Italian Plum Cake

This cake is perfection.  Gorgeous perfection.  And I am so glad to have just found the recipe. 

Do you remember the scene from Amélie towards the end where Amélie is imagining Nino coming over to her apartment in search of her?  She imagines herself standing in the kitchen making her 'famous plum cake', but then starts to cry as she realizes it is all just in her imagination and that he is not really on his way over.  But then he actually does appear and they are in love and all that?  It's quite a nice scene, really.  Anyway, I have always wondered about Amélie's imaginary plum cake, because I'd never had plum cake before. It sounds so very French, and just downright lovely, that I have always wanted to try it.  So over the years I looked here and there for a recipe, but everyone seems to call for canned plums and that never sounded quite right.  It seems that, by general consensus, the plum cake approach has been something like this: it is the middle of dead winter and I need to make a cake, but all I've got on hand is that can of plums I bought three years ago.  Or something like that anyway.

Until...

I was thumbing through the cookbook A Platter of Figs last week and found a recipe for a lovely little plum cake.  And I could be wrong, but I am fairly certain that it is exactly the recipe I had been hoping for all these years.  Yes, it is called Italian Plum Cake instead of French Plum Cake, but that is more to do with the sort of plums used than anything else.  (It calls for Italian plums.  Or Stanley plums.  I bought the only plums that Whole Foods had -- small, dark, ruby-purple flesh -- perfecto!)  The cake is exquisite. In fact, after Leo was in bed and dinner was done, the three of us managed to eat half of it.  Emilia loved it, like the classy little lady that she is.  And my only regret the next day was that we didn't eat the whole lot the night it came out of the oven.  Because let me tell you -- the cake does not last over night.  What was once gorgeous perfection is now a bit of soggy depressing mish-mash.  Drats!  And to think I had been looking forward to it all day.  So this is really the only mark against what is otherwise my new favorite cake ever.  Well, that and the fact the cookbook is filled with an awful lot of duck recipes.  But what really pushed me over the edge was reading the author's bio on the dustjacket -- this is a serious mark against the whole book.  It would appear that for six months out of every year, the author (a so called David Tanis) works in his 17th century teeny-tiny squashy kitchen with a shite oven and no counter space.  When I read this I yelled, 'I think I am going to hurl!  No, really!  I mean it this time.'  So Michael comes wandering over, mildly amused, and reads the jacket.  He then declares that there is nothing about it that he finds particularly annoying.  Can the man be serious?  Does he not know his wife at all?  Everything (everything!) about it was/is, in fact, PARTICULARLY annoying.  But, I digress.

A Strawberry Cake for Mary and Mothers Day

Hail Mary, full of grace,

The Lord is with Thee.

Blessed art Thou among women

And Blessed in the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners

Now and at the hour of our death.

Amen.

We were sitting in church a few weeks ago, when Father Steve said that May is Mary's month. Isn't that nice?  And so, me being me, I immediately thought it an excellent reason to make a nice cake, in honor of Mary.  It took a little while to settle on which one in particular, but Emilia was fairly adamant about it being pink.  First we tried the little pink cupcakes in Tessa Kiros's Apples for Jam cookbook, but the icing turned out so nasty that I refused, on the spot, to let them have anything to do with Mary.  (As a sidenote, I do not recommend using the organic powdered sugar from Trader Joe's -- just stick with the good old fashioned C&H.  Also, I suggest you read up on red food coloring in advance.  Seriously, how do you achieve a bright pink icing with red food coloring?  For some bizarre reason the answer eludes me.) 

Then one day I was thumbing through May's Saveur Magazine, and I found it -- Strawberry Cake.  That sounded perfect for Mary, not to mention the fact that it was clearly a suitable shade of pink for the girl.  And let me just tell you that it was fabulous -- worth every bit of time consumed driving around looking for strawberry extract, texting everyone I know about levels of red food coloring used in food, and all the mess in the kitchen.  Everything about this cake is perfect.

Fanouropita Cake for Lost Things (Otherwise Entitled, 'Do You Miss Your Brudder, Mama?')

We dropped my brother Danny off at the airport a few days ago.  Seattle was the last leg of his long journey back to the states, and he was returning to China, the place he has called home now for six going on seven years.  And oh, Dear Reader, I was sorry to see him go.  I suppose it went a bit like this: I stood on the curb at the departures area, while Danny reached in the backseat of the car to give his little niece a great big hug goodbye.  I tried really hard not to cry -- honest, I did, but nothing doing, I cried anyway.  This, in turn, made Danny yell that his street cred was evaporating before his eyes.  Yes, well. 

