aka The Pie That Heals Allergies (Emotionally, Not Medically)

Let’s just start by stating the obvious: this pie is technically not frozen. But if you’ve been hanging around this blog for a while, you know that Frosty Friday is more of a vibe than a rigid rulebook. It’s about the cool treats, the chill moments, and the sweet bites that take the edge off a hot summer day or, in this case, a rough week with allergies.

So, yes, this week’s Frosty Friday entry is coming at you straight from the refrigerator, not the freezer. But you know what?
My blog. My rules.

And honestly, this pie is so silky, so chocolatey, so cool and luscious, it deserves a spot in the Frosty Friday Hall of Fame—even if it lives in the fridge instead of the deep freeze.

Ivy and the Pie That Could

If you’ve been following along, you know that Miss Ivy has been battling a whole menu of allergens lately. Her poor nose is basically Rudolph-level red from all the blowing, and let’s just say fruit is off the table for the foreseeable future. (Like, hard pass. Not even strawberries, which are practically candy. ARFID don’t play.)

But comfort still has to find its way to the plate somehow, right?

So I dusted off one of the oldie but goodie recipes that I’ve had in my back pocket for years—French Silk Pie. But this time, I made it with a graham cracker crust, because who doesn’t love that golden buttery crunch under a mountain of chocolate fluff?  And, like all things that my sweet little family has restricted, Ivy doesn't like real pie crust.  I love my little band of weirdos!

And the look on Ivy’s face when she took a bite?
Chef’s kiss.
Even with a tissue in one hand and a box of Sudafed in the other, my girl smiled. That kind of magic? Yeah, I had to share it with you too.

A Word About the Eggs…

Before we get into the chocolatey center of things, here’s the part where I pretend to be responsible for like two sentences:

This recipe does use raw eggs. So if that’s a no-go for you or your family (immunocompromised folks, littles, etc.), you might want to bookmark this and come back when you’ve got access to pasteurized eggs or when you’re feeling risky.

Now that we’ve cleared that up: let’s make some pie.

French Silk Pie with Graham Cracker Crust

Ingredients:

For the crust:

• 1 ½ cups graham cracker crumbs (about 10–12 full sheets)

• ¼ cup granulated sugar

• 6 tablespoons melted butter

For the filling:

• 1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temp

• 1 cup granulated sugar

• 4 oz bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, melted and cooled

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

• 4 large eggs (see note above!)

For the topping:

• 1 cup heavy whipping cream

• 2 tablespoons powdered sugar

• Chocolate shavings or curls (if you want to win bonus points with literally everyone)

Instructions:

1. Make the Crust:

In a large bowl, combine graham cracker crumbs, sugar, and melted butter. Stir until it looks like sandy, buttery goodness.

Press that glorious mess into a 9-inch pie dish. Use the bottom of a measuring cup to get a nice even layer up the sides and across the bottom.

Bake at 350°F (175°C) for 8–10 minutes, just to set it and give it a toasty edge. Let it cool completely while you make the filling.

2. Prepare the Filling:

In a large mixing bowl, beat the butter and sugar together for a full 5 minutes. I know, it’s forever. But this step is key to getting the sugar to dissolve and the texture to be dreamy instead of gritty.

Beat in the cooled melted chocolate and vanilla.

Now the fun part: add the eggs one at a time, beating for a solid 5 minutes after each egg. Yes, that’s 20 minutes of mixing. Yes, your mixer will groan. But trust me, this is where the silk magic happens. The filling gets airy and fluffy and so rich, you'll be tempted to eat it straight from the bowl (sorry, not sorry).

3. Assemble:

Pour that beautiful chocolate mousse-like filling into the cooled crust. Smooth it out like you're tucking it into bed. Cover loosely and refrigerate for at least 4 hours, or overnight if you’re planning ahead like a pie wizard.

4. Make the Whipped Cream:

Right before serving, whip the heavy cream and powdered sugar until soft peaks form. You can go a little stiffer if you’re feeling bold. Dollop or pipe it right on top of the pie.

