Pour an extraordinary cocktail, set out some irresistible nibbles, and you’re ready for a celebration.

My search for the perfect New Year’s Eve libation this year led me to the “PDT Cocktail Book,”: by Jim Meehan (Sterling Epicure, 2011).  Illustrated with Chris Gall’s colorful woodcut engravings, the book is an engaging and often esoteric guide to the artisan cocktails created for the speakeasy-style Manhattan bar, Please Don’t Tell.  It’s such a hit that I couldn’t find a hardback version anywhere so I downloaded the e-book version.

Meehan is known as one of the most innovative mixologists in a new generation of gourmet bartenders.  He builds his drinks from an impressive stock of unusual and hard-to-find ingredients. Just hunting down all the components is a challenge, as writer Jeff Gordiner recounted in the New York Times earlier this month.

We couldn’t track down many of the special spirits and mixers Meehan specifies for his cocktails but we substituted the best ingredients available in local stores.  The results, if not absolutely authentic, were always impressive, with a complexity of flavor rarely found in home-mixed drinks.

The cosmopolitan made with Hangar One Buddha’s Hand Vodka, which is distilled nearby in Alameda, was a perfect balance of citrus and tart cranberry flavors with just a touch of sweetness. Meehan gives credit to Cheryl Cooke of Miami, Fla. who is believed to have created the first cosmo in the mid-1980s.

To complement the cosmo, I’ve been playing around with a new cracker recipe combining the Southern classics of pimento cheese spread and cheese straws.  I’ve added minced pimentos to the usual sharp cheddar and ditched the cookie press in favor of a simpler slice-and-bake shaping technique.  The dough can be stored in the freezer and baked off at the last minute.

With this cocktail in your glass and these crackers on your plate, the prospects for 2012 will look very good indeed.

No matter how much I plan ahead for the holidays, it seems life starts spinning out of control about this time every year.

Here it is less than two weeks ’til Christmas and I still haven’t made any of the usual decorated cookies.  Maybe sometime next week.  Who knows?

With these buttery shortbread cookies in the house, I’m not too worried.  They’re so good in their natural state, one bite banishes all thought of frosting and sprinkles.

The beauty of these cookies is they’re so simple to make.  No rolling, no cutting into cutesy shapes, no decorating.   Just press the dough evenly into a fluted tart pan and bake.

Over the course of refining this classic recipe and it’s variations, though, I picked up a few tips to make Scottish-style shortbread even better:  Use the best butter, handle the dough as little as possible, and chill well before baking to let the flavors develop.

Butter is the heart and soul of shortbread, so you really don’t want to cut corners here.  I used some pricey vat-cultured butter from Sierra Nevada Cheese Company in one batch and the cookies were wonderful.  However, the Straus organic European-style butter at 85 percent butterfat also was incredibly good and a little less expensive.

Although most recipes call for letting the butter soften to room temperature first, I’ve had better results starting with cold butter, cutting it into small chunks and whirling it in the food processor.  If the butter is too soft and you beat it too long in an electric mixer, myriad tiny bubbles form in the dough, leading to unwanted rising and bubbling in the oven.

For the most tender results, you want the dough to be crumbly and loose before you press it into the pan.  Like pie dough, it shouldn’t be overworked.  It will continue to hydrate in the refrigerator and come together when the butter melts in the oven.

The vanilla bean shortbread should be a pale yellow when it emerges from the oven.  The equally delicious brown sugar variation is a little darker, hinting at its intriguing caramel flavor.

In deference to chocoholics, I’ve also developed a variation with cocoa and cacao nibs. Those chunky little bits of roasted cacao beans bring an extra layer of flavor to these cookies and it continues to develop as they’re stored after baking.  Scharffen Berger makes the nibs, which are readily found at most supermarkets.

After baking, cool the shortbread completely in the pan before cutting into the wedges known at petticoat tails in Scotland.

