In the Red

Every morning it's the same thing.  I stand in the bathroom pulling my makeup bag out of the cabinet, and Emilia comes rushing in behind me.  She whizzes right past, bends down to grab her stool, scoots up to the mirror, declaring all the while, 'I need some makeup on, too!'

While I stand there putting a nice shellac on my face, Emilia digs into my bag and pulls out eyeshadow, eyelash curler, and mascara.  She knows not to touch my concealer, because no matter how many times she tells me that she has dark circles under her eyes, I don't believe her.  And she is also not supposed to be touching my mascara, but she is convinced that the tube that came with Lancôme's free gift a few weeks ago belongs to none other than herself.  Ordinarily she likes to apply it right to the middle of her forehead, along with whatever eyeshadow or pencil she can get ahold of before I yank it all away.

The last thing we do, though, as I am putting it all away, is apply our lipstick.  She stands there with a tube of Chanel Glossimer, and whips the wand out like it's nobody's business.  While I, on the other hand, resort to my treasure trove that is well out of her reach.  I may be missing many products in my beauty regiment, but lipstick is certainly not one of them.  I do love me some fancy lipstick.

Do Not Fear the Marmite! (Otherwise Entitled: Spaghetti with Marmite)

Marmite has fascinated me for years.  What can I say?  I'm obviously not British, so I did not grow up eating the stuff.  But I am someone who has a tendency to pay attention to all things British.  That is why when I heard ages ago that there is a spread ... that comes in a jar ... that is a yeast extract ... filled with B vitamins ... and considered so wholesome that children of all ages should be eating it up ... I paid attention.  But really.  Yeast extract?  Pardon me while I gag.

I remember I even sent an email to my Scottish friend, Polly, asking her all about it.  'What is this Marmite and Vegemite stuff I keep hearing about?'  To which she responded, 'It's nasty and I don't think you'd like it.'  Well, alright then, enough said. 

But then it started appearing in all the grocery stores in the area: Whole Foods, QFC, Metropolitan Market, and the like.  And as I walked through one of those stores with Emilia a month or so ago, I couldn't help but be drawn in -- that jar is quite attractive.  It just looks so marvelously British that I can't help but like it.  So, naturally, we bought a jar.  And then I put it in the pantry and proceeded to stare it down -- every time I opened the door.  Hmmm, what is one to do with the stuff anyway?  Because I'll tell you right now -- smearing it on a piece of toast in the morning does not sound appetizing.  At all.  Not even a little bit.

Lo and behold Nigella's new cookbook came in the mail a week or so ago (I reallyreallyreally must stop doing the pre-order on new cookbooks before our checking account explodes), and as I sat thumbing through the pages, I saw it: Spaghetti with Marmite.  The recipe comes complete with pictures of children eating it up and everything.  And, according to Nigella (who is so gorgeous it makes me downright irritable), she has never met a child who does not like it.  Sold!

It's now a week or so later and I've already made it twice.  The first time was when Michael was out of town and I wanted to test it out on Emilia.  Do you know, I cooked this up and served it alongside roasted cauliflower and sauteed kale (because that is what we had in the fridge)?  Emilia ate every bite.  (Gasp!)  And then she asked for more.  So did I.  And when I pulled the jar out a few days ago to make it again, Emilia saw it on the counter and said, 'Mama cooking Marmite!  Yummy!'

I'm not sure if this means that the girl is a fellow Anglophile, or if she just has a taste for Marmite. Either way, I'm content.

Strawberries Part 3 — Strawberry Ice Cream

We are quickly running out of room in the freezer on account of this strawberry craze.  However, it would have been a very sorry thing indeed to leave out strawberry ice cream this year.  I love ice cream, always have.  However, strawberry ice cream has never been at the top of my list.  (I typically go more for the scoop of chocolate and the scoop of coconut or something.  You know how it is.)  But there is something very lovely about homemade strawberry ice cream in the summer.  Particularly if it turns out well. 

I've made strawberry ice cream several times over the years, and every now and then my eyes begin to roam to other cookbooks looking for a different one to try. There is no point though. This recipe from Nigella Lawson is the best one.  I've also tried the Williams-Sonoma one from their Ice Cream book, but it pales in comparison.  For starters, Nigella's recipe is basically a frozen custard, meaning it is loaded with heavy cream, whole milk, and an absurd amount of egg yolks.  Whereas the WS one has no egg yolks, less strawberries, and less flavor altogether. Also Nigella's recipe calls for a whole vanilla bean.  However, the vanilla flavor is never strong enough for me.  So I'm thinking that next time I will try vanilla paste in its stead.  We'll see how it turns out, but not till next summer.

Typically I store the ice cream in a plastic tub in the freezer.  But I tried something different this year — big glass canning jars.  I've gone a little nuts with trying to steer clear of plastics — particularly when you are heating or freezing the stuff, which is why I've gone the glass jar route.  However, if you happen to be into BPA, hormone disruptors, carcinogens, and all that good stuff, then by all means please use it.  Anyway, it hasn't been too difficult to scoop out of the jar.  But it does require a nice sitting on the counter for ten minutes before even attempting to scoop it.  This is supposedly a desirable thing anyway.  I remember reading that ice cream needs to breath the same way wine does before consuming.  Not only does it soften it up making it more palatable, but it also somehow enhances the flavor.  (This is what the Rosengarten Report said a few years ago anyway.)

And so, with (finally) soaring temperatures, we've had a few lovely nights of dinner on the deck in the backyard, with Emilia reminding us constantly throughout that she wants ice cream, 'after you finish your dinner!'  It has been so nice to sit out there, eating our ice cream and looking at how much the backyard has changed over the past while — trampoline, kiddie pool with a whale that blows water, and anything else that Emilia can slip out there when mama and dada are not looking. 

Summer has arrived.  Hopefully it will stick around for a bit.  

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 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.)