So here goes with the admission, and oooooooh man, even by my standards this is bad: for a few years now I’ve wanted to try my hand at making a big ol' honkin’ Christmas Cookie Tray. You know the sort—like the ones you see all wrapped up in cellophane in the kind of Italian bakeries that sell rum baba and pink leaves? Oh the unholy things I’ve done to a rum baba in my day....

The thing is, I know I can do it—I know I can, daily affirmation, I can do this thing, I have untapped reserves of inner strength—because, in news that will shock exactly none of you, I come from a long line of Italian bakers. My mother’s people came to this country and opened a bakery in New Haven. Her grandfather even made her wedding cake. But—until now—the notion of putting together an entire cookie tray—we’re talking a dozen+ types of cookies that need to be coordinated so that the tray has something for everyone and offers an aesthetically pleasing array of colors and shapes and sizes and CUE FREAK OUT—was terribly overwhelming to me. Until now.

You might have had this fear as well. And you might have similar challenges: my kitchen is the size of a postage stamp; I’m not exactly the least busy gal on the planet; and this kind of thing takes time and space but mostly it takes organization.

But! Organization is one area in which I truly shine. (Friends have recoiled in shock when I’ve opened my refrigerator to reveal the perfectly arranged items inside. I never miss a meeting or forget an engagement. My junk drawer is tidy. This is my handbag.)

Perhaps you are not so organized. So I did for you what any dementedly organized baker would do and I made a spreadsheet detailing exactly what I would put on the perfect cookie tray, and all the attendant details that go along. And it’s... I just... I think I’m going to let it speak for itself, okay.

Or view and even print from right here!

If you need me, I’ll be sitting in the corner rocking myself back and forth. In a perfectly linear manner.

Jolie Kerr wants to know about your favorite holiday cookie recipes. Tell us in the comments!

Photo by "Samdogs."

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Anyway, wanna learn how to make pesto muffins? I bet you do. Ready? You’re so ready.

STEP 1. DRY THINGS! In a large-ish bowl, stir together 2 cups of flour, 1 teaspoon of baking soda, 2 tablespoons grated parmesan, and a half-teaspoon each of garlic salt, onion powder and black pepper. If you don’t have those last three things you can leave them out or substitute other things or whatever, we’ll support your personal choices.

STEP 2. WET THINGS! In a smaller-ish bowl, whisk together (like with a fork? Or a whisk for the more literal-minded among us?) 1 cup of milk, 1 cup of plain yogurt (Greek yogurt is recommended here, but you go on and knock yourself out with that Dannon if that’s your thing), 1 egg and ¼ of a cup of pesto.

STEP 3. MARRIAGE EQUALITY! Form a union between wet and dry by mixing the wet ingredients into the dry. No, not the other way around. No. This is actually important, so just follow a direction for once in your life. Stir until things are incorporated but still kind of lumpy looking? Right, because we want tender muffins and stirring too much will yield a tough old bird of a muffin and who wants that? Pas moi.

Okay so that’s it really! Except oh right, we should bake these maybe?

STEP 4: THE OVEN! Get your oven to 400°. Get your hands on a muffin tin and either use paper liners or spray the thing down with PAM. [Ed Note. For the love of food, do not use Pam if you can help it, this is why the Lady God made butter, but yeah, sure, it's your life.] Fill the cups up about ¾ of the way full, put the tin in the oven and bake ‘em for, let’s say 18-20 minutes? Sure, let’s say that!

Once they’re done you could get really wild and serve them with compound butter—might I suggest sun-dried tomato as a nice flavor pairing?—or a lovely gazpacho or along side a fancy sort of salad or just eat the entire dozen while standing in front of your air conditioner in your underpants.

Now here comes the part where everyone on the Internet chimes in about how ze makes this great pesto with dandelion greens and pepitas and breast milk cheese and oh God RAMPS.

Jolie Kerr is just blown away by your novel pesto recipe!

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Anyway, why eat crushed ice with cough syrup on top when you can make yourself a perfectly lovely frozen treat at home with not much effort? Specifically, these lush, peachy, honeyed ice pops, from a recipe kindly provided by Nathalie Jordi of People’s Pops. And one standout benefit of making ice pops at home: You can spike 'em with booze if you want. (These particular pops go best with bourbon and are thus a great excuse to carry your Bourbon Day celebrations through the weekend.)

Peach Honey Chamomile Ice Pop (with Bourbon!)

4 tree-ripened yellow peaches (20 oz)

2 slightly soft white peaches 

1 bouquet fresh chamomile flowers
 (see substitution below)
2 fl oz (¼ cup) fresh honey

1 fl oz (2 tbsp) freshly squeezed lemon juice (½ small lemon)

a pinch of kosher salt
Optional: shot of liquor of your choice (Nathalie recommends bourbon)

Rinse, halve and pit two-thirds of the peaches, and puree (skin and all) until the mixture is almost smooth. Transfer to a container with a pouring spout and stir the honey, lemon juice, salt and three finely minced chamomile flowers in with the pureed peaches. Coarsely chop the remaining one-third of peaches and combine with puree. Add honey until you can taste it. (Note: Make pops a tad sweeter than you think. They lose a little sweetness after freezing.)

