Baking

I used to make from-the-box brownies on Friday nights to keep me busy during commercials for Miami Vice, in my opinion the premiere television drama behind Degrassi High. My sister Bridget taught me that if you take the brownies out of the oven about five minutes early, you will have a perfect gooey texture. At BabyCakes NYC, I developed a recipe to replicate that consistency but with a full cooking time, mostly to avoid the retching stomachache I’d have for the second half of the Don Johnson fashion parade. Initially these brownies were made in a square casserole pan and each batch yielded twelve brownies. Because they are so rich, however, I decided to bake them in mini-muffin trays and serve them as bite-size morsels. Now these tiny little flavor agents are nearly impossible to keep in the case. If you’re whipping up a batch, be warned: You may want to double the recipe.

Many allergic, health-conscious, and vegan bakers are quick to write off macaroons because two of the three ingredients are sugar and eggs. But with a versatile crumb mixture (pages 115–116) at your disposal, this isn’t a problem. Grab your preferred crumb (I like vanilla for this recipe) and get to it. Make sure that when spooned out, your mixture retains its shape on the baking sheet; if it falls apart, it’s too dry and you need to add a bit more agave. If it spreads, you’ve gone overboard with the agave and need to add more crumb. The baked macaroons will be the same size as the uncooked. Because of the intensity of the coconut, I prefer them the size of a melon-ball scoop or even a bit smaller.

I grew up in California just inches from the Mexican border, so I’ve always had an affinity for that country’s culture—in particular the lightly spiced cookies rolled in powdered sugar and served at weddings, ingeniously referred to stateside as Mexican Wedding Cookies. My homage to this perennial favorite has more crunch and some newfangled flavors, but I’m sure you’ll agree it, too, is piñata-worthy.

Have you been eating twice as much chocolate now that studies have shown conclusively that this miraculous bean is actually good for you? It’s certainly more appealing than gulping down a $7 wheatgrass shot with the rest of the aerobics squad at the health-food store. Here, then, is BabyCakes NYC’s ode to cocoa: A tried-and-true chocolate-worshiping recipe with crunchy edges and a soft, chewy center that will put you in antioxidant overdrive. Bonus tip: If you add minced fresh mint to the dough, the cookies taste just like Girl Scout Thin Mints! So here’s to putting those overachieving little nerdlettes out of business. (Oh, relax. Love, love you gals!)

Those of you who don’t have food sensitivities and are reading this cookbook simply to improve your general health should be applauded. I know how easy it is to be tricked into thinking that the low-fat glazed gingerbread in the display is healthy when you pick up your morning coffee at the local deli. I implore you, do not let your pre-caffeine fog steer you wrong! Make a loaf of this simple gingerbread over the weekend, slice it, and store it in your freezer for the week so you can grab yourself a piece on your way out the door. The pumpkin purée makes the bread so moist and fresh you can snack on it for days. As a reward for your foresight, consider slathering a thick layer of Vanilla Frosting (page 91) on top. I would!

I can’t claim to be the genius who developed the glorious spice combination that is a gingersnap, but I like to think I’ve put my chewy, health-minded signature on it. This recipe produces a fairly flat, crisp-edged cookie; if you like a cakier cookie, add an extra 1/4 cup flour.

Lemon can be a baker’s best friend or her worst enemy. Often it tastes less like fresh-squeezed lemonade and more like a 15-cent lollipop. Achieving the perfect balance of lemon flavor in this teacake was a long and arduous journey; fresh lemon juice toys with the acidity in the batter, causing it to rise and fall unpredictably, while the rind on its own has a mousy presence at best. I tried everything from the yellow squeeze bottles of sugar-pumped citric acid to preserved lemons to lemon oil—everything short of boiled-down Lemonheads. Eventually I found that if you grate lemon rind into the batter with a generous helping of a high-quality lemon extract (I prefer Frontier’s product), you end up with a uniform, easy-to-manage batter that maximizes the lemon flavor while downplaying its domineering nature. Add the subtle nuttiness and earthy texture of poppy seeds, and you’ve stumbled onto a marriage unequaled since Luke and Laura’s.

Until the bagel made its way across the San Diego County border from the East Coast and nudged its way into our bread box in the early 1980s, my mother’s breakfast staple was a toasted slice of cinnamon-swirl bread, which she nibbled while sipping her morning coffee and skimming Dave Barry’s latest effort. It was the only personal time we allowed her, however begrudgingly, and the scene is indelibly etched in my mind. In tribute to Mom, I came up with the apple-cinnamon toastie, now and forever a must-have on the bakery menu. Because it has a great crumb and is not too sweet, it’s perfect for toasting and slathering with your favorite spread. Martha Stewart (yes, that one) liked it so much she asked me to teach her to make it. On her show!

Embellishing a recipe as iconic as corn bread could be a disaster of New Coke magnitude, so when a friend suggested dolling up the recipe with jalapeños and cheddar cheese, I proceeded with caution. I have issues with vegan cheese—it’s often overprocessed, packed with preservatives, and usually gross—but Emily, my office Queen Bee and resident persnickety vegan, suggested Follow Your Heart’s cheddar and made me a convert. I found nary a gluten globule or preservative in sight, and it melted! My mind adequately blown, I got to work in the kitchen, and a new bakery regular emerged. The cheese has the perfect creamy texture to complement the corn bread’s slightly grainy quality, and its sweetness is offset by the heat of the jalapeños. Bring this along to your next barbecue, but be sure to make extra: Those non-vegan eat-everything sorts tend to devour an unfair share.