Back in the car a few moments later, and trying not to look at Emilia too much (on account of the copious tears that were streaming down my face), I sat quietly trying to pull myself back together.  And then Emilia says, 'What?  Are you sad because you miss your brudder, mama?'  'Yes, baby, I'm very sad.'  I miss Danny so much.  We all do.

Our plan that day was that we (that would be Danny, Kari, Emilia, and I) would wander around coffeeshops, bookstores, and wherever else we felt like, before Emilia and I had to drive him to the airport.  Apparently my sister had to say goodbye as fast as she could and then dash, because she couldn't stand it and didn't want to cry.  Meanwhile, she didn't tell me this was her plan until we were talking on the phone two days later.  This is why I spent twenty minutes wandering around Gap, getting highly annoyed, buying Emilia a shirt, and getting ready to accuse her of turning into our mother (who has a serious issue with disappearing the moment you walk through the front doors of a shop -- any shop -- causing you to wander around for the next three hours looking for her...).
 
Anyway, I will stop rambling on about it, but not until I say this: I wish my brother lived closer.  I wish we were part of eachother's everyday lives.  I wish this wasn't the first time he met Emilia.  I wish we could go and visit him in China.  I wish that our plan to visit him in his city next summer (not this summer coming up, but the one after that) was not so far off.  I wish he could come over for dinner more often, and I promise not to cook up rather dry looking salmon again.  (It's Lent and it was all QFC had!)  And I promise to throw a fit if he ever tries to give me more of that nasty ol' raisin salad he got from Whole Foods on his way out of town.  'Oh Tonya, it'll be way too annoying carrying it through the airport.  You take it...'  Yuck.  And above all, I hope he is alright.  I hope so much that he is happy in the little Chinese life that he is carving for himself.  He is my little brother, after all. *sniff sniff* 

Alright, upward and onward.

Victoria Tea Cake

Alright, alright, I know it is Lent and we aren't supposed to be gorging ourselves on all manner of sweet things, but I am making an exception for this lovely cake because there is no frosting on it.  Goodness knows that no frosting on a cake automatically throws it into the realm of austere (and therefore penitential) and rather boring, no?  But let me just tell you -- this is probably the first cake I've ever made that Emilia devoured.  Even Michael noticed, 'Wow, she's actually going to eat the whole thing.'  (The 'whole thing' would be her slice -- and not actually the whole cake.)  But it is true, the girl loved her 'Torian Sandwich' and has already been asking to make it again.  I'm shocked.

The recipe comes from My Kitchen Table: Mary Berry's 100 Cakes and Bakes, but this is not actually where I found it.  I found it on that scourge that is Facebook.  When Michael goes out of town, I seem to spend a lot of time on-line, very late at night, doing nothing in particular, when I really just ought to be in bed.  And last month when he was in St. Louis, I sat up one night looking at who knows what, and ended up with a fat-wad of 'likes' on my Facebook page.  Anyway, one of those 'likes' (and probably the only one worth a damn) is Boden (you're shocked, I know), and they are the ones from whence I got the recipe for 'The Perfect Victoria Sandwich'.

The cake is a breeze to make as it is essentially a pound cake.  You know: one pound butter, one pound eggs, one pound sugar, one pound flour, all mixed up.  You just need to make sure that all ingredients are at room temperature.  I suppose that you could easily swap out the raspberry jam for whatever floats your boat -- lemon curd, for example, but I have currently gone anti-yellow.  Every picture I take in our kitchen these days looks yellow and it makes me want to hurl.  One of Emilia's favorite things to do is to take pictures with the camera, and I'm fairly convinced that she 'fixed' it somehow so that all the pictures look nasty.  Governor has turned into one of her favorite subjects, and we now have nearly a hundred yellow photos of his hairy ol' can to look at.  Seriously, she thought it was hilarious.  'Look!  I take a picture of Governor's bum! hehehaha!' Or, it could be that Michael put two extra tubes of nasty ol' fluorescent lighting in the kitchen, as per my request, and since then the kitchen makes me nauseous and grumpy.  Everything I cook now seems to look revolting.  Every time I ask him to please please take them out, he rolls his eyes and calls me an eejit.  'But you asked me to put them in!'  Yes, well, I digress.

We had the cake after dinner (which is my least favorite time to have cake, particularly of this varietal), but Michael and Emilia seemed to be happy as clams, so who am I to complain?  But really, I prefer mine in the afternoon with a big cup of tea that is so hot I inevitably burn my mouth and can't taste the cake anyway.

