booze, but one morsel went faster than the others. Louisa's now-husband and I cooked all afternoon; I went home to shower and returned about twenty minutes after the first guests had arrived. The 50 or 60 BLTomatoes we'd painstakingly prepared? They were gone. Gone!

BLTomatoes are pretty much exactly what they sound like - cherry or grape tomatoes stuffed with a combination of bacon, lettuce, mayonnaise, and scallions. They are a pain in the ass to make - you have to hollow out the tomatoes and stuff their tiny insides with the filling - but oh my god are they good. The tricks to taking them from tasty to lip-smacking? Use the best bacon you can find (I prefer Schaller & Weber's double-smoked.), don't skimp on the salt and pepper, and don't leave out the scallion. Its peppery bite is key.

And be patient with the trimming and seeding of the tomatoes - it can be slow-going (especially if you use grape tomatoes), but it's well worth the effort.

BLTomatoes
Adapted from The Gourmet Cookbook

14 cherry or grape tomatoes
1 tsp. salt
1/4 lb. bacon, thinly sliced
1 scallion, thinly sliced
1/4 c. thinly sliced romaine lettuce
2 tbs. mayonnaise
Salt and pepper, to taste

Slice a tiny bit off of the bottom of each tomato (to help them stand upright on the plate). Cut off the tops of the tomatoes, and carefully scoop out and discard the pulp and seeds. Sprinkle the salt over the tomatoes, then invert them on a paper towel. Set aside to drain while preparing the filling.

Cook the bacon in a skillet over medium heat until crisp. Drain on paper towels, then crumble or chop finely. In a small bowl, gently mix the bacon with the scallion, lettuce, mayonnaise, salt and pepper until well-combined. Test the filling for seasoning; remember, you will be eating the tomato, too, so you want it to be a bit on the salty side.

Stuff each tomato full of the filling; eat any leftover filling yourself, straight off the spoon.

Serve immediately, or chill in the fridge for up to five hours.

Makes 14 canapés.

Just call me Mary Lennox.

One of my favorite books of all time is The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett.* Growing up, it seemed impossibly exotic, full of foreign lands (India, England) and secret spots. In fact, I think one of the reasons it's such an enduring story is that Mary's search for a place of her own and her discovery of the tucked away and forgotten garden resonate with something very human: the quest for that which is hidden.

As a child, I was obsessed with secret passages, hidden gardens, and overgrown paths. I'd roam our hundred year-old house, feeling the walls for catches or painted-over door frames, and explore the wooded park near our home, in search of abandoned encampments. This thirst hasn't abated.

As a result, I expect, I found myself enchanted by Maudslay State Park, an old Newburyport estate (home of the Moseleys) which became a park in the mid-1980s. The park is right on the river, and the estate's old gardens (some maintained, some running wild) dot the property. There are also the remains of two old houses - the foundation of the original 72-room mansion as well as that of the smaller (but still respectably-sized) home the Moseleys built for their daughter.

The park's visitor center was closed on Sunday afternoon, so Miles and I found ourselves exploring the woods, fields and gardens unguided. We contemplated every path, wondering if we'd found the service driveway, or the path created to impress visitors to the estate. We stumbled on kitchen gardens, arbors, greenhouses long since missing their glass roofs, and overgrown thatches of rhododendron - those were everywhere.

It was all I could to stop myself looking for a nosy misselthrush and a poorly-buried key.

*It should also be noted that Miles & I met 12 years ago performing in a production of the musical version of The Secret Garden. Yes, we are officially old.

Memory lane, à la Meg.

After our nostalgic (and filling) evening at The Grog, it was all Miles & I could do to drag our piggy little butts home and into bed. Saturday morning, we got up bright and early, had some breakfast (and coffee) in the Garrison's dining room, and piled into the car for a drive up to New Hampshire, and back into my own adolescence.

We were on our way to meet my friends Ginelle and Rob for lunch in Portsmouth - but, first, we had a stop planned at Phillips Exeter Academy, the prep school Ginelle & I attended for four years in the fashion-unfriendly mid-90s. Miles had never seen the campus, and even though things were shut down for the annual late-summer renovation frenzy, I wanted to show him around a bit.

