Whenever I bite down on a baked good bursting with orange flecks of sweet-tart, chewy dried apricots, I can’t help but think of family road trips.

It makes me think of a time, ensconced in the back seat of my parents’ car, when I’d get all giddy as we pulled into the parking lot of the original Nut Tree in Vacaville. It was the perfect spot to take a break on trips to Sacramento to visit family friends or to Lake Tahoe, where my family used to rent a cabin in the summer. You could fill up on lunch, beverages, or even take a mini train ride. What it meant most to me, though, was getting my hands on a loaf of apricot nut bread.

You’d find the tea cake loaves stacked on a counter, wrapped in paper and plastic, and tied with a fuzzy string of orange yarn the same color as the apricots. There was a date nut bread, and a blueberry one, too. But my family’s favorite was always the apricot.

We’d buy a loaf — or two — and carry it home, where we’d enjoy a slice for breakfast, dessert, or an anytime snack. It was tender, moist, crunchy with nuts, and bursting with tanginess here and there from the pieces of stone fruit. It’s remains my first — and fondest — memory of dried apricots.

Back then, a car trip was something special, as plane tickets for a working-class family of five were a stretch. I guess that’s why dried apricots inexplicably make me think not only of family, but of adventures and travel, sort of like my own edible Eurail pass.

The Nut Tree closed long ago. Although there’s now a Nut Tree Theme Park, I’ve never stopped at it. And I doubt the nut bread is still part of the repertoire.

You could say that “Apricot Flaky Scones” from Flo Braker’s “Baking for All Occasions” (Chronicle Books) cookbook are not at all like a Nut Tree nut bread. They aren’t, except for the fact that they do have jewels of dried apricot pieces throughout a crispy exterior and a fluffy, buttery interior. They also have nuts — in this case, pistachios. Like my nut bread of yore, the scones also are not overly sweet, making them a nice way to start the day without an over-bearing load of sugar.

Braker gives precise directions for folding the dough into thirds like a business letter, so that the scones end up slightly puffed and layered inside. And they do. She says to cut them into thin, small wedges to create 14 scones. I like my scones a little wider, so I cut the dough into a dozen instead.

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Some say, “Patience is a virtue.”

I say, “Patience is bread.”

After all, you cannot hurry bread-making. It forces you to slow down, to take your time, to wait until it is good and ready, and not a moment sooner.

In this hustle-bustle world, where we can’t sit still to sip a cup of coffee, where people talk on phones and text-message when they should be simply driving, and where we constantly complain that time is passing us by, making bread from scratch should be a requisite for all of us at least once a month.

It would make us take a breather. And that’s always a good thing.

Take a deserved time out by making “Raisin, Rosemary, and Cinnamon Focaccia” from the new “The Art & Soul of Baking” (Andrews McMeel) by Sur La Table, and pastry chef and baking teacher, Cindy Mushet.

Mushet, who used to live in the Bay Area, but now makes her home in the Pasadena area, was a fellow judge with me in December for the Gene Burns Holiday Cookie Exchange contest. With a fun sense of humor that puts you at ease immediately and a discerning eye for detail, Mushet’s personality is much like this divine focaccia. It’s a mix of strong characteristics that come together seamlessly.

This ever so slightly sweet focaccia is perfect for breakfast, smeared with a little mascarpone, fromage blanc, or jam. Think raisin bread, but not so sugary tasting and squishy soft. Instead, this is a more rustic, chewy version turned grown-up with the addition of heady rosemary.

A couple of my husband’s male colleagues found the 1/3 cup of fresh rosemary too strong for their tastes. But if you like rosemary, it’s not overwhelming. Indeed, both my hubster’s female co-worker and I both thought the pine-y flavor a nice counterpart to the sweetness of both the raisins and turbinado sugar sprinkled on top.

I even used the new Chinese cassia cinnamon I had just bought at Penzeys in Menlo Park in the dough. When I opened the jar, I could really smell the strong spicy, earthy fragrance — a real contrast to the wimpy aroma of most supermarket jars that have been sitting on the shelf for who knows how long.

The dough came together easily in the mixer. Then, I let it rise for 90 minutes. After patting it into the sheet pan and brushing it with a slick of good olive oil, I had to wait for it to rise yet again for almost another two hours. See what I mean about patience when it comes to bread-making?

After 30 minutes, the focaccia came out of the oven a deep golden brown. I had to allow it to cool for a mere 10 minutes before digging in.

I ate one piece. Then, another. I had to be restrained before I reached for a third.

Patience does indeed come to those who wait. And with it, some mighty fine focaccia, too.

Raisin, Rosemary, and Cinnamon Focaccia

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I have a confession to make: I had a serious case of the jam jitters.

Don’t get me wrong. I love jam. In fact, I enjoy it almost every morning, spread thickly on sourdough toast or an English muffin.

But I had never made jam.

Until now.

You see, I was a can-o-phobe. There are some notable culinary life passages we all face: Cooking that first Thanksgiving turkey. Baking something with yeast for the first time. Shucking that first oyster. Add to that list, jam-making for me. I’d conquered those other rites long ago. It was high time to tackle this one, too.

When I won a load of homegrown Meyer lemons from 5 Second Rule’s recent raffle, I wanted to put them to good use. So, Meyer Lemon Marmalade with Vanilla Bean seemed like a most fitting tribute.

Jam-making veterans had told me how easy it was to do. They took such pleasure in doing something so old-fashioned and nurturing, and not to mention cost-effective in this horrific economy.

For years, I had put off trying my hand at jam. Well, I’d have to buy a water bath canner, for one thing. I’d heard horror stories of jams that didn’t gel. And I worried I’d end up poisoning friends and family members alike if I screwed it up.

Can-o-phobia, I tell ya.

So, this recipe was perfect for a neophyte like me. It required no water bath canner or any pectin. It consisted of only lemons, sugar, salt, water, and a vanilla bean. I could store the jam in jars in the refrigerator after I’d sterilized them in the dishwasher. It was as easy as can be.

I used a mandolin to slice the Meyers thinly, and then removed all the seeds. As the lemons simmered in a big pot on the stove with the other ingredients, the house smelled incredible. Meyer Lemon #5, anyone? The natural, fresh, floral, citrusy fragrance was as intoxicating as any expensive perfume.

My only hitch was that I couldn’t get the boiling mixture up to 230 degrees. I came up 10 degrees short, no matter how long I simmered it or at how high of a heat. No matter, the jam set up perfectly once it was refrigerated for a few hours.

As I stared at my jars, looking for all the world like they were imbued with pure sunshine, I admit that I felt proud. And when I spread my marmalade on toast each morning, I smile at its sweet-tart taste, and its thick, rind-laden, pulpy texture.

Jam jitters?

Forget about it.

Meyer Lemon and Vanilla Bean Marmalade

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