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.

Hot Cross Buns for Good Friday

Now really, I've never understood why it is that we are meant to eat Hot Cross Buns on Good Friday when we are also meant to be fasting. Particularly since I have a tendency to let my hunger override my piety. As it turns out, Hot Cross Buns were originally intended to be eaten when one broke their Good Friday fast. (That would be in the evening after skipping the first two meals, in case you were wondering. And not what one is supposed to eat with a giant bowl of very strong tea for breakfast, even though that is when they sound heavenly.)

Anyway, I suppose this does make me feel a bit better. After all, I can still keep my image of Jo (from Bleak House) running about the streets of Charles Dickens' London with a little Hot Cross Bun in his hand. Although, I should really choose a different character — one not so tragic and who may have actually stood a chance of procuring one of these delectable little buns, perhaps. (How about Guppy? Is that any better? No, it's not — I'm sticking with Jo.)

If we are striving for accuracy, however, we should bump ourselves over to the Tudor period (1485-1603, give or take) when Hot Cross Buns originated. Apparently they used to be sold throughout the year. However Queen Elizabeth I decided to put her foot down (in her attempt to stamp out Catholicism) and restricted their selling to Christmas, Good Friday, and burials. (Not that I can blame her. I suppose little buns with images of crosses on them are rather menacing.)

Nowadays, if you happen to live in England, you can get Hot Cross Buns year round. (Or so I have read. I've never actually wandered into a Sainsbury or Tesco in hot pursuit.) Yet it is still considered traditional to eat them on Easter. But if you are trying to be right-proper, then the evening of Good Friday is the ticket. And not a moment too soon, if you're like me. Because by that time your head will be throbbing, and you're mad at everyone for absolutely no reason at all, and you have lost all energy to even be bothered with making dinner. And you will be frustrated because what you are supposed to be doing is thinking about Jesus on the cross. (See, I told you I wasn't a very good faster.)

I have actually tried my hand at these two times before with very disappointing results. And I very nearly skipped them this year altogether. I have Michael to thank for their presence, as he gently reminded me that seasonal cooking is, in fact, my thing, so snap the hell out of it. Or something like that anyway. This year they were divine, and I'm not sure if it was the recipe I used (that would be Nigella's) or allowing the dough to raise in the oven. Probably both, I suspect. That being said, they are actually a lot of fun to make. The recipe is rather long, but don't let that deter you. In fact, you are supposed to make the dough and then plunk it in the fridge overnight. That way you can get on with it the next day — in between grousing about and feeling very badly about the fact that you've been grousing about.

Also, every recipe I've looked at has called for bread flour, as opposed to all-purpose. Nigella seems to sum it up the best: 'There's no point going through all this effort and ruining your chances of success over such a small but significant point.' So there you go. Live dangerously if you'd like, but my lovely husband offered to run to the store for a bag and I'm very grateful that he did.

St. Joseph's Day Soup

'Wednesday is St. Patrick's Day', I said. 'And Friday is St. Joseph's Day! And we go to a farm! And do swimming!', responded Miss Milia. 'Yes! But instead of a farm and swimming, we'll make some soup!'

I think it is safe to say that 2-year-olds don't generally have the best grasp on time. 'In a minute' and 'in a month' are basically the same thing in the 2-year-old mind. Basically it means not right this second. But really, the memory on this girl is astounding. We mentioned last week that both St. Paddy's Day and St. Joseph's Day were coming up. We also said that we are going to go to a farm (weather permitting) on Saturday. I've no idea where the swimming bit entered into her head. It does sound nice though, doesn't it? Almost like what one should actually do on St. Joseph's Day. You know, a little swimming on a farm to truly celebrate the life and wonders of St. Joseph.

But instead, we'll have soup. Not just any old soup, mind you. Today we are having St. Joseph's Day Soup. And I've been looking forward to it since last year's pot.

Typically I would delve into the history of the celebrated saint in honor of their day, but, really, what does one say about our beloved St. Joseph? (Other than my mom's thoughts, when I told her about my yummy soup, 'Honey, you Catholics sure have a lot of holidays!') However, something should be said. Joseph never gets enough props, and I challenge you to say otherwise.

