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As a card-carrying magician (the Three of Hearts), I can confidently say this: Cooking is a feat of magic. It’s alchemy that, at its best, transforms seemingly disparate ingredients into a singular, scrumptious experience. (Remember that scene early on in Ratatouille where Remy explains flavor profiles to his brother? The. Rat. Nailed. It.) Now, in our family, [my chef husband] David is obviously our house Houdini, but I’m the sorcerer’s apprentice, constantly studying (and nibbling) and being amazed by the myriad ways fire, frying and fricasseeing can morph ingredients into dazzling, delicious dishes. 

There are also ways in which food — and drinks — are literally magical. Their ephemeral power can, with a single bite or sip, take you around the world, or transport you back to a moment in time (again, a tip of the toque to the Ratatouille filmmakers who captured the latter in the film’s moving namesake scene). It can defy expectations — and sometimes, seemingly, physics. Now, I’m not just talking about stuff like Mentos exploding in Diet Coke (always a blast), I’m talking about the kind of wizardry that envelope-pushing geniuses in the worlds of food and drink conjure up to delight the senses and boggle the mind.

One of those geniuses is world-renowned chef Wylie Dufresne. His previous New York City restaurant wd~50 (2003 to 2014) was a revelation. Nay, a revolution. His never-done-before use of molecular gastronomy was radically new — and delicious — and cast a spell on critics and diners alike. Dude won a Michelin star and the James Beard Foundation’s Best Chef in New York City award. So, you know, he can cook. Now, I realize your kitchen isn’t Wylie’s kitchen…I’m guessing you don’t have liquid nitrogen tanks lying around. So, when I asked Wylie for a magical recipe, I gave him just one note: to share something that’s accessible to any home chef. Take it away, Wylie!  — NPH

I first realized that food could be magical sometime around age 6, when I had my first Dairy Queen cherry-dipped cone. It didn’t make sense: Someone took an ice cream cone, dunked it into a tub of fire-engine-red liquid and out came this bulbous treat with a hard, plastic-looking shell. The cone looked like it was ready to burst out of its cherry-flavored coating at any moment, and oh man, I couldn’t wait to bite into the thing.  

When Neil asked me to share a dish that sums up kitchen magic, my mind went straight to DQ and the thrill of my first magic shell. But turning that inspiration into a full-scale, restaurant-style dessert required…some additional magic. I thought about other “gee-whiz” moments from my childhood, when I bit into something and couldn’t imagine how someone made it. That happened with astronaut ice cream (freeze-drying is a technological wonder that will never cease to amaze me!), and again when I first tasted honeycomb candy in the form of a British Crunchie bar. Honeycomb is a marvel of food chemistry: You start with sugar and water and end up with an impossibly crunchy, aerated, toffee-flavored treat. Making it is as exciting as watching the baking-soda volcano blow up in high school. 

And so, without further ado, I present you with this: vanilla ice cream coated in chocolate magic shell, on a bed of sweet freeze-dried-corn soil with honeycomb crunch and — because it all started with a cherry cone — a boozy dark-cherry compote. 

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