Rhubarb and Cod

Miso Caramel Pumpkin Cake

Susan Keefe — Fri, 30 Oct 2026 12:03:01 GMT

Okay, so this probably isn’t how you run a business, but I’ve never been good at that sort of thing, so why start now? Today’s Miso Caramel Pumpkin Cake ushers a favourite recipe of mine out from behind the paywall because you can’t have a Miso Caramel Pumpkin Cake without Miso Caramel. This beauty of a cake features an almost fudgy pumpkin experience. It is cakey-er than a blondie but less airy than a typical sheet cake. And with the added caramel swirl, it takes on an almost sticky-bun-esque appeal. This cake is an outsider caught between worlds… I’m probably overselling this, but meh, I stand by my description.

What I like about this recipe is that it’s actually two recipes. You can make the caramel without the cake and make the cake without the caramel. But I will say they are worth swirling together at least once, so don’t sleep on the opportunity. I am also happy to inform you that if you make the recipe as written, you will have leftover caramel. This is never a bad thing because the caramel keeps well in a sealed jar in the fridge, and it can be reheated and cooled a multitude of times. So yes, you not only get this beauty of a cake, but you also get a long parade of on-demand Hot Miso Caramel Sundaes, provided your vanilla ice cream supply holds up.

This recipe kicks off with the Miso Caramel. I use the wet method to make my caramel. If you’re a caramel whisperer, feel free to use the dry method and break me off a piece of that confidence. You can find a detailed account on wet method caramel here, complete with a video tutorial. It is paywalled, unfortunately- this is me businessing; am I doing it right? In a nutshell, the wet method for making caramel is simply adding water to the sugar. I like to refer to this as an insurance policy. The water takes more time to cook out of the sugar, which gives you an ample amount of space to reach your ideal shade of amber before scorching it. It also makes your sugar less prone to hot spots - that’s worth noting if you have less-than-stellar or inconsistent burners.

I like to make the caramel the day before I plan on making the cake. This gives the caramel ample time to cool and set up, which makes it infinitely more swirl-able. I will ask you to store your finished caramel in the fridge after allowing it to cool to room temperature on the counter. You must take the caramel out of the fridge after allowing a full hour before swirling it. Again, this will ensure it is the right consistency for swirling. And to this end, please pay attention to the temperature I suggest you cook your caramel to. I didn’t add it for shits and giggles. We need to approach the soft ball stage to achieve the correct viscosity.

Now, for the cake portion of the recipe. And there’s really no funny stuff here; this is a straightforward cake batter. It takes two bowls, a handful of measuring implements, and a rubber spatula. Yes, that’s right, you don’t need a mixer for this. I’m not going to spend too much time here, because it is as simple as combining the dry ingredients, combining the wet ingredients, and gradually introducing the two to each other. Pour the batter into a greased 9x13 baking pan, and the batter is ready to go. No tricks, no fancy techniques, no muss, no fuss. And like I said, you can just bake the cake as is and slather it with cream cheese frosting. No one would be mad. Promise!

But we’re here to make this Miso Caramel Pumpkin Cake, and that’s what we’re going to do. So grab your caramel and make a series of evenly spaced, roughly teaspoon-sized dollops of the stuff across the surface of the cake. Now, arm yourself with a butter knife and drag it through the caramel and the cake batter to create a swirl effect. And when I say “swirl”, I really mean it. Swirl it with your whole heart. Not only is this a fun, satisfying activity, but it will keep your caramel deposits from being too concentrated. If the caramel collects in one place too much, it will disrupt the integrity of the cake in that one spot, while depriving other portions of the cake of their caramel kiss.

Once you’ve swirled your heart out, bake this bad boy in a 9x13 pan at the very pedestrian temperature of 350°F until a toothpick can be inserted and removed cleanly. Let cool completely before slicing and serving with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. And pro tip: after slicing the cake, feel free to nuke a slice in the microwave for 15 seconds. It delivers all the gooey excellence you could hope for.

Enjoy!

Miso Caramel Pumpkin Cake

PREP: 25 Minutes

COOK: 45 Minutes

SERVES: 8-12 People

Equiptment

Ingredients

Miso Caramel

1 1/4 cups granulated sugar
1/2 cup water
1 cup heavy cream
2 tbsp white miso paste
1 tsp vanilla extract

Pumpkin Cake

2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1 1/4 tsp salt
1 1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
2 tsp pumpkin spice, see below
1 cup light brown sugar
1/4 cup granulated sugar
3 large eggs
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1/2 cup buttermilk
2 tbsp maple syrup
425g (15oz) pumpkin purée
1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract

Pumpkin Spice

3 tbsp ground cinnamon
2 tsp ground ginger
1 1/2 tsp nutmeg
1 tsp ground cloves
1 tsp ground allspice
Fresh ground black pepper, to taste

Method

For the Caramel

Pour the sugar into a skillet. Add the water and whisk to combine. Heat the water and sugar mixture over medium-high heat until it boils and bubbles. Turn off the heat when it reaches a golden colour.
Immediately pour in the cream (the mixture will bubble madly and then subside - just keep whisking throughout). Return the skillet to the heat and simmer until it registers 225°F - 230°F on a candy thermometer.
Take the skillet off the heat and whisk in the miso and vanilla. Pour the caramel into a heat-proof bowl and let it cool completely.

For the Pumpkin Spice

Place all ingredients in a bowl and whisk to combine. Set aside until ready to use.

For the Cake

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Grease a 9x13 cake pan and set it aside.
Place flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, and pumpkin spice in a large bowl. Whisk to combine and set aside.
In a separate bowl, pour in the brown sugar and granulated sugar. Add the eggs, vegetable oil, buttermilk, maple syrup, pumpkin purée, and the vanilla. Whisk to combine.
Form a well in the center of the dry ingredients. Pour in the wet ingredients and stir until a batter forms. Be careful not to overmix the batter.
Pour the batter into the prepared pan and spread it into an even layer. Using a greased teaspoon measure, place a series of dollops of the miso caramel on the surface of the cake batter. Use a butter knife to swirl and cut the caramel into the cake batter. (See Note 1)
Transfer the cake to the oven and bake for 30-35 minutes, or until a toothpick can be inserted into the center of the cake and removed cleanly. Let the cake cool completely in the pan.
Slice the cake into 12 squares. Serve with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a drizzle of the leftover miso caramel.

Notes

Really swirl the caramel into the cake batter, so you have a fair amount in each slice.

Chicken Tomatillo Stew

Susan Keefe — Sun, 18 Oct 2026 20:01:00 GMT

Today, we’re putting on our coziest sweaters and making a big ol’ pot of Chicken Tomatillo Stew. This restorative Sunday-kind-of-meal features juicy braised chicken swimming in a sauce comprised of roasted tomatillos, jalapeños, onions, and garlic. Served over fluffy rice with a dollop of sour cream and a sprinkle of crumbled fried chicken skin, this dish delivers industrial-strength comfort in a surprisingly light, refreshing way.

Before we start, I want you to know I am inadvertently referencing a Guatemalan dish called Jocón. It is inadvertent because I didn’t know it existed until I started developing today’s Chicken Tomatillo Stew. I came across it in my research, and I’m always happy when I come across a dish I had no idea existed. Even for someone who writes, thinks, and endlessly cooks food, finding new-to-me dishes happens more often than you would think. Yet further proof that food as a subject is endlessly vast and unknowable.

I’m not one to gatekeep food knowledge, so here’s where I learned a bit more about the dish. There is also a recipe, so you can try your hand at it. There are quite a few striking differences between the dish I’m presenting today and the Guatemalan delicacy, but credit where credit is due. Jocón has been around for a heck of a lot longer (it can be traced back to the Mayans) than my little ditty.

Okay, let’s talk stew. I’m going to ask you to do something a little crazy right off the bat. I need you to preheat the oven, grab two large baking sheets, and skin your chicken legs. Yes, all of these directions are related, and yes, it will result in smaltz. Lucky you! If the thought of skinning chicken legs makes you trepidatious, let me reassure you. Skinning chicken legs is surprisingly simple. And while it may sound gross to describe it this way, it’s a lot like taking off a wet sock. Ugh! Sorry! I know this is a food blog; I should at least try to keep things appetizing.

Once the skin is off the legs, arrange the pieces on one of the baking sheets. It’s okay if your skin doesn’t come off in one clean piece. It’s a good thing to aim for, for tidiness’s sake. But if it doesn’t work out that way, don’t sweat it. We’re going to crumble up the skin a little later anyway.

Place the second baking sheet on top of the skin and pop the lot into the oven. Roast for 15 minutes, flip the skin, and roast for 7-8 minutes more. When the skin emerges, it should be crisp and rigid, and you should have a sizeable pool of smaltz waiting for you. Pour said smaltz over a can of drained tomatillos, onion wedges, jalapeños, and cloves of garlic. Give everything a quick toss to coat and place it on the baking sheet you roasted the skin in. Roast for 20-30 minutes or until everything is blistered.

Once everything is charred enough for your liking, blitz your blistered beauties until smooth. Grab a braiser or a heavy-bottom pot and pour in the purée. Nestle the naked chicken legs into the sauce, cover, and cook in a 350°F oven for 30 minutes; flip the chicken and cook for 25 more. When the chicken is fall-apart tender, simply shred the chicken, discard the bones, and return the meat to the sauce.

From here, you can serve the stew in a multitude of ways: in tacos, over mashed potatoes, or over rice, like I did. I love serving this stew over a 50/50 mix of brown and Jasmine rice, and my preferred garnish is a dollop of sour cream, thin slices of jalapeño, lightly pickled shallots, and fresh cilantro. The only garnish that is truly mandatory is that crumbled crispy chicken skin. Truly life-changing, don’t give it a miss.

And that’s everything you need to know about this Chicken Tomatillo Stew. Simple, warming, and endlessly flavourful, this dish was made for cozy season.

Enjoy!

Chicken Tomatillo Stew

PREP: 20 Minutes

COOK: 1 Hour 50 Minutes

SERVE: 4-6 People

Equiptment

Ingredients

4 whole chicken legs, skin-on
1 tsp kosher salt, divided
2 shallots, thinly sliced
1/2 cup rice wine vinegar
2 limes, juiced (divided)
2 yellow onions, cut into wedges
6 cloves garlic, smashed and peeled
3 jalapeños, halved and deseeded
1 (820 ml, 29 fl oz) can tomatillos, drained
1 1/2 cups chicken stock, low sodium
1 tsp dried oregano
1 tsp ground cumin
1/4 cup sour cream, to serve
1/4 cup coarsely chopped cilantro, to serve

Method

Preheat the oven and line one baking sheet with parchment paper.
Skin the chicken legs and arrange the skins on the lined baking sheet. Sprinkle with roughly ⅓ of the salt. Place another piece of parchment on top of the skins, and place the remaining baking sheet on top of that.
Transfer everything to the oven and bake for 15 minutes. Remove the baking sheet and the top piece of parchment, and bake for another 7 minutes, rotating the pan once halfway through.
Sprinkle the now-skinned chicken legs all over with the remaining salt. Chill until ready to use.
While the skin is roasting, whisk to combine the shallots, vinegar, and half of the lime juice. Set aside to pickle at room temperature.
When the skin is crisp, transfer them to a plate lined with a paper towel and set them aside to drain. Pour the chicken fat from the baking sheet into a small bowl. Set the fat aside.
Place the tomatillos, onions, garlic, and jalapeños in a large bowl. Add the reserved chicken fat and toss to coat. Pour the mixture onto the baking sheet you used to roast the chicken skin. Transfer to the oven and roast for 30 minutes or until blistered.
When the tomatillo mixture is ready, take it out of the oven and reduce the oven temperature to 350°F. Transfer the blistered veg to a food processor and add the chicken stock, oregano, and cumin. Blitz until lightly chunky.
Pour the mixture into a braiser or large heavy-bottom pot. Nestle the chicken legs into the sauce and cover. Transfer to the oven and cook for 50-55 minutes, turning the chicken once halfway through.
Transfer the chicken legs to a casserole dish and, using two forks, shred the chicken meat and discard the bones. Return the meat to the sauce and add the remaining lime juice. Stir to combine.
Serve the finished stew over rice and garnish with a dollop of sour cream, jalapeño slices, crumbled chicken skin, lightly pickled shallots, and fresh cilantro. Serve immediately and enjoy!

Notes

You can crisp the chicken skin and make the tomatillo sauce up to three days in advance.

Pork Dumpling Squash Blossoms

Susan Keefe — Mon, 31 Aug 2026 13:06:35 GMT

Today’s Pork Dumpling Squash Blossoms swap the dumpling skin for a squash blossom sheath. The filling is a classic combo of minced pork, scallions, soy sauce, and water chestnuts. The dipping sauce is an ode to the small bowls that accompany steaming baskets of dim sum. But simply swapping the dumplings’ usual flour-based dough coating for an actual flower transforms them into something that, I don’t know, just makes me giddy. It’s like tucking into fairy food, I swear. So without further ado, let’s make these fanciful, floral parcels.

Every year around this time, I am seduced by the romanticism of squash blossoms. There is something so whimsical about stuffing a flower. It has the same energy as plucking wild flower petals and plunging them into water to make “perfume”. And just to clarify, I know that is not how perfume is made, but it is how I made “perfume” when I was five. I also used to make something called “jellyfish pie”, which more or less involved covering washed-up jellyfish carcasses with wet sand and crimping it as if it were a pie. In my defense, I was a kid, and I didn’t have a lot to do in rural Nova Scotia. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, stuffing a flower? That’s straight-up fairy behaviour.

But the fantasy more or less runs into a brick wall when it comes to preparing them. The most popular way to enjoy a squash blossom is to douse it in batter and fry it until golden. Delicious? Without a doubt! And texturally perfect, frankly. But the whimsy is gone. It looks like just about anything fried. It’s vibrant orange, cloaked in dreaded beige.

This is a frequent complaint in the food styling community; all the best-tasting foods are beige. French fries? Beige. Donut? Beige. A cozy pasta or stew? You better believe it’s beige. It’s like a cruel joke. Now, you know why we’re all so dependent on edible flowers and microgreens. So with today’s recipe, I decided to try something monumental. I decided not to fry my squash blossoms. I know. Your shock is palpable.

The filling for these Pork Dumpling Squash Blossoms doesn’t stray far from a classic Chinese pork dumpling. It’s a blend of ground pork, minced water chestnut, finely chopped scallion, soy sauce, five spice, cornstarch, and salt; simple stuff. I kept it simple because the interior of a good dumpling cannot be improved upon. I mean, dumpling skins are pretty perfect too, but if I kept everything classic, what would be the point of having you here?