Lemon Capri Torte and Meyer Lemon Curd

Egads, I can't stand January.  It is the dreariest and most dismal month that ever was.  And the longer it seems to drone on, and the greyer it seems to get outside, my longing for something (anything) citrus seems to mirror it*.  There is, after all, something very cheery and alive about a clementine or satsuma, is there not?  And Emilia loves to sit at the table and peel one in the morning.  She slowly removes every bit of peel and then breaks the orange in half.  She hands half of it to me, and then sits back, tucking into her own half, and chatting all the while.  ('Do you like pith, mama?'  The answer is no.  'Grandma Jo likes to eat the peel.  That's crazy!  I don't like to eat the peel.  Do you like to eat the peel, mama?'  The answer to this is not unless it comes from Fran's and is covered in chocolate.  Then I find it tolerable.)  See what I mean?  Cheery.

But my favorite citrus in all the world is the Meyer Lemon.  I still remember the first time I saw one.  It was in my favoritest** grocery store that ever was -- Zagara's, in Marlton, New Jersey.  And when we lived in Haddonfield, we would go there all the time.  (This is despite the fact that my mother-in-law claimed it was quite elitist of us, and that after Michael finished law school he was going to have to get two of those jobs, in order to pay for his wife's habit of fancy food things.  I still say that isn't the worst idea I've ever heard***.)  Anyway, no matter what time of day it was, Michael and I would go and get an enormous cup of Viennese Cinnamon coffee, some rugelach, and whatever else happened to be on our list that day.  In the winter months I gravitated to oranges and lemons, along with sundry other items.  (For example, these nasty raviolis filled with tofu.  Seriously, doesn't that sound revolting?  Oddly, they weren't half bad.) 

And so, we would load up on Meyer Lemons and, when they had them, these Sicilian blood oranges.  They were actually from Sicily, mind you, and half of them came wrapped up in papers with a picture of some Italian mamasita right across the front.  The flesh was the color of a raspberry and they were exquisite.

Cutting into a Meyer Lemon is one of the loveliest fragrances in the world.  It smells of lemon, with a just little bit of orange -- the scent is unmistakable and oh so wonderful.  It reminds me of my Grandma Aileen's backyard in California when I was a kid.  She had lemon trees scattered all around and we would ride our tricycles all around them, feeling pretty slick, no doubt.  Anyway, I digress.

Ghost-Pleasing Chocolate Cake

Ever since Halloween, Emilia has been obsessed with witches and ghosts.  She has been spending a great deal of time running around the house as a witch, using her wooden duck on a stick as a broom with a tiny plastic cat in tow, declaring, 'I'm a witch, mama!'  Alternatively, she has been throwing her beloved blanket on top of her head, and refusing to let us call her Emilia.  'I'm not Emilia!  I'm a ghost now!'  Sometimes she even insists that she is either a witch or a ghost as she sports her Mary Poppins ensemble, 'I'm a Mary Poppins ghost!'  Anyway, you get the idea.

I may have mentioned that when we saw Grandma and Grandpa (that would be my mom and David) in Oregon a few weeks ago, they came bearing gifts.  It was hilarious, not to mention slightly awesome, having them randomly pull things out, saying 'Oh, honey, we got this for the girl,' or, 'Have you shown her that yet?  Well, what are you waiting for!'  Anyway, one of those 'things' happened to be a book.  And goodness knows we do like a good book around here.  (No, we're not nerds, thank you very much -- just wicked smart intellectuals.  Or something like that anyway.)  The book is called The Bake Shop Ghost by Jacqueline K. Ogburn and illustrated by Marjorie Priceman, and it's fabulous.  We've read it a handful of times now, and each time Emilia points at Miss Cora Lee Merriweather and says either: 'What she is doing?'  Or, 'She a gho-o-o-o-o-st!  The answer to her question is that Cora Lee is saying 'Get out of my kitchen!', using your scariest voice, of course.  Or that Cora Lee is throwing eggs and making a right-old mess of the place.  Although sometimes she just likes to point at the cat.

Sticky Teff-Kissed Spice Loaves

I can honestly say that never in my entire life have I pulled out the beaters and whipped up some cream, simply so that I might have a healthy dollop of the delicious stuff -- all by myself, in the middle of the afternoon.  But that officially changed as of roughly five minutes ago, because I decided to have a slice of the gingerbread I made, and was certainly not going to do it without some cream on top.  I'm so glad I did, too.  Because this is my favorite time of day to sit down with tea and something quite yummy to go with it.