5. Garnish:

Now, technically you could stop here.
But why not go full drama and top it with chocolate shavings? Use a vegetable peeler on a bar of chocolate and channel your inner pastry chef. Ivy saw the curls and gasped like I had just done some Hogwarts level magic.  Oh yeah, I'm gonna start polishing up that Mom of The Year trophy.

Final Thoughts (aka Confessions)

Let me be clear: this is not a health food. This is not gluten-free, dairy-free, or refined sugar-free. This is not the pie to bring to your friend who only eats things that are “clean” or “paleo” or “spiritually blessed by monks.”

This is the pie you make when your kid feels crummy, the allergies won’t quit, and fruit is off the table. This is the pie you make when you need a hug in a crust, a chocolatey miracle, or just a reminder that yes—dessert can absolutely be therapy.

It’s rich. It’s cool. It’s got that graham cracker crunch that makes every bite sing.

It’s been tested and approved by the red-nosed, chocolate-loving Miss Ivy herself.

So, whether you're a Frosty Friday purist or you just wandered in here for something sweet—make this pie.
Top it with all the whipped cream your heart can handle.
Add those chocolate shavings.
Eat it straight from the fridge at midnight.
My blog. My rules. Your joy.

Until next time, stay frosty (or at least fridge-chilled).

So we’ve been discussing my fruit problem lately. I call it a problem. Others might call it “a wholesome seasonal hobby” or “a completely justified enthusiasm for nature’s candy,” but let’s be honest—I buy more fruit in the summer than a roadside stand. Like, I go into the grocery store for milk and come out with enough peaches, berries, and bananas to feed a small fruit bat colony.

And yes, bananas are included on that list. Oh bananas, you sweet, yellow enigmas. You go from “perfectly edible” to “basically compost” in the span of 12 hours. Which is why banana bread exists. It’s our collective coping mechanism. A warm, slightly squishy, chocolate-laced solution to our overripe banana regrets.

Banana bread is my favorite way to use bananas—always has been, always will be. And I love mine nutty. Like, the kind of loaf that crunches when you cut it. But alas, Miss Ivy, my ever-honest flavor critic (and reigning queen of ARFID-friendly meals), does not do nuts. Full stop. You’d think I tried to serve her a tarantula the way she looks at a walnut.

But chocolate chips? A big, enthusiastic thumbs-up. If chocolate chips could run for president, Ivy would be their campaign manager.

So in the spirit of compromise—and because I had some sourdough discard eyeballing me from the fridge like “hey, remember me?”—I whipped up a banana bread that’s totally nut-free, loaded with melty chocolate goodness, and sneakily includes a bit of sourdough discard to keep things tangy and moist. Will Ivy try it? She said she might. And honestly, in our house, a “maybe” from her is basically a standing ovation.

I’m always respectful of her ARFID and her comfort zone around food. If she tries it, awesome. If not? Well… that just means more banana chocolate heaven for me.

And now, dear reader, since I’m sharing the recipe, that means you should totally try it too. Use up your bananas. Use up your sourdough discard. Use up your chocolate chips (or don’t, and just eat some from the bag like a civilized adult).

🍌 Sourdough Discard Chocolate Chip Banana Bread 🍫

Ingredients:

• 1 cup mashed bananas (about 2-3 very ripe bananas—you want them to look questionable)

• 1/2 cup sourdough discard (unfed, straight from the fridge is fine)

• 1/2 cup melted butter (or neutral oil, but I’m a butter person, and I stand by that)

• 2/3 cup brown sugar (because banana bread deserves the good stuff)

• 2 eggs

• 1 tsp vanilla extract

• 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

• 1 tsp baking powder (for high altitude, use just 3/4 tsp)

• 1/2 tsp baking soda

• 1/2 tsp salt

• 1 tsp cinnamon (optional, but recommended unless you're morally opposed)

• 1 cup chocolate chips (plus a few more for the top if you’re feeling fancy)

Instructions:

1. Preheat your oven.
   If you live at sea level, go with the classic 350°F. If you live in the mountains like me and have had a loaf collapse like a deflated bouncy house, tick it up to 365°F. Trust me.

