Posts Tagged dessert recipes

A Cupcake for Your Cupcake

Feb 14

Folks, I have a Valentine’s gift for you: a cupcake.

I’ve explained my feelings about Valentine’s Day before; namely, that it’s an over-hyped quasi-holiday that puts a lot of weird pressure on couples to be romantic. Isn’t there enough weird pressure in the universe already? Pretty sure the answer’s yes.

In recent years, however, I’ve been helping a local youth group with their annual Valentine’s Day fundraiser. They charge admission for a seated dinner, and the yutes serve as the wait staff and entertainment. Andy runs the kitchen, Jessica assists, and I do the baking. I daresay that the experience has caused me to quite look forward to Valentine’s Day. Miracle of miracles!

So I was completely bummed this year when the fundraiser conflicted with a friend’s wedding. More than just a chance to hang out with Andy and Jessica, the challenge of conceptualizing a dessert for a crowd has been an enjoyable chance for me to grow and improve.

When I emailed Andy to tell him about my scheduling conflict, he jokingly replied, “I think you should make about 40 desserts and drop them off on your way to the wedding.”

So I did… and these cupcakes were born.

Happy valen-times, ever buddy.

Before we get down to business, I need to warn you about a few things.

There’s a huge problem right off the bat: the recipe calls for canola oil instead of butter. In cake recipe terms, that’s like Queen Elizabeth going commando – it just doesn’t happen.

Second, this imposter fat is “creamed” with the sugar and the eggs. Blasphemy! Everyone who is anyone knows that you only add eggs after you’ve beaten the tar out of your butter and sugar components, and even then, you introduce them gradually, one at a time. These poor shy little eggies just get plopped right in. What in tarnation is going on here?

Third, the batter is really loose. As in runny. On the verge of watery, actually. Heck, I’ve made sweet tea with more viscosity than this cupcake batter. When I made my first batch of the stuff, my hopes were dashed. If the oven hadn’t been pre-heated, I probably wouldn’t have wasted my time baking them off.

I am so glad I did. I don’t think it would be an overstatement to declare these to be the most successful cupcakes I’ve made to date. The crumb is killer – tender and airy, almost weightless on the tongue – with a definite wallop of chocolate to the palate.

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Now I need tell you something else, and this is very important: You could very well stop after making the cupcakes and no one would blame you. In fact, it’s probably the smart way to go. No one is asking you to make curd or scoop cupcake tops or deal with the pain in the neck that is buttercream. This particular dessert was for paying customers, and I knew Andy’s entrée would be lights out — a tough act to follow. Plus there’s the whole existential issue of it being a cupcake – the stuff of kid’s birthday parties and backyard picnics, not seated dinners. I needed to up the ante.

I was inspired my moderate success filling with those triple lemon cupcakes with curd. And I wanted a dash of pink; ergo, raspberry. (After all these years, I’m secure enough in my tomboyishness to flirt with a little pink now and then.)

But the true beauty of these cupcakes is that they are a blank slate upon which to doodle. You could simply dust them with a little confectioner’s sugar. Traditional chocolate frosting would be terrific, ganache would be superb. And need I suggest white fluffy icing? I thought not.

Whether and however you’re celebrating, happy Valentine’s Day, one and all.

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Cupcakes for Your Cupcake

For the curd:
6 ounces fresh raspberries, plus more for an optional garnish
3/4 cups sugar
2 large eggs
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/8 teaspoon salt

For the cupcakes:
½ cup natural unsweetened cocoa powder (I used the plain old Hershey’s stuff)
2 ounces high quality milk chocolate, chopped (I used Lindt)
½ cup boiling water
½ cup buttermilk
1 cup cake flour (spooned lightly into the measuring cup and leveled with a knife)
¾ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
2/3 cup dark brown sugar, packed
½ cup canola oil
½ cup (white) sugar
2 large eggs, room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

For the buttercream: ***Warning! Buttercream is a total hassle. And you’ll need a handheld mixer and an instant read thermometer for this exercise.***
10 ounces semisweet chocolate, chopped
7 tablespoons water, divided
4 large egg whites
¾ cup sugar
¼ teaspoon cream of tartar
1 teaspoon vanilla
¾ pound (3 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature

Make the curd: Combine the raspberries, sugar, eggs, lemon juice, butter, and salt in a medium saucepan. Cook over medium heat, stirring, until thickened and bubbly, about 5 minutes (not to worry, it will thicken more when chilled). Strain into a medium bowl using a fine-meshed sieve, pressing on solids to extract as much of the berry goodness as possible. Refrigerate until cold, at least 2 hours and up to 1 day.

Make the cupcakes: Preheat oven to 350F. Line 18 standard muffin cups with paper liners (I prefer the paper/foil double liners). Combine cocoa powder and chopped milk chocolate in a medium bowl. Pour the ½ cup boiling water over; whisk until smooth. Add buttermilk, whisk to combine; set aside.

Whisk the flour, soda, and salt in another bowl. In the large bowl of an electric mixer, beat the brown sugar, oil, ½ cup white sugar, eggs, and vanilla on medium to medium high speed until light and creamy, at least 2 minutes. Reduce the speed to low and alternate adding the flour mixture and the chocolate mixture in two additions.

Pour the batter into the prepared baking cups. Bake until they test mostly clean with a toothpick, with a few crumbs attached, about 15-18 minutes. Cool in the pan on a rack for 10 minutes, then transfer directly to the rack to cool completely. The cupcakes can be made up to 3 days ahead, stored in an airtight container at room temperature.

Make the buttercream: Melt the chopped chocolate and 5 tablespoons of the water together in a medium bowl (I do this in a microwave, beginning with one minute on full power, stirring, and then proceeding in 30-second intervals). Set aside to cool to lukewarm.

Combine the egg whites, sugar, remaining 2 tablespoons water, and cream of tartar in a stainless steel bowl (steel is important for heat conduction). Set the bowl in a large, deep skillet, and then add water to the skillet to come up around the sides of the bowl at least as high as the egg whites. Remove the bowl, then bring the water to a simmer on the stove.

Set the bowl back into the skillet of now-simmering water and beat the egg whites with a hand-held mixer on low speed until the mixture reaches 140F. (If you can’t check the temperature while you’re mixing, remove the bowl and quickly take a reading – if you stop beating while the mixture is in the water, you run the risk of cooking the eggs solid. No bueno.) Once you achieve 140F, switch to high speed and beat the mixture just until it reaches 160F, which will take just a couple of minutes, five at most.

Remove the bowl from the skillet, add the vanilla, and continue to beat on high speed until you have big glossy peaks of meringue nirvana.

In another bowl, beat the butter until light and creamy. Add about a cup of the meringue to the butter and beat until well combined. Repeat, adding half of the total meringue by the cupful and beating until combined. Add the second half of the meringue and beat until smooth.

You now have buttercream — time to make it chocolate buttercream! Switch to the whisk attachment, then curse my name when you realize that every piece of kitchen equipment you have is dirty. Add half of your melted chocolate mixture to the buttercream in small dollops, then beat on medium high speed until combined. Add the rest of your chocolate, and beat again until you have smooth, fluffy, chocolate buttercream. Taste it, then take back everything you said about me.

You may need to let the buttercream set up for a bit before it will hold its shape for piping. Personally, I was in a hurry and just dolloped it onto my cupcakes, which I think is kind of messy and romantic and homemade in a finger-lickin’ good kind of way.

To assemble: (why yes, I did copy this straight from my last post!): Scoop out the center of each cupcake using a melon baller, spoon, 1-inch biscuit cutter, or whatever tool you have on hand that will do the trick. Fill each cupcake center with the curd. Top each cupcake with frosting, either piping through a bag (you can use a regular old zip-top bag with one of the corners snipped off) or by dolloping in on with a spoon and smoodging it around. Top with a fresh raspberry or two and perhaps a mint leaf.

Note: You might be wondering what to do with all those scraps of cake. If you live alone, this might be a problem, in which case I suggest a parfait. If you don’t live alone, set out a glass of milk and wait.

Tags: cake recipes, dessert recipes

Friendship (Through the Narrow Aisles of Pain)

Jan 7

Posted by Laura in Baking, Food of Love | 2 Comments

A friend is a second self. –Aristotle

Planning a funeral is a lot like planning a wedding, only on three days’ notice. For Dad’s funeral, I needed a church, a priest, lectors, altar boys. Instead of groomsmen, I needed pallbearers.

I needed something to wear. I needed something for Dad to wear. I needed four thousand tissues and a metric ton of makeup.

When I took Dad’s best suit to the funeral home, I forgot to include a rosary to be placed in his hand. I intended to bring one to the wake service, but in the sad chaos of it all, it slipped my mind then, too. It was a small detail — nothing more than a symbol, really — but praying the Rosary was an important part of both my parents’ lives. Burying each of them with one was meaningful.

