More Than A Trifle

Several Saturdays ago, Hilarity gave me a ride home from Olive’s birthday party at a totally trashy Belltown venue. Giggling and somehow setting off her car alarm and breaking my umbrella at the same time, I bid Hilarity and the night adieu, always a hard thing to do. Arriving home alone (or hand in hand with myself, as I like to think of it. Thanks, Lou Ree) to an apartment rich with possibilities, I knew the night was not yet through. Turning on the lights, the space seemed quiet, just faintly buzzing, waiting for me to make the floors and bed creak and stir up something delicious in the kitchen.

With several dark beautiful hours still ahead before the sun and I began our struggle, I decided to bake a cake for a trifle. I used towels to muffle the sound of my egg beaters, which have woken the neighbor below me before.

I've definitely been indulging my sweet tooth lately. Beating my butter, whipping my cream and licking up the leftovers, I've been delighting in the days and nights, letting each one unwrap slowly like a concealed piece of candy. Taking delight.

Admittedly, midnight baking is a coping method of mine, a reverted-to routine during every breakup. I remember staying up all night once, baking batch after batch of prettily piped meringues and watching Wes Anderson movies. I was giving tupperwares of chewy, heart-shaped meringues to friends for weeks. All for the memory and forgetfulness of red-headed androgynous Jamie. Sometimes egg whites and sugar are a girl's best friend.

Especially considering "Dessert at my place?" rarely fails as a pick up line.

The following recipe is just one of my favorites from Piper Davis and Ellen Jackson's Grand Central Baking Book, which I purchased at 30% off from Powell's Book Store. If you're going all the way and converting this cake to a trifle, the recipe says to refrigerate for 24 hours before eating. I only prepared the trifles 10 hours in advance. Though tasty, I have to admit that the following evening's leftovers were even better, so stick to at least 24 hours marination time if possible and know that the leftovers will still be delicious for a couple days. I don't recommend champagne glasses.

According to Davis and Ellen this “rich white cake is glazed while it’s still warm, giving it a doughnut-like appearance. It gets volume from additional egg whites and longer whipping… Use the leftover egg yolks to make a simple crème anglaise, which you can use, along with fresh berries, to dress up this cake.”

That’s exactly what I did the first time around, cutting cake slices with a glass and stacking them with the crème anglaise, raspberry lavendar jam and fresh raspberries for a tasty, whip cream-topped trifle.

*I've been procrastinating posting this because I really wanted to include photos. I had them, good ones, and picture to add to past posts, too, but I somehow deleted all the photos on my phone, include those of my trip to New York. I was trying so hard to overcome my fear of technology and do a simple thing like upload photos on my own and I failed completely. Now they're gone. Poof. Le sigh. Maybe some cake will cheer me up. Here's the recipe:

Glazed Vanilla Bundt Cake

I scaled down the original recipe (intended for a 12-cup bundt pan) for a tea-loaf sized cake, perfect for 4 servings of trifle. If you’re making one though, you might as well just make a second cake for consumption on its own. I’ve made three so far. One for trifle, one for the boss, and one for my pears poached in red wine.

1½ cups all-purpose flour

1/3 tablespoon baking powder

1 teaspoons salt

1/8 8teaspoon ground nutmeg, preferably freshly grated

1/2cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature

1 cup granulated sugar

3 egg whites, room temperature

1 teaspoons vanilla extract

2/3 cup whole milk, room temperature

Glaze

1/ 4 cup confectioners’ sugar

2 tablespoons heavy cream

1/8 teaspoon vanilla extract

The first time baking, my only deviation was to use vanilla bean instead of extract in the batter. The second time, I used the extract along with just a touch of almond extract. Also, since I had taken to storing my leftover vanilla bean pods in my sugar, I had vanilla-sented sugar.

Preheat the oven 350. Grease and lightly flour a 4-cup loaf pan. I tried cooking 2 cakes together. I don’t recommend it, but it works in a pinch.

Measure the flour, baking powder, salt and nutmeg into a bowl and sift or whisk to combine.

Using an electric mixer, beat together the butter and sugar until very light in color – almost white – and the texture is fluffy, 7-10 minutes. Scrape the bottom and sides of the bowl a few times during the process.

