Cheesecake Recipes & More From Cheesecakes To Go

Jeff’s obsession with Susanna began on their first day in the First Grade. He was skinny and gangly. She reminded him of the elfin princesses who flitted across the pages of picture books; she was delicate, graceful. By high school, Susanna was the poster child for dewy, ethereal beauty. Now all the boys worshiped her. Sometimes in the hallways, when Jeff said, “Hello, Susanna,” she responded with a casualness Jeff interpreted as, “Oh, it’s only Jeff.” He was resigned to being just another face in Susanna’s gallery of admirers and so he dated girls who were pretty but not gorgeous, girls who giggled and ran across fields, who dove into the lake and raced him to the raft, who ping-ponged ideas with him, exuding a charm that fostered friendship and occasionally lingering goodnight kisses. But, he yearned for Susanna.

At the Senior Prom, when the chaperones decided the dancing had become too dangerously romantic, they insisted everyone change partners, “Now!” Fate had positioned Jeff and his date next to Susanna and her date. Suddenly Jeff’s arms were around a creature with gossamer wings who floated across the dance floor, who swayed with him, who seemed to become one with him and the music. The chaperones signaled the orchestra to stop. “Change partners!” the chaperones shouted. Jeff never slowed down. He whirled Susanna around the room. She tilted back her head and looked at the person to whom she had yielded control. “Why,” she marveled, “it’s Jeff from the First Grade!” The orchestra resumed playing. The chaperones shrugged. Jeff danced as if he had channeled Fred Astaire. When the music ended, Susanna said, “Hi, Jeff.” They kissed. The chaperones were apoplectic. Jeff returned Susanna to her partner, bowed, and said, “Thank you, Susanna..” Then he turned, found his date, swept her into his arms, and created the evening’s second belle of the ball.

Jeff heard that Susanna was engaged two or three times while in college and after graduating, she landed an entry level job in retail merchandising. Jeff went directly into graduate school, earned an MBA, and was hired by a major airline. He was dating Amy and had fallen in like with her but the ghost of Susanna, the possibility of her, blocked him from falling in love.

Seven years after the Senior Prom, he swung into a gas station and pulled into the self-serve line behind a blue convertible where a knockout in a pale blue sweater and white slacks stood pumping her own gas. Jeff said, “Susanna, hello.”

Within seconds she exclaimed, “Jeff! My favorite dancing partner!”

His innards lurched.

They spent the next two hours in a deli where they ordered cheesecake and coffee. “Ummm,” Susannah said, “This cheesecake is delicious,” and she took her second bite. They talked about their jobs (Susannah was a buyer; Jeff was a division comptroller), their interests (Susanna’s was fashion; Jeff’s ran the gamut from A (art) to Y (yoga). “This is the best cheesecake I ever tasted,” Susanna said, after eating less than half during the previous hour, one small nibble at a time. Into the second hour and third coffee refill, Jeff’s interest in Susanna was replaced by his fascination with how long she took to finish eating one piece of cheesecake. He marveled that anyone deliberately created ultra-small pieces and then ate a mere morsel so slowly and talked about only one subject – clothes. Back at their cars, Susannah and Jeff exchanged cards. “I’d love to hear from you,” she cooed.

“All these years,” Jeff thought, “I was smitten by Susannah’s beauty because what else was there? Not much!” He stifled a laugh. “I’m glad I saw you, Susannah.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to run,” he said, and so avoided lying that he’d call her soon because now there was only one girl he wanted to call. He sped away and touched speed dial on his cell phone.

“Hello? Amy?”

– Scarlet O’Cheesecake

Francine adopted a philosophical attitude the moment the stores replaced the Christmas decorations with the Valentine merchandise. Presto! Hearts of red or pink or of polka dots seemed to be everywhere. There were flat hearts, embossed hearts, box hearts. Aisles of greeting cards were awash with Valentines to my beloved, to my sweetheart, to mom, to my ex. Ex? What desperate card writer came up with that idea? Candy counters featured stacks of Valentine chocolates packed, of course, in heart-shaped boxes. Atop cosmetic display cases were bottles of perfume, tubes of shower gels and hand creams. The florists’ phones rang off the hook with orders for everything from mini bouquets to wheelbarrows of red roses. As for the shops that promoted romance’s earthy side, there was lingerie of silk, satin, lace, and engineering marvels of strings attached to small squares of material.

