Pavlovas are a dessert that always impress for how simple they are. I have them on the brain right now because I’ll be making a couple dozen for a VIP dinner the day after tomorrow and I’m coming off a bit of an inspirational drought. I’m on the porch in the shade with a lowball of grog beside me and a cigar I may or may not smoke.

Named for the ballerina Anna Pavlova, they are giant baked merengue bowls filled with whipped cream and fresh fruit. If you’ve ever made angel food cake, macarons, or “forgotten kiss” cookies, you already know how to do the hardest bit. Pavlovas look so impressive and dainty, it makes people think they are difficult when the truth is they are a masterclass in Technique, Patience, Fresh Ingredients, and Not Getting Too Fancy.

Simple things are always like that. No space to hide when you fuck up a step. It’s a “you had ONE JOB” scenario, and how well you did that One Job is there on the plate. Overdone? Underdone? Cracked? Everyone’s going to see and then eat it anyway, because it’s sugar, cream, and fresh fruit that you worked hard on. In that way, pavlovas are a reminder that it’s all just food.

Writing can be like that too, I’ve found. You work at it, you pace it right, tease out the story, don’t outsmart your common sense, and hopefully you end up with something people will enjoy.

My boss and I had loosely discussed the VIP dinner dessert. The last dinner we did, he chose a riff on carrot cake because he knew it was the winemaker’s favorite and she would be in attendance. I did my best work on it and everyone loved it. Happy ending. The winemaker enjoyed it, but wondered if it really paired well with the wine that had been selected. I’d never gotten to taste the wine or even get notes on it, so the carrot cake was good… but overshadowed the wine at a VIP dinner at a winery. We could do better.

This time around, the winemaker showed me their advertising copy with tasting notes and poured me a little scoot to try. It was tangy, floral, and spoke of peaches and stone fruit. I jotted down notes in my phone along with her suggestion to avoid going too sweet, or the wine might taste sour in comparison. That’s easy to do with anything that isn’t “dessert wine”- ice wine, ports, or the kind of muscats you find glued to the lips of bridal shower attendees. A pavlova might actually be the perfect answer.

Initially, the boss and I had discussed a riff on another dinosaur Oceanic classic, Peach Melba. Instead of the poached peaches and raspberries on ice cream, however, my boss very much wanted a tart for the dinner. Tarts are easy to plate, clean to cut, and are easy to get cute with. Pile on the flavors, the textures, the colors, and a good cross-section will shine on anyones Instagram, hopefully tagged with the location and brand of the wine,

We both did trials of our tart ideas but neither quite fit the bill, and I kept assembling pavlovas in my mind. I’ve learned that some ideas won’t leave me alone until I take a crack at making them. Writing is a bit like that as well- you pay attention, and you’ll find a story worth telling the best you can.

The pavlova shell would be flavored with jasmine green tea. The herbal/floral scent compounding the flavors above and giving a bittersweet foundation- a blank sky for a flock of birds to be seen against.

I debated a diplomat cream filling- pastry cream lightened and folded with Chantilly- but decided even that would be too much. Pastry cream is a custard. Custard means egg. Egg is earthy, sweet, and grounding- a distraction. Instead, whipped creme fraiche with vanilla- a little sweet, a little sour, not too fancy, This and the shell would be vehicles carrying the fruit- important to do well, but no one marvels at the foundations of a house.

It would be Peach Melba inspired, like the chef and I agreed. Stone fruit was coming into season, and this would be what spoke to the wine. It would have to be gently handled. Highlighted. Elevated to stand out on the plate and point toward the wine. I imagined grilled apricots- another touch of bitterness in the char to caramelize the sugars and announce the sunshine in the golden flesh. Fresh raspberries are always good as they are.

You glaze the fruit on a plate. That’s just how it is. Cooks are craftsmen, and it’s our job to imitate nature and make it look like whatever we served you just grew like that. If there is fresh fruit on a plate, it needs to look like we just ran out to a garden and plucked a fistful of raspberries wet with morning dew from the bush. We have to make ourselves disappear in your mind when you look at the plate– wizards and elves and faeries just poofed this perfect plate of sustenance in front of you with no human hand intervening.

Glaze adds sweetness, but done right it can add more without drawing attention to itself. I imagined the berries and grilled apricots, shining in the light on the plate atop their hillock of whipped cream and egg. A little hill. On the hill up to the winery, I knew there was a honeysuckle bush- I smelled the blossoms every morning. Pungent, light, floral, fresh… I needed THAT on the plate.

Early one morning last week, the idea couldn’t live in my brain anymore, and I put it together. “Just make it happen, get it out of your head, and don’t fuck around.”

That’s why the VIPs this week are getting pavlova, you got to read about how it was made, and I have an empty glass beside me. Putting the right things together and putting the work in to treat them right means you’ll more often that not have something to enjoy.

Stay Classy,