This blog has seen better days.

There once was a vision for this pavlova. It was imagined as an elegant confection that would pay tribute to the very ballerina the dessert was named after. I’d stud the top with blueberries and glassy candied lemons, just as jewels and embroidery embellished the dancer’s costumes.

But then I ended up with this. It wasn’t quite what I had in mind.

I drew attention to each of its imperfections by piling on garnish after garnish in vain attempts to fix it. A haphazard spackle of boozed-up whipped cream, studs of blueberries and limp candied lemons do not an elegant dessert make. Especially if the candied lemons actually frown.

The fact that it’s delicious is the only reason I haven’t had my culinary degree revoked. But it’s hard to appreciate its taste when it looks like it took a head-first dive into the floor.

You’d think after all that, I’d have chucked it in the trash, stat. But here’s part one of two embarrassing confessions: It’s still in my refrigerator. Did I mention I made this three weeks ago?

For the past three weeks, I’ve noticed that its sides are falling and the blueberries have started fuzzing over, but for the most part, it still looks exactly the way it did when I made it (which as we all know, isn’t saying much). This thing is industrial. Its determined to keep itself together.

Which brings me to part two of two embarrassing parts: I can’t bring myself to toss it, because I keep thinking of ways to save it, even though I know it’s practically feral. And every time I open the refrigerator door, I think, if I could be as determined as this dessert, man, would I be a force to be reckoned with. But then I think, have I really just compared myself to a meringue?

Yeah, OK. I’ll throw it out.

(Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe)
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I always thought that any grilled sandwich with at least a 2:1 ratio of cheese to meat/veggies/etc. could be correctly defined as a grilled cheese. Currently 44 percent of voters on Serious Eats disagree. To this majority, grilled cheese is nothing more than bread, cheese and heat. Are they right?

Think of Campanile’s Grilled Cheese Night, and how it might offend this group of purists with it’s weekly nightmare of “grilled cheese” dishes like burrata with capers, both versions of Croque and Ahi tuna. None of these fit the literal meaning of grilled cheese as defined by this group. (I picture the purists huddled in a picketing pack outside of the restaurant, holding signs depicting sandwiches with big red Xs drawn through them.)

If we continue accepting only literal meanings, then many playful spins on certain culinary words wouldn’t quite work. Any reference of the word “steak” that doesn’t apply to actual meat would be wrong (one example that comes to mind is Marcel’s watermelon steak with tomatoes on season 2 of “Top Chef”). I’d also argue that the only true grilled cheese is just the cheese itself, like a grilled Halloumi or queso fundido. Being rigid in definitions takes the fun out of creating new dishes, doesn’t it?

Serious Eats reader Pavlov sums it up best with his comment: “A grilled cheese is whatever I say it is!”

That’s perfect. A grilled cheese is defined by whatever you say it is. It can be classic or have all the bells and whistles of a Campanile grilled cheese.

So today, my definition of grilled cheese has marinated onions, Dijon mustard and skirt steak — a personal homage to my favorite offering on Campanile’s menu. If you’re inclined, you can serve it with watermelon steaks for a truly non-literal meal.

(Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe.)

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By far, the recipe on this blog that’s received the most attention is the one for s’mores cupcakes. And why not? They’re certainly eye-pleasing, and they contain all of the essential campfire ingredients minus the “Survivor”-esque wilderness trek (an experience that’s harrowing for some, I’m sure).

Anyhow, in that particular post, I mentioned that the frosting can be used as a crème with strawberries or peach slices for a twist on the fruit ‘n cream concept. Forgive me if I’m drilling this idea into your memory by ways of yet another mention, but I really must insist. Especially when strawberries are involved.

When you pair strawberries and marshmallow crème (and we’re not talking the jarred marshmallow stuff), you’re getting two kinds of sweet. From the strawberry, there’s the light, floral sweetness the fruit tends to yield when fully ripe. The marshmallow crème offers more of an unnatural sweetness, like the stuff that was in the potent candy you used to be addicted to when you were a kid. It’s a fantastic combination, especially for those of us trying hard to keep our childlike qualities with every facial wrinkle we earn. These little nuggets of heaven satisfy both our inner kids and the grown-ups we’ve become.

Now, I don’t mean to wax poetic about marshmallow strawberries (because it makes me sound, and feel, like a total weirdo), but I can’t seem to better explain why I really love these little treats. So here’s the simple version of what I’m trying to say: They’re just awesome.

I call them tortured strawberries, because you do have to torch them, albeit very lightly. But they don’t look the least bit tortured, do they? They look kind of snug, all swaddled into little pillowy bundles. I bet they actually like being torched. Perhaps they would be willing to suffer even more agony by a sprinkling of crushed Oreo cookies or a drizzling of caramel. The possibilities are far too much for me to handle right now.

On second thought, perhaps the one being tortured in all of this is me.

(Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipe)

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Hey all: Here’s a recent column of mine that ran in The Orange County Register’s print edition. It can’t be found online, so here it is. Thanks for reading!

Summer in a sip
Not quite as sweet as fruit juice and more refreshing than lemonade, agua fresca is a tried-and-true summertime sipper.

By CYNTHIA FUREY
Special to the Register

My first memory of agua fresca was at a Sea World, where the large, 10-gallon-sized glass pitchers gleamed like jewels in the sun, with every color of the rainbow. It was hard to pick one.

If it makes sense, you still want to taste the water, which is like the refreshing agent in the drink. You will capture the essence of the fruit with just a tad of sugar, so that the drink doesn’t resemble KoolAid and instead is refreshing, almost feeling like you’re doing something good.

The following recipes are simple, all you will need is a 2-quart pitcher, a strainer and a blender. You can easily swap out different herbs for each drink as well. Serve immediately, as the pureed fruit will settle at the bottom. Recipes can easily be doubled, but may have to be done in batches depending on the size of your blender.

They are a little light for adding alcohol, but may benefit from a splash of Prosecco or sparkling wine. The key is to not overdo it, because the agua fresca is such a subtle taste, you run the risk of overpowering it. The addition of lime juice in each recipe perks it up just a bit. (Click on “Read the rest of this entry” for recipes.)

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