Pour the mixture into your ice pop molds (or Dixie cups!), leaving a little bit of clearance at the top for the expansion that occurs when liquids freeze. Insert sticks and freeze until solid, 4-5 hours. This will make ten delicious ice pops.

Let’s do this!

With the skin on, puree 2/3 of your sliced peaches. The remaining 1/3 will be added later. Add in the honey, lemon juice, salt and chamomile flowers.

My local farmer’s market did not have fresh chamomile flowers, so I used about ¾ of a chamomile teabag, which worked splendidly. If you're mincing fresh flowers yourself (go, you!), use the fineness of tea flowers as a reference point. Those who prefer less of an herb flavor may want to use half a teabag.

Stir in the remaining peach chunks. Some people are babies about texture and resist the idea of chunks of deliciousness in their food. Don't be afraid of the chunks! They're the best part when the pops are all done. Because peaches are in season, they retain a lot of their juiciness even after they’ve been frozen. Chunks. Do it.

After the mixture was made, I split it in two and poured a shot’s worth of bourbon into one of my containers. According to Nathalie, “as long as less than 20% of the pop comes from alcohol, it should freeze fine.” Next time I might add a bit more honey to the bourbon mix to compensate for the alcohol flavor.

Pour the mixture into molds, leaving a little room at the top for expansion. The recipe makes ten pops, though I only had enough for seven thanks to my novelty rocket molds.* Now just wait until they freeze, obviously.

All done! There you have it. A heavenly pop made from simple ingredients, sure to cool you down on a hot summer day.

* Fun fact about peaches: pureed, their color is vaguely fleshy! Less vaguely so when frozen. My rocket-shaped pops were obscene.

Emily Morris is a summer Awl reporter.

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One of the main ways she expressed these emotions, as is the case with all Italian grandmothers, was through food. She was a terrific cook, and barely a minute went by between meals without her foisting cake or pudding or snacks or something else she had just whipped up on us. (My somewhat robust physique these days may owe a debt to those childhood binges.) My favorite thing of all was something she only made once a year: tardelle. (The spelling on this is from the instructions she wrote out for my mother, so I cannot vouch for its accuracy; she pronounced it "TAR-deel." It is also known as struffoli.)

Italians are not famous for their desserts, but I could never get enough of this. It was one more thing that made Christmas seem special. Here's her recipe.

Ingredients
1 cup honey
Grated orange peel
Confectionery sprinkles [the small, round ones]
2 3/4 cups of flour
3 eggs
Pinch of salt
Oil for frying [I would go with something like peanut oil]

Place salted flour in bowl. Make a well. Beat eggs and pour into flour. Mix and then knead until it's like noodle dough. [Here she writes, "I'm sure you know noodle dough." You may not, so just work it until it's somewhat smooth and elastic.]

Roll a piece of dough into a long strip onto a floured board, round like a pencil, and cut into small pieces.

Fry a few pieces in hot oil 'til golden. Repeat with remaining pieces. Drain on toweling. [I love that she used the word "toweling."]

Heat honey [in a separate pan] with grated orange peel. Stack the tardelle in a pyramid on a large plate. Drizzle warm honey over tardelle. (Work quickly.) Add sprinkles. [Alternately, you can coat the tardelle in the saucepan you use to warm the honey, but my grandmother always though it made them harder to stack later, and the presentation is important.]

And that's it. This is slightly inexact, but if you've ever fried anything before you shouldn't have too many problems with it. The recipe is going to make more tardelle than anyone can eat in one sitting, but that's okay. They're best when they're fresh, but they're still great over the next couple of days, even when they start going a little stale. They will taste like unconditional love.

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We never had the kind of daylong Thanksgiving events I've come to know in my adulthood since the farm went under. The all-day social event. The football games. And the drinking. Good grief, the drinking. You don't tie one on during Thanksgiving knowing you have to get up and milk cows at 5:00 AM.

There isn't a lot to miss about dairy farm Thanksgiving but the green bean dish that was a staple of my grandmother's table was one thing. I've never seen it anywhere else. Then again, it will never be seen on a "Today Show" segment or be mentioned by Martha Stewart.

You will need:

12 cans of french cut string green beans (the cheaper the better)
3 boxes of Keebler Club crackers (not saltines)
6 sticks butter
1 can jellied cranberries

Drain the cans of beans and put them in a steaming colander. Steam the beans until piping hot and soft.

Melt the sticks of butter in a glass bowl (Microwave is fine).

