9 cake: st germain jelly roll

don’t think i’ve ever eaten a jelly roll, unless ho-hos count. the preacher eater said there isn’t a good jelly roll out there, only the dry ghost of cake that was once – if fleetingly – moist enough to curl over and over itself and its preternaturally stiff whipped cream or meager thread of red jelly.

more tantalizing images from a rosier side of the culinary imagination beckon: pretty pink cake twirling around fluffy white filling, decked out in shredded coconut or bûche de noël, feast-worthy chocolate cake, fit for downtown’s biggest department store window Christmas display or with no more decoration than fork tines through rich chocolate icing and a few meringue mushrooms. Maybe bûche in December. This initial experiment is more restrained.

beginning with a problem (specter of dry cake), turn to the wunderkinds of “America’s test kitchen,” the editors of Cooks’ Illustrated magazine. In the book Baking Illustrated, their jelly roll experiments focus on the trick of rolling the cake, which is sponge for manipulability and génoise, particularly, in their recipe. Now, the génoise, they tell us earlier, is a dry cake by nature; in fact, runs the risk of “squat, dry and flavorless.” Their fear for overall texture was soggy not dry. Génoise is standard for European layer cakes and petite fours contra more typically American butter or chiffon cakes. Could be the cake was dry so folks soaked it or folks wanted to soak it so they made a dry cake, but it takes a liking to a sprinkle of booze. Here we use St. Germain.

be not daunted by the French terminology or impressive methodology! The cake is dreamy to make up and eat. Heat your oven to 350°. Cut parchment paper to fit an 18 by 12-inch baking sheet, rimmed. Grease with butter and dust with flour.

melt half a stick of butter in a small sauce pan, scrape in the seeds from a vanilla pod and set aside. In a larger saucepan, put about an inch and a half of water on to simmer.

sift one cup of flour and ½ teaspoon of salt onto a sheet of parchment paper.

beat together 6 eggs and one cup of sugar in a giant glass bowl. Half a dozen eggs made cracking right into the bowl seem downright reckless; cracking them into a small bowl made fishing out the inevitable bit of shell in the second to last egg less maddening. kitchen school marms of old would preach this practice to ensure that a bad egg didn’t spoil the lot as well.

set the bowl over the sauce pan, the bottom of the bowl above the surface of the simmering water. Beat the eggs with a whisk continuously until warm to the touch (Cooks say 110° on an instant read thermometer).

beat the eggs with an electric mixer or persistent wrist until “pale, cream-colored, voluminous, and form a thick ribbon of tiny billowy bubbles that falls from the whisk and rests on top of the batter for several seconds when the whisk is held about 4 inches above…” By electric hand held mixer, about 9 minutes.

remove about a cup of batter to a small bowl. Whisk in the melted butter at a slow drizzle.

sprinkle the flour into the big bowl of batter and beat in at the lowest speed. likewise beat in the bit of buttered batter.

immediately pour the batter onto the prepared pan; the illustrated cooks caution to hold the bowl close to the pan so as not to loose all that delicate volume. Spread to the corners with a spatula. Bake for about 25 minutes, until the cake is pulling away from the sides of the pan yet still springy.

while the cake bakes, generously dust a large kitchen towel with confectioners’ sugar. When the cake is ready, flip it right onto the towel. Roll it like a little sleeping bag.

work apricot jam in a bowl with a spoon until warm and spreadable. The Cooks call for ¾ a cup; I used the whole jar of Bonne Marman. Grated nutmeg into it and a little blood orange zest.

before the cake is entirely cool, unroll it. Brush with St. Germaine liquor (not a Cooks recommended move). Let that sink in. Spread with jam. Reroll cake over jelly then wrap the towel around the outside snugly to let it all settle into itself.

unwrap the dear thing when ready to serve. We frosted it with blood orange icing. It could have gone naked with whipped cream.

the feast of lights

from Chicago, Angel, who has lived in Sweden, posted:

It is no surprise you were born on the light-bringer’s day. Happiest of Birthdays. I love you. Mille Besos.