Thankfully, I remembered to bring it to the church on the day of the funeral. There were unending details to attend to that morning, but I managed to find five minutes that would allow me this indulgence, this one moment of closure. The funeral director wasn’t anywhere nearby; he was coordinating bigger pieces of our somber ritual, probably in the back of the church with the priest. I could have spent my precious five minutes tracking him down (and been diverted seven times in the process), or I could figure it out myself and know with certainty that it was done.

In our thirty five years together, Dad and I shared a lot of moments in that little church. During Mass, he would always offer me his hand, and I would always take it – a silent gesture of affection that we’d share during the Bible readings and through the homily.

Looking down at our clasped hands, it was almost comic how different they were. Mine are pale with transparent skin that shows a highway system of bluish green veins beneath. Dad’s hands matched his dark complexion and were rough from a life spent working on tractors and cars. My hands are fairly long and slender; his, thick and compact – like the jaws of a vise. A gentle vise. A gentle vise that liked to be held and examined.

I don’t know how many Masses we attended together, holding hands, but that was our routine. Our little routine in this little church.

I was in robot mode when I walked over to place the rosary with Dad, more focused on all the remaining things to be done than on what I was actually doing. I was looking at his hands, trying to remember how a rosary is supposed to look, and then… I saw his hands. I snapped to the moment, and I really saw them. They were handsome, bordered by the cuffs of his suit jacket, those gentle calloused hands I had held so many Sundays and countless other times. His hands. Tears stung my eyelids; I thought my knees might buckle.

I tucked the rosary in as best I could, threading the beads through his palm and letting the crucifix lay gently across his knuckles. My fierce intent to make it look natural was ironic, given how entirely unnatural it all was. I hovered, staring, overanalyzing. Suddenly, Aunt Denise was standing next to me, saying that it looked perfect, just perfect. I felt reassured.

My work was done, but I wasn’t ready to leave him. I reached out and touched his hand again. It was ice cold — much colder than I had expected — but I didn’t care. It was still his. I examined it, for the last time. His calluses were still there, his skin still weathered and tough. His hands.

I felt feminine, nurturing – a woman looking after her father. I was making sure he was comfortable, while acutely aware that he wasn’t actually there. I was nurturing the shell of a man that I had known well and loved deeply.

I could have stood there for hours with him, but it was nearly time for the funeral to begin. The priest and the family were waiting. I took a deep breath, turned — and literally walked into my friend Meredith. She’d been standing behind me when I thought I was all alone.

I looked up to explain, but her soft eyes told me she understood. She wrapped her arms around me and I lost my composure for a brief moment as she held me close.

We both knew it would be the last time I would see my father.

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When the ceremony was over, our family shuffled out of the church behind the priest, ahead of everyone else. We were suddenly standing in the sunshine; a beautiful day.

I felt a little lost, unsure of what to do next.

I turned and saw Lisa standing in the church yard with her infant son. She must have had to step outside to change him, or shoosh him, not realizing that she was planting herself exactly where I would need her a few moments later.

Her eyes were big, brimming with tears. I can’t imagine, her eyes told me, silently. But when I try, my heart aches and the tears come and I just really hurt for you.

I went to her and she pulled me in tight, her strong embrace having plenty of room for both me and her sweet boy. She touched my hair; it was invigorating to be loved like that, in that moment. The rest of the day, including the burial, stretched out before me, and I was more than willing to borrow her strength.

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I can recount a dozen more stories of how my friends rallied around me when Dad died.

How Leah instantly grasped the grief I was too shocked to yet feel.

How Andy held my hand that day.

How Jamie inspired me to somehow find paradise in the midst of my sorrow.

How Shana talked with me about things that only daughters who have lost their fathers too soon can really understand.

In the opening lines of her poem Solitude, Ella Wheeler Wilcox wrote, “laugh and the world laughs with you; weep and you weep alone.” I love that piece for its harrowing insights about grief, but bless her heart, Ella must not have had friends like mine.

I weep, but I do not weep alone.

My second selves weep with me.

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Solitude
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow it’s mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

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I learned from my mother about the importance of having deep, meaningful friendships. All her life, she maintained a wide and varied circle of people that she loved, and they loved her right back.

There’s a story about Mom and a lemon cake she encountered while on an outing with a group of girlfriends. She and her friends loved the cake, and she vowed to replicate it when she got home, which she did.

Linda, one of the friends that was there that day, contributed the recipe for the lemon cake to our church’s 100th anniversary cookbook, in Mom’s honor. She called it “Girlfriend’s Lemon Icebox Cake,” which makes me smile every time I see it.

I was inspired by this story of friendship to make mom’s icebox cake, but it calls for lemon cake mix and lemon instant pudding, which I don’t keep on hand. What I did have on hand was a raft of Meyer lemons from my neighbors Joe and Janet — so I made these cupcakes instead.

Triple Lemon Cupcakes

(Adapted from Peace Meals, a gorgeous cookbook published in 2008 by the Junior League of Houston, a copy of which was given to me by my good friend, Jamie)

Cupcakes:
3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened
1 1/2 cups sugar
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
3 eggs, room temperature
16 ounces sour cream, room temperature
2 teaspoons finely shredded lemon zest

Lemon Curd:
5 egg yolks
1 cup sugar (if you’re using Meyers, taste them — if they’re sweet, you may want to cut the sugar back to 3/4 cup)
4 lemons, zested and juiced
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, cut into pats and chilled

Frosting:
1 cup (2 sticks) butter, room temperature
3 cups powdered sugar
2 tablespoons Coffee Mate powdered creamer (it cuts the sweetness!)
3 teaspoons milk
1/4 cup Lemon Curd

For the cupcakes:
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line 24 standard muffin cups with paper baking liners (I prefer Reynolds brand double layered liners, foil with paper inside). In a medium bowl, whisk or sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. In the large bowl of an electric mixer, beat the butter on medium high speed until creamy, about 30 seconds. Gradually add the sugar; beat on high speed until lightened in color and texture, at least 2 minutes and up to 5 minutes. Add the vanilla and then the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the flour mixture in three parts, alternating with the sour cream in two parts, beating on low speed after each addition just until combined, creating a thick batter. Stir in the lemon zest. Spoon about 1/4 cup of the batter into each prepared cup. Bake about 20 to 25 minutes or until a wooden toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool completely.

For the lemon curd:
Combine the egg yolks, sugar, and lemon zest in a medium stainless steel or enamel saucepan. Whisk until smooth lightened in color, about 1 minute. Measure the lemon juice and, if needed, add enough cold water to reach 1/3 cup. Add the juice to the egg mixture and whisk again until smooth. Add the pats of butter, then cook over medium heat, whisking, until the butter is melted. Continue to whisk constantly until the mixture is thickened, allowing it to simmer gently for a few seconds. Scrape the curd into a clean bowl. Let cool, then cover with layer of plastic wrap directly on the surface of the curd. Refrigerate for up to 2 weeks. (It will continue to thicken when refrigerated.)

For the frosting:
Cream the butter on medium speed until light and fluffy. Gradually add the powdered sugar and powdered creamer, then add the milk and blend until smooth. Add the Lemon Curd and mix until well blended.

To assemble:
Scoop out the center of each cupcake using a melon baller, spoon, 1-inch biscuit cutter, or whatever tool you have on hand that will do the trick. Fill each cupcake center with the Lemon Curd. Top each cupcake with frosting, either piping through a bag (you can use a regular old zip-top bag with one of the corners snipped off) or with a butter knife.

Note: You might be wondering what to do with 24 little scraps of cake. I had plans to make a parfait from mine, but my husband and my kiddo swiped them before I had a chance. I imagine you won’t have a problem disposing of yours, either…

Tags: baking recipes, cake recipes, dessert recipes, memoirs, party food

Inferiority

Nov 19

Posted by Laura in Baking, Food of Love | 6 Comments

Life is easier now that we can bake cookies together.

Motherhood doesn’t come easily to me.

Don’t get me wrong, The Boy is thriving and I love him more than I ever dreamed possible, but parenting just isn’t a natural talent of mine.

Remember when you learned to play basketball for the first time, in gym class, and you slowly realized that some people just don’t have any hand-eye coordination? It’s sort of like that. When my friends hear my questions and concerns and frustrations about being a mom, they’re thinking, Why can’t she just put the ball in the basket?

An example: When The Boy was but a wee thing — a month old, perhaps — my friends encouraged me to venture out. Start small, they said. Run a quick errand, or get a cup of coffee. You’ll be surprised at how easy it is.

So I did. I made sure he had a full belly, then put him in a fresh outfit. Perhaps more noteworthy, I put me in a fresh outfit. I packed an extra set of everything and set out for our two mile journey to the nearest coffee shop.