Crush up the packs of crackers into small chunks. The chunks can be random sizes but not too small. Place all of the crackers into a large flat dish. Drizzle the melted butter over the crackers, making sure they are evenly coated. Do this within 20 minutes of starting supper.

Place the steamed green beans into a large bowl. Place all of the buttered cracker chunks on top, creating a layer of crackers over beans. Open the can of jellied cranberries and slide it out onto a small plate (making that rewarding sucking sound). Add a butter knife.

Serve.

The muted mushiness of the steamed green beans is perfectly balanced by the still-crunchy buttery warmth of the crackers. The mysterious delicious zest you taste is the flavor of a family eating well despite surviving on less than $24,000 a year.

Sure, this recipe is not going to get a Michelin rating. But then this scrumptious dish is for people who associate Michelin more with radials than restaurants.

Bib Gourmand? No thanks, I already have one.

Abe Sauer will have seconds, sure.

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The first thing that's going to strike her is the aroma. Your place will be filled with a deep, warm, earthy, intoxicating scent, and it will be so palpable that she'll want to hug it. This is where you'll want to interpose yourself, and a glass of Albariño.

This is how a fourth date should begin.

As the poet once said, "the way to make a friend into a lovah is to cook them up a dinner." And the time to make a friend into a lover is the fourth date.

Presumably, if you've gotten to the fourth date, you've already done several things well, including mastering the first kiss (and probably first base). You scored those Grizzly Bear tickets for Governor's Island. You introduced her to your favorite bar. Now it's time to get cookin'.

I guess what I'm saying is: this Spanish pork roast works wonders.

There are reasons not to trust me when it comes to food-such as my recent episode of "pine mouth." Well, trust this: I'm half Puerto Rican and half Latvian. That means I'm genetically predisposed to pork.

I dig the pig, I'm fine with the swine. And whatever shortcomings I've got, I've at least been able to parlay that heritage into being able to cook. My father could too, although he never made the same recipe twice, owing to the fact that he never wrote anything down. (Curiously enough, my wife snagged me with a bottle of Gentleman Jack. But that's another story.)

So, why waste time trying to impress someone with some snooty restaurant's food when you can impress them with yours? Here's a simple plan for the quintessential fourth date: the home-cooked meal.

To Begin

Jamon Serrano
Manchego cheese, 6 or 12 month is fine
Pan con tomate

• sliced baguette
• roma tomatoes
• olive oil

The whole point of the home-cooked meal is comfort: informal setting, relaxed pace, copious amounts of booze, homey atmosphere. When you are comfortable, you are confident. When you are confident, you are fascinating. (This, like all things and all recipes, it goes without saying, is equally true for women!)

But I also want you to feel confident in being able to pull this menu off. I'm a sucker for simple appetizers that can be procured, prepared, and presented easily without resorting to Totino's® Pizza Rolls®. I generally prefer serrano ham to prosciutto, since it's got a nuttier flavor from the pigs feeding on acorns. If you're a Big Deal, try for jamon iberico de bellota-the black pig!-which fetches something insane like $25 for a quarter-pound. But it is amazing, rich and nutty, delicate and slightly more oily than jamon serrano.

Joining the ham should be some nice Manchego cheese and pan con tomate, which is simply sliced bread rubbed with halved tomato and drizzled with olive oil. Cut the baguette of your choosing into rounds, and halve a nice roma tomato. Rub the sliced side of the tomato on the bread, imparting a nice rosy pink color to it. Drizzle a little olive oil-Spanish, naturally, or Croatian if you can get it (and if you can, tell me where!) or of course Frankies, which you should have on-hand anyway-and top with a piece of the ham. Enjoy with a refreshing glass of Albariño.

The Main Event

Pernil, a garlicky pork roast

• one 3-4 lb. pork roast, preferably a shoulder roast
• 6 cloves garlic
• 6 peppercorns
• 1 tsp kosher salt per 1/2 lb. of roast, so usually 6 or so
• 1 1/2 tbsp dried oregano
• 1 1/2 tbsp olive oil

Tostones, fried savory plantains

• 3 green plantains, unripe
• 1 cup olive oil (or your preferred lighter frying oil)
• kosher salt to taste

Cuban Beans (should be called Puerto Rican black beans, really)

• 2 cans of black beans, drained and rinsed (or you can use dried)
• 1/2 Spanish onion
• 1/2 green pepper
• 2 tbsp ground cumin
• white vinegar
• olive oil
• 1 bay leaf

Arroz Con Gandules, rice with pigeon peas

• 1 cup white or yellow rice (I generally prefer yellow, but white is fine)
• 1 can Goya pigeon peas
• 1 tbsp olive oil
• salt and pepper to taste
• tomato paste to taste
• 1 bay leaf

Sensing a theme? It's a diasporic menu, "Spanish," and not one that evokes tapas. A nod to my Puerto Rican abuela, who claims that I'm at least partially of European Spanish descent. My father claims I'm 1/16 cannibal, but I don't really have any recipes for that.