naughty fairies on the mirror of collective creation

even if you lie about your age—in this case, I publicly turned 95—the experience of birthdays via facebook is an almost overwhelming thing.  A dinner party, however, is less so. On the eve of my personal new year, which is also the feast of Saint Lucy, the saint of light (a coincidence my Sicilian Catholic great grandmother rapturously believed blessed), this radical muffin put out big time.

the preacher eater made the grand finale possible. His cousin, the cook from Sun in Bloom, might argue that the Rosemary Remembrance cake was the grandest thing on the buffet, selling it to everyone sidling up to the table and slipping the end bit in foil to go. Her aunt perhaps the white lasagna, with hand pulled noodles and slimly sliced marinated artichokes. Many were enthralled with the “prehistoric, fractal, underwater, alien” romanesca served whole like pine forested mini-mountains. For me, it was, as it always is, the pie.

this particular pie being Ohio Pie or Shaker Pie, a thing from the heartland, my homeland, humble and weird, sweet and tart. Made with whole lemons, sliced paper-thin. The recipe called from old church cookbooks and Joy, irresistible. So I raved and hinted and promised a winter of root veggies au gratin all the while with pie in mind thus the benevolent preacher eater gifted me a mandolin.

oh! this simple machine! I cannot oversell its virtues: swift and easy precision cutting; easy to clean; mad fine julienne potential; small, i.e. easy to store in teeny urban kitchens. The grace of fine design. If you’re most beloved kitchen witch doesn’t have one, find one for their tool box. ‘Tis the season.

offered presents early enough for cooking (the other being a seltzer maker; big party hit), I merrily slid three Meyer lemons down my new plane, shedding translucent sunny circles, pith and all. If you also have a fabulous mandolin then slice them right into a big glass bowl. Poke out the seed bits. Dump a cup of sugar and a bit of salt over the lemons, and let the whole mess sit. Hours. Overnight. In this case, as long as it took to make everything else with wonderful kitchen help from the preacher eater plus our charming guests from Takoma Park.

make pastry for a covered pie. Roll it out for your pan accordingly. Pat the bottom into place in your pan; cover its surface directly with something, like parchment paper. Roll out the top and likewise wrap it. Stash both in the freezer.

bring out four eggs to come to room temperature. Set ½ stick of butter, four tablespoons, in an ovenproof bowl to melt in your oven as it heats to 425˚. When mostly melted, pull it out, stir and let cool a bit.

whisk together the eggs. In a fine stream, pour in the butter, and sprinkle in three tablespoons of flour (a small fistful). Stir the macerated lemons into the egginess, pull out your pie pan, and pour it all in. Smooth out the lemons in the custard, and top.

to ventilate, cut out shapes into the crust with cookie cutters. We used a peace dove for this, with sweeping slices at its wings.

bake for half an hour. Lower to 350˚, and bake for another 20 minutes or so, until the crust is puffed and browned. Bring out to cool on a rack before serving. The custard has to set up, and if you cut into it right away, you’ll have lemon lava mess.

lemon for light

hopefully, the others ate their fill, because, admittedly, I ate the lion’s share the next day, Saint Lucia’s day, heaped in a bowl and drizzled with heavy cream. Eaten in bed under thick covers against the first snow and its accompanying shattering cold. Although not brought by girls with candles in their hair and no charming men sang the Star Boy song, Brooklyn being far from Stockholm, it felt as domestically magical.

kale pasticcio

fantastical cupcakes

the radical muffin kitchen hosted dinner to celebrate our new winter farmshare wherein we decorated these schnazzy cupcakes. Seems the artists were either too enamored with the art or too stuffed from supper to eat them. So although the buttermilk cake is worth a post someday, the recipe everyone has been clamoring for is the make-do casserole served up alongside the root veggie soup.

let’s call it brioche kale pasticcio, shall we? In Italian, literally, “a mess.” Yet in la buona cucina, it is something divine.  In the classic Italian kitchen, veggies and béchamel would snuggle amongst themselves or with some macaroni. This version holds custard not classic white sauce and is dense with rich bread, so emerges a golden savory bread pudding bedecked with greens.

