A Matter of Fact Cake

A thermal blanket of fresh snow was wrapping itself around the outside, but the air inside was heavy and warm with vanilla. Heavy. Amazing what a little  extract can do. Just 1 1/2 teaspoons and ribbons of vanilla scented the entire house, whispering I promise you I'm going to taste so good when I'm done. The little oven had been kicking for 40 minutes at 350 degrees. Spring form, a little off center, on the center rack.

The better half of the morning had been spent in search of recipe for a plain buttermilk cake. Found, one Buttermilk Birthday Cake, page 210, How to be a Domestic Goddess: Baking and the Art of Comfort Cooking by Nigella Lawson.

The book jacket had been disposed of years ago. Not for wear and tear, mind you. I just don't like book jackets. I like my books to be nice and plain, like my cakes. I want to see fabric and paper, embossed text running the length of the spine. Jackets tear, shift, discombobulate. It's all so very out of sorts when you think about it.

A cake that requires frugal use of time, energy and product, why, that's the cake for me. Simply, I'd like a cake that resembles something Laura Ingalls Wilder might have eaten back in her day. Something her mother would have wrapped in cloth and placed at the bottom of her lunch pale. A treat to be devoured under an oak on the hill after a day spent fishing down at the creek.

Nigella's recipe was rather matter of fact and exactly what I had been looking for. Flour (1 2/3 cups, all-purpose), baking powder (1 1/2 teaspoons), baking soda (1/2 teaspoon), and salt (1/4 teaspoon) were whisked together and set aside. Buttermilk (3/4 cups + 2 tablespoons) and vanilla (1 1/2 teaspoons) combined in a measuring cup. Butter (1/2 cup, unsalted and softened) and sugar (3/4 cup) were added to the stand mixer bowl and whipped until pale and fluffy. To this, eggs (3 large),  were added and mixed. Then, alternating the flour and buttermilk mixes. Careful not to mix too much.

The spring form was greased and a layer of parchment added. The oven ready, I poured the batter into the round and slid the cake in.

Ah, but a watched cake never bakes, it seems. I turned my back, only peeking a few times the entire 40 minutes. So hard, not flipping the oven light switch, bending over, face to the glass, examining.

At 39 minutes, 23 seconds, I could wait no more. The door open, the rack slid out, the cake tested. The designated tester (a toothpick) came out clean.

Set on a cooling rack, I bent down several times to inhale the cake which smelled as if it had been drenched in a vanilla bath.

After dinner, which was quite ample in pasta, olives, wine, salad and fish cakes, I pulled the dome to the table. A slice for Roberto, a slice for me. It tasted not too sweet. The texture, quite surprising. It was almost as if the cake had been soaking in something, but it wasn't wet at all. A bit squidgy, but not squashy. It plumped back, like memory foam. A very large buttermilk pancake, set to bake, not fry.

Nigella suggested icing of butter, confectioner's sugar, vanilla and milk was ignored. We kept it plain, of course. Mmm...but, I imagine this would taste quite lovely warmed with a bit of maple syrup.

I Was Born Ready

"Are you ready? I ask.

We had finished the brownies, piece by piece. Slowly they diminished from the 9x9 square pan. You see, we couldn't put them under the cake dome, the brownies. The cake dome holds the last of the holiday panettone. The panettone that is drying out and all at once has become a dread. Because when one desires chocolate, one does not desire panettone. 

And I wasn't going to bake anything new until we had finished the panettone and the canister of chocolate hazelnut pirouettes. My mind was made up. 

But then something suspicious happens. You find yourself walking down the chocolate aisle of the supermarket. Moments later you're purchasing a bar of 70% dark. Much later you find yourself enjoying a piece with espresso while the panettone, still as silence, rests under the dome.

The day of the cookie...

All day my mind obsessed. I searched for chocolate cookie recipes online when I should have been designing the leave behind piece for a client meeting. When finally at home I labored through cookbooks, when in my mind I knew a piece of dark chocolate would work just as well. But, for some reason I knew that Roberto...that I...needed something more.

Nothing stood out and screamed "Bake me, damn it!".

At that point, a sane person, one who is defined by logic and reason, would make dinner and do quite well with 70% dark. They would not trudge upstairs to their G5, wait for the wireless to pick up signal, and head back to Martha Stewart for recipe of Double Chocolate Cookies. 

In my defense, I was just looking for a single chocolate cookie, but double is fine...whatever. 

Finally, something akin to brownies but aren't brownies. I could have just made brownies again...I guess. 