While some of the ingredients are seemingly exotic, this is still a rustic meal. Forgo the Reidel stems and use simple Italian wine glasses like these awesome ones from Fish's Eddy. By the fourth date, you're craving familiarity and a lack of pretense. You probably worked pretty hard to get here. So let's all relax

You should have the roast in the oven before she arrives. It provides an aphrodisiac room-filling aroma and ensures that you're not focused on the kitchen (wrong room!). It takes about 90 minutes to cook, so plan accordingly.

The Pernil

I've recently taken to getting shoulder roasts from Bradley Farm at the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket on Saturdays, but feel free to consult your favorite source. The great thing about pork is it doesn't have to be expensive. Unless you buy organic, where I routinely blow $30 for a roast. Stupid? Genius?

Using a mortar and pestle-oy, you don't have a mortar and pestle? Bag it and hit it with a hammer-crack the peppercorns and combine the garlic, salt and oregano. Crush the cloves of garlic: you're going to want nice slivers and chunks, not slices. Add the olive oil once you've thoroughly mixed the dry ingredients. The results will be sort of a wet, sandlike paste.

Prepare the roast by patting dry, setting it fat-side down, and cutting a diamond-like pattern in the top with a sharp knife, using crisscrossing diagonal cuts. Since the roast will likely be tied with string, be mindful of the string but don't sweat it if you cut it. While you're wielding a knife, make some deep plunging cuts in the roast, creating 1- to 2-inch pockets in the meat.

Take your moist adobo mixture and rub the roast thoroughly. The crisscross cuts will provide some nice crevices for the mixture, so work it into the meat. Remember those deep plunge cuts? Stuff those with slivers of the garlic, or even whole cloves. It is now ready for the oven.

The oven should be at 325 degrees, or 350 if it runs cooler. The pernil will take about 90 minutes- 25-30 minutes per pound. It's also awesome on the grill over indirect heat, but this is a fourth date, not the Fourth of July.

So, you've got your hovel smelling like heaven, ideally when she arrives. Set her upon the appetizers with a glass of wine.

Everything Else

While the pernil is a-roastin', you can prepare the sides, which should take no more than 20 minutes. But if you prefer to spend more quality time together, rather than you in the kitchen and her admiring your etchings, you can certainly do the beans and rice in advance. Save the plantains to do together: it'll be a fun, intimate joint exercise. Complete with hot oil!

Throw your beans into a good-sized saucepan and get them going over low-medium heat. You already know this, but you should be using Goya black beans. You know how we feel about substitutes! Since the onions and the peppers take the longest to soften, throw those in next. Eyeball the veggies: you want them to complement the beans, not the other way around. Ideally, a 2/3 beans to 1/3 veggies mix is what you are aiming for, but feel free to adjust to suit your proclivities.

Add the vinegar, olive oil, bay leaf and cumin, then stir the holy heck out of everything for maximum flavor integration. You may also add some Goya Adobo to taste. Lower the heat to simmer, stir occasionally and watch for the beans sticking. Once they are done, you can always remove them and re-heat quickly before serving.

The rice is even easier: make the rice however you normally make rice. I use the old-fashioned method with water and a saucepan, but if you have a rice cooker then by all means indulge. Once the rice is just this side of done, throw in the other ingredients and mix thoroughly. If you used white rice, the tomato paste should result in a nice rosy hue.

So, Mr. Rico Suave, you've got a divine-smelling roast in the oven, two burners worth of Spanish food simmering and you've been plying her with ham and white wine. You've made the meal look effortless so far, so relax together. Rock that vinyl collection you've been dying to show off, play some Scrabble. Read some poetry together! (Kidding: don't.)

The last side requires some participation.

Tostones!
Making tostones is easier with two people, so enlist her help if she's game. Again, be sure to use green plantains: tostones are savory and starchy, unlike their cousins, maduros, which are made from ripe plantains and are sweet. Remove the plantain skins, and cut each one into about 1-1/2 inch pieces. Pour the olive oil into a shallow skillet or frying pan: you want enough to cover each piece about halfway. Get the oil nice and hot (mm hmm!), and place the plantains into the oil so that they are cooking round side down.

The oil at once becomes a hazard, but have fun with it. (You should warn your date about this! Perhaps let her hold a splatter guard as a fan.) While one side browns in the oil, prepare a hard surface with paper towels: you can use a large butcher block, even a plate will do. Flip the plantains to brown the other side. When they are lightly browned, remove them and cover with additional paper towels. Here's the fun part: apply pressure on each piece using a rolling pin, cutting board or the heel of your hands. Just be sure to press STRAIGHT DOWN. The result should be a uniform set of plantains about 1/2 inch thick and 2-3 inches across, preserving their rounded tops and bottoms.