The drive was pleasant enough. It was a sunny day, and when I looked back every five seconds, The Boy was oblivious, content.

My friends were right, I thought, it’s nice to be out. We arrived uneventfully at the coffee shop. I unclicked his bucket seat and carried him in.

It was about two o’clock on a weekday afternoon. Aside from the baristas banging around behind the bar, it was quiet. On a momentary break from life, the patrons were all quietly reading or pecking on a gadget or sipping coffee. It was an oasis. We had all escaped, including me. I was out.

I walked to the counter, gently set the bucket on the floor, and dug around for my wallet. That’s when the dream started to unravel.

Just as the barista asked what she could get for me, The Boy started to whimper. Oh crap. I reached out with my foot and tipped the round-bottomed bucket ever so slightly, to make it rock, and then quickly ordered a medium coffee to go. Maybe if I acted like I knew what I was doing, it would all be okay.

For his part, The Boy was not amused. The whimper quickly turned into a fuss. My shoulders crept skyward, toward my earlobes. Please tell me this isn’t happening.

The fuss turned into a cry, which quickly escalated into a howl. I tossed some money on the counter, grabbed the coffee, and then turned and froze, staring down at my son. How was I going to carry this heaping bucket-o-Boy and a cup of hot coffee at the same time? And even if I could manage that, how was I going carry all that AND get my keys out AND unlock my door AND heave him back into the car? I needed another arm. (Octopus mamas must have it soooo easy.)

"Coffee shops aren't my thing. I'd rather hang in the kitchen."

The Boy kept howling, red now. The bubble of our communal oasis had been burst — pillaged, sacked, plundered. I could feel the intensely hot laser beams from everyone’s eyeballs, staring. Now that I think about it, this explains why I broke out into a sweat. Will someone please remind me why hot coffee was a good idea?

I had to get out of there. I tucked the handle of the bucket into the crook of my strong arm and grabbed the coffee with the other hand. I lurched like a zombie towards the door — bucket-toting arm lifted for leverage, coffee arm almost fully extended in anticipation of the now-certain spill, which would surely land directly on my infant son’s face and scald him beyond recognition. Really?, I chided myself. Hot coffee?

Outside, scorching tears of frustration, embarrassment and ineptitude sprang from my eyes as I ditched the cup in the garbage can and continued toward the car. Once there, I looked him over. His diaper was dry, his belly still full. Nothing was poking or pulling or pinching him. Why was he screaming? Had I somehow dislocated his arm? Were we being pursued by machete-wielding guerrillas, unbeknownst to me? I looked around, just to be sure.

I eventually gave up, clicked his bucket back into the car, and drove home. He screamed the whole way. In fact, he screamed so loud and for so long, that he started to lose his voice. (I challenge you to find that in a parenting book.)

Against my better judgment, I’m going to be perfectly honest with you and admit to something unflattering and quite uncourageous. The thought that was going through my head as I pulled into the driveway was this:

I went and had a BABY and now I’m stuck in this HOUSE for the rest of my LIFE.

I’m about as extroverted as they come. The thought of having to choose between staying home and breaking out in hives from the stress of “being out” was unbearable. I felt as though I’d just heard my own death knell.

Things got better, of course. The Boy grew and changed. I grew and changed. I went back to work, which helped. He learned to crawl, then walk, then talk. He’s no less demanding now, actually, but at least we understand each other.

Here’s another unflattering admission: When I’m in quiet public places, like coffee shops and churches and movie theaters, and I hear a baby screaming, I secretly like it. Even more so when it’s a mother, and she looks flustered, mopping her brow. Isn’t that terrible?!

I’m not taking joy in their frustration, mind you; I’m just relishing the fact that I’m not alone.

Actually, I like to think of it this way: I’m curing myself of a quite-serious inferiority complex, one fussy baby at a time.

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In hindsight, a tiny coffee shop was not the greatest venue for a first adventure – I didn’t realize just how loud a baby could be in small quiet space.

My second mistake was actually ordering coffee. What I should have done is ask for a cookie – a highly portable, room temperature, easily-scarfed-if-I-suddenly-have-to-carry-my-kid cookie.

The problem is, food at coffee shops is generally miserable. So The Boy and I made cookies ourselves, which I adapted from the November issue of Food & Wine magazine.

Cranberry Chocolate Chip Cookies

Adapted from Dried Cranberry and Chocolate Cookies, Food & Wine, November 2011

1 1/2 cups dried cranberries

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 cup quick-cooking oats (or regular rolled oats)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon kosher salt
2 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup light brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg, room temperature
1 large egg yolk, room temperature
1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups semisweet chocolate chips

Preheat the oven to 325°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper. Cover the cranberries in hot water and let soak for at least 5 minutes, but not more than 10 minutes. Drain the cranberries; set aside.

Meanwhile, in a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, oats, baking powder, baking soda and salt. In a standing mixer fitted with the paddle, beat the butter and both sugars at medium speed until creamy, about 3-4 minutes. Add the egg followed by the egg yolk and vanilla, beating well between additions and scraping down the side of the bowl as necessary. Add the flour mixture, chocolate chips and cranberries all at once and stir just until combined.

Spoon heaping teaspoons of the dough onto the baking sheets, 2 inches apart. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until the cookies begin to brown at the edges. Let the cookies cool on the baking sheets, then transfer them to a rack to cool completely.

Store in an airtight container.

Tags: baking recipes, cookie recipes, dessert recipes, holiday recipes, memoirs, vegetarian recipes

Three Phone Calls

Oct 29

Posted by Laura in Baking, Food of Love | 16 Comments

I was in Galveston when I learned that Dad died.

I was having lunch at a restaurant with a big group of people, including my gracious hosts, when the phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize, and not wanting to be rude, I let it go to voice mail.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again as we were walking out. This time, it was Matt. I picked up.

“Are you in a place where you can talk?”

He had his serious, listen-to-me-carefully tone, which told me immediately that something was wrong. It wasn’t The Boy, though — he was too composed for that.

“Yes,” I said. Terse. I know something’s up – out with it.

“I’m going to tell you exactly what I know, because the information I have isn’t very clear,” he said.

“Okay. What’s wrong?” Frustrated now, not with Matt, but with the situation. Trying to control my voice. Whatever this is, it isn’t his fault.

“I just talked to your brother. I think your dad passed away.”

I’m walking as I hear this, trailing my hosts at a safe distance. I stop.

“What?”

My eyes dart from left to right as my brain sifts this information. I feel adrenaline wash over the lining of my gut like ice water. The coastal sunshine is suddenly intensely bright, the roar of the Gulf suddenly deafening. Fight or flight.

“I can’t be sure. Your uncle A.B. called Kirk, and Kirk called me. All I know for certain is that there was an ambulance at your dad’s house.”

Left-right-left-right-left-right-left-right.

Andy is there, in the crowd with me. He notices I’ve fallen behind. I’m looking down, hiding from the blinding sun, but he sees my wild dilated eyes anyway. Without looking, I reach for his hand.

“Hole up… ho-hole-hole up, guys,” he tells the others. He stands there quietly, holding my hand. Watching my face.

“That was Matt,” I say, dazed. “I think my dad died.”

Collectively, the group stands up taller, then steps in close.

“I’m okay to walk. Let’s walk,” I say, meaning it. Thankfully, they believe me.

“Andy, can you…?”

“Yes. I’ll drive.”

**********************

A couple of weeks later, I scraped together all the emotional fortitude I had and made a phone call of my own. I called Bob, who, to my knowledge, was the last person to see my dad alive.

Dad had been renovating his childhood home, which is a 100+ year old frame house that began its life as a one-room school. It needed a lot of work, and being retired, Dad needed something to do. It seemed right.

Bob was one of the contractors Dad had hired to help. The day he died, Bob had come by the old house to discuss the project. Bob pulled up in his truck, and Dad came out to say hello, and pretty soon they were standing around with their forearms dangling into the bed of the pickup, as men in these parts are wont to do.

Bob grew up nearby and knew the area well. However, Bob was several years older than Dad, and despite the tiny size of the community, they’d never met until they started working together. Standing around the truck that morning, they talked about old times, the history of the place, how much things had changed over the years. Bob would tell me later that it was like they were reminiscing about a common history they didn’t have, as though they’d skipped rocks and picked cotton and swam in that old rice canal together as kids.

Bob had already completed the first phase of the project, which was to remove all the old existing insulation. They discussed the next phase, whatever that was to be, and then Dad asked Bob how much he owed him for the work he’d already completed. Bob told him the amount, Dad paid him, they exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then Bob left.

Some time later, maybe an hour, Dad called a second contractor named Luke. Bob had recommended him to help Dad work on the windows in the old house.