This year there would be no special Valentine for Francine. She who had enjoyed the attention of many admirers was admirer-less. “Like socks,” she thought. “They’ve disappeared, just like my socks. A matched pair goes into the wash but only one makes it through the dryer.” She was relieved when some swains wandered away and sometimes sad when others did; but when the winnowing out left no potential suitor in the wings, she was philosophical – all through January.

But on the first day of February, her mood plunged from philosophical to deep funk.

She stood in front of a mirror and stared at herself. Staring back was an attractive woman of average height and weight who at age 32 was accomplished and confident. She forced a smile. Even a faked smile gave a lift to her image, and she changed from pleasing to look at to someone who turned heads. She laughed and struck a haughty pose. She tossed her hair. She flirted with herself. She stopped smiling and spoke to the mirror.

“If I, adorable me is feeling like I’m chopped liver, how may others feel who life passes by every week, month after month?” She scolded herself. “Francine, you should be ashamed!” And in that moment, a plan was born. She made a phone call and went grocery shopping. She told her boss that due to a morning appointment on the 14^th, she wouldn’t be in until after lunch.

She spent the weekend in the kitchen. She leafed through cookbooks. She rifled through the newspaper recipes she had clipped and dropped in a folder. She made soup by the quart. Dozens of muffins. Bowls of salads. Deviled dozens of eggs (and opened the windows). Vegetable casseroles and macaroni and cheese. Cookies. And her specialty, mini cheese cakes. In the evenings, she sat at the kitchen table and created Valentines out of construction paper, doilies, glitter and ribbons.

On the morning of Valentine’s Day, she loaded her van with the food and the Valentines. She stopped at the florist’s and wrestled a bouquet of heart-shaped balloons into the back of the van. At the homeless shelter, she parked outside the service entrance. The kitchen crew helped with the unloading and warming the soups and casseroles. The director was astounded at the quantity of food Francine had prepared. When the residents trooped in for lunch, the buffet table was flanked at one end by two tureens of steaming soup and at the far end, the platters of deserts. In between were the deviled eggs, salads, and casseroles. At each table there was a Valentine heart balloon and at every place setting, a Valentine.

The director said, “It was wonderful of you to do this, so thoughtful.”

Francine said, “This was a selfish act. I did it for me.”

She collected her pots and pans, swung through a drive-through for a hamburger, and was at her desk by one o’clock.

Three days later, she received a large envelope that contained letters on scraps of paper written by many of the shelter’s residents, thanking her for the delicious food, but mostly thanking her for remembering them on Valentine’s Day. One said that she hadn’t had a Valentine since she was a little girl; one from a man said it was the first Valentine of his life. Another from a woman said that she ate two cheesecake tarts because she couldn’t believe the first one could have tasted so good. “But it did!” she said. “The second one was proof!”

Francine spread the messages on her bed. She counted 19. A few writers had drawn lopsided hearts on their notes. “These are the most Valentines I ever received at one time!” she thought. She smiled. And then because she felt so warmed inside, she cried.

– Scarlet O’Cheesecake

If someone had told me this story, I wouldn’t have believed it. But from the get-go, I was a witness and before the beginning had become yesterday’s news, my best friend and I observed the metamorphosis of Paula – Pudgy Paula, we called her which wasn’t kind but hey, between us, Best Friend and I prefer straight talk.

Pudgy Paula and Chunky Charlene were friends, not exactly bosom buddies but they were endowed with the obvious qualifications and one day, excited because their English term papers received the highest marks, they hugged. The class clown who considered himself a wag could not stifle the urge to blurt out his observation, “Look! Bosom buddies!” Of course, Pudgy Paula and Chunky Charlene blushed, squealed, and ran in opposite directions. They were of a certain age that bursts easily into tears. They were not quite 16.