Then! Throw these back into the hot oil until they are a golden brown. Drain on paper towels, season with kosher salt-or for a touch of variety add just a touch of granulated sugar as well.

In keeping with the theme, I generally like to accompany all of this awesomeness with a Spanish red wine. Go Priorat if you're feeling indulgent (and spendy), but remember a couple of things. This is a rustic meal, so a good tempranillo or monastrell will work just fine. Second, there's plenty going on flavor-wise with the food, so simpler, more earthy wines-Pinots, for example-are a better bet than juicy Zinfandels.

When the peril is done-I am for about 160 degrees internal temperature, and yes, a cooking thermometer costs pennies-remove to a cutting board and let it sit for about 10 minutes to finish cooking. You'll have a lovely crust on top, and the fat on the bottom should have a nice chicharrón quality, a crispy layer that adds flavor and texture.

Using a sharp knife, slice the beast between the strings, into inch-thick portions. If you did it correctly, you may get cross-sections of the garlic you stuffed into the meat, almost like pistachios in mortadella. That's a good sign, my friend. Serve a slice of the pernil with portions of the beans, rice, tostones and (more!) wine.

This is meant to be ethnic comfort food for a comfortable occasion. You are both eating garlic, so no one has to worry about the not-so-fresh-breath you worried about on the second date. (Yes, you can keep mints scattered about on various surfaces for later.) And salted meats encourage quenching your thirst, with plenty of Spanish wine within reach. You're in an environment with familiar things, on your own schedule and outside of prying eyes. A couch is handy.

Also, you've successfully proven you can cook-and therefore provide.

As my abuela (may or may not have) said: "If you can't close the deal with pernil, que sinverguenza!"

Yes, John Ore is Clarence Rosario. He's 1/16th cannibal, and has a crush on Andres Iniesta.

Sponsored posts are purely editorial content that we are pleased to have presented by a participating sponsor, in this case Gillette; advertisers do not produce the content.

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If you want to know how to make traditional, French Culinary Institute-style beef stock here are a few recipes to check out. But honestly? None of you are really gonna make FCI-style beef stock, are you? Me neither. Which is swell for all of us because I've got a totally-unorthodox-but-great-for-people-who-have-lives method to share! (I mean you have lives. This is the highlight of my week. Regarding making traditional beef stock: I'm just lazy.)

To start, you'll need some bones. Bones! The bones can come from anywhere, really. OH MY GOD NO! THEY CANNOT COME FROM YOUR NEIGHBOR'S DOG, NO! Cow bones! We're talking about cattle bones here. So, let's say that you maybe made a fucking steak for yourself after a particularly hard Tuesday at the race track? (When are we going to talk about your gambling problem? The kids don't have shoes.) Save the t-bone and make stock of it!

But also if you ever go for a nice steak dinner I don't think there's any shame in asking for the bones to go. Look, you don't know that waiter, don't even worry about what he thinks of you for it. He's already judged you for your wine order, let's be honest here. After a birthday dinner at Peter Luger's once, I asked the waiter to doggy bag the bones for me. While wearing a fanciful paper crown on my head. Have no shame.

If your bones are on the small side you can stash them in the freezer until you've built up enough of a reserve-maybe 2 or 3 small bones?-to actually get some flavor out of the deal. Or heck, just make a teeny tiny batch! You can probably get 4ish cups of stock out of a weenie t-bone. (I want you to know it is taking all my strength not to make an erection joke here.)

Okay! We've got bones! Let's put them in a large-ish pot. One that has room for 12-ish cups of water. (Yes, ish: just breathe into it.) Along with the bones, you'll want to add a few aromatics, which is a fusty, cooking-person term for things that smell. Seriously, cooking people? Are so totally full of it. And the ones who aren't wear Hawaiian shirts, so basically you shouldn't listen to any of them at all.

Aromatics, in this case, refer first to vegetables. One of the cool things about stock-making is that it's sort of like the compost pile of the cooking world: You can basically throw in whatever veggies you have lying around the house, even the ends of things that you would normally toss in the garbage. Well wait, not "whatever"-I mean, let's not be using broccoli to make our stock. I mean the flavorful root-type items: Carrots, celery, onion. You know, rootie things. Oh and old garlic! I almost always have a sprouting halfbulb of garlic lounging indolently in my crisper drawer, and nothing makes me happier than making that little fucker work for it during the last hours of his life. There'll be no tranquil trashheap for you!

Now then, if you don't have any of this stuff in the house don't fret. I don't want you fretting!

While you're concentrating on not fretting and breathing into your ish-es, scamper out to the closest market and grab one big onion. You have my permission to skip the carrot and celery, as long as you promise to use an onion. And the sprouting garlic, but you're going to do that anyway because now you're imagining hurling your own set of insults at it. Quarter the onion and put it in the pot. Drop in a few whole-peeled, please!-garlic cloves. I dunno, three? Five? If you're using carrots and celery (one, two, three-ish each?) give them a rough chop and toss them in. They should be fairly large sized pieces since you're gonna boil the tar out of them and you're not looking to make carrot and celery soup. 1-3 inches should do it. (Heh.)

