a little zaftig

An Understated Chocolate Cake

Laura — Fri, 29 Jun 2012 16:10:10 +0000

This cake has been part of our repertoire for more than a decade; I bet I’ve made it more than 20 times now. It’s from an era when I still cooked and baked from recipes, and one of the rare ones I still pull off the shelf. I make other chocolate cakes, of course, but I find myself returning to this one when we want something understated and bittersweet. I made it for a hen’s night with friends most recently and we ate it with earl grey ice cream, but my Sweet Boy and I celebrated the end of an era with the last slices, straight from the refrigerator with a glass of cold milk, when he got his driver’s license.

We’ve spent a lot of time together in the car these past 18 years: in car-related antics, in conversation, braving bad weather together, and learning to drive. When he and my Honey Girl were little and my Dear Husband’s frequent travel was upsetting to them, we had a set of rituals, for just the three of us, things we would do together only when he was away. It was a way to offset the pain of his departure just a little, and one of the favorites was that during these weeks I would sing ridiculous songs at the top of my lungs in the car as we drove, as many as they requested. Oh how they would giggle in the back seat. We were in a grocery store parking lot one such afternoon and I was singing, in my best Louis Armstrong, “Roll out the Barrel.” My Honey Girl and my Sweet Boy were cheering, “Louder! Louder!” and laughing so hard they bucked against the back of the seat and forward until the seat belts caught them; I was surprised they could get the words out. Then I realized that there were pedestrians in the parking lot looking at me rather strangely as they made their way to cars with carts. They had rolled down the windows in the back of the car. Still, at 21 and 18, they’ll roll down the windows in the car and ask if I’ll do it again. And I’m grateful whenever that happens because it brings us back to that time together, which is ending.

I won’t be driving my Sweet Boy anymore. Won’t be listening to Wiz Khalifa and Mod Sun and all of his music. And he won’t be listening to mine anymore—at least together in this way. I’ll go back only in memory now. To the car pranks, to barreling towards the brick wall of the middle school the first day we set out to learn to drive together, to listening to his stories and concerns. He still comes on errands with me sometimes, but our time together in the car is largely over.

Freddy had just turned six when I first made this cake; he had just finished Kindergarten. Now he’s 18 and has just graduated from high school. There are other cakes that have become part of the family, but this one feels like his. I’ve made it with him in mind almost every time it’s gone into our oven, even for the hens’ night, since I knew he would be here for a slice. This is for you, Freddy. Make it often on your own now, and I’ll make it whenever you’re home.

*Postscript: I found Annie, our little terrier, in my desk chair, licking the cake plate on my desk with her paw on my keyboard. “Mmmmmmmm,” she typed on the recipe. Indeed.

Cake Tips

To line the cake pans with parchment, trace the bottom of a pan onto a sheet of parchment. Then stack three sheets and cut all three circles at once. Butter the pans, smearing evenly with your fingers or a paper towel or a butter wrapper over the bottom and sides of the pans. Then place the parchment in the bottom of each pan upside down, so to speak, so that it does not curl upwards. Butter parchment gently, holding it in place with one hand while you butter with the other. Finish by tapping a couple of tablespoons of cocoa into the first pan. Working over a garbage bin, shake the cocoa over the bottom of the pan and then tip it so that the cocoa comes to rest on the side of the pan. Rotate the pan 360 degrees until the cocoa has coated the sides of the pan. Then tip the cocoa into the next pan and repeat. When you finish the third pan, tap any excess cocoa into the bin.

Measure your flour according to the directions for each recipe you use. Weighing flour is the most accurate method, but, alas, almost no American recipes indicate weights. If the recipe does not indicate a measuring technique, check the front of your cookbook. Cookbook authors frequently include a section on basics and ingredients. There may be notes on whether flour for their particular recipes should be scooped and leveled, lightened and scooped, or spooned in. Scooping and leveling is the heaviest measure of flour—just plunge your cup into your flour container, bring up a heaping cupful, and level it with a knife or other flat implement. To lighten flour before measuring, run a fork or whisk through flour. Then scoop gently and level. To spoon in, simply lift tablespoons of flour from container to cup and level it. For this recipe, I lighten the flour, scoop, and level.

For a slightly more refined texture, sieve the flour when you add it to the cake. You can certainly skip this step. Sometimes it feels a bit fussy to sift dry ingredients, and the cake will be delicious whether or not you bother.

It’s important that you not overbeat cake batter when you add the dry ingredients. You can beat it vigorously and without adverse affect when you are bringing together butter and sugar and other wet ingredients early in a recipe. But when you add the flour, be especially gentle with it. Beat it until it is incorporated, watching carefully and mindfully. Once the flour has disappeared, stop beating. If you overbeat batter at this point, the result will be a tough cake.

I usually bake the cakes ahead. You may wrap them tightly in cellophane and then aluminum foil and freeze them. Allow them to thaw at room temperature. Or bake them the day before you’ll frost the cake, and keep them in the refrigerator wrapped tightly in a double layer of cellophane. You may make the entire cake up to three days before you will serve it. I almost always bake the cakes day one, frost them day two, and serve them day two or day three. The cake will keep after it is frosted for about three days.

Frosting a chilled cake is much easier than frosting one at room temperature, as the texture of the cake is firmer.

Ganache Tips

If you overchill the ganache, let it come towards room temperature. It is best to pay attention during its initial cooling process, as it will have a creamier appearance and mouthfeel if you don’t overchill it. Don’t fret. It’s delicious even if it gets a bit too chilly. It will just look a bit drier on the finished cake.

If you’re new to frosting or you want an especially smooth finished cake, smear a thin layer of ganache onto the sides of the cake and place the cake in the refrigerator for half an hour. Then add a thicker layer of ganache, smoothing it or swirling it with an offset spatula or knife as you turn the cake plate.

The cake will be lovely and delicious whether you choose an informal and haphazard swirled frosting method or a perfectly smooth finish. Don’t be intimidated by frosting. This cake is so delicious that no one will mind if its appearance is casual.

Cocoa Cake with Bittersweet Ganache
Adapted from Gourmet magazine, June, 2001
Yield: one eight-inch, three-layer cake; about 12 servings

Ingredients:
1 c. unsalted butter, softened but cool
2 c. brown sugar
4 eggs
½ c. Scharfenberger* cocoa, plus extra for dusting the cake pans
¾ c. hot water
½ c. whole milk
2 t. Kalhua* coffee liqueur (optional) (or substitute 1 t. vanilla extract)
2 c. all purpose flour (I prefer King Arthur*.)
pinch of salt
1 ¼ t. baking soda

…
21 ounces Lindt* bittersweet chocolate (white wrapper), ground in a food processor or chopped into fine slivers with a sharp knife
2 ½ c. plus 2 T. heavy cream

*I’ve listed specific brands in this recipe as I’ve made this cake dozens of times and it turns out best using these ingredients. You may substitute others if you wish, of course.