Combine the egg whites and vanilla in a liquid measuring cup. With the mixer on medium speed, add the egg whites slowly (about ¼ cup at a time) completely incorporating each before adding the next. Scrape the bowl several times.

Reduce the mixer speed to low. Add 1/3 of the dry ingredients and incorporate on low speed, then increase the speed to medium. Add 1/3 cup of the milk and mix briefly to incorporate. Reduce the speed to low again and add half of the remaining dry ingredients. Mix and repeat with the remaining milk and then the remaining dry ingredients. Stop mixing just before the flour is fully incorporated. Finish mixing by hand using a sturdy spatula, scraping the bowl.

Pour into your prepared loaf pan. Bake for 35 minutes, then rotate the pan and lower the over temperature to 325. Bake about 30 minutes more. It’s ready when the sides pull away from the pan slightly and it springs back when pressed lightly in the center. The top will probably split. Use a toothpick to check for doneness.

Make the glaze while the cake is in the oven. Whisk the confectioners sugar, cream and vanilla until smooth. Let the cake cool for 15 minutes before turning it out. Whisk the glaze again until completely smooth, then apply immediately. The authors recommend using a pastry brush, but I like the effect of drizzling it, too.

Poached

I like the idea of poaching. When a person or cookbook mentions poached fruit, I chuckle inwardly, envisioning myself with a rifle in the grocery store, taking out the pears and figs in someone else's cart. Really, I think Roald Dahl first introduced me to the idea of poaching in Danny the Champion of the World, my absolute favorite book when I read it in 4th grade. Danny didn't use a rifle, of course. The clever boy soaked raisins until plump, cut them, stuffed them with sedatives, sewed them up and then fed them to his nieghbor's pheasants. He hid, watching them fall from the trees, then stuffed them in a sack. I forget if he actually killed them or set them free somewhere else. Part of me hopes he killed them then simmered the plucked, trussed creatures in a wine reduction. Poaching on two fronts.

To poach something is basically just to cook it in liquid near its boiling point. Of course, to poach is also to trespass and plunder. I had no idea until just now, but it also means to sink into soft or wet earth when walking, to become soggy or full of holes when walking, or, in racket sports, to return a shot near the net that was intended for one's partner in the back court.

When done right in the kitchen, oh the glory. Eggs do not achieve a more tender state nor pears a more succulent texture.

I was cleaning out my fridge in preparation for a trip to New York. Stepping back to survey the damage, I tried to think of what concoction could employ my leftover, lay-about produce. Watching half a dozen forgotten Asian pears roll around my crisper, eyeing the almost-full bottle of wine, I decided that some spiced red-wine-poached pears were in order. I poured the bottle of wine into a pot along with leftover white wine syrup from the last time I poached pears, a small handful of sugar, a cinnamon stick, star anise, a few corns each of pepper and all spice and the last of the ginger from my fridge, peeled and simply sliced out of laziness. When it started to boil, I added my peeled, cored pears and simmered uncovered until tender. The tip of a knife should easily pierce the flesh, but cook according to your preference. I thought they were a bit too firm last time I made them, so cooked them until a little less resistant this time around, about 30 minutes.

When done, I removed the prettiest pears to sterilized jars and saved the uglier, just-starting-to-fall apart ones in a bowl (intended for almost-immediate consumption). I upped the heat in impatience and cooked down the wine until seriously reduced then poured the hot, thickened stuff into the jars to cover the pears. Cooking down the liquid is the most time consuming part, so some cooks (like the late James Beard) prefer to reduce the liquid to a syrup before adding pears. If canning, seal the jars with clean rings and new lids then turn upside down for at least two minutes. Out of laziness, again, I decided to skip a second sterilization and just store the jars in my fridge while on vacation.

Next I whipped up some heavy cream in a cold metal bowl (I love my small high-rimmed Rosle), opting for a whisk over my oft-used handheld beater so I could feel the cream thicken and come together. Just before it started to form peaks, I added confectioner's sugar and the scraped seeds from a vanilla bean, whipped some more, then added soft, beat cream cheese. Mmmm....