There's one last (solid) thing that needs to go into the pot: peppercorns. Whole peppercorns. Of any variety, but may I ask that you lie to me and tell me you've used what's popularly known as a "peppermill blend"? Because peppermill blends have pink & green peppercorns, and pink & green peppercorns thrill my little soul.

Over this whole mess, and my God will it ever look like a mess, you're going to pour your water. Somewhere between 8 and 12 cups will be good. Turn the burner on high and bring the whole rank collection of castoff foodstuffs to a boil. This will take quite a while! Like, a half hour-ish (mm hmm). Once it's boiled, reduce the heat to low, let the boil reduce for a minute or two and then cover the pot. Set your kitchen timer or cell phone alarm or ask the crow who sits on your sundial to caw at you in one hour.

When the hour is up, assess your day: Do you have another half hour to lie about your house reading the Internet? Super! Leave it on the heat for 30 more minutes. Do you have important drinking to do? WELL WHY HAVEN'T YOU INVITED ME? Turn off the heat and go on about your day. But not for too long, okay, because after two or so hours you'll want to get that pot into the refrigerator.

And this is where my trick comes in: The actual cook time on this stock is 2 hours, max. And since the prep time is virtually nil, you can toss this together and let it go about it's business during Sunday coffee-in-bed-while-moaning time and still be gussied and out of the house for brunch. The important thing is to put the entire thing-the bones and those pretentious aromatics and the sloth-like garlic and my beloved preppy peppercorns-in the fridge overnight.

Basically you're steeping the stock and I swear if you ever tell anyone with an ounce of cooking cred I told you to do this I will hunt you down and filet you with my pink chef's knife.

When you're ready to transfer your stock (your homemade stock! Take a moment to beam with pride!) to smaller containers for freezing, pull out the pot and prepare yourself for some major fun, because now is the time on Sprockets when we skim! You're gonna be psyched about this part because it provides almost the same thrill as picking at a scab without any of the pick-your-nose-and-eat-it connotations. Skimming refers to the removal of the layer of congealed fat, which you should immediately hurl it into the rubbish bin, because, eww. A slotted metal spoon works best for this, but beef fat is hardy enough that you'll be able to lift it using the side of a knife if that's all you've got. Pro tip: The top layer of fat will crack into large glaciers if you sort of tap on it.

Underneath that fat you're going to find the saddest looking collection of bones and cloves and stalks. You need to strain that stuff out. I like to place a splatter guard over the top of the pot and pour the liquid out into a large bowl, but you can use a traditional colander placed over a bowl.

Whatever works for you, my friend. I mean, who am I to question a person who makes their own stock?!

And welcome to our secret special club.

Jolie Kerr would love to provide you with content while paying you for it.

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Cover the bottom of a big pot with olive oil. Set the burner to medium heat. Get an onion and chop it up. White or yellow, whatever, it's your call. Just don't use red, because the only thing red onions are good for is salad. Anyway, toss the onion into the oil and stir it around for a few minutes. Two or three should do it.

Chop a carrot and a couple stalks of celery into the tiniest pieces you can. Trim and clean these first, obviously. Actually, if I need to tell you that, stop reading now and go buy a jar of Bolognese from the grocery, because that's all you deserve. Dump 'em in and stir them around for another couple minutes. Everything should be soft and mushy but not exactly brown. You're doing great!

Take a thin slice of ham or roast pork (or prosciutto if you really want to be fancy. Look at you, Mr. or Mrs. Moneybags! You can afford a meat that starts at $25 bucks a pound. Or at least it should. I certainly hope you're not using domestic prosciutto. That's just wrong, and it offends the Italian part of me. Anyway, if this is the way you're going to go, use a couple of slices.) Sliver it and saute for a minute or two.

Now it's time for the ground meat. A word here: Even I, who will put pretty much anything into my body without regard for origin or cleanliness, am extremely cautious about ground meat, because a lot of it is filled with what scientists refer to as "doody." You should probably buy it from somewhere you trust, and preferably somewhere you can watch them actually grind it up. Either way-hey, you want to eat what scientists refer to as "doody," you go ahead, I'm just saying is all-you're going to need about two pounds of it. I'm partial to all beef. You can do a beef/veal/pork blend if you like, but beef should predominate. (If you have problems with veal, I understand. It's terrible what they do to those little baby cows who will never get the chance to grow up to be big cows. Still, I think it's nice when they can all wind up in the same sauce together.) Put the meat in and mix it around for about five minutes or so. Don't overcook, by which I mean you do not want it to look like it is something you are ready to eat right now. Keep it pinkish.