slice and caramelize one medium mild onion in a heavy skillet with butter. Rinse and rip a generous bunch of kale into bite sized pieces and set aside.

butter a large casserole dish, and set your oven to 375°.

slice and cube a heap of day old brioche. We happened to have an acquired loaf lying around; brioche ain’t cheap. Although it is incomparable for soaking and cooking, as in for French toast or this, any dry bread will do. Play with whole grains, baguettes, etc. to create varying textures of wholesomeness. Toss bread cubes in a big bowl.

melt ¾ stick of butter in a small saucepan over low flame. Add a dash of salt, pepper and paprika, and slowly pour in about a cup and a half of whole milk. Bring just to a simmer then turn off the heat. In a bowl aside, whisk together three eggs. Pour the milk/butter in a thin stream into the eggs, merrily whisking all the while.

crumble about a cup of fresh white cheese. We had some marvelous German-styled something from our CSA. Farmer’s cheese, ricotta or feta would also work well. Shred as much hard salty cheese, like parmesan (as was used) or gruyére.

dump most of the custard and half the cheese into the bread crumbs and turn turn turn until all combined. Add in the onions and kale; mix well.  Turn out into the casserole, shake the pan to settle it all together and maybe give a gentle pat. Drizzle with remaining custard (dot with butter if it looks too dry), and cover with the remaining cheese.

bake until the custard is cooked through and the cheese is all melty and browning in spots. About half an hour. We used a pretty deep casserole here so the high temperature did not overcook the delicate custard. Similar recipes often call for baking in a water bath, which hasn’t proven necessary. Of course, if you are a crunchy top junkie then use a broad shallow pan and cook for less time. Keep on eye on it any which way.

sweet transcupcakes from transsexual transylvania

it will be difficult to keep waiting diners at bay, but do let this set ten minutes or so before serving. More mouthwatering than cupcakes, apparently. Certainly, there was none left to photograph.

spring soufflé

eggs

those joyous ladies, Irma & Marion, in their 1953 edition of the New Joy of Cooking, call the soufflé the “misunderstood woman of the culinary world,” and go on to give brisk and efficient instructions along with 26 recipes for variations on the foundation.  Unfortunately, these include “Jiffy Soufflé with Canned Soup” and lead straight into to ring molds.  Le sigh.

thirty years later, American whole foods home-cooking gurus Nikki & David Goldbeck would agree that, “despite the French name and elegant reputation,” the soufflé is simple, useful, delicate, and tempting.  Even, apparently, if you put wheat germ in it.

like many French dishes that have soared into the gastronomic stratosphere, seemingly out of reach for us mere culinary mortals, the soufflé is humble in origin.  Basic foodstuffs handled with thoughtful love.  Our new friend monsieur Louis Diat exclaims:

soufflés have for so long been associated with haute cuisine that many people, unfortunately, never attempt to make them.  Expensive, they say, and difficult to make.  Quel dommage! It’s a pity—because neither fact is true.

soufflé is no more complicated or decadent than an omelet; it just has fabulous architecture.  A homey, table-scaled rendering of the flying buttresses of Notre Dame.  Baked “the French way,” it delivers a comforting, custardy center whether savory or sweet.  Although luscious, it is only inappropriately rich in taste or cost if you make it so.  Mundanely, it is a graceful vehicle for leftovers.  The only real trouble with making soufflés is the process seems to invariably dirty a lot of dishes, and i dislike washing dishes very much.

much of the magic is in the egg whites, but some of it is in the pan: a medium straight-edge casserole will hold a 5 egg soufflé and be plenty puffy.  To coax the thing even loaftier, use a smaller pan lined with a collar of parchment paper.  Butter and lightly coat your pan with breadcrumbs, cornmeal, grated hard cheese or some combination.  We used Panko breadcrumbs for this soufflé.  Heat your oven to 375°.

