Luzia’s Strawberry Rhubarb Tiramisu, Absent The Strawberries
Medically reviewed by Christiana George Updated Date: January 6, 2026

For this post, I’d like to introduce my friend Luzia.
Luzia and I met about a year-and-a-half ago on the bus ride to the starting point of the Inca Trail. For the next four days, we shared the unforgettable experience of hiking the 26-mile-long trail together, culminating in our arrival at the ancient Inca city of Machu Picchu. There were 14 of us in our group, but out of everyone, Chris and I got along best with her and her boyfriend Berni.
When we parted ways, we kept in touch since we knew we’d be taking approximately the same path south, and about three months later, the four of us finally met for dinner in Ushuaia, the southernmost town on the South American continent.
If that’s not poetic, I don’t know what is. They actually continued on to Brazil for Carnaval before heading back to Switzerland, whereas we ended our trip in Buenos Aires. And that was that.
But actually, it wasn’t, because she and I kept in touch. We’ve kept up a pretty consistent correspondence for the last year, exchanging lengthy emails, in English, and despite it not being her native tongue, she still rocks it. (How do the Swiss do it? She also became practically fluent in Spanish, whereas I at best mastered five phrases.) We are modern-day pen pals.
I’ve always loved exchanging letters with faraway friends. When I was nine, after my family had moved back to the U.S. from Hong Kong, I kept in touch with my best friend by exchanging long, handwritten letters. We kept up our penpalship for years, and I remember it to this day with much fondness. That’s what this correspondence with Luzia has felt like.

Coincidentally, Luzia and Berni also love to cook. About 6 months ago, I asked if she could share a Swiss recipe with me, something traditional that I could make for the blog. She returned with two, one she called Älplermagrone, or Macaroni for the Alpine Herdsman, which, hahaha, I had a pretty good laugh over because the direct translation is just too funny. The other was this strawberry rhubarb tiramisu, which, while it isn’t Swiss at all, is her favorite dessert. That pretty much clinched it. Once rhubarb season rolled around, I would make it. She warned me that it looks disgusting and recommended that I serve it in glasses. Thanks for the tip, Luzia! I am passing it on to the rest of you.
All in all, I loved it! If this recipe is any indicator, we Americans like our desserts much sweeter than European standards. Stewed rhubarb, according to Martha Stewart, calls for 2/3 cup of sugar per 10 ounces of rhubarb (or over a cup per pound). Luzia recommended 5 tablespoons, or just a little over 1/4 cup, per pound. That’s a pretty dramatic difference. In the end, I settled on 6 tablespoons for my pound of rhubarb and that felt just about right to me. The rhubarb retained its pucker, but was nicely balanced by the creamy sweetness of the mascarpone cream and ladyfingers (that’s what we call them, Luzia, odd-sounding, I know), as well as a few splashes of Grand Marnier. It was such a perfect variation of a normally decadent dessert, and really ideal for the springtime.
I have to point out that unfortunately, I am doing this recipe a disservice because I didn’t include the macerated strawberries. My access to most fruits has been limited to the bland-tasting crap being shipped over from who-knows-where, and I know that for this dessert, Luzia is quite particular about using only local, fresh strawberries. I will make amends by doing it right next time, but readers, please take note.

Luzia, thanks so much for everything! Not only for the recipe, but also for your steadfast communication and friendship. I envision you, Berni, Chris, and I sitting together one day over a home-cooked meal, and it will be great. Promise me that we will make it happen?
LUZIA’S STRAWBERRY RHUBARB TIRAMISU
Serves 6 to 8
Adapted from my friend Luzia
Since I didn’t make the strawberries, I doubled the stewed rhubarb portion.
Ingredients:
For the stewed rhubarb:
- 1/2 lb. rhubarb
- 3 Tbsp sugar
- 1/2 tsp vanilla extract
- 1 Tbsp water
- 2 Tbsp Grand Marnier liqueur
For the strawberries:
- 1/2 lb. strawberries, plus extra for garnish
- 1 Tbsp sugar
For the mascarpone cream:
- 2 eggs, separated
- 2 Tbsp sugar
- 8 oz. mascarpone
- 12 to 16 ladyfingers
Directions:
For the stewed rhubarb:
In a saucepan over a low flame, add the rhubarb, sugar, vanilla, and water and cook until soft, 7 to 10 minutes. Turn off the heat, and remove about 1/4 cup of the liquid. Set it aside. Stir in the Grand Marnier. Set aside to cool. This step can be prepared a day in advance.
For the strawberries:
Slice the strawberries, stir with the sugar, and set aside.
For the mascarpone cream:
In a medium bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and sugar until well combined. Stir in the mascarpone and mix well. Whisk the egg whites until stiff (I used my stand mixer), and carefully fold it into the yolk mixture.
Assembling:
I would layer the tiramisu this way: a layer of ladyfingers that had been dunked in the liquid removed from the stewed rhubarb on the bottom, a layer of stewed rhubarb, a layer of mascarpone cream, a second layer of ladyfingers, a layer of strawberries, a second layer of mascarpone cream. Feel free to garnish the top with extra slices of strawberry. (Note: I served the tiramisu in individual glasses using 2 ladyfingers per glass. However, if you decide to use a larger dish, make sure to split the ladyfingers and mascarpone evenly between their layers.)
After assembling, refrigerate for at least 1 hour before serving.
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Brussels Sprouts With Bacon And Juniper Berries