Liquid time. Get a cup of dry white wine (if you don't have any, a cup of dry vermouth will do. Hell, I've used a cup of red wine before and the difference has not been particularly notable.) and pour it in. Stir occasionally, but let the meat "drink" the wine so that it kind of evaporates into the mix. Figure a couple of minutes on this one. Next you're gonna take a cup of milk and do the same thing. Here's the part where the old Italian ladies will tell you that the milk should be hot, but I think this is something they make up just to keep you busy and show that they're in control. It doesn't matter what temperature the milk is, it's all gonna wind up in the meat all the same. You hear that, nonna? It doesn't matter. When the milk is gone (it'll take longer than the wine did) add another cup of wine, same deal as before.

[A NOTE FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO DO NOT LIKE TO COOK WITH ALCOHOL: You've got your reasons, I guess. I'm not gonna judge. You can replace the wine with beef stock. BUT, the beef stock should absolutely be made fresh. Nothing from the store, got it? I would have given you my personal recipe for beef stock had I thought about this in advance, but the idea of a life without alcohol is so alien to me that I only just now remembered that there are some people who swing that way. I'm sure there plenty of good recipes on the Internet. Good luck.]

Finally, the tomatoes. Figure out how thick you want your sauce. You want it ragu style? Get one can. You want it a little more liquidy? Two cans. Either way, you are REQUIRED BY ME to be using a 28 ounce can (or cans) of whole, peeled San Marzano tomatoes. In this matter there can be no dispute. If you find yourself unable or unwilling to use San Marzano tomatoes I refuse to allow you to make my Bolognese. Seriously. Get out of the kitchen and go take a good, hard look at yourself in the mirror. Ask yourself, "Why am I such a fuckhead that I refuse to use San Marzano tomatoes? Am I the sorriest son of a bitch God ever put upon His green earth?" Nod twice to confirm to yourself that you are. Then go to the Olive Garden, because you'll almost certainly love it, and after the realization that you are the sorriest son of a bitch God ever put upon His green earth you could probably use some cheering up.

The tomatoes go in the blender. Pulse them until the consistency is mostly juice, with a few chunks remaining for character. Pour it into the pot and swish everything together. Add a shitload of salt (or slightly less if you're not trying to give yourself an aneurysm like I am) and a couple of bay leaves (don't forget to take them out at the end, because there are few things more unpleasant than getting an errant bay leaf caught in your throat) and drop the heat down to low. You wanna let this simmer for three hours or so. Check back every thirty minutes and give a little stir. You'll probably have a sense of when it's ready. If you're going on 4 hours you're almost certainly done and may have even fucked things up, but it's really difficult to ruin this sauce, so more than likely you can pull it out. Serve over whatever pasta you like (a thick noodle is best) and freeze what you don't use. This also makes a more-than-decent replacement for regular tomato sauce in pizza.

There. Was that so hard? Don't thank me, thank my grandma. Who is dead. (But not from this sauce.) But if she were here I'm sure she would be happy to tell you you were welcome, right before she told you how you were doing it wrong. Old Italian grandmas. Always with the correcting. I guess that's one of the things we love about them. Anyway, enjoy.

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Okay, so, yeah, that is a little gross. But remember summer camp? For many of us it was the first time we were away from home for an extended period, free from the litany of parental restrictions which shaped our lives during the rest of the year. Being children, of course, the liberties we took advantage of during that time mostly had to do with diet: donuts for breakfast every day, no vegetables ever, and snacks that would never cut it with mom and dad no matter how hard we begged. Your recipe today hearkens back to those more innocent times.

Ha! I say recipe, but, man, this could not be easier. You will need a bag of Bugles, a tube of spray cheese (I prefer the sharp cheddar flavor, but this is your exercise in nostalgia, so go with whatever you like; they all taste pretty much the same anyway), and a cold can of A&W root beer. (Grape soda also works, but for my exercise in nostalgia it's gotta be A&W. I remember handing in my ticket at the canteen for a can of A&W and feeling like I was actually getting away with something. My folks didn't let me drink a lot of soda growing up, which, you know, good for them. Anyway!)

Prepare the dish as follows:

1. Scatter the Bugles around a paper plate.
2. Fill each Bugle at its open side with a small squirt of spray cheese. Some Bugles will have been baked to the extent where the entry point is too narrow to permit the entry of spray cheese. This is fine. Once you've filled every possible Bugle, mix the plate around. This way you won't know which has cheese and which doesn't. The contrasting textures will add a very welcome surprise to this dish!
3. Crack your can of A&W and enjoy.

Admittedly this sounds pretty terrible. I am sure many of you will mock me for it. You know what? I was at the grocery this weekend and I passed the aisle in which all of the components for this classic are kept. I bought 'em all, brought 'em home and whipped this up. For verisimilitude I did not even adulterate the root beer with alcohol, which is standard practice these days on those rare occasions when I am for whatever reason forced to drink root beer. Anyway, I sat on the floor and listened to the game on the radio and for ten minutes I felt exactly like I was nine again. I don't have terribly fond memories of being young, or even of camp, but for whatever reason there was something very sweet about the feeling. Your own emotional reaction may vary.

