5 Ingredients or Fewer

When I was a professional baker, foodies would walk into the kitchen, look down their noses at my gorgeous flats of cultivated blueberries, and sneer, “Oh, I only like wild blueberries.” Then they’d stand there making idle chat while grabbing fistfuls of domestic blueberries and gobbling them up. Wild blueberries are indeed wonderful, but they can be hard to find (unlike annoying food snobs), so you can use any kind of blueberry here. Just don’t gobble them all up, or let anyone else do so, before you get a chance to use them.

Once upon a time, before the advent of mass transportation, only the rich were privileged enough to taste pineapples. They became a status symbol, meaning that one had great wealth and enjoyed much prosperity if one was able to afford them. Nowadays, fresh pineapples are available just about everywhere, and few of us have to deprive ourselves of enjoying a juicy, sweet pineapple whenever we want. Now that’s my idea of progress. To peel a fresh pineapple, use a knife to lop off the bottom and the top. Cut away the skin and pry out any “eyes” with the tip of a vegetable peeler. Then cut the pineapple flesh into quarters and remove the tough inner core.

If I was stranded on a deserted tropical island and could have only one dessert, this would be my choice. Admittedly, it would likely be my only choice, since all the ingredients are native to the tropics.

Should you ever find yourself in Spain, withering away during the fierce heat of summer, rejuvenate with the locals at one of the many heladerías that make the country a top destination for any ice cream aficionado. I always order leche merengada, a cinnamon-and-lemon-flavored frozen meringue. To make it more invigorating, I sometimes ask for a shot of high-strength café exprés poured over.

Although the official title of this recipe is Raspberry-Champagne Sorbet, I invite you to improvise, and economize, by substituting a sparkly cava from Spain or a prosecco from Italy, which provide an equally lively sparkle. Have a tasting (and invite me!) and find one that you like. Here’s a tip: The one in the black bottle is a good budget option. Note that this recipe makes a small quantity, as the sorbet is better when it’s soft and freshly churned, and doesn’t improve with age. If you’re expecting lots of guests or just have a big appetite, simply double the recipe.

My lifelong dream is to own an ice cream shop. But rather than start from scratch, there’s one in Paris that I used to dream of taking over: Raimo. The interior was a perfectly preserved midcentury ice cream parlor, with curved, undulating ceilings, shiny leather-and-chrome swivel chairs, and a truly contemporary touch for a city as old as Paris—a machine dispensing ice water. Très moderne. In spite of an unfortunate recent remodel, Raimo still serves an unusual frozen glace called fleur de lait, which means “flower of milk.” Although they once invited me into the workshop for a tasting, I was too intimidated to ask for the recipe. So I played around in my kitchen and got it just right by using cornstarch instead of eggs, which not only preserves the milky whiteness of the cream and milk but also adds a pleasing richness that’s not overwhelming. If you ever come to Paris, stop in at Raimo. And if you see me behind the counter churning away, you’ll know I’m no longer just a contented customer but a happier glacier.

The flavor of raspberries is so intense that they can simply be blended with milk and sugar and made into this sumptuous, full-flavored sherbet. The mixture is best frozen right after you’ve blended together the ingredients, which preserves the vivid taste of the raspberries.

I’m insatiable when it comes to fresh cherries, and I eat pounds and pounds of them right off the stem during their ridiculously brief season, which I’m convinced is one of nature’s cruelest acts. But their characteristic flavor really becomes pronounced when warmed, so I sauté them first to deepen their luxurious flavor. Be sure to start with full-flavored, very dark cherries, like plump Burlat cherries or blackish red Bings.

When I moved into my first home in San Francisco, the backyard was teeming with blackberry bushes. Blinded by greed, I was thrilled at the prospect of having as many luscious blackberries as I wanted. But as I soon learned, blackberry bushes are a mixed blessing, and for the next few years I spent many thorny weekends working to thwart the persistent shrubs from advancing and taking over my entire yard. Luckily, the bonus was indeed lots and lots of inky blackberries all summer long. But each and every one I picked was well earned, and I still have some battle scars to prove it.

Creating a whole book with lots of recipes for sorbets means that you run the risk of using the word “refreshing” too often. But this sorbet is truly the most refreshing of them all, so I saved that word to describe it. Each bite is pure, frosty bliss. I use a rosé wine that’s not too sweet, with a touch of fruitiness. You could use almost any blush wine that leans toward the dry side as well, though in saying so I risk losing cred in the eyes of wine lovers and oenophiles. Because of the quantity of wine in this sorbet, it will not freeze very firmly in your ice cream machine and will be somewhat soft when you scrape it out. But don’t worry. When you go to serve it a few hours later, you’ll find that it’s the perfect texture, and yes, very refreshing.

