Nova Clutch

The gray cupcake

I am almost getting bored of all the cupcake places opening on every corner. New Yorkers love to find the the best of something; the best hot chocolate, the best hot dog, the best pizza (yes I know Michele, you think it's Gonzo) and the best cupcakes are a favorite to expound on. So when one of our students said she was going to work on a cupcake place, we were somewhat dubious.

Crystal Bruner realized how many cutesy cupcake places there were out there, a pretty pretty land where sprinkles and brightly colored flowers abound. And she knew that she had to differentiate if her brand was going to stand out. Naming her cupcake shop Miscakes, her concept was that her cupcakes were not perfect, and not pretty. They celebrated the different, the rejects, the mistakes.

She designed a range of different cakes, but my favorite is definitely the gray cake. A mistake because it is all the colors blended together instead of a perfect yellow or chocolate, but an undoubtedly vanilla flavor, that doesn't match up to its aesthetic persona. It is gray inside and out, from its fluffy innards to its frosty icing, yet as vanilla as the yellowest vanilla cake. It may mess with your mind, but it supports her carefully thought-out tagline "it still tastes good".

Thanks to Crystal for letting me photograph (and eat) her comp!

Burgers and malted milkshakes

There are unifiying foods that everyone eats, from the Attorney General to the common criminal. Stefan believes that it's pizza but I disagree. From blue bloods to red states, ketchup is the great equalizer.

And the caliber of your ketchup affects the caliber of what you're putting it on. So the first night of eating on the deck was inaugurated with an all American cookout sans Mrs Heinz's legacy. Quarter pounder burgers with an array of different condiments from the good people at Sparky's, friends of ours and esteemed ketchup makers. Ther ketchup is sweet, tomatoey spiced goodness and to top it all off, is entirely homemade. Which, of course, gets me every time. No high fructose corn syrup, weird chemicals or political agenda.

We accompanied the burgers, resplendent with the homemade ketchup, gorgonzola and brioche buns, with sweet potato fries. Well they weren't really fried, but baked and sprinkled with chopped scallions. I know. Whatever, I'm not American, I don't need to stick to the rules.

We finished the meal off with my obsession's version of a malted milkshake, and Lord, was it good. It's a complicated preparation that I think could be simplified, but it is worth it. You make a chocolate syrup, fold in more chocolate and some cream and then blend it with malt and ice cream. You then top with malted whipped cream. Complete indulgence but, I feel, quite necessary to wash down a good burger.

Sunday slow food – lamb and chocolate

On Sunday I had no idea that on my birthday, the next day, I would be whisked off to a castle to eat a surprisingly excellent meal and drink a lot in the process. I had no idea that I would find myself in Hudson or get this or this. I had no idea.

So I settled in on a very rainy day, post an amazing brunch at Moto, with T and M, sleeves up, and ready to cook. I had a load of lamb that needed to be cooked and I also, coincidentally, had a big clay pot that I had lugged back from Brazil. And it needed some rainy day slow cooking.

And my God did it rain. And we cooked, and we cooked and we cooked. The lamb was cooked in half a bottle of Barbera d'Asti, carrots, pancetta and celery, for 5 hours on a low heat. The pot is amazing; huge, heavy and insulated like any building is outside of New York City.

And while the lamb bubbled, the three of us toiled over the dessert. A perfect, crumbly chocolate pastry blind baked in tiny cases. A caramel tempered with crème fraîche, cream and butter. A bittersweet ganache to offset the sweetness of the caramel. All topped with a sprinkle of Maldon salt. We couldn't help eating it as we went along. The lamb was soaked up with the flavor of all its neighbors it nestled with in the clay pot and the caramel tarts were complex and droolworthy. If I had known how much I was going to eat this week, perhaps I would been more reticent. But perhaps that's just the kind of year it's going to be.

Cabernet Franc

Imagine the surprise of walking into the newly revamped Chelsea Wine Vault, only to find Dorigo Cabernet Franc on sale as part of their "Top-ten Wines of the Month" promotion. Imagine the horror of seeing this charming, surprising Fruilano wonder blasphemously labeled "The Burger Wine of the Month!!". Poor, underrated Cabernet Franc. The varietal we are used to seeing blended, but - when cultivated with love and tenderness - transforms into something altogether luscious, warm and spicy on its own.

This is a wine not uncharacteristic of the region from which it stems - that is to say, it's not an easy wine. I wouldn't even venture into "crowd pleaser" territory, but it's worth the trip outside one's comfort zone. It's refined on the nose, and bizarre on the palette at first blush. Dark berries over liquorice, with a touch of herbs. Chalky minerality the speaks of the rocky, volcanic soil in which it grows, and capped by a velvety, intelligent finish.