2. Prep your pan.
   Grease a 9x5 loaf pan or line it with parchment paper if you're into easy cleanup and crinkly edges.

3. Mix the wet stuff.
   In a large bowl, mash your bananas until they look like baby food. Stir in the sourdough discard, melted butter, brown sugar, eggs, and vanilla. Give it a good whisk until smooth-ish.

4. Add the dry stuff.
   In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and cinnamon. Dump it into the wet mixture and stir until just combined. Do not overmix unless you enjoy brick-bread.

5. Add the chocolate.
   Fold in your chocolate chips like the responsible adult you are. Pour the batter into the pan and sprinkle a few extra chips on top. For aesthetics. For confidence.

6. Bake!
   Bake for 50–60 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out with just a few moist crumbs. If you hit a chocolate chip, congrats! You’ve won the banana bread lottery.

7. Cool your jets.
   Let it cool in the pan for 10–15 minutes before transferring it to a wire rack. Or just cut into it immediately and accept the consequences. No judgment.

Notes from the Banana Bread Trenches:

• Banana-rama: The darker the banana, the better the flavor. If your bananas are on the verge of sprouting limbs and walking away, they're perfect.

• Discard dilemmas: If you don’t have sourdough discard, you can just use a bit of yogurt or sour cream instead. But if you do have discard hanging out in your fridge, this is a great way to put it to work. It adds depth, tenderness, and just a whisper of tang that makes the chocolate pop.

• Altitude hacks: If you’re baking at high altitude (hello, my fellow mountaineers), reduce the baking powder slightly (from 1 tsp to 3/4 tsp) and bump your oven temp up to 365°F. This helps avoid the dreaded middle sinkhole. No one wants a banana bread canyon.

• Kid food maybe = high five: Ivy saying “maybe” to trying this bread is a big deal. ARFID makes food a complicated and sometimes stressful experience for her, so we celebrate curiosity, not pressure. If she takes a bite, I’m doing a victory lap around the kitchen. If not? Hey, more slices for me. Win-win.

This loaf is everything banana bread should be—moist, cozy, not too sweet, and basically a vehicle for chocolate. I ate two slices standing over the sink while “cooling” it. No regrets.

So the next time you find yourself with sad bananas, sourdough discard guilt, and a chocolate craving, you know what to do. Bake the bread. Slice the bread. Eat the bread. Maybe even share the bread...if you have to.

(But honestly, if no one else wants it? That just sounds like good planning.)

Happy baking, banana buddies. 🫶🍌🍫

Ok, let’s address the elephant in the room first. My pizza purists, I know this isn’t a traditional pizza. Duh. This isn't Neapolitan, there's no San Marzano tomato sauce involved, and your Nonna would probably side-eye me hard. But two very specific things happen in the summer:

1. Fruit takes over my world.

2. I make some questionable—but delicious—decisions.

Let’s talk about #1 first. Fruit, man. It’s like I black out in the produce aisle. I go in for “just a few things,” and leave with a 40-lb crate of peaches, six pints of berries, and a vague sense of shame. I tell myself, “We’ll eat it all!” forgetting the hard truth of my household: I’m the only one who actually eats fruit.

Yes, you read that right. Despite the fact that there are four adult-sized humans under this roof, I live in a home where 75% of the population has serious food aversions. ARFID is real, people, and fruit doesn't make the cut for the other three. I can sneak in mixed berry smoothies,  no dice on pies (because Chocolate Pie is the only kind Ivy believes in",  and there is precisely zero fruit in a fruit snack. So it’s just me, valiantly charging through a produce aisle’s worth of peaches before they go fuzzy in a bad way.

Cue the culinary lightbulb moment.

What if… I put the peaches on a pizza?

Now I know what you're thinking. “You monster.” “You can’t just throw stone fruit on dough and call it dinner.” But friends, I can and I did. And it was glorious.

Let me introduce you to Summer Peach Pizza with Goat Cheese.