We actually had this gingerbread a few nights ago after dinner.  And, to be perfectly honest, I liked it, but I immediately began to worry about what I was going to do with two loaves of the stuff.  (In case you were wondering, as per usual, I froze one.)  However, to be fair, it seems I've turned into a no-dessert-after-dinner sort of person.  On second thought, I am more of a if-I'm-going-to-eat-dessert-after-dinner-it-sure-as-hell-shouldn't-be-even-remotely-good-for-me sort of person.  But even then, I only like it sparingly.  (I can just see my mother right now.  If she knew this, there would certainly be a look given, probably even a few short words said.  But I can't help it.  I prefer my sweet in the middle of the afternoon.)

Anyway, that is neither here nor there.  What I am actually supposed to be talking about right now is this recipe for gingerbread.  It is from Heidi Swanson's cookbook, which is filled with whole foods -- not the grocery store chain, mind you, but actual whole foods.  You know, grains, vegetables, beans, butter.  That sort of thing.

The Absolute Best Carrot Cake Ever -- No Jet Plane Required

'Do it again!  Do it again!' is what Emilia says every time we are out on the trampoline bouncing around.  She loves to hold my hands (or dada's hands) and bounce in a circle singing, at the top of her lungs, 'Let's go fly a kite!  Up to the highest height!  Let's go fly a kite and send it soaring...'**  And at the end of the song we fall back, landing in a heap and staring up at the sky.  On sunny days, Emilia thinks it is quite hilarious to try to quote something I said to her on a very sunny day not so long ago: 'I don't want the sun on my face!  It's going to make me look old enough to be your mother!'  Now, really, I find that a rather funny thing to say.  But for the life of me, I can't figure out why she does. 

Anyway, while we are lying on our backs looking up at the sky (preferably Michael is right along beside side us) Emilia will point out all the planes that go by.  She is very good at deciphering between a sea-plane and a jet-plane, and every time she hears the latter, she happily exclaims, 'It's going to the airport!  Maybe we should go to the airport, too!'  Talk about a little girl after my own heart.  (I think she was just over a year and a half when she told me one afternoon, completely deadpan, and while holding my purse, the keys, and a Neiman Marcus shopping bag, 'I be right back, mama.'  'Oh, where you are going?'  'I going to the airport!  I going to Georgetown!')

And so, one evening the three of us were lying on the trampoline and gazing up at the sky (Governor was off barking at a squirrel somewhere), and we saw a plane high up in the sky.  Immediately I started singing, 'I'm leaving on a jet plane, I don't know when I'll be back again...'***  Michael quickly joined in, and once Emilia picked up enough words, she started singing, too.  And there we were, the three of us on a lovely summer evening, looking up at the sky and belting out one of the best songs ever.  It was quite nice, if you must know.  Now Emilia calls it 'her song' and randomly sings, 'Oh babe, I hate to go.'

Now then, why am I going on about a trampoline and airplanes and John Denver, you ask?  Well, it's really quite simple.  One of the cheapest ways to travel somewhere is to cook.  Sounds silly, but it's true.  You want to get to know a place, then eat its food.  Of course it isn't the same as actually being there, but it is the best substitute I've ever found. 

Blueberry Buckle

I stood in the kitchen this afternoon looking out the window and smiling as I watched Emilia eat nearly all of the very un-ripe blueberries off of the bushes.  'Are they yummy or are they sour?,' I called out to her.  'They're yummy,' she declared with a complete look of, 'yuck, these are so sour' right across her little face.  We told her a few days ago that the birds usually get to the blueberries before they have a chance to fully ripen, and I'm thinking she is determined to beat them to it.

It gladdens my heart though, watching Emilia roam around the backyard and exploring all the little things that are so new and fascinating to her.  And while I am the first to admit that I do not relish playing in the dirt anymore (at all), I do have very strong memories of loving it when I was little.  In fact, I can even remember eating my fair share of sour fruit — just because I could, and not because it was particularly good.

I've still been in recovery mode from the strawberry mayhem in our house last month.  And I've tried very hard to shun all thoughts of raspberries (unless, of course, Kari suggests we go... I do like me some raspberries...) and blueberries.  However, as we walked through Metropolitan Market yesterday, Emilia began pointing out the enormous containers of blueberries.  'Maybe we get some blueberries, mama?'  And what could I say?  They were local and dirt cheap.  Done.

Magdalenas — Spanish Tea Cakes

Today is the Feast of St. Mary Magdalene.  And rather than do Madeleines again, Emilia and I decided to make Magdalenas.  Magdalenas are essentially the Spanish version of the Madeleine, and they are marvelous with a cup of tea.  Or a cup of coffee, if you prefer.  Whatever suits your fancy, really.  I think when Emilia wakes up from her nap, she will have hers with a bit of Perrier.  Oh, and some whipped cream and berries — as she will likely feel jipped that her 'tuptate' does not have any frosting on it. 

