I’m supposed to be watching my weight right now. The holiday season wasn’t too kind to my waistline, and summer will rear it’s head in no time. So as logic should have it, I made calorie-happy poached pear stacks, since I had a bunch of spiced poached pears floating (literally!) around.

I promised myself I would just take a small taste. To make sure the dessert didn’t suck.

And lo and behold, it didn’t just not suck, it turned out to be one of the best desserts on this whole dang blog. At first, I told myself I’d just lick the spoon clean. Then when the spoon was left gleaming, an instant air of melacholia hit me, so much so that I dipped the spoon back in the almond cream to dirty it up again, and have a fresh excuse to get another taste.

The whole thing was really a runaway train. Before I knew what was happening, I was nibbling on puff pastry, then puff pastry with a few pear slices, then how could I just eat these things in parts? I needed all the components together. Soon enough, I was shoveling in full spoonfuls of the whole caboodle.

If you watch Top Chef Just Desserts, you may be familiar with the awesomeness that is Johnny Iuzzini, the head judge and executive pastry chef at the bajillion-starred New York restaurant Jean Georges. Now, though, I should say their former pastry chef, since he recently gave his notice.

And guess who’s taking his place? My mentor, teacher and all around amazing chef Joseph Murphy. This news warms every cockle of my heart, because it just reinforces what I already know — that I got some amazing training. Training that is now heading up the famed Jean Georges.

As a brand spanking newbie, one of the first things Joe taught me was how to do poached pears. I still remember him pouring four fat bottles of port into a vat full of fresh Bartletts, throwing in all the fragrant sugar n spice and letting ‘er rip. You could easily get drunk on all those fumes blowing through the air. (And really, was it my imagination or did the day go by just a little bit faster when the pears were on?)

It’s a great beginner’s recipe. The only part that you might even call tricky, if you were having an anxious day, is when to deem them tender enough to take them off the heat. I suggest you stab them once or twice with a small knife while they’re still raw to get a sense of what their texture is like (and also because stabbing fruit just feels good), and get a frame of reference for what “firm-tender” is like later. It’s better to take them off the heat too soon than too late, since there will be a minute or two of residual cooking in the hot liquid.

I like to poach them whole so they have less of a chance of falling apart into a mush, and cut them into pieces later. Also, after they’re done cooking, I cool and store them in their liquid. After a few days, they absorb the hue like a kid hearing curse words and gain a deep color and flavor for ultimate beauty inside and out.

Hello again, Gorgeous. And, Handsome. Yes you. Happy New Year to you. I hope 2012 is your year, filled with all the things you wish for, whether it be job success, or attainment of personal joy and satisfaction. Or good pastry eatin’. I know I feel hopeful.

My guess is you’re all baked out from the holiday season. Maybe you just want to veg and recover from last night’s self-inflicted fun. I’m with ya.

So I say, all we have to do is prepare for next time. Let’s make some flavors, in the form of extracts.

After having bought one ten-dollar bottle after another of vanilla, I finally decided to grab some vodka and make my own. Not to drink. For the the extracts. Ok, so I had a little nip. Or two. Keeps the ol’ bones warm, yeah?

As long as we have booze, why stop at just vanilla. Let’s go to town and make a bunch. Many recipes use them, so why not have them on hand? Thanks to the powerful preserving qualities of 40 proof, they keep very well.

A few months ago, reader Mika sent me an email asking if I could recreate a dessert that knocked her socks off at a restaurant in her home town. She wanted to be able to make it whenever the craving hit. And let’s face it, when it comes to chocolate, that could be any time of day or night. It was a Triple Chocolate Mousse Cake and she included a photo, so I could get a visual reference. Looked good to me. I was in.

But I kept peering at that photo. Did my eyes deceive me? Where, oh where was the third part of the “Triple” in the name? If I let my pastry imagination run amuck, Triple Chocolate Mousse would mean there would be three kinds of mousses — one layer each of white, milk, and dark chocolate.

I consulted the Great Sultan: Google.

Turns out, the “triple” refers to the number of layers all totaled, not the number of mousse-only layers, meaning the cake part was counted as a third. I reexamined the photo. Perhaps I needed my glasses, but the cake part was hard to see.

Craaaaack.

No, that wasn’t the sound of eggs cracking. That was my ankle giving out. A sprain.

I wish I could say it came from something cool, like a ski trip, but it came from the everyday act of walking to a bus stop. Apparently, putting one foot in front of the other has become too much of a challenge for me. All it took was one “off” step and now I’m sidelined for a month.

At times like these, I thank the powers that be that I no longer work in a restaurant kitchen. Boy, do they frown on calling in sick. Since the kitchen culture is all about being a badass, summoning your inner Navy Seal for every shift, and pushing through even the most overwhelming situations, if you call in sick, everyone treats you like you’ve kicked their dog. The only acceptable excuse is death. And even then, you better prove you are. (The other added incentive is that you typically don’t get paid if you don’t work your shift.)

Every single body is so heavily depended upon, one missing person puts the whole operation into a tailspin. We didn’t ever want anyone to do that to us, so we didn’t do it to them. Even if we were pulsating with 103 degree fever, we’d come in. I’ve seen people work with a cold. The flu. Big, seeping burn-boils all over their arms. Hangovers. Stitched up knife cuts on their hands. Lopped off fingers, courtesy of the meat slicer.