With our filling waiting in the wings, it’s time to remove the stamens from the blossoms. This is that fuzzy, yellow nub at the centre of the flower. You know, the part that bees are so fond of. While stamens are not harmful and are safe to eat, they are quite bitter and fibrous. In other words, stamens are safe to eat, but they aren’t a pleasure to eat. Carefully reach your hand into the centre of the blossom, taking care not to tear the leaves. Find the stamen with your fingers, give it a twist and pull. It should come out easily.

Now transfer the dumpling filling to a large piping bag, and bring the nozzle as close to the base of the inside of the blossom as possible. Pipe in roughly a tablespoon and a half of filling into each blossom. And yes, it’s okay to feel weird about piping meat. Once the blossom is filled, gently twist the petals to seal. Repeat until all the blossoms are stuffed.

Okay, now we’re going to steam these beauties in a bamboo steamer lined with lettuce leaves. You can also use cabbage leaves or bok choy; any mild-tasting leafy green you have will do. Pour a few inches of water into a wok and lower your steamer into the water; it should not touch the lower level of dumplings. Steam for 8-12 minutes or until the filling registers an internal temp of 165°F. Arrange the finished Pork Dumpling Squash Blossoms on a platter and serve alongside your favourite dipping sauce. You’ll find the recipe for my favourite below.

Enjoy!

Pork Dumpling Squash Blossoms

PREP: 25 Minutes

COOK: 10 Minutes

SERVES: 2 People

Equiptment

Ingredients

4 scallions
454g (1 lb) ground pork
4-5 water chestnuts, minced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tbsp fresh ginger, minced
2 tbsp soy sauce
1 tbsp Shaoxing wine
1 1/2 tsp granulated sugar
1 tsp cornstarch
1/2 tsp sesame oil
1/2 tsp five-spice powder
12-14 squash blossoms
8-10 green lettuce leaves

Dumpling Dipping Sauce

3 tbsp soy sauce
1 tbsp rice wine vinegar
1 tsp sugar
1/2 tsp sesame oil

Method

Separate the white and green portions of the scallions. Finely chop both and set them aside separately.
Place the pork in a large bowl and add the scallion greens, water chestnuts, garlic, ginger, soy sauce, wine, sugar, cornstarch, sesame oil, and five-spice powder. Using clean hands, mix until everything is thoroughly integrated.
Transfer the pork filling to a large piping bag fitted with a large round piping tip. Gently open each blossom and insert the piping bag. Don't start piping until the tip reaches the base of the flower. Pipe roughly 1 ½ tablespoons of the filling into each blossom. Gently twist the petals closed to form a seal.
Line the interior of a bamboo steamer with lettuce leaves and arrange the blossoms on top. Fill a wok with roughly three inches of water and place it over high heat. Bring to a boil and reduce to a simmer. Place the bamboo steamer in the center of the water and let steam for 8-12 minutes or until the dumplings register an internal temperature of 165°F.

For the Dumpling Sauce

Pour the scallion whites into a bowl and add the soy sauce, vinegar, sugar, and sesame oil. Stir to combine.
Arrange the dumplings on a platter and serve alongside the dipping sauce.

Peach Melba Float

Susan Keefe — Fri, 07 Aug 2026 16:03:23 GMT

Where have all the floats gone? And no, I’m not talking about flamboyant parade fodder. I’m talking about the ice cream float. When I was a kid in the 90s, I feel like I encountered them far more often. Every diner, dessert counter, or kid-friendly restaurant listed them as an option. But somewhere between the oughts and the 2010s, we lost them. Maybe the thought of ice cream floating in soda was more sugar than the modern stomach could, well, stomach. Or maybe people lost interest; the ice cream float has been around since the 1870s, after all. But despite that, here I am with my Peach Melba Float trying to make ice cream floats cool again. And this is going to be a trick considering I don’t have a cool bone in my body. It’s all on you, float!

Where have all the floats gone? And no, I’m not talking about flamboyant parade fodder. I’m talking about the ice cream float. When I was a kid in the 90s, I feel like I encountered them far more often. Every diner, dessert counter, or kid-friendly restaurant listed them as an option. But somewhere between the oughts and the 2010s, we lost them. Maybe the thought of ice cream floating in soda was more sugar than the modern stomach could, well, stomach. Or maybe people simply lost interest; the ice cream float has been around since the 1870s, after all. But despite that, here I am with my Peach Melba Float trying to make ice cream floats cool again. And this is going to be a trick considering I don’t have a cool bone in my body. It’s all on you, float!

There are several other competing stories about the conception of the ice cream float, including one that predates Green’s story by two years. But the validity of any one story isn’t particularly important; It’s the dessert that counts. The dessert is why we’re here. Isn’t it always?

Today’s Peach Melba Float doesn’t borrow from one iconic dessert but two. The second being the float’s namesake: Peach Melba. Created some 20 years later by the legendary chef Auguste Escoffier, Peach Melba debuted at the Savoy Hotel in London in 1892. The dessert featured fresh peaches served over vanilla ice cream in a silver dish perched atop a swan-shaped ice sculpture. It was created to honour the Australian soprano Nellie Melba, who was performing Wagner’s Lohengrin at Covent Garden at the time.

Due to its extreme presentation, Peach Melba was originally known as “Pêche au cygne”, or “Peach with a swan.” Escoffier recreated the dessert a year later at the newly opened Ritz Carlton, ditching the swan, adding raspberry puree, and renaming the dish Pêche Melba. There’s a whole story about Escoffier and César Ritz opening the Ritz Carlton after they were both fired from the Savoy for apparently committing larceny, embezzlement, and fraud, but that will have to wait for another day. Lol!

In my Peach Melba Float, I marry the two desserts by creating a Fresh Peach Sorbet and an Almond Raspberry Syrup. I place both in a Collins glass and fill to the top with sparkling water. Make sure the glasses are cold, or everything is going to melt a lot faster than you’d like. Essentially what you have is a homemade raspberry soda with hefty scoops of peach sorbet. The treat is finished with unsweetened whipped cream, sliced almonds, and of course, fresh raspberries. I do prefer unsweetened whipped cream as a finisher here, because there are so many sweet elements to this drink. But if you’re not into that, feel free to add a little powdered sugar to your cream before you whip it.

Would Escoffier approve of my riff on his iconic dish? Probably not. Escoffier stated that “any variation on this (Peach Melba) recipe ruins the delicate balance of its taste.” Oops! Lol! Well, fair enough, sir. I’m almost positive you know better than I. But in my far less seasoned opinion, I think this Peach Melba Float tastes mighty fine.

And that’s everything you need to know about this Peach Melba Float and probably far more than you need to know about ice cream floats and the criminal activities of Escoffier. You can’t say this site isn’t wide-ranging.

Enjoy!

Peach Melba Float

PREP: 30 Minutes

COOK: 20 Minutes

FREEZING: 8 Hours

SERVES: 6 People

Equiptment

Ingredients

Fresh Peach Sorbet

1.4 kg (3 lbs) fresh peaches
1 cup granulated sugar
1 lime, juiced
1/4 tsp sea salt

Almond Raspberry Syrup

2 cups fresh or frozen raspberries
1 cup water
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1 vanilla bean, split
1 tsp almond extract

Peach Melba Floats

Sparkling water, to fill
1 cup whipped cream
1/4 cup sliced almonds
Fresh raspberries, to garnish

Method

For the Sorbet:

Cut a shallow X in the bottom of each peach and set them aside. Bring a large pot of water to a boil, then take it off the heat. Immediately add the peaches and let stand for 2-3 minutes.
Transfer the peaches to an ice bath and leave them for a minute. Starting at the X, peel the peaches. Give them a dice and transfer them to a food processor.
Add the sugar, lime juice, and salt, and blitz until smooth. Transfer the puree to an ice cream maker and churn for 30 minutes or until it resembles soft serve. Spoon the sorbet into a chilled loaf pan and smooth the surface. Cover and freeze for 3 hours or overnight.

For the Syrup:

To make the raspberry syrup, place the berries, water, sugar, and vanilla bean in a small saucepan. Bring the mixture to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Let cook for 15 minutes. Take the syrup off the heat, remove the vanilla bean, and stir in the almond extract.
Pour the mixture through a fine mesh strainer and set the pulp to the side. (See Note) Set aside to cool. Pour the cooled syrup into a carafe and chill until ready to use.

For the Floats:

When you’re ready to make the float, chill a couple of glasses in the freezer for 15 minutes.
Pour 2 tablespoons of the raspberry syrup into each glass and add two scoops of the peach sorbet. Fill with sparkling water all the way to the top.
Top each glass with a crown of unsweetened (or sweetened) whipped cream, slivered almonds, and fresh raspberries. Serve immediately and enjoy!

Notes

I like to stir the remaining raspberry pulp into muffins or pancakes, or spoon it over waffles or yogurt.

Pork Tenderloin Tomato Salad

Susan Keefe — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 16:01:31 GMT

This Pork Tenderloin Tomato Salad is the perfect example of how I like to eat in the summertime. Well, when I actually eat a meal. Random intervals of slightly rapid snacking are usually where I’m at in 30+ weather: The power of a well-timed bag of chips on a patio cannot be overstated. But when I’m not in sun-soaked raccoon mode, a simple protein seasoned with a punchy marinade, paired with the season’s freshest and finest, is all I need. And that’s exactly what this salad is. A piece of lean protein flavoured with an aromatic heavy caramel marinade spiked with fish sauce, cooked, sliced, and tossed with juicy summer tomatoes. What could be better?

We truly are in the golden hour of the year. That perfect season when all sorts of produce comes into its own. It’s honestly a little overwhelming. And I mean that in the best way possible. Whenever I enter a market or grocery store, I am immediately struck with intense FOMO. I have to get the tomatoes, peaches, plums, and berries because come November potatoes are what we have. Nothing against potatoes or anything; they are my primary food group. This may sound like a good-to-have problem, and it is, but it’s not without its pitfalls. Now that you have secured everything you dreamed about in deep dark February, how are you going to get through it all before it spoils?

That’s why tomatoes take centre stage in this Pork Tenderloin Tomato Salad. They outnumber the pork slices significantly, and you know what? It works. And why does it work? Because the tomatoes are at their juicy peak and the pork is seriously flavourful. You don’t need a ton to feel like you’ve had a lot. And that’s thanks to the pork’s very punchy marinade, which is conveniently where this recipe begins.

Now, I’m not going to go into too much detail on how to put the marinade together because it is all laid out for you at the bottom of this post. But I am going to address the caramel portion of this recipe, since it’s not particularly pedestrian, at least in North American cooking.

I’m sure it’s not a shock to learn that this marinade is heavily influenced by Vietnamese cuisine. It’s one of my favourite flavour profiles of all time. I particularly love the way they introduce the deep, warm notes of caramel to an otherwise very light, funky, and refreshing dish. Vietnamese cuisine is rich in contrasts, and I will never get over its genius.

To make the caramel, I used the dry method. You can add water to the sugar as an insurance policy, though. Add roughly 2 tbsp of water to the sugar before cooking. This will slow the caramelization process because the water has to evaporate before the sugar reaches its target amber shade. I prefer the dry method because it requires no evaporation time, and when you’re in a rush, that is a blessing.

The rest of the recipe is fairly straightforward, but I am going to address the timing of things. I like to build and dress the tomatoes about an hour before serving. And this is really the bare minimum. I think tomatoes are just so magical when they’ve had time to luxuriate in citrus, chilis, and garlic. Not only do they become more flavourful, but they also break down slightly, releasing juices and softening. It really benefits the whole dish, so please consider getting a jump on it.

The other bit of timing I want to draw your attention to is when to take the meat out of the fridge and preheat the oven. And the answer is at the same time. Take your meat out of the fridge roughly an hour before serving. At the same time, start preheating your oven. This will give the oven 30 minutes to come up to temperature and give the pork 30 minutes to come up to room temperature. Meat cooks far more evenly when it’s had an opportunity to shake the chill of the fridge off.

From there, you just have to sear and roast the pork. And because it’s a tenderloin, it doesn’t take long in the oven. So to recap, build your salad, take your meat out of the fridge, and preheat the oven when you’re an hour from dinner time. Easy, right? Do you see why I love cooking like this in the summer?

And that’s everything you need to know about this Pork Tenderloin Tomato Salad! Easy to make, easy to love, and very summer-forward.

Enjoy!

Pork Tenderloin Tomato Salad

PREP: 30 Minutes

COOK: 30 Minutes

SERVES: 2 People

Equiptment

Ingredients

Lemongrass Caramel Pork Tenderloin

3 cloves garlic, peeled and coarsely chopped
2 shallots, quartered and coarsely chopped
1 stalk lemongrass, smashed and coarsely chopped
1 (1-inch) knob ginger, peeled and coarsely chopped
2 tbsp neutral oil (See Note), divided
1/3 cup granulated sugar
3 tbsp fish sauce
2 tbsp lime juice
1 pork tenderloin, roughly 1.5 lbs

Lime Sambal Oelek Dressing

1 clove garlic, minced
2 tbsp lime juice
1 tbsp fish sauce
1 tbsp sambal oelek
2 tsp honey

Pork Tenderloin Tomato Salad

2-3 medium-sized tomatoes, cut into wedges
1 pint cherry tomatoes, halved
1/4 cup fresh cilantro, torn
Garlic chive blossoms, for sprinkling (optional)
Garlic chips, for sprinkling (optional)

Method

Place the shallots, lemongrass, ginger, and garlic in a food processor. Add a tablespoon of the oil and blitz until the mixture resembles mulch. Set it aside.
Pour the sugar into a skillet. Place it over medium heat and cook until the sugar melts and turns a light amber. Take it off the heat and immediately whisk in the fish sauce and lime juice. Pour the caramel over your blitzed aromatics and stir to combine.
Place the tenderloin in a resealable container and pour the marinade over top. Seal and give it a shake. Let marinate for 3 hours or overnight.
When you’re ready to cook, preheat the oven to 400°F. Take the pork out of the fridge and let it come up to room temperature; this should take about 30 minutes.
While you’re waiting on the pork, whip up the salad dressing. Place the garlic, lime juice, fish sauce, sambal oelek, and honey in a bowl. Whisk to combine. Place the tomatoes in a bowl and pour the dressing over top. Toss to coat using clean hands to avoid bruising the tomatoes. Set the salad aside while you tackle the pork.
Heat the remaining oil in a large cast-iron skillet over medium heat until shimmering. Add the tenderloin and sear it until golden all over. Transfer the skillet to the oven and roast for 15-20 minutes, turning once halfway through. The pork should register an internal temp just shy of 145°F.
Place the tenderloin on a cutting board and tent with foil. The pork will reach an internal temperature of 145°F as it rests. Slice the pork nice and thin.
Arrange the pork on a platter and cover with the tomato salad. Pour the dressing and tomato juices that have collected at the bottom of the bowl over the pork and tomatoes. Garnish the salad with cilantro, garlic chips, and garlic chive blossoms. Serve immediately.

