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.

On the 100th Birthday of Blessed Mother Teresa

People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered.
Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives.
Be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies.
Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and sincere, people may deceive you.
Be honest and sincere anyway.

What you spend years creating, others could destroy overnight.
Create anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous.
Be happy anyway.

The good you do today, will often be forgotten.
Do good anyway.

Give the best you have, and it will never be enough.
Give your best anyway.

In the final analysis, it is between you and God.  It was never between you and them anyway.

-- Written on the wall of Blessed Mother Teresa's home in Calcutta.  (It is also written on a t-shirt I got from some yoga studio a few years ago.  However, my t-shirt does not include the bit about God.  Heaven forbid a yogi should get offended by the suggestion of God.  Er, excuse me, I mean Spirit...)

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.

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.

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.

Sweet Beans for All Saints' Day

Today, being the Feast of All Saints, is a Holy Day of Obligation in the Roman Catholic Church. (However, since it fell on a Sunday this year, it did not require any more church-going.) That means that yesterday was Halloween, or All Hallows Eve, or even Hallowmas, depending on how far back into history you want to go. 'Hallows' meaning 'saints', while 'e'en' and 'eve' are short for evening, and 'mas' is 'mass'. So, therefore, Halloween is technically the vigil for All Saints' Day. I suppose that is a lot of decoding simply to tell you to get your tokhes to church, but there it is. And I hope you made it, because one of my favorite things in the world is listening to the Litany of the Saints.

However, it is 2009. So unless you are a nerdy history buff (or worse, a Catholic), Halloween is more of a day to dress up in costumes, go to a party, and eat a whole lot of garbage — which is also fun. Alternatively, you can run door-to-door going trick-or-treating.

One of my erstwhile careers was that of a professional bra-fitter in an up-scale department store. I still remember a young woman and her boyfriend coming into the lingerie department to pick out her costume. She needed a black push-up bra and a thong to wear with her black leather chaps for their Halloween party. She kept running out of the fitting room to get her boyfriend's opinion of her 'costume'. Oi. And another time a high-school girl came in dressed as a cheerleader, wearing a very short skirt and apparently not much underneath. She bought a pair of Calvin Klein boyshorts, and then stood right there in the lingerie department and put them on. Talk about some classy dames! Anyway, I digress.

I know I have said many times before that I like to eat in season; meaning asparagus in the spring, watermelon and raspberries in the summer, butternut squash in the fall, snickerdoodles in the winter, and that sort of thing. Lately we are also trying to eat in the spirit of the season, which is why I decided to make Sweet Bean Cookies for All Saints' Day.

Sweet Beans, or Fave Dei Morti as they are more appropriately called, are an Italian cookie. They are traditionally found in bakeries in Italy, Rome in particular, on All Saints' Day (which is often referred to as I Morti, meaning the dead). The cookies are shaped like fava beans which held an important role in ancient Rome. For the Feast of Feralia, people (typically the head-of-house) would toss a handful of favas over their shoulder for the wandering spirits to pick up in the night. Finding the beans quite sufficient, they would then take their leave. Also, fava beans were placed over the eyes of the dead before burial.

As much of a fan as I am of all things Italian, I have always found their cookies to be a bit suspicious. So when I saw this recipe for Sweet Beans, it did raise my eyebrows a bit. The main ingredient is nuts (almonds and pinenuts, to be exact), and there is no butter, no chocolate, no brown sugar, no vanilla extract — you get my point. However, being in the spirit of the season, I made them anyway. And then I proceeded to eat about 20 of them; Michael was a respectable close second, while Emilia held one in her hands for about an hour before finally throwing it away. In her defense, her new favorite food seems to be salt and vinegar chips. She does not usually have much of a sweet tooth (unless it is a cupcake, and by cupcake, I mean frosting).

Anyway, the cookies are so good. And they are very easy to make. I even peeled the almonds myself because PCC did not have blanched almonds. I was very grumpy with the idea of this until I did it. Honestly, it took 10 minutes, and half that time was letting the almonds soak in hot-hot water. So if you can't find blanched almonds, stop whining and just do it yourself.

The cookies are perfect with a cup of tea or what have you. And since they have no butter or chocolate or anything in them, they are practically a health food.

Sweet Bean Cookies

2 ½ cups blanched almonds

½ cup pine nuts

1 cup sugar

½ cup flour

1 teaspoon lemon zest

¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 large egg

1 large egg yolk

1 tablespoon grappa, rum, or brandy
confectioners' sugar, for dusting

Preheat the oven to 325° and line a baking sheet with parchment. (Alternatively, you can butter and flour the baking sheets.)

In a food processor, combine the almonds, pine nuts, and ½ cup of sugar. Blend until the nuts are very finely chopped. Transfer to a large bowl and stir in the remaining ½ cup sugar, flour, lemon zest, and cinnamon.

In a separate bowl, whisk the eggs and the booze. (I used Grand Marnier because we have no grappa, and the idea of rum made me a little queasy. Besides, the label on the Grand Marnier says it is an 'orange and brandy liqueur'.) Add this mixture to the nuts and stir with a wooden spoon until well combined. It should be moist throughout and beginning to form a ball.

Begin to form the cookies by pinching off a bit of the dough — no more than the size of a grape. Using your hands, roll it into a ball and shape into the form of a bean. Place on the baking sheet and keep going. I found it was easiest to rinse my hands every so often, otherwise the cookies became sticky and lost their 'smooth' appearance, making them much more difficult to work with. Place an inch apart on the baking sheet.

At this point you are supposed to take a knife and, using the dull edge, form a long groove lengthwise on each cookie. My cookies looked extraordinarily daft when I attempted this step, which is why I skipped it after seeing the first batch.

Bake for 15-17 minutes. (If you are doing 2 sheets at a time, then rotate 10 minutes into the baking time.) Cool on a wire rack.

Dust with confectioners' sugar before serving. And store the remainders in an air-tight container. (Recipe from: Italian Holiday Cooking, by Michele Scicolone. Harper Collins, 2001.)

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.)