Method:
Cocoa Cake

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees F.

Butter three 8-inch cake pans. Line them with parchment paper, butter the paper, and then coat them evenly with cocoa powder. Tap off the excess cocoa over a garbage bin and set them aside.

In a large bowl or the bowl of an electric mixer, beat together the butter and brown sugar until they are pale and lofty.

Add one egg at a time, beating well between additions.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the cocoa, water, milk, and coffee liqueur.

Run a fork or whisk through the flour in your bag or container. Add one cup of flour, the baking soda, and the salt to the butter and sugar mixture and beat it until it is nearly incorporated.

Add half the cocoa liquid and beat it until it is nearly incorporated.

Add ½ c. flour and beat gently until nearly incorporated.

Add the remaining cocoa liquid and beat until nearly incorporated.

Add the last ½ c. flour and beat until just incorporated.

Divide the batter evenly between the three pans and smooth their tops with a spatula.

Place two of the cakes on the top rack in your oven and the third on the middle rack.

Bake for 10 minutes. Then rotate the cakes on the top rack to the middle of the oven, and the cake in the middle to the top. Bake for 10 minutes. The cakes in the middle of the oven will likely be done at this point, and the cake on the top rack will need about an additional two minutes. To check the cakes for doneness, insert a thin toothpick into the center of each cake. It should have only a moist crumb or two clinging to it. The tops of the cakes will also appear dry and spring back when pressed lightly with a fingertip. Allow the cakes to cool in their pans.

Ganache

In a large saucepan, heat the cream until it is hot but not yet at a simmer.

Remove the cream from the stove and stir in the chocolate until it is melted and uniformly smooth.

Pour the ganache into a large bowl and place it in the refrigerator. Stir the ganache periodically and check its texture. It will take between one and three hours to bring it to a good spreading consistency, depending on the temperature of your refrigerator and the surface area of your bowl. When it is creamy and spreadable, frost the cake.

Frosting

When the ganache is ready and the cakes completely cool, place a bit of ganache on the center of your cake plate. Center a cake over it, flat side up. You may tuck in strips of parchment or waxed paper around the cake so that your plate remains clean if you wish.

Place a dollop of ganache on top of the cake, perhaps ½ cup. Spread it evenly over the top of the cake. No need to bother with the sides of the cake yet.

Place another cake layer on top and repeat the process.

Finish with the third layer of cake, flat side up.

Frost the sides of the cake with a thick layer of ganache, smoothing it with an offset spatula as you turn the cake plate.

I usually fill a pastry bag with the remaining ganache and decorate the top and base quickly, though it’s unnecessary.

I keep this cake in the refrigerator. Bring it to room temperature before serving, which improves its texture, or eat it straight from the refrigerator, which is also delicious.

The cake requires no accompaniment, but barely sweetened whipped cream and ice cream are nice additions. I have divided the cake layers in half and added very thin layers of ganache between each to make a six-layer cake, and I have also added a thin layer of homemade raspberry jam or lemon or tart orange curd to the layers before adding the ganache. Delicious.

The Lazy Man’s Banoffee Pie

Laura — Sun, 27 May 2012 15:28:02 +0000

While my Honey Girl and I were on our way from Connemara to Dublin to see my Sweet Boy’s choir perform at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in April, the kind of trip that breezes past, carried by enthusiasm for the event to come, we desperately needed to stop. As we were driving through a nameless town, I spotted one of Georgina Campbell’s seal of approval stickers in the window of an otherwise unpromising coffee shop, and there was a parking spot directly in front. I swerved the car in and said, “I’ll order tea.” We had been on the lookout for banoffee pie all week, but it seemed it would be on the list of things missed and carried forward for our next visit. It wasn’t on a single menu. Until I sat down at a little table on this last day of our trip and, above me on a small chalkboard, spied the special of the day: Banoffee Pie. I ordered a piece and a pot of tea for myself and a hot chocolate for my Honey Girl. We dug in and silence soon followed. We were both thinking it: Where-have-you-been-all-my-life? You know, the kind of first bite that makes you shudder a little, makes you grab another bite quickly because you can’t quite believe how good it is? I found myself thinking about how far we Americans have strayed in the banana cream pie department. This was so much better: just to the edge of cloyingly sweet, but hanging on, and incredibly creamy. I was making it in my head by about bite four: a simple baked biscuit crust, probably crushed plain digestive biscuits mixed with butter and sugar, a layer of toffee cream, simple enough to make by boiling a can (or six) of sweetened condensed milk, a couple of bananas sliced over top, and a loft of barely sweetened whipped cream and grated dark chocolate. Yes, if taste memory serves me correctly, this is exactly it. It’s so easy to make that the cosmic math seems off.

The Lazy Man’s Banoffee Pie
Yield: one 9-inch pie, about eight servings

Ingredients:
1 14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk
…
2 ¼ c. digestive biscuit crumbs from 1 14-ounce roll (or substitute graham cracker crumbs)
5 T. sugar
¼ t. freshly grated nutmeg
10 T. unsalted butter, melted
…
2 ripe bananas, sliced
…
1 c. heavy cream
2 T. sugar
…
a piece of good dark chocolate

Method:

To make the toffee cream, place the unopened can of sweetened condensed milk into a saucepan filled with water to cover the can completely and bring it to a boil. Reduce the heat a bit to an even simmer. Simmer for three hours, checking the water level periodically and topping it up with additional hot water to cover. Remove the can(s) from the water to a clean kitchen towel on your counter and allow them to cool completely.

To make the crust, preheat your oven to 375 degrees F. In a large bowl, stir together the crumbs, sugar, nutmeg, and butter. Press the mixture evenly into a pie plate or other oven-safe baking dish. Bake for 10 minutes. Cool to room temperature.

To make the whipped cream, in a large bowl or the bowl of an electric mixer, beat the cream and sugar until lofty and voluminous.

To assemble the pie, smear a layer of toffee cream onto the crust, slice the bananas over the top, place a layer of whipped cream over the top, and use a vegetable peeler or grater to top the confection with dark chocolate shavings. Chill until serving time.

Tips:

For the sake of ease, I made the toffee cream the day before, as it requires long boiling and cooling times, and the pie the next day.

It’s as easy to make many tins of the banoffee toffee cream as one. I made six. Simply place the cans in a larger pan.

It’s important that the can(s) of sweetened condensed milk are completely submerged in boiling water. Have a peek at your boiling pot now and then.

If you make extra cans of toffee cream, they will keep at room temperature in your pantry.

To avoid browning, be certain that all of your banana slices are nestled neatly under the whipped cream.

Keep the pie in the refrigerator until serving time. It is best to assemble the pie the same day you will serve it, and, even better, to assemble it close to serving time. The whipped cream may become a little sorry overnight, though it will certainly still be edible. If you wish to make the pie further in advance, assemble it to the toffee cream stage. Then shortly before serving, add the bananas and whipped cream and chocolate.

