The Phyllo is Risen, Indeed

Has it really been so long? We've missed you, too! Let's travel back in time, all the way to Easter. All of a sudden, it was 80 degrees, the tree buds were fairly popping out, and Matt pulled out the yellow-striped linen shirt that is the true sign of the season (as well as a sign of lack of ironing skills/effort). I baked a plain old Pills cake, smoothing the batter onto a cookie sheet in anticipation of cutting it into fun-themed shapes and colorful frosting decoration. But ah -- foiled! -- the frosting was chocolate, and while much more delicious, did not abide by food coloring. In case you're in a bind for time though, here's a handy tip: the cake only took about 15 minutes to bake up nice and golden.

But that was just a preamble, testing the water with a toe, or, if you will, dipping a finger in the flour. (You know, instead of a "green thumb," I would suggest that Rachel, Tracey, and I have "buttered thumbs.") The real show would be with dinner, and it turned out to be just as much of a snap.

The picture on the box made it all look so simple, and happily, it was. Classy but unassuming, the general aura of the phyllo dough box seemed to say, "Oh, how about some napoleons? Or just a little baklava? That sounds nice." Sure, why not? Mr. Chef helped brush the butter onto the dough, Rachel pared away the edges and layered the sheets, and I cooked down some a big pack of Chinatown strawberries into jam. Things hummed along, and we learned that cookie cutters cannot compete with phyllo, but that's just fine. Triangles are great, thanks.

The warmth and butter and sugar created a sort of hazy hang-over halo of happy fatigue. Maybe that's why I thought it didn't matter much that the wand-mixer flung bits of chocolatey cream, spackling us with dessert. We laughed and rolled our eyes, and bundled it up to go to Melanie's place. She treated us to a perfect feast, and we found many ways to construct and consume our phyllo-strawberry-chocolate-cream towers, perhaps falling victim to their namesake's ambition, but only with happy, delicious ends.