I was going to post the Senegalese recipe that I promised you last week, but I'm afraid there's something we have to address first.

You see, one of my favorite things about Burning Pasta is the feedback that I receive from readers. Whether in the form of post comments, e-mails, Facebook notes, or in-person conversation, it’s always gratifying to know that people are not only reading, but also enjoying the content here on a regular basis.

Unfortunately, all too often, I hear a common refrain in these communiqués, which, if I might paraphrase it, goes something like this: “I love reading the blog and looking at the pictures, but a lot of the recipes seem beyond my skill level.” While I’d heartily disagree – neither myself nor the Pasta Burner have any formal cookery training whatsoever – I can understand and sympathize with such concerns.

However, the truth of the matter is that such worries are baseless -- chefs obfuscate, cookbooks lie, and, as a result, there are certain ingredients and preparation techniques that we’ve been brainwashed about; we become convinced they are just shy of impossible to pull off. Among these, I would argue that no area of the kitchen is more clogged with cloak and dagger intrigue than the domain of the pâtissier, no food more fetishized in this manner than French pastry.

I’m here to tell you that many of those breathless demands about French baking that you’ve heard – your butter has to be at an exact temperature; you have to use ten different kinds of flour for ten different kinds of bread; you have to rise your yeast breads in a towel; you need to follow every inch of traditional technique or else all is lost and you’ve disgraced Belle France herself – it’s all just meant to scare you, to keep you from trying, to make sure you spend your days reading food blogs instead of cooking from them.

Well, no more, I say! This week’s recipe is as classic and delicious as French pastry gets, except for one thing – we’re tossing out all the technique. Let’s get to it.

To be honest, this week's recipe is so basic it barely qualifies to be placed on a cooking blog.

In fact, technically speaking, it doesn't qualify to be on a cooking blog -- there's no cooking involved. Even so, it merits inclusion here; if my nephew Cooper's amazed smile can't convince you, nothing will.

This is a modern update on a classic 1950's "housewife dessert," and yet it's aesthetically attractive enough to wow your guests when it's brought out to the table. Little will your guests know just how easy and how fast this delicious cake is to make, how many of the basic ingredients can be purchased straight from your supermarket's shelves; the refrigerator does all the work for you. There's no time to waste -- let's get right to it.

As many of you know, I'm a graduate student in the study of History. (Editor's Note: I would share at which school I study, but for the sake of half-hearted internet anonymity, I'll be omitting the name of the school here.)

To the point, last week, my Narrative History class took a field trip to the site of George Washington's crossing of the Delaware River on December 25, 1776. It's a picturesque area, and our tour encompassed several sites, including the crossing location itself:



We also visited the now-drained Delaware Canal, and, perhaps of greatest interest to me, the former impromptu military hospital located at what is now known as the Thompson-Neely House.

As part of our visit, we were to write a brief "historical narrative," and I (and my fellow classmates) used a great deal of creativity to fulfill the spirit of the project. As part of my paper, I described what would have been a standard ration for a Continental soldier -- a bowl of soup and a few shreds of salted, preserved pork. As I wrote, I wondered how best to get into the voice of my subject, how best to share his perspective. I had walked his paces, I had read of his (or at least his real-life counterparts') actions -- what if I could taste what he tasted, eat as he ate?