It’s September and my life is all pumpkin, all the time. I would probably straight up eat the Great Pumpkin if it dared to come to my house.

It began with the annual announcement that Starbuck’s was bringing back their Pumpkin Spice lattes. That’s usually the first rumbling of pumpkin mania: internet food people reported waiting 20+ minutes for their coffee as squash crazies flooded into the stores. (Starbucks.)

In college, we used to call my friend Claire the DPBG — the Double Pumpkin Bar Girl — for getting seconds every time the bars were available in the dining hall. But secretly… I was one too. Sorry for making fun of you, Claire.

The last time I made pumpkin bars was probably more than three years ago, holy shit. Three years just might be my recipe cycle — I might be due to make Banh Pate Chaud sometime soon, then. And I think it takes some maturity to know when to ask for help; so I consulted with the Amateur Gourmet’s archives, which always have pretty decent renditions. Adam Roberts’ recipe is here! All I did was add golden raisins, craisins, and sunflower seeds to the cake. And I subbed in a trickle of honey for the confectioner’s sugar in the frosting. Also walnuts.

I had leftover dough in the freezer and apples, so I just threw together another tart this afternoon. My apple slice fanning and knifework are getting better, I think! Both very useful skills probably.

So I met this guy, we hit it off, and I’m basically crushin’ on him really hard. To be honest, the whole dating thing is really difficult for me. I’m terrible at selling myself, especially if I like the person I’ve met. In order to mask my acute insecurities and myriad personal inadequacies, I decided to seal the deal by making him dinner. Thank god for gourmet food goggles.

The first course was a simple plate of raw Hakurei turnips sprinkled with some fennel-citrus salt. Hakureis are really sweet (for turnips, anyway) and are just perfect as a snacking vegetable. If I had a mandoline, I would have sliced them thin and served them like sashimi, but I don’t have one. And also, it’s not the ’00s anymore.

I served Smitten Kitchen‘s vegetarian mushroom bourguignon as the main course. I was kind of a cheapo and used organic white button mushrooms instead of portobellos or criminis, but it didn’t make a big difference. Since I got a cute little bag of chervil in my CSA share this week, I chopped up a bit of it and sprinkled it on top.

The pierogies are filled with a mixture of dino kale, Yukon Gold potatoes, caramelized onions, and more Hakurei turnips. Mushroom bourguignon is a nice departure from the traditional pierogi accompaniments of sour cream or applesauce, too. All I ever want is savory, savory, savory anyway. My date, who pretty much wiped his plate clean, seemed to agree. <3

Lastly, I served up Jacques Pepin’s apple tart for dessert. The crust, a pate brisée, turned out so flaky and crispy that one could probably eat the whole thing without silverware. The dessert was kind of a butter explosion, but it just tasted so good! Especially with fresh CSA apples. I’m not sure what variety they were, but they worked really well in this dish. (Sorry, I’m useless.)

Two posts in one day! Whooooa!

I just wanted to share the basic recipe for this compote, which is neither applesauce nor punch, thank you very much. In Russian, компот (kompot) is a drink made from an infusion of dried fruit, sugar and water, so my friend Natalie was all packed and ready for Disappointment City when I told her I was making compote. What I made was more like a fruit-based sauce, though the ingredients in my dish are pretty similar to what goes in hers. I found rhubarb growing wild on the streets of Grinnell and combined that with some frozen strawberries that the previous tenants of my apartment left behind.  Compote is probably not supposed to be as gloopy as mine, but fuck that because maybe I like eating things with the texture of ectoplasm!

Rhubarb-Strawberry Compote

• Rhubarb!
• Strawberries!
• Sugar!
• Water!
• Orange peel!

If the strawberries are frozen, throw them into your pan first. Over medium heat, I guess? Yeah, yeah! Let them melt down a bit, then throw the rhubarb, which you should chop up into 1-inch pieces, in along with the water, orange peel and sugar to taste. Let the entire concoction simmer for a while, at least long enough for the rhubarb to become tender. Let it cool and put it on all sorts of things like vanilla ice cream or oatmeal, or just eat it straight!

Last Friday was the Battle of the Bands at my school; a perfect time to make a cake based on a Louis Wain painting! I was supposed to make one for the Salon des Refuses the week before, but I was too drunk and lazy by the time I remembered. This week, I was just plain drunk! We gave the cake to my friend Daniel (pictured above) to cheer him up because he’s kind of crazy right now. And it worked! Hooray for art!

I should confess that I used Betty Crocker cake mix for this one — lame, I know. The most important thing for me was the frosting, which I did make. It was a buttercream frosting that I got from one of my housemates, who credited it to “Julia.” I’m not sure which Julia it is, but I have a good feeling. It turned out to be a great base for the decorations, which involved some strange frosting markers (?!), coconut shreds, pansies that we stole from the Grinnell Community Center’s front yard, sprinkles of various shapes, butterscotch Lifesavers, toothpicks and chocolate chips.

Good likeness, huh?

After the Battle, we shared the cake amongst all of the bands and concerts people. Everyone wins when there’s enough cake to go around!

All of a sudden, I have nothing to say. I can’t describe orange gummi bears; I can’t generate the words to elaborate upon just how wonderful I think they are. Instead, let me set a scene:

I am at the grocery store — McNally’s in Grinnell, IA — and I’m thinking, ‘Should I buy these gummi bears? I don’t think they’re very healt– oh, why the fuck not?’ I pay for my groceries and exit into a silent spring day. If it were Sunday, the town’s PA system would be playing creepy muzak right about now.

I walk a block to the park and sit down, dropping my bags at my feet. The bench where I am sitting is facing the flagpole before which the town’s police chief stood as he told us, “We have not identified the body as of this moment.” I rip open the bag of gummi bears to eat only the orange ones, and all of my memories of that day scatter like dandelion seeds.

Earlier in the week, Natalie had invited me to a party that was being held by the so-called Master Baker, an enigmatic figure whose baked goods are said to trigger orgasm and cure cancer at the same time. I was intrigued. We agreed to meet in Chinatown and stroll to the Master Baker’s apartment in TriBeCa from there.

I was late to our rendezvous — thanks to the capricious Q train — but met Natalie soon after I arrived. However, when she walked over I noticed that she was being followed by several tall, blonde people wearing backpacks. “They’re Dutch,” she said, “and they need our help.”

After depositing them at a nearby Vietnamese restaurant (Dank u wel!), we continued on our trip to the Master Baker’s abode. Lo and behold, a chill party awaited us! They were watching an absolutely terrible Australian zombie film and were doing shots of pear-flavored vodka. Natalie insisted that the Master Baker showcase her abilities, and she obliged by making almond tassies for us. Mind you, she and everyone else at the party were ridiculously drunk at this point. And they weren’t half bad, considering that she was wasted and we were all crowding the kitchen screaming, “I’M HELPING! I’M HELPING!!!”

Last night was special.