While they were talking, Dad interrupted and told Luke that he would have to let him go, that he didn’t feel well. Then Luke heard the phone fall, and the call dropped.

Luke could have done a lot of things at this point. He could have shrugged and proceeded with his day. Instead, he called Bob and told him what happened.

Bob was at another job site many miles away by this point, too far away to do anything. Luckily, he remembered Dad explaining that he wouldn’t be able help with any of the physical labor on the house, because he had a bad heart.

He called 911.

Dad was gone by the time they arrived.

**********************

Calling Bob wasn’t easy, but I wanted to thank him for all he’d done. I told him about my long-standing fear of something happening to Dad while alone, that he wouldn’t be able to call for help, and that he would suffer. Thanks to Bob, I have the peace of knowing that his last day was a good one, and that it had happened quickly.

What I didn’t expect was for him to thank me.

He was like an angel, Bob said. When we met, I saw his peaceful, happy face and I knew he was a man of God.

I must say, this isn’t what one expects when one phones an insulation contractor.

The first time I ever came out to the house, I climbed a ladder to have a look around in the attic. When I looked down, he was bracing the ladder for me. I didn’t ask him to, and he didn’t say anything — he just did it. That thought doesn’t occur to most people, but he honestly cared about making sure I didn’t fall.

He went on.

When he asked how much he owed me, I expected him to say that he’d pay me later, or to give me the old check’s-in-the-mail routine. But he wanted me to have what I’d earned. I told him not to worry about it, that we’d settle up when the project was over, but he insisted on paying me on the spot.

Then he told me about their visit that morning, and how he’d never felt such an instant connection to someone he’d only just met. It was a strange feeling, he said, to develop such a close friendship so fast.

I decided to tell him a few things about Dad, about what it was like to be his kid. How reassuring and laid back he was, how he never liked to be in a hurry.

That’s when he thanked me.

Honey, I know I’m giving you the last pieces to the puzzle for that day, but you’re giving me puzzle pieces, too. You’re confirming that he was an angel to me. Meeting him and then losing him so quickly changed my life. I think about him every single day.

What can you say when you hear that from a stranger about your dead father? I tossed aside all that silly fortitude and stopped trying not to cry.

“He was a great man,” I squeaked out. “And I loved him very much.”

I know you did, honey. I’m sure you miss him. I know I do.

**********************

About a week later,I was starting to get concerned about not doing my “grief work” — that I was squirreling away all my anguish and sadness to deal with later, and that later might never come. I didn’t want to be stuck in the fog forever.

That’s when the dream came.

In my dream, I’m in my car, waiting at a red light. The phone rings.

It’s Dad.

Hi, Daddy, I answer.

“It’s me again, Margaret,” he says, chuckling. A reference to the old Ray Stevens song.

I smile.

How are you?, I ask.

“I’m doin’ okay. How are you?”

I’m alright. I’ve just been really busy. (I’m probating your estate, I think to myself – a reality I haven’t yet accepted.)

“How’s The Boy?”

Up to his old tricks, I say. Still getting in trouble at school for sassing his teacher.

He laughs, hard, then trails off.

The Boy and I stopped by your house yesterday, I say. This is my way of bringing it up, the fact that he’s gone. He was never good about broaching subjects.

Another pause.

“You’ll be fine, sweetie.”

I know, Daddy. But I miss you.

“I miss you, too.”

What do we do with all of your things? Like Grandpa’s old tractor?

“Kirk knows. Matt can help you.”

I’m crying silently, hoping he can’t hear.

What about the land, Daddy?

“I thought maybe you’d want to put a nursery or an orchard out there.”

And just like that, I’m lying in my bed, awake. Then the real tears come, to match the ones in my dream. I don’t sob, I don’t sniff, I don’t even blink much. I stare at the ceiling while my eyes leak. My pillow is wet.

An orchard.

In my mind’s eye, I see neat rows of trees. As I walk among them, the rows snap together, longitudinally and diagonally, like the crosses at Arlington National Cemetery.

An orchard?

I see the four of us: Mom, Dad, Kirk, and me, walking with buckets, picking fruit from trees at a farm. A memory from childhood. I suddenly remember how much both of them loved trees.

An orchard?

Another flashback: I see two of my uncles, walking with my parents among the acreage that we called the backyard. They are carrying branches and putty knives and little pots of goo.

I ask Daddy what they’re doing. He tells me they are grafting branches from other trees onto ours.

What’s grafting? I ask.

“It’s kind of like gluing,” he says.

But why?

“Uncle David’s branches have better pecans than ours. Now our trees will grow his pecans.”

Tree surgery. My seven year old brain found this odd.

An orchard.

**********************

I doubt that I’ll become a tree farmer anytime soon, but if I were to plant an orchard, I would probably choose pecan trees. And what better way to showcase pecans than classic pecan pie?

This is my grandmother’s recipe. I like it because it’s not too sweet, like many pecan pies can be — you don’t have to fight your way through all the sugar to taste the fruit. A dollop of lightly sweetened whipped cream sets it off perfectly.

Grandma Peltier’s Pecan Pie

3 eggs, room temperature, slightly beaten
2/3 cup light Karo corn syrup
2/3 cup dark Karo corn syrup
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons sugar
4 tablespoons butter, melted and cooled to room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 1/2 cups coarsely chopped pecans
About 1 cup pecan halves
Unbaked pie shell
Whipped cream or vanilla ice cream, for serving

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Combine eggs, syrups, flour, sugar, butter, and vanilla. Whisk until well combined, or beat on low speed of an electric mixer for about two minutes. Stir in chopped pecans.

Pour the mixture into the unbaked pie shell. Place the pecan halves atop the filling decoratively. Bake at 375°F for 15 minutes, then reduce the oven temperature to 350°F and bake another 15 minutes. Reduce the oven temperature again to 325°F and bake until center looks done (not shaky), about another 25 minutes, for a total baking time of about 55 minutes.

Remove from oven and let cool before slicing, to allow the filling to set. Serve with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream — or if you’re feeling frisky, rum-brandy ice cream.

Tags: baking recipes, dessert recipes, holiday recipes, memoirs, pie recipes, Texas recipes

Paradise

Oct 22

Posted by Laura in Baking, Food of Love | 11 Comments

Don’t let that last post fool you. I wrote most of it weeks ago, before my life changed. Before Dad died.

In real time, I’m much more melancholy, as you might expect. I vacillate between emotional devastation and numbing denial. In fact, since the funeral, I’ve mostly been an automaton. A zombie. A shell of my usual self.

Apparently my mind wants no part of this whole grieving process, because I can’t string together a coherent thought for all the tea in China. Call me, my brain said, when it’s over. I can’t handle anymore. I’ll be in Bora Bora.

The other day, I went into our guest bathroom without having any business there and randomly washed my hands. Holding the towel, I asked my mirrored reflection why I had done so. She didn’t have an answer.

Another time, while getting dressed, I packed a dopp kit for no reason. Every item I used, I packed. Shampoo, conditioner, comb, razor, toothbrush. All that. When I was done, I zipped it up and carried it across the house.

The next morning, I couldn’t find anything. I didn’t remember that I’d packed it all. Matt saw my confusion and asked what was the matter. I can’t find anything, I said, distressed.

“What anythings?”

My deodorant. My face lotion. My stuff.

His face softened. He knew.

“I saw you packing it all yesterday. I didn’t want to question you.”

I walked out to the garage, where the dopp kit was sitting, alone, in my car. No suitcase. No clothes. No real memory of putting it there.

Maybe my brain convinced the rest of me to make a run for Bora Bora. Who knows.

Automaton.

Zombie.

That dopp kit thing happened two weeks ago. Now…. now I don’t quite know what to do with myself. I’m back at work, and everything is pretty much the same. Except that nothing is the same, and it never will be again.

My good friend Jamie sent me a text. It read: Paradise in the everyday. You know that.

I knew, but I hadn’t been seeing it. I didn’t have to look far.

“Mommy?”

Yes?

“I love you.”

Aw, I love you too, Sugar.

“I love you moah.”

Well, I love you all the way to the moon.

“And back.”

Paradise. Every day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I liked how the combination looked on Eileen's pretty blue plate.

I’ve never been less interested in eating and more interested in cooking than I have been lately. I wouldn’t have guessed that. Honestly, it’s a little weird.

When Mom died, my primary concern was Dad. What did he need? How would we manage? How could I help? Cooking was not on my radar at all.

I didn’t think anything of it then, but that seems like a luxury now, to have him to be concerned about.

This time, it’s different. Maybe cooking is a predictable, known thing for me in this strange post-parental world I now dwell in. Maybe cooking connects me to the memories. Maybe I don’t know what else to do with myself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mom adored homemade ice cream. Dad loved apple pie.

