For most people, Summer means time for fresh, locally-grown produce.

(Not to rub it in, but out here in California, we get the good stuff year round. And there's no humidity. And you can ski and swim in the ocean in the same day. Sure, I'll wait while you book your plane tickets.)

And when it comes to that produce, no vegetable is as prodigious in July and August as the mighty zucchini (a.k.a. summer squash). Sold for cents on the pound, it's a versatile and welcome harbinger of warm weather wherever it appears. Have you had the little two or three inch ones, boiled in salted water and covered with fresh, green olive oil? Or what about the big baseball bats, sliced into long thick strips and thrown on the grill, as meaty and juicy as the best sirloin? Heck, you can even eat the stuff raw.

At long last, things have settled in here a little bit. The Pasta Burner and I have finally gotten our kitchen in order, and with it, there's a chance to really start exploring the California bounty at our fingertips.

I've been inching to make a pie for a while now. Yes, yes, I know, there have been more tarts on this page than in the wives' seats at the World Cup, but there's just something different, something luscious, indulgent, and summery about pie that other pastries -- including my beloved tarts -- just can't touch. In short, think of it this way: If Tarte au Citron is Grace Kelly, Blueberry Pie is Jayne Mansfield.

My goodness -- Finals season really does take it out of you. That being said, this was a important set of exam and papers here at Burning Pasta, a couple of weeks filled with both satisfaction and big news for the future.

I really do wish I had the time to update this page more often.

That's not to say that I don't get satisfaction putting up one recipe a week; it's just that, for every one dish that appears here, there are often five or six others that don't make the cut, whether due to time, photographic quality, or other intangible factors.

For instance, when I look at these minty Dark Chocolate Starlight Cookies...

I'm not really a New Year's Eve kind of guy.

Well, perhaps I should say that I'm not one to "go out" on December 31st -- there are drunks driving out on the road, restaurants run terrible, over-priced prix fixe menus, and, when the strike of midnight arrives, it's often, more than not, a little bit of a let down. That's not to say that I don't like getting together with friends. Armed with an overcoat, a decent pair of gloves and a working subway system, I'll do my best to put in an appearance, a bottle of cava in hand.

Anyway, after years of NYE naysaying, karma finally caught up with me -- this past Thursday, I rang in 2010 by myself, and in a decidedly uncomfortable position. The Pasta Burner was out of town (visiting her family), and, while working on a few projects around the house, I threw out my back something wretched. Indeed, as 11:59 became 12:00, I found myself horizontal, a heating pad tucked underneath me, the Times Square ball appearing to drop left-to-right.

The Pasta Burner loves to make biscuits.

And why not? There are few things more delicious right out of the oven than those buttery, flaky, still-steaming-hot buns. The first one is delicious. As is the next one. And the one after that.

The key to great biscuits, of course, is a cup or two of buttermilk; the tangy (and wonderful) side effect of whipping heavy cream into oblivion adds a lovely, pleasant lightness for which there really is no other substitute.

The only problem with biscuit making is that it's nearly impossible to just buy a cup of buttermilk; if you're lucky, a quart is about the smallest container you'll find. So what to do with the leftovers?

The answer is found in today's recipe; the combination of a classic southern dessert and the summer's last bounty of stone fruit. Let's get to it.

There are few things that mean "fall" to me more than ginger snaps. In particular, Sweetzel's Spiced Wafers, the birthright of any southeastern Pennsylvania child, are specifically responsible for my Pavlovian response.

[Editor's Note: Ivins' Spiced Wafers, another Pennsylvania classic, are a fine choice as well.]

I can remember eating giant stacks of them with glasses of hot apple cider at both my grandparents' houses; the best ones were those that were just a little stale, when they'd lose their snap and get just a little chewy. Due to my love of the wafers (particularly the soft ones), I've been trying to develop a good Molasses-Ginger Cookie recipe of my own, combining and enhancing my favorite parts of the original.

Well, I think I've done it. These cookies not only provide that great chewy texture, they turn the volume way up on the spice level -- the distinct, peppery "heat" that will be sure to win the heart of the ginger-lover in your life.

I'm very proud of these -- dare I say it, I might even prefer them to the original.

Two quick notes before we begin this week's post!

First, thanks go out to eagle-eyed reader Sarah Y. for catching an error in our last post. In the description of how to melt the chocolate, the text originally read to melt down "one stick of butter per 12 ounces of chocolate." It should have read "1/2 of a stick of butter per 12 ounces." The correction has been made to the page, hopefully soon enough to save all of you from runny chocolate and unnecessary coronary episodes.