And so, today, being March 19th, is the Feast of St. Joseph. He was the husband of Mary and the adoptive father of Jesus. (My copy of The Lives of the Saints calls him Jesus' foster-father, but I find that wildly offensive. Apart from God, obviously, Joseph was the only father Jesus ever knew.) He is the patron saint of home and family. He is also the patron saint of the Universal Church, workers, and carpenters. Interestingly, today is not a Holy Day of Obligation. In fact, the Feast of St. Joseph is not even really celebrated in the United States. Everyone here is undoubtedly still recovering from their hangovers from green beer, and can't be too bothered with a saint that does not involve another trip to the pub. Unless of course it is a saint that sells chocolate and lingerie. (That would be St. Valentine, in case it wasn't completely clear.)

Italy is largely where St. Joseph's Day is celebrated, and the further south you go, the more impressive the festivities become. Apparently in Sicily families cook dish after dish after dish (sometimes up to a hundred dishes, I hear) in celebration, and hopes of intercession. Most of the dishes are fried, causing Joseph to also be called San Giuseppe Frittelaro, Saint Joseph the Fryer. These dishes range from cream-puffs to rice balls to artichokes. However, all the dishes are meatless because the day always falls during lent.

I have not dabbled with any of the fried dishes in honor of St. Joseph, namely because the idea of deep-frying is still slightly scary to me. (I really must invest in one of those Fry-Daddy's sometime.) Instead, I have begun opting for St. Joseph's soup, which is so good I've thought about making it at other times during the year. However, I like to have food traditions. For the same reason I would not serve turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and so on, in the middle of August, let's say, because that is a special menu for Thanksgiving. It is important to let certain foods be special and to have their place on the calendar. And before you start calling me some sort of bizarre and esoteric nerd, I'll have you know that some rather posh establishments celebrate St. Joseph's Day with this very same soup. Our highly revered, and rightly so, Salumi, for example.

Anyway, the soup itself is wonderful, perfect for the beginning of spring, yet still very substantial. It is also very healthy and low in fat. And in our family, it yields enough for dinner tomorrow night as well. Maybe even the next night if we're lucky. Although, really, that might be an awful lot of soup.

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.

The Feast of St. Thomas Becket; Will no one relieve me of this lowborn priest!

To be perfectly honest, there are so many things that make me nearly fit to burst with pride simply because I am Catholic. One of those 'things' happens to be Thomas Becket, whose feast day is today.

There are countless literary forms available on the life of Thomas Becket, including the movie Becket, starring Richard Burton (as Becket) and the ever-so-dashing Peter O'Toole (as the rotten Henry II). There is also the amazing (more than amazing, really) play written by TS Eliot entitled Murder in the Cathedral. (If you are not familiar with either of these, then why on earth are you sitting around reading this silly blog? Run, I tell you!)

Thomas Becket was born 21 December 1118, 1119, or 1120 (these accounts all vary) in Cheapside, London. His parents were of merchant stock and were able to provide him with an excellent education. While still a young man he befriended both Archbishop Theobald and the young Henry II. These men played a big role in the future career of Becket, and Henry was the man ultimately responsible for his death.

After a brief stint as a clerk in a bank, Becket was appointed Archdeacon of Canterbury and Provost of Beverly. In 1155 Henry appointed him Lord Chancellor. During this period Becket was supposedly living it up — hunting, gambling, dressing in medieval 'haute couture', and sundry other things, none of which were cheap. The movie Becket details this rather nicely, as does Thomas Craughwell's book Saints Behaving Badly.

It is only after he assumes the position of Archbishop (appointed by Henry in 1162) that Becket seems to undergo a truly Catholic conversion. There is a scene in the movie where Becket essentially begs Henry not to force the role of Archbishop upon him. However, Henry insists, because being close friends and allies, he assumes Becket will give him free reign and let him have his way with the Church, thereby making him the supreme ruler of England. That is what Henry hoped, anyway.

Becket changed his ways once he became Archbishop. In response to a request for money by traveling musicians, Becket responded 'I am not the man I was when chancellor. Church funds are for the Church and the poor. I have nothing to give you.' Craughwell responds that this statement 'marks the beginning of Thomas Becket's conversion from a worldly, ruthless king's man to a man of God and a defender of the rights of the Church.' Because of his refusal to allow the state to have any jurisdiction over ecclesiastic matters, namely where punishments were concerned, Henry became angered and the two fell out. It was then dangerous for Becket to remain in England, so off he went to France — for six years.