But the bosom buddies jibe became the catalyst for Pudgy Paula and Chunky Charlene to lose weight. Because diets are boring to follow and tiring to hear about (especially the banning of cheesecake in all its succulent variations), I’ll cut to the chase. After four months of calisthenics and counting calories, Chunky Charlene was no more. From out of a cocoon of baby fat, she emerged a butterfly – lithe and curvy, a poster teen brimming confidence. She glided and whirled. She tossed her hair. She drove the boys nuts.

Pudgy Paula came down one size, all over. She had a waist but not by much. Her body was well-toned but it didn’t stimulate boys’ fantasies because she did not fit their idealized image of a sexy girl. Paula was not the itsy-bitsy bikini type. She was a solid citizen, a dependable friend, and not a happy camper. When she walked, she didn’t skim over the earth; she plodded. Paula was down in the dumps.

She sank lower when she tried out for the softball team. Charlene made the cut because the coach could detect a latent talent capable of development. But Paula was another story. She couldn’t hit. She couldn’t throw. She couldn’t catch. She couldn’t run. The coach appointed her assistant manager and made her responsible for the oversized cooler and its contents – an energy drink of debatable nutritional distinction. Paula lavished attention on the jug, keeping it stocked and chilled, and spotlessly hygienic. But her shoulders sagged and her eyes were lusterless.

At the second game, an error gave birth to a makeover of extreme distinction. A solid hit into foul territory clipped the manager’s left knee and put her on the ground, writhing with pain. Word came back from the ER that following surgery, she would be on crutches for the rest of the season. The coach promoted Paula to manager. At first she was tentative. The makeover began when the coach handed her a clipboard. Paula accepted it; holding it by one corner, letting it hang down beside her leg. The coach asked her to make a note about sending flowers to the injured girl. Paula brought the clipboard up to where she could write on it, made the notation, and instead of letting the clipboard return to its ignominious lower level, she embraced the clipboard. So help me, it became part of her. I could see self-confidence coursing through her body. She stood taller. Her shoulders squared. Her eyes focused. She not only had a new job, everything about her body language proclaimed that she had a mission and, by golly, she would be the finest manager the softball team had ever had.

I said to Best Friend, “Chunky-no-more Paula has found her raison d’! Get a load of the clipboard dynamics!”

“Yeah,” she said. “Authority speaks!”

Throughout games and practices, she gripped the clipboard. Sometimes, the clipboard seemed to be attached to her. She consulted the forms it held; she made entries; she made notes. She was efficient. She was happy. Before our eyes, Paula had become a different girl.

She celebrated the intoxicating elation of feeling she belonged by stopping at a bakery where she chose a slice of key lime cheesecake, its filling the authentic sallow, pale yellow hue of real key limes, and whose flavor was just sweet enough not to be too sour, and sour enough not to be too sweet. She savored every bite.

“Paula,” I overheard Charlene say, “aren’t you afraid you’ll gain back the weight you lost?”

“Nope.”

And she never did. I’ve known her for 30 years; Best Friend and I were her bridal attendants. Charlene was her maid of honor. And except when she was pregnant, Paula’s weight never has fluctuated more than two or three pounds. She eats whatever she likes, and that includes cheesecake. She’s a handsome, confident, purposeful woman, thanks to a makeover that began from within.

– Scarlet O’Cheesecake

Gerry arrived at the assisted living wing of the multi-tasking facility for the warehousing of the aging with an expectancy reminiscent of the first day he went to school – excited, optimistic, but a tad apprehensive. He was a shadow of his former robust self – not as tall, not as much hair and now, instead of a deep auburn, it was ten different variations of salt and pepper. His purposeful stride was shortened, somewhat tentative, but – and he prided himself on this: he did not shuffle. That is, not yet. On some days the gold band he’d worn for almost 60 years fit snugly but on others, it slid around, a reminder that the day before he had drunk enough water, a good sign, one to emulate.

