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Over the Fourth of July weekend, Mike’s lovely stepmother and I returned from the local farmer’s market with armloads of fresh corn, peaches and berries.

As we scurried around the kitchen, trying to find a proper place for everything, she retrieved a beautiful, whimiscal little bowl, just perfect for the pint of blueberries, freshly plucked from their bushes.

I let out a quite audible gasp.

She either did not hear me or, more likely, dismissed my noises as another one of my quirks. It could, afterall, been directed towards just about anything - the discovery of a perfectly plump peach or juicy blueberry, for example.

Just as when everyone politely smiled and shook their heads when I pulled monster cookies, homemade marshmallows, spicy cocktail nuts, good quality chocolate and a 9″ springform pan from my luggage earlier that weekend - my tendancies are quite happily accepted by Mike’s family at this point.

Either way, this did not discourage me from falling absolutely in love with this little dish.

So when I returned to my little piece of Manhattan, I was determined to locate this piece to add to my collection. A mere five minutes later, the piece had been located and ordered.

It now sits quite happily it my kitchen cupboard, eager to hold my treasures from this weekend’s farmer’s market.

I love the Fourth of July. The simplicity of the holiday lends itself to a lazy day filled with family, friends and good food.

I have very happily been put on dessert duty for the weekend and have lots to share with you. What are you whipping up this weekend?

Enjoy a very happy Fourth of July!

I interrupt today’s scheduled post to shamelessly promote my recipe. Since we last spoke, my recipe for Cherry Jam with Lemon-Pepper Shortbread was chosen as a finalist in the Food52 cherry contest!

How exciting!

So, if you are up to it, skip on over to the Food52 website and vote for me!

I was a lucky girl growing-up. My family may not have had a lot of extras, but our house was filled with much love and we shared a warm dinner together every evening.

Family dinner was my favorite time of the day - knowing I had a time to share my successes or disappointments and listening to other’s days as we made our way around the table was quite comforting to a little girl.

As my sister and I grew older, my Dad could no longer join us each night for dinner. For awhile my Dad worked two jobs, so my parents could afford to send us to dance lessons, piano or violin lessons, field hockey camps.

Most parents probably would have told their children that these were luxuries that could just not be afforded at the moment.

But my Dad was steadfast in his desire to provide more to his daughters than he had growing up. He and my mother felt these things were important to raise well-rounded children who would go on to become productive members of society.

For the excruciating schedule my Dad kept, I never heard him complain in front of my sister or me. He resonated that it was a privilege to provide such opportunities for us. It was something he was proud to do.

Many years later, after I graduated from college and moved north, I sat in my parent’s kitchen and told them I had decided to switch careers. I wanted to make a career out of my true passion.

I remember my Dad looking a bit deflated when I said this. He wasn’t on board with my decision right away. Now, fully immersed in the life of a pastry cook, I can understand his sentiment.

Having attended culinary school and worked many years in the food world, my Dad knew exactly what I was getting myself into. He could see the long hours, the low pay, the non-existent family life, the exhaustion - he could see everything I couldn’t see.

What he couldn’t see, and what I couldn’t tell him at that moment, is that he was the reason I had such a passion for baking. True, my mother had instilled recipes and the methodical execution of a dessert from before I could remember.

But my Dad opened up a whole different view of food and baking. I can see my father in myself when I change a recipe, before I have even made it once.

When I taste a creation and immediately start thinking about how I will change it next time, something that drove my mother mad, I know I have my father to thank.

His passion for cooking, never measuring, always tweaking, taught me that if I understand the basics, I can always make a recipe my own.

He taught me to never accept a recipe or theory at face - to always question why a certain ingredient or method is used, to execute it myself, to improve upon history.

I now find myself in a difficult spot in my life and my career, likely a spot my father knew I would find myself in sooner or later. When he visited last weekend, as we sipped coffee in a neighborhood shop, I asked him what I should do.

His advice was something that I imagine he repeated over and over to himself during the years he was working two jobs, or working so many hours that he was rarely home.

“Just keep going.”

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. I love you.

Saturday was a pretty exciting day around here. Not only was it the official end of Mike’s endless studying for his exam, but it was also his birthday!

The not-so-exciting part of the day was that he actually had to take the exam. All day. On his birthday.

