Anne Byrn: Between the Layers

ON A WALKING TRIP AROUND the Dingle Way in Ireland recently, I encountered a summer dessert called Eton Mess. It was a parfait in a glass goblet with layers of whipped cream, crumbled meringue, and sliced strawberries sweetened with only enough sugar to draw out their juices. If I hadn’t lived for a bit in England I might have thought it the summer desse…

WHY DO FRUIT PRESERVES taste better in Paris? And is it possible to go back someplace that once meant something to you and experience that same wonder again? These were two questions swirling around in my head in late May when I returned to Paris four decades after being a cooking school student there.

SOMETIMES GREAT RECIPES ARE born out of inspiration, but I will bet most of the time they come from desperation. Such is the case this week as my family is vacationing in the mountains at an annual adventure away with limited phone, internet, and the amenities of a home kitchen. But when someone is celebrating a birthday, you bake cake, right? And it just so happens that the one we were feting is from South Carolina and loves SC peaches. A cast iron skillet was already on the packing list.

Refrigerator Cucumber Salad. IT’S HOT ENOUGH IN NASHVILLE to fry an egg on the sidewalk, as old-timers used to say. And in four days we will be celebrating America’s big birthday with fireworks, hot dogs, and humidity. I know for certain we’ll be sizzling at these events because an insane heat wave has swept through the South. And while it might not be on the tragic scale that Europe is experiencing, it’s enough to send me to a fainting couch with a large paper fan and a glass of lemonade.

Flag cake. Photo: Danielle Atkins. PACK A RAINCOAT IF YOU VISIT western Ireland. It’s where locals know how to make the most of a rare sunny day and can get quite philosophical about what that has to do with life. In the Dingle peninsula to the west, where I recently spent a week hiking, you walk on in spite of pelting rain and wind. And when the sun fina…

LAST SUMMER I WAS TEACHING A COOKING class on cobblers and baking not only a lovely peach cobbler but a double-crust blackberry one, too. The night before the class, my granddaughter walked into the kitchen where I was rubbing butter into flour for the pastry and asked if she would get to taste the blackberry crumble after my talk. “It’s a blackberry cobbler I’m making,” I gently corrected her. Then she repeated: “Will I get to taste the blackberry crumble, Nene?” Why argue with a six year old?

I’VE BEEN WORKING ON a new cookbook and, as usual, have too many recipes. It’s painful to comb through the recipes—appetizers through desserts, plus jams plus ice cream—with a scalpel. On one hand, it makes sure every recipe in the finished book is a winner. On the other hand, I run the risk of offending someone. This book is on Southern cooking, and take …

Edna Lewis. Photo: John T. Hill, courtesy of Alfred A. Knopf. WHEN I MET CHEF AND COOKBOOK AUTHOR Edna Lewis in the late 1980s at Middleton Place, along the Ashley River north of Charleston, she was tall, silver-haired, elegant, and unpretentious. She spoke with a sweet but distinguished voice.

A SMALL POSITIVE THAT CAME OUT of the pandemic, besides having family back at home, was baking bread. I finally took the time to bake and show others how to make challah, one of my favorites. No surprise that Japanese milk bread with its tall ascent in the pan and soft, squishy interior has been on my to-bake list as well.

PEOPLE AROUND ME AT THE AIRPORT gate are scarfing down hot, dripping breakfast sandwiches, but I’m thinking nostalgically about the blueberry muffins I baked the night before. I’m on my way to Austin to speak at the Bullock Texas State History Museum about great American cakes, and I’m wishing I had packed one of those muffins in my purse.