Me, I can’t seem to leave well enough alone. My favorite dish is the one I haven’t tried to make yet.

So it seemed natural to make a an apple galette instead of a perfectly good pie, and add booze to some perfectly wonderful ice cream. What resulted seemed to me to represent the three of us on a plate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A galette is essentially a free-form pie, without the pesky dish. The flavor profile is very simple — just butter, sugar, and cinnamon — and the proportions of crust to filling much closer to 1:1 than with pie. In my world, that’s a good thing.

Apple Galette

Adapted from Joy of Cooking

Pastry dough for 1 pie crust
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
4 tablespoons sugar, divided
2 large firm apples (I prefer Granny Smith), peeled, cored, and sliced very thinly
1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Position a rack in the lower third of the oven. Preheat the oven to 425 F.

On a sheet of parchment paper, roll the crust out into a 12-inch round. Brush the crust with a thin layer of melted butter, and reserve the rest. Sprinkle the crust with one tablespoon of the sugar.

Transfer the paper with the dough to a baking sheet. Layer the apples on the crust, leaving at least a 1-inch border around the edges. If you’re feeling fancy, arrange the apples in a pretty overlapping designs; if you’re not, just kind of toss them in there. Fold the dough border up over the apples, again making it as pretty as you please.

Combine the remaining three tablespoons of sugar with the cinnamon. Drizzle all but about 2 teaspoons of the remaining butter over the apples, then sprinkle with the cinnamon-sugar mixture.

Bake at 425 F until the pastry begins to brown, about 20 minutes. Reduce the oven temperature to 350 F and bake until the pastry is crisped and golden brown, about another 20-30 minutes.

Remove from the oven to a rack. Brush the apples with the remaining butter, and let cool. Serve warm or at room temperature.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The alcohol in this boozy ice cream keeps the texture very soft — it’s a perfect accompaniment to the slew of upcoming holiday desserts. The addition of nutmeg gives it the flavor of egg nog; dial the amount up or down (or leave it out) to suit your tastes. You could also vary the spirits to mix things up a bit.

Rum-Brandy Ice Cream

I stashed some in my in-law's freezer.

Adapted from Williams-Sonoma’s Thanksgiving

2 1/2 cups half-and-half
1 1/2 cups heavy cream
4 egg yolks
2/3 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 tablespoons dark rum
2 tablespoons brandy

In a heavy-bottom saucepan, combine the half-and-half and cream. Cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until tiny bubbles start to form around the edges and the mixture reaches a temperature of 170 F.

Meanwhile, whisk the egg yolks until smooth. Add the sugar and nutmeg and whisk vigorously until the mixture is thick and pale yellow. When the cream mixture reaches 170 F, slowly pour it into the egg yolk mixture while whisking continuously.

Return the combined mixture to the pan over low heat. Continue to cook, stirring constantly, until the mixture is thick enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon and reaches a temperature of 185 F. Do not bring the mixture to a boil.

Pour the mixture into a clean bowl and cool to room temperature. Stir in the vanilla. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap, pressing it directly onto the surface of the custard to prevent a skin from forming. Refrigerate overnight, or for a minimum of 2 hours.

Freeze in an ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions until softly frozen. Add the rum and brandy and continue to churn until the ice cream freezes further. (Again, it will probably not freeze solid and remain very soft.) Transfer to an airtight storage container, cover, and freeze overnight before serving.

Tags: baking recipes, dessert recipes, holiday recipes, memoirs, pie recipes

The @#$%! Cake

Oct 15

Posted by Laura in Baking, Cover Recipe Results, Food of Love | 10 Comments

Friends, have I got a story for you.

It’s a story of tenacity. Perseverance. Winning.

It’s a story of a street-wise Chicago teen who moves to a small repressed town where dancing and rock music are illegal. Against all odds, he… oh, sorry. Wrong story.

It’s a story about me and a @#$%! chocolate cake.

You know the one. The one on the December cover of Bon Appetit magazine. The one I tried to make last December and failed miserably. Yeah, that one.

The truth is that I was doomed before I began, and it was all Matt’s fault. He happened to be piddling in the kitchen while I prepared my mise en place. I distinctly remember buttering and flouring the cake pans and telling him, “You know, I’m amazed that I haven’t had to make any of these Bon Appétit cover recipes twice.”

I actually said that. Out loud. To another human being.

I thought I had it in the bag. How many cakes have I baked in my life? After my inaugural turkey, surely this would be a no brainer, right? I mean, can I get an amen?!

Now, Matt’s a stoic guy. He doesn’t always have something to say. In fact, about half the time he replies to me with a “Humph.”

Literally, “Humph.”

In MattSpeak, that translates to, “I have understood and acknowledged your statement; however, I have nothing further to contribute to this topic.”

On occasion, though, he comes up with a perfect little quip, chock full of simple wisdom. This was one of those occasions.

Let’s rewind a bit and get the full effect:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Laura [buttering and flouring a cake pan, quite satisfied with herself]: “You know, I’m amazed that I haven’t had to make any of these Bon Appétit cover recipes twice.”

Matt [piddling, aloof]: “Seems like you’d wanna wait until you’ve actually finished all twelve of them to make a statement like that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Do you have ANY idea what it’s like to live with someone who’s nearly always right?

Or, for if you’re the superstitious type: Can you BELIEVE he jinxed me like that? Gah.

And so it began. The batter came together easily enough, went into the pan easily enough, slid into the oven easily enough. So far, so good.

But when the cake layers were done, I thought it might be fun to drop one of them on the floor. You know, just to remind myself what startled and horrified feel like when experienced simultaneously.

Buttercream: spackling of champions.

The good news was that I dropped the pan right side up, where it landed completely flat on its bottom, like a brick. The poor cake, piping hot from the oven, scrambled like eggs inside the pan. After the requisite muttering under my breath, I told myself that it was nothing that an advanced cooling technique and some buttercream spackling couldn’t hide.

No problem. I got this.

Speaking of buttercream, it had its share of issues too — it separated while beating in the butter. It was looking a little iffy there for a minute, but I warmed and whisked it a little and managed to recover.

No problem. I got this.

Then came the glaze. Ohhhhh, the glaze. I made it twice, and failed twice, which is kind of amazing considering that it requires all of one step: melt stuff. The first time, I melted the stuff, and then waited for it to thicken, which the recipe said would take about 5 minutes. After 30 minutes, I tried chilling it, to no avail. It was the roughly the consistency of water.

After checking, I realized that the recipe states “1 ½ sticks,” but I read it to be 1 ½ cups, which is 3 sticks. Twice as much. No wonder.

So I made it again. The second take thickened enough to go on the cake, but something was still off. It was thick, but kind of gloppy and didn’t spread well.

I decided to move on. The chocolate ribbons would distract the eye and cover all my sins.

No problem. I got this.

Well, the @#$%! ribbons didn’t turn out to be the @#$%! panacea I’d been counting on. They were floppy and flimsy and structurally unsound. I added powdered sugar. I froze them. I tried everything I could think of, but there was no three-dimensional bow in this cake’s future.

Uhhhh, problem. I don’t got this.

I had a bona fide cake wreck on my hands. (Before you ask, all photographic evidence has been destroyed.)

So, what happened? At first, I wasn’t sure. I checked the recipe’s comments on the Bon Appetit site, to see if there had been a misprint or some such. I grumbled as I read how easy and fabulous it was for everyone else.

I mulled it over. I re-read the recipe. I couldn’t figure it out.

Then, two nights later, I sat bolt upright in bed out of a deep sleep. I knew the answer.

I had incorrectly measured the chocolate.

Mise en place, Take Two.

I had used a different brand of chocolate than I normally do. My usual brand comes in 1-ounce squares, but the brand I used came in ½-ounce squares. So, while I counted out what I thought was the correct number of ounces, in reality I had only used half the necessary amount of chocolate – in both the @#$%! glaze and the @#$%! ribbons.

It was a total rookie mistake.

That’s the thing I like about baking – it’s a personal barometer. If my head isn’t clear, I make mistakes. I drop things. I mis-read recipes. I lose stuff.

Once I realized the chocolate problem, and stopped to think about all the other things I’d done wrong, I realized how cluttered my mind was, how stressed I’d been.

You may have noticed that I started posting fewer entries about that time – I needed to regroup, relax, get my head on straight. It took a while, but it worked – and then my world kind of blew up.

Once again, I needed to regroup, relax, get my head on straight. And once again, life settled down.

By then it was September. Yikes. Not sure how that happened, but I never lost sight of the @#$%! chocolate cake I wanted to remake. My birthday of my lovely mother-in-law, Eileen, is in September, and I saw my opportunity.

I made the cake. Again. This time, with my head on straight.