Baby Barmbracks with Sherry

Laura — Thu, 10 May 2012 02:30:43 +0000

My Honey Girl and I spent the first week of April together in Ireland. Beneath a cornflower blue sky and tucked into the soft Connemara mountains, celadon in sunlight, black in shadow, we settled into the Cashel House where Mrs. McEvilly and her soft-spoken staff surrounded us with their incomparable care, tucking hot water bottles into our beds on chilly evenings and placing our pajamas on top so they were warm, too, bringing us pots of tea and biscuits, and glasses of champagne, and books to read in comfortable chairs before turf fires, poached rhubarb for our morning porridge, and sandwiches and slices of rhubarb tart when we arrived back too late for dinner. Without an itinerary we set about a proper vacation, that is, a week to do nothing but what suited us in the moment and focused primarily on total relaxation. We took out our battered little rental car to wind through Connemara, north and south, east and west, as interest and whim took us, past wooly sheep doused in the pink and blue dyes used in this part of the world since Adam was a boy, past the blooming gorse, brilliant yellow, past men hunched to cut bricks of peat in the ancient bogs, and Irish gardens in bloom: daffodil and tulip, heather and camellia, crocus and rhododendron and azalea, hyacinth, narcissus, agapanthus, vinca and spring gentian. In fact, I felt all week like a flower myself, with my own personal sunshine, my Honey Girl, beside me, waking from the long, grey dream of winter. Through the windshield: the savage beauty of the landscape (curtsy here to Oscar Wilde), the barren loveliness of the Burren, its limestone softened by wildflower, the sea with all its shades of blue, its rock, its draped grass, thatched cottages walled with stone, and the odd shaggy cow. We slept and hiked and lolled and ate and drank until we were so content we couldn’t wish for more—except perhaps that our time together wouldn’t end.

One of our favorite discoveries of the week was a barmbrack we ate at the Burren Perfumery, a charming spot with an herb garden, tea room, still room, and shop where they sell lovely wild-crafted perfumes and body products. Barmbrack is a fruitcake, a keeping cake, perfect with a cup of strong tea. The recipe I developed is a one-bowl stir-up. I soaked raisins and sultanas and currants overnight in black tea and added homemade candied orange peel, big candied cherries, dark muscovado sugar, and sherry the next day. The cake is dense and moist with pops of cherry and sherry against the earthiness of the tea and spice. I made a big batch so I could share some with my pantry exchange group and the rest with family. If you’re not keen on fruitcake, this one might change your mind. I’m most happy that whenever I bake it or eat it, it will return me to the memory of first sharing it with my Honey Girl in the little oasis of our week together.

Baby Barmbracks with Sherry
Yield: ten mini loaves

Ingredients:
1 c. raisins
2 c. golden raisins
1 ½ c. currants
3 c. strong black tea, preferably Irish
1 c. whole candied cherries
½ c. diced candied orange peel
1 ½ c. muscovado sugar (or substitute dark brown sugar + 2 T molasses)
1 ½ c. sugar
1 c. sherry (I love Lustau East India Solera.)
2 eggs
2 ½ c. all purpose flour (I prefer King Arthur.)
2 ½ c. whole wheat pastry flour (or substitute all purpose flour)
½ t. baking soda
1 t. cinnamon
¼ t. ground cloves
½ t. ginger
½ t. freshly ground nutmeg
½ t. salt

Method:

The night before you wish to bake the cakes, in a large mixing bowl, stir together the raisins, golden raisins, currants, and tea. Cover the bowl and refrigerate it overnight.

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees F.

Add the cherries, orange peel, sugars, sherry, and egg, and mix until well combined.

Place a sieve over the bowl and add the flours, baking soda, spices, and salt. Shake the ingredients through the sieve and stir the batter gently until it is uniformly mixed. Do not overmix.

Place ten mini loaf pans onto a large jellyroll pan and divide the batter evenly into the pans, about one scant cup of batter per pan.

Bake for 30 minutes. Rotate the pan 180 degrees in your oven. Bake until a toothpick inserted into the center of a cake comes out clean or nearly clean, about an additional 30 to 35 minutes.

When they have cooled completely, the cakes may be wrapped tightly in cellophane and then aluminum foil and frozen. They will also keep wrapped this way at room temperature for about one week.

Serve with a nice cup of Irish or other good black tea.

Pink Grapefruit Curd with Honey

Laura — Sun, 15 Apr 2012 00:32:52 +0000

This pink grapefruit curd is buttery and silky and pleasantly piquant with a strong note of honey. Eat it smeared on toast, biscuits, or scones; stirred into plain yogurt or oatmeal or porridge; rolled up in a jellyroll or between cake layers; or piped into plain cookies.

Pink Grapefruit Curd with Honey
Yield: 1 ¼ cup

Ingredients:
1 c. freshly squeezed grapefruit juice (from about 2 grapefruits), strained through a fine mesh strainer
1 egg
5 egg yolks
½ c. honey
6 T. unsalted butter
a little pinch of salt

Grapefruit Curd Tips

I am a no-net kind of cook, but if you’re wary of curdling, you may do one of two things: cook the curd over a double boiler set-up over barely simmering water, or fill a sink with ice water and plunge your pan into it and whisk madly until your curd recovers.

The points at which you are most vulnerable to the dreaded curdle are when you add the grapefruit juice and as the cooking process reaches its peak. Be sure not to add the hot grapefruit juice until the butter is fully melted and the mixture is quite hot to the touch. Heating eggs gently in this manner is quite fine, but if you shock them with the hot juice you will be tossing out a pan of scrambled eggs. As you near the end of the cooking time, just stir vigorously.

I do not use a whisk, as I feel it adds too much air to the curd.

Focus your stirring towards the center of the pan, working to the outside occasionally. This will help to prevent curdling and burning.

If you have just a bit or two of solid egg protein, fear not, it will be strained out in the last step.

Method:

In a small pan over medium heat, bring the grapefruit juice to a simmer and reduce it by half.

In a large saucepan over low heat, stir the whole egg, egg yolks, honey, and butter together until the butter has melted.

Slowly add the grapefruit juice, stirring vigorously.

Continue to stir the curd until it thickens and a finger run across your spatula or wooden spoon creates a separation that does not close, about five minutes. The curd will continue to thicken as it cools.

Press the curd through a strainer into a medium bowl. At this point you may divide it into a jar or jars with tight-fitting lids and store it in the refrigerator for a month.

Eat it smeared on toast, biscuits, or scones; stirred into plain yogurt or oatmeal or porridge; rolled up into a jelly roll or bewteen cake layers; or piped into plain cookies.

Maple Pudding Cakes (Pouding Chomeur) + Sugarbush Spring

Laura — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 19:44:52 +0000

Spring came in with such a rush this year. By mid-March—mid-March!—the snow had receded, the grass greened, the buds burst, the crocuses bloomed, and people were out swilling cold beer on patios, the smell of charcoal grills in the air. A week later now, the ice on Lake Minnetonka has gone out, the first vinca bloom has appeared, and bleeding hearts and sedum and hyacinth are up from the ground. We are known to have snowfall in late April and even early May here.

