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Although the part of my childhood I spent in Maine was not lengthy, my memory of these years is rich with food and desserts lovingly crafted by my family members.

One of my great-grandmothers, Louise, will be forever remembered by her infamous pies - a tender, flaky crust encasing some seasonal fruit, sweetened just perfectly with a bit of sugar.

As a little girl, I remember walking through the long airway between the garage and her kitchen, where numerous pies rested after just being plucked from the warm oven. The dewy, summer Maine breeze danced with the strands of emerging steam as the pies cooled and the fruit thickened.

This gesture of kindness and welcoming continued when we visited my grandmother, who would always be sure my Dad had a freshly baked strawberry rhubarb pie awaiting him.

She would purchase the strawberries from a local farm stand, cut the long strands for rhubarb from her own garden and, with the help of a little flour, sugar and butter, create something that transported my Dad back to simpler times.

I never cared for the taste of rhubarb until this summer. Although my love affair has been short-lived, yet thoroughly enjoyed these last few months, I have also come to love the addition of sweet strawberries to the tart stalks of rhubarb.

My Dad visited NYC this past weekend, a long two years since I moved here. He doesn’t care for the city too much.

Although I had fun trips planned, I decided a strawberry rhubarb pie would prove to be a good insurance piece. After all, if he ended up hating all other parts of his time in the city, I figured he could fondly remember the taste of summer and his childhood in a slice of homemade pie.

Unlike my grandmother, I do not have tall stalks of rhubarb growing in my garden, so I relied on the friendly farmers at the Union Square farmer’s market to assist my venture.

I carefully rolled out my pie crust, filled it with the cut strawberries and rhubarb, which I had allowed to mascerate in an equal amount of brown and granulated sugar.

A lattice top secured the fruit and a sprinkle of turbinado sugar provided a crunchy texture.

This time around, I think my Dad actually enjoyed parts of the city.

But, I suspect, it helped to sweeten him up with a piece of this pie before we hit the town.

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There is something so welcoming and exciting about seeing petite pints of strawberries and long, bright red stalks of rhubarb appear at the farmer’s market.

So long blustery winter days - summer is, at long last, on the horizon.

But we are not there - not just yet. While rhubarb is at its peak, local strawberries are just making their first appearance. They have not yet reached the point where the tiny, red fruit is so packed with juice that it sends a trickle of red liquid from the corner of your mouth.

Despite the strawberries not being at quite this level of ripeness, combined with rhubarb and macerated in just a bit of sugar, they do make for a delectable filling for a crisp.

Sometimes, I crave just the filling of a pie, without the work of a pie crust. Crisps make a wonderful option in this case - the topping is still crunchy and slightly sweet and the nuttiness provides another layer of flavor for my tongue to explore.

As we here in NYC are still watching our vegetables and fruit transition into the summer crop, I decided to incorporate hazelnuts into the crisp mixture. The warm, deep flavor of this nut, combined with almonds and the bright flavors of rhubarb and strawberry, provided a dessert that reflects this transition.

Instead of making the crisp as one dish, I decided to create individual portions.

I filled my cute little serving dishes to the brim with the fruit filling and carefully balanced a generous covering of the crisp on top.

They emerged from the oven with a golden hue, filling the air with their sweet, homey smell.

Like most warm, fruit desserts, these beauties seemed to beckon for the accompaniment of a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

The result was exactly what I hoped to create. While the addition of the hazelnut would not likely be desirable in the heat of summer, it provided a depth of flavor perfect for the spring days of May.

I suspect I will be revisiting this crisp recipe over and over again as more fruit graces the stands at the farmer’s market and the current offerings become riper and sweeter with each passing week.

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After completing my first Daring Baker’s challenge last month, and being a bit disappointed about the results, I was anxious for the unveiling of this month’s challenge.

The April 2010 Daring Bakers’ challenge was hosted by Esther of The Lilac Kitchen. She challenged everyone to make a traditional British pudding using, if possible, a very traditional British ingredient: suet.

I put off completing this challenge for a few weeks for a variety of reasons. Mostly, my time is a wee bit limited nowadays. With no time, I couldn’t research traditional British puddings, compare recipes or brainstorm flavor combinations.

Secondly, I admit, I was initially not very excited about the challenge. After all, the host described these puddings as “homely”. Also, I had absolutely no idea how this “pudding” would taste.

Lastly, the less than plentiful crop of early spring fruits was creating a bit of an obstacle. For the first few weeks in spring, the farmer’s market had only potatoes and onions.

But, sometimes, procrastination does pay off. I put this challenge off long enough to be greeted by the bright red stalks of fresh rhubarb. Funny how just the sight of this fruit seems to signal an end to the long winter and gesture in the warmer, happier days of spring.

I purchased just two stalks, as rhubarb is a bit on the expensive side, enough to be poached for the two individual puddings I had decided to create.

I lightly poached the rhubarb in a combination of water, blood orange juice, vanilla and honey. While the poached rhubarb was cooling, I reduced the poaching liquid to the most beautiful, shiny red glaze I had ever seen. There was just enough glaze to be drizzled over the dessert as the final, sweet touch.

As the top layer of the steamed pudding, I incorporated a thin crumb layer, just to add a little extra sweetness to the rhubarb.

Finally, it was time to venture into unmarked territory. It was time to actually create and steam the pudding.

Confession: I whimped out. I did not use suet. I used butter instead. But, I promise you - it will be okay. Butter makes everything better!

Using a small, mesh sieve to rest the pudding on, I could only fit one individual springform pan in the pot. I brought it to a boil, then lowered the heat at let it do it’s thing.

I snuck a peek here and there. But nothing seemed to be happening. Just a lot of steam and gurgling.

Most recipes instructed a steaming time of at least two hours, but for a full-sized pudding. So, I checked mine after an hour. I inserted my little cake tester and it emerged with just a few stray crumbs. Time was up!

I might have forgotten I used leavener in the recipe. I might have filled the batter all the way to the top of the pan on accident. But I admit nothing.

It was an easy enough fix after all.

See? Now I had a flat bottom for the steamed pudding and I could taste just a little piece.

It was heavenly. Amazing. The most moist, creamy cake I had ever eaten with a deep, yet light flavor.

I added the cooled, poached rhubarb - now a bright, beautiful pink hue - on top of the creamy, crumb layer and drizzled the reduced poaching liquid over the pudding.

I served the steamed pudding with homemade frozen yogurt, although I think it would have been even better with a tart, lemon sorbet instead.

This month’s challenge was a major success on many levels. The visual result was exactly what I had envisioned when I picked up that first stalk of fresh rhubarb. The taste far exceeded my expectations and I created a recipe which I will keep in my repertoire for years to come.

The success of this challenge reminded me how important it is to continally expand your skills, even if you are not overcome with enthusaism at first glace. Thinking about how you can turn a recipe into your own, into a recipe that you are truly proud of, takes time, energy and patience.

But aren’t those successes, the ones we didn’t see coming, the sweetest?

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