I scribbled down the recipe quickly and headed back downstairs. I first set 4 oz of baking chocolate and 1 stick of unsalted butter to melt. I combined 1/2 cup cocoa, 1 cup all-purpose flour, 1/2 teaspoon salt and 1/2 teaspoon baking soda, whisked in a medium bowl. In the stand mixer bowl I combined 1 1/2 cups sugar, 2 large eggs and 1 teaspoon vanilla extract. This whipped together until light and fluffy. I mixed in the melted chocolate and butter, then the dry ingredients. Finally, 4 oz of semi-sweet chips were folded in. 

I doled out the cookie dough to the sheet pan, paying mind to the instructions Martha and her team of experts had laid out. 15 minutes later I pulled the first pan from the 325 degree oven. Anxious for them to cool on the rack, I could only wait until I had slid the second sheet pan in before I was breaking a piece off for a taste.

Chocolate, very well taken care of. Sweet, yes.

Like a junky, I got my fix. 

And I know that Roberto was happy to be enjoying something fresh from the oven, not something stale from the cake dome. 

Just knowing they're there...sealed in a bag, in the bread box, to be eaten one by one. I greet you addiction, with a handshake, a hug, and a kiss.

Days of Pasta

"Which pasta?" We ask each night.

The cupboard is opened, the boxes and bags are studied. Sometimes organized by brand, always organized by shape. The top two shelves are home to unopened boxes, where as the bottom shelf's sole purpose is for opened boxes. A half pound of this or that.

Ideally we like to use what is opened first, but sometimes that's not always ideal for the dish.

Last night we were fortunate. A half box of De Cecco Conchiglie Rigate (shells), sat front and center. The perfect vehicle for pasta with ceci (chickpeas) and capers. The perfection lies in the shape, texture and body it gives to the dish. A white sauce with a focus on extra virgin olive oil, shallot, garlic, crushed red pepper, lemon, white wine, ceci (both whole and mashed), capers, parsley, scallion and Parmesan.

The shape. It's perfection lies in the fact that it holds a bouquet, the sauce that was prepared with such care and anticipation. Each shell, a tiny care package to be delivered from bowl to mouth. You can taste everything until the very last bite when you put down your fork with a great deal of satisfaction and ultimate sadness because the pasta is gone.

The texture. The thickness of the shell, the ridges, a great absorber of flavor. The sauce clings and won't let go. It's trapped. Lucky us.

The body. A good pasta releases itself to the salted water. The salted water is always used to increase and enhance the sauce respectfully. The starch draws everything together, becoming blissfully thick, adding gloss and silkiness.

While our pasta bowls are warming on the back burner, absorbing any heat radiating from the cooking pasta, the sauce is being made. The olive oil is brought up to temperature with the garlic, shallot and crushed red pepper. This is always started in a cold pan. One must be gentle and methodical when building a sauce.

When the garlic has released it's beautiful aroma and the shallot have become translucent it is time to add in the ceci. Everything is given a good stir and flip over a gentle flame. Roberto mashes some of the ceci with the back of a fork. This will add body and texture as well. A bit of white wine is added. The alcohol burns off quickly. A nice squeeze of lemon. We throw in the capers and parsley with a scoop or two of the boiling pasta water.

The pasta is pulled from the pot, al dente, and added to the sauce. The chopped scallions are thrown in, black pepper is cracked, a few spoonfuls of Parmesan are added to the mix. Everything continues to cook gently while being stirred, flipped, and folded.

Every shell is coated. All of the flames have been killed. The bowls are transferred to the counter. The pasta pot is moved to the back burner. Roberto fills the bowls. The bowls are brought to the table where we further enhance with more crushed red pepper and Parmesan.

We eat. Another vision becomes reality. The house is quiet. The only noise, the clinking of forks. There are smiles and bright eyes. I may be over-romanticizing, but it's the truth...really.

If you are a firm lover of pasta, as we are, I encourage you to take a few minutes to read a very nice article in the New York Times about Oretta Zanini De Vita. For further delight, I encourage you to wander over to the accompanying slide show.

p.s. It occurred to me that I forgot to mention the salt. It was added along the way. A given, I hope.

French Baguette

It wants you to fear it. It is not to be feared. You must attack it, punch it down, and reshape it to your vision.

Saturday a.m.

4 cups all-purpose flour, unbleached.

2 teaspoons salt, the table variety.

1 package active dry yeast.

1 1/2 cups warm water, not hot.

One KitchenAid mixer with a dough hook.

