The best thing about Neiman Marcus in the ’80s wasn’t the proliferation of shoulder pads. It was eating a piping hot popover with strawberry butter in the cafe – and I’ve been chasing that pastry memory ever since. The fancy restaurant in my college town served a decent one, but at the time I didn’t have a tuppence for fancy restaurants. There is the NYC cafe built around the air/dough contradictions, but it’s so far uptown I never made it. And there’s the restaurant in my hometown that hands them out like dinner rolls, except they’re often slightly burnt. Okay, maybe “chasing” is too energetic a term. Sitting around waiting for a crispy, chewy, steamy, golden popover to fall in my lap wasn’t getting me far. This weekend, I stopped waiting and got baking. Read on for popover, jam recipes . . .
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