Before Emilia was born, Michael and I took a trip to Spain.  (I can safely say that Spain is my most favorite place in the world. Our old cabin in California would likely be my second.  Haworth, England, my third.  Anyway, I digress...)  While in Sevilla we hopped into this marvelous café/bakery/coffee shop every morning for our breakfast and for many of our late afternoon snacks, called Horno de San Buenaventura.  The café was always jam-packed, and you would have to move wicked-fast if you wanted a seat — either at the bar (our preference) or at a small table.  You could order café con leche any time of day along with whatever else floated your boat — Michael was rather taken with the enormous Zumex machine they had that squeezed fresh orange juice for you on the spot.  As for me, I was astounded that the same two men manned the enormous espresso machine for literally about fifteen hours a day.

Strawberries Part 4 — (Not So) Perfect Génoise and French Strawberry Cake

Yes, well, there is no need to be rude about it.  I'm well aware of the fact that my French Strawberry Cake looks far from elegant (as the recipe promises), and just plain wonky — excuse me, I mean rustic.  This was even my second attempt, if you can believe it.  As we sat to the table eating the first attempt, Michael says to me, 'what kind of crust is this?'  Of course I completely let loose and told him off.  'There is no crust!  It just cake, OK!  A very difficult and rather testy cake, in case you were wondering, not that you were.  And if you think you're so smart then make the damned thing yourself!  Hmpf!'  Or something like that anyway.  And if some of those words were left out of the actual exchange, then I can promise you that they were on the forefront of my thoughts.  I mean, really.  Crust?  For hell's sake.

Anyway, if you happen to find yourself thumbing through Baking With Julia, the ever so marvelous cookbook (and telly show) that Julia Child hosted once upon a time, then you will find yourself stumbling across the recipe for Génoise, or The Perfect Génoise, as it is called.  Apparently anybody who fancies themselves to know anything about cooking at all can whip up one of these little babies in no time.  And everyone then stands back to marvel at your most amazing and adept skill.  That being said, the recipe says something along the lines of this: 'this cake is wildly temperamental.   You must tread lightly and you will still completely fail.  People will probably even laugh at you for it.  So, bearing that in mind, you must make it at least five times in a row if you ever plan to master the concept.'  Well, I never!

The funny thing is that the cake is actually so easy to make.  The second time I made it I did not even pull out the cookbook because I remembered the whole thing. Yet there is still fear and intimidation; because, yes, it is easy — but it also requires a serious understanding of the technique.  And sadly, after all the work you put into it, if it is going to crumble and turn into a 'crust', that bit happens literally within the last thirty seconds of making it.  Drat, to say the least.  However, if it does turn disastrous, then you can always fall back on the divine, heavenly, beyond superb filling that goes in the cake — just sitting on top the crust, if you will.  Essentially you are meant to cut the cake into three, and then sandwich it with layers of macerated strawberries and cream.  It's superb.  In fact, the next time I make whipped cream for anything I am doing it in the manner of this cake — adding two tablespoons of sour cream.  The rest is a given: heavy cream, sugar, and vanilla extract.  After I made it the first time, Emilia and Governor stood in the kitchen cleaning the bowl for me — Emilia with the beaters and Governor with his little head lost somewhere inside the deep bowl.

And so, as my pièce de résistance, here is the last strawberry recipe I am giving to you.  In many ways it is my favorite.  The only problem with it (other than the sheer temperamental-ness of the cake) is that is does not store well in the fridge longer than a day or so.  (This is ironic as you are meant to put the cake in the fridge for at least an hour before you serve it.)  And having a rather small group to feed here, we cannot possibly eat that much cake (no matter how elegant/rustic it may be) in that short of time.  Particularly when you are already doing battle with jam, muffins, and ice cream — all of the strawberry nature.

Olive Oil and Fresh Rosemary Cake

Sunday afternoon — Emilia is down for her nap, Michael is out doing yard work, Governor is working on his suntan on the deck, and I just pulled out an olive oil and rosemary cake from the oven.

This little cake is wonderful in the afternoon with a hot cup of tea, or whatever happens to strike your fancy.  It takes about 10 seconds to make, isn't too sweet, and has absolutely no frosting.  (Sometimes we end up with a bit too much frosting in this house.)  It's perfect and I don't know why I don't make it more often.

Olive Oil and Fresh Rosemary Cake

4 eggs
¾ cup sugar
⅔ cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh rosemary leaves
1 ½ cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
½ teaspoon kosher salt

Preheat the oven to 325° F.  Butter a 10-inch loaf pan and set aside.