So we planned an exciting evening - complete with friends, Red Bulls soccer and dinner and drinks at one of his favorite bars.

The only good part of Mike being hold-up in taking his exam all day was that I was able to assemble his birthday cake and party favors without him having any idea.

The theme of these treats was inspired by his (and my) favorite liquor: Maker’s Mark.

We started off by enjoying my Chili Lime Tequila Popcorn at the Red Bulls game:

Later, after a late dinner, it was time for cake. I wanted to create not only an extra special looking, but also tasting cake for the celebration.

The flavors I created were bourbon-orange chocolate cake with spiced vanilla buttercream.

After everyone was sugared-up from the cake, I handed out the party favors, to thank everyone for coming out to celebrate the special day.

A fun, relaxing evening with friends and surprise sweets. I can’t imagine a better way to kick-off a new year.

For as long as I can remember, my mother has always hated her hands. She has a seemingly endless supply of adjectives used to justify why she doesn’t like them.

But I love her hands - all hands for that matter. Of all the places on our bodies that can tell the story of our lives, I think hands are the most reflective.

Watching her hands make quick work of a pie crust, her life’s work and love is reflected in the small bones and veins flexing and relaxing in a familiar, peaceful rhythm.

The same hands that held me as a baby and cooly took my temperature when I was sick.

The hands that scolded me when I was wrong and comforted me when I was sad.

The hands that taught me to bake long before I could read or understand a recipe.

The hands that encouraged me the night before I moved to New York, as I cried on the couch and asked if I was making a mistake.

The hands I see when I peer down at my own hands, happily covered in a light dusting of flour.

My mother’s hands are not perfect and I suspect that is why she does not like them. They show a life of hard work, a few disappointments and an enormous amount of love.

But they reflect everything she taught me about life.

It’s not easy. But the simple task of providing nourishment and love to your family is by far the most important and most treasured part of life.

Her hands helped shape and mold me into the woman I am today and will become in the future.

Happy Mother’s Day Mummy. Thank you so much for everything. I love you.

Last Monday was my last day in finance. My last day stuck behind a computer in a dreary office. My last day of not having to worry about my bank account.

I took a few days off. I wasn’t going to. I was excited to jump right into my new career. But my family suggested that it might be a good idea to take a deep breath.

I’m glad I did.

I enjoyed some beautiful, sunny Spring days with my family in Virginia.

I shopped and lunched with my Mum.

We toured Chateau Morisette, a lovely winery situated in the picturesque Blue Ridge Mountains.

We talked and ate and drank for hours on the back deck.

As always, I was sad when it was time to leave and return to city life. I’m really a country girl at heart.

But, there were some important and exciting adventures awaiting me in New York.

The nice weather continued and I enjoyed spending the weekend with Mike. I’m going to miss having weekends off together. I like hanging out with him.

But, now, my vacation from the real world is over.

Today, I begin life as a full-time pastry cook.

I begin working in the afternoon and returning home early the next morning.

I begin working on Saturday and Sunday.

I begin fretting about paying bills.

I begin seeing a lot less of Mike.

Some of these changes excite me, others terrify me. But, I feel like this is where I belong. I feel like this is the beginning of a fruitful, rewarding life-long career.

I’ve become a bit more nervous with each passing hour, leading up to the beginning of my first full-time shift.

I’ve organized my spice rack. Organized and cleaned the apartment. Sharpened my knives. Checked the batteries in my taser. Forbidden myself from ironing my chef pants. Because that’s just dorky.

And while I’m nervous, I’m also calm. My life as an office worker has drawn to a close, replaced with an exciting, passionate beginning and a lot of unknowns.

Last night, Mike and I attended a reading by one of our favorite authors, Ian McEwan. In the Q&A session, speaking to how he crafts his characteristic endings, he summed up my excitement and fear into one beautiful note:

“Endings are both crucial and difficult.”

So here’s to the official end of one chapter in my life and the beginning of a new one.

Thank you all for being so kind and encouraging on my path to changing careers. I wouldn’t be here today without you.

Upon meeting new acquaintances and exchanging tidbits about our personal and professional lives, one question never fails to be posed with an enthusiastic tone:

“So, how did you decide you wanted to pursue baking as a career?” Or, sometimes, “Wow, finance to baking is a big change! How did you make that decision?”