We took a walking tour of the campus - which has changed a bit since my time, with new-fangled buildings all over the place and far too many luxuries, in my crotchety opinion - and just generally enjoyed the ridiculously warm weather. We ran into a few faculty members enjoying their time off (we were there during the break between summer school and the fall term) and visited the Hill Bridge, off of which you must jump, if you wish to graduate. No, really.

After our walk, we hopped in the car and sped off toward Portsmouth, an adorable town on the Piscataqua River, just across the bridge from Kittery, Maine. We had some time to kill before meeting up with Rob & Ginelle, and decided to take a little drive out to Wentworth by the Sea, a big old white elephant of a resort in New Castle. New Castle is just south of Portsmouth, and is built entirely on islands - a really cool place, full of beautiful vistas and cute little coves.

On our drive, we also discovered one of the most beautiful wedding venues on earth - really. A tiny, gorgeous little chapel is hidden in the woods leading down to the coast, and about half a mile past it is the Wentworth-Coolidge Mansion, a rambling yellow house on a gentle slope, smack next to the water. Absolutely stunning. I wish we'd gotten to poke around a bit more, but since there was an actual wedding in progress, we thought it best to make ourselves scarce.

Finally, we rolled into Portsmouth, where lunch - and chocolate - awaited us.

Postcard of the Wentworth by the Sea hotel via Wikipedia.

Memory lane, à la Miles.

My trip to New England with Miles had a primary purpose: nostalgia. Lots and lots of nostalgia. Miles, you see, was born in Massachusetts, and lived with his family in West Newbury until junior high, when they moved to Richmond, Virginia. Miles hadn't been back in years, and invited me to tag along for the fun.

I took the bus up to Boston and met Miles at Logan, where we hopped in our rental car and sped up to Newburyport. Newburyport is an adorable seaside town north of Boston. It sits at the mouth of the Merrimack River, ideally situated as a port for trade with northern New England (hence the name, I imagine).

After we'd checked in to our hotel (The Garrison Inn - super cute, though in need of a little touching up), we headed off on foot through downtown Newburyport. Our destination? The Grog.

The Grog lives in Miles's memory as a family dinner destination - but, above all, it lives as the home of delicious clam chowder. He warned me ahead of time that The Grog's chowder was not terribly thick, and was far more buttery than the usual suspects. But, he assured me, it was delicious.

After a five-minute walk through cobblestone streets, we arrived and were seated at a little table in the bar. We each ordered the chowder (a cup for me, a bowl for Miles) and sandwiches (a burger on an English muffin for me, a Cuban for Miles) - and beer, of course.

The chowder arrived about five seconds later, piping hot and accompanied by oyster crackers. And I am not exaggerating about that piping hot bit, either - after the first, scorching bite, I had to let mine cool down for a few minutes before diving back in.

The chowder was indeed brothier than your average New England version, but it was still delicious. Swimming in sherry and butter, it was full of flavor. The clams were soft and toothsome, not tough and chewy, and the chunks of potato were well-seasoned and just the right texture. It was easy to see why Miles held this soup in such high esteem - though he claims it's not quite as good as it used to be.

Perfectionist.

I'm off - again!

Dear readers, it has been a travel-heavy summer for this Manhattanite - and this weekend is no exception! I'm off to Massachusetts and New Hampshire this weekend. I'll be staying in Newburyport, exploring Plum Island, and making a pilgrimage to my old stomping grounds up in Exeter (where I went to high school) and Portsmouth.

Any recommendations for food or fun? Leave 'em in the comments! And, obviously, I'll be back with a full report next week!

Phillips Exeter library photo courtesy of atelier/Ed Brodzinsky. Portsmouth photo courtesy of Philip Case.

Happy Birthday, Bear!

Today, dear readers, is my little brother Jeremy's (hence the "Bear" - as in, "Jer Bear") 27th birthday. That's right: on this day in 1982, my life changed forever, thanks to a 10-pound (yes, you read that right) bundle of mischief and love.