It’s sweet. It’s tangy. It’s got homemade lemon pesto, because I’m a basil-growing goddess this year (thank you, backyard container gardening). And if I’m feeling extra—which let’s be honest, I usually am—I’ll drizzle balsamic glaze on top and eat it like the confident summer weirdo I was born to be.

This might not be the pizza you’re used to, but it might just be the pizza you fall in love with. Especially if you’re also drowning in peaches and don’t want to bake yet another cobbler.

So without further ado, here’s how to make my Not-Quite-a-Pizza Pizza:

🍑 Summer Peach Pizza with Goat Cheese

(aka “I Regret Nothing” Pizza)

Serves: 2-3 people, or one fruit-loving human avoiding eye contact with the ARFID crew
Prep Time: 15 minutes
Cook Time: 10-12 minutes
Emotional Preparation: 2 deep breaths and a quick “I know what I’m doing” affirmation

Ingredients:

For the crust (choose your own adventure):

• 1 ball of pizza dough (store-bought or homemade, no judgment here)

• OR a pre-baked flatbread or naan if it’s too hot to deal with dough

For the lemon pesto (aka my summer sauce MVP):

• 2 cups fresh basil leaves

• 1/3 cup toasted almonds (or pine nuts, if you're fancy)

• 2 cloves garlic

• Juice and zest of 1 lemon

• 1/2 cup olive oil

• Salt and pepper to taste

• Optional: a couple tablespoons of grated Parmesan, if dairy isn’t your enemy

Pizza toppings:

• 2–3 ripe peaches, thinly sliced

• 4 oz goat cheese, crumbled

• Balsamic glaze (store-bought or homemade if you’re extra ambitious)

• Optional: a handful of arugula for a peppery little kick

🧑‍🍳 Instructions:

Step 1: Make the pesto
Throw all the pesto ingredients into a food processor and blend until smooth and slightly thick. Taste it and adjust salt/lemon/garlic based on your mood. This stuff is magic and you’ll want to put it on everything, including grilled cheese, sandwiches, pasta, your finger…

Step 2: Preheat that oven
Crank your oven to 450°F (or as hot as it goes without setting off your smoke alarm). If you’ve got a pizza stone or steel (which you should totally buy because they're amazing!), great. If not, a regular baking sheet will do.

Step 3: Roll out the dough
Stretch or roll out your dough to about 10–12 inches across. Place it on a piece of parchment if you’re transferring it onto a hot stone, or just put it directly on a baking sheet. If you’re using flatbread or naan, congratulations, you get to skip this part.

Step 4: Assemble the magic
Spread a generous spoonful of lemon pesto over the dough. Don’t be shy—it’s the star here. Lay your peach slices on top like you’re designing a fruity tile backsplash. Scatter crumbles of goat cheese all over.

Step 5: Bake
Pop the pizza in the oven for 10–12 minutes or until the crust is golden, the goat cheese is soft and lightly browned, and the peaches look like they’ve had a moment of spiritual awakening.

Step 6: Final flourish
Drizzle with balsamic glaze and, if you’re feeling verdant, toss some arugula on top. Stand back and admire your summer masterpiece.

🍕 Serving Suggestions:

• Serve warm, ideally with a crisp glass of something cold and mildly alcoholic.

• Eat on your porch while aggressively ignoring people who say “That’s not pizza.”

• Post on social media with the caption: “I contain multitudes.”

💬 Final Thoughts From a Peach-Crazed Pizza Rebel

Look, I’m not saying you need to forsake your classic marinara and mozzarella forever. I’m just saying maybe—just maybe—it’s time to let your summer freak flag fly a little.

This pizza is light, bright, and everything I want in July. It solves the "I bought too much fruit" problem, gives your basil a job, and lets you eat something that looks like it belongs on a menu titled “Farm-to-Table Fusion Bistro Pop-Up Night.”

So go forth, embrace the weird, and let peaches on pizza be the hill you’re proud to die on.

And for my ARFID crew—don’t worry, I 'll always make you something you love. No fruit involved. I love you, weirdos!!!