Second, we couldn't help but notice that, six days after our own recipe for Grilled Lamb Chops with Sun-Dried Tomato Chimichurri went live, the New York Times ran this remarkably similar recipe. We here at Burning Pasta don't assume that Ms. Clark or any other NYT staffers read this page, but we do love a good coincidence.

On to this week's post!

Candy-making can be intimidating, it's true. No one likes struggling with molten sugar and thermometers, and, all too often, what ends up being produced at home still isn't up to the quality and craftsmanship of store-bought treats.

And yet, there are a few quick treats that are, relatively speaking, painless to create, and which look as (if not more) attractive than their professionally-made cousins. Today's recipe falls into both of those categories, and it's incredibly versatile to boot.

The techniques and shortcuts I'm going to present today aren't particularly revolutionary, at least in candy-making circles. That being said, they're not well-known by most home cooks. Consider today's post a way to acquire a handy ability, a way to develop yet another skill you'll be able to call upon in the kitchen. Let's get to it.

I really can't make this any easier for you.

The fact of the matter is that there's a certain minimal threshold of effort as far as cooking goes -- odds are, you're going to have to chop something, or mix something, or measure something. Do you have to do that with today's recipe? Sure. But you could probably get away with just winging it.

While we've had simple desserts in the past -- Three-Ingredient Cheesecake or Ginger-Caramel Icebox Cake, anyone? -- this week's entry proves that easy and gorgeous, patisserie-worthy pastry can, indeed, go hand-in-hand. Let's get to it.

I have, putting it mildly, an ice cream problem.

There's always a half-dozen pints in the fridge, and, on more than one night, I've been known to head back to the kitchen for multiple servings; I'm waiting for the day when my pores leak egg yolks and cream. For someone who supposedly has "no sweet tooth," my attitude towards ice cream presents a contradiction at 32 degrees F, a paradox comprised of Pistachio and Butter Pecan.

To my credit, those two above flavors are among my favorites, along with other varieties on the less-sweet side of the scale: Peanut Butter, Vanilla Bean, Rum Raisin, Green Tea. More importantly, when I break out the ice cream maker to create my own recipes, I use very little sugar; I want people to enjoy the taste of each individual element.

Recently, I've been on a kick to incorporate more savory flavors into sweet dishes; to expand the idea of what dessert should be, to investigate great ways to finish a meal and still challenge and stimulate the palate. A little sweet, a little salty, but all delicious, this is one dish that will keep your guests guessing. Give it a whirl and let me know what you think in the comments.

As I've said in this space many times before, baking does not come naturally to me.

This isn't to say that I don't try; it's just that I've had more practice with sauté pans than with baking powder or yeast. I realize that this can be overcome -- much as I hope that many of you realize your own cooking fears can be overcome by making things off of this food blog -- and, as a result, these days I often make myself break out the flour and preheat the oven as opposed to providing my guests with a bowl of fruit, some good blue cheese, and a few extra bottles of red.

[Editor's Note: Seriously, who would choose dessert over that?]

One side effect of this increase in baking is that it has been self-driven, rather than learned at the side of a parent or relative, which is how it seems most of my baker friends first learned. As a result, my techniques are a bit unorthodox, my combinations of flavors and textures somewhat of their own making.

This cake is a prime example of that. In its most basic form, it is a frosted Vanilla-Buckwheat cake, but, rather than use buckwheat flour, I used Kasha (seen at the top of this post), the whole-kerneled groat of the plant, resulting in a richer dough, much more akin to the Italian torta di noci than, say, yellow cake from a box. As for the frosting, rather than turning to a heavy buttercream, I opted for a lighter-than-air meringue.

While I realize that this is contrary to the traditional principles of cake dynamics (light, fluffy cake surrounded by rich frosting), the resulting product turned out to be both full of flavor and not too heavy, perfect for mid-summer. Let's get to it.

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.

When I went out and got my first post-undergraduate degree job -- my first "real" job -- one of the tiny perks was the fact that, along with my wages, my employer provided me with free coffee, day or night, weekday or weekend (and trust me, I spent plenty of nights and weekends there). Now, of course, I realize that this is typical for most offices, but, hey -- I was young, and at that point, I probably could have counted the cups of coffee I had drank on one hand. The free coffee wasn't the best stuff, but it wasn't road tar either. Needless to say, by the end of my first month, I was putting back six cups a day and I was a wired, jittery mess.

