Dinner at Jaine's

JUMP TO THE RECIPE Baba de Moça is a Brazilian egg yolk custard with a shameless, vivid yellow hue, bright as a Brazilian day. It is traditional, a little vintage (which I love), and once upon a time it was a true hit, served in individual cups or used as the filling in dramatic birthday cakes. A birthday party with a Baba de Moça cake was a fancy birthday party! Brazilians adore an extravagant cake, and this one made a point of being large.

or, affectionately, Cornucopia Cake Salé Cakes are magical, yes, because they’re good to eat. But also because baking is a strangely rewarding form of control. You follow a set of rules: mise en place, measure, preheat, cream, emulsify, fold, rest (or not), bake, test, cool, finish. In return, you’re given something extraordinary, made with mostly ordinary things. For my neurodivergent brain, that trade feels like mercy. Baking, especially cakes, makes a whole thing.

À brasileira Sem glúten e sem açúcar adicionado PULE PARA A RECEITA Eu já faço essa receita há alguns anos, e apesar de não lembrar de onde ela me surgiu, eu sei muito bem porque ela permaneceu. Os ingredientes, muitos simples e sempre dos que eu tenho no armário e geladeira, se combinam para formar um bolo de coisas que, em pensamento, raramente fariam um bolo tão gostoso. Eu não gosto muito de ter “segredos” em receitas, mas é inegável que essa receita de fato, tem um pequeno segredo.

JUMP TO THE RECIPE We didn’t have clothing stores in the village where I grew up. Once a year, at a very specific time, as if granted a single wish, my mom, my dad, and I would make a pilgrimage out of the forest: 250 miles in roughly 18 hours (when the weather was good), just to reach town. This trip was usually around the holidays, when the trip could be folded into a family visit, and nobody would feel bad about driving so far just to shop.

PULE PARA A RECEITA Se você gosta das minhas receitas com gosto de saudade, inscreva-se deixando seu e-mail na caixinha abaixo para nunca perder uma! Embora o morango não pertença à terra brasileira, certas passagens da minha infância têm, invariavelmente, o perfume doce e a acidez leve dessa fruta. Bastava o vislumbre de uma torta vitrinada, coroada por morangos tenros e gordinhos de suco, para que os olhos brilhassem.

JUMP TO THE RECIPE If you have spent any time doomscrolling wandering the culinary corners of the internet these past few years, you have likely encountered the beautiful and frothy emerald of our Brazilian Lemonade. I have watched, with a mix of amusement and a certain pride, won't lie, as it transformed from a childhood staple of mine into a “viral” (oh, how I loathe that word) short-video phenomenon.

I am not much of a brownie baker. The homemade version never seems to land quite right—either leaning too cakey or becoming overly rich. I always find myself returning to the box, which was my introduction to brownies when I first moved to the States. There is a touch of nostalgia in that choice, I think; a boxed brownie tastes, to me, like the very beginning of my American dream. When I do pull a box from the pantry, I play with the liquid.

JUMP TO THE RECIPE This mid-century style "savory cake" is a fantastic thing: a collision of the sharp, vinegary snap of the filling and the heavy, comforting weight of a cream of some sort that coats the whole thing in a most elegant way. Torta Fria—or, as it is known in some corners of Brazil, Sanduichão, which rather amusingly translates to “big sandwich”—takes center stage in South American celebrations.

JUMP TO THE RECIPE It pains me to admit I have never set foot in Italy. I have this space in my heart reserved for Italy, or rather, for the Italy of my fascinations, where the light, oh the light, falls in that particular, syrupy way across their tables. You know what I mean? I had imagined that by my thirties, I would be gloriously well-traveled, a true globetrotter, but lately my ambitions have shrunk to the humble hope of being safe in one country. And I wouldn’t dare complain.

There’s a saying in Brazil that the year (or life, for that matter) doesn’t really begin until after Carnaval. I have always loved the beautiful Latino maximalism of that statement. Because I think that Carnaval, one of our grandest celebrations, arrives like a collective exhale after the long procession of end-of-year festivities that somehow spill into January. When you think about it, it makes perfect sense. The year stretches itself a little longer before beginning again.