Look. I have a weakness. A flaw in the system. A soft spot in the soul. A berry problem.

Specifically? Fresh berries.

Every year, like clockwork, the grocery store rolls out those little clamshells filled with ruby-red raspberries and puts a big “2 for $5” sign on them. And every year, without fail, I lose all grip on reason and start loading my cart like I’m prepping for a pie-based apocalypse.

Raspberries? Yes.
Blueberries? Also yes.
Blackberries? I guess I’m a blackberry person now too.
Strawberries? Don’t even get me started.

By the time I get to checkout, I look like someone trying to open a smoothie truck out of their sedan. The cashier always raises one eyebrow like, “You good?” and I just nod and pretend like I have a plan.

Spoiler: I do not have a plan.

Because here’s the thing—there is no universe in which I, a single mortal human with other obligations (and two kiddos with ARFID who don't believe in eating anything with seeds), am going to consume nine pounds of fresh berries before they start developing their own ecosystem in the fridge. Berries are fragile. They turn on you faster than an old banana. One day they’re perfect, the next day they’re like, “Surprise, mold!”

But do I stop buying them? Of course not. I am a berry optimist.

That’s where these Raspberry Crumble Bars come in.

They’re the beautiful, buttery answer to the age-old question: What do I do with all these berries before they start growing stuff?

They come together fast, use ingredients I (usually) already have, and taste like something you’d pay $6.50 for at a café where everyone wears wide-brimmed hats and calls each other “friend.” Except you made them yourself. In your pajamas. While listening to true crime podcasts and trying to keep your cat from licking the butter wrapper.

Raspberry Crumble Bars

What You’ll Need (besides an urgent need to use up berries):

For the crust and crumble:

• 1/2 cup butter, melted

• 1 cup granulated sugar

• 1 tsp vanilla extract

• 2 cups all-purpose flour

• 1/2 cup old fashioned oats

• ½ tsp salt

For the raspberry filling:

• 3 cups fresh raspberries (frozen works too if you’re out of “I bought 14 boxes” fresh)

• ⅓ cup granulated sugar

• 2 tsp cornstarch

• Juice of half a lemon (optional but delightful)

Instructions:

1. Preheat your oven to 350°F and line a 9x9 inch baking dish with parchment paper. If you don’t have parchment, give it a good greasing and whisper a prayer to the crumble gods.

2. Make the crust/crumble: In a large bowl, mix the melted butter, sugar, and vanilla. Stir in the flour and salt until it turns into a crumbly dough situation. It should hold together if you squeeze it, but still be crumbly. Kind of like how I feel emotionally by Friday.

3. Press two-thirds of that dough into the bottom of your prepared pan to make a nice firm crust. Use your hands or the bottom of a glass if you’re fancy.

4. Make the filling: In a medium bowl, toss the raspberries with sugar, cornstarch, and lemon juice until coated. Try not to eat them all during this step. It’s hard. I know.

5. Spread the berry mixture over the crust, then crumble the remaining dough on top like a sweet, buttery gravel blanket.

6. Bake for 35–40 minutes, or until the top is lightly golden and your kitchen smells like joy.

7. Let them cool COMPLETELY before cutting into bars. I know. Waiting is rude. But unless you want a gooey, delicious mess instead of actual bars, trust the process.

8. Cut into squares or if you want to be extra, make them rectangles, eat straight from the pan with a fork, or pretend you’re classy and serve them on a plate with a sprig of mint like you have your life together. I always dust them with powdered sugar because it makes them so pretty!

Notes & Optional Chaos:

• Add a handful of oats (that's what I did for these) or chopped nuts to the crumble for texture, if you’re feeling wild.

• Sub in other berries (blueberries, blackberries, or a mix) if you’re riding the entire berry spectrum like I usually am.

• These freeze beautifully, which is great if you’re trying to pace yourself but still want to feel like a pastry wizard next Thursday.

These bars are my go-to berry triage move—equal parts easy and impressive, with just enough effort to make me feel like I’m winning at domestic life (even if there’s a laundry avalanche waiting for me upstairs).