In a medium size bowl (or just use your KitchenAid -- I would have, but didn't feel like hauling it down the hallway) beat the eggs for about 30 seconds.  Add the sugar, continue to beat until the eggs look nice and frothy and pale yellow.  With your beaters (or mixer) going, slowly add the olive oil.  Using a rubber spatula, gently fold in the rosemary.

Then get a separate bowl and whisk all the dry ingredients together.  (That would be the flour, baking powder, and salt.)  Add to the wet ingredients and mix to combine.  Pour the batter into your prepared pan.

Bake for 45 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through to get even coloring.  Insert a skewer, if it comes clean, pull it out.  If not, close the door and go back to reading the Wall Street Journal for a few more minutes.

Allow to cool in the pan for a few, then gently tip the cake onto a wire rack. Mmmm. (Recipe from: The Babbo Cookbook by Mario Batali. Random House, 2002.)

Miss Dahl's Flourless Chocolate Cake

Hmmmm, well ... not really sure what to say about this one exactly.  It is a rare thing to come across a chocolate cake that I actually dislike.  Particularly one of the flourless sort that is made with nice quality chocolate.  However, this one ... well.  Maybe you should try it and get back to me.

Emilia and I made it last week, after we stocked up on Green & Black's chocolate from the store (Sophie refers to this chocolate elsewhere in the book, so I figured we may as well try it here.)  And after dinner that night I pulled it out of the fridge, whipped some cream, rinsed some raspberries, and served it up.  (She suggests crème fraiche, but I opted for sweetened cream).  Anyway, Emilia ate the raspberries and cream, Michael (being the dear that he is) ate his whole slice, while managing to agree that it was clearly not one of the best attempts at a chocolate cake.  And then he went on to say that maybe I should write a letter to Sophie voicing my complaints.  He suggested writing something like this:

'Dear Hot Dame (his words, not mine), Maybe your wee-one liked this cake...' 

By 'wee-one' he is actually referring to Jamie Cullum, which is rather funny, really, as the two of them are probably the same height.  Oh, and as a side-note, my wee-one (and Emilia) just got us tickets (for Mother's Day, wasn't that nice?) to go see Sophie's wee-one in concert this summer at Chateau Ste. Michelle.  I'm most excited as he is rather fabulous, is he not?

Anyway, I'm not giving up on this cookbook yet, despite the fact that literally every single recipe I've done has required tweaking of sorts.  The recipes do still look good.  In the meantime, I tossed the rest of the cake out yesterday (which was painful) but I simply could not bring myself to have any more.  And then Emilia and I pulled out her beautiful new apron and made cupcakes, which you will hear all about later, I'm sure.

The Genius of a Honey Cake

It is so rainy and so very grey today. But I don't really mind. I suppose this is what spring should look like outside my window — pouring down rain and beautifully green. When I went to get Emilia out of her bed this morning, I opened her drapes and she said, 'Not going for a quick run! Not going to park!' And, alas, she was right. Instead we went to the library.

As much as Emilia loves her books, as soon as we set foot in the library she could not care less about them. Instead she deems it the perfect opportunity to 'do running!' She usually then proceeds to thoughtfully stare at everyone — close up, if you don't mind. But as soon as we get home, the girl pours over her books. I believe she is a genius in the making. As for her mama? I suppose I'm just bookish. (Although I don't really know what that means exactly. Maybe I should look it up.)

Anyway, a few nights ago Michael turned to me and said, and I quote, 'You are hot more in the Tina Fey sort of way. Not so much in the Pamela Anderson sort of way.' Now, I daresay many a fine woman would be wildly insulted by this sort of remark, and rightly so. But really, when it comes right down to it, we all just want to be complimented on our intellect and sheer genius, right? (Am I right? Please tell me I'm right.) That being said, I'm still a bit unsettled by the fact that Michael has taken to randomly saying, 'What is it you like about me, Jack?' Not so much that he says it, per se. More because, well, nevermind.

As it turns out, I am quite the genius. How else would you explain this glorious, this perfect, this lovely little cake? Once we were done, even I had to stand back for a moment of silence. It was beautiful and absolutely perfect for the first day of spring. Sticking with our theme of making cakes together, Emilia and I whipped it up after church on Sunday, while dada did the taxes. We let it cool during naptime, then frosted it and had a lovely little tea party. Who even knows when dinner was, maybe nine-ish? Nothing really sounded good after eating so much cake.

