Candied ginger, candied lemon peels, and science

I really thought candied ginger would be easy. Slice up some ginger, blanch it, put it in a pot with equal parts sugar and water, and heat to 225°. Straightforward, precise directions. I even had a thermometer — not a candy thermometer, but an accurate instant-read meat thermometer that I figured should do the trick.

You can see where this is going. After blanching, three hours of boiling, overnight soaking in their syrup, then individually fishing out the ginger coins and laying them on a pan to dry all afternoon, my ginger slices were all wrong; grainy and wet and crystalized. Sure, they were still delicious, but where were the chewy, golden, translucent coins with just a hint of stickiness that I'd expected?

Here's the thing, though. Just for the heck of it, I poured half of the gingery syrup back into the pot, then blanched a bunch of lemon peels and tossed them in. An hour later I had beautiful strips of perfectly candied lemon peel without even a hint of graininess. What happened?

As far as I can tell, there were two key differences: temperature and interfering agents. 

Lemon-thyme-rosemary cake #2

My last attempt at a lemon-herb cake was a beautiful disaster. (Full details here.) This one was a total success. It may have helped that I started with a different recipe. One without zucchini. Also, this time I remembered to add all of the ingredients before putting the cake into the oven.

You're still out of luck if you're trying to use up extra zucchini. I'll keep working on a zucchini version once they're back in season and I'm desperate for any way to use them up. On the other hand, this one will help you use up that huge bowl of lemons you have lying around — you'll need 8 or 9 of them. (If you don't have a bunch of lemons, remodel your kitchen and get Dwell or Apartment Therapy to come photograph it — stylists always seem to bring large bowls of lemons to the photo shoots).

Vanilla-Tomato Jam

When I was ten or eleven, I read an article on the state of French cuisine. It began with a description of a dessert being prepared at a high-end Parisian restaurant. Fresh tomatoes were hollowed out, stuffed with a mixture of lemon and orange zest, chopped nuts, and spices, then braised in vanilla-infused caramel for 45 minutes. By cooking the tomatoes in hot caramel, constantly stirring it around the tomatoes without actually touching them, the chef was able to concentrate and intensify their flavor without turning them into tomato sauce.

Lemon-zucchini cake failure

This story does not end well. I think you should know that before you become emotionally invested or, even worse, follow my example. After the tasting but before the photo editing I considered whether I should try again, and again if necessary, until I'd produced a reliable cake whose recipe I could share in good conscience. On the other hand, the internet is full of reliable cake recipes. This one was kind of a disaster, but it was a beautiful disaster.

I love dishes that put ingredients into an unusual context and make it work. Olive oil ice cream. Rosemary chocolate. Basil sorbet. Finding myself with another overlarge zucchini on a bright summer day, I thought that instead of our typical chocolate zucchini cake I might try making a zucchini cake with lemon, rosemary, and thyme.

Lemon bars

If you invite us over and ask us to bring a dessert, chances are we'll show up with a pan of lemon bars — my husband's specialty. He's still searching for the perfect recipe, so each batch is a little different. Sometimes the custard is a little more creamy, sometimes a little firmer, but they're always knock-you-on-your-ass lemony, laced with plenty of zest, and just enough sugar to perfectly balance the tartness.

Conveniently, we have our own lemon tree in the back yard. I think it's a Meyer lemon, but more important than its variety is its fecundity. We never, ever run out of lemons. This is good, because the current version uses about a dozen lemons.

Recipe and more photos after the jump.