If you really must decorate, you could drizzle these cookies with melted chocolate.  But I wouldn’t.  They’re perfect just out of the pan.

Thanksgiving just wouldn’t be the same without pumpkin pie.

Mind you, that doesn’t mean it has to be the very same recipe your mother took off the back of the pumpkin can decades ago.  Sometimes it’s good to mix things up a bit and dessert is the one place on the menu where even hidebound traditionalists usually are willing to experiment a bit.

This year I’m making pumpkin pie bars to cap off the big feast.  They combine all the best parts of a nutty shortbread cookie, pumpkin cheesecake and pecan pie in one great package and the crust never gets soggy.   Because they’re baked in a 9-inch by 13-inch pan, a single batch will serve a crowd with some left over for the next day.

The inspiration comes from a recipe in the “Greyston Bakery Cookbook,” by Sara Kate Gillingham-Ryan (Rodale, 2007), but the bars have evolved over time.  There’s more spice and  less sugar now. The praline topping is riff on the Thanksgiving Twofer pie in Dorie Greenspan’s charming new iPad app, “Baking with Dorie.”

This dessert may not be served in wedges, but your mouth won’t know the difference.  This is one of the best pumpkin pies I’ve ever eaten.

Pie season is upon us.  For the next couple of months, even cooks who live in fear of pastry will be putting holiday pies on the table to satisfy their families’ taste for tradition.  Far too many of those pies will be baked in crusts that come from the supermarket freezer.

As a recovering pastry phobe myself, I’m going to share a secret here.  Homemade pie crust is truly a snap if you let the food processor do most of the work.  I rely on a foolproof recipe we found in an old cookbook dating back to the early days of those amazing machines.  It’s been used so many times, the book’s broken spine automatically falls open to “Easy-As-Pie Crust.”

This dough is a miracle.  It’s simple to throw together, rolls out with very little fuss and bakes into a buttery crust that works for every kind of pie from apple to pumpkin.  I used it to make the cranberry-apple turnovers in the photo.

This crust is so good that my mother-in-law, who was legendary for her apple pies, always asked us to make it for her when she visited.  She filled each crust with a mountain of sliced tart apples and folded the sides up over the top like a galette.

The  key to the recipe is an  egg and a little lemon juice.  The egg binds the ingredients together for strength, which is important for these hand-held pies, and acid in the lemon juice keeps the crust tender and makes it easier to handle.  Although many cooks swear by shortening for a really flaky pie crust, I gladly sacrifice a little flakiness to get real butter flavor.

Just be sure to keep your ingredients cold and don’t process the dough too long.  As soon as it begins to clump together in a shaggy ball, it’s ready.

Since this crust isn’t that delicate, you don’t have to worry too much about overworking the dough when you roll it out.  Let it warm up a little after you take it out of the refrigerator, lightly flour a pastry board or counter and roll out from the center to about 1/8-inch thick.  It’s easiest to roll the pastry over the pin in order to lift it into the pie pan.

For these turnovers, I piled raw fresh cranberries and little cubes of  tart Newtown Pippin apples onto one side of a pastry circle, folded the crust over the top and sealed it before brushing with a little milk.  They puffed up and turned golden brown in the oven.

With the right crust, any form of pie is easier than you might think.

I can’t believe I nearly missed the best figs of the year.  I was out of town on family business during the height of the fabulous fruits’ late summer season in September. When I got back, the local harvest was almost over.

With any luck, however, luscious fresh figs should be available for another week or so in farmers markets and through the fall at specialty grocers. Let’s hope this week’s rains don’t wipe them out.  It would be a shame to miss at least one more opportunity to enjoy this easy fig tartlette.

The little tart is so simple that it hardly requires a recipe. The combination of buttery puff pastry, jammy figs and salty Gorgonzola is irresistible and works as well as an appetizer as dessert.  The figs soften and become even sweeter in the heat of the oven, so no sugar is required, although a little drizzle of honey after baking is a nice touch.