I find myself in the market feeling like something of a lost child. I should be making all the dishes in my head: a pork loin roast rubbed with juniper and ginger and stuffed with prunes, a choucroute garnie with the last of the sauerkraut in my refrigerator, or an enormous cassoulet, bubbling in the oven with a hairy piece of pig skin, magret de canard, thick tight-skinned sausages, and white beans. But it’s been 80 degrees, and humid to boot. I’m not ready for salads. It’s too early even for asparagus, and I don’t want the Mexican asparagus they have displayed like daffodils anyway. I stand amid the produce so long, looking charily, that eventually my Sweet Boy asks me what I’m doing. I have cooking cognitive dissonance.

But there are signs of our old winter, of winter’s routine here. The earth is holding back a full bouquet of spring shoots and flowers, and, until yesterday, the trees were waiting, too. And last week the taps began to appear on the maple trees as we drove through neighboring towns. The sap is running and soon people will be boiling down in their sugar shacks and on backyard fires, and about a month from now the year’s new maple syrup will be ready.

One of those neighbors is Marsha Wilson Chall, in theory anyway. We haven’t met, but I know we live in the same town, and according to the dust jacket of her storybook, Sugarbush Spring, she grew up keeping this tradition. The book is a lovely way to connect with the rituals of sugaring: the snowy woods, the perfume of the fire and its wood smoke and the sugared steam of the syrupping pan, the first syrup poured into the snow and eaten as sweet streams of maple candy, the long hours tending the fire, the woolen filtering stockings, the glow of the first jars filled. If you have a maple tree, you can make your own maple syrup at home, too. Taps are inexpensive, if you don’t go in for the whole kit, and available at the charming Egg Plant Urban Farm Supply store, if you live within driving distance of St. Paul, Minnesota. Or you can order online here. You may read more about the process of maple sugaring in my article for Honest Cooking here.

Maple pudding cake, or pouding chômeur, was originally a poor man’s dessert, first made in Canada during the Depression era with brown sugar and water, but it has evolved to ubiquitously include pure maple syrup, thus upending its humble roots. It’s still a homey dessert, but one that’s rather dear. I bake my nutmeg- and vanilla-scented cakes in a bath of maple syrup and heavy cream and finish them in a hot oven until they are bubbling and caramelized. They’re a nice way to make a bridge at the table from winter to spring. And a cure, for now, for my cognitive dissonance.

Maple Pudding Cakes (Pouding Chômeur)
Yield: 4 servings (or more if you’re willing to share)

Ingredients:
½ c. unsalted butter, softened but still cool
½ t. freshly grated nutmeg
1/3 c. sugar
1 egg plus 1 egg yolk
½ t. vanilla extract
another pinch of salt
½ t. baking powder
1 c. cake flour
…
1 c. pure maple syrup (Don’t substitute the fake stuff here.)
¾ c. heavy cream (Cedar Summit Farms’ is fantastic if you live locally.)
pinch of salt
…
a spoonful of unsweetened softly whipped cream or crème fraiche or sour cream for serving, if you wish

Method:

Make sure your oven is free from drips and char from past baking and wipe it out if necessary. This recipe finishes at a high temperature, and your oven will smoke if it is not clean. Place a rack in the upper third of the oven and preheat it to 400 degrees F.

In a large bowl, or the bowl of an electric mixer, beat together the butter and sugar and grated nutmeg until they are well combined and smooth. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula.

Add the egg and egg yolk and vanilla and beat to combine. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula.

Scatter the pinch of salt, and the baking powder evenly over the butter mixture and beat to combine.

Add the flour and mix gently until just combined. Do not overmix.

Divide the dough into four even portions and pat them into four buttered ramekins (or into a buttered small glass or cast iron baking pan about 8 inches in diameter).

Place the ramekins onto a baking sheet.

In a large bowl, whisk together the maple syrup, cream, and pinch of salt until they are combined.

Pour ½ c. of the maple cream into each ramekin (or pour all of it into the baking dish).

Bake the cakes until a toothpick inserted into the middle comes out clean, about 20 to 25 minutes. (I rotate the pan halfway through baking for more even results.)

Increase the heat to 450 degrees and bake the cakes until the maple tops are caramelized, about an additional five minutes.

Serve hot with a spoonful of unsweetened softly whipped cream, crème fraiche, or sour cream, if you wish. The pudding cakes are also delicious unadorned.

If you wish to make the cakes ahead of serving, don’t caramelize them. You may keep them at room temperature for about an hour or so and then finish them in the oven at 450 degrees.

Italian Cream Cake

Laura — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 00:09:02 +0000

Work is so engrossing for me that, when my Sweet Boy is away, I often realize I am sitting in total darkness, the sun has set, the black sky has swallowed up the day, and the moon has appeared out my window. The television set in my neighbor’s window flickers across the way and lights up the bare branches as they sway in the wind. It’s time to cobble together a dinner for one, tonight tuna with olive oil and mayonnaise, picholine and nicoise olives, little cubes of feta, whole pink peppercorns, thyme, and a little lemon zest. And then to bake a cake, for when the house is full and lively again.

This cake has made so many appearances at our table in the last 14 years since I first made it that I couldn’t count them. My friend Diane made it for my 30^th birthday party and shared her recipe, but it always brings to mind my Honey Girl now, who loves it best. And since I’m missing her and anticipating our quiet week together in Ireland, I’ve been thinking about it, and about her smiling face across the table, at all of her ages, eating it, with and without front teeth. This is for you, my Honey Girl.

Italian Cream Cake
Yield: one three-layer 8-inch cake, about ten to twelve servings
From Dianne Libero, Tokyo, 1998

Ingredients:
1 c. buttermilk
1 t. baking soda
5 eggs, separated
½ c. unsalted butter
2 c. sugar
½ c. shortening
2 c. all purpose flour (I prefer King Arthur.)
1 t. vanilla extract
7 oz. angel flake coconut
1 c. pecans, chopped (optional)
additional coconut or white chocolate shavings or whole pecans for garnish (optional)

Method:

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

Lightly butter and flour three 8” cake pans.

Mix the buttermilk and the baking soda in a small bowl and set it aside.

In a large bowl, beat the egg whites until stiff and glossy and set them aside.

In another large bowl, cream the butter, shortening, and sugar.

Add the egg yolks one at a time, beating each thoroughly.

To the butter and sugar, add the flour and the buttermilk alternatively, mixing gently.

Add the vanilla, the coconut, and the pecans if you are using them.

Fold the egg whites in gently with a spatula as not to deflate them.

Divide the batter evenly between the three cake pans and smooth the tops.

