We’ve been doing a lot of cooking over here in this little corner of the world, in a neighborhood that locals are proud to call “Nordeast.” We’ve candied ginger, roasted poblano peppers, stuffed burgers, and patted out chapattis. We’ve simmered mango with onion for chutney and whisked yogurt with cucumber for raita. We’ve grilled chicken basted with grape glaze and corn smothered in crema and cotija and cayenne, pickled cucumbers and peppers in sweet, salty brine and drizzled berry pancakes with ginger syrup.
All of this since the last post.
I realize that it sounds a little ridiculous and far-fetched for one person to have the time involved for such things, or at least I would have thought so up until three weeks ago. However, there are three factors working perfectly together to allow for such indulgences: time, three like-minded housemates, and a backyard garden.
I admit that I have always considered cooking to be eminently therapeutic. My favorite way to wind down is to spend an hour or more at the stove. I deem it mandatory after a particularly irksome day. Recently, due to the circumstances mentioned earlier, I am getting a much-welcomed healthy dose of culinary therapy.
Oh, and I also get to spend time with old friends who keep me grounded and say wise things like this: “Self-reflection, although sometimes necessary, is a real bitch.”
I think of summer as a time of reflection.
This time of year, raspberry bushes are practically overflowing with fruit. N and T’s backyard fence is almost fully lined with bushes on one side, and we’re really not permitted to consider a recipe that doesn’t include ‘em. I mean, why would we when we’ve got them nearly by the gallon ready and willing, almost pleading to be used? When two-thirds of the household came down with an unfortunate bout of illness over the 4th of July Weekend, one with a virus resembling the flu and the other with strep, we decided on three things to make our bodies, minds, and throats feel better: chicken soup, mimosas, and raspberry creamsicles, respectively. Although that nasty virus kept me from watching fireworks on Sunday, there was no way in hell it would keep me between raspberries, cream, and the resulting tasteful bliss when the two are layered together in frozen form. (I question these priorities all the time).
This recipe will take you a total of 6 hours to complete, or 2 hours for each of the 3 layers, if you follow it step by step. You could of course skip any of the layers for a simpler recipe, or if you have restrictions with dairy. I, for one, will probably stick to an all raspberry-cream pop next time. For me, the cream outshines everytime.
Maybe it was the taste of these that made us feel better, maybe it was the mid-afternoon buzz from the champagne, or maybe it was fit of laughter that ensued because of the finished product. In any case, it was a remedy that worked.
taken from Recipe Goldmine
Makes approximately 8 servings
1 pint raspberries
½ cup granulated sugar
1 ¼ cup water
½ cup cream
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 cup vanilla yogurt
Popsicle molds, waxed paper cups, or plastic shot glasses
Blend raspberries with water and sugar. Pour mixture through a sieve to catch the seeds. This should give you about 2 cups of smooth raspberry pulp.
Divide the 2 cups equally into 3 separate bowls. These bowls will be the 3 separate layers.
Top Layer: Mix in cream with raspberry puree in first bowl until well incorporated.
Middle Layer: Mix in lemon juice with raspberry puree in second bowl.
Set first two bowls in refrigerator to chill.
Bottom Layer: Mix in yogurt with raspberry puree in third bowl. Pour this mixture into mold of choice about 1/3 of the way full. Cover the mold with foil and poke a popsicle stick straight through the center of the foil and the yogurt. Freeze until set, about 2 hours.
Remove the foil and pour the middle layer about 2/3 of the way full. Freeze again until set, about another 2 hours.
Lastly, pour the top layer to the brim and freeze until solid.
*Run warm water around the outside of the molds for a few seconds to release
Best when eaten outside, where the melted ice can run down your arms and chin freely like it should.