Pope Alexander III, apparently not a man to be rushed, was on the verge of excommunicating Henry on account of his abuse of power. Henry, after hearing of this, made amends of sorts with Becket and allowed him to return home to Canterbury. The masses (or Chorus, if you are TS Eliot) were elated by the return of their Archbishop. People began singing, along the roads to Canterbury, the same words that Christ heard upon entering the Holy City on Palm Sunday, 'Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!' The telling of Becket's homecoming in Murder in the Cathedral is mesmerizing, and has one of the most beautiful lines ever written: 'Living and partly living.'

Once home Becket discovered that the archbishop of York and the bishops of both London and Salisbury held the coronation of Henry's son in his absence. This was a breach and misuse of power — only the Archbishop of Canterbury was authorized do such things. Becket made the move to excommunicate these men.

Upon hearing this, Henry shouted something along these lines, 'Will no one relieve me of this lowborn priest!' (There are several accounts or versions of what was actually said, but this is supposedly the most accurate. Although, I do enjoy the one that refers to him as a 'turbulent priest'.) The knights who heard this took it to be a death warrant and off they went to Canterbury.

During vespers 29 December 1170, these four knights stormed the cathedral. (Becket refused to allow the door to be locked — after all, it was a church and it was vespers.) Becket refused to give in to their demands and, knowing full well what was about to happen, was slaughtered on the steps of the altar. One of the four knights cut his skull open and scattered his brains onto the stone floor. And that was 839 years ago today.

Soul Cakes

It is All Souls' Day today. And, in honor, I decided to make Soul Cakes. Soul Cakes are an Old English custom, being little cakes (half cake-half biscuit, really) that were given out for 'souling', as it was called, in the 8th century.

Unlike All Saints' Day, All Souls' is not a Holy Day of Obligation. While both days are essentially 'Days for the Dead', as it were, they stand in stark contrast to each other. All Saints' is a celebration of sorts, whereas All Souls' is a very somber day. On All Saints' we ask that the saints pray for us. All Souls', on the other hand, is when we are asked to pray for the dearly departed — to pray for their souls in purgatory, to be precise.

As a convert to the Catholic Church, I always had a not-so-nice view of purgatory, owing entirely to the fact that I simply did not understand it. In my defense, it is rather easy to misconstrue this concept! Strangely enough, now I actually derive comfort in the thought of purgatory. To put it in the most simplistic terms, purgatory is where most of us go after we die. (Some are lucky enough to go straight to heaven. However, I do not anticipate being one of them.) If you have not gone through a purification of the soul before you die — this is your shot. I guess you could say that purgatory is a 'purging' of sorts (it's where the word comes from, after all) — getting rid of the yuck we have accumulated along the way, and purifying both our hearts and minds in the process.

Purgatory (Purgatorio) is not a level of hell in Dante's Inferno either. Rather it is a separate volume comprising The Divine Comedy (along with Paradisio). For some reason, there seems to be a bit of confusion about this. So there is no need to fear pushing a boulder up a hill for all time and eternity. Or even getting your eyeballs plucked out over and over again by some nasty ol' bird. Although, interestingly enough, a level of hell in Dante's Inferno is apparently dedicated to a member of my own family. That's right — I am descended from the line of a horrifying mass-murderer. On par with Hitler, from what I can gather. The story of this lovely 'uncle' can be found in a book called Studies in Ferocity: A Book of Human Monsters by Raymond Rudorff. Ahhh, such pride I must have, I know.

Anyway, back to Soul Cakes. Rumor has it that this is the way that trick-or-treating began, oh, so long ago. In Old England the poor and the children (why do they always get lumped together, I wonder) would go knocking door-to-door, and in exchange for a Soul Cake, they would offer prayers for the dead. One Soul Cake for one soul, or something like that.

Making Soul Cakes is very easy. (Not at all like my disastrous Hot Cross Buns last year.) And I was more than a little surprised to discover that they were, in fact, not just edible — they were actually pretty good. Michael ate his with an oatmeal stout (probably the perfect compliment, truth be told), While Emilia first picked off all the raisins (which she promptly ate), and then proceeded to polish off both hers and most of mine. For some reason, she much preferred these to yesterday's Sweet Beans.