It was a bit of work, but each step was pretty easy, especially when you measure correctly and aren’t burdened with having to recover from, say, dropping the @#$%! thing.

And I have to say, it was quite lovely. Dense and highly spiced, it was a sneak preview of the flavors of Christmas. I felt vindicated. Victorious. Redeemed.

Two weeks later, my world blew up again when my dad died suddenly. (That might be the understatement of the century, actually – but you get the idea.)

I’m learning a hard lesson: this is life. Up, down, sideways. Sometimes backwards. But the important thing is to keep putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how strong the headwind.

Why? Because I’ve seen the alternatives. They aren’t pretty.

And they don’t get you any cake.

Tags: baking recipes, bon appetit cover recipes, cake recipes, dessert recipes, memoirs

Happy Birthday, Mom

Oct 3

Posted by Laura in Baking, Food of Love | 9 Comments

Sweet roll dough in my maternal grandmother's bowl, after the first rise.

Friday was Mom’s birthday. She would have been 64 years old.

Sometimes I allow myself to stop and wonder what life would be like if she were still here, if she’d never had cancer.

My brother has four children, and the two older ones knew my mother well. There’s no question what kind of grandma she would have been to The Boy, because I’ve seen it. I don’t have to wonder when or how she would have guided me into motherhood, because I know. It’s just a matter of letting myself go there. And it hurts.

It hurts because I remember how Mom bought umpteen gajillion baby outfits and toys when my sister-in-law was pregnant. This isn’t all that remarkable, except that these toys and outfits were garage sale finds. Brand new, tags still on the clothes, toys still in boxes. Heaps of the stuff so tall that she delivered them in garbage bags because she couldn’t find enough boxes and shopping bags. Here, she would tell my sister-in-law, I found some baby things you might be able to use. And it would turn out to be all the clothes a baby would probably ever need for the first two years of life. For cents on the dollar. Mom was practical that way.

It hurts because I remember that Mom started planning annual family retreats for all of us when the grandkids came along. She’d find a neat little town somewhere down the coast, and we’d congregate there, eating and fishing and antiquing and working on jigsaw puzzles with infinitesimally small pieces. Why? Just because. Mom was sentimental that way.

It hurts because she always had an adventure for the kids at the ready, just waiting for the right moment to spring it on them. For example, my niece, the oldest, loves dresses and barrettes and costumes and glitter. For the family retreat the summer she was four, Mom brought a wooden box filled with material of all sizes and colors, with giant safety pins and clothespins and measuring tapes and yards of lace and trim. The emptied box became a dressmaker’s pedestal, and my niece played fashion designer and spent the whole weekend bossing and outfitting her models with flair. Mom was creative that way.

It hurts because I have these memories. If I couldn’t remember, life would be easier — the pain would be gone. But, so would the pleasure. So would the inspiration.

To be honest, I’m mortified that I might forget. So I go there. And it hurts.

Rolled and ready for the second rise.

But you know what? I’m still discovering my mother. I’m still meeting friends of hers I didn’t know and hearing stories about her that I’ve never heard. I’m still finding recipes she loved. I’m still reading letters she wrote. I didn’t expect that. I expected the grief, to be sure, but I didn’t expect to still be getting to know her.

It feels a little like cheating.

And you know what else? Sometimes she visits me, and that hurts worse than the memories. I’ve already told you about our late goodbye, months after she died. There have been other visions, too — and dreams. Dreams so vivid that it takes me a couple of hours after waking to sort out where reality ended and the dream began. Disturbingly wonderful visits, they are.

I hope they never end.

Happy birthday, Mom.

I miss you. I love you. Pray for me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You know that feeling when you see a movie or read a book and it immediately reminds you of someone? I do that with food all the time. I’ll see bread pudding and think of Dennis (it’s his favorite). I’ll taste a risotto and remember how much better my friend Jessica’s is. (It’s a sickness, I know.)

When I saw a recent slideshow on Food & Wine’s website about brunch ideas, including these raspberry-swirl sweet rolls, I immediately thought of Mom. She had a raging sweet tooth, was a sucker for classic combinations of sweet and tart, and loved the challenge of a good pastry. I once asked her to pick her favorite all time flavor.

Ever?, she asked.

Ever.

Just one?, she asked.

One favorite. Just one.

A pause, and then the answer: Raspberry.

If she were still here, I’d have made these for her birthday.

Second rise complete, ready for the oven.

Raspberry-Swirl Sweet Rolls

From Grace Parisi, Food & Wine Magazine

Dough

1 cup milk
2/3 cup sugar
1 1/2 tablespoons active dry yeast
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest
1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt
4 1/4 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting

Filling

One 10-ounce package IQF (Individually Quick Frozen) raspberries, not thawed
1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon cornstarch

Glaze

3/4 cup confectioners’ sugar
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1 1/2 tablespoons heavy cream

In a small saucepan, warm the milk over moderately low heat until it’s 95°. Pour the warm milk into the bowl of a standing electric mixer fitted with the dough hook and stir in the sugar and yeast. Let stand until the yeast is foamy, about 5 minutes. Add the softened butter, eggs, grated lemon zest and sea salt. Add the flour and beat at medium speed until a soft dough forms, about 3 minutes. Increase the speed to medium-high and beat until the dough is soft and supple, about 10 minutes longer.

Scrape the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead it with your hands 2 or 3 times. Form the dough into a ball and transfer it to a lightly buttered bowl. Cover the dough with plastic wrap and let stand in a warm place until doubled in bulk, 1 to 2 hours.

Line the bottom of a 9-by-13-inch baking pan with parchment paper, allowing the paper to extend up the short sides. Butter the paper and sides of the pan. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured work surface and, using a rolling pin, roll it into a 10-by-24-inch rectangle.

In a medium bowl, toss the frozen raspberries with the sugar and cornstarch. Spread the raspberry filling evenly over the dough. Tightly roll up the dough to form a 24-inch-long log. Working quickly, cut the log into quarters. Cut each quarter into 4 slices and arrange them in the baking pan, cut sides up. Scrape any berries and juice from the work surface into the baking pan between the rolls. Cover the rolls and let them rise in a warm place until they are puffy and have filled the baking pan, about 2 hours.

Preheat the oven to 425°. Bake the rolls for about 25 minutes, until they are golden and the berries are bubbling. Transfer the pan to a rack to cool for 30 minutes.

In a small bowl, whisk the confectioners’ sugar with the butter and heavy cream until the glaze is thick and spreadable.

Invert the rolls onto the rack and peel off the parchment paper. Invert the rolls onto a platter. Dollop glaze over each roll and spread with an offset spatula. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Make Ahead: The recipe can be prepared through Step 4. Cover the rolls, refrigerate overnight and then return to room temperature before baking.

Variation: The sweet rolls can be filled with a variety of frozen fruit. Try blackberries, strawberries, blueberries or chopped sweet cherries.

Tags: baking recipes, bread recipes, brunch, dessert recipes, memoirs

When Life Gives You Broken Cake, Make A Trifle

Aug 26

Posted by Laura in Baking, Food of Love | 4 Comments

Subject Line: Cake. "Call me."

I’m normally an optimistic, go-get-‘em type of person. I read somewhere once that we should count our blessings, not our troubles, and I try my best to live that way.

But sometimes I need to sit down and have a good cry.

I was recently on an elevator with a middle-aged woman. During our ride, which spanned about 25 floors, I caught a long glance of her. She was exhausted.

I don’t mean college-hell-week exhausted, or I-stayed-out-all-night-partying exhausted, or parent-of-a-child-under-age-two exhausted. She was trim and well-dressed, but she gripped the rail in the elevator a little too tightly. She sighed a little too deeply. Her eyes blinked a little too slowly and stayed closed a little too long.

Just hang on, she seemed to be thinking, the day is almost over. How many times had she given herself that pep talk? What weight was she carrying? Her load seemed heavy.

I don’t know that woman, and I’ll probably never see her again. But she reminded me that we each carry our own brand of troubles — a unique and invisible cross. Some are small and easily managed, some are tremendous and back-breaking. But we all have one.

They’re invisible, so we forget. I forget.

I forget that, outside of a very short list of people, I really have no idea what size anyone’s cross is — or perhaps more importantly, how equipped they are to carry it.

Often, I forget about my own cross.

And actually, the forgetting is usually my own doing. When a painful thought comes to mind, I can physically feel myself suppressing it, without really deciding to. It’s just like swallowing a lump in my throat to keep from crying – a subconscious mechanism to defend my composure.

But then, something will prick through the defense. I’ll see a woman in an elevator, and for all I truly know about her, she’s the most carefree and content human being on earth. But that’s not what I see. I see exhaustion, I see confusion, I see pain. I won’t realize until much later that I was actually seeing myself.

That’s when I know it’s time to have that cry I was telling you about.

