One of my greatest regrets of my short blogging career is that I blew through many of my favorite recipes right off the bat—before I learned to snap a decent photo or even really use WordPress. As I’ve mentioned before, patience really isn’t my strong suit. And while I kick myself for squandering quite a few recipes on bad lighting and poor formatting, I regret one recipe more than the rest: our banana bread.

I could write dozens more posts about it—about my continued experimentations with it (I recently cut the sugar in half … and liked it); about how we’ve taken to traveling with it, stashing a loaf deep in one of our suitcases (coughKevin’ssuitcasecough); about how my friend Emily, thanks to the recipe, has now contracted what she calls “a bit of a banana bread problem” that might actually rival my own (to put it briefly: it involves more than one loaf per week; enough said). But noooo, I can’t write about any of this because I already posted on the banana bread way back when.

(Click “more” for the rest of the story, more photos & the recipe.)

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As every gal in her 20s or 30s knows, if spring is bridal shower season, summer is bachelorette party season. The season is definitely upon us. Or it’s upon me, at least. As (bad) luck would have it, I was triple booked last Saturday, invited to two bachelorette parties in Chicago and one in Minnesota. I ended up at the party for my friend Brynn (she of the much blogged about engagement party back in January), which was to feature a sail on Lake Michigan and a no-boys-allowed backyard barbecue.

It also included a fair bit of bridal torture, I’m sorry to admit. You see, Brynn is what one might call a “good sport.” She agreed to allow us to surprise her with the plans (something I would surely refuse) and we rewarded her by drumming up a good deal of suspense and sending her a list of things to be sure to bring with her for the big night (which included a four-cup Tupperware container, a stack of singles, a sack of bread crumbs and a pair of shin guards, among other things). Our goal was to throw her off the scent and, needless to say, we had her stumped. She wasn’t sure if we’d be playing a pick-up soccer game in Lincoln Park or feeding ducks at a Humboldt Park lagoon.

(Click “more” for the rest of the story, more photos & the recipe.)

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Thank goodness. The vegetable party—as delicious as it was—is coming to an end. Kevin’s coming home today and bringing his sweet tooth (which didn’t seem to exist before this blog’s inception) with him. In honor of his return, I made him some cookies: snickerdoodles. They might sound a little run of the mill, but we had them out the other night (they came alongside a selection of (insanely delicious) ice creams) and we both loved them. Also, they’re the perfect homey, simple cookie to say “welcome home.” They’re also tender and comforting and even kind of caramely. The dough is delicious too. Not that I would know.

Now, I’ve got some studying to do before he gets there, so I hope you won’t mind a photo montage of sorts today. Click through to the jump for the play-by-play of this cookie bake (which was quite brief; gotta love a baked good that comes together in the time it take your oven to preheat):

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You know the crispy bits around the edges of a pan of brownies? The ones that have buckled from the heat of the oven? The ones that practically disintegrate in your mouth when you take a nibble? If you like those bits, you will adore these biscotti. They’re similar to the brownie bits in their crunch and deep chocolatey flavor, but they’re also studded with dark chocolate chips and slivered almonds.

I’ve dabbled with a variety of biscotti recipes: some stripped down and simple, some featuring dried fruit, some savory. But I’d never tried a chocolate recipe. I blame the double chocolate cookies of a couple weeks back for nudging me into trying this one.

(Click “more” for the rest of the story, more photos & the recipe.)

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I made this ice cream—a cherry gelato, speckled with bits of pureed bing cherries and softly scented with almond extract—on Sunday night. I made it to serve for dessert with some friends on Monday night, but it really tasted best right out of the ice cream maker, when its texture was at its lushest and flavors at their brightest. It got a little icy and grainy in the freezer, which made me a little sad, but our guests were generous about it on Monday (nudged along, I have a hunch, by the chocolately treat I served with the gelato: stay tuned).

By Tuesday, the last bits of gelato had gone even further south, but my sister, Kevin and I had some anyway, as we alternately watched the NBA finals and the Cubs game. I thought my sister, who is not a big cherry fan (which, to me, is akin to lunacy, but—hey—she’s family), was being polite as she slurped thoughtfully through her bowl. A couple bites in, she looked over at me and said,”Do you know who this reminds me of?” As a spoonful of the gelato melted on my tongue, I knew exactly who she meant: Grandpa. And we both had a good smile thinking about a man we both adore, and the fruit-flecked pink ice cream (usually strawberry, but we were close enough) that he adores. Is there anything better than a broad-shouldered man who is more than six feet tall cradling a bowl full of pink ice cream in his truly enormous paws? I think not.

(Click “more” for the rest of the story, more photos & the recipe.)

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