They’ve also earned me exactly three text messages that said, “Wait…you made these?” which is basically a Michelin star in my household.

Now, while my kids wont eat them (yet...maybe someday berries wont trigger anxiety) I want to share them with you dear reader. 

So the next time you find yourself in the grocery store, hypnotized by the siren song of the berry sale, just lean into it. Buy the extra carton. Or six. Be your berry-loving self.

And when the inevitable fridge panic sets in and the raspberries start giving you side-eye like “You forgot about us, didn’t you?”—make these bars.

They’re the sweet redemption your over-ambitious produce haul deserves.

Hey friends!

So, you guys all know that Miss Ivy and her brother Zander struggle with ARFID (Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder). Meal planning around here is basically a high-stakes game of "Will they eat it?" with the constant fear of texture lurking around every corner like a food-based boogeyman.

That said... sometimes, mama has to eat something that doesn’t come from the sacred beige food group. And sometimes? Mama gets a craving—the kind that whispers, “Lemon. Blueberry. Ricotta. Pancakes. Right now.”

With Mother’s Day around the corner, I figured this was the perfect moment to unapologetically lean into that craving and share this recipe with you. Would Ivy or Zander even LOOK at one of these golden, fluffy, fruit-studded beauties? Absolutely not. Too many "things" happening. There are visible blueberries. There’s lemon zest. There’s ricotta, which I'm pretty sure they think is a fancy way of saying "poison."

But are they absolutely divine? Yes. Yes, they are. And today, we celebrate mom—and what mom wants, mom gets (for once, anyway).

🍋 Lemon Blueberry Ricotta Pancakes

Prep time: 10 mins
Cook time: 15 mins
Makes: about 8 pancakes, or one mom-sized stack if you're hiding from your family for breakfast

🧺 Ingredients:

• 1 cup ricotta cheese

• 2 eggs

• 3/4 cup milk (any kind works, even the kind in the suspiciously dented carton you've been meaning to use)

• Zest of 1 lemon

• 1 tbsp lemon juice

• 1 tsp vanilla extract

• 1 cup all-purpose flour

• 1 tbsp sugar

• 1 tsp baking powder

• 1/4 tsp baking soda

• 1/4 tsp salt

• 1/2 cup fresh or frozen blueberries (plus more for dramatic pancake-topping effect)

• Butter or oil for the pan

🥄 Directions:

1. In a medium bowl, whisk together the ricotta, eggs, milk, lemon zest, lemon juice, and vanilla. It will look like a weird breakfast smoothie, but stick with it.

2. In another bowl, mix together the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Pretend you're on a baking show and you're definitely not doing this in your pajamas.

3. Gently fold the dry ingredients into the wet mixture. Try not to overmix unless you want your pancakes to double as coasters.

4. Carefully fold in the blueberries. If they start bleeding blue into the batter, just call it "artisanal."

5. Heat a non-stick skillet or griddle over medium heat and lightly grease it with butter or oil. Pour about 1/4 cup of batter per pancake onto the hot surface. Cook until bubbles form on top and the edges look set, about 2-3 minutes. Flip and cook for another 2 minutes, or until golden brown and cooked through.

6. Stack 'em high. Add a pat of butter, maybe a drizzle of maple syrup, maybe a dollop of Greek yogurt if you’re feeling fancy. Take a picture. Post it. Eat it before someone asks you to share.

So there you have it. Will my kids eat them? No. Will I make them again? Every chance I get. Because moms deserve something bright, sweet, and full of flavor—even if it comes with a side of judgmental stares from the nugget-only crowd.

Make them for yourself. Make them for your mom. Make them just because you need a win today.

Happy almost-Mother’s Day, from my chaos to yours 💛🥞

Okay friends, let’s just go ahead and get this out of the way: Hi, my name is Christine and I am a confessed coffee addict. I love coffee. I love the smell of it, the ritual of it, the way it hits my bloodstream like a warm hug and a motivational speech all in one. I love it iced, hot, cold brew, latte’d, or straight-up black like my soul when I accidentally click “Reply All.”