Bake until the cakes are golden brown and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out nearly clean, about 35 minutes. I rotate the position of the cakes halfway through baking so that they bake evenly. This cake is incredibly tender and moist, a real charmer, when it’s perfectly baked, so don’t wait for a perfectly clean toothpick. You don’t want wet batter, but don’t be afraid of a few moist crumbs clinging.

When the cakes are cool, make the frosting.

Cream Cheese Frosting

Ingredients:
12 oz. cream cheese at room temperature
¾ c. unsalted butter at room temperature
1 ½ pounds confectioner’s sugar, sifted or whisked to remove any lumps
1 ½ T. vanilla

Method:

Beat all of the ingredients together until smooth and creamy.

To frost the cake, place a dab of frosting on a cake plate and place the first cake layer on top, flattest side up.

Smear about ½ c. of frosting on the layer and spread it evenly. An offset spatula works best here, though any knife will do.

Continue stacking and frosting the next two layers, always placing the flattest side of the cake up.

When your stack is finished, put a very thin layer of frosting on the top and sides of the cake and place the cake in the refrigerator for 15 minutes. Keep the remaining frosting at room temperature.

Remove the cake from the refrigerator and frost the sides generously.

You may cover the cake with coconut or with shavings of white chocolate or stud it with whole pecans if you wish. A combination is also nice.

The cake should be refrigerated. You may bring it towards room temperature before serving if you wish, but don’t let it sit out too long. It cuts best if it’s cool.

Simple, Perfect Roast Chicken

Laura — Sun, 04 Mar 2012 00:00:11 +0000

Cheesemaker Jodi Ohlsen Reed asked me about myself when I first met her. I was nervous, writing about a local gem in Minnesota, my first such piece, and I didn’t expect to talk about myself. I think I said something about it all being a blur, which is not what I meant to say, or at least not how I meant to say it. It was a brief response, a move-along-and-this-is-not-about-me response. But from the look on her face, I gathered something of what she inferred. It has been a blur in some ways, a happy blur of yeast doughs and storybooks and bike rides for kakigori, walks to parks, and steam-filled kitchens and tables full of good food. The details over time are a blur, but I think that’s largely because I was so intent on paying attention in every moment. I remember moments and patterns, how my Honey Girl used to say, “Mama, Yisten” when she wanted to tell me something, or how she thought that you whispered into someone’s nose and would cup her little hands around mine to tell me a secret, how she waited for the sound of my Dear Husband’s footsteps on the staircase every night with sweet excitement. Or how my Sweet Boy would eat a bowl of oatmeal at his little table and say, “Thank you, Mama” when he finished every morning in a still-sleepy voice, how he never ordered the same flavor of gelato twice when we lived in Tokyo —sakura, matcha, anko, ichigo—, and how he danced, freely and without inhibition, whenever and wherever he heard music when he was little. I remember the feeling of holding them in footy pajamas, limp and heavy and ready for sleep, the way our Sweet Boy always patted our backs with his small hands. And the way they both looked so intently at a storybook being read aloud. They were tired years, many of them, years of interrupted sleep and happy-drowsy hours reading and baking and playing. Don’t let them slip by without drinking up every moment.

My Sweet Boy and Honey Girl and Dear Husband have been missing that since I started a business two and a half years ago, and then started this blog. And their recent comments and requests, that I be present in the way I used to be when I wasn’t working, sweet expressions of missing our time together, brought to mind a food writer and cookbook author I met twenty-some years ago. She was fiercely successful, but not present in her life in all the ways that seemed to matter most to me. She seemed so distracted, about everything besides her work, and her children seemed virtually invisible to her, when they weren’t a frustrating interruption. It was a disturbing sight, all of the yelling and hubbub and unnecessary chaos. She seemed so totally consumed by her paid work, something which, in my mind, wasn’t the most important work of her life. So I post less frequently now. The project of the blog can wait. Life is happening, the everyday, the most important bits, what will be, in retrospect, my happy blur.

Chicken Tips:

Chickens fall into several categories, usually labeled fryers, roasters, and broilers. Don’t worry about the labels. You’re looking for a three-pounder, the fryer. Fryers, roasters, and broilers are labeled as such to represent age and resulting size. As in life, younger means smaller and more tender—so you’ll generally find that chickens weighing two and a half to four pounds are labeled as fryers, four to six pounds as broilers, and six to eight as roasters. You can fry, broil, or roast them all, but a fryer, or young bird, I find, makes for the most tender eating. If you stumble on a capon or a stewing chicken, you’ve found a castrated rooster or an older hen, respectively. Not too many cooks today want to buy an old hen to save a little money—and there’s money in young chickens for processors, so they’ve vanished for all practical purposes. I see capons now and then, but I haven’t seen a stewing chicken in a market for many years. I always purchase chickens raised and processed by Kadejan in Glenwood, Minnesota. Their excellent, and humane, practices deliver superior eating, too.

Roasting a chicken should be a simple and stress-free experience. You can do all sorts of things to a chicken, or you can skip them all. The details are up to you. I don’t truss. I don’t stuff. I do turn. But you needn’t if you don’t want to. I turn my chicken twice during the roasting process because I find the meat is juicier, the skin more evenly crisp, and because it emerges from the oven like some kind of bronzed beauty heretofore only seen on food magazine covers, which gives me a little thrill. If you don’t want to turn your bird as she roasts, don’t. The results will still be delicious. At the end of the day, if trussing or stuffing or turning give you pleasure as you cook, then do them. If they don’t, don’t. It’s your dinner. I’ve given directions below for the method I follow, including the turns.

You need to raise your bird above its cooking surface. This is done most deliciously by placing it on a little bed of potatoes, in my opinion. Any kind of potato will do—little new red potatoes, Yukon gold, peeled or unpeeled. It they aren’t baby potatoes, cut them into small pieces so that they cook through during the shortened cooking time. The chicken’s juices will drip down and through the potatoes—or any other vegetable you might use—and create crispy richness. A roasting rack will also do the job.

You don’t need a proper roasting pan to roast a chicken. Any oven-safe pan with low sides that’s just larger than the chicken will work beautifully. Just be sure to elevate your bird in it.

I first read about high-heat roasting a turkey in Jonathan Reynold’s March, 2000 cheeky piece for The New York Times magazine titled, Alice Waters Cooks Her Turkey Too Long. He took his cue from Karen Hess’ piece for The Times in 1974. I applied the principle to roasting chicken.

Simple, Perfect Roast Chicken

Ingredients:
One whole chicken, about three pounds
Salt and pepper
Softened unsalted butter or olive oil

Method:

If time allows, the morning of the day you’re to roast the chicken, remove it from its packaging, rinse it under cool water, and pat it dry thoroughly with paper towels. If its neck and organs are tucked inside the cavity, remove those; they may be used for stock and pan sauce, if you wish. Rest the chicken on a large dinner plate or, if your refrigerator will accommodate, the pan in which you’ll roast it. Allow it to rest, undressed, in your refrigerator until cooking time. This will dry the skin, which makes it crisp beautifully in the oven.