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I'm pretty sure I needn't tell you that I was not an apple-cheeked ten-year-old. But it's okay, because I'm pretty sure most of you weren't either. And that's why you're my people.

I've grown to love the lemon square-and here I'll proffer another confession-because I get high off the praise and adoration I get when I show up with a batch of them. Maybe that's a really sad thing to admit? If it is I feel certain you'll let me know. [Yes. Yes it is. –Ed.]

I also actually enjoy the process of making them as well, because GOD THEY ARE SO EASY. A food processor and a bowl, and like, six ingredients, that's pretty much all you need. Let's do it.

Haul your food processor down from the top shelf. Glare it at, knowing that you're going to have to wash its lid by hand, which is just so awkward and you never really feel like you're getting it properly clean, because you live in a lillypad of an apartment with no dishwasher and maybe you should have made different choices so you could be married like all your friends, living in the suburbs with oversized, stainless steel appliances and expansive granite countertops on which to set out all the ingredients you'll need for these baking jags you go on and a farmhouse kitchen table from Pottery Barn where you can sit reading the new Barbara Kingsolver while the base for the lemon squares cools, occasionally sipping from a glass of wine. Then remember that you hate the suburbs and Pottery Barn furniture, find the level of commitment marriage requires ill-suited to your need for independence, and haven't read Barbara Kingsolver since high school. Wine is still good, though! Pour yourself a glass, throw a few ice cubes in it, and thank God that you live in New York with your weird collection of friends and a 24-hour deli at the end of your block for those emergency rolling paper runs at 1 a.m. Steady yourself.

Measure 2 cups of flour and a half cup of confectioners' sugar (we all remember what kind that is, right class? Well done! Gold stars for everyone!) into the bowl of your processor. Cut two sticks of butter into small pieces and add them to the flour and sugar. Put on the lid that caused you so much angst and lock it in place. Pulse pulse pulse (isn't pulsing just the greatest?! Gives me such a thrill!) until the mixture resembles a coarse meal, which is one of those terms you always hear in baking and are just like, "Who what now? When in my life have I ever been in contact with a ‘coarse meal' to know what such a thing looks like?" But then somehow you actually always end up knowing exactly what coarse meal should look like, and knowing is half the battle, and maybe it's not a bad idea to have a little more wine.

Turn the mixture out into a 9"x13" pan or really whatever similarly sized baking pan you have around the house because when do you ever have the right sized pan and if you do have the right sized pan I don't want to hear about it. I hope you appreciate your granite countertops and stainless steel appliances! How was the new Barbara Kingsolver?

Press the mixture into the pan so that the surface is even and bake at 350° for 20 minutes. The crust should be set and a very light golden color.

While the crust is baking, turn your attention to the filling. I know, you've been sitting here mouthing to one another, "Where's the lemon? Do you think she got so wound up about Barbara Kingsolver that she forgot the lemon?"

I did not forget the lemon.

You'll need a large bowl, into which you'll put 4 eggs, 2 cups of sugar and a third of a cup of lemon juice (which should be about 1 lemon, but grab two when you're at the grocery store just to be on the safe side. If you don't use it for the dessert peel some of the rind and put a twist in your wine-with-ice! [Sure! You have already ruined the wine by putting ice in it, what difference will a twist make? –Ed.]) and beat them all together. With what shall you beat them, dear Liza? I mean, anything really: A handheld mixer, a whisk, that set of antlers from Urban Outfitters you've got hanging on your wall... it's wide open! Once the eggs are beaten and the sugar thoroughly incorporated, stir in ¼ of a cup of flour and a half teaspoon of baking powder.

Now, you're going to hate me for this next part because you're Internet people and therefore are impatient and ADD and hopefully half drunk and here I am about to tell you that you need to WAIT. But yes, you need to let the crust cool COMPLETELY before you pour in the filling. Remember when I confessed that sometimes I stick melted butter in the fridge to cool even thought among proper bakers it's probably anathema to do so? (You do!?! Gold stars for everyone!) Well right. I'm an impatient and ADD Internet person too! Who is definitely half drunk! So go on and stick that crust in the fridge to cool off, and when it's ready pour the filling over the top. Back into the 350° oven for 25 minutes or until set.

Allow to cool completely (I know, sorry) before cutting into bars. You can -and should, because hi? What's a lemon square without powdered sugar on top???-dust the squares with confectioners' sugar before serving to the teeming masses of hungry admirers and basking in the adoration of people who, for just one fleeting moment, will make you feel like you're the best thing to ever happen to them.

Jolie Kerr invites you to the very first Commenter's Bawl at The Scratcher on 17 June at 7 PM. There will absolutely be lemon squares.

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