Lobster Roll Panzanella

Susan Keefe — Thu, 16 Jul 2026 15:02:22 GMT

When I was growing up, lobster was the food of the summer. Every Canada Day, my family would set up picnic tables lined with newspaper and tear into freshly cooked lobsters with wild abandon. With varying levels of dexterity, we’d all wrestle the meat out of their shells and immediately dunk the morsels in melted butter. We were never more ambitious than that. Just simple fresh lobster and hot butter. But now that I have the annoying responsibility of buying my own food, I’ve been searching for ways to make this admittedly pricey treat stretch further. This Lobster Roll Panzanella is my current favourite solution.

Bring up the subject of lobster rolls to a born-and-bred East Coaster, and you’ll get some strong opinions. The bun must be split top and the sides must be buttered and toasted - that is something we can all agree on. The lobster meat should be plentiful and dominate the bun - simply non-negotiable. But then you have mix-in preferences. Some people are purists who believe a lobster roll should be just that: lobster in a roll. Others won’t recognize it unless butter lettuce is present. And others still enjoy a little more adventure and are open to a kaleidoscope of additional ingredients such as shaved fennel, dill, celery, and tarragon. But the hottest of hot-button lobster roll issues is butter or mayo?

Some folks only have time for lobster dosed in clarified butter; others need a creamy coating of mayo to get into it. And if you’re an either-or person, it will be a snap decision when it comes time to order, and you will always be certain you made the wrong call. I belong to the latter camp, and I have to say, it’s no picnic. Now, the passion behind this question cannot be understated. But I can honestly say, I am agnostic. I see the unique charms of both and don’t particularly feel the need to pick a side.

So, with this debate in mind, it was important to me that I pay homage to both sides of the divide in this Lobster Roll Panzanella. And how did I achieve that? Well, I dosed the croutons in a rich tarragon-garlic butter and dressed the lobster in a light coating of mayo spiked with sambal. I suppose some could view this as an attempt to mend fences. But really it’s just further evidence of my indecisiveness.

But before we get to those buttery croutons, we must first discuss the fennel. The fennel is central to my lobster-stretching plans. Not only is fennel delicious and beautifully complementary to the rich sweetness of the lobster meat, but it also takes up a fair amount of real estate. But having said that, the fennel is not just filler; we’re going to make it taste nice.

The first thing we’re going to do is remove the fronds from a bulb of fennel. Hold on to them; you’re looking at the finishing touch of our Lobster Roll Panzanella. Shave half of the bulb into ribbons on a mandolin. Place them in a bowl and add a thinly sliced shallot. Next, we’re just going to add a pinch of salt and the juice of two limes. Let everything hang out while we make the rest of the recipe. This is essentially a very light pickling.

Now, we can move on to those butter croutons. Tear some split-top buns into bite-sized pieces. You don’t have to use split-top buns; I’m using them for authenticity’s sake. But you could use a rustic loaf or brioche or really any sort of stale bread you have hanging around. Pile the pieces into a bowl and coat them with melted salted butter. Add a few cloves of minced garlic and some finely chopped tarragon. Toss to coat and bake them in a 350°F oven until golden.

And now all that remains is the lobster. Wrestle your meat out of a can or shell. I used claw and knuckle meat, but you can use tail or any combination of the two if you prefer. To the lobster, add some mayo, a little sambal oelek for heat, and a dash of rice wine vinegar. Stir to combine before adding the croutons and draining and adding the fennel. Finally, toss everything together until evenly dispersed.

We’ve arrived at the plating portion of this recipe, and you’re free to listen to your heart, but this is how I approached things. Line a platter with butter lettuce leaves and spoon the salad into the centre. Garnish with additional tarragon and the fronds you reserved earlier. I also added some wood sorrel because it’s been going crazy in my garden, but that is very much optional.

So all that remains is to serve your dish and enjoy. This is best eaten after everything is tossed together, but feel free to prepare the fennel, croutons, and lobster meat in advance. Just make sure they don’t interact until you’re ready to serve.

Enjoy!

Lobster Roll Panzanella

PREP: 15 Minutes

COOK: 15 Minutes

SERVES: 4 People

Equiptment

Ingredients

Shaved Fennel

1/2 fennel bulb, fronds removed and reserved
1 shallot, halved and thinly sliced
2 limes, juiced
1/2 tsp salt

Garlic Butter Tarragon Croutons

3 hot dog buns, torn into bite-sized pieces
2 tbsp salted butter, melted
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 tbsp fresh tarragon, finely chopped

Lobster Roll Panzanella

454g (1lb) cooked lobster meat (see Note 1)
2 tbsp mayonnaise
2 tsp sambal oelek
1 tsp rice wine vinegar
1 batch Shaved Fennel
1 batch Garlic Butter Tarragon Croutons
Wood sorrel, for sprinkling (optional)

Method

Preheat the oven to 350°F and line a baking sheet with a silicone mat. Set it aside.
Place the fennel in a bowl and add the shallots, lime juice, and salt. Toss to coat. Cover and chill until ready to use.
Place the hot dog bun pieces in a large bowl. Add the melted butter, garlic, and tarragon, and toss to coat.
Arrange the bread pieces on the prepared baking sheet and transfer them to the oven. Bake for 10-15 minutes or until golden. Set them aside to cool.
Place lobster meat in a large bowl; add mayo, sambal oelek, and rice wine vinegar. Stir to combine.
Drain the fennel and add it to the bowl with the lobster meat. Add the croutons and toss to disperse.
Line a platter with butter lettuce leaves and add the panzanella. Garnish with the reserved fennel fronds and additional tarragon, or, if you have some in your garden, some wood sorrel.

Notes

I used claw meat, but you can use any combination of meat you wish.

Strawberries and Cream Panna Cotta

Susan Keefe — Thu, 02 Jul 2026 19:00:28 GMT

I’m a day late for Canada Day, but at least my dessert is appropriately dressed. This Strawberries and Cream Panna Cotta features a luxurious panna cotta with layers of suspended fresh strawberry jelly. I made my panna cottas mini because I find them easier to serve this way. But you could easily use a larger (roughly 3 cups) mould and slice and serve like a cake. The cross-section would be quite the reveal when served this way. But with individual panna cottas, breaking into one would be its own personal mini surprise. I guess it all depends on how much of a showboat you intend to be. No judgment, I like to showboat as much as the next ham.

I knew this panna cotta was going to be good when it first popped into my brain. Strawberries? Cream? During Wimbledon?! Talk about a culinary slam dunk. What I didn’t anticipate is that it would unlock a core memory. And this story might show my age, so please, be kind with this knowledge.

Do you remember Creme Savers? They were these individually wrapped hard candies roughly the same size and shape as a Werther’s Original. They were opaque creamy treats with ripples of fruit-flavoured candy woven through them. Honestly, I hadn’t thought of this candy since the late 90s/early 2000s, which I’m sure was the last time I had one. At the time, I wasn’t even sure if they still made them. They do still make them, by the way. In fact, they seem to be enjoying a bit of resurgence; everything old is new again. Anyway, long story short, my first bite of this Strawberries and Cream Panna Cotta brought them instantly to mind. It was like I was transported back to my grandmother’s house, fishing one of these from her little crystal candy bowl. They weren’t even a major favourite, but that’s the power of sense memory for you.

Now, this story may actually turn you off of these panna cottas. I don’t know your life; maybe these candies haunt your dreams or were a favourite of your school bully. And if that is the case, let me assure you, they don’t taste the exact same. I remember those candies could become quite sickly sweet if you had too many of them. This Strawberries and Cream Panna Cotta does not succumb to the same fate. It is infinitely more refreshing, especially fresh from the fridge. So if you’re anti-Creme Saver, don’t let that stop you from sinking your fork into this beauty. Another likely more favorable comparison for this dessert is strawberry shortcake or jiggly.

Now, that’s enough yammering; let’s talk about the actual recipe. The actual recipe-recipe is very simple. A handful of ingredients and a little light gelatine work; it is all deceptively simple. Now, I say “deceptively” not because there is some hidden technical pitfall. No, it’s just that the setting and layering process is, well, tedious and somewhat annoying. Yes; I would never lie to you. But cutting into one of these panna cottas and seeing their stained glass interior makes the headache completely worth it.

One other thing you should note is I use sheet gelatine for this recipe. I just find sheet overall more reliable than powder. I think the jelly sets smoother and clearer with sheet gelatine as well. But I also understand that it can be hard to find. So I have provided measurements for powdered gelatine in the recipe below. A good general rule is that for every tablespoon of powdered gelatine, you need three sheets. It isn't completely foolproof; you may have to play with your ratios a bit, but that will get you into the ballpark of good.

Another thing these Strawberries and Cream Panna Cottas have going for it: you use the stove for a grand total of 15 minutes. Yeah, welcome to the dream. The rest of the prep time is just shuttling your little moulds from the fridge to the counter and back again. We’re currently sitting in the middle of a truly oppressive heatwave in my neck of the woods, so instructions like that read like a vacation.

And that’s all you need to know about these Strawberries and Cream Panna Cotta as well as my memories of my grandmother’s candy dish for some reason. Lol! Did I ever tell you, you’re all fantastic listeners? Anyway, hope you love these beauties!

Enjoy!

Strawberries and Cream Panna Cotta

PREP: 20 Minutes

COOK: 15 Minutes

CHILLING: 8 Hours

SERVES: 4 People

Equiptment

Ingredients

Strawberry Jelly

680 g (1.5 lb) strawberries, hulled and quartered
1 vanilla bean
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/4 tsp salt
3 sheets gelatine or 1 tbsp powdered
Neutral oil, for greasing

Panna Cotta

2 cups heavy cream
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/4 tsp salt
4 sheets gelatine or 1 tbsp + 1 tsp powdered
Neutral oil, for greasing

Method

Strawberry Jelly:

Place the berries in a large bowl. Split the vanilla bean lengthwise and scrape out the caviar with the blunt side of a knife. Set the caviar aside and place the pod in the bowl with the berries. Add the sugar and salt and stir to combine. Cover and leave the berries to macerate for 2 hours or overnight.
Drain the berries - you should have 3/4 cup of liquid. Remove the vanilla bean pod and place the berries in a food processor. Blitz until it resembles mulch. Pour the mulch into a fine-mesh strainer and, using a rubber spatula, press any remaining liquid out of the fruit. You should have about 1 ⅓ cups of liquid. (See Note 1)
Pour the liquid into a small saucepan and bring it to a gentle simmer. While the juice is heating, soak the gelatine sheets in cold water. Wring them out and add them to the simmering juice. (See Note 2) Take the juice off the heat immediately and whisk until the gelatine dissolves completely.
Grease an 8x8 pan with a little neutral oil (I used canola) and add the juice. Cover and let it set in the fridge for 3 hours.

Panna Cotta:

When the Strawberry Jelly is nearly set, we can get to work on the panna cotta mixture. Pour the cream, sugar, and salt into a small saucepan. Add the vanilla caviar you extracted earlier and place the saucepan over medium-low heat. Bring it to the verge of simmering; don't let it come to a boil.
While the cream mixture is heating, soak the gelatine sheets in cold water. Wring them out and add them to the cream mixture. Immediately take the near-simmering cream mixture off the heat and whisk until the gelatine dissolves completely. Set aside to cool to lukewarm.

Strawberries and Cream Panna Cotta:

Grease four small gelatine moulds or one large 3-cup mould. Pour roughly half an inch of the panna cotta mixture into each mould. Cover and let set for 30 minutes.
When the 30 minutes are up, cut the Strawberry Jelly into small cubes. Add the cubes to the surface of the lightly set panna cotta and cover them with more of the panna cotta mixture. Cover and transfer the moulds to the fridge. Let them set for another 30 minutes.
Repeat this process until you have roughly four strawberry layers. Once you add the last of the panna cotta, cover the moulds and let them set for a full 3 hours. (See Note 3)
When you're ready to serve, place the moulds in hot water for 15 seconds before inverting them onto a plate. The panna cottas should slide out cleanly. Decorate the bottom of the panna cottas with fresh-cut strawberries to hide any raggedy edges. Serve immediately and enjoy!

Notes

Transfer the strawberry mulch to a resealable container and store it in the fridge. Add it to my vanilla ice cream recipe before churning, and boom! You have a fabulous fresh strawberry ice cream.
If you're using powdered gelatine, dissolve it in a tablespoon of cold water. Let it sit for a minute or two, then add it to the juice. Follow the same directions for the gelatine called for in the panna cotta recipe.
I prefer to leave my panna cottas overnight after they are assembled. I think this has more to do with superstition than actual chemistry, but I find the extra chilling time helps them come out of their moulds cleanly.

Smashed Cucumber Dumpling Salad with Peanut Kimchi Dip

Susan Keefe — Thu, 18 Jun 2026 16:30:46 GMT

Even when you cook for a living, you need the occasional easy win. Cooking is the love of my life; my true passion. But that doesn’t mean I’m above a convenience meal or two. Particularly when it is as delicious as this Smashed Cucumber Dumpling Salad with Peanut Kimchi Dip. This dead-simple salad features veggie dumplings seared to golden perfection and tossed with smashed cucumber, kimchi, shaved red onion, and jalapeño rings dressed in a simple soy vinaigrette. To add to the low-key luxury, I invited peanut butter and kimchi juice to the party. Sound good? Good! Let’s make it!

A large part of my job is to romanticize the act of cooking. And I do believe cooking deserves romantic attention. It’s a fantastic hobby that stretches your capacity in all sorts of unexpected ways. But even if you love something, it is not always what you want to do. You know? And when these moments hit, I open my freezer door and reach for a bag of frozen dumplings. And no, these are not delicate, handmade beauties I squirrelled away for a rainy day. These are the ones I painstakingly pulled from the freezer at my local Asian grocery store. Yes, you got me, I am a mere mortal.

Let’s start by making the dressing and the dip, since neither is time nor temperature-sensitive. The dressing features garlic, soy sauce, rice vinegar, chili crisp, and a whisper of sugar and salt. Simply whisk everything together in a small bowl and set it aside. And the best part? Getting the dressing out of the way first gives the flavours time to meld and get to know each other.

Next up, the Peanut Kimchi Dip. I love this recipe because, like the salad dressing, it only requires some light stirring. And one of its ingredients is derived from prepping one of the salad components. The kimchi juice we’re using in this dip is the result of squeezing the kimchi we’re going to put in the salad. I love it when things are symmetrical like that.