I’ve made these tartlettes with an almond cookie crust, which is quite nice, but frozen puff pastry is very good, too.  It’s also a frugal choice right now, when Trader Joe’s is selling boxes of all-butter pastry again for $3.99.

Just roll the sheet of pastry out, cut into squares and line a little tart tin or large muffin cup. Add quartered figs, crumbled blue cheese and a little cream, then bake.  That’s it.  No one will believe it was so easy.

Black mission figs

I’m such a big fan of figs now, it’s hard to believe there was a time when I wouldn’t even taste one.  My loathing stemmed from the squishy, sticky orbs we found rotting on the ground in a friend’s family orchard every summer when I was a child.  They were far better suited for missiles than for food.

As an adult, though, I finally screwed up my courage and took that first bite.   I was stunned by the soft, yielding texture and delicately sweet flavor with hints of honey and vanilla.  It was depressing to realize what I had been missing all those years due to my childish stubbornness.

More than most fruits, figs must be perfectly ripe or they  aren’t worth eating.  The fruit should be soft, moist and heavy for its size and feel a bit like a water balloon in your palm. Some cracking along the sides, slight wrinkling at the neck and a drop of syrupy juice at the blossom end are good signs.

Figs of every variety have two seasons.  The first small crop in late spring grows on branches that sprouted the previous year.  The main crop ripens in the long, hot days of August and September, producing more voluptuous fruit with richer flavors.

If you can’t find fresh figs for this tart, you might try making it with pears, which will be around for months.  The flavor will be more subtle but delightful nonetheless. Every fruit is best in its season.

The first granola bar I ever tasted came from a natural foods bakery in Oakland.  It was a tempting combination of chewy bar cookie and enough crunchy whole grains to make me feel virtuous about the indulgence.

I bought them whenever I could until the store that carried them went out of business.  I pined for something similar but no other commercial granola bar has even come close.  Most are hard bricks that taste little better than sawdust and are suited only for emergency rations in my book.

Recently, though, I’ve been working on my own recipe, prompted by a hike with a friend who was working very hard to make her calories count.  Not for her the chocolate chip cookies I usually bring along on hikes, even though they’re loaded with oats and granola, too.

For Sara, I came up with something new — a whole wheat blondie packed with as much good granola as possible without losing the moist, chewy foundation.

Admittedly, this granola bar still has butter and sugar.  (If you’re going to eat baked goods, I say, you should just go for the good stuff and eat less of it.)  But it also contains an extraordinarily generous portion of only lightly sweetened nuts and whole grains as well as dried fruit.

I’ve tweaked the recipe over the course of several hikes with other friends and like this version best.  Top quality granola is essential.  I’ve used homemade granola sweetened with maple syrup, although any good commercial granola will work, too.

The optional chocolate chips are a nice touch but don’t give in to the impulse to increase the quantity.  Too much chocolate changes the character of the bars altogether.

These bars received the seal of approval from a quartet of teenage boys on a backpacking trip to Point Reyes last month.  They devoured them all.  Of course, they also ate everything else in sight.

More to the point, perhaps, the adults hikers gave them their vote, too.

Once upon a time, the Blenheim apricot reigned supreme in the sprawling orchards of Santa Clara Valley.  Today, however, apricot trees have been displaced by suburbs and production of this fragile, intensely flavored fruit is so small it has been included in Slow Food’s Ark of Taste alongside New Town Pippin apples and Sun Crest peaches.

Large commercial growers in other areas can’t be bothered with such a delicate variety of fruit.  The amber skin is tissue thin, bruises easily and freckles with sunburn. The season is over in the blink of an eye.

Yet the flavor is exquisite, with undertones of honey balanced by a delightful touch of acid. The soft, ripe flesh is so juicy, it drips down your chin as you eat.