Take the chicken out of your refrigerator an hour before you intend to cook it. If you have less time, give it as much time towards an hour as you can. Allow a bit of extra roasting time if you skip this step. A cold hen takes longer to cook.

Check that your oven is clean and wipe out any bits and drips of charred or dribbled dishes past before you preheat it to 450 degrees F.

If you haven’t in the morning, now rinse the chicken, inside and out, under cool water, and dry her thoroughly with paper towels.

Gently ease the skin up from the breast with your fingertips and rub a knob of soft butter, perhaps two or three tablespoons, or a good drizzle of olive oil under each side. If this seems too fussy, just rub the bird down without lifting the skin. I always do both, as I inevitably have extra butter on my hands.

Liberally season the inside and outside of the bird with salt and pepper. Don’t douse it, but don’t be too stingy, either.

Add a little drizzle of oil to the pan to prevent anything burning on its bottom. Do not add liquid; as it heats, it will steam the bird.

Nestle the chicken into a roasting pan on its side, as if it were taking a little nap and was a side-sleeper.

Roast the chicken for 15 to 20 minutes and remove it from the oven. With a wad of damp paper towels to protect your hand, grab the end of the chicken’s legs and, with one swift and confident motion, flip her to the other side, making a rainbow arch with her legs.

Roast the chicken for an additional 15 to 20 minutes. Remove it from the oven and, using damp paper towels to protect your hand, right the chicken so that it is laying breast up.

Finish roasting until the juices run clear (and not pink) when the thigh is pulled away or pricked, about an additional 10 to 20 minutes for a three-pound hen. A larger hen will take a bit longer. Check it every five to ten minutes.

If you don’t wish to wrestle your hen back and forth through the turns, you may roast the bird, breast up, for the entire cooking time, about 45 to 50 minutes. It will be delicious this way, too. The flipping allows the hen’s juices to drip down through the bird as it roasts and also produces gloriously crisp skin on all sides.

Allow the chicken to rest on a cutting board for ten to 20 minutes before serving.

I like to serve roast chicken with potatoes, roasted or mashed; a vegetable mash such as celeriac; a vegetable gratin such as butternut squash, zucchini, parsnip, or rutabaga; a simple vegetable like peas or wilted lettuce; or, in the summer, with a simple green salad.

Lefse

Laura — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 17:29:26 +0000

It’s thirteen degrees here this morning. The young pines are bending under the weight of heavy, wet snow, threatening to break, and the tall shrubs are splayed out like snow-covered wreaths strewn along the pathway I’ve shoveled to the house. Annie, our little terrier, thinks the snow is a platform across the patio out back; it creaks underfoot until it gives way and she has to tentatively leap her way back to me, falling through the snow. I had my own challenges this morning. My Honey Girl can pull on a cold, wet bathing suit without cringing—not me. But somehow I don’t mind stepping barefoot every morning and evening into the pair of leather clogs I keep by the back door for chicken care. They’re often wet from rain or full of snow. But this morning they were soaked and beginning to freeze. I teetered out in my nightgown and old bathrobe, trying to get settled into them, thinking about socks and whether or not they were worth the trouble. And then, in slow motion, a pitcher full of fresh water in one hand, metal water fount in the other, I stepped onto ice in front of the hen house. Into the air went both legs, both arms, the metal fount, the pitcher, and into the air high above me, the water. Down onto the ice came my back and, onto the snow, my head. The metal fount and the water pitcher followed with a thud, and, like a punch line, the water, which soaked me. At six o’clock on a cold morning, that is a jolt to the bones. I lay there surprised for a moment, and then laughing, as the hens rushed back and forth like a school of fish and Annie harrumphed through the snow to help. I love winter, but mornings like this, I think about California now and then, people eating al fresco with the golden sun beating down on their faces. It seems so civilized and so easy. After a hot bath to warm up and some clean, dry clothes, I joined my Sweet Boy in the kitchen and found him making lefse. California? Watching your 17-year old son making Norwegian lefse on a cold day and eating it together, the last tender pieces fresh from the griddle smeared with good butter and sprinkled with a little sugar, isn’t part of that picture. I’ll stay right here.

Lefse Tips:

Lefse is Norwegian potato flat bread and is made using a few specialized tools. Lacking them, you may make a few substitutions. A potato masher may be used in place of a ricer. If you don’t have a corrugated rolling pin, sprinkle your conventional rolling pin with flour frequently and use a light touch when rolling. If you don’t have a lefse stick, you may use a thin, long spatula. Any smooth griddle will work well in lieu of a lefse griddle; electric griddles which allow you to set and maintain a specific temperature are most convenient.

Use only russet potatoes, also known as baking potatoes. You’re looking for the ones with a dry, dusty brown skin. Using waxy potatoes, such as Yukon gold or red potatoes, adds too much moisture to the dough.

Do not overcook your potatoes. You want them tender, but not waterlogged or mushy.

Do not skip drying the potatoes overnight. It reduces moisture content, which affects the dough.

Be sure your butter is fully melted and cooled a bit before it’s mixed thoroughly into the dough. Little bits of unmixed butter will bubble up through the lefse as it cooks.

The dough will seem dry as it comes together. Don’t fret. It will come together nicely when squeezed in your hand.

The moisture level of potatoes will affect your lefse dough. You may adjust and add a bit more flour or a bit more cream if the dough is too dry or too wet. If it rolls together smoothly in the palms of your hands without feeling sticky, you’re fine. Think of this as a gosh-and-by-golly recipe and relax.

I use a little crimping technique which helps to keep the dough round as you roll. Roll the dough into a ball in the palms of your hand. Then flatten it a bit, patting it into a disc. Place the disc on a countertop and pinch the edges together as you rotate the disc. When you’re finished it will look like a little saucer with slightly upturned edges.

Don’t be shy with the flour when you roll lefse. Your surface and rolling pin should be dusted liberally. Redust your surfaces frequently.

If the lefse sticks, slide your lefse stick under it ever so gently and work to free it. I find that sliding the lefse stick under the dough repeatedly is better than trying to move it side to side.

Roll from the center of the dough, turning it frequently. Use your lefse stick to flip it frequently as you roll.

To turn lefse using a lefse stick, slide it under the dough, lift it quickly and confidently with a swift motion, and flip it over. Leave the stick under the dough, rolling it repeatedly in one direction until the lefse unfurls and the stick is freed.

A hot, clean griddle will create the classic deep brown spots you’re looking for. I set mine on 500 degrees F.

Lefse
Yield: about 30 modest servings

Ingredients:
4 ½ pounds russet potatoes
1/3 c. heavy cream or half and half
½ c. unsalted butter, melted and cooled
1 t. salt
3 c. all purpose flour (I prefer King Arthur.)

Method: (The lefse tips above are more detailed.)

Peel the potatoes, cut them in half or in thirds, and place them in a large pot of cold water.

