Barbra Austin

We call this pudding but there’s no cornstarch to thicken it, no skin on top to poke through. No, this is just a rich crème Anglaise with lots of chocolate added, enough to thicken the mixture as it chills to a spoon-clinging custard that melts in your mouth almost like a truffle.

One look at La Bergamote’s shiny glazed fruit tarts, tall dark chocolate cakes, glittering pates de fruits, piles of crisp meringue clouds, plump religieuses and golden brioches, and I am transported.

The other morning I stopped by Barbuto to say hello. On my way out, I passed Luis, the lead lunch cook, whom I’ve known since 2002, when we both worked for Jonathan Waxman at Washington Park. Luis still works for JW, and on this particular day he was shelling a pile of fava beans that he had just blanched. I wanted to stop and help him.

You might think that because I like to cook, my refrigerator is perpetually well-stocked with a bounty of beautiful produce, fine meats, and ripe cheeses. This could not be further from the truth. On most days, the contents of my fridge could be summarized as follows: Condiments and booze.

Some purists would say that making one’s own crème fraîche with pasteurized cream is a waste of time, that there is no substitute for the real, raw stuff found in France.

They are half right.

This one is on many people’s list of favorites, including mine.

All I wanted to do was make rhubarb upside-down cake. The universe (at least below 14th Street) was not on my side.

My mother loved to send little cards and packages around all of the holidays, some holier than others: There was candy corn at Halloween, a set of cookie cutters at Christmas. There were red hots and (if I was lucky) heart-shaped cupcakes at Valentines day and decorative cheese spreaders for every other major or minor holiday. These boxes started to arrive when I was in college and never stopped, no matter how far into adulthood I was.

I had no idea what time it was when I pulled out a pint of this soup from the freezer the other evening, but I needed a little food before crawling into bed.

A lap around the Campo di Fiori market on Monday made me wish I had a few more days in Rome, and maybe a small kitchen of my own to do a little cooking.