I stop, put down my cross, and crumple against it. I take a good long look at it – it bears my old scars and my open wounds, my sorrows and regrets, my shortcomings, my pain. Worry. Anxiety. Fear. I acknowledge, wincing, that it’s really all really real. This is part of who I am. This is the cross I carry.

I remind myself that the appropriate response to injury is not to lash out or seek revenge. It’s not my job to make all things right, to put things back where they should be – and even if it were my job, I wouldn’t be qualified to do it. I would make the wrongs wronger. It is the very definition of futility.

No, the appropriate response to injury is to be hurt. To allow myself to be injured. That’s harder that it sounds. It requires vulnerability, admission, acceptance, and pain.

After all the tears are out, and maybe after pitying myself for a short while, I pull myself back together. Then comes the critical part: I pick up my cross and I keep going.

If I’m lucky – or, better said, if I do it right – I will have learned something in the process.

“Finally, all of you, be like-minded, be sympathetic, love one another, be compassionate and humble. Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult. On the contrary, repay evil with blessing, because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing.” -1 Peter 3:8

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Subject Line: Success!

Usually when I sit down to write to you, I have at least an idea of what I want to say, and certainly the recipe in mind that goes with it. Not so this time.

I sat down to have a good cry, and this is what came out. Which is all well and good, but what the heck kind of recipe goes with this part of life?

And then suddenly, I knew.

I recently attended two funerals in the span of a week, which is part of the emotional weight I was carrying. After the wake for the first funeral, I saw an email on my phone from my friend Joy, subject line: Cake, with a photo of a cake attached. She was having trouble, it read. Cake trouble. Call me.

At first glance, when the cake photo was a thumbnail measuring approximately 2 microns by 4 microns, it looked lovely. Black forest, cherries, chocolate shavings. Hello, beautiful. I wondered what the problem could be?

Then I opened the attachment, and boom! Three fissures had split her cake almost exactly into thirds. Cake chasms, they were.

“This is for a colleague at the office, for his birthday… tomorrow! What do I do?” she asked. She’d already tried inserting skewers to knit it back together (which you can see if you look closely at the photo). She also tried spackling the layers together with more icing, but it had a whipped cream base, and it was too loose to do much good. I looked at the clock. 9:00 pm. Too late for another attempt.

Having ruined puh-lenty o’ cakes in my life, I told her what any baker would: make a trifle.

What’s a trifle?

It’s a chunked up cake in a bowl, usually sprinkled with liquor or other highly flavored liquid, and layered with whatever filling or pudding type substances you have on hand, and topped with whipped cream.

Hmmm. How do I make one?

Find the prettiest bowl you have, preferably a clear glass one. Take a large serving spoon and start dishing chunks of cake into the bowl, until you’ve made a layer. Add a layer whipped cream or filling or whatever you have around. Repeat until you’re out of cake or near the top of the bowl. Finish with whipped cream and more cherry filling. Shave more chocolate on top. Pretend you did it on purpose.

You really think that will work?

Yes! And while your co-workers ooh and ahh over the deliciousness of it all, you can explain what a trifle is. They’ll never know. You’ll be a genius.

A couple of hours later, I received another email. Subject line: Success!, and a photo of a pretty darn handsome trifle attached. Success. Shared success. It lifted my spirit.

I hope it lifts yours.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I can relate to having high hopes and expectations dashed when a cake doesn’t work out — especially a birthday cake. I made a lime chiffon cake for Eileen, my mother-in-law, a few years ago, and luckily it turned out well. In fact, it was so pretty, I wish I’d put it on a pretty cake plate instead of my portable cake saver thingy.

However, if it had collapsed, split, or been struck by lightning, I would have made a batch of lime curd and turned it into a trifle (and still had fun decorating the top the same way).

Fresh Lime Chiffon Cake
From Cooking Light Magazine, June 2006

FILLING:
1 teaspoon finely grated lime rind
1/4 cup fresh lime juice (about 2 limes)
1 (14-ounce) can sweetened condensed milk

CAKE:
Cooking spray
1 tablespoon cake flour
2 cups sifted cake flour (7 1/2 ounces)
1 1/4 cups sugar, divided
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
7 tablespoons canola oil
1/3 cup fresh lime juice (about 3 limes)
3 tablespoons water
1 teaspoon finely grated lime rind
1 teaspoon pure lemon extract
3 egg yolks
8 egg whites
1 teaspoon cream of tartar

FROSTING:
3 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons lime juice (about 1 lime)
2 1/2 cups fat-free whipped topping, thawed*
Fresh mint sprigs (optional)
Fresh blueberries (optional)
Lime wedges (optional)

(*Naturally, whipped heavy cream would be better… )

To prepare the lime filling, combine 1 teaspoon lime rind, 1/4 cup lime juice, and sweetened condensed milk in a small bowl, stirring until blended. Cover and chill 3 hours.

Preheat oven to 325°. To prepare cake, coat bottoms of 3 (8-inch) round cake pans with cooking spray (do not coat sides of pans); line bottoms with wax paper. Coat wax paper with cooking spray; dust with 1 tablespoon flour.

Lightly spoon 2 cups cake flour into dry measuring cups, and level with a knife. Combine 2 cups cake flour, 1 cup sugar, baking powder, and 1/2 teaspoon salt in a large bowl, stirring with a whisk until well combined.

Combine oil, 1/3 cup juice, 3 tablespoons water, 1 teaspoon rind, lemon extract, and egg yolks in a medium bowl, stirring with a whisk. Add oil mixture to flour mixture; beat with a mixer at medium speed until smooth.

Place egg whites in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at high speed until foamy. Add cream of tartar; beat until soft peaks form. Gradually add remaining 1/4 cup sugar, 1 tablespoon at a time, beating until stiff peaks form. Gently stir one-fourth of egg white mixture into flour mixture; gently fold in remaining egg white mixture.

Divide cake batter equally among prepared pans, spreading evenly. Break air pockets by cutting through batter with a knife. Bake at 325° for 20 minutes or until cake springs back when lightly touched. Cool in pans for 10 minutes on a wire rack; remove from pans. Remove wax paper from cake layers. Cool completely on wire rack.

To prepare frosting, combine 3 tablespoons sugar and 2 tablespoons lime juice in a small glass bowl. Microwave at high for 30 seconds or until sugar dissolves. Cool completely. Fold into whipped topping.

To assemble cake, place 1 cake layer on a plate; spread half of filling over cake layer. Top with second layer, remaining half of filling, and third layer. Spread frosting over top and sides of cake. Garnish with mint, blueberries, and lime wedges, if desired. Store cake loosely covered in refrigerator for up to 3 days. Slice cake into wedges.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Don’t wait for a ruined cake to make a trifle, which is a traditional English dessert. Saveur Magazine featured a killer-looking trifle on last year’s December cover. And don’t let the special bowl scare you away, either. You can use a regular bowl, like Joy did, or you can make the small investment in a trifle bowl. We received one from our friends Travis and Tara as a wedding gift, and I use it all the time… for trifles, and fruit salads, and banana pudding, and layered salad, and… and… and… you get the idea. Are you sold yet?

Tags: baking recipes, cake recipes, dessert recipes

Know Your Place, Butterfat!

Aug 10

Posted by Laura in Food of Love | 9 Comments

Because that last post got awfully long, I left out a little Food of Love angle that happened while Matt was in the hospital.

But first, the backstory (and no eye rolling — surely by now you realize that there is always a backstory!):

I’ve been making a lot of gelato for about a year or so, which is something that requires a bit of practice to really master. I’ve been tinkering with milk-to-cream ratios and cooking techniques with the custard, trying to obtain that Xanadu-like state of texture and mouthfeel.

I do this, you see. I get fixated on a particular dish, and I usually don’t let up until a) something more interesting comes along (by far the more common of these two scenarios), or b) I’ve achieved the point of diminishing marginal returns per attempt… in other words, I’ve gotten as good as I’m gonna get. Then I move on.

The wonderful thing about gelato is its relatively low level of butterfat*, which allows the star ingredient to shine through. In contrast, the luxe richness of ice cream coats the palate, which is quite lovely, of course — but it can get in the way of the flavor that you’re trying to showcase. You might think of butterfat as that unknown-and-talented-but-overeager actress that habitually steals the spotlight from the A-lister. Know your place, butterfat!

With gelato, it’s different. I’ve invested some of the best wild blueberries, strawberries, and dewberries ever to grace my kitchen into making gelato, with beautiful returns. The essence of the fresh ripe fruit is so assertive and unencumbered that it’s quite like getting hit over the head with flavor. Zow!

Obviously, this is a good thing. I felt that I was really onto something… as though I might really become proficient at this whole gelato business. That is, until Matt broke the news.