This weekend, we celebrated things right, with an outing to Dinosaur Barbecue on Friday night and a homemade clambake (full culinary report later this week) on Saturday. We topped things off with a homemade chocolate birthday cake, a special request from the birthday boy himself (though this brown sugar-blackberry cake was a close runner-up).

Tonight, after he spends some alone time with his lovely wife, Miriam, we'll meet up for a celebratory Scotch.

Am I proud that my little brother chose to celebrate his birthday with a series of fabulous foods and friends? You bet your ass I am.

Happy birthday, Bear!

Fresh from the tree.

When I was 15, I spent the summer in France.

We (by which I mean a group of about 20 high school kids and a few brave teachers) started in the south, gradually making our way to Paris via Nice, Cannes, Avignon, Montpellier, the Gorges du Tarn and the Loire Valley. Most of the eight weeks were spent in various hostels, where we breakfasted on baguettes smeared with butter and jam, washed down with latte bowls brimming with chocolat chaud. We took language classes in the mornings and spent the afternoons seeing the sights.

That summer, I tasted my first Roquefort cheese (in a cave on the side of a Roquefort hill, no less), fell in love with perfume at Fragonard, kissed a boy on a dark beach in Nice, ate tarte tropézienne while walking down a cobblestone street in Saint-Tropez, and tasted my first Berthillon glace on the Île Saint-Louis.

Every single moment of that summer was memorable, but one sun-bleached afternoon in Provence stands out from the others.

Our two weeks in Montpellier were spent on homestays; we met our host families at the American students' center and fanned out around the city, nerves jangling. My family lived in a suburb about twenty minutes from the center of town, which was exactly as bland as it sounds. Over the weekend, we drove out into the country to visit my host mother's family at their farm in southern Provence.

All week, my family had been talking about the pool. "La piscine, la piscine": it was all I heard about for seven whole days. You can imagine my disappointment when la piscine turned out to be an inflatable kiddie pool - one that measured 10 feet across, fair enough, but a kiddie pool nonetheless.

Far more exciting to me was the farm itself. My host mother's brother took me on a tour of the fields, the enclosure where they kept the goats, and, finally, the cherry orchard. Acre upon acre of rich Provencale hillside planted with endless rows of cherry trees. I'd never been much of a cherry fan, having been raised by a mother who favored strawberries, raspberries and blueberries. But that day changed everything.

After the tour, while my family lounged in the pool, I walked back to the orchard and stood in the cool shade of the cherry trees. Their sweet, rich fragrance was overwhelming in the heat of the afternoon sun. The branches were dripping with ripe fruit almost ready for the season's largest harvest, which would happen over the next few days.

While I stood there, a cherry fell off a branch and fell to the ground in front of my feet. I picked it up; it was heavy with juice and piping hot from the sun. I popped it into my mouth and savored the scarlet juice and soft flesh of the cherry. Its flavor was complex - sweet, tangy and rich all at once, the juice stained my fingertips pink and dyed my lips crimson. I picked a handful more and ate them slowly, standing in the orchard, under the deep blue French sky.

To this day, I prefer my cherries warm, and leave them - by the bowlful - on my windowsill for a little while before devouring them. It helps recapture a tiny bit of that stolen moment, if only for a short time.

Can I help you with that?

Back in November, my brother and I went through a bunch of boxes at our mom's place and picked out the items we wanted to have with us in New York. Among the bits and pieces I found this picture from the summer of 1980.

I'm about 20 months old, and already looking to get my groove on in the kitchen. Though, judging by the look on my face, I may have been "helping" without being asked - independence asserts itself early, folks.

My mom.

I was listening to NPR's weekly food podcast today (subscribe here to enjoy the same geeky excitement), and this week's edition featured a conversation with Nigella Lawson, who was explaining the different ways she's involved her children in her cooking over the years.

Her descriptions of batter-stirring and bean-trimming sent me off into a reverie, thinking about the different ways my mom introduced me to the glories of the kitchen. Sometimes people ask me where my love of cooking came from - this seems, to me, to be such an odd question, but probably only because the answer seems so obvious to me.

I grew up in a house where the only food on hand for snacking was fruit, vegetables, or the kind you made yourself. As a result, I learned to bake chocolate chip cookies and how to arrange a cheese plate (complete with grapes, fancy crackers, and sliced saucisson) before I turned 10.