We recently sorted out that we’re hosting Thanksgiving this year. Nothing big, just some friends over for a small gathering, but still, Thanksgiving! The most important meal of the year! Talk about performance pressure. But, I think I’m just going to take it one step at a time. I’ve already decided we’re spatchcocking, and besides the turkey, isn’t everything else just gravy from there?
Did you know, up until I met Chris, I’d never eaten turkey? Thanksgivings with my family were such non-events, I can’t at all recall what we used to do. Really, I have no clue, and I’m really racking my brain here. I don’t think my sister and I ever felt like we were missing out though, because you can’t really desire something you’ve never experienced. It meant a week off from school, and that was good enough for us.
When Chris and I started dating, Thanksgiving was always fraught with separation anxiety. We were young, barely into college, and the idea of being apart for FIVE WHOLE DAYS was unimaginable. Obviously, our relationship survived. But just barely. Just kidding. (Actually, the first winter break we spent apart, my family decided to take a month-long trip to China, where all communication was virtually impossible. I’m still mad at myself for spending so much time moping around feeling sorry for myself that I didn’t really get to enjoy the visit.)
Now that I’ve been through a couple real Thanksgivings, complete with turkey and pumpkin pie and the whole nine yards, I can confidently voice my day-of preferences: NO cranberry sauce, NO stuffing, LOTS of mashed potatoes and gravy, dark meat, two slices of pie, and more Brussels sprouts please!

You see, somewhere along the way, I discovered the wonder that is Brussels sprouts. I mean, it’s seen such a huge lift in popular opinion in recent years that I’m pretty sure we’re all Brussels sprouts converts. What’s not to love, when it’s served Momofuku-style, all tart and spicy and refreshing? And who could possibly resist the rendition I present to you this year, tossed with lots of bacon, garlic, thyme and a hint of juniper. Not I. Especially since it comes from the cookbook of another lauded chef, the great April Bloomfield.
Here’s what Bloomfield has to say:
“In this dish, each bite is different—in some you get a nutty, sweet nibble of garlic, in others you’ll fork a sprout along with a big piece of pancetta. The juniper comes through just now and again. You might eat a sprout and not get the juniper, and you might eat another and get the juniper. I kind of like that.”
I kind of like that too, April. This sentiment is echoed throughout the book actually, and I find it unusually wise. The trick is to include just enough of an ingredient to leave you wanting more, but not so much that it gets taken for granted.
One last thing before I leave you with the recipe. The use of juniper berries as an ingredient would ordinarily go against all my instincts. It’s, well, GIN after all, herbal and pungent and seemingly not compatible with any kind of food. But it shines here, in a big but small way, an undertone that just works. Please please please seek out the juniper berries.

BRUSSELS SPROUTS WITH BACON AND JUNIPER BERRIES
Adapted from A Girl and Her Pig
Serves 3 to 4 as a side
Ingredients:
- 1 lb. Brussels sprouts
- 4 Tbsp olive oil
- 4 large garlic cloves, sliced lengthwise
- 3 slices bacon
- 1 tsp Maldon salt
- pinches of red pepper flakes
- 2 juniper berries, smashed and finely chopped
- 1-1/2 tsp thyme leaves
- squeeze of lemon juice
Directions:
Trim the Brussels sprouts and slice them in half.
In a large saute pan, heat 3 Tbsp olive oil on medium-high until it ripples. Add the garlic and let the pieces turn golden brown on one side, then flip them over and repeat. Remove the garlic and set aside. They’ll burn quickly once browned, so act fast.
Turn the heat to medium and add the bacon. Let it cook fully, until the slices are crisp, then set them aside on a paper towel to drain.
Add the Brussels sprouts, cut side down, in one layer across the pan. Cook, using tongs or chopsticks to occasionally check the undersides, until the bottoms are golden brown. Flip and continue to cook until they’re at your desired level of doneness. This step will take about 10 minutes. Don’t rush it. Take this time to chop your bacon into bits.
Stir in the salt, pinches of red pepper, smashed junipers, and reserved garlic cloves. Remove the pan from the heat and stir in the thyme, another Tbsp of olive oil, the bacon pieces, and a nice big squeeze of lemon juice. Serve.
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