I don’t love a soggy salad, so if I’m adding kimchi to greens, which I do a lot, I like to drain it. And I feel it is particularly important in a cucumber salad because, well, cucumbers are wet enough… I know that sentence grossed me out, too. So, in the process of making the dip, we’re also prepping our salad. The convenience is off the charts at this point, and I should probably add that the kimchi is store-bought. I’m going to assume you’re cheering.

Place peanut butter in a bowl. I used natural smooth peanut butter, and it worked a treat. If you only have Skippy or the like, feel free to use it, but omit the honey - the peanut butter will be sweet enough. To the peanut butter, add the kimchi juice, soy sauce, rice wine vinegar, honey, and fresh ginger. Stir everything together, and you should have a semi-thick sauce that will readily cling to a dumpling. Also, this dip could easily moonlight as a dressing for peanut noodles; do what you will with that information.

With the dressing and dip out of the way, we can move on to the dumplings. Heat a little neutral oil in a non-stick skillet, then add your dumplings. Once they’re humming along, add a little water and immediately cover them. This will trap the steam, so the dumplings will cook evenly while they toast on the bottom. Leave them to cook for roughly 10-15 minutes.

While the dumplings are on their way to becoming their best selves, we can move on with the salad. And by “move on,” I mean smashing a cucumber, chopping it, and placing it in a bowl. To the cucumber, add some sliced mini cucumber, the kimchi you drained earlier, some thinly sliced red onion, a handful of jalapeño rings, and some sesame seeds. Add in your finished dumplings and pour the dressing over top. Toss to coat. Divide the finished salad across a few bowls and garnish each with additional sesame seeds and fresh cilantro. And that is truly it. Easy, right?!

And that’s everything you need to know about this Smashed Cucumber Dumpling Salad, a.k.a the delicious, easy win you need on any given Tuesday.

Enjoy!

Smashed Cucumber Dumpling Salad with Peanut Kimchi Dip

PREP: 20 Minutes

COOK: 15 Minutes

SERVES: 4 People

Equiptment

Ingredients

Smashed Cucumber Salad Dressing

2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tbsp soy sauce
2 1/2 tsp rice wine vinegar
2 1/2 tsp granulated sugar
2 tsp chili crisp
1 tsp salt
1 tsp sesame oil

Peanut Kimchi Dip

1/3 cup natural smooth peanut butter
2 1/2 tbsp kimchi juice
2 tbsp soy sauce
1 tbsp rice wine vinegar
1 tbsp fresh ginger, shredded
1/2 tbsp honey

Smashed Cucumber Dumpling Salad

24 frozen dumplings **
1 tbsp neutral oil, I used canola
1 English cucumber
2 mini cucumbers, sliced
1 red onion, thinly sliced
1 jalapeño, thinly sliced
1 cup kimchi, drained and coarsely chopped
1 tbsp toasted sesame seeds
1/4 cup fresh cilantro, coarsely chopped
Wild rose petals, for sprinkling (optional)

Method

Place the garlic, soy sauce, rice vinegar, sugar, chili crisp, salt, and sesame oil in a small bowl. Whisk to combine and set it aside.
In a separate bowl, whisk to combine the peanut butter, kimchi juice, soy sauce, rice vinegar, fresh ginger, and honey. Set it aside as well.
Heat the neutral oil in a non-stick skillet over medium heat. Once the oil is shimmering, add the dumplings to the skillet. Add 1/4 cup of water to the hot skillet and immediately cover the pan to trap the steam. Let cook for 10-15 minutes or until the dumplings are tender and the undersides are golden brown and crisp.
While the dumplings are cooking, smash the English cucumber with a mallet or a rolling pin until it breaks into quarters. Coarsely chop the smashed cucumber and place it in a large bowl. Add the mini cucumbers, red onion, jalapeño, and kimchi.
When the dumplings are done, add them to the bowl as well and pour the salad dressing over top. Add the sesame seeds and toss to coat.
Spoon the salad into bowls and garnish with the cilantro, additional sesame seeds, and the rose petals, if using. Serve immediately with the Peanut Kimchi Dip on the side.

Notes

Feel free to use any brand or variety of dumplings you wish. I used this brand.

Creamy Scallion Udon Noodles

Susan Keefe — Thu, 21 May 2026 20:00:52 GMT

Noodles will forever be my ultimate comfort food. No matter what corner of the world they’re from or what sauce or broth adorns them, I want to slurp ‘em. You could say I’ve never met a noodle I didn’t like. I’ve met a few that had room for improvement, sure. But an inedible noodle? I doubt their existence. And to celebrate this fact, I have some highly edible noodles for you today. These Creamy Scallion Udon Noodles, to be exact. This relatively simple dish features chewy udon noodles swimming in a scallion-rich coconut broth, garnished with scallion curls, sesame seeds, and a sprinkling of wild violet petals.

A Brief History of Udon Noodles:

Udon noodles have a surprisingly long and illustrious history. Their presence in Japan dates back to the 8th century, when Chinese Buddhist monks brought wheat-based doughs to the region during the Nara period (710 - 794). Udon traces its roots back to two dishes popularized during this period: konton (the Japanese pronunciation of the Chinese word wonton) and bakutan. At the time, konton were mostly sweet wheat flour dumplings filled with red bean paste. Bakutan was a simple dish consisting of thick, hand-torn or cut pieces of wheat dough boiled in a basic soup or stew. During this period, wheat was rare and expensive in Japan, so these dishes were reserved for nobility and Buddhist temples.

By the Muromachi period (1336 - 1573), these filled and rustic dumplings gave way to filling-less, long, stringy noodles, called kirimugi. Kirimugi means “cut wheat,” and it served as the true blueprint for modern udon and soba noodles. The Edo period (1603 - 1867) saw advancements in milling technology, which brought udon to the masses. And from there, regionally specific versions of the noodles emerged, such as Sanuki Udon (Kagawa), a firm, chewy version; Inaniwa Udon (Akita), a hand-stretched, thin, flat rendition; and Kishimen (Nagoya), wide, flat udon noodles.

Creamy Scallion Udon Noodles:

Nothing about today’s Creamy Scallion Udon Noodles is traditional. Other than modern fusion dishes, coconut milk is not a classic Japanese ingredient. Largely because, you know, mainland Japan doesn’t produce any coconuts. And this dish is not particularly a riff on any pre-existing dish. I did briefly think of the sweet corn udon noodles I made last summer as part of my It’s Corn! Dinner Party Menu, but it was not the main source of inspiration. I don’t know where this dish came from. It just strolled into my head one day. And I’m so glad it did because it’s become a fast favourite.

I know these noodles look simple, and they are. But they do require some ice baths and light pureeing. Basically, what I’m trying to say is that making this dish will generate dishes. Is it worth it? Oh my goodness, yes! But I think it’s important to go into this recipe with that in mind.

The first thing we’re going to tackle is ice bath number 1. I’m happy to report this ice bath is optional. Omitting it will only impact the overall look of the dish, because we’re going to use it to make the scallion curls on top. The process is simple: Take a scallion green and split it lengthwise. Then it is cut into a series of thin strips. Place these strips in the ice bath and leave them for roughly 30 minutes. By then, you should have a bowl of perfectly curled scallion ribbons. It’s a fun party trick to have in your back pocket, but again, it is optional.

Now, let’s talk about ice bath number 2: The non-negotiable. Well, that’s not true. I’m not the boss of you; you can do anything you want. But ideally, you would use this ice bath to stop cooking your scallion greens after you blanch them. The blanched scallion greens are then blitzed with a little lime juice (purée number 1) and added to the soup at the very end. This is how the broth gets its delicate, soft green hue.

But what about the scallion whites, you say? Well, don’t worry, they have an important role to play. They will be sautéed with garlic and ginger, then simmered in a heady mix of coconut milk, fish sauce, and raw sugar. The broth is then pureed in a blender (puree number 2) and combined with scallion green puree.

And from there, all you have to do is cook up some udon noodles. I prefer to work with frozen noodles. Place your cooked noodles in a bowl and completely drown them in the creamy scallion broth. Garnish with the curls you made earlier, some sesame seeds, and a handful of wild violet petals. The petals are, of course, optional. But these edible beauties have been dominating my yard, so I couldn’t help but include them.

And that’s everything you need to know (and then some) about these Creamy Scallion Udon Noodles. Honestly, if you make one dish from this website, let it be this one. I am seriously head over heels!

Enjoy!

Creamy Scallion Udon Noodles

PREP: 20 Minutes

COOK: 20 Minutes

SERVES: 4 People

TOOLS

1 Small saucepan
1 High-powered blender
1 Heavy-bottom pot
1 Large pot
1 colander

INGREDIENTS

12 scallions, trimmed, whites and greens separated
1 lime, juiced
1 tbsp neutral oil, I used canola
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 tbsp fresh ginger, minced
2 (400 ml, 13.5 fl oz) cans coconut milk, full-fat
3 tbsp fish sauce
2 tsp raw sugar
1.25 kg (3 lbs) udon noodles, frozen
1 tsp toasted sesame seeds, for sprinkling
Wild violet petals, for sprinkling (optional)

METHOD

Fill a 2 bowls halfway with cold water. Add 4-5 ice cubes to each bowl. Take 2 of the scallion greens and cut them into thin slices lengthwise. Place them in one of the ice baths and let them sit for 30 minutes. They will naturally curl over time.
Bring a small saucepan of water up to a boil. Add the remaining scallion greens and turn off the heat. Let them stand for 1 minute before plunging them into the second ice bath. Let them stand for a minute more.
Drain the blanched scallion greens and transfer them to a high-powered blender. Add the lime juice and blitz until very smooth. Pour the purée into a bowl and set it aside until ready to use.
Place a heavy-bottom pot over medium heat. Add the oil and heat until shimmering. Add the scallion whites and sauté until just softened. Stir in the garlic and ginger, and sauté for a minute more. Pour in the coconut milk, fish sauce, and sugar. Bring everything up to a simmer and let it cook for 15 minutes.
While the broth is simmering, bring a large pot of water up to a boil. Add the udon noodles and cook according to the package's directions. Drain the noodles and divide them across four bowls.
Take the coconut mixture off the heat and transfer it to a blender. Carefully blend the broth until smooth. Pour it back into the pot and add the scallion purée. Stir to combine.
Drain the scallion curls and sprinkle them over the noodles. Finish with toasted sesame seeds, drained scallion curls, and wild violet petals. Serve immediately.

Dark Chocolate Prune Cake with Passion Fruit Curd

Susan Keefe — Mon, 04 May 2026 20:00:59 GMT

A little over a week ago, I hit publish on a four-course dinner party menu inspired by the history of the Parisian bistro. If you’re curious to read more about it, you can check out the side dish here and find the full menu over on my Substack. That menu concluded with a rich Chocolate Mousse served with unsweetened whipped cream and Armagnac-soaked prunes. And those unassuming prunes are the reason we’re all here, because without them, today’s Dark Chocolate Prune Cake with Passion Fruit Curd would not exist.

It’s best to think of this recipe as an alternative ending for those Amagnac-soaked prunes. I don’t reach for prunes very often. I buy them for something (like my Chicken Marbella Skillet), use half of them, and the other half rattles around my pantry for the rest of the time. I’m exaggerating, but you get the point. I don’t think of prunes that much because they play a very small role in my life generally. But my past, well, that's a bit of a different story.

When I was growing up, we used to go to my Grandmother’s house every Sunday for dinner. She would typically make a classic roast dinner, followed by dessert. And if you were me, you would always hope that dessert would be her flourless chocolate cake. I loved that cake, and when she passed away, the cake went with her. She never wrote the recipe down, or if she did, we never found it. But I did know one thing. I knew the secret ingredient was stewed prunes. She always kept jars of prune baby food in her pantry, and at this point, there were no babies in the family.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago, after I wrapped my Parisian Bistro shoot, I still had half a jar of Armagnac-soaked prunes, and truth be told, I had left them in there for too long. Eating them was like eating pure alcohol. I am militant about food waste, so I knew I had to do something with it. And my grandmother’s cake rolled into my mind. I made a flourless chocolate cake batter, blitzed my prunes, and added them to the cake. What emerged from the oven was otherworldly. Deeply fudgy, rich, and sweet, but in a deep and complex way.

Okay, so the cake tasted amazing, but it didn’t look amazing. It wasn’t ugly by any means; it was just overwhelming. Naturally, frosting was the first option that sprang to mind. I knew a chocolate frosting would be an overload. This cake already has 12oz of dark chocolate in it. You can fight me on this, but I believe that you can have too much of a good thing. And yes, I do believe that includes chocolate.

I landed on a classic vanilla Swiss Meringue Buttercream because I love the contrast of a fluffy, airy frosting and a dense, rich cake. But the cake needed something extra. It needed a hit of acidity, and that’s where the passion fruit curd came in. Passion fruit is one of my favorite flavours on the planet. It hits me between the eyes every time. And I earnestly believe it does its best work when paired with dark chocolate. But I must admit, I wasn’t sure how to put all these moving parts together, then this honeycomb-esque design wandered into my mind. I have to say, I’m shocked it worked as well as it did.

To make this cake as you see it, you will need a sultan piping tip. Yes, I know. I hate special equipment as much as the next cash-strapped girl. But I promise this tip is a minimal investment, and it is so much fun to play with. I haven’t been able to stop dreaming up new designs since I got it.

This cake is incredible, but it’s not without its annoyances. For one, you have to leave the prunes to soak in Armagnac for 48 hours before doing anything. So yeah, this isn’t a lickety split recipe from the get-go. And then you have to make the cake, the Swiss Meringue Buttercream, and the passion fruit; another piece of the puzzle that also needs to sit. The plus side is that none of these components is difficult to make, and all of them can be made in advance. To be clear, I think this Dark Chocolate Prune Cake with Passion Fruit Curd is well worth the effort and journey. There’s not a lot of instant gratification here. And maybe that’s a good thing. Why can’t a dessert be a character-building exercise?

This Dark Chocolate Prune Cake is delicate when it comes out of the oven. It has nothing but eggs to support it. But when it cools, and the butter and chocolate are allowed to solidify, it becomes sliceable and sharable. If there is one piece of advice I can give you about this cake, it is this: do not take it out of its pan until it has cooled completely. Better yet, cool it completely, refrigerate it overnight, and then take the springform ring off. This cake’s crumb is so tender, it will tear something fierce if you move too quickly. Yes, another part of this recipe requires waiting. I really want you to fight for it, don’t I? Lol!

And that’s everything you need to know about this Dark Chocolate Prune Cake with Passion Fruit Curd. It’s rich, complex, and unique. And yes, it is totally worth the wait.

Enjoy!