When my aunt Cathy dropped by our house for a visit and tea, she was always packing a loaf of banana bread baked at her restaurant, Harry’s Coffee Shop, in La Jolla, California. Under her strong encouragement, I’d chow piece after piece until I’d scarfed nearly an entire loaf. “It’s good for her!” she’d say as my mother looked on in slight horror. And I believed her. I mean, banana bread? Come on! Eating that pillowy deliciousness was like getting extra-credit points for free. Of course, in adulthood I discovered that this supposed health bread, like everything else tasty, was virtually a heart attack in loaf form. Butter? Eggs? Bleached flour? Sugar?! Aunt Cathy, take note: Below is how you do it while sparing yourself—and your behind—the grief. If you’d like to take this recipe to the next level, include 1 cup of chocolate chips when you add the banana. You will not be sorry.

Some recipes at the bakery were brought forth by inspiration, others by customer demand. The lobbying for corn bread began the very first day of business, with a customer spying an unfrosted vanilla cupcake and ordering “one of those corn muffins.” Rather than fight the will of the people, I dived right into development mode, and after a year of sorry results, finally perfected the recipe. I hope you’ll agree it was well worth the effort.

If you are unfamiliar with johnnycakes, thank me now: Your life is about to change forever. (All you others, pat yourselves on the back and grab a cookie sheet.) Part corn-bread pancake, part biscuit, this New England breakfast staple stepped in to fill the void left when my pancake addiction was cut short by gluten sensitivities. I drown mine in agave nectar, but no matter how you treat them, plan on sharing. You only rarely find these at BabyCakes NYC because they absolutely must be served warm. Although I bake them on a cookie sheet, you can spoon them onto a well-greased griddle for a crisper—though more caloric—cake.

There are only five circumstances under which a person wants chocolate for breakfast: (1) You dumped your boyfriend or husband in a champagne-soaked tantrum the night before. (2) Based on the contents of your fridge, it’s either chocolate sauce or a spoonful of mustard. (3) You are under the age of eight. (4) You are pregnant. (5) You have just whipped up a batch of these babies. These scones are light and elegant compared to traditional scones, whose texture often sets my stomach on spin cycle.

This is as close to a traditional scone as BabyCakes NYC comes. I 86’ed the butter, obviously, and played up the sweet, all without abandoning the light-yet-satisfying texture. I find that raspberries, more delicate than currants or other popular berries used in scones, have a tanginess that’s a perfect accompaniment to morning tea.

Rich, flaky shortcake is a perfect showcase for luscious strawberries.

By fifth grade, I’d taken to pocketing my lunch money and starving through the day so I could afford to spend the afternoons in the air-conditioned luxury of the local KFC and postpone the sweltering walk home. I’d buy a biscuit, fashion a “free” lemonade (1 cup ice water, 2 packets lemon juice, 27 or so sugar packets), swing my Capezios up onto the banquette of a comfy booth, and bask in my own genius. I don’t know that the eventual walk was any better, but I do know I started a trend among other ponytailed rebels. With the biscuit bar set pretty high and KFC no longer an option or a preference, I assigned myself the challenge of bettering it with my allergy-friendly pantry. It’s not uncommon these days for people to taste the biscuits at BabyCakes NYC and say, “These are better than KFC!”—and when they do, I execute a victory pirouette and shotgun a frosty glass of agave lemonade (page 133).

Is there anything better than having older sisters? When Kathy and Suzi left for college in Northern California, we younger sisters were shipped off for monthlong summer visits. With Kathy, days were spent ripping around in her Honda sedan, blasting Prince, popping doughnut holes by the bucketful, and making emergency stops at Contempo Casual. After we blew our babysitting money on stretch pants, we’d head over to Suzi’s and rehab our sugar hangovers by getting back to nature. We’d raft down to the grocery store (seriously) and take leisurely bike rides. Suzi’s pantry was stuffed with strange cereals (where were the neon-purple pieces?), whole-wheat pancake mix, and blueberry muffins. Bridget immediately went on a hunger strike, while I snuck snacks in the laundry room, discovering this new world of health-minded food. I quickly fell for the blueberry muffin, and it’s been a close friend ever since. What follows is my version—it’s light and sweet and I think you’ll find it perfect for nearly every occasion.

In my more rebellious stages, I wouldn’t have touched a zucchini muffin with a 10-foot spiked-leather glove. But as Black Sabbath tendencies have given way to Doobie Brothers practices, this comforting spiced muffin has become a staple. By adjusting the amount of zucchini, you can alter the loaf’s moisture. For a lighter bread, reduce the zucchini by 1/2 cup. (Before you do, though, keep in mind that this versatile vegetable is rich in potassium, which keeps muscles strong, regulates blood pressure, and mellows anxieties—it’s something we could all do with a little more of.)

When customers started requesting pumpkin-spice recipes, I turned to my brother Danny, the McKenna clan’s resident Halloween expert and culinary school graduate. Danny’s rule: The flavor of a pumpkin purée must be nutty and rich without being overly spicy or dense. Ever the pragmatist, and much to Danny’s purist chagrin, I find that canned pumpkin purée is surprisingly flavorful and far more convincing than other canned vegetables. Sorry, Danny, but it’s true.

To many, ginger is synonymous with either the flabby pink shavings plopped beside a sushi roll or the too-sweet soda you were given on your sickbed. For years, I snubbed the root on those grounds, but after opening the bakery, I quickly found I was in the minority. Here’s the thing you need to remember about baking with ginger: It needs a sidekick, or even two. For me, a subtle peach, baked to sweet surrender, is the ideal complement to ginger’s perfumy heat. For this recipe, corn bread is the naturally sweet and grainy foundation.