IT’S THE BUTTERCREAM. If the one doesn’t sap your energy, the other will buzz you good. The two combined make for a melted mess. This pretty much sums up the past week for me, and gives a hint at my recent lapse in posting. That’s right, you can blame it on buttercream—that tooth-achingly sweet frosting that we never really outgrow. I’ve been up to uncut apron strings in the stuff, preparing for my son’s seventh birthday.

To me, buttercream screams “childhood.” It’s weird, though, because I don’t think anyone in my family has ever made buttercream except me, and I started late. My parents bought most of my birthday cakes at specialty bakeries that sculpted whimsical creations out of cake and frosting. There are two I remember most fondly: a cake made up like a carousel, and another shaped to resemble the head of an adorable, cartoonish pig. Not Wilbur specifically, but along those lines. I have no idea why anyone thought a pig was appropriate, but it was met with a chorus of delighted squeals from us 9-year-old girls. Once sliced, the best part was of course the pink-tinted buttercream.

But this fluffy cloud of confection that came in limitless colors always remained a bakery treat. It’s not that my mom didn’t bake. She did. We made endless pans of chocolate chip bar cookies and brownies and an overly-sweet chocolate cake we dubbed “Nan-Do’s Cake” after the women who handed down the recipe. None of these desserts had buttercream. If I have to confess, I will admit that it was not until the Magnolia Bakery craze hit New York that I attempted to make my own. Cupcake chic was in full swing, and everyone would have you believe: what’s a cupcake without buttercream? It was the 1990s, and suffice it to say, I was no longer anywhere near childhood. I was old enough to know better. I mean, really, take a look:

Ignorance is bliss as far as buttercream is concerned. Once you see the ingredients in a typical buttercream recipe, there’s no undoing the knowledge.

So what’s a responsible mother to do when her child—whose health she holds in her hands—requests a vanilla birthday cake with vanilla buttercream, and on top of this a double batch of cupcakes (also frosted) for a celebration in school? Well, I suppose I could’ve gone on the prowl for a healthier alternative, but what I did instead was say, “Absolutely!”

Before you get riled, let me tell you: despite this blog’s tendency toward the sweet, I am actually pretty strict when it comes to eating well and curbing the sugar impulse in my son’s daily habits. Not that we don’t indulge at other times of the year, but a birthday is just one day. Or is it? Spreading the celebration over the course of this past weekend meant three days of buttercream (in the middle of a miniature tropical heat wave in New York no less; buttercream doesn’t like heat!). Plus it hit me as I boxed up the cupcakes to take to school: there are around twenty kids in class, and if each one were to celebrate a buttercream birthday, that’d be twenty servings multiplied by parties outside school for a total of forty potential servings of cake with buttercream. Then again, forty out of 365 isn’t that bad. At least not when your kid is active and eats green vegetables without coaxing.

So, I guess I say, let him eat his cake . . . with all the buttercream he wants. For now. His loss of culinary innocence is still a good way off.

Busy Mom’s Basic Buttercream Frosting

Yield: Enough to frost one 9-inch cake or 24 cupcakes

Ingredients:

1 cup unsalted butter, softened (or use 1/2 cup butter with 1/2 cup shortening; see notes)

1 (16-ounce) bag of confectioner’s sugar

1/4 cup whole milk

Method:

Put softened butter in a large bowl. It should be really, really soft, but still solid. Using handheld electric beaters, beat the butter on high speed for 2-3 minutes, until very light. Have your sugar and milk at arm’s reach. Sift in a healthy—scratch that!—a large dose of sugar and beat to incorporate. Beat in some milk. Add sugar then milk, alternating between the two until you’ve used most of the sugar in the bag and all the milk. Getting the proportion of sugar right will be a matter of taste. Sample the buttercream often and be sure to stop adding sugar before you reach the tipping point into overdose-land.

To this basic recipe, you may add vanilla (preferably clear) or some other extract, and/or add colorants. A little goes a long way. Beat these in at the end.

This type of buttercream should be kept in an airtight container and stored in a cool place—not necessarily the refrigerator, unless you want to harden it up some. If it hardens too much, just give it another turn with the beaters to soften it up again.

A Note on Buttercream (not all are created equal):

There are many different types of buttercream. I call this one “Busy Mom’s Basic Buttercream Frosting” because it is quick and unfussy, which has great advantages despite the lack of subtlety. Italian (meringue-based) buttercreams are lovely, but who has time—and if it’s for a kid’s party, your extra effort will go unnoticed anyway. Despite the low melting point, I prefer using only butter when I make this, rather than a mix of butter and shortening, because the shortening can make the frosting feel a bit waxy in the mouth. This weekend might have been better with Crisco, though, given the heat and humidity. For more info on the various types of buttercream, you can read “The Many Faces of Buttercream” at pastrysampler.com.

THE RED FALLS. In Greek you say Kokkinopefti, and this very literal, symbolic description serves as one popular name for the day, Holy Thursday. The red comes down, washing what it may. In this case, eggs for Easter.

In Greece on Great Thursday—what some call Maundy Thursday in English (and which, when I was little, I heard as “Monday Thursday” and wondered how the adults could have gotten so confused)—Easter preparations get underway in earnest, before the mournful church bells start their incessant toll on Friday to proclaim the death of Jesus on the cross. Thursday is the day you do the traditional baking, making a loaf of sweet, festive Tsoureki (into which you may insert a bright, red egg), and perhaps you also whip up a batch or two of the Greek Easter cookies called Koulouria or Koulourakia.