Dark Chocolate Prune Cake with Passion Fruit Curd

PREP: 45 Minutes

COOK: 1 Hour

COOLING: 4 Hours

SERVES: 8-10 People

TOOLS

INGREDIENTS

Pruneaux à l’armagnac

2 bags black tea, I used Ceylon
2 cups boiling water
250 g (9 oz) pitted prunes
1 1/2 cups Armagnac

Dark Chocolate Prune Cake

340 g (12 oz) dark chocolate, chopped
12 tbsp unsalted butter, cut into cubes
4 tbsp granulated sugar, divided
6 large eggs, separated
1/4 tsp sea salt
1/8 tsp cream of tartar
Cocoa powder for dusting

Passion Fruit Curd

8 passion fruits
1 lemon, zested and juiced
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs
2 large egg yolks
4 tbsp unsalted butter, cold and cut into cubes

Swiss Meringue Buttercream

1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
3 large egg whites
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/4 tsp sea salt
1/8 tsp cream of tartar
1 cup unsalted butter, softened but not warm, cut into cubes

METHOD

For the Prunes:

Place the tea bags in a large resealable jar, then cover them with boiling water. Let steep for 5 minutes. Remove and discard the bags. Add the prunes to the tea and let sit for 4-12 hours.
Drain the prunes and cover them with the Armagnac. Seal the jar and let them soak for at least 48 hours, up to a week. (See Note 1)

For the Cake:

Preheat the oven to 325°F. Grease a 9" springform pan with butter and dust the interior thoroughly with cocoa powder. Set the pan to the side.
Place the butter and chocolate in a heatproof bowl. Place the bowl over the mouth of a small saucepan with about 2 inches of gently simmering water. Slowly melt the chocolate and butter together until no lumps remain.
While the chocolate and butter are melting, drain the prunes and place them in a blender, food processor, or smoothie cup. (See Note 2) Add a tablespoon of the sugar and blitz until smooth.
Add the prune purée to the chocolate mixture and whisk to combine. Add the egg yolks and, again, whisk to combine. Set the mixture aside.
Pour the egg whites into a stand mixer or a large mixing bowl. Add the salt and cream of tartar and whip on high using a whisk attachment or a hand mixer. While whisking, slowly stream in the remaining 3 tablespoons of sugar.
Fold 1/3 of the whipped egg whites into the chocolate mixture until no streaks remain. Repeat with the remaining egg whites. Pour the finished batter into the prepared pan and smooth the top.
Bake the cake for 40-45 minutes. The cake should still jiggle in the middle. Transfer the cake to a cooling rack and let it cool for 20 minutes before removing the ring. The cake is very delicate while hot. Let cool completely. (See Note 3)

For the Passion Fruit Curd:

Pour the sugar into a bowl and add the lemon zest. Rub the zest lightly into the sugar with your fingertips. Set the sugar to the side.
Split the passionfruits in half and scrape out the pulp into a food processor. Pulse a few times to loosen the membrane around the seeds. Pour the passionfruit pulp into a fine-mesh strainer and use a spoon or a muddler to force as much juice out of the pulp as possible. You should have about 1/2 cup.
Pour the passionfruit juice into a small saucepan. Add the lemon sugar, the eggs, the yolks, and the juice of the lemon you zested earlier. Whisk to combine and place over low heat.
Cook the curd over low heat until it reaches 170-180°F. Pour the hot curd through a fine mesh strainer and immediately add the butter. Stir until the butter melts completely. Chill the curd for at least 3 hours.

For the Swiss Meringue Buttercream:

Take the vanilla bean and scrape out the caviar using the blunt end of a knife. Set the caviar to the side and store the pod for future use.
Place egg whites, sugar, salt, and cream of tartar in a heatproof bowl. Place the bowl over a small saucepan with 2 inches of simmering water and cook gently while whisking constantly. Cook until the mixture reaches 185°F. This should take about 10 minutes.
Take the egg whites off the heat and pour them and the vanilla caviar into a mixing bowl or the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a whisk attachment. Whisk the egg whites on high (you can also use a hand mixer for this) until the mixture cools to 90°F.
While still whipping, start adding the butter, roughly 1 tablespoon at a time. Whip until the rich and creamy frosting forms. It will look a little rough on the way to being perfect, so don't freak out.

To Assemble:

Transfer the Swiss Meringue Buttercream to a large piping bag fitted with a sultan tip. Pipe the frosting onto the surface of the room-temperature cake. **** Fill in the center of each frosting dollop with the passionfruit curd. Finish with shaved chocolate and serve immediately.

NOTES

Don’t leave the prunes in the Armagnac for more than a week. They will be far too strong at that point.
Don’t throw out the Armagnac you used to soak the prunes in. You have inadvertently made prune-infused Armagnac, a delightful ingredient you can use in cocktails, glazes, sauces, and puddings.
If you chill the cake in the fridge, bring it up to room temperature before piping the frosting onto the cake. If the cake is cold, this will solidify the butter in the buttercream, and it will not stick to the cake.

Parisian Bistro Menu: Dessert - Chocolate Mousse with Pruneax a l’Armagnac

Susan Keefe — Sun, 19 Apr 2026 20:01:15 GMT

We have reached the end of Parisian Bistro week, and while it’s sad to say “au revoir,” we still have what some consider the best and most important course of all - dessert. I hope you’re not sick of separating eggs, because if you are, I have terrible news. We’re making traditional chocolate mousse. And before we get too deep into it, if you’re averse to using raw eggs, get out now. Unless you want the history and not the eggs. Then you can stay. If you want both, then you’re my kind of people.

Today, many mousse recipes deploy whipped cream to create aeration, but traditionally, it was all egg white, baby. I’m staying true to the classic technique and using all egg. I love this approach for two reasons: the first is the silkiness of the mousse, egg white really does deliver in the texture department. And the second reason is that I never have a leftover egg yolk or white. I love when recipes are like this. I always lose track of leftover egg whites and yolks, and then feel bad about them when I find them at the back of my fridge, gross and forgotten. Man, what a way to kick off a recipe article. Let’s move on, shall we?

Today, we’re far more likely to think of mousse as a dessert first. But that wasn’t always the case. The term mousse, which translates to “foam”, was historically reserved for savoury dishes. Mousses, such as salmon and cheese, made frequent appearances on the menu at the Palace of Versailles, dating as far back as the early 1700s. But it took another century to bring chocolate into the equation. But who exactly gave us this great gift is up for debate.

This is nothing new. Food history is notoriously murky, and nailing down the direct origins of certain dishes is usually near impossible. But does that stop us from trying? Hell, no! One story credits Louis XV’s personal chef with the culinary discovery, which could be true. Louis XV's reign ended in 1774, and the first written evidence of chocolate mousse dates back to 1750, when it was mentioned in the book La Science du Maītre d’Hôtel Confiseur by French culinary writer Menon.

A stranger and likely apocryphal story credits the French post-impressionist painter Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec with the invention of the dish. While Toulouse was an avid cook, it is highly unlikely he invented the dish because, well, we have a recipe from 1750, and he was active from the late 1870s until he died in 1901. So yeah, the math ain’t mathing.

Toulouse reportedly referred to the dish as “mayonnaise de chocolat,” which, to be honest, is a moniker I wish I could unsee. While I understand the logic behind the name, traditional chocolate mousse is an egg and chocolate emulsion after all, mayonnaise is kind of the last thing I want to think about when I’m tucking into a dessert. And the worst part is that this name persisted in French cookbooks into the early 1900s.

While the original mousse is likely lost to history, its existence is well-documented throughout the 19th century. It was regarded as a member of the haute cuisine repertoire; something for the fashionable set to indulge in. But in the 1920s, mousse made the leap from palace kitchens to bistro staple. And this leap came about due to a few factors. The first was mechanization. Electric mixers burst onto the scene and made quick work of whipping egg whites. This made emulsions far more accessible for small, understaffed bistro kitchens. Next, the cost. Chocolate mousse has a mercifully short ingredient list, so bistros could offer what tasted like a premium dessert without breaking the bank or overburdening their kitchens with single-use ingredients. And finally, the ease of service. Traditionally, chocolate mousse was served in bistros from a common bowl. It was dispensed with a careless plop on a plate.

Bistro chocolate mousse was commonly served from a dessert trolley loaded up with freshly whipped cream and stewed fruits, which brings me to my Pruneax à l’Armagnac. Prunes hold a prominent role in the history of bistros and bouillons. It was a favoured fruit because prunes were always in season, always plentiful, and always cheap. So much so that they were often referred to as the “poor man’s fruit”.

Here, I soaked my prunes in Ceylon tea, then drained them and covered them with Armagnac. I then summoned all my patience and left them to sit at room temperature for a week. They were very punchy coming out of the booze, so if you’re sensitive to alcohol, leave your prunes for as little as 48 hours. Don’t leave your prunes for longer than a week, or you’ll be pretty much chewing straight Armagnac. When you extract your prunes, hold onto your soaking Armagnac because it’s now a prune-infused Armagnac, and that is a very good thing. From there, the prunes are tossed in a simple syrup flavoured with orange zest, cinnamon, and a vanilla bean pod. Add a couple of prunes to everyone's plate of mousse and unsweetened whipped cream, and you’re off to the races.

Enjoy!

Paris Bistro Menu: Main - Boeuf Bourguignon

Susan Keefe — Sat, 18 Apr 2026 20:00:59 GMT

When it came time to choose an entrée for this menu, I was torn between Steak Frites, specifically Steak au Poivre, and the iconic Boeuf Bourguignon. Both dishes are emblematic of the Parisian bistro and central to the North American fantasy of Parisian living. Ultimately, I chose Boeuf Bourguignon, not only because it’s lauded as France’s unofficial national dish, but because it felt truer to the initial ethos of the Parisian bistro. Historically, bistros were not helmed by chefs; they were operated by home cooks serving plats menager or “housewife’s dishes.” This style of cooking emphasized the use of inexpensive ingredients in dishes that could be easily kept. So yeah, stews, like Boeuf Bourguignon, comfortably fit this brief.

But were the original bistros serving Boeuf Bourguignon as we know it today? Probably not. The stews of early bistros were more likely to be a Provencal Daube, a Lyonnais Queue de Boeuf Mijotee (oxtail stew), or the regionally ambiguous Blanquette de Veau. If they served Boeuf Bourgninon, it was likely made with leftover roasted meats and had variable ingredients. The use of the term “bourguignon”, which means ‘of Bourgogne’, is more of a nod to the origin of the method, rather than the actual dish. Were the people of Burgundy marinating and braising beef in wine? Absolutely! But they were likely doing it to all sorts of things, not strictly beef. In fact, beef was likely the thin edge of the wedge.

The French historically had a low opinion of beef as a food. Beef was considered a “rough meat” that was eaten out of necessity rather than preference. The French even mocked the British for their fondness for the protein, calling them “les rosbifs” (roast-beef eaters), a perjorative term meant to highlight their coarse nature and lack of taste.

The French prized chicken far more than beef, and it’s not difficult to see why. Most of the beef the French consumed was cut from labouring cattle that had aged out of usefulness. Not the best beef to bite into. Peasants in the Burgundy region used the plentiful local wine to tenderize these tough, stringy cuts and braised them for hours to render them edible. This was a method born of necessity, not decadence.

In 1867, Pierre Larousse’s Grand Dictionnaire Universel du XIXe Siècle (The Great Universal Dictionary of the 19th Century) mentioned Boeuf Bourguignon in print for the first time. This tells us the dish was ubiquitous enough in this time period to be included in a general dictionary. Boeuf Bourguignon likely graced kitchen tables and bistro chalkboards for decades at this point. But we don’t have any proof of the dish being served in restaurants until it is mentioned in the 1878 travel guide Baedeker's Paris and its Environs. The dish mentioned in the guide was served at what many consider the first chain restaurant, Bouillon Duval.

A close cousin to the bistro, bouillons have more of a canteen atmosphere with their communal seating and speedy service. Bouillon Duval was founded in 1855 by a French butcher named Adolphe-Baptiste Duval, who launched it as a clever way to turn a profit on the off-cuts from his butchery business. And turn a profit he did, by 1900, there were 32 locations of Bouillon Duval. Why am I telling you this? Well, I’m adding this detail to highlight the lowly status Boeuf Bourguignon held at this time. And why is that important? Well, because the dish was about to climb the social ladder in a big way.

Boeuf Bourguignon, as we mostly know it today, was canonized by Auguste Escoffier (yes, that Escoffier) in his 1903 tome Le Guide Culinary. In this recipe, he included the now iconic lardons for the first time. And instead of using a worn-out beast of burden, he opted for an impressive whole shoulder cut that he then larded. Larding is a technique where strips of pork fat are threaded into the meat using a larding needle. Escoffier went even further by marinating the pork fat in cognac first. A far cry from offing and eating the family cow out of necessity. This rendition was a hit with the Parisian elite, and the dish entered the palaces of haute cuisine for the first time.

Just three short years later, the celebrated French chef Auguste Colombié brought Boeuf Bourguignon back down to earth…well, slightly. In his 1906 book Cuisine Bourgeoise, Colombié took haute cuisine dishes and made them accessible to home cooks belonging to the aspirational middle class. He, of course, included a recipe for Boeuf Bourguignon; the first to include the now canon pearl onions and button mushrooms. The recipe also included cubes of beef instead of a whole roast for economic reasons and to no doubt provide an air of “rustic” authenticity. This is where Boeuf Bourguignon reemerged as a “housewife dish.” From there, Boeuf Bourguignon with all the bells and whistles would be exported to North America via Julia Child and her wildly popular show, The French Chef. Once there, the dish became forever synonymous with the fantasy of Parisian living and the art of the neighbourhood bistro.

So without further ado, here is my rendition of the social climber Boeuf Bourguignon. There is so much more about this dish I wish I could cover, including secret mushroom caves in Paris. I know, crazy! But I fear I’ve gone on too long as it is. I did very little to this dish by way of personal flourish. I opted for cubed beef rather than Escoffier’s whole shoulder, but I kept his lardons, as well as Colombié’s pearl onions and button mushrooms. And no, you will not need a larding needle to make this. Try to use a Pinot Noir from the Burgundy region if you can. Not only for tradition’s sake but because I think it has the right body and balance of acidity for the job.

Boeuf Bourguignon is, in a word, perfection, so improvement is not an option. But if you’re keen to inject your personality into this dish in some way, I suggest you apply that energy to the starch the stew is served over. I had a heck of a time deciding what to put in the bottom of this bowl. In the end, I opted for elbow macaroni or coquillette, as they are known in France. This is a very nostalgic choice, as coquillette are a household favorite in France. They also figure prominently in canteens and school cafeterias, but that is an entirely different story for a different day.