And while we’re confessing things, let’s add this one: I love me a trip to the coffee shop. You know the one. You walk in and they already know your name (and if they don’t, they should, because you're basically funding their espresso machine maintenance plan). You get your favorite drink and—because you’re just being a little treat girl today—you add a sweet something from that tempting little display case. It’s the adult version of a Happy Meal.

But here’s the thing.

And I say this with all the love in my lemon-scented heart: that quick little caffeine-and-cake run is starting to feel a tad less “treat” and a bit more like a car payment. Have you SEEN the price of a slice of lemon loaf these days? It’s giving “inflation who?” energy, and not in a good way.

Worse? Miss Ivy (this girl is a super taster, which makes our ARFID journey even more interesting) recently took a bite of that lemon loaf and turned to me with all the sass and honesty of a Michelin reviewer and declared:
“Why does this taste like lemon-scented cleaner?”

RUDE.

But not wrong.

So! Mama had to pivot. Because I still need my lemony hit with my afternoon coffee, and Miss Ivy needs something she’ll actually eat (and no way am I losing my favorite coffee date buddy). That’s when I remembered that I do, in fact, own a bundt loaf pan for reasons that have nothing to do with practicality and everything to do with aesthetics. If I’m going to eat cake, it better be cute.

Thus, this Copycat Starbucks Lemon Loaf was born. But like, better. Because this one actually tastes like real lemons and doesn’t have that weird fake citrus vibe that makes you wonder if you should be cleaning windows with it instead.

So let’s get to it, shall we?

Real Deal Lemon Loaf (Because We Deserve Better)

What you’ll need:

For the loaf:

• 1 ½ cups all-purpose flour

• ½ teaspoon baking powder

• ½ teaspoon baking soda

• ½ teaspoon salt

• 3 large eggs

• 1 cup granulated sugar

• ½ cup sour cream (full fat, don’t get fancy here)

• ½ cup vegetable oil

• Zest of 2 lemons

• Juice of 1 large lemon (about 3 tbsp)

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract (okay, fine, this is the one extract I’ll allow)

For the glaze:

• 1 cup powdered sugar

• 1–2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

• Extra lemon zest for the top if you’re feeling extra (and when am I not?)

Directions (aka How to Make Your Kitchen Smell Like Heaven)

1. Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C). Grease that bundt loaf pan like it owes you money. You could also use a regular loaf pan, but this is not the time to be basic.

2. In a medium bowl, whisk together your flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Set aside. Let it sit there and reflect on its purpose.

3. In a large bowl (or the bowl of your stand mixer, because we are luxurious now), whisk the eggs and sugar together until it’s light and a little fluffy—kind of like how I feel when I accidentally drink coffee on an empty stomach.

4. Add the sour cream, oil, lemon zest, lemon juice, and vanilla extract. Mix until smooth. Take a deep breath. This is going to be good.

5. Slowly add the dry ingredients to the wet, mixing until just combined. Do not overmix. I say this with love, but we’re making cake, not cement.

6. Pour that sunshiney batter into your prepared bundt pan and smooth the top. Bake for 40–50 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean and the top has a lovely golden glow like it just came back from a beach vacation.

7. Let it cool in the pan for about 10 minutes, then turn it out onto a wire rack to finish cooling. Feel smug. You’ve done something excellent today.

Now for the glaze:

1. Whisk together the powdered sugar and lemon juice until smooth and pourable. You want it thick enough to cling but thin enough to drizzle dramatically.

2. Once your loaf is cool, drizzle that glaze allllll over the top. Don’t rush it. Let it fall into the grooves and dips of your bundt like a lemony lava flow.

3. Top with a bit of extra lemon zest if you’re feeling fancy, which, let’s be honest, I always am.

A Few Notes from the Trenches (a.k.a. my kitchen)

• You could totally use lemon extract if you’re into that kind of thing, but I’m all about that real lemon life. Fresh juice, fresh zest, fresh perspective.