Koulouria make me think of yiayia and papou, my maternal grandparents, no longer with us. I don’t think a visit ever went by that the aroma of these subtly perfumed biscuits didn’t greet me at her door. My grandfather loved them, made of them a ritual breakfast with coffee, and I know it wasn’t just at Easter. He had exactly the right idea, and I confess that this is how I’ll be greeting the days until my current cookie stash runs out. Koulouria are the ideal dunking cookie: in coffee, in tea, in milk. They also make me think of distant family in Messinia, Greece (in the Peloponnesus). Three years ago, my mother and I visited the town where my grandmother grew up, and we were welcomed with famous hospitality by her cousins. We went to Saturday night Easter services with them, broke the traditional fast at their house past midnight, and as we were leaving, the family matriarch pressed a large bag of Koulouria into my hands. I made them last the best I could, which wasn’t long.

The other ritual we shared with our Greek family was what’s known as Tsougrisma. Heard of it? No? Well, even if the Greek name (pronounced “TSOO-greez-mah,” and meaning “clinking together” or “clashing”) throws you, you may still be familiar with this game played with cooked, dyed Easter eggs.

Two players each take one boiled, red-dyed egg. Holding the eggs end to end, the first person uses his or her egg to tap the opponent’s egg and try to crack it. When one egg is cracked, the winner (the one with the egg still intact) uses the same side to tap the other end of the broken egg, collecting the losing egg to keep if it cracks a second time.

You’re supposed to tap gently, but it’s easy to get carried away. With a fierce sense of competition (usually friendly), some players devise all manner of strategies for ensuring that they’ve got the strongest egg. My son, nervous that he was going to lose the game we played a bit early this year, spent a long time contemplating our bowl of eggs to select a winner. As you can see, he did a good job of it.

Cracking the shells of both my husband’s egg and my own, my son emerged triumphant. According to custom, he can expect good luck during the rest of the year.

[An amusing aside: As he was left with the lone whole egg, he sang a victory song. Are you familiar with Beyoncé's track "All the Single Ladies"? If you are, then sing it to yourself now and you'll understand how my son could have confused the lyrics so easily, mistaking the song's repeated title for the words "I'm a single egg." He chanted this with an imp's grin on his face and—pardon the pun—cracked me up.]

The only other thing I’ll say about the eggs is that my son asked me why I wasn’t painting mine different colors, using the full range of hues supplied by PAAS. Ah, PAAS, that omnipresent kit that has only grown more flashy over the years. It now comes with egg wrappers and stickers—much more than the simple copper-wire dippers and basic color tablets of my own youth.

To children, more is always better: more color, more patterns, more eggs to dye. I was the same way when I was my son’s age. Now, though—maybe a telltale sign of growing older—I want less; I want simple. And I want pure symbols, uncluttered with the commercial paraphernalia of American holidays. In Greece, all the eggs are dyed red. The color represents the blood of Christ, and the egg itself stands for fertility and new life. Leave it to Greeks to stick to the drama, the Passion, the real and unadulterated story.

Simple, yet not. Which brings me back to Koulouria.

Koulouria/Koulourakia (Greek Easter Cookies)

Hard on the outside and slightly soft at their centers, these Greek Easter cookies make a perfect year-round snack. At once simple yet festive, they appeal to kids and grown-ups alike. They are sturdy enough for dunking in coffee, tea, milk, or cocoa. Their dense crumb and slightly rough texture put you in mind of a peasant’s cookie, yet they have a delicate side as well. Almost hidden is the subtle hint of anise—quite mild, considering the strength of the ouzo I put in them. Koulouria keep for quite a while (at least a week in an airtight container), but they’re so good they don’t last long. If you make them for Easter, offer them up with a joyous “Kalo Pasxa!”

Yield: Approximately 3 dozen

Ingredients:

1/2 cup unsalted butter
3/4 cup sugar
3 large eggs, beaten well
1/4 cup milk
4 cups (or more) all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 Tablespoon ouzo, or 1 teaspoon anise extract
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon grated orange zest
1/4 cup milk mixed with 1/4 teaspoon sugar, for glazing (or use 1 egg yolk)
1/4 cup sesame seeds

Method:

Preheat the oven to 350F.

In a large bowl, using handheld electric beaters, cream the butter thoroughly, about 3 minutes. Mix in the sugar. Add beaten eggs and the milk, mixing well.

Into the same bowl, gradually sift together 4 cups flour along with the baking powder and salt. Use the beaters as long as possible, then switch to a wooden spoon. Incorporate well. You should have a rather firm dough. Add the ouzo or anise extract, the vanilla, and the orange zest and mix well. If the dough is very sticky, you may add a little more flour, although 4 cups was enough for me. The dough is ready when you can roll a piece of it in the palm of your hand and it forms a ball without sticking to your palms.

Pinching off pieces of dough a bit bigger than a walnut, roll them into strands about 6-8 inches in length, then fold them in the middle and wrap the ends around each other to form a twist. Place Koulouria twists on an ungreased baking sheet, about an inch apart.

Combine milk and sugar to form a glaze, or beat an egg yolk together with a Tablespoon of water if desired. Brush the glaze lightly over the Koulouria, then sprinkle sesame seeds over the tops.

Bake for 20-25 minutes, or until cookies are nicely browned on top. Cool a few minutes on the baking sheet, then transfer to wire racks.