Soul Cakes
2 cups flour
½ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
½ teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon salt
generous pinch of saffron
½ cup milk
1 stick unsalted butter, at room temperature
½ cup sugar
2 egg yolks
½ cup currants or raisins

Preheat oven to 400°, and line a baking sheet with parchment.

Combine the flour, nutmeg, cinnamon, and salt in a bowl. Mix well.

Crumble the saffron threads into a small saucepan. Turn on the heat to low and warm the saffron just until barely fragrant. Pour in the milk and heat until the milk is hot to the touch. Remove and set aside. The milk will have become bright yellow. (Something tells me that the saffron is a modern addition, as I can't imagine it being an ingredient readily on-hand in England back in the day. Although, maybe I'm wrong.)

In a mixer, using the paddle attachment, cream the butter with the sugar. Add the egg yolks, one at a time, and mix until thoroughly combined. Add the dry ingredients and mix until well combined. The dough will be very dry and crumbly.

Add the milk, one tablespoon at a time, mixing well after each addition, until you have a nice soft dough. You should not need all the milk.

Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead gently. (I had to add a bit of flour here because, apparently, I went nuts with the milk.) Using your scone or biscuit cutter, make as many rounds as you can. You should get about 12 in all.

Transfer to your baking sheet, and stud the tops with the currants. I made little crosses on the tops of mine, but feel free to be creative. Maybe try your hand at fashioning my evil uncle, or something. Although something tells me he would have needed more than a few soul cakes.

Brush the tops with the beaten egg yolk (I added a bit of the extra saffron milk to my egg yolk, to good effect.) Bake for 15 minutes until golden. Serve warm. (Recipe from T. Susan Chang, for NPR, October 24, 2007.)

The Feast of St. Francis of Assisi

We were supposed to take Governor to church today to get him blessed, but somehow the time got away from us and we didn't. Poor guy. I suppose he will have to wait until next year. And I will just have to say extra prayers for him tonight.

If you want to see much of St. Francis of Assisi these days you need not go any further than your local gardening store. Or walk through your neighbor's back yard where they undoubtedly have a statue of St. Francis right next to the bird feeder and the hollyhocks. Today St. Francis seems to be regarded more as a hippie, being in touch with nature and having a great love for animals. While there is a certain truth to this notion, there is much more to this fascinating saint.

Francis was born to a family of cloth merchants in Assisi, Italy in 1181. His parents made a very respectable living at this trade, and Francis apparently did his best to squander it -- hanging out in the local taverns all hours of the night, boozing it up, and sharing very shady company. When the war broke out (something between the nobles and the merchant classes in Assisi and a neighboring village or so) Francis went to war. After a very brief stint he ended up a prisoner-of-war for a year, where he lived in filth and squalor and probably did not eat many enormous platefuls of pasta and chianti. Upon his release he made a mediocre attempt to return to his old ways. However, he found himself gravitating more and more to the church.

Sitting in church one afternoon Francis heard (and saw) Jesus speak directly to him. Jesus asked Francis to help rebuild this church, which was falling into tatters. He immediately jumped up, ran to his parents shop, grabbed all of the finest cloth he could, sold it, and made a rather generous donation to the church. His father found it rather annoying that his son would sell off their livelihood, unbeknownst to them, and so he sued the pants off of his son -- and won. The church readily gave the money back to Francis's parents.

Francis revolted after this incident and said that he didn't want anything that his father had ever given to him , including the clothes on his back. One day he stood in the public square and stripped down to his altogether, further illustrating this point. And this is when Francis's conversion began to really happen.

Francis embraced a form of extreme poverty. He stressed the humanity of Jesus, 'poor, abandoned, and crucified', and henceforth devoted himself to the lowest of the low, believing that he saw the face of Christ in all of them. He believed that he saw Christ in all living creatures -- from dogs, to donkeys, to earthworms. Francis wrote the Canticle of the Sun in 1224. In this song he praises all of nature and expresses his deep gratitude that we are taken care of by nature, as opposed to wealth and the many comforts that it provides. Francis was the founder of the Franciscan Order, but he never became a priest. Instead, he roamed the cities and countryside preaching God's message of love, humility, and poverty.

A few years before his death Francis developed the stigmata, which I personally hope I never get. Not only does it cause one to have to bandage their hands and feet all hours of the day, it is also terribly painful.