The lady who put that ring on his finger was gone; she slipped away – two years ago? Or was it last month? Gerry couldn’t remember. But he remembered her. Bernice. Bernie Baby. Beautiful Bernice. Heads turned when she walked by. His had snapped. He never tired of looking at her. When her body said she was an old woman, her eyes said otherwise. Those dark chocolate eyes with the golden flecks, the eyes he swam into, the eyes that spoke to him when the tubes made it impossible for her to communicate, the eyes that begged for peace, the eyes that for all their life together repeatedly declared, “I love you, Gerry. I love you.”

His new home was a studio apartment, the living area large enough to swing a couple of cats. Compared to what he was used to, the bedroom made him think of a monk’s cell, and he chuckled because as best as he could remember, he’d never seen a monk’s cell, and before he met Bernice, he’d never conducted himself like a monk. Being faithful to Bernice was easy. He honored his promise to keep himself only unto her as long as they both lived. Now his life was divided into two compartments – With Bernice and Without Bernice. At his new home, one of the many women residents he met was a saucy little widow with faded red hair. After cradling Bernice for all those years, especially after she became skin and bones, the little widow’s plump figure was rather invigorating. His daughter who visited often enough to suspect one of her father’s relationships was not platonic, asked him what it was like to bed a woman other than his wife, someone he wasn’t in love with. “Dad,” she said, “you’re having recreational sex with this widow.”

Gerry looked her square in the face and said, “Daughter, at my age, any sex is recreational!”

To Gerry, the apartment’s most attractive feature was a utilitarian galley kitchen, with a pass-through to a dining counter. Here Gerry could putter and experiment and forget he was a resident in one of those old folks places, designed to accommodate the body’s changing needs, decorated with artificial cheerfulness, a failed attempt to deny the approach of the inevitable.

Within a week, Gerry’s apartment became the most visited. Almost every day he baked – muffins for the morning, or for afternoon a plate of homemade cookies, brownies, or tarts. During the evenings, visitors had a choice of teas and sweets and always lively conversation, sometimes a game of cards, or reading aloud from one of Gerry’s many books. He still had a driver’s license and some days two or three rode with him to a mall or a restaurant or to the movies and occasionally a play. In appreciation of his hospitality, his new friends brought gifts – hanging plants, original artwork, a handmade throw, decorative pillows, and small appliances and other cooking aids that included a growing collection of baking pans and utensils. The apartment’s antiseptic look vanished.

Most excursions included stops at bookstores where after leafing through several cookbooks, Gerry usually purchased one or two. “One of these days” he exclaimed, “I’ll get it right! I’ll serve you the best damn cheesecake you’ve ever tasted!” Interest in his cheesecake experiments mounted. “I think I’ve almost got it!” he said. But then he reported that the filling was too firm or the filling was too soft or the flavor was off or the crust was too short or not short enough.

His friends tried to bolster his spirits. “Too soft? Then serve it with a spoon!”

Finally, he admitted defeat. His friends commiserated with him. “But,” he said, “stop in this evening because I guarantee you will not be disappointed.”

And they weren’t. A tray of small, individual cheesecakes in assorted flavors melted away any hints of senility or peevishness. “This is perfect!” everyone exclaimed. “You rascal! You’ve done it! Congratulations!”

“I can’t claim credit for this,” Gerry said. “I ordered it online yesterday from a website in Texas and FedEx delivered it this afternoon.”

His friends paid no attention. They didn’t care who made the mini cheesecakes or where they came from. They were too busy sampling each other’s choices.

“Oh, you’ve got to taste this one! It’s positively divine!”

From opposite sides of the room, Gerry and the little widow with the faded red hair smiled a silent signal that both understood. They thought no one noticed when they slipped out the door. That’s because they couldn’t see their friends’ smiles and winks.

– Scarlet O’Cheesecake