The chorus of birdsong starts up every morning around 5 AM. It’s loud enough to wake me up until I close the window and, yawning, fall back to sleep. The backyard is becoming more lush with every passing day—purple day lilies bloom beside the raised beds and a climbing bush with flowers the delicate blush pink of the inside of a seashell has taken over the back corner of the fence. The smell of fresh mint (which grows rampant among the flower beds) and just-cut grass hangs in the air. Bright green hydrangea bushes are poised for their moment, the buds still tightly curled like tiny closed fists. But I know what splendor lies within: violent bursts of color that erupt suddenly in late June like fireworks.
It’s deeply peaceful to stand in the thick grass, listening to the hum and whir of insects in high summer. I can see a slice of water just across the street: I’m close enough that in under a minute I can be sitting on the dock with my legs swinging over the cool, calm surface of the water.
I’ve lived for years in cramped New York City apartments with kitchens small enough that you could pivot from one end to the other without moving your feet. Having more space to cook now gives me great pleasure, and particularly because this kitchen is open and sunny and walled only by glass, giving the sensation that one is almost standing outside.
The burners on the stove here run too hot; I’m forever scorching the bottom of my pans and I’ve largely given up on trying to prevent this. There’s a beautiful spot of light by the sink where I like to take photos of particularly good meals—to remind myself of them, to record and broadcast a bit of pleasure, to turn something ordinary into art.
Last night I boiled pasta (I used the Sfoglini spacatelli because I take great joy in unusual pasta shapes, as we all should), then stirred in a cup of spinach-walnut pesto that I’d frozen a month or so ago. I sliced a few sausages (cooked quickly on the grill) into the pasta and called it dinner.
For dessert I ate the last few crumbs of my mom’s chocolate almond biscotti, along with some strawberry chia pudding. I make the pudding in glass Mason jars with this ratio:
one can coconut milk + one pint strawberries, hulled and halved + 2 tablespoons maple syrup or honey + pinch of salt + 1/3 cup chia seeds — toss it all in a blender and pulse until the berries are pureed
(If you use full-fat canned coconut milk, and you find it’s very thick, add up to 1/2 cup milk of your choosing. I often use almond. The pudding should be thicker than liquid but not spoonable — it’ll thicken as it sits.)
When summer rains arrive, they drum down loudly on the skylight above me and water streams down the windows on all sides. On those sticky, stormy days, I like to bake.
My desire—and time for—baking ebbs and flows in spurts; sometimes I go weeks without it, instead eating ice cream and whole-milk yogurt with gingery almond butter for dessert, leaning on my stash of frozen sourdough loaves for my breakfast toast.
Then I recall the smell of warm butter mingling with cinnamon and sugar, the musty-sweet taste of cardamom in batter. The smooth elasticity of bread dough under the heel of my hand. The way raw sugar makes a crackly crust on top of banana bread and how sourdough discard—loosened with a bit of water and cooked in a hot skillet like a pancake—tastes almost cheesy.
And I bake again. I reach for the carton of jumbo eggs from the farm down on Cox Lane. For the bag of bittersweet Belcolade chocolate wafers I keep in the freezer. For all-purpose flour and baking soda and vanilla extract (hot tip: if you run out, substitute a tablespoon of rum).
I remember something and start to rummage in the pantry cupboard, pushing aside a sleeve of Lundenberg rice cakes and glass jars of tiny black lentils and farro and malted milk powder and a container of nutritional yeast that’s gotten wedged between a packet of tuna and a tin of pastel pink sprinkles. Hidden behind a bottle of tamari, I find it: a dusty can of almond paste.
Why almond paste? Who even uses almond paste? What is it for?
Glad you asked. Almond paste is one of the best things a baker could stock—once I discovered the recipe archives of the Odense almond paste website (a brand I like, but I also like Love n’ Bake and Solo if you can find those), I never looked back. You can add almond paste to…well, almost anything. Swap it in for some of the butter in a baking recipe, and voila, you’ve got a much better version of a cake, or a muffin, or a scone, or a cookie.
I’ve tried it in all sorts of things: I’ve rolled it out thinly into a disc and placed it inside a pie crust under the filling for an almond apple pie. I’ve added it to banana bread and cinnamon scones and brownies and waffle batter.
And today: almond paste chocolate chip cookies. I consider these a love child of an almond croissant and a chocolate chip cookie. The almond flavor isn’t strong; in fact, if I didn’t tell you it was there, you might not be able to identify it. But it makes a wonderfully chewy cookie with a very excellent flavor. It’s like a regular chocolate chip cookie on steroids: replacing some of the butter with the almond paste makes the dough sturdier, but also means that instead of all butter flavor (rich and creamy), you get a little bump of almond (savory, nutty, and also just as rich).
Try it! I will also say that the dough is exceptionally good, although obviously I’m supposed to say “don’t eat raw cookie dough” because safety, etc. But we all live on the edge sometimes, don’t we?
Note: These are called chocolate chip cookies, and as with any CCC recipe, you can use chips or chunks or wafers or chopped chocolate. I prefer a mix of these, because you get more bits of chocolate that way: some pools, some chunks, some ribbons.
Almond Paste Chocolate Chip Cookies
Makes 2 dozen cookies
8 ounces (198g) almond paste
1 cup (226g) butter, softened
1/2 cup (99g) granulated sugar
1/2 cup (106g) brown sugar
2 eggs
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 1/2 cup (300g) all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 cups (340g) semisweet or dark chocolate chips, wafers, or chunks
flaky sea salt, for finishing (optional)
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Chop the almond paste up into small pieces. Add the almond paste to a large bowl with the butter. Cream until light and fluffy and well-combined.
Add sugars and mix well. Add the eggs, one at a time, and the vanilla extract, and mix until smooth and well-combined.
Whisk together the flour, baking soda, and salt, and add to the wet ingredients. Stir until just combined.
Stir in the chocolate.
Drop the dough in heaping spoonfuls onto parchment-lined baking sheets. Sprinkle the tops with flaky sea salt (optional!).
Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, or until the cookies are just turning golden brown on the edges and still feel and look soft on top.
Remove from the oven and let cool for a few minutes on the pan before transferring to a wire rack to finish cooling.