So it was cause for celebration when fresh Blenheims arrived at local farmers markets last week.  A few small growers from San Benito County set up tables with the apricots  displayed in baskets like the jewels they are.  Some felt a little too firm — Blenheim’s ripen from the inside out — but they soon turned soft and voluptuous on the kitchen counter.

Since Blenheims are so perishable, it’s tempting just to eat them out of hand.  Still, they’re exceptional as the stars in baked goods, too.  

I like them in this rustic tart made with puff pastry from the supermarket freezer case.  The simple custard is quickly stirred together with mascarpone cheese, egg, sugar and a little lemon zest.  Quartered apricots are arranged on top and the tart is popped into a hot oven.

This is a good way to use fairly firm apricots, which hold their shape when baked.  It also would bring out the most flavor in the rather bland Patterson apricots that dominate the commercial market.  Peaches and nectarines would work as well, although you should cut the fruit into thick slices rather than quarters.

If you’re lucky enough to spot any Blenheims at the market, though, don’t pass them by just because they aren’t as uniformly pretty as other varieties.  You’re bound to become a fan at first bite.

Now that summer is here at last, it’s time to post one of the best and easiest dessert recipes I’ve encountered in years.

This is my take on the Eton Mess, a typically understated British name for an ethereal concoction of berries, whipped cream and crisp meringues.  The original has been served at the upper class British boys’ school for which it is named since at least the 1930s.  Some people theorize that it’s called a mess because all the ingredients are just stirred together before being plopped into a serving dish.

As much as I love strawberries, I thought the mess would be a perfect vehicle for a variety of fresh berries.   I’ve dubbed my version a California Mess because the whipped cream is blended with Greek-style yogurt, which introduces a tangy note and a bit more nutrition to an indulgent dessert.   I doubt that would be an acceptable variation on an English tradition.

This dessert can be super simple if you use commercial meringue cookies.  Guests raved when my friend Sylvia took this shortcut for a book club meeting recently.

If you want to take a little more effort, though, it’s even better when you make your own meringues.  They only take a few minutes to whip up, then bake unattended for a couple of hours in a low oven until they’re as light as clouds and just barely soft in the center.  They last for days when stored in an airtight container.

You can even skip the whipped cream and use a commercial honey yogurt, like the Greek Gods brand I bought at my local market.  My family really enjoyed that version of the Mess, but we agreed it’s more delicate when you mix whipped cream and yogurt in equal portions.

Stir in chunks of the ripest fruit of the season and you have an elegant dessert with minimal effort.   Who could ask for more when warm weather and the great outdoors beckon?

One of the things I miss most about working in Silicon Valley is the bounty of great ethnic eats served in little strip malls scattered around the south end of the Bay.

Now, if I crave a really good bowl of ramen, say, or a pita filled with crunchy falafel, I have to make a special trip over the hill or figure out how to make my own.  I’ve decided to pass on making ramen — the perfect noodle has eluded far better cooks than I.  But falafel definitely seemed worth a try this spring when I was stuck indoors on too many cold and rainy days.

While I was at it, I decided I might as well see if I could bake my falafel rather than fry them.  It wasn’t only about health, although I should limit fried food in my diet.  Truth be told, I just hate cleaning up oil spattered all over the kitchen after I’ve been frying and will go to almost any length to avoid it.

Falafel, it turns out, are pretty easy to make and they bake up beautifully.  The flavor changes slightly, but the reduction in oil allows the earthy taste of the beans — whether favas as Egyptians prefer or the chickpeas favored by Iraelis — to shine through.

You do have to plan ahead, since the beans must be soaked overnight. Then they’re quickly ground into a coarse paste in a food processor, spiced with cumin and chile, and shaped into little balls or patties.

I made mine with a Lebanese mixture of favas and chickpeas as recommended in “Artichoke to Za’atar,” by Greg and Lucy Malouf (UC Press, 2008).  I found the dried favas at a Middle Eastern grocery in San Jose but noticed later that my local market carries them under the Bob’s Red Mill label.  They contribute a fresh, almost herbal flavor to the traditional Middle Eastern street snack.

