Blood Orange Tart

When we were in Italy this summer we travelled around and got to see beautiful cities like Milan and Florence. But it was Vernazza, one of five small fishing villages that make up Cinque Terre, that was most memorable for me. The main street that runs down the center of Vernazza is lined with small boutiques, restaurants, and gelaterias. The street, made of flat square stones, runs from the top of the village, where a flight of stairs leads up to the train station, down to the pier, where colorful fishing boats are docked and people lay soaking up the sun.

Branching of off the main street are narrow streets with the doorsteps to apartment buildings on either side. The apartments like all other buildings in Vernazza are painted light pastel colors and the windows shaded with deep green shutters. Clothes hang on the clotheslines below the windows and potted flowers sit on windowsills and the doorsteps of ground floor apartments. These apartments exude a warm feeling of home and life.
The apartment we rented was on the second story so when I pushed open the shutters I could look down to see people walking on the main street and look out to see the pier and the Mediterranean.

In the afternoons we read our books while bathing in the sun on the beach or the pier. When the afternoon became hot or the sun, blinding, I set my book down on a rock with my clothes and towel and jumped off the pier into the cool, salty sea. I rested there for a while, floating. Melting into the slow rhythm of the waves.
After a refreshing swim one day, my sister and I strolled up to the main street with a few coins in hand looking for something to eat. The village is the size of a small neighborhood so my dad didn't mind letting us walk by ourselves. We stopped at a pizzeria and exchanged a coin for a piece of focaccia topped with tomato and herbs. We sat down at a table outside and shared the bread while watching passersby.

A Warm Hello... and Even Warmer Pecan Sticky Buns

I think baking is one of the most exciting things.  When you lose yourself to the moment working your fists into a thick dough or you're struck with inspiration and a new idea turns out really well.  Baking is filled with these breathtaking moments: the agonizing ones, when you realize that your expectations didn't align with reality and you're left wondering what to do with an unappetizing tray of cookies; and then the wonderful moments when you open the door of the oven to see, and smell, something more delightful than you could have ever imagined.

Simply taking a bite of a warm, soft, treat, fresh from the oven, can be a magical experience in itself.  

For me, a warm, rich croissant is exactly that. 

It was a Thursday night, or it might have been a Saturday night, but either way the day didn't matter because I was still off from school, trying to enjoy the final hours of winter break, right down to the very last drop.  So I decided I would make croissants - well, pain au chocolat (weez ah french accent.)  It seemed fitting, perfect even.  When else would I have enough time to complete the long croissant-making process? (I had done my research on the topic.)  Just a few nights before, I had been perusing a new cookbook I got for Christmas, and was thrilled to find a recipe for none other than my beloved pain au chocolat.  I had a recipe, and plenty of time (not to be confused with thyme): it was fate!

I took out a couple of sticks of butter from the fridge, and scanned my way down the list of ingredients.

Butter

White flour

Salt

Active Dry Yeast

Lard

....lard?!?!

I have nothing against butter, sugar, or any of that other wonderful stuff that makes a pastry a pastry.  In fact, I love them all.  Eaten sparingly, butter is divine.  But there is an extent and, for me, that would be at lard.  

And so, the great pain au chocolat plan came to an end.

The Sweeter Side of Amy's Bread is one of my favorite cookbooks, and it's the book I always turn to when I am looking for that perfect recipe.  

One of the many things I love about this cookbook is the photos; each one seems as effortless as it is enticing.  There is never evidence of that food styling with prim and proper tablecloths and without a crumb or drip in sight.  With a spatula in the corner and the glaze dripping onto the countertop the photos seem much more authentic, and honest.