Grand Marnier

I love the word spremuta, which means “freshly pressed orange juice” in Italian. At any caffè, if you order one, you’ll be brought a tall, vivid red glass of juice served with a few packets of sugar and a long, slender spoon alongside. Although years ago Americans were astonished when confronted with blood orange juice, this colorful citrus fruit has become common stateside and can be found in many supermarkets and farmer’s markets. When sliced open, they reveal a brilliantly colored interior, and like snowflakes, each one intrigues me, since no two seem to be colored alike. The Moro variety of blood oranges is the most intensely colored, but other varieties, like Sanguinelli and Tarocco, make remarkably colorful granita as well.

Maybe I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer. When I visited the Chartreuse distillery in the French Alps, our guide told us that the exact recipe for the famed herbal liqueur was a closely guarded secret, known only by three brothers who worked at the monastery. Astounded, I spoke up. “Wow, that’s incredible. What is the likelihood of three brothers going into the same business together, as well as becoming monks at the same monastery?” The other guests on the tour simply stopped and looked at me with their mouths slightly agape. Then our guide enlightened me and we moved on, but not before I overheard a few hushed conversations evaluating my intellect. This is a very light ice cream, and it’s so simple that anyone, regardless of their intelligence level, can easily put it together.

This ice cream is for those who are nostalgic for those orange-and-cream-flavored popsicles. If you miss that taste, you’ll discover it again here.

With the addition of sprightly tangerine juice, this twist on traditional butterscotch sauce goes very well drizzled over Buckwheat Cake (page 44) paired with orange or tangerine sections instead of the cider-poached apples, or spooned over Pâte à Choux Puffs (page 232) filled with Caramel Ice Cream (page 144) and topped with toasted or candied nuts.

After years of carefully studying dessert habits, I’ve begun to refine my theory that there are two types of people—those who like lemon desserts and those who like chocolate. I’ve observed that there’s a subspecies that likes desserts with a crunch, a group that includes me. I’m a big fan of seeds, and I like to add them to these jam-filled cookies to put them squarely in the crunchy camp. Or should I say “roundly,” since they are, indeed, round. But feel free to use any cookie cutters you have—round, square, oval, or even heart-shaped.

Sabayon is the French term for zabaglione, the frothy Italian dessert made of egg yolks and wine. It was a great day when I discovered that it could be frozen and scooped like ice cream without being churned in an ice cream maker. Because of the less-than-shy wine flavor, it holds its place in a bowl of fruit soup, especially one made with intensely flavored blood oranges.

I read an article in a magazine about the difference between being “frugal” and “cheap” and was relieved to find myself in the frugal category. I’m certainly not cheap when it comes to buying ingredients, but it does go against my frugal nature to throw anything away. Here, oranges do double duty: the insides supply the juice and the rinds become the serving dishes for the sorbet. Those who are extra thrifty can candy some of the leftover peels to go alongside (see Candied Orange Peel, page 254). Egg whites left over from another project can be used to make the fluffy meringue that hides the sorbet surprise underneath.

In the ’80s, sangria’s reputation took a nosedive when it came to be known as a syrupy-sweet wine sold in green bottles with a toreador deftly skirting a charging bull on the label. But if you go to Spain, you’ll quickly realize that real sangria isn’t a sugary liquid confection, but a fruity, icy cold drink that goes down easily, especially when the temperature outside is soaring. This simple-to-make sorbet turns sangria into a frozen dessert that’s even more refreshing than it is as a beverage. And that’s no bull.

My grandmother used to throw a fit if I ordered something as simple as fruit salad or soup in a restaurant. “Why pay for that? You can make it at home,” she’d say in a voice that made you feel like a fool if you had the temerity to disagree. “Order something else!” Anyone who met my grandmother knew it was best not to cross her. Otherwise, you’d hear about it, repeatedly, for the next three to five years. Minimum. I feel that way about bread pudding. It’s something I want at home, not in a restaurant. My version mingles orange and almond and is a much more refined and luxurious than the usual bread pudding. Enjoy it in the comfort of your own dining room, but pretend you’re eating it in a restaurant, without anyone to harp on you about it. In case any of your guests decides to leave a tip, I’ll gladly accept my 15 percent.

Soufflés bring to mind fancy French restaurants, special occasions, and loads of calories. Why wait for a special occasion when you can whip up these incredibly light and delicate soufflés at home and save tons of calories? The Grand Marnier sauce is a must. For a richer sauce, you can use a half cup of evaporated skim milk and an equal amount of heavy cream.

Here’s another recipe in which just a few ingredients come together to make a big, big impression. It’s not as dense as the name suggests, because the beaten egg whites lighten it up considerably, as do the crumbled cookies. Think of this next time you’re looking for an unusual birthday cake; with its layer of marmalade and crumbled cookie topping it’s elegant enough for any important occasion.

Gina: I love a little bit of whimsy, and what better time for that than when you are kicking back with your man enjoying a cocktail? I didn’t think Pat would be too keen on sipping a pink drink, so I made his bright blue. Both variations are potent and delish, so just pick the flavor (or color) that suits your mood (or matches your shoes or your handbag . . .).

The original Soufflé Rothschild, created for James Rothschild by Antonin Carême, was a baked soufflé embellished with gold leaf. Since then, there have been all kinds of “Rothschild” soufflés, salads, and other dishes— the name is used to denote extravagance or richness. This frozen soufflé Rothschild was conceived by the famous pastry chef Gaston Le Nôtre, for a grand dinner at the home of one of the Rothschilds. It was served to me at a dinner party in Paris, and is one of the most delicious desserts I have ever tasted. Neither an ice cream nor a sorbet, it is technically a bavaroise glacée, a frozen parfait based on eggs and cream. The best part of this recipe is that it is quite quick to make. Just watch— your guests will sneak back for seconds and thirds!

I make this for a holiday dinner or when I'm planning to have a large group of friend and family over. The outside of the turkey is encrusted with a baked-on pepper rub. Inside, the meat is juicy and tender.

These little crescents are gone in a couple of bites and can be surprisingly addictive. Their cinnamon sugar coating reminds me of churros, the deep-fried, cinnamon-sugar-coated lengths of sweet dough so popular in Mexico and in my own home state. For a dramatic buffet presentation set them on a tiered dessert tray along with Pequeño Chocolate-Pecan Tartlets (page 166) and Chubby’s White Pralines (page 168).

In the early 1990s we hired a chef who loved to bake, and he came up with this pie. It became an instant classic. The fruit is only lightly sweetened, and its tartness combined with the sugar-crumb topping is a perfect pairing. Served warm with vanilla ice cream, it's heavenly. If you use frozen berries, increase them by 1/2 cup each and defrost slightly before tossing with the other ingredients.

What could be more French countryside than pulling a chilled bottle of homemade (or at least home-doctored) wine from the fridge for a special celebration? This orange sipping wine is a little sweeter and stronger than a regular glass of white, and it's the perfect aperitif for the onion tart with mustard and fennel .

These individual vanilla soufflés include a surprise layer in the middle: almond cookies soaked in an orange liqueur syrup.
The soufflés are thickened with a cooked mixture of butter, flour, and milk called a panade, which adds body and richness. Egg yolks are whisked into the panade to form the soufflé base, and then beaten egg whites are folded in to create the soufflé batter.

"I've never been keen on pineapple," food editor Paul Grimes admits, "so I challenged myself to make a pineapple dessert that I would actually like." Charring the wine-poached fruit caramelizes it and softens its acidity while highlighting its floral notes. With vanilla and a cidery syrup, this dessert feels at once wintery and light.