Warm potato salad with lemon-lime vinaigrette

Making the root beer cake launched a lot of conversations in our house about sodas. The husband and I discussed the ones we like (root beer and ginger ale) and those we don't (most others), how the husband's teeth hurt when he thinks about drinking a Coke, and soda brands from our childhoods.

I grew up in California in a household that did not drink a lot of sodas. Yes, there was root beer at A&W, and I remember drinking some orange Fantas over the years. But my strongest memory of soft drinks was when we'd go on camping trips with family friends, who'd always bring a cooler full of Cragmont sodas. I was always thrilled to see that cooler, which I knew to be neatly stocked with shiny cans. Of all the flavors, which included bright pink strawberry and the exotic cream soda, I often chose lemon lime.

The husband didn't have Cragmont in Kentucky, but he did have Chek, which I had never heard of. A quick search on Wikipedia informed me that this too was a cheap brand like Cragmont and boasted the same classic flavors, as well as some suspicious-sounding ones, like Red Alert, Dr. Chek, and my personal favorite, diet Freshy, a Fresca rip-off.

Anyway, after I had a good laugh about Chek, I found myself thinking about lemon lime. Lemon lime is a weird flavor for a kid to pick out, but as I'm sure is evident by now, I was a weird kid. As an adult, I still like lemons and limes together, although I prefer them in their natural forms.

So last night, as I was roasting up a pork loin, I decided to make a potato salad. These two things don't really go together; one is more fall/winter and one is more spring/summer. Pork roasts make me think of root vegetables and bitter autumn greens, while potato salad is warm-weather picnic food. But we had a lot of little Yukon Gold potatoes that needed attention, as well as a bag of limes.  I decided to make a tangy vinaigrette using the zest and juice of one lemon and two limes, along with some coarse mustard and olive oil. I poured it over warm potatoes and cold celery, with lots of fresh chives. The result was a light but strongly-flavored potato salad straddling two seasons, a perfect accompaniment to the pork loin rubbed in rosemary.

I'm glad I was reminded about lemons and limes, even if it was through a lengthy analysis of cheap 1970's sodas. It's still a great combination that can lift a ho-hum dish into something both crisp and sunny.

What's this about a root beer cake?

I've always had a thing for root beer. When I was little, my sister and I took tap lessons at a dance studio that happened to be near an A&W. Sometimes after class my mom would take us there for a treat.  We preferred A&W to other fast food places because they made baby burgers for kids, perfectly sized for little paws.

"What would you like to order, Hungry Dog?" my mother would ask.

"A baby burger," I'd reply, not missing a beat, "and a root beer float."

Remember those days? When you'd order a root beer float...as a beverage? Ah, the decadence of being a kid in the 70's, before the obesity epidemic and trans fat frenzy. We thought nothing, and neither did our parents, of consuming red meat and processed foods at each meal. We didn't think twice of saying, "I'll have a cheeseburger and a root beer float, and I'll take a sundae for dessert."

Those post-dance class floats--served in frosty mugs and made not with ice cream but vanilla soft serve--remain one of my happiest memories. While I haven't made it to an A&W in decades, I still love root beer and I do enjoy a good float, although now I like it with Henry Weinhard root beer and Haagen Daaz vanilla. And root beer floats are one of my favorite desserts to serve to guests. I have the perfect float glasses and special spoons that double as straws.

I've never played around with root beer much, though, baking-wise. So when I came across this recipe for root beer cake, I just about lost my mind. Immediately, I began wondering where I could buy a bundt pan on the way home from work. I mentally poured over the pantry. Did I have the right kind of cocoa? Dark brown sugar? Was there root beer in the house? I became obsessed. I even mentioned root beer cake in a facebook status.

Apparently, I'm not the only one who can get behind a root beer cake. Within moments of posting my status, several people made comments. The husband wanted to know when he could expect to see this cake. Desiree wanted the recipe. Cynthia reported that she currently had a root beer sitting on her desk and wanted to know what else she needed to turn it into a cake.

The cake was gaining momentum. It wanted me to make it. So I did.

The cake was simple to put together and didn't take long to bake. Once I'd removed the cake from the oven, I admired it in its attractive green bundt shell.

A little bit later, I popped it out and frosted it with root beer fudge icing.

"Hey, Hungry Dog, what's that sprinkled on top of the cake?" you're wondering.

Oh yeah. The cake is sprinkled with sea salt. SEA SALT. Genius.

The cake was delicious and moist, more of a chocolate cake reminiscent of root beer than a straight-up root beer cake. But that's probably just as well. A cake that tastes like a can of soda might be a bit much.  But a cake that has cocoa and dark chocolate and coarse sea salt, a grown up version of that favorite dessert you had as a kid, well that's just about perfect.

Rubik's Cube risotto

On Saturday, the husband and I spun around town crossing things off our list. Boring things, mostly. Picking up medicine for the dog at the vet. Getting an oil change. Grocery shopping. I'd jotted down the ingredients for a recipe I wanted to try, fillet of sole wrapped in prosciutto and served with roasted butternut squash and parsnips.

But the day ended up being so busy that when it came time to make dinner, I didn't feel like fussing with all the root vegetables, which always require a bit of attention. I felt more interested in drinking a beer and watching "Mythbusters" with the husband than painstakingly peeling and chopping, and fretting over a new recipe. So I scrapped the original plan and instead pan-fried the fish with lemon and parsley, and served it alongside potatoes and steamed broccoli. A dinner straight out of my childhood.

The next night, I felt prepared to take on the vegetables, but I had no fish. Time to wing it, Hungry Dog style. I had the parsnips, which are homely on the outside but once peeled, reveal themselves to be a beautiful, snowy white. And I had a little butternut squash, the cutest thing you ever saw, about five inches tall and three inches wide at its, um, hips. Ridiculous. And I had some beets that had been waiting patiently in the vegetable bin for a few weeks. I began to envision a bright autumn risotto, with little squares of color running through the pale rice.

I peeled, diced, and roasted the veggies, and got started on the risotto. Usually I add white wine but all I could find was vermouth (where did that come from?) which did the trick. And I minced up some fresh rosemary to give it a woodsy flavor.

When the risotto was nearly done, I folded in the vegetables, which looked like teeny Rubik's Cube squares. The rice did not remain pristine white as I had hoped; once the beets and squash made their way in, it turned startling shade of pinkish orange. But it was still pretty, and it tasted good. Perhaps most importantly, it fit the mood I was in. Sometimes you feel like sticking to the plan and sometimes you don't. Often the best discoveries happen when you're short an ingredient, can't remember the exact measurements, or when, out of laziness, you divide one recipe into two.