I pulled the 1 and 2 cup measures, 1 butter knife, 1 fork, and a teaspoon measure from their beds. It was early morning. Things were still at rest. I could not rest, I was to make bread.

The butter knife sliced at the flour to air it a bit before the cup measure measured. The back of the butter knife leveled things off, 1...2...3...4.

The salt was added and a fork was used to whisk things together. Then the yeast, another whisk. You don't want salt and yeast to come face to face. They need to dance around each other until the water is added, so I added it.

The Kitchenaid, which stood motionless, was set into motion. 12 minutes on low.

The dough, extracted from the hook and planted into a well oiled large bowl. 2 hours on the windowsill just above the radiator would do just fine.

She was hungry. Rose at an astonishing rate. More than doubled.

Without waking the the hungry beast, it was carried to the kitchen, set upon the counter and punched down. Aggressively. One does not have to fear or tiptoe around dough.

At first it lay limp, but I squeezed and rolled and slapped until it started to resist, it tightened, the air bubbles popped. Elastic and structured. I sliced the dough into 3 and pressed on. Each piece handled, rolled, slapped down. Shaped into a rectangle. Folded in half. Rolled. Resistance. Pull back. Roll. Finally it relaxed a bit and fell limp. Ready to be placed onto the prepared sheet pan covered with a single layer of parchment.

This happened two more times until all three baguettes had been formed.

Covered with a damp cloth, I let the dough rest and rise for another 45 minutes more.

The oven was preheated to 400 degrees. The baguettes were unveiled and slashed. Aggressively. Do not fear the dough. Remember, the dough is strong. It can take it.

Before being placed in the oven I sprayed water onto and around the baguettes. The steam aids in keeping the outer crust from burning while the inside is cooking. It also aids in browning. Unfortunately, our little wall oven refuses to brown anything to our liking. Everything comes out on the brink of being just perfect, color-wise, but not. But we've made peace.

The baguettes baked for 15 minutes at 400 degrees. The oven was turned down to 350 degrees, the pan was spun to promote even heating. Things remained constant for another 25 minutes more. After this time, a wash of egg white and water was brushed on. This gave shine. Was it needed? Probably not. But, the recipe, Joy of Cooking French Bread, page 601, called for it. 5 more minutes. Pulled from oven and placed onto cooling racks.

Now, the hard part. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. How many times did I pick up, flip over, tap ever so firmly, to hear that wonderful hollow sound? Its echoes traveling from one end to the other through the cavernous crumb.

The crumb. Sometimes I could really care less how the bread looks on the outside. Don't get me wrong. I want it nicely browned, a vision of wood-burning perfection, but it can look like it fell into the wrong hands, an amateur, if you will. It doesn't need to look pretty. It can be irregular in shape with one end bulbous, the other a pointy tail. Not gooey and tight or fluffy and gummy. I want crunchy on the outside with caverns of lacy crumb on the inside. Uneven, damaged, perforated holes sending hollow caves traveling about in uneven mazes. This is the bread of dreams. To slice, slather on a bit of this or that and have this or that gloop out to the other side because of that annoying hole that developed over rising, forming and baking.

So, yes...it seems we take our bread rather serious.

And while I've rambled on, the bread has cooled. It was sliced...and beauty.

Bread that took about 4 hours from start to finish. Simplicity of ingredients and procedure. A recipe that works.

We sopped up the red sauce lingering in our pasta bowls with slices tonight. Red sauce with bacon and mushrooms...but that's another post for another time.

Fettuccine with Sardines

and Bread Crumbs

"We'll make it like we do when we make pasta with tuna, except we'll add in some lemon juice and white wine." I said as we prepped dinner Tuesday night.

This was my desire. I let it blanket me all afternoon as I executed task after task at work.

01/12/10 01:39 PM

Okay, I did a little research and found some recipes for pasta with sardines. I think this is what we should eat tonight. We'll make it like we make pasta with tuna. And a nice sprinkling of toasted bread crumbs to finish it off. I'm thinking this will be the next post.

01/12/10 02:12 PM

That sounds good. :)

Something to look forward to. I would need a plentiful bowl sprinkled with freshly toasted bread crumbs. A nice glass of cabernet. Some olives to pick at here and there between bites. A nice dusting of parmesan. Rapturous delight.

Once home, it was a flurry of methodical prep.

Garlic, shallot and parsley were chopped. A tin of sardines, opened. Water on the burner to boil. A half lemon at the ready. A bottle of white, a grigio. The salt, the pepper, the crushed red pepper, the extra virgin olive oil.