Cover the pot and bring the water to a boil over high heat. Remove the lid and adjust your heat to maintain an even high simmer. Boil the potatoes until they are tender and yield easily when pierced with a fork, about 25 minutes.

Drain the potatoes in a colander and, when they are cool, rice them using a potato ricer.

Cover the potatoes lightly and keep them in the refrigerator overnight.

Add the cream or half and half and the butter and stir to mix well.

Scatter the salt and flour across the potatoes and mix until just incorporated. Do not overmix. The dough will come together when you squeeze it in the palm of your hand.

Heat a lefse griddle to 500 degrees F.

Take an egg-sized ball of dough and roll it in the palms of your hands until it is smooth and uniform. Pat the ball into a disc and crimp the edges, if you wish.

Using a corregated rolling pin, roll the dough on a countertop liberally dusted with flour, turning it frequently with a lefse stick, until it is so thin that you can see the countertop through it.

Using a lefse stick, transfer the dough to the griddle and fry it until deep brown spots appear across its surface.

Flip the lefse and fry the other side.

Transfer each piece to a plate lined with paper or cloth towels and allow the lefse to cool.

To serve, smear the lefse with softened good butter and sprinkle it with sugar, white or brown. Roll up each piece, and cut it in half.

Lefse may be folded into quarters, wrapped in cellophane, and stored in the refrigerator for a few days. It may also be frozen.

Braised Lamb Shanks

Laura — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 00:16:43 +0000

My grandma was a letter writer. I have sheaves of her letters, all typed and on thin, pale green paper. They detail the buses she took, and in what weather, to the bank, to Mass, to help with the church rummage sale; the breakfasts and lunches and dinners she ate—toast with butter or peanut butter, an egg over easy, a half sandwich, coffee with sugar. I can see her at her desk in my grandparents’ little den, typing quickly and with erect posture, slipping in a piece of correction paper for a letter mistyped, sipping weak coffee from a Corian cup. It seemed natural to me, then, to begin writing letters when I was 18 and starting college. I wrote to my extended family here and there, and then, with some gusto, to my husband’s after we met and married, to friends, and then to my daughter when she went away some eleven hundred miles to college. In the years we lived in England and Japan there were sometimes pages and pages, unopened and sitting on the coffee table when I visited my parents-in-law months later. I didn’t mind. I was happy to record those details, to remember, and to send them off. And sometimes, over years collected in order and tucked away, the letters have become such a lovely record. I have a friendship in letters with my dear friend Susie, another letter writer. We lived in the same building in England for four short months, but we’ve written to each other for twenty-five years. In our house, now, I have a file of my grandma’s letters, and one for Susie’s, lined up like paper soldiers, and a box of all the correspondence between me and my husband—from the first birthday cards we exchanged 27 years ago to long letters written while we were apart: funny, romantic, newsy, the details long forgotten until I open one and am surprised by them and by our youth. And last year my Honey Girl published a book of the letters I wrote to her during her first year of college, more than 200 pages of long-distance love, equally surprising in its bound state. I started this blog as a kind of letter, too.

It occurs to me that letter writing is an old fashioned thing now. I suppose my style of cooking is, too. These lamb shanks are in our regular rotation and one of my favorite things to cook and eat, but it seems they have gone out of fashion, despite the seeming trend in countrified food styling and farmer-centric cooking. When I made these most recently, I had to go to three butchers to gather five shanks. “No one buys them anymore,” all three butchers told me with varying degrees of sadness. If you have never braised lamb shanks, bookmark this and drive wherever you need to to procure some. They are some of the best eating, relatively simple to cook, impossible to spoil, cook largely unattended until you are ready for them, and reheat beautifully.

Because I’m loath to interrupt my life for the blog, I don’t often post savory recipes. Once dinner is ready, I don’t want to wait to share it. I can’t imagine puttering around while the food gets cold. Cooking, for me, is an act of service. It’s pleasurable, sure, but in the end it’s about the people I love. And food photography is a tinkery little beast—a quarter inch here, a quarter inch there—and I don’t have a permanent set-up. I lug a little table in from the backyard, wipe off the snow or rain or dust, and pull out my tripod and camera and mat boards from the office whenever I want to photograph something. I can make breakfast while my family are sleeping or fry up a handful of pancakes after we’re done eating together. And I can bake up a dessert while everyone is away at work and at school or in the evening while homework is tended to. A stack of crispy French toast or a coffee cake already photographed and ready as you walk in the door after school? Well, that’s usually greeted with a certain amount of glee. And I never have to delay shared pleasure for the tedium of photography. So I feel I should offer a little apology to this lamb, which is so poorly represented by these photographs, and to you. These shanks are beautiful when they emerge from the oven. But I ate most of my shank and what remained sat, lonesome in the pot, until I photographed it today. All of the gorgeous brown bits of meat have been picked off and eaten greedily. It looks rather sad today. So imagine a lovely, browned shank with lots of tender meat. In short, don’t let these photographs put you off the dish. Like old letters, it’s a keeper.

Braised Lamb Shanks
Yield: 5 generous servings if you serve the shanks whole, or about 8 servings if you separate meat from bone and serve the dish as a soup; both are equally nice, though the soup makes for a more casual meal

Ingredients:
5 lamb shanks*
3 medium fennel bulbs, diced
4 medium carrots, peeled and diced
2 medium leeks, white and pale green parts diced and rinsed thoroughly
5 large cloves of garlic, minced
2 medium fresh tomatoes (in late summer) or 14 ounces drained whole plum tomatoes, seeded, and diced
28 ounces great northern beans, drained and rinsed or 2 c. dried beans soaked overnight in cold water and drained
6 c. chicken stock (homemade or Swanson’s organic)
salt and pepper

*If you can find pasture-raised lamb, it’s worth the price.

Method:

Preheat your oven to 300 degrees F.

Dry the lamb shanks well and season them fairly generously with salt and pepper on all sides.

Heat a large enameled cast iron pot or Dutch oven over medium-high heat.

When it is hot, drizzle in a bit of olive oil.

Place the lamb shanks into the pan and allow them to sear and brown. If they do not fit without crowding, you will need to sear them in batches. Do not crowd the pan. Do not disturb them or be tempted to peek at them as they brown. They will pull away easily when they are ready.

Rotate the shanks, allowing them to brown well before turning again, until all sides are nicely seared and deep brown. This will take about 30 minutes. Time invested in browning enriches the broth and adds tremendous flavor.

Remove the shanks from the pan and place them on a large dinner plate. Allow them to rest at room temperature.

Pour off almost all of the rendered fat from the pan.

Add the fennel, carrot, and leek and season them with a bit of salt and pepper. Saute the vegetables, stirring them occasionally, until the fennel has given off some liquid and the liquid has evaporated, and until the vegetables are beginning to soften and take on a bit of color. As they sauté use a wooden spoon to scrape the browned bits from the bottom and sides of the pan.

Add the garlic and stir for one minute.