Girolamo Dorigo is an amazing producer. They offer some rarified varietals such as Schioppettino, Refosco dal Peduncolo Rosso (namesake of my red Betta fish) and Tazzelenghe (which means, in dialect, "cut tongue") - with razor-sharp tannins that are somehow infinitely pleasurable and balanced. For the uninitiated. Dorigo offers a little clue on each of his labels: those with the wine barrel icon indicate that the wine was aged in barrique - if that is to your liking.

I have a soft spot in my heart for this Cab Franc - meant to be appreciated, lingered over and paired with witty conversation. I can always count on Natasha and Michael for that.

Wine: 2003 Girolamo Dorigo Cabernet Franc, Colli Orientali Del Friuli, Italia
Varietal: 100% Cabernet Franc
Recommended Pairings: Meat dishes, tomato-based pastas or heavenly all on its own. Case-purchase worthy.

Silkscreened tshirt

When graphic design students graduate, a lot of them think they will make their living silk-screening tshirts. They'll start off selling them on the streets of SoHo, hand screening each one, and soon graduate to the boutiques of NoLita. Then some rich guy will spot them and they will make their fortune and never have to do a "New & Improved!" burst again.

Well M and I always try to push our students' hopes higher, and here I am, silk-screening onto tshirts. But I'm not selling them! I'm just making my loved one walk around in them, telling rich guys that I printed them.

Latte ice cream

I'm not a fan of the latte-clutching fanatics that sustain Starbucks and use the term "grande", glued to the Blackberry when they accidently find themselves at the local coffee shop. Which makes me reticent to use the word "latte" to describe this ice cream, but I guess that's what it is. Two double shots of espresso and steamed milk. I think I could have done with a little less coffee (it made the ice cream slightly icy), but this ice cream is amazing when made into a milkshake, if a little wrong. Well a lot wrong, if you know what's in it like I do, but damn fine all the same.

Caju, where cashews come from

Hands up – who knows? Who knows where cashew nuts come from? A prize to the one that does, and googling it doesn't count.

I admit it. I did not know where cashews come from. I hadn't even thought about it. They probably grow like a peanut, right? Wrong. They grow in a hard nut shell on the top of a fruit the size and shape of a bell pepper. One nut per fruit. That's right, you heard me correctly. One nut per fruit.

And they're tasty little buggers too. The skin of the fruit is a little chewy, but very flavorful, juicy to the point of spilling out onto your hands and almost citrus-like in flavor, although that's almost non-sensical because the texture is so different. In fact, it's so flavorful that those dear, dear Brazilians make caipirinhas out of it. Bless 'em. I guess you have to find something to do with all that leftover fruit.

Just like Grandma

The one thing I had as a child that I really loved (I had a fair few things, I was a brat) was a book my grandmother made. She made me a lot of things actually, mainly stuffed patchwork dogs, and I'm not quite sure how she did it. She had eighteen or more grandchildren, spread all over the world, and she found the time and energy to make something for all of us. The book she made me taught me how to count, learn the alphabet, tie a shoelace and tell the time. Quite an achievement for one handmade book.

So I wanted to make one for Stef's little boy. I hand sewed each page on the train, stabbing my fingers a few times when the train jerked and suffering the stares of people wondering what the hell I was doing. The results, I have to admit, are not as comprehensive as my Grandma's, and I wasn't baking a cake at the same time like she was no doubt doing, but hopefully they achieve the same results: complete literacy at the turn of a felt page. OK, that didn't happen, but boy, can that child count!

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Star Wars sketch book

I love making books, and my friend's little boy is a joy to make them for.

Now I'm not a fan, but he loves Star Wars and turns any nearby stick into a lightsaber. So I decided to make him a book with drawings of Star Wars characters mixed with official photographs, with some fairies thrown in for good measure. The sketches were drawn by hand and then scanned in and the pages were printed on cotton to give it some texture (and make sure the pages didn't rip). I then bound the book by sewing the edges roughly with hot pink thread. The result is a delicate little book that's nigh on indestructible.

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Cherimoya a.k.a custard apple

I had custard apples growing up, but I have no idea how my mum found them in Birmingham. They were normal for her, being from Sri Lanka, and we were used to strange food turning up in the house. So I was excited to see them in the green market in Copacabana on my last Sunday in Brazil. It looks a little like a artichoke whose spines have melted into its body and its flesh is soft and custardy with a hint of pineapple. The seeds are shiny and black, and really rather pretty. All in all, a lovely fruit that you can find in the USA, which I intend to do quite soon.