St. Francis died in 1226. On his deathbed he requested some sort of almond pastry, and I can happily tell you that Lady Jacoba de Settesoli brought one to him. I would love to know what this confection was exactly. Maybe next year, in honor of St. Francis, I'll try my hand at some sort of make-shift recipe. Surely there is a St. Francis almond pastry recipe to be found! And I'll make it right after we get back from bringing Governor to church for his blessing. In the meantime, he may get to hear a lovely rendition of the Canticle.

(Sources: Lives of the Saints, New Revised Edition, Catholic Book Publishing, Co., 1999. Saints Behaving Badly, Thomas J. Craughwell, Doubleday, 2006.)

The Feast Of St. Mary Magdalene

There is something that seems very fussy about madeleines. I'm not sure why this is exactly, because they are so easy to make. Maybe it has to do with the fact that they require a special pan. Or maybe it is their scallop shape that makes them seem so fancy. Whatever the reason, whenever I tell anyone that I've made madeleines, I'm guaranteed some sort of "La Di Da" response. And that's alright — because they are special.

Madeleines have always belonged to Marcel Proust, and it seems almost cliché to associate him with them now. But we cannot get away from it. In his Remembrances of Things Past (most recently translated as In Search of Lost Time) he claimed that simply dunking his madeleine into his tea (or was it coffee?) flooded him with memories of his childhood. Now, it should be stated that I have not actually read this collection of Proust's works. However, I do own two copies of Swann's Way and have always felt that it is a personal flaw — a mark against my character, if you will — that I have not read them. All in due time, I suppose. But really, I'd rather not talk about it.

As it turns out, madeleines have actually been around long before Proust and his torturously long novels. But their history, while a little on the murky side, is certainly French. It is assumed that madeleines originated in the south of France — Commercy, to be exact. But why that particular location is still a bit of a mystery. Most likely it had something to do with the fact that there was a convent in Commercy that was dedicated to St. Mary Magdalene. And most likely, baking (and selling) these little tea cakes at the convent helped financially. It is tradition in France that Mary Magdalene traveled there after the death and resurrection of Christ, converting all the people to Christianity along the way, and then retiring to a lovely hillside for the remainder of her life. But really, who knows?

At any rate, this is where our fussy little madeleines received their namesake — Madeleine being the French form of Magdalene. (Incidentally, Magdalene is also our daughter's middle name.)

Mary Magdalene is whom Christ first appeared to after His resurrection. And it was Mary Magdalene, along with Mary the Mother of Jesus and St. John, who was at the foot of the cross when Christ died — all others abandoning Him. And, like all of us, Mary Magdalene was a sinner. It is not clear what her sins were exactly — only that Christ cast out seven demons from her. It seems to be tradition that she was a prostitute, but there is absolutely no basis for this claim. (And in case you were wondering, the Catholic Church has no official stance on the matter.) What is clear, however, is that Mary Magdalene was a faithful disciple of Christ, and she knew him to be her saviour. And the fact that she was a sinner makes her relationship with God all the more beautiful.

I have used several recipes for madeleines over the years, but the one I always seem to reach for comes from The Paris Cookbook, by Patricia Wells. She uses the miniature pan — whereas I use both the miniature and the traditional, and they both work just fine. Remember to not use soap when washing the pans afterward. Just use hot water and a stiff brush. Otherwise you won't get a nicely seasoned pan.

2 large eggs
1/2 cup sugar
grated zest of 1 lemon
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/8 teaspoon fine sea salt
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled

Butter the madeleine tins and place them in the freezer.

Place the eggs and the sugar in the bowl of a heavy-duty mixer fitted with the whisk. Beat at high speed until thick and lemon-colored, 2-3 minutes. By hand, stir in the zest. Stir in the flour and sea salt. Stir in the butter. Cover and refrigerate for at least 1 hour and up to 24 hours.

Preheat oven to 375°

Remove tins from freezer. Spoon the batter into the prepared molds, filling nearly to the top. Tap gently against a flat surface to evenly distribute the batter. Place in the center of the oven and bake until golden, 10-12 minutes. Remove to a rack to cool. Remove from tins as soon as they are cool. Best eaten immediately. They may, however, be stored for several days in an airtight container. (Recipe from The Paris Cookbook by Patricia Wells, Harper Collins Publishers, 2001.)