You can tell a lot about people by looking in their freezer. Next time you’re at a friend’s house, peek in theirs and you’ll discover their most hidden desires. One secret I am willing to share is that I’m hopelessly frugal and it’s impossible for me to throw anything away, no matter how trivial. One day when I had lots of blackberries on hand, I pulled out one of my buried treasures, a small container of frozen lime juice left over from an overanxious lime-buying spree. I was curious about how the tart lime juice would play against the sweet blackberries. Happily, it was a great combination, and it’s one secret I don’t need to keep to myself. Although I recommend that you use freshly squeezed juice, frozen lime juice that you’ve kept well concealed is the next best thing.

I was twenty years old when I tasted my first fresh apricot. I was baking in a restaurant in upstate New York, and one day the produce person handed me a small paper sack of dewy orange orbs. I’d eaten many a dried apricot in my lifetime but had neither seen nor tasted a fresh one, and frankly, I didn’t know what to do with them. Since I had just a handful, I made one singularly gorgeous apricot tart that I kept away from prying hands (the greatest hazard for the pastry chef in any professional kitchen), slicing it carefully so eight lucky customers were able to have a taste. My first summer in California, I was amazed at how many fresh apricots there were and thought that the stacks of crates at the market were a one-time windfall. So I started hoarding them, making as many things as I could before they disappeared forever. Or so I thought. When next year rolled around and the cases of apricots started stacking up again, I learned that they were actually quite common and rather prolific. But to this day, when they’re in season I try to use as many as I can, still mindful of how precious each and every silky-soft apricot is. And don’t be put off by apricots that are so ripe they feel like they’re ready to burst. That’s when they’re at their best.

Plums are the last of the summer fruits to arrive, and they stay around long enough to welcome in the fall. Having a batch of this sorbet in the freezer is the perfect way to extend the warm glow of summer just a few more weeks.

There’s a curious custom in Gascony, a region in the southwest of France known for its full-bodied red wines (its famous neighbor is Bordeaux). When they’ve just about finished their soup, the locals tip a little bit of the red wine from their glass into their soup bowl, mingling the wine with the last few spoonfuls of the broth. I later discovered that this custom is equally good with a goblet of sorbet when I was scrambling to figure out a way to make this rosy nectarine sorbet a bit more special for an impromptu dinner party. I simply scooped sorbet into my guests’ wine glasses at the table and let them pour in as little (or as much) red wine as they wished. It was a big success. If you have time to think ahead, prepare a big bowl of sweet, juicy berries and sliced nectarines, and let your guests add some fruit to their sorbet too.

It’s easy to forget that citrus fruits do have a specific season, since they seem abundant all year round. The major exception is tangerines, which are rarely seen except during the winter. My favorite varieties for making this sorbet are the oddly shaped tangelos, whose juice is mischievously tart, and the mottled honey tangerines, whose coarse, funky exterior belies the bright-colored and exceptionally sweet juice within.

This frozen delight is perfect in the summer when you need a brisk perk-me-up. It combines two of my favorite flavors, coffee and chocolate, in one scoop.

Anyone who’s been to New York City in August knows that one of the best ways to cool down is by spooning up the ubiquitous Italian ice sold by pushcart vendors all over town. Unfortunately, it’s mostly disappointing and is never as good as what you can easily make at home. This sorbet captures the taste of fresh lemons better than anything you’ll find on the street.

While teaching classes in the American heartland few years back, as I started to measure out some buttermilk, I stopped and gasped, horrified to see tiny yellow flecks floating on top. Being a city slicker, I figured there was something wrong with the buttermilk and thought I’d have to toss it. But on closer inspection, I noticed that those flecks were little bits of real, honest-to-goodness butter, something you don’t see often anymore, since most buttermilk is cultured rather than a by-product of the butter-making process. The crowd got a good laugh at my startled reaction to my first encounter with real, old-fashioned buttermilk. And I promised them that I’d never dismiss the country’s midsection as “flyover states” again, since there’s very good buttermilk down there.

There are folks who can’t imagine dessert without chocolate, while others aren’t happy unless they get something with citrus. Sometimes I can’t decide which I feel like. Am I in the mood for something citrusy? Or am I having a chocolate craving that needs to be satisfied? Here’s a happy truce that marries the two flavors in perfect harmony and is guaranteed to please everyone.

Way back when, long before svelte supermodels made it chic to do so, relatives of mine would make their annual winter pilgrimage to sunny Miami Florida for relaxation and, God willing, a bit of a schvitz. A week later we’d greet a deeply bronzed Uncle Myron and Aunt Sophie at the airport, and they’d invariably be schlepping mesh nylon sacks bulging with yellow-skinned grapefruits, a bit of sunshine for those of us without the chutzpah to escape the dreary Northeast winter. Nowadays grapefruits are everywhere, but they’re at their best during the dead of winter. Choose fruits that are heavy for their size, with ends that are a bit flat, an indication they’ll be juicy and sweet.