Roberto pulled fettuccine from the cupboard. "I think we're running low on pasta." He said, jokingly.

"I know. I'm starting to worry." I replied, jokingly.

We crack ourselves up.

Roberto dropped the pasta into the boiling, salted water, and gave it a quick stir. He proceeded to ignite another burner, doused the pan with a generous shot of olive oil, the garlic, shallot, and crushed red pepper. Once this was sufficiently heated, he added in the sardines which he proceeded to break apart with tongs. 

Parsley.

A nice splash of white wine.

A  healthy squeeze of lemon juice.

Meantime, I prepped the bread crumbs. A few pieces from a homemade french baguette from Sunday was diced finely, mixed with extra virgin olive oil, salt and pepper, and set to toast.

I was careful to keep an eye on the toaster oven. While it can quite angelically toast an english muffin, it has devilish intentions whenever I make toasted bread crumbs.

But, we averted bread crumb disaster, at last.

Our pasta was ready. Pulled from the salty depths, planted in the pan, stirred. More parsley was added, a little more cooking water. Some cracked black pepper. When everything was just so, we plated.

A plentiful portion, the kind I had been dreaming about all afternoon, was set into our respective bowls and topped with the bread crumbs.

I took pictures while Roberto waited patiently for his bowl. I made quick work of it. I was anticipating...salivating. Sometimes, ah, the pictures "...whatever will be, will be...".

Happiness is a new dish set upon the table, focused on, enjoyed, devoured. We'll try next time with capers or a good chop of olives in the mix. Another something salty with a little vinegary kick to it. Just the right opposition to brighten, open things up.

The fettuccine was perfect, with it's wide/flat body, for this endeavor. It pulled in the flavors and tangled with the bits of this and that.

The leftover crumbs at the bottom of the bowl soaked up and swelled, a prize waiting for that last bite.

No surprise, we ate every last tangled and swollen bit.

Rewind

Work has been steady and daunting, but there's always the threat, or so they'd like us all to believe.

The one not-so-mild-mannered-comforting distraction, coffee at the end of the meal. I take mine black.

It might be the process. It is the process. Retrieve pot from coffee cupboard. Pull down cups and saucers. Place cups into stove grates. Place saucers next to stove top. Pull one demitasse spoon from drawer (this spoon doles out the coffee, is then wiped clean with my apron and planted onto saucer or placed onto napkin in front of Roberto).

Fill pot with cold water (checking to be sure the water is in fact cold before filling). Retrieve coffee from coffee cupboard. Inevitably grind coffee (because we're always out). Clean coffee grinder and place back into coffee cupboard. Dole out coffee into coffee pot. Screw on top of coffee pot. Place pot onto stove. Ignite the flame. Step back, lean against counter, fold arms, tap foot, listen and wait.

Open up lid of pot. Sigh. Listen and wait. Repeat.

Open up lid of pot at most inopportune time (a small bit of coffee spurts out onto just cleaned stove—this happens every night and is never cleaned until the following night).

Inhale deeply, that wonderful coffee scent. Turn off flame. Pull cups from stove grate and place onto saucers. Poor coffee. Adjourn to kitchen table. Open up sugar pot for Roberto. Blow on piping hot coffee. Sip piping hot coffee. Curse piping hot coffee (this happens every night).

Finish coffee and sweet (ex: dark chocolate, panettone, brownie). Bring cups and saucers to sink. Leaving pot on stove to cool and season.

New Years Eve, we strayed from our norm and opted to whip the sugar (if you recall I take mine black).

"Why not?"

"For old times sake."

The holidays require more sweet to help maintain that sugar coated bliss. It's the poison that powers us through, keeps us alert on new years even so that we can press on until 12:01 when we crash into blankets, pillows and forgotten dreams.

When whipping sugar, the top of the pot is left open so that the first stir, the first inkling of coffee can be extracted at just the right time.

Hurriedly, it's poured into the waiting sugar. At this point it is stirred furiously, to the brink of exhaustion with the end of a nice heavy table spoon.

Timing is everything. Proportion of coffee to sugar is everything.

But, I dare say we probably won't be whipping the sugar again any time soon. We've fallen out of that practice. Going through the exercise on New Years Eve just confirmed it.

But alas, the new year is here.

One final bit of business before I wrap things up, the right of passage for one who blogs...take photo of oneself with camera in mirror. The camera, a shy—5 year old—Canon PowerShot SD20. It's all I use, that and natural light whenever I can get it.