Since then, I've learned how not to overindulge. In fact, although my current employer offers the same coffee service, I usually drink tea in the mornings. Still, there are few things better than a heart-rumblingly strong cup of coffee to give you a second wind, few better ways to wrap up lunch. What can I say? The coffee bean's siren song still reaches my ears on occasion.

Well, I lied.

I know I said Burning Pasta was done with heavy food for a while.

I know I said Burning Pasta had featured too many desserts recently.

I know I said Burning Pasta would be featuring more Spring-inspired dishes, that it was time for vinegar, and vegetables, and fresh-mown grass with puppies rolling around in it or some other sort of rhetorical ridiculousness.

All those things are true, but the fact of the matter is that this dessert, this cheesecake, is so easy, so fast, and so versatile that it would have been cruel to deny you its pleasures until the fall just because of some arbitrary editorial stubbornness.

This is the real thing -- homemade cheesecake -- without a bain-marie, containing a fraction of the fat, and with ingredients that you either already have, or will be easy to keep on hand in your house. Let's get to it.

"Serving bacon for dessert, however, remains controversial. With sightings of bacon brittle, chocolate-covered bacon and bacon ice cream, bacon desserts have become the skinny jeans of pastry: trendy to a fault, saucy when successful, yet often ill-advised."

What can I say? The New York Times went right after me this week.

In an article about breakfast foods being adapted into desserts at high end restaurants, Julia Moskin espoused the glories of such dishes as oatmeal créme bruleé and "cereal milk" panna cotta with avocado puree -- both of which, if you ask me, seem somewhat questionable. Almost anything, she wrote said, could and should be adapted into a dessert. Except of course, bacon, which has apparently become so "in" that it's now "out."

I doubt Ms. Moskin could have known that I had a bacon dessert ready to post on the blog, but, all the same, I'm not apologizing. Because, sure, the bacon fad has passed by the high-end restaurants out there, but the move towards its use by adventurous home cooks is the next, natural step in how food trends and flavors pass down to the general public.

Every once in a while, a food trend will break out into the mainstream. It starts in high-end restaurants, moves to home cooks, gets down towards bistro cooking, and then, if it's really successful, breaks out into fast food. It's a fast process, too -- obscure flavors can become thought of as the norm in the blink of an eye. Don't believe me? Don't you remember how quickly the chipotle pepper became ubiquitous?

First off, a big thank you and hello to Danie at http://www.piqueaboo.com/ for linking to our page! We've linked back over to her as well, and suggest you check out her take on life in San Francisco (and lots of other things as well). Rumor has it that she's purchasing a food processor soon. Will it make an appearance at piqueaboo.com? Inquiring minds want to know. :-P

Now, onwards to this week's recipe!

There are two kinds of people in any given kitchen. There are cooks, and there are bakers.

For those few brave souls who know just how to fold butter into pastry dough, who live for scones and cakes and cookies, dessert is an easy course to tackle, an eagerly anticipated one, even. For the rest of us, making dessert is a nebulous dance with disaster, a tense gauntlet wherein souffles fall, raisins blacken, and the alternative of a cheese board, a few pears, and a solid bottle of port seem like a much better idea.

I have a particularly bad case of baking phobia, and it's exacerbated by yet another heresy -- I don't have a sweet tooth, not in the least. (I know, believe me. The Pasta Burner thinks I'm nuts.) But still, I know what joy baked goods bring to people, so I do my best to make things here and there. For the most part, they're actually pretty decent, but every once in a while, a dessert of mine is an absolute, total flop.

For this reason, it's always good to have a back-up plan, a dessert that's absolutely fail safe, made with ingredients you'll find in almost any pantry. It's quick, delicious, and satisfying. It's Pudim de Leche. It's so easy, I'm going to try and walk you through the recipe with as few words as possible.

Well, pretty much. I can explain.

The basic elements of this recipe are shamelessly cribbed from the doyenne of Philadelphia's New Chinese cuisine, Susanna Foo. This delicious sorbet (or something very like it) is a standard at Ms. Foo's eponymous restaurant, where's it's appeared on the menu for over twenty-five years. I've taken her recipe and barely modified it, creating a version that's less sweet and includes the bracing element of fleur de sel.

So, in a word, is this the exact recipe? No, but it's close enough that I feel credit must be paid where credit is due.