Chickpeas alone will work fine, however, if that’s all you can find. On the West coast, they’re usually called garbanzos.

To bake the patties, you’ll need to be fairly generous in oiling the baking sheet if you want to get a crisp crust.  Any missing crunch will hardly be noticed if you load up the pitas with crisp cucumber and bell peppers along with the tomatoes and tahini sauce.

Grilling on a grid with small holes also works well as long as you keep the patties chilled and brush them liberally with olive oil just before putting them on the fire.

It pleases me no end to know I can have fresh falafel at home now without all the mess.

BAKED FALAFEL RECIPE

I grew up eating biscuits.

After my mother went back to work, they started with a box of Bisquick more often than not.  But she had the proverbial light hand and her biscuits always came out of the oven fluffy and tender with a golden crust that crunched ever so slightly at first bite.  We frequently ate biscuits as shortcake when strawberries were in season.

Sadly, I didn’t inherit my mother’s delicate touch and have always used a food processor to make biscuits — until now. “Southern Biscuits,” by Nathalie Dupree and Cynthia Graubart (Gibbs Smith, 2011), gives such clear and detailed instructions on the gentle art that my handmade biscuits almost meet my mother’s standards today.  And as much as it pains me to admit, they’re far lighter than anything I’ve ever made in my trusty Cuisinart.

These brown sugar shortcakes — really just barely sweetened biscuits — are at once buttery and rich, airy and light.  They’ve become my family’s preferred base for luscious local berries and softly whipped cream.  As a bonus they’re easier to make than most biscuits and don’t require kneading or cutting into rounds before baking.

Dupree long has been one of the big names in Southern cooking.  She’s written 11 cookbooks, including two James Beard Award-winners, and hosted more than 300 cooking shows on television.  Graubart is an author and former television producer who became friends with Dupree when she worked on one of her television series.

Together, they have created a collection of every type of biscuit imaginable, from the simplest biscuits made with sour cream in the place of butter and milk to flaky pecan party biscuits.  They even give recipes for dishes to make with leftover biscuits, if you have any.

What sets this cookbook apart, however, is the encyclopedic and meticulously illustrated chapter on biscuit basics, starting with the issue of flour.  The flour preferred by Southerners for the lightest biscuits is milled from a soft winter wheat that is lower in protein and produces less gluten than the all-purpose flour more commonly found in the West.

If, like me, you can’t find Southern brands such as White Lily and Martha White at your market, Dupree and Graubart suggest mixing cake and all-purpose flours.  They also explain how to make your own self-rising flour mix, an ingredient often called for in Southern recipes but sometimes difficult to find in other regions.

The real treasure, though, is the description of how to mix fat into the flour properly, which is a key to great biscuits.  The authors recommend cutting cold butter into two different size pieces.  The tiny cubes are rubbed into the flour between thumb and finger with a quick motion, much like snapping your fingers, until the mixture resembles crumbled feta cheese.  Then the bigger cubes are mixed in with the same technique until no piece is larger than a pea.  The fat should be well-distributed to create flaky layers.

This instruction was a revelation and has made all the difference in my biscuits.

The shortcake, which Dupree attributes to intern Hayley Daen, is mixed together with 1/2 -inch cubes and buttermilk. It also uses ordinary all-purpose flour.  The authors call for the batter to be scraped into two 6-inch iron skillets and baked at a high temperature and the shortcakes do turn out beautifully that way. But I had good results, too, using small cake pans.

Once you’ve eaten this shortcake topped with ripe berries and a cloud of whipped cream, you’re bound to become a fan of Southern biscuits, too.

Small cubes of butter are rubbed into the flour, liquid is added and the dough is stirred together before it is scraped into skillet for baking.