Apart from being so beautiful to look at, the cake was (is, actually, as we are still eating it) so good. The honey, butter, dark brown sugar, and rosemary made the whole house smell divine. And that is exactly how it tasted. The frosting was faintly lemon and just the right amount. The trend seems to be too much frosting these days, but it is always just that — too much. Anyway, it is perfect for springtime. Also, it doesn't hurt if your rosemary bush is flowering. (Just try and tell me those flowers don't look lovely scattered on the top.)

The recipe is from one of my favorite cookbooks, Apples for Jam by Tessa Kiros. Literally every time I open it, my heart sinks because it is so beautiful.

My Early Rising Valentine

We returned home Friday night after a nearly two week 'tour of the eastern seaboard', as it were. After cancelled flights, cancelled trains, 2 feet of snow, and the flu all-around, we finally got out from Philadelphia. (Another story for another day, I'm sure.)

The time change is always hardest when traveling east, it seems. But it does get rather annoying when your daughter refuses to adjust back once you've returned home. (Usually Emilia waits until we get home before she finally decides to adjust to east coast time.) Although, it certainly served us well on Sunday.

A typical Sunday Chez Bindas is to get up, rush through breakfast and showers, and almost get to church at 11:00 on time. (No comments, please.) However, this Sunday Emilia woke up at 5:37 in the morning singing Simon & Garfunkel at the top of her lungs, and randomly yelling, 'Mama get you!'

So after a nice breakfast of pancakes and bacon, I decided to get started on our Valentine's Day cake. I also decided that Miss Milia was going to help. So we pulled a chair from the dining room table into the kitchen, perched her on it, and got started. She helped measure flour, sugar, and vanilla. She tossed the egg shells in the trash, tasted the cocoa powder, and whisked and whisked away with me. We had ourselves a grand time. And what do you know? Two layers of chocolate cake were left cooling on the wire racks as we slipped into church a few minutes early. That's right — early.

After nap-time we assembled the cake. We pulled the chair back into the kitchen, whipped cream, mashed raspberries, and made ganâche. (More accurately, Emilia ate the raspberries while her mama did these things.) But she was more than excited to help sandwich the layers, drizzle the frosting, and stud the top with raspberries. So excited, in fact, that I literally had to remove her little little mouth from the cake — not once, but twice (once before the frosting and once after). I kept telling her that it is considered shocking behaviour to bite into a whole cake before one has even finished making it, but she didn't care. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear she was being raised in a barn.

I brought the cake to the table after a lovely soup dinner, and Emilia looked delighted. She was rather pleased with her little self for 'help[ing] mama make Valentine cake!' And after all that, she still sat and just ate the raspberries.

The cake itself is wonderful (as are all of Nigella's cakes). It's not too sweet so you can really taste the raspberries. And strangely enough, Michael (who won't go near a cupcake to save his life) had two pieces.  Aaaah, a man after my own heart!

A Lovely Galette des Rois for Twelfth Night

Twelfth Night is the Eve of Epiphany, which means that tomorrow is Epiphany, or the Feast of the Magi. It is the day for celebrating the Three Kings' (you know, good old Gaspar, Melchior, and Balthasar) arrival in Bethlehem to witness the manifestation of Christ.

Epiphany is not really celebrated much in this country. In fact, the Catholic Church celebrates it the Sunday before the 6th of January. Typically if Americans acknowledge it at all, it is more as the official end of the Christmas season; so get that damn tree out of my living room, already! Or something like that anyway.

That is apparently why we all must move to Europe — because they actually celebrate it. In fact, many countries (Spain, for instance) even give gifts, with parades and festivities of all sorts.

In France it is traditional to serve Galette des Rois; although I daresay it is also traditional to buy it from some superb fancy-pants bakery rather than make it yourself. You are supposed to place a small porcelain figure in the cake before you bake it, and whosoever finds it will have much luck throughout the coming year. (Same principle as the Mardi Gras King Cake, really.) Since we have no such porcelain figure (I really should look into getting one), I typically use a coffee bean. However, this year I abandoned the whole idea of putting anything in it. Emilia's gag-reflex is astonishing, so it probably isn't wise to knowingly insert a choking hazard.

It is also traditional in France for the bakery to give a paper crown for the new king to wear. At least that is what Adam Gopnik claims in his book The King in the Window. The opening scene takes place on Twelfth Night with a Galette des Rois. It is my favorite scene in the book.

As for the cake itself, it is divine. Although, it probably is not something that your 22-month-old will readily eat (she much prefers her tuptates and/or Fran's Chocolates). And it is probably not what I would choose to have after a big dinner very late at night, but it is still yummy, nonetheless. I prefer to have it the next day with tea. Or, even better, have it for breakfast with a demi-tasse while wishing you were somewhere in the Latin Quarter. Or perhaps giving gifts somewhere in the Andalusia. But alas, tis not to be.