measure out 1 ¼ cups of whole milk and set it atop the stove to warm.  Separate 5 cold eggs: the yolks go in a small bowl and the whites in a much larger bowl and quite clean, because they will double in volume later and any grease will debilitate maximum loft.

melt 3 tablespoons of butter over low heat in a heavy sauce pan.  Whisk in scant 3 tablespoons of all-purpose flour; and cook, whisking, until the roux turns golden brown.  Grate in fresh nutmeg, a pinch of cayenne pepper and some salt.  Slowly whisk in the milk.  Continue whisking and just simmer, cooking until the béchamel reduces to 1 cup.  Turn off the heat; leave to cool.

onion

heat a sauté pan over a medium flame.  When the pan is hot, add a pat of butter.  Peel and chop half an onion and add to the pan.  Peel and finely chop a carrot and add to the sautéing onion.  Chop half a clean Portobello mushroom head; slice the other half and set aside.   Add the small mushroom pieces to the pan, stirring well.  Salt and pepper, adding a little more butter if necessary.  Cook until the onions and carrots are soft but not browned then set aside in a bowl, scrapping the pan well.  Toss in the slices of mushroom and sauté for about 3 minutes, turning frequently with a fork.

snap the heads off a bunch of asparagus, reserving the stalks for some other use (like sautéing lightly with red pepper flakes then storing in olive oil and lemon juice for salad).  Remove the mushrooms to the casserole dish and replace them with the asparagus, with a splash of lemon if you like and a little salt and pepper.  Cook just briefly and scatter over the mushrooms.

whisk a tablespoon or so of the just warm white sauce into the egg yolks then a bit more sauce.  Pour the tempered yolks into the saucepan and whisk thoroughly.  Stir in the chopped vegetables, and grate in a ¼ or so of Parmesan cheese.

whip the egg whites until stiff peaks form, glossy but not dry.  This is one of the few times i break out the electric beater; it really angers my forearm to get to stiff peaks by hand, though it is not impossible.  If you have a kitchen friend, you can take turns.

fold about a fourth of the stiff whites into the sauce until thoroughly combined.  Gently fold in the remainder, no more than a third at a time.  To fold, use a spatula to cut through then beneath and lift the batter over and around the egg whites.  Patiently combine the two without deflating the whites.  Carefully turn the whole mess into the casserole dish.  Run your finger along the inside edge of the pan to create a groove an inch down.

bake for 25 minutes to half an hour, which will make for a firmer soufflé.  The one thing all accounts of soufflé making seem to agree on is the maxim: you wait for the soufflé; the soufflé does not wait for you.  Like all dreamy things, that spun scaffolding only holds its grand form a brief time.  And that divine, luxuriant center is at its best oven to table to dish.  Serve with excellent bread, a sourdough French is ideal of course.  Include a bright, herby salad.

the leftovers are likewise delicious, as many fallen things are.

green peppers & egg sandwiches

This is one of my favorite sandwiches because I can get everything local and because it is something my family made for breakfast, lunch, and dinner when I was growing up. My grandpa and great uncle grew up in a Sicilian family who immigrated via New Orleans to Chicago. Uncle Ronnie was a butcher, so these sandwiches followed dinners of Italian sausage and peppers and the leftovers went with the eggs. Now they follow sausage-free meals when I sauté an extra pepper or two or they emerge on their own, worth the work of slicing a pepper.

For two sandwiches or one generous sandwich (a good idea):

slice 1 green pepper into strips and sauté in olive oil on medium-high heat until soft and slightly charred about 15-20 minutes. Scoop the cooked peppers into a bowl

slice a hand’s length from a loaf of Italian bread (or baguette) and cut that in ½ lengthwise.

rub the cut sides into the oil in the skillet and fry till toasted. Weighing down the bread will flatten it and more deeply toast it. I often use my tea kettle or another cast iron skillet.

whisk an egg or two with a little cream and a little salt & pepper. Scramble in the skillet.

assemble eggs, peppers on the baguette and sandwich. Eat.

 

If you are upset by how the egg and pepper squidges out the sides, try hollowing out your bread a little.