Until then!

Parisian Bistro Menu: Side - Céleri-rave Rémoulade

Susan Keefe — Wed, 15 Apr 2026 20:00:20 GMT

This is the side dish and/or starter for my Parisian Bistro Menu. It is also the free recipe this week. To access all the recipes from this Hardcore Supper Club menu, upgrade to paid. If not, enjoy the salad!

It’s pretty safe to say that if you grew up in France, you know this dish. This ubiquitous salad is often referred to as “French Coleslaw” because it fulfills a similar purpose on the plate, and it is as widespread as the chip shop and Southern BBQ mainstay. But before we get to the history, let’s talk about what this dish is. Céleri-Rave Rémoulade is a salad comprised of julienned celeriac root dressed in the French form of rémoulade. Chopped capers, cornichons, and herbs, like parsley and tarragon, are sometimes added for extra flavour and colour.

French rémoulade is not to be confused with Creole rémoulade. Like Creole rémoulade, French rémoulade is a mayonnaise-based sauce, but that is where the similarities end. French rémoulade goes heavy on the Dijon mustard and fresh herbs. In contrast, Creole rémoulade carries far more ingredients like cayenne, hot sauce, and horseradish. French rémoulade is golden in colour, while the Creole version sports a soft pink hue due to the addition of either ketchup or chili sauce.

The word “rémoulade” hails from Picardy, a region located in Northern France. It is derived from the word “rémolat” or “ramolas”, which means horseradish. This suggests that historical versions of rémoulade contained horseradish, though the condiment seems to have lost its primary ingredient by the time it was first recorded in 1693 by Francois Massillon in his tome Le Cuisinier Royal et Bourgeois. But in this instance, rémoulade was primarily used for cold meats and fish.

It wasn’t until the mid-1800s that the sauce met its match in celeriac, and Céleri-Rave Rémoulade was born. From there, the salad made its way onto the Assiette de Crudités (mixed raw vegetable platter) section of early bistro menus, slowly solidifying its status as an emblem of everyday French life. Beyond its storied history on bistro menus, Céleri-Rave Rémoulade graces the to-go counters of butcher shops and grocery stores all over France. It’s even a school cafeteria favourite, because hey, start them young.

One quick note: when making a French-style rémoulade, use a light olive oil. The usual extra virgin will overpower the delicate notes of the French rémoulade. You can, of course, use a neutral oil, like canola, sunflower, or grape seed, instead. But I like the hint of olive. It brings a soft bitterness that I find compelling.

While the salad is undeniably delicious, some of its popularity stems from its practicality. Celeriac has played a prominent role in French agriculture since the 17th century. And it’s not hard to see why. The hearty root vegetable has a lengthy shelf life, making it an excellent option for wintertime salads. And from an early bistro’s standpoint, celeri-rave rémoulade is simple to make, requires no cooking, and improves over time. Perfect for the petite, pieced-together kitchens of the early Parisian bistro.

While simplicity is the name of the game when it comes to dishes like Celeri-rave Rémoulade, I couldn’t resist dolling it up a little. I added a heap of pea shoots for a burst of freshness and colour. Watercress would’ve been more historically accurate because the area around Paris was rife with it around this period. The green was a classic garnish for all strata of society. It was celebrated as a plate cleanser among the fashionable set and was considered quality, affordable ruffage for the working classes. Sadly, I did not cross paths with it when I made this salad. But if you can get your hands on it, swap it in. The peashoots did well in a pinch, but they did lack that pepperiness that only watercress can bring.

I also added chopped walnut praline as a nod to the Périgord region. During the French Industrial Revolution, many people from the countryside immigrated to the city of Paris. Immigrants from the Périgord, Lyon, and, in particular, the Auvergne regions of France are considered to be the most prominent and influential founders of the Parisian bistro. Many of their traditional ingredients and dishes have become synonymous with bistro culture, so it seemed fitting to include one of the many culinary emblems of the Périgord region - the walnut. Walnuts from this region even enjoy PDO status. While the praline is not a traditional ingredient, I find its deep sweetness is the perfect counterpoint to the sharp, umami-heavy flavour of the celeri-rave remoulade. So without further ado, here is my rendition of the French-favorite Céleri-rave Rémoulade.

Enjoy!

Parisian Bistro Menu: Starter - Oeufs Mayonnaise

Susan Keefe — Mon, 13 Apr 2026 20:01:16 GMT

As I not-so-subtly hinted in my previous post, the first menu for this new chapter of Hardcore Supper Club is inspired by the Parisian Bistro. This is not a direct lift of a particular historic bistro’s menu. Instead, this meal is populated with dishes that I feel best illustrate the rise, fall, and reemergence of the bistro. We’re kicking things off, appropriately enough, with a starter: Oeuf Mayonnaise. Oeuf Mayonnaise is arguably the bistro’s best-known and most loved appetizer. This dish is exactly what it sounds like—a hard-boiled egg, split in two, and draped in mayonnaise. And I know what you’re thinking, and you are correct, that is a lot of egg for one dish. I think that’s what I love about it: the light absurdity of egg on egg. The egg is at once both a vessel and a condiment. It certainly highlights its versatility.

But beyond my personal fascination, it felt important to include Oeufs Mayonnaise not only for its historic and continued importance on bistro menus today, but because, as the co-founder of the Association to Safeguard Egg Mayonnaise (ASOM), Guilherme de Carvel noted, the dish represents “the essence of the restaurant industry”. Carvel said, “to be a restaurateur is to host people, to make them happy, to show them a good time.” A modestly priced dish like oeuf mayonnaise is not expected to turn a profit. It is not a big-ticket item with a good return. Instead, the dish is an act of hospitality. As Carvel notes, “to serve oeuf mayonnaise is to make the clients feel at home.” This just about sums up the entire raison d’etre of the revamped Hardcore Supper Club. If that isn’t ringing any bells, read the article before this one, and all will be clear.

But to understand the dish, we must first understand the origins of the Parisian bistro. And that starts with the French Industrial Revolution. France entered its industrial revolution later than many of its contemporaries. Compared to Britain, the French were slow to adopt steam technologies. This was largely due to a shortage of coal, a reliance on water power, and the political influence of artisanal guilds. But once the railway system found its feet in the 1840s, mechanization began in earnest, leading to an enormous uptick of rural emigration to the nation’s capital. Between 1800 and 1900, Paris’ population swelled from 500,000 to 2.5 million. Factory jobs were plentiful, but living quarters were predictably small and cramped. Most factory workers did not have access to a kitchen in their primary residence, so they were forced to seek out a warm meal on the streets of Paris. It was to fulfill this specific need that bistros emerged.

In many ways, the Parisian bistro is where France got to know itself. Often referred to as the “working class’ living room,” the earliest bistros served budget-friendly meals from apartment basements. Far from the haute cuisine of the upper classes, bistros specialized in “plats menager” or housewife dishes. Many of the first bistros were owned and operated by migrants from the Auvergne region of France. They made a name for themselves as coal merchants and gradually expanded their fuel shops to include wine and liquor. And once booze was on offer, meat, snacks, and other delights were served alongside samples. The food offerings were peasant dishes from the region the Auvergnats had left behind.

The Auvergnats may have been the most prolific, but they weren’t the only group of migrants to enter the bistro game. People from Lyon, Perigord, Brittany, and Provencal also took up the mantle of hospitality. And they, too, served the food from the home they had left behind. This is what I mean by France getting to know itself. It was within the bistro that the citizens of Paris had the chance to taste the flavours of the country’s rural regions. Unknowingly codifying a comprehensive national culinary identity that would later become an important cultural export.

When you look at the history of Oeuf Mayo, you’re more or less seeing the timeline of the bistro. The rise, the fall, and the resurgence; the turning points of each mirroring the other. While the dish likely graced handwritten chalkboard bistro menus long before, Oeuf Mayo was first documented in print in the 1906 book entitled Eggs, 1000 Ways to Prepare and Serve Them. The dish emerged and became an instant favourite at bistros and bouillons due, in no small part, to its low price point. Oeuf Mayonnaise became an emblem of working-class Parisian eating. At bouillons, essentially working-class canteens, you would simply be served a hard-boiled egg, still in its shell, with a bowl of mayonnaise on the side. Bistros put a little more effort in, serving the eggs peeled and cut in half, blanketed with freshly whipped mayo. The dish’s widespread adoption and cultural impact were so great that it was sold on the black market during World War II rationing.

But by the 1980s, the Oeuf Mayonnaise and bistros had fallen out of favour. Health concerns around high cholesterol led diners to forego eggs altogether. At the same time, bistros found themselves in the midst of an existential crisis. Nouvelle Cuisine had taken the Parisian dining scene by storm. And the lofty ideals of the movement didn’t gel with the “stodgy” bistro classics. Nouvelle Cuisine emphasized short cooking times to preserve natural textures and flavours, abandoning heavy sauces in favour of light broths, emulsions, and reductions. Artful presentations and small portions were paramount. This was a far cry from the hearty portions of stews and egg-rich sauces that bistros had built their legacy on.

During this time period, many bistros shuttered. Between 1960 and 1992, the number of bistros in France plummeted from 200,000 to 70,000. The bistros that remained eschewed their classics like oeuf mayonnaise in favour of more complex, lighter dishes. It was under these circumstances that oeuf mayonnaise nearly went extinct. But, as it so often does, the pendulum swung back in the bistro’s and the oeuf’s favour in the 1990s. The decade saw the first earnest revival of the traditional bistro. The celebrated food critic Claude Lebey, fearing the permanent demise of the bistro, dedicated his entire 1987 restaurant guide to the bistro. And he paid particular attention to its storied emblem - oeuf mayonnaise. He claimed the dish is “as indispensable to cuisine as the paperclip is to the office.” Please bear in mind that he wrote that in the late 80s, when the need for clipping paper was high.

So great was his passion for the dish that he founded the Association to Safeguard Egg Mayonnaise (ASOM), noted at the beginning of this article. The organization's only directive was, and is, to protect historic bistro dishes from extinction. Lebey eventually retired from the organization in 2013, but his grandson, Vincent Brenot, took over in 2018, revitalizing the organization under a new tagline: “Le temps passe mais les œufs durs”, or “time passes, but hard-boiled eggs endure.”

The group still holds an annual oeuf mayonnaise competition that adheres to a strict set of rules laid out in the “Egg Mayo Charter”. So with that in mind, let’s explore the rules and see how my rendition stacks up. The rules state that the egg must be a chicken egg with a firm, set white and a velvety, slightly jammy yolk. The mayonnaise must be homemade, seasoned, and flexible, meaning it should “thoroughly blanket” the egg. Hitting the proper balance of oil, mustard, and acidity is crucial. As far as presentation is concerned, the dish should be simply and “traditionally” garnished. A lettuce leaf, a smattering of chives, or a hint of tarragon for colour is the extent of premissable flourishes.

I think my take on Oeuf Mayonnaise nails the jammy yet velvety yolk and gently set whites. I may have overstepped by making my own tarragon oil and using it to make what I suppose you could call a tarragon mayo. I do think the mayo has the correct consistency - it is certainly blanketing the egg. As for achieving the proper balance of acidity, I always assume there is room for improvement, but I was fairly satisfied with how this mayo turned out. And as far as garnish goes, I’ve probably erred on the side of garish. The French would likely not approve of my use of julienned radish, and perhaps the frisee is too showy, but I have to be me. So without further ado, here is my rendition of the storied Oeufs Mayonnaise.

Enjoy!

Hardcore Supper Club: Historic Menus as Modern Dinner Parties

Susan Keefe — Sun, 12 Apr 2026 20:01:08 GMT

Plum Brandy, c. 1877, Edouard Manet

If I had a more para-social audience, I would expect a resounding chorus of “Where have you been?” in varying shades of annoyance. But, thankfully, I don’t. Y’all respect my autonomy, or at least you don’t experience a gaping void when I’m not in your inbox. That’s good; that’s healthy. But I still feel I owe you an apology and an explanation for my absence. And before you scroll away, please know this will not be a pity party. It’s actually positive, and yes, there is something in it for you.

But first, the excuse. Don’t worry, I will make it quick. At the end of 2025, I got very, very busy. It was one of those good problems to have. A lot of brands and people wanted to work with me, and it was immensely flattering and, yes, lucrative. I do make food content for a living, and this is all I do for a living. I’m very upfront about it, because I think people call this line of work a “hobby” far too often, which undercuts the amount of effort it takes. But that’s my own trauma, nothing for you to worry about. Anyway, a lot of that work bled into the new year, so that’s why you’re only hearing from me now… at the crack of April. 😬 Did I mention I was sorry?

Le café de la Nouvelle Athènes, c. 1876, Jean-Louis Forain

So that was the excuse; now let’s talk about this positive direction. While I was on hiatus from my own work (client work is a different beast, let me tell you), I had some time to reflect on how this whole Substack experiment was going. And I gave it mixed reviews. I felt there was a lot of potential in this format, but it was hard to keep up with the workload and, more importantly, I didn’t feel that I was showing up as myself, which is kind of the point of creating personal work, don’t you think?

So here I am with a slight rebrand. A dive into the nerdier aspects of my personality (yes, there is more), as well as delivering what I am most passionate about - dinner parties. I really want y’all to cook for each other. I really think this is the only way out of this mess *gestures broadly at everything*. The new layer of nerdiness is history - a lot of history. Some of you may not know, but I have two history degrees. I like it a lot, okay? One in art history and one in general history, but I chose to focus on European history from the Industrial Revolution onwards.

Fashionable People at Les Ambassadeurs, 1893, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

So naturally, and it should come as no surprise, that I love reading vintage menus. I, of course, have a fondness for historic cookbooks as well. But there is something I find far more captivating about restaurant menus. Restaurants, both historic and modern, are like their own universes. They offer a curated experience. And I don’t just mean the Michelin-starred ones. Every eating establishment, whether it be a British gastropub in the 90s or a 1920s New York Lobster Palace, has a particular ritual woven into it. The service, the atmosphere, and the food all knit together to create a very specific cultural experience. Specific to that type of establishment and that particular moment in time. For me, menus are as close to a Time Machine as I will ever get.

What I find particularly compelling about this subject at this moment in time is the care these menus represent. Even when these places cater to what would be classified as the “dregs of society,” there is still an element of care, respite, and yes, service. And while I have no desire to bring the current sad state of the world into this cozy corner of the Internet, I feel it is worth mentioning that this, this act of service, represents what I think is the very best of people.