It wasn't quite thick enough to form quenelles (too much cream, not enough cheese), but the little football shapes make a great presentation when you can form them. The white cream is especially gorgeous drizzled with the garnet-red syrup. The spiced pears are a really tasty holiday treat and a great way to extend your enjoyment of December's produce. Spooning mine up, anticipating my trip to New York, I looked forward to eating more upon my return, completing the delicious cycle.

Breakfast Club

My brother flew up on Sunday, leaving the entire week surrounding Thanksgiving to loiter around Mama's house and even become quite acquainted with the 255 bus route to Seattle. I really wanted him and Wifey to stay at my apartment for a night, so we all met up at Pike Place Market on the Friday after Thanksgiving. The meeting venue was a terrible idea, but not mine. Seattlelites and tourists swarmed the market, soaking up precious sunshine vitamins, filling up time on a non-work day with family approved activities. Trying to walk through the interior stalls made me feel like a herding animal. Oof! And then we all got separated, so I missed the best part when Wifey was chased by a man with a mean-looking monkfish and shrieked so loud the whole market could hear. It was Wifey's first trip to Seattle, so the market trip was basically obligatory, but the produce vendors were lost among the overwhelming crowds and I wished we'd saved the tourist trip for another day. I was happy to head back to my apartment and watch the 2004 version of Helter Skelter (inferior to the 1976 version, just for the record).

In the morning, after I did some writing and Todd finished his prayers, we visited Top Pot for caffeine and cake, letting Wifey slept in. We dunked with fervor, favoring the blueberry bullseye over the cinnamon-sugar doughnut, lingering at our rickety table surrounded by books. Hunger tided over, we ventured to the grocery store to procure ingredients for a big American breakfast. Back in my kitchen, just large enough for the two of us to cook together, we leisurely prepared for the day's feast, lunch really for everyone but Wifey.

I set up two stations and we quickly fell into a pattern. Todd chopped a yellow onion as I scrubbed my little German Butterball potatoes. He chopped herbs as I flipped the quartered potatoes in hot oil, gently willing them to develop a reddish brown crust on each side. Todd cut up bananas and apples, coated them in plain yogurt, blackberry honey and cinnamon, and served them with apple-cinnamon granola on the side.

"How many eggs, Luce?" he asked as he fingered the large duck eggs in my fridge. I had bought them at the Ballard market the day he arrived, just before the homecoming lunch at Bastille. It's not so much a homecoming, I guess, as a visit, though I like to pretend that Seattle is my brother's home in part, even if only because I live here.

"Four or five," I said, peeking over to see how large they were. "Four," I confirmed, eyeing the eggs he hefted in each palm. We debated over the best bowl, and I assured him that the high sides of my small metal Rosle bowl would prove sufficient. The second egg had two yellow-orange yolks, each fully formed and then stuck together, leaving very little room for whites. The third egg was a twinsy, too! reminding me of an MFK Fisher quote. I declared it a good omen and was reminded of an MFK Fisher quote. "One of the most private things in the world," she said, "is an an egg before it is broken." Another favorite of mine is "first we eat, then we do everything else."

I removed the potatoes to the oven to warm, sprinkled them with plenty of salt and rosemary and wiped down the skillet in preparation for Todd's hand-whisked eggs. He went for lightness over richness and added a touch of water. I would have added heavy cream. He reserved salt for the end, saying it would affect the very structure of the animal cells and result in a toughly-textured omelet. I learn so much when he's around!

Having been declared the family omelet maker at the age of 10, I swirled the eggs around the buttered pan, adding a very generous amount of goat cheese and herbs when the eggs were almost cooked, then flipped the omelet in half and told Todd to summon Wifey. Todd removed sizzling turkey bacon from another skillet and we plated our all-American breakfast feast.

"They're like meat chips!" Wifey declared of the bacon, never having had it in any form before. I love the words that come out of her mouth, beautiful bits of humor and freshness. Their wedding was only the second time I met her and I have to admit that it was really hard to watch my brother marry a stranger. I'm so thankful for the opportunity to get to know her and to watch how she and Todd interact. She's family now, and I'm looking forward to more shared holidays and meals. More goat cheese, more monkfish, more meat chips.