“It’s just so… overwhelming,” he said, when he tasted the dewberry version. What’s overwhelming?

“I don’t know. It’s like you’re always trying to max out the flavor or something.”

Hmmmm. How could I diplomatically tell him that that’s pretty much EXACTLY THE POINT? After some mental debate, I went with: Darling, I love you dearly, but that’s EXACTLY THE POINT.

“Well, it’s too much.”

(This is the same man that prefers boxed mac and cheese to the real thing.)

“And what’s with all the fresh fruit? Why can’t you make a normal flavor of ice cream?”

I gingerly stepped over his blasphemous ice cream misnomer and asked him to define “normal.”

“You know, chocolate, caramel, vanilla…” He might have listed a couple of other flavors, but I was so bored I think I actually feel asleep for a microsecond.

Well, I said, since dewberries are gone and peaches aren’t in yet, I was thinking about making a caramel toffee gelato. How does that sound?

“Nowwwwww you’re talkin’,” came the reply. A winning compromise. (Side note: Why can’t Congress do this? Don’t they know that the answers to all our fiscal problems can be found in frozen treats?)

That conversation happened in late May. The caramel toffee flavor never materialized, because just a few days later… well, you know what happened.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fast forward a week or two. Matt is in the hospital, recovering from surgery.

He slept a lot, as expected. I pecked at my laptop and made phone calls. It was very peaceful** in the very quiet, dimly lit room.

After a particularly long nap, he started to stir. I went over and sat next to him on the bed.

How are you feeling?

“Okay,” he said. “Not great, but I’ll make it.”

Is there anything I can get for you right now?

“No.”

[Long pause.]

“But when we get home you might want to make me some caramel toffee gelato.”

It makes me smile now to even think about it. The man just had untold things done to his urinary tract, and he was thinking about homemade gelato. Did I marry the right guy, or what?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I had every intention of making that batch of gelato soon after he came home, but our plumbing system had other plans. I finally got around to it just this week, and I must admit — it was worth the wait.

Caramel Toffee Gelato
Adapted from The Ciao Bella Book of Gelato & Sorbetto by F.W. Pearce and Danila Zecchin

Plain Base (see recipe below***)
¼ cup caramel sauce, at room temperature (I used Stonewall Kitchen dulce de leche sauce)
½ cup coarsely chopped English toffee candy, frozen (I used Heath bars)
¼ cup finely chopped English toffee candy, frozen (again, I used Heath bars)

Make the Plain Base and chill as directed.

Gently whisk the caramel sauce into the base. Pour the mixture into the container of an ice cream machine and churn according to the manufacturer’s instructions. Transfer to an airtight container and freeze for at least 2 hours before serving. Or dish some out immediately and serve it half-melted — ahem, I mean soft serve.

*** Plain Base
Makes enough for about 1 quart of gelato.

2 cups whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
4 large egg yolks
2/3 cup sugar

In a heavy-bottom saucepan, combine the milk and cream. Place over medium-low heat and cook, stirring occasionally so a skin doesn’t form, until tiny bubbles start to form around the edges and the mixture reaches a temperature of 170°F.

Meanwhile, in a medium heat-proof bowl, whisk the egg yolks until smooth. Gradually whisk in the sugar until it is well incorporated and the mixture is thick and pale yellow. Temper the egg yolks by very slowly pouring in the hot milk mixture while whisking continuously. Return the custard to the saucepan and place over low heat. Cook, stirring frequently with a wooden spoon, until the custard is thick enough to coat the back of the spoon and it reaches a temperature of 185°F. Do not bring to a boil.

Pour the mixture through a fine-mesh strainer into a clean bowl and let cool to room temperature, stirring every 5 minutes or so. To cool the custard quickly, make an ice bath by filling a large bowl with ice and water and placing the bowl with the custard in it; stir the custard until cooled. Once completely cooled, cover and refrigerate until very cold, at least 4 hours or overnight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*Emphasis on the “relatively.” This ain’t health food, people.

**Also a relative term. Remember, I live with a toddler.

Tags: dessert recipes, memoirs

How To Grow A Nine Pound Baby

May 13

Posted by Laura in Food of Love | 4 Comments

There are lots of babies in my world at the moment. My dear friend Lisa just had her third a few weeks ago, Matt’s first cousin Danielle just had her first mere days ago, my sister-in-law Melissa is expecting her third in a few short months, and in April, three of my first cousins, one being dear Leah, each had babies within about 18 hours of one another. I hope your family and friends are procreating, dear readers, because my network is plotting a full-scale planetary takeover. (Luckily for you, we’re a pretty nice bunch.)

Of course, hearing all the requisite stories from the front lines of pregnancy and childbirth reminded me of my own experience incubating and birthing a nine pound baby.

Yeah, you read that correctly: The Boy was nine pounds at birth. Texas-size, ya’ll.

Outside of the pure genetics involved, it was mostly my fault. Oh, I didn’t set out to grow a gigantic baby, of course, but lacking any real sense about how this should all go, bathing one’s zygote in a stout formula of nutrients and calories seemed like a motherly thing to do.

My primal maternal cravings helped: a glass of whole milk, ice cold, was just about the most exciting thing going in those days. Fruits and vegetables were high on my list, too, along with brown rice, quinoa, and every kind of legume under the sun. I also had the healthy fat thing covered – wild salmon was in the weekly rotation, olive oil abounded, and my go-to snack at home was to halve an avocado, ditch the pit, sprinkle with a little kosher salt, and grab a spoon.

Outside of listening to what my body wanted, my only rule was to try and eat something of every color, every single day. That may sound easy, but blue is a tuffy, especially in winter. I ate a lot of black beans and smoothies with frozen blueberries.

The other side effect of eating your colors is that by the time you check them all off, you’ve eaten a lot of food. As a reward, if I possibly still had an interest in eating something else, it could be anything I wanted. Ummm, can you say Ben & Jerry’s? Dairy was my friend.

Between all that and the prenatal vitamins, there was no nutrient The Boy went without during gestation. I figured he would suffer quite enough from my complete lack of maternal instincts once he was born, so we might as well make the most of it and spoil him early.

As a result, my pregnant belly looked like the ones on TV that are obviously fake – like I had a huge watermelon under my shirt. At seven months, I looked like I was about to pop. Not swollen, mind you, just… huge. In line at the grocery store, I heard people behind me audibly gasp when I turned to load my things onto the belt – while facing forward, they couldn’t tell I was pregnant. But at a profile… oh… my … God.

During my last month, I couldn’t use a regular bathroom stall if the door opened inward, because once inside, I couldn’t close the door. My belly was too big. Not kidding.

The funny thing was that I gained only the textbook healthy amount of weight. At my checkups, the nurses would point and laugh and give me a hard time, then once I was on the scale, their eyebrows would pop up and they’d say, “Wow, right on track.” It was all baby, baby.

We opted not to find out whether we were having The Boy or The Girl, because I had irrational fears of being inundated with mountains of pink rhinestone-studded bedazzled princessy stuff.

Right before our doctor unzipped my belly during the c-section I never expected, the doctor peered over the curtain and said through her medical mask: “I predict a nine pound baby boy.”

Minutes later, she held him up for us to see. One of the nurses said, “He looks like a MAN!,” and just at that moment, The Boy let out a lusty roar, and let the ice cold air of the operating room fill his sweet lungs.

Hello, World. You will never be the same.

And it never was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This time of year, with all the fruit in season, it’s easy to eat your colors. I know it’s kind of pedestrian, but one of my favorite things to serve at baby showers is fruit skewers — they are beautiful, nutritious, and dead simple to make. (Spear fruit decoratively with skewers. The End.) The ones in the photo are regular skewers, but for parties, I actually prefer the daintier 3- or 4-inch skewers.

I played around with several versions of a yogurt-based dip until I came up with one I liked, and it’s super easy, too. Play around with substitutions… I’ll bet it would work great with sour cream, but I like the tang of yogurt.

Vanilla Honey Yogurt Dip

1 cup plain yogurt (I use non-fat… next time I plan to try Greek non-fat yogurt)
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1 tablespoon honey
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Whisk all ingredients together in a small bowl; refrigerate if not using immediately. Stir again before serving.

Can be made 1 day ahead and refrigerated overnight.

Tags: dessert recipes, first course recipes, memoirs, party food, tips on entertaining, vegetarian recipes

White Fluffy Icing

Musings of a reasonably competent home cook.

Posts Tagged dessert recipes

A Cupcake for Your Cupcake

Friendship (Through the Narrow Aisles of Pain)

Three Phone Calls

Paradise

The @#$%! Cake

Happy Birthday, Mom

When Life Gives You Broken Cake, Make A Trifle

Know Your Place, Butterfat!

How To Grow A Nine Pound Baby

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