I love when people show an interest in the path I have chosen and how I got there, especially since I so very much love what I do.

But every single time this question is asked of me, I freeze.

My mouth fills with sand.

And I eloquently begin my response with, “Uh….um…well…”

This is not how I want to make my impression upon people. I want to adequately convey my passion and my pursuits of that passion.

I just never know where to begin.

I’ve tried something along the lines of, “Oh, well, I have loved baking my entire life and just decided I wanted to turn it into a career.”

But this doesn’t really convey everything that went into my decision and my path to changing careers. And it sounds a bit flaky.

I have also tried something like, “Well, after graduation, I moved to Manhattan, realized I hated my job in finance and enrolled in pastry school!”

Also a bit flaky.

I’ve realized that I’m not being completely honest in my response. Like most conversations upon meeting someone new, I’m sugar-coating my words in an effort to appear friendly and happy-go-lucky.

But that’s not the reality of the decision. It’s not realistic to assume people make life-altering decisions without suffering a few gloomy days and bruises along the way.

The truth of the matter is that, while I have never regretted my decision, it was mighty difficult to reach.

It is true that I have always loved baking. My family is filled with amazing cooks and bakers, so I feel that my passion came naturally and was constantly nurtured during my childhood.

It is also true that I moved to Manhattan, less than a week after graduation to pursue my career in finance; to pursue the lucrative life that I just knew awaited me.

And then, do you know what happened? I hated it. I hated my job, the city. I hated being more than an afternoon drive away from my family. I hated that Mike left me all alone on the weekends in this crowded, unfriendly place. And I hated that we fought constantly.

I was depressed, lonely, miserable, confused. I cried every night when I got home from work. This sitting behind a computer all day and being a middle man - this couldn’t be what awaited me in my adult years? Could it?

This wallowing continued for about six weeks. Then, I woke up one morning, and decided enough was enough, “Get it together girl. It’s time to figure some things out.”

In the quest of deciding what I would chose to pursue as a career, I looked at a lot of different parts of my life and asked myself a lot of questions.

What do you read in your free time? Cookbooks, food blogs, food magazines, restaurant reviews.

Where do you love to go on the weekends? Bakeries, bistros, Sur la Table, Williams-Sonoma, Union Square Farmer’s Market

When you wake up in the morning, what do you wish you could do all day? Bake.

If money wasn’t an issue, what do you wish your job could be? Pastry chef.

When you’re 90 and looking back on your life, what will be the one thing you wish you had tried? Pursing a career in baking.

The answer was blindingly right in front of me. Still, it took me another six months to research culinary schools, figure out how I would pay for culinary school, draft up multiple budgets to account for the big pay cut I would inevitably take, announce my decision to my family and wholeheartedly convince myself that I wasn’t making a huge mistake.

And after making the decision to actually pursue this craziness, I was still facing a year of culinary school and an externship, all while keeping my full-time job in finance.

So, you can see how “Oh, well, I have loved baking my entire life and just decided I wanted to turn it into a career,” and “Well, after graduation, I moved to Manhattan, realized I hated my job in finance and enrolled in pastry school!”don’t adequately express my path to choosing a career in pasty.

But the entirety of the story is kind of lengthy and, honestly, a bit depressing.

So now, I just need to figure out how to craft a cocktail-party appropriate response that will not make me appear as either a flake or a self-absorbed wind bag.

When my time is limited, I generally like to make tried-and-true recipes. The ones I know will work; the ones that have worked a hundred times before.

But as I have begun the hefty task of organizing my recipes into proper binders, I have come across so many recipes I once tucked away because I wanted to try them. I have kept every food magazine possible over the last few years, assuming I will one day return to each edition to try out every recipe which yielded a “Mmmmmm!” as I read the ingredients and directions intently.

So I have decided each week, at whatever point I can squeeze in a few extra minutes, I will test at least one of these recipes. How else will I find new recipes to inspire me, discover new “go-to” recipes and pare down my recipe binders in the process?

With the chosen recipe in hand, I will scurry off to my little kitchen and take notes and photos through the entire creation. I will post these, along with the recipe, as well as the final verdict from myself and my official taste tester (Mike).

Besides benefiting me in many ways, I hope you will enjoy these test recipes and, perhaps, find a few to inspire you and add to your collection.