The Aoyagi Restaurant in Ryogoku, 1838-1840, Utagawa Hiroshige

Are there problems with the restaurant industry today, yesterday, and probably tomorrow? Oh my goodness, yes! But if you cut away the class wars, the showiness, the exploitation - you see something very simple: Energy exchange. You see people pouring into each other’s cups. And honestly, if there is one thing I wish there was more of in the world right now, it’s being in service of one another; the art of it, the thought behind it, the million small acts encapsulated within it. So with that in mind, I want to welcome you to a new ongoing series here on Hardcore Supper Club: Historic Menus as Modern Dinner Parties.

By exploring the ritualized acts of socializing, refuelling, and posturing, you walk a mile in the shoes of those who dined before you. You catch glimpses of their humanity, you find your own habits woven into their lives, you identify with them. And if this exercise triggers an empathic response, it will have hit its mark. And if you invite your friends to a Parisian Bistro (this is the inaugural menu, by the way) by cooking from my overly researched menu, then my work is done. I want us to eat together more because it’s what makes us human. We have quite literally always done it. Cooking and eating have always been organized around community. And cooking and eating have always created community. And guess what we need more of?

Bar, 1935/1942, Perkins Harnly

So, that’s what’s in it for you. If you love a curated menu, useless historical tidbits, and have always wished for unfettered access to a Tardis, then this bud’s for you. Some of the recipes will be paywalled, others will be freebies, but the articles will always be free. So if you’re in it solely for the history, there is no need to open your wallet. You’re doing me a solid by listening to me ramble. I will be back early next week (pinky promise) with the inaugural recipe of this new chapter of Hardcore Supper Club and Rhubarb & Cod as a whole. Oh, and p.s. I actually have content banked for once, so I can feed you a steady stream. Yes, a real schedule. Who even am I?

Thank you for being here! I appreciate every one of you immensely!

Avocado Donburi with Soy Sauce Cured Egg Yolks

Susan Keefe — Wed, 11 Mar 2026 12:48:25 GMT

Today’s Avocado Donburi with Soy Sauce Cured Egg Yolks has all the appearance of a 30-minute meal. And trust me, it takes as much effort as a 30-minute meal. But alas, this dish is an exercise in patience. So if you want this beauty in your weekly line-up, and trust me, you do, you need a little forethought. But before we get to how we make it, let’s talk about what it is. This Avocado Donburi features a bed of fluffy rice, drizzled with a reduced soy sauce and mirin syrup, and topped with buttery slices of avocado and a soy sauce-cured egg yolk. Yeah, it’s simple, but it tastes deceptively complex.

Donburi is a workers’ dish. Its origins date back to the Muromachi Period (1330-1570) in Japan. A dish called houhan. Originally a temple meal, the dish consisted of a bowl of rice topped with stewed vegetables, with dashi ladled over. The dish's components adhered to the five-element philosophy, in which each component had to be balanced with the others. A concept that the far less lofty donburi would not inherit. But what Houhan did establish was the idea that a single bowl could contain a complete meal.

While rice is and was part of most traditional Japanese meals, it usually appeared in a small bowl as a side dish. Before the 1600s, it was considered impolite to eat rice and other side dishes together. But as the Edo Period took hold and the bustle of modernity increased, an influx of food stalls serving cheap, quick food emerged.

The first donburi appeared in the early 19th century, during the Bunka era (1804-1818) of the Edo period (1603-1868), in the form of Unadon, or an Eel Rice Bowl, which you can still easily order today. The purpose of the dish was to fill the bellies of labourers and theatre-goers, who didn’t have the time and/or the means for a multi-course meal. Today, donburi is still “the ultimate salaryman lunch” for its speed, affordability, and heartiness.

Donburi gets its name from the vessel it graces. Donburi literally translates to “bowl,” and what a bowl it is! The dish is typically served in a donburi-bachi, a bowl capable of holding 900ml of food. It’s basically the Big Gulps of bowls. Is today’s Avocado Donburi 900ml of food? I must confess I did not weigh the final dish. Frankly, I'm not sure I could eat that amount of food. But I will say, this Avocado Donburi did satisfy me, and I ate it in record time, so as far as I’m concerned, it fulfilled its donburi destiny.

As I mentioned, this Avocado Donburi isn’t a 30-minute meal; it just feels like one. The soy sauce-cured egg yolks are quite obviously the holdup, but they are worth every minute they luxuriate. And you’re not just getting stellar yolks out of the deal, you’re also getting a kick ass sauce for your donburi. Got to love a condiment that can multitask.

So after your yolks have turned into gooey, buttery, umami-rich excellence, you’re almost home free. But first, we have to rinse the rice, and yes, this also does take some time. But donburi is fairly reliant on rice, so it pays to give it its best shot at being excellent. And rinsing your rice will keep the grains tender and separated. No one wants a donburi with clumpy rice.

From there, this Avocado Donburi is more or less a plating exercise. Make a bed of glossy rice and drizzle it with the soy sauce cure you made for your yolks. Reduce it for 15 minutes before adding it to your rice; it will take on a lovely syrupy texture. Now add your avocado slices in the most aesthetically pleasing way you can muster. Leave space in the centre of the bowl to place your soy sauce-cured egg yolk, and finish your bowl with a sprinkling of torogashi and microgreens if you’re into that sort of thing. And that’s your Avocado Donburi all dressed and ready.

Hope you enjoy this one!

Category is... Holiday Cookies

Susan Keefe — Thu, 18 Dec 2025 14:20:25 GMT

This week on Hardcore Supper Club, we’re making the season bright with cookies. Lots of cookies! I know I usually show up here with a cocktail, starter, side dish, main course, and dessert. But today we’re just talking cookies. Four varieties of cookies, to be exact.

Sadly, there is no cocktail this week. I had an idea for an ill-fated cookie butter situation, but, erm, let’s not talk about it. Lol! Let’s talk about the cookies that did pan out. They are Preserved Lemon Poppyseed Cookies, Chocolate Gingerbread Cookies, Manchego Red Currant Linzer Cookies, and Strawberries and Cream Whipped Shortbread. Make one or make them all; no matter what you choose, you will have a delectable treat on your hands. Gift them, share them, or quietly stash them away for yourself - there are no wrong answers here. So let’s get into it!

Preserved Lemon Poppyseed Shortbread Cookies

First up, we have these Preserved Lemon Poppyseed Shortbread Cookies, which you may have already met. But in case you missed them, these cookies feature buttery shortbread flecked with diced preserved lemon and poppyseeds. The cookies are finished with a very lemony glaze and a dusting of sumac sugar. You can find the full recipe for free here! These turned out to be my favorites, don’t tell the other cookies.

Chocolate Gingerbread Sprinkle Cookies

Next, we have these Chocolate Gingerbread Sprinkle Cookies. These are essentially chocolate crinkle cookies with the addition of gingerbread spice and a whole whack of pink, white, and red sprinkles. I also added a little sanding sugar for some extra sparkle. I thoroughly enjoyed these, but I will say: pay attention to the quality of your sprinkles. My sprinkles had been in my cupboard a little too long, so their flavour was a little, um, stale. Not ideal when sprinkles are such a big part of the show. So invest in fresh sprinkles, they’re worth it. I mean, you could omit sprinkles altogether and simply roll these beauties in powdered sugar before baking to highlight their cracks. But when there is a question between pink sprinkles and no pink sprinkles, I tend to err on the side of sprinkles.

Red Currant Manchego Linzer Cookies

Next up, we have the most labour-intensive ones of the bunch, these Red Currant Manchego Linzer Cookies. These beauties feature golden almond cookies laced with clementine zest, filled with a manchego-spiked buttercream, and red currant jelly. They are a little high-maintenance because they’re a little fiddly to cut, and they require a separate recipe for the filling. If you want to make it extra hard on yourself, you can make your own jelly. I don’t know why you would want that, but I’m not here to judge. My partner said these beauties were like “eating a cheeseboard” in a cookie format, and I have to agree.

Strawberries & Cream Whipped Shortbread

And finally, to round out the stack, we have these Strawberries and Cream Whipped Shortbread. These naturally pink pretties feature a traditional shortbread base flavoured with blitzed freeze-dried strawberries and a dollop of yogurt - full-fat, please and thank you. These are among the easiest cookies to make on this list, but they were the hardest to develop. Getting the right mix of yogurt, cornstarch, and butter was an absolute nightmare. The yogurt made them easier to pipe, but too much of it, and the cookies completely lost their shape in the oven. The cornstarch helped them maintain their beauty, but too much gave them a chalky mouthfeel.

There were other pitfalls, but I won’t bore you with the details. And because I went through them, you won’t have to. This recipe is perfectly balanced. But I do have a few tips when it comes to piping, because this dough is no picnic to work with. First, don’t overfill your piping bag. Halfway to the top is manageable; don’t get too big for your britches. And make your life easier by ensuring all the ingredients are at room temperature. The softer the dough, the easier it will be to pipe. And having said that, chill your dough after piping. Ensuring the cookies go into the oven cold will help them keep their shape throughout the baking process.

Preserved Lemon Poppyseed Shortbread Cookies

Susan Keefe — Sun, 07 Dec 2025 22:00:04 GMT

It is well-documented that I don’t have much of a sweet tooth. I write about it often, like it’s interesting. It’s not. lol! I only mention it because today’s Preserved Lemon Poppyseed Shortbread Cookies are for people like me. People who can’t stomach sweet without a good dose of salty. This holiday treat features buttery shortbread flecked with diced preserved lemon and poppyseeds, topped with a tangy lemon glaze and sprinkled with sumac salt and sanding sugar. Bright, salty, tangy, and sweet, these cookies have something for everybody, regardless of your sweet tooth status.

We have reached December, and I can’t quite believe it. I’ve been neck-deep in client work, which is why things have been quiet around here. But no more! I have a few holiday tricks up my sleeve, and these Preserved Lemon Poppyseed Shortbread Cookies are the first. I apologize for my absence. Hopefully, these cookies make up for it.

Making the dough for these cookies is simple and can be made up to three days in advance. This is the kind of leeway we need during the holiday season. Things kick off with a preserved lemon. Give it a fine dice and make sure you remove as many seeds as possible. To be extremely safe, you can simply remove the flesh and finely dice the rind only.

Once the lemon is taken care of, place it in the bowl of a stand mixer. Add sugar, the vanilla caviar from one pod, and lemon zest. Mix on medium with a whisk attachment until the vanilla, lemon, and zest are thoroughly enmeshed with the sugar. To this, add some softened butter and cream the two together as you would for any cookie recipe. Add a little lemon juice and mix again.

In a separate bowl, sift in flour, cornstarch, poppyseeds, and salt. Initially, when I began testing this recipe, I omitted the salt altogether. Why? Well, preserved lemons are very salty because they’re, well, preserved in salt. But, in the end, I decided to give the dough a whisper of salt. You need the salt throughout the cookie, not just when you encounter a bit of lemon. If you’re iffy about salt in desserts, feel free to omit it. It’s a small change in the flavour profile, but in my opinion, it is an impactful one.

Swap the whisk attachment for a paddle and add the dry ingredients to the mixer. Mix on low until the dough comes together. Now, we’re going to roll the dough out into a sheet before chilling. My kitchen is far from large, so I like to split the dough into two and roll out two smaller sheets. It just makes more sense for my limited counter real estate.

Sprinkle a piece of parchment paper with flour. Place the dough on top. Lay another piece of parchment paper on top and press to form the dough into a disc shape. Using a rolling pin, roll the dough out to anywhere from 1/2” to 1/4” thick. Fold up the sides of the parchment paper and transfer the dough to the fridge. Chill until solid. This took about 2 hours. But as I said, you can leave it for up to three days. You can also form the dough into a log and pop it in the freezer for future cookie adventures.

Cut the cookies while the dough is very cold. Arrange them on a baking sheet lined with a silicone mat. Bake for 10-12 minutes or until the cookies are golden on the bottom. Transfer the cookies to a cooling rack and leave them to cool completely. This will not take long. You can bail out at this point as well. Just keep the baked cookies sealed in an airtight container for up to three days. But let’s pretend you’re under the wire and push on to the glaze.

The glaze for these cookies is a simple, three-ingredient affair. All you need is icing sugar, a little lemon juice, and a splash of heavy cream. How thick or thin you make your glaze is up to you. You can also either pour the glaze over the cookies or dunk them. If you’re interested in pursuing the poured method, I would suggest creating a thinner glaze by adding additional cream. I opted for a thicker glaze and the dunk method.

Once you glaze a cookie, immediately sprinkle it with a mixture of sumac, salt, and coarse sugar. I like to work the sumac into the salt in a mortar and pestle before whisking in the coarse sugar. I don’t mind breaking down the salt crystals, but I want to maintain the chunkiness of the sugar. Coarse sugar really glitters, and the holidays call for the glitteriest glitter. Leave your cookies to dry completely. I found the glaze was fully set after about 2-3 hours.

And that’s all you need to know about these Preserved Lemon Poppyseed Shortbread Cookies! These make for a refreshing addition to any cookie box or as a fabulous host gift all on their own.

Hope you enjoy them!

Preserved Lemon Poppyseed Shortbread Cookies

PREP: 30 Minutes

COOK: 12 Minutes

CHILLING/DRYING: 5 Hours

TOOLS

INGREDIENTS

Preserved Lemon Poppyseed Shortbread Cookies

2/3 cup granulated sugar
1/2 preserved lemon, seeds removed and diced
1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
2 tbsp lemon zest
1 cup unsalted butter, softened
2 tbsp lemon juice
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/3 cup cornstarch
1 tbsp poppyseeds
1/4 tsp salt

Lemon Glaze

1 cup confectioner’s sugar
2 tbsp lemon juice
1-2 tbsp heavy cream (See Note 1)

Sumac Sugar

1 tsp sumac
1 tsp Maldon salt
1 tsp sanding sugar

METHOD

For the Cookies

Remove the caviar from the vanilla bean pod. Set the pod aside for future use.
Pour the sugar into the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a whisk attachment. (See Note 2) Add the preserved lemon, vanilla caviar, and lemon zest. Whisk until well integrated.
Swap the whisk attachment for the paddle attachment and add the butter to the sugar. Cream the butter and sugar together until light and fluffy. Add the lemon juice and mix until integrated.
Using a fine mesh strainer, sift the flour, cornstarch, poppyseeds, and salt into a large bowl. Whisk to combine. Pour the flour into the butter mixture and mix until a dough forms.
Place a piece of parchment paper on the counter and dust it with flour. Set the dough in the center and place another piece of parchment on top. Press the dough into a disc and roll it out to 1/2-1/4” thick. Fold the ends to seal and transfer the dough to the fridge. (See Note 3) Chill for 2-3 hours or until firm.
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a large baking sheet with a silicone mat or parchment paper. Set it aside.
Unwrap the dough and cut out as many cookies as possible. Transfer the cookies to the prepared baking sheet. Bake the cookies for 10-12 minutes or until the cookies are golden on the bottom. Transfer the cookies to a cooling rack and let them cool completely.