The cake is actually very simple to make, but you will definitely need a Cuisinart. Also, make sure you pay attention to the recipe. When it says to add one egg at the beginning and use the second one later as an egg wash, that does not actually mean you should chuck them both in at once. Not that I've personally done that or anything. Also, I have finally learned to buy two packages of puff pastry. The fancy stuff I use only has one sheet in the package, annoying since it is rather expensive. But if you are going to go through the bother of making the cake, you may as well make sure you have enough of one of the key ingredients.

After the cake comes out of the oven, let it cool thoroughly so the top can sink back down a bit. Otherwise you have a huge dome of puff pastry over what is really a gorgeous cake. Another handy tip is that the cake is absolutely superb the next day.

A Chocolate Cake to Cure the Blues

There are those of us who deal with depression by going shopping. And there are those of us who opt for a bottle of scotch and a few Frank Sinatra albums. While there are others still who choose to eat their way out of a depression, sitting in front of the telly watching old episodes of Laverne & Shirley or something.

As for me, I fall into the shopping category — because really, sometimes all you need is a lovely new lipstick, a pretty pair of shoes, and a stack of shiny new books to get you through whatever it is that's got you down. Alternatively, a lovely new dress from Boden could also do the trick. However, we are in a rather dreary recession at the moment, and spending money on superfluous items may not be advisable, or even wise. That being the case, where does one turn for comfort? I'm sorry to say, but scotch simply would not do it for me — although Frank Sinatra might.

Typically when I get down, I am not the sort who likes to sit down and pig out. I don't like feeling sick from gorging myself, particularly when I am already not feeling grand. Although, one could argue that a terribly successful shopping trip could have the same effect. You know that feeling — so sick to your stomach that you think you may actually throw up, and did I really need that lovely pair of boots? Yes, shopping can do that. And alas, it happens to the best of us.

So this morning as I sat feeding Emilia her breakfast and longing to go to the new shops at the Bravern, I thought, 'Hmmm, I remember an enormous chocolate cake I made when we lived in Bellevue that seemed to make the world a better place. Maybe that's the ticket.' And I'm sure our checking account will thank me later — although, I'm not so sure my jeans will.

This recipe calls for lots of dishes, so consider yourself warned. However, my husband actually said as he ate up his cake tonight, 'This is fabulous!' And, as a general rule, he could do without chocolate layer cakes. Emilia also loved the little bit that she had. While the layers cooled on the counter this afternoon, she tried desperately to pull them off, shouting 'Bite! Bite!'

Chocolate Fudge Cake

for the cake:

2 ⅔ cups flour

¾ cup, plus 1 tablespoon sugar
⅓ cup light brown sugar

¼ cup best-quality cocoa powder

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt

3 eggs

½ cup, plus 2 tablespoons sour cream

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

¾ cup unsalted butter, melted and cooled

½ cup vegetable oil

1 ⅓ cups chilled water

for the frosting:

6 ounces bittersweet chocolate, minimum 70% cocoa solids

1 cup, plus 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature

1 ¾ cups confectioners' sugar, sifted

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 350°.

Butter and line the bottom of two 8-inch cake pans.

Mix the flour, sugars, cocoa, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl. In another bowl, whisk the eggs, sour cream, and vanilla. In a big bowl, whisk the melted butter and vegetable oil just until blended, then whisk in the water. Add the dry ingredients and whisk until fully incorporated. Add the egg mixture, and whisk until well combined. Pour into your prepared pans trying to get equal parts in each.

Bake for 45-50 minutes, or until your cake-tester comes out clean. Cool on wire racks for 15 minutes and then turn out onto the racks so they can cool completely.

For the frosting: melt chocolate (use either a double-broiler or the microwave — I typically go for the double-broiler method) and let it cool slightly.

Using your mixer, beat the butter until pale and creamy. And the confectioners' sugar and beat until well combined. Don't forget to sift the confectioners' sugar first, otherwise you will get lumpy frosting. Then add your vanilla and chocolate and beat until glossy.

Sandwich the cake with a quarter of the frosting, and use the rest for the sides and top.

**Quick Note — Cleaning out butter that has exploded in the microwave is one of my least favorite tasks. So, with that in mind, you may want to keep an eye on your butter while it melts. Maybe do it in 15 second increments.

According to Nigella, to whom the recipe belongs, this cake 'serves 10, or 1 with a broken heart.' (Recipe from: Nigella Bites, by Nigella Lawson, Hyperion Books, 2002.)