We were never forced to eat something we disliked (when the family had swordfish - which I still hate with a fiery, burning passion - Mom always grilled me some chicken), but we had to try everything once. As a result, I was the only first-grader who listed her favorite foods as strawberries and cucumbers.

On Parents' Night, our parents had to find our desks based on this information. While the other grown-ups wandered around, comparing endless worksheets that read "pizza" or "spaghetti," my parents were perched at my seat, patiently waiting for those with less cuinarily adventurous progeny to find the right desks.

My mom is an incredible woman - a successful, single (Well, not single anymore!) businesswoman who raised two (fantastic, funny, smart, kind, immodest) children, and she passed her love of good food, good wine and good cocktails down to me. In our house, dinner parties were the norm, and cocktail parties lasted long into the night. And, of course, we had to bake all our own sweets.

And so, in honor of my mother, I'm going to share one of her favorite recipes with you. These fudge brownies are incredibly simple to make, but have never failed to make people swoon on cue. I've tweaked the original recipe ever-so-slightly with the addition of a little espresso powder to bring out the flavor of the chocolate - but they remain, at heart, my mother's favorite brownies.

I hope you love them as much as we do.

Jane's Favorite Brownies
Based on a recipe from The Everyday Gourmet

4 oz. unsweetened chocolate
1 cup butter
4 eggs
2 cups sugar
1 1/2 cups flour
1 tbs. instant espresso powder
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
6 oz. semisweet chocolate chips
2 tsp. vanilla extract

Pre-heat the oven to 350°F. Grease a 13x9 baking pan and set aside.

Melt the butter and chocolate together in a double-boiler set over very low heat. Allow to cool slightly.

Beat the eggs and sugar together until pale yellow. Add the cooled chocolate mixture and beat until well-combined. Mix in the flour, espresso powder, baking powder and salt and stir until combined. Fold in the chocolate chips and vanilla.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and back 25-30 minutes, until just set in the center. Allow to cool on a rack before cutting.

Makes 16-20 brownies.

Cheating on Paris.

About six months before I launched Queenie Takes Manhattan, Louisa and I took a two-week trip to Europe. In addition to being a two-week long confirmation of the fact that we were destined to be best friends (we traveled together really, really well), it was a fantastic tour of some of Europe's most beautiful spots (Épernay excepted, though it gets a pass for the fantastic, sparkly hooch.).

We started off with five days in Prague, and knew we wanted to spend time in Champagne and Paris - but had no stop in the middle. Louisa wasn't terribly keen on Germany, so I did a little research and decided we would spend three days in Strasbourg as a way to break the journey from Prague to Reims.

We loved Prague, we had a fantastic, posh, tipsy time in Champagne, and Paris is Paris - but Strasbourg took us by surprise. It's an amazing place. Tiny but cultured (thanks in no small part to the university and the EU Parliament and Court of Human Rights), it's a gorgeous little mashup of French and German culture - luxurious but down-to-earth, fashionable but practical. It's flat and walkable, with a great tram system and miles upon miles of bike paths.

We had our best meal of the trip at Chez Yvonne, a vinstub (a sort of wine tavern) on one of the old town's tiny cobblestone streets. We also had some of the best pastry of our lives (Thanks, Pâtisserie Christian!), stayed in one of the most unexpectedly adorable hotels, and woke up each morning to the bells chiming in the pink - PINK! - cathedral.

In short, we found Strasbourg to be a most magical place - I'm still toying with the idea of moving there - and I would love to go back as soon as possible.

Barring that, I comb the interwebs for doses of Strasbourg-eosity whenever possible. This morning I came across this Flickr set (courtesy of Mike G. K.), and was promptly whisked away by a fantasy in which I decorate an apartment in central Strasbourg with finds from Paris' flea markets and some well-chosen Ikea bits and bobs, and then spend my days wandering Strasbourg's streets and writing about the city's magical charms. And, of course, get paid very, very well for it all. Sigh.

Thanks, Mike.

Photos of everything but the pastry courtesy of Mike G. K.'s Flickr stream.