For the Glaze

Sift the sugar into a medium-sized bowl. Add the lemon juice and a tablespoon of the cream. Whisk to combine. Adjust the consistency of the glaze by adding more cream.
Dunk the cookies in the glaze and return them to the cooling rack. Be sure to place a piece of parchment paper under the rack to catch any drips. Repeat with the remaining cookies.

For the Sumac Sugar

Place the salt and sumac in a mortar and pestle. Grind the two together until well integrated. Pour the mixture into a bowl and add the sanding sugar. Whisk to combine.
Sprinkle the sumac sugar over the cookies while the glaze is still wet. Leave the cookies to dry for 2 hours or until the glaze is set.

NOTES

How much cream you add will depend on your desired consistency for the glaze.
You can also use a large bowl and a hand mixer.
I like to use a large cutting board to transport the dough so it doesn’t warp.

Category is... Comfort Classics

Susan Keefe — Sun, 23 Nov 2025 16:57:25 GMT

I am no fan of winter. I know, how original. Thank goodness I’m not here to amaze you with my hot takes. I’m here to feed you because the food is winter’s only redeeming quality. As the days get colder and the evenings encroach earlier and earlier, my life gets simpler. My plans orbit touchstones of comfort: long, far-too-hot showers, a mid-afternoon cup of good loose-leaf tea, a pot of something involved simmering on the stove. An interior, simple life built on the backbone of nostalgic but definitely not boring comfort food. And that’s why today’s Hardcore Supper Club’s theme is Comfort Classics. Perhaps it should be called “New Classics” because these dishes are not exactly commonplace, but they are rooted in the familiar. For instance, the Blistered Broccoli with Cacio e Pepe Sauce is a grown-up take on every parent’s secret weapon: broccoli and cheese sauce. You’ll also find the world’s most involved sloppy Joe sandwich, an Armagnac-kissed dark chocolate self-saucing pudding, a caramelized shallot homage to old school onion dip, and a shandy with an elderflower glow up. Into it? Let’s make it!

Italian Pilsner Elderflower Shandy

Let’s start with the welcome cocktail du jour, the Italian Pilsner Elderflower Shandy. This is the easiest cocktail you’ll ever make. For those who have not had the pleasure, a shandy is a beer cocktail comprised of beer (of course), with a soft drink, usually lemonade, sparkling lemonade, or lemon lime soda. I did include a recipe for a from-scratch Maple Lemon Soda, but you could make your life easier and buy some sparkling lemonade. However, I will say the homemade soda is not particularly difficult to make, and the lemon flavor is so pronounced and delicious that I think it’s a good use of your time.

A shot and a half of St. Germain, an elderflower liqueur, pulls the cocktail together. I’ve heard St. Germain referred to as a “bartender’s ketchup”. It’s pretty much universally loved, and it can smooth out almost any drink. And since this menu is all about comforting crowd-pleasers, it feels appropriate to deploy it here. It really does bring the shandy into a new universe of deliciousness.

Caramelized Shallot Chive Dip

Okay, let’s talk dip. When I was a kid, peak luxury for me was a movie marathon paired with ruffled potato chips and French onion dip. You know, the dip you got in a can? My level of sophistication was truly elite. I wanted to resurrect that extreme feeling of coziness with my Caramelized Shallot Chive Dip. As I’ve grown, my palette has as well, so I’m less impressed with dry French onion soup mix stirred into sour cream. So yes, I am going to ask you to caramelize some shallots the low and slow way. Does it take a while? Ideally. We want those sugars to get nice and concentrated, developed, and rich. I promise this process doesn’t ask much of you, other than the occasional stir.

There is no sense in making a ruffled potato chip from scratch. They are already perfect straight from the bag, and the last thing I need is for them to get more delicious. I already don’t know how to act around them, so let’s not aggravate the situation. Just buy your favorite bag and be done with it. The crinkle cut is non-negotiable, I’m afraid.

Blistered Broccoli with Cacio e Pepe Sauce

Okay, now for the side. This is dedicated to all the parents who relied heavily on the healing power of cheddar cheese to force broccoli down their kids’ gullets. When I was growing up, broccoli with cheese sauce graced every kid’s table I was seated at. And if I’m honest, I’m still a huge fan. I don’t need a creamy sauce to enjoy broccoli at this point, but I wouldn’t call it a detriment either.

For this side dish, I wanted to capture the spirit of the broccoli of my youth but also grow it up a bit. So instead of steaming, I opted to roast in a high oven. I love the sweet bitterness of blistered broccoli. And for the sauce, I left my beloved cheddar behind and invoked the flavors of one of the most comforting pasta dishes on the planet: Cacio e Pepe. I finished the dish with a little lemon zest to brighten things up a bit. The result is a side dish that unapologetically pulls focus.

Bolognese Sloppy Joes

Now, we’ve arrived at the main event: Bolognese Sloppy Joes. I’m not going to spend too much time here because you can read all about them here. But here’s a quick rundown of the sandwich: These beauties are comprised of a rich Ragù alla Bolognese, creamy whipped ricotta, and massaged kale served on toasted focaccia. They are magical and should be studied for their spiritual healing properties.

Dark Chocolate Self-Saucing Pudding

And finally, we’ve made it to dessert. I love the genre of self-saucing puddings because you get a dessert and accompanying condiment for the effort of one. And a chocolate self-saucing pudding? Well, that’s the stuff of brownie sundae dreams.

I’m sure I mentioned it before, but for me, a warm brownie and a scoop of ice cream is peak dessert. I have a particularly fond memory of a brownie sundae I had at a ski hill when I was seven. That’s how hard this dessert has been imprinted on me. So why didn’t I just make a brownie sundae? Well, that’s three separate components for one dessert. The Comfort Classic menu is not about toiling in the kitchen; it’s about feeding your inner gremlin. So I made it easy by making a brownie with a built-in hot fudge sauce and topped it with a scoop of store-bought ice cream. Give yourself the easy win - you deserve it.

Bolognese Sloppy Joes with Whipped Ricotta and Kale

Susan Keefe — Sun, 09 Nov 2025 16:30:06 GMT

We’re creeping towards the darkest time of the year. And if you’re a bit of a sun-worshipper like me, you’re already feeling it. There was also that extremely rude time change last weekend, which was, um, unappreciated. But anyway… When things get dark, I like to lean into cozy. This isn’t particularly novel, but I say it because I think it is essential. I save my movie marathons, comfort watches, and scented candles for this particular moment. And you know what? It does make this time of year seem special. Some seasons are harder to love than others, but with the help of a cozy couch, an impossibly fluffy throw, and an endless run of comfort food, I can *almost* enjoy it. And right now, the comfort food I’m leaning on the most are these Bolognese Sloppy Joes.

These admittedly messy sandwiches feature lightly toasted focaccia topped with a rich bolognese. The sandwich also features a generous dollop of creamy whipped ricotta and a mountain of massaged kale. While this sandwich is undoubtedly a pleasure to eat, its therapeutic powers start working their magic long before it hits the plate. There is nothing cozier than having something simmering on the stove. Nothing. And today’s bolognese gives you that from the jump.

Now and then, I come across blind spots in my cooking. Classic dishes that I’ve heard of, eaten, and loved but somehow have never made myself. Bolognese is one of them. Growing up, my mom made her version of bolognese, which still has my heart. She makes it with lamb and beef, and it is beyond amazing. And, I guess, because I could have that whenever I made it home, I just didn’t feel the need to develop my own. But because I am nosy and just generally into collecting random tidbits and facts, I got curious about bolognese and, well, here we are.

My deep dive into the wonderful world of bolognese led me to conclude that the bolognese I grew up on was closer to Ragú alla Napoletana or Neapolitan ragu, which hails from Naples. Naples is the regional capital of Campania, a region of Italy renowned for its tomatoes and, in particular, its famous San Marzano tomatoes. It stands to reason that a sauce from Naples would feature tomatoes prominently.

Bologna, on the other hand, is the capital of the Emilia-Romagna region in Northern Italy. Emilia-Romagna is referred to as the “food valley” and is the birthplace of Parmigiano Reggiano, Prosciutto di Parma, Mortadella, and traditional balsamic vinegar. In other words, the region is far more celebrated for its cheese and meat than its tomatoes, and Ragú alla Bolognese reflects that. There is tomato in traditional bolognese, but it’s far less than I originally thought. Traditional bolognese is, in fact, more closely related to the French dish ragoût, a stew that gained prominence in the 18th century.

So without further ado, let’s make a (relatively) authentic Ragú alla Bolognese. I leaned pretty heavily on the 1982 recipe from the Accademia Italiana della Cucina for this one. The first thing you’re going to do is select your meat. The original recipe called for pancetta; you could also use bacon. I chose instead to use uncured, uncooked pork belly, which I coarsely ground in my meat grinder. What can I say? I like to set life to hard now and then… It’s not actually hard, but it does require special equipment. So feel free to coarsely chop some bacon or pancetta. It will be fine.

As far as the beef goes, hanger or flank are traditional, but any cut of beef that is rich in collagen will do. I ground up some chuck, for instance. But again, if you don’t have a meat grinder, picking up medium ground beef will work perfectly. You could even use lean, but for the love of all that is holy, please don’t use extra-lean.

The sauce starts by simply browning the meat, and it’s then removed with a slotted spoon. In goes a classic mirepoix of diced onions, carrots, and celery. The vegetables are left to sweat, not brown, and once the onions are translucent, a splash of wine is added to deglaze the pot. I used dry vermouth, which is an aromatized wine, but you can use any white or red wine that you have on hand.

The meat is then reintroduced to the pot along with a little tomato paste, beef stock, bay leaves, and a bundle of thyme. At this point, you just simmer the crap out of it until, roughly 2/3 of the way through, you add some milk and a shaving of fresh nutmeg. Continue to cook until the sauce is rich, glossy, and roughly terracotta in colour. The entire process should take approximately 3 hours, but it only requires your participation for about 20 minutes.

Now, the rest of these Bolognese Sloppy Joes are easy to make. Especially if you cheat, like I did, and buy the focaccia. This beauty is from Blackbird Baking Co., and I highly recommend it. The other components are whipped ricotta, which is as simple as placing all the ingredients in a food processor and blitzing, and massaged kale, which is exactly what it sounds like. This was another culinary blind spot for me; I had never massaged kale. And now that I have, I am so into it. It really does make green kale so much more tender, without divorcing it from its kale-ness. Does that make sense? Probably not, but let’s press on.

You can make both the whipped ricotta and massaged kale in advance; another advantage massaged kale has over dressed kale. But in all honesty, you don’t have to make either in advance because you’ll have acres of time while the bolognese simmers. I do think the whipped ricotta should chill for an hour before serving, though, so a little planning is required.

Finally, all that remains is to build your Bolognese Sloppy Joes. I won’t insult your intelligence by describing how to make a sandwich, but I will tell you my order: focaccia, bolognese, whipped ricotta, kale, and focaccia. I think it worked, but I think any other order would be fabulous too, so listen to your heart. No order will reinforce the structural integrity of this sandwich, which is nonexistent. This is a knife, fork, and stack of napkins kind of sandwich, so go in prepared. We are talking sloppy joes after all.

And that’s everything you need to know about these Bolognese Sloppy Joes. The very definition of a Sunday slow cook. From start to finish, these sandwiches deliver peak coziness.

Enjoy!

Bolognese Sloppy Joes

PREP: 40 Minutes

COOK: 3 Hours

SERVINGS: 6 People

TOOLS

1 Large heavy-bottom pot
1 smoothie cup or food processor
1 meat grinder, optional

INGREDIENTS

Ragú alla Bolognese

600g (1.4lbs) chuck roast or medium ground beef
400g (14oz) pork belly or ground pork
3 tbsp olive oil
1 sweet onion, diced
3 medium carrots, peeled and diced
2 stalks celery, diced
4 cloves garlic, peeled and thinly sliced
1/2 cup dry vermouth (see note 1)
1/4 cup tomato paste
2 cups beef stock
6-7 sprigs fresh thyme, tied together in a bundle
2 bay leaves
1/2 cup whole milk
1/4 tsp ground nutmeg

Whipped Ricotta

1 (280g) tub full-fat ricotta
1 clove garlic, peeled and coarsely chopped
2 tbsp olive oil
1/2 tsp salt

Massaged Kale

1 head green kale, stalks removed and torn into bite-sized pieces
2 tbsp lemon juice
1 tbsp olive oil
1/2 tsp Maldon salt

Bolognese Sloppy Joes

1 batch olive oil focaccia, homemade or store-bought
1 batch Ragú alla Bolognese
1 batch Whipped Ricotta
1 batch Massaged Kale

METHOD

For the Bolognese

If using cuts of beef and pork, cut them into large cubes and feed them through a meat grinder using the coarse plate. Set the meat aside. If you’re using ground meat, you can ignore me and this step.
Heat oil in a large heavy-bottom pot over medium heat. When the oil is shimmering, add the meat and a generous sprinkling of salt. Sauté until the meat is browned. Remove the meat with a slotted spoon and set it aside.
Reduce the heat to low and add the onions, carrots, and celery along with a generous pinch of salt. Sweat the vegetables until the onion is translucent. Stir in the garlic and sauté for a minute more.
Reintroduce the meat and pour in the dry vermouth. Stir until the alcohol is reduced by half. Add in the tomato paste and toss to coat. Pour in the beef stock and add the thyme bundle and bay leaves. Bring the mixture up to a boil and reduce to a simmer. Simmer for 2 hours, stirring occasionally. (See note 2)
When the 2 hours are up, pour in the milk and add the nutmeg. Simmer for an additional hour or until the sauce is nice and thick. (See note 3)

For the Whipped Ricotta

Place the ricotta, garlic, salt, and olive oil in a smoothie cup or food processor and blitz until very smooth. Transfer the mixture to a bowl and chill for 1 hour or overnight.

For the Kale

Pile the kale into a large bowl. Add the olive oil, salt, and lemon juice. Toss the kale with your hands in a scrunching motion. The kale should start to soften and turn a darker shade of green. This should take about 5 minutes.
Transfer the kale to the fridge and let it sit for 15 minutes before serving.

For the Sandwiches

Cut the focaccia into eight large pieces. Split each piece in half and toast until golden. Top the focaccia with the Bolognese, whipped ricotta, and massaged kale. Serve immediately with a knife, fork, and plenty of napkins.

NOTES

You can use whatever wine you happen to have on hand in place of the vermouth.
If the pot starts to go dry at any point, add an extra splash of beef stock.
The bolognese can be made up to 3 days in advance and freezes beautifully.