Add the tomatoes and beans and stir them into the pot.

Nestle the lamb shanks into the vegetables. This works best if they are placed in a tight row with the narrowest side up.

Cover the shanks with stock. It’s okay if a couple of inches of meat remain above the line of the stock. Season the stock with a bit of salt and pepper and cover the pot.

Allow the stock to come to a simmer.

Transfer the covered pot to your oven. Braise the lamb shanks in the oven until the meat is extremely tender and pulls easily or falls from the bone, about two hours.

Taste the stock and adjust the seasoning, if necessary.

At this point you may either serve the lamb shanks whole or as a soup.

To serve the shanks whole, place a shank on a soup plate for each diner and ladle over some of the stock, beans, and vegetables. To serve as a soup, allow the dish to cool a bit until you are able to handle the meat without getting burned. Transfer each lamb shank to a large cutting board; one with a well at its edges is most convenient for this task. Pull the meat from the bone, pull away any sinew and fat, and cut or pull the meat into smaller pieces. Transfer the meat back to the pot and stir it into the soup.

This dish may be prepared a day or two before you wish to serve it. Warm it on the stove over low heat until the stock comes to a simmer before serving.

If I prepare this for the family, we inevitably have leftover lamb on each of our shanks. I pick the meat from the bones and add it to the soup for the next day.

Apple and Lingonberry Upside Down Coffee Cake

Laura — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 00:22:53 +0000

It’s been a pallid winter. I don’t mind. The fog that’s wrapped the house today is lovely and soft and has lingered nearly ‘til midday. And the mild temperatures have made everything here easier. I can scamper out to the chicken house in my nightgown and bare feet, across the bit of dry land under the eaves of the house and around the corner, when Beatrice is squawking in the middle of the night in alarm and needs a whispered word or two to calm her. I haven’t needed to put on a coat to tend the hens and gather eggs in the morning or to bring them vegetables in the early evening. And it’s nice to spend a bit more time with them, though Florence shrieks if I pop my head into the coop to say ‘hello’ when she’s in her nesting box. Little Annie, our terrier, is happy to romp and sniff in the backyard, oblivious to the hens and their antics. And there’s been little shoveling to do and little ice to melt or remove from the walk up to the house. It feels more like early spring than winter, really. We get a dusting of snow every now and then, lingering for a day on branches, not enough to plow, and the temperature dips just low enough to feel like it’s a proper winter before it climbs back up and the roof begins dripping again. I miss the snow, the bright skies that accompany deep cold. But I can wait for another year.

I have a container of fresh lingonberries and another of crème fraiche in my refrigerator and every morning for the last week, as I spoon some plain yogurt and a spoonful of jam into a bowl for breakfast, I have felt a little niggling guilt about not putting them to good use. So I decided to make them into a tender almond-scented coffee cake. Warm from the oven and flipped onto a plate to reveal tart apples and lingonberries in caramelized sugar, it seems like a nice way to wake up, and my Sweet Boy is home from school today.

Apple and Lingonberry Upside Down Coffee Cake
Yield: one ten-inch cake, eight to ten servings

Ingredients:
2 tart apples (such as Haralson)
½ c. fresh lingonberries (or substitute dried cranberries)
½ c. sugar

5 T. unsalted butter, soft but cool
¾ c. sugar
2 egg yolks (reserve the whites)
1 t. almond extract
½ c. crème fraiche (or substitute sour cream)
¾ c. cake flour
1 t. baking powder
a good pinch of salt
3 egg whites

Method:

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees F.

Peel the apples, cut them into quarters, cut out the core, and slice them into ¼” slices.

In a large skillet over medium heat, cook the apples, stirring them periodically, until they are soft and the sugar is melted.

Gently stir in the lingonberries or dried cranberries and remove the pan from the heat.

In a large bowl or the bowl of an electric mixer, beat together the butter and sugar until they are pale and fluffy. This will take several minutes.

Add the egg yolks and mix well.

Add the almond extract and crème fraiche and mix well.

Scatter the salt and the baking powder across the top of the batter and mix well.

Add the flour and mix gently just until incorporated. Do not overmix.

In a medium bowl or the bowl of an electric mixer, beat the egg whites until they are glossy and stiff.

Gently fold the egg whites into the batter until they are uniformly incorporated.

Butter a 10” springform pan and pour the apples and lingonberries into it. Spread them into an even layer.

Pour the batter over the fruit and spread it gently and evenly into the pan.

Bake the cake in the lower third of your oven until the center springs back when lightly pressed and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, about 35 minutes.

This cake is best served warm. If you wish to serve it later, do not invert it immediately. After it has cooled on the counter, cover it tightly with aluminum foil. When you wish to serve it, remove the foil and warm it in a 350 degree F oven for ten minutes.

To invert the cake, place a serving plate slightly larger than the cake over the top and center the cake. With one quick and sure movement, flip the two so that the plate is upright and the cake pan upside down on top. Release the springform. The cake will drop onto the plate. Then, using a thin spatula, slide the bottom of the cake pan off the fruit topping. Pretty up any fruit that has been dislodged in the process and serve immediately.

Beer Battered Cheese Curds

Laura — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 02:35:23 +0000

Every August we make a pilgrimage to the Minnesota State Fair for a shortlist of deep fried foods on a stick. When we spotted fresh cheese curds at our co-op this week, we had to try frying them at home. Salty, oozing cheese and crisp batter—and in less time than it takes to get them in the mile-long line at the Fair? Please and thank you.

Beer Battered Cheese Curds
Yield: 1 ½ cups, about four rich servings

Ingredients:
32 ounces canola oil, or other neutral oil suitable for high-temperature frying
1 c. all purpose flour (I prefer King Arthur.)
1 ¼ c. beer (I used a dark Belgian ale.)
1 ½ c. cheese curds
fine salt

Method:

Pour the oil into a small, deep saucepan, and place a candy or deep frying thermometer into the pan. Bring the oil up to 380 degrees F.

While the oil is heating, place the flour in a small bowl and season it fairly liberally with salt and pepper. Add the beer and, using a fork, stir together the flour and beer.

Line a jellyroll pan with a couple of layers of paper towels and place a couple of cooling racks side by side on top of the toweling. Rest a slotted spoon or spider on top. Place the set up next to the oil.

When the oil reaches temperature, place the cheese curds into the beer batter and give them a stir with the fork to coat them evenly.

Using the fork, lift up a cheese curd and allow the excess batter to drip off a bit. Place a few cheese curds into the oil one by one like this and fry them, turning occasionally, until they are deep golden brown, about one to two minutes. Don’t crowd the pan or your oil temperature will drop too much and the curds will clump together.

Mind the oil temperature during frying, adjusting your heat to maintain 380 degrees.

When the cheese curds are ready, transfer them to the racks using the slotted spoon or spider. Season them with finely ground salt while they are hot.

Working in small batches, fry the rest of the cheese curds.

These are best served hot just a few minutes after they are fried.