• If your glaze ends up too runny, add more powdered sugar. If it’s too thick, a splash more juice. It’s not brain surgery—it’s cake.

• This loaf gets better after a few hours (if you can wait), and it’s divine the next day with a hot cup of coffee and five minutes of peace (read: hiding in the pantry).

So there you have it. My latest excuse to avoid the overpriced pastry case and make my own joy at home. Honestly, I may never go back to the store-bought version unless it’s an emergency. Or I’m already in the drive-thru. Or it’s Tuesday. No promises.

But for now, I’ve got a slice of sunshine sitting on my kitchen counter, a fresh cup of coffee, and Miss Ivy’s seal of approval. That’s a win.

Go forth, friends. Bake the loaf. Live your lemon dreams. Make it pretty.

And don’t forget to take a picture before you eat half of it “just to test it.”

You guys know I love making things for Miss Ivy, right? I mean, I share stuff with you all the time. And you know that her struggles with ARFID mean finding meals she loves takes more than just a trip through Pinterest. So when Ivy finds something she enjoys eating, you better believe I make note of it like it’s a winning lottery number.

Enter Panera Mac and Cheese.

Ivy absolutely LOVES it. And honestly, I’m right there with her. A trip to Panera is a super fun date for us. She gets her creamy, cheesy comfort food, and I get to sip a too-expensive iced coffee and pretend I’m the kind of person who has her life together. (Spoiler: I am not.) But you know if I can make it at home, I’m going to, right? So I did. And now… you can too!

Copycat Panera Mac and Cheese Recipe

Ingredients:

• 1 pound pasta (shells or elbow macaroni work best)

• 4 tablespoons butter

• 1/4 cup all-purpose flour

• 2 cups whole milk

• 1 cup heavy cream

• 2 cups white cheddar cheese, shredded

• 1/2 cup White American cheese, chopped (yes, the processed stuff—just go with it!)

• 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard 

• 1 teaspoon salt (or to taste)

• 1/2 teaspoon black pepper

• 1/4 teaspoon hot sauce (optional, but trust me, it won’t make it spicy—just enhances flavor!)

Instructions:

1. Cook the pasta according to the package directions until just al dente. Drain and set aside. (Or, if you're like me, forget about it and have to run cold water over it to stop it from turning into mush.)

2. Make the roux: In a large pot over medium heat, melt the butter. Add the flour and whisk constantly for about a minute until it smells nutty. This is the part where I always feel like a fancy chef despite standing in sweatpants covered in flour.

3. Add the dairy: Slowly pour in the milk and heavy cream, whisking to avoid lumps. Bring it to a simmer and let it thicken slightly. If you start panicking that it’s not thickening, just give it another minute. Or two. Maybe three.

4. Add the cheese: Reduce the heat to low and stir in the white cheddar and American cheese. Stir until melted and smooth. Try not to "test" too much of it straight from the pot, but I won’t judge you if you do.

5. Flavor it up: Stir in the Dijon mustard, salt, pepper, and hot sauce (if using). Taste and adjust seasoning as needed. (This is where I convince myself that a little extra cheese wouldn’t hurt. It never does.)

6. Mix it together: Add the cooked pasta and stir until everything is beautifully coated in that silky, cheesy sauce. Try to resist eating straight from the pot. Or don’t.

7. Serve immediately and bask in the homemade Panera-style glory.

A Few Notes:

• If you want it really Panera-like, use Vermont white cheddar. But honestly, any good-quality white cheddar will work.

• The American cheese helps with the smooth texture. If you skip it, the sauce might get a little grainy.

• Leftovers? Ha. But if you somehow don’t finish it all, it reheats best with a splash of milk to bring back the creaminess.

So there you have it! An Ivy-approved, ARFID-friendly, homemade version of Panera Mac and Cheese that hits all the right comfort food notes. And best of all? You don’t even have to change out of your pajamas to enjoy it.

Let me know if you try it! And if you’ve got any other copycat recipes you want me to tackle, drop them in the comments. Just… don’t ask me to recreate anything that requires tempering chocolate. We all have our limits.