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.

My Cheering Squad

Emilia and I sat in the big green chair a few days ago reading a great big stack of books before her nap.  One of the books we read was Olivia Goes to Venice by the marvelous, inimitable Ian Falconer.  The book is all about how Olivia and her family go to Venice for spring break, eat loads of gelato, see the sights, and then leave in a dash.  Anyway, there we were, reading away, and minding our own business, when we turn the page and see the pictures of Olivia and her family on a gondola.  Emilia points at the gondolier, who is huffing, puffing, and sweating profusely, and says, 'He's just like you, mama, pushing me in the jogger!'

We were out one day a while ago for a quick run, and I was huffing and puffing and pushing the jogger up a long hill.  At the top of the hill there stood a little old Chinese woman who was pushing her little grandchild in a stroller.  She kept taking a few steps and then stopping to rest, taking a few more, resting some more.  When she saw us on the move, she stopped and clapped and cheered us on.  It was fabulous.

Once we got up there, I said, '..huff...puff...big...hill...huff...puff...gasp...!'  She then said something I did not understand, but which I took to be lovely words of encouragement.  And we were on our merry way.  Repeat the whole scenario about five minutes later -- the nice little lady with baby in stroller going down a hill, stopping for a rest, and us running up said blasted hill, '..huff...puff...big...hill...huff...puff...gasp...!'  More clapping and cheering, Emilia chiming in with, 'Are they out for a quick run, too, mama?  That baby's a little guy!' and so on. 

It was one of my favorite things in a while.  Looking like the sweaty ol' gondolier from Olivia, on the other hand, is not. But it still made me laugh, because I suppose the girl did have a point.  Now, if I could just do something to keep up with that South African Guinea Hen, who also lives in the neighborhood, and who periodically joins us on our runs, then we'll be in business!  And that's all I have to say about that.

On Cabbage, Leprechauns, and Unseemly Behaviour

'It is not ok to toot at church -- but it is ok to toot at the dinner table!', said the three-year-old.
'No, it's not ok.  It's disgusting, so knock it off'!', said her mama.
'But it is ok to toot at the ice-cream table, though.'  (As it happened, we were having ice-cream at the dining room table.)
'Stay classy, you nasty bugger.  And, no, it's not.'
'But I'm just a nasty cuss!  Governor is a nasty bugger!'
Well, I say!

We were sitting on a bench a few days later waiting for Emilia's swim lessons to start, when she nearly caused me to pass out on account of her new-found pride.  I was quite annoyed, and I had to decide if we should leave immediately in order to avoid further shame, or just ignore it and act like nothing happened.  And yet she just sat there smiling as brightly as she could, saying, 'I stink!  I tooted!'  Yes, to be sure. 

She has also become quite a fan of announcing the state of her gaseous health to all at Whole Foods, 'I stink!'  We've talked about it now and I've told her she cannot do such rude things in public, but she fails to understand why on earth not.  Apparently she does not find my argument all that compelling.

And so, why am I informing you of the gaseous state of our daughter, you ask?  Why, because today's lesson is on cabbage, beans, potatoes, and the like.  You know, leprechaun food.  Emilia has been operating under the pretence of becoming a leprechaun by morning if she stocks up on lots of cabbage (and other leprechaun foods) at night.  When she's feeling dangerous, she'll switch it over to Benjamin Bunny and Peter Rabbit, but since they also eat radishes (which she has decided are unfit for human consumption) this is not as attractive an option.  Anyway, she started picking out cabbage from the store a few months ago when I officially banned her from choosing parsnips (they aren't very springy, parsnips).  And cabbage, being ridiculously healthy, not to mention a nice cruciferous veg (always high on my list), I've been indulging the girl.  And I suppose I must now suffer the consequences.

As luck would have it, Heidi Swanson's new cookbook has the most gorgeous cabbage dish on the cover.  (I know what you are thinking, but yes, cabbage can look gorgeous.)  And I knew from the first moment I saw this recipe that we would be great friends.   Emilia resisted it the first time, but now eats it up on account of the leprechaun factor.  In fact, a few nights ago she ate her dinner and then demanded a hat and wellies so she could run around in the backyard in the manner of a leprechaun and 'do what I gotta do.'  What she had to do was simply run like a crazed lunatic, yelling 'I'm a leprechaun!' to her little heart's content.  'Twas a marvel to watch. 

And so, we've found a winner of a recipe.  Alas, I've already made it three times.  And alas, as good as it is, I now need to take a bit of a break from it.  Because as good as it is, it's rather unseemly having your little three-year-old standing at the swimming pool wearing her little red and white polka dot bikini, and laughing like nobody's business because she 'ripped' (to quote her).

White Beans & Cabbage (Parmesan, Potatoes, Shallots)
serves 4

1 tablespoons olive oil
4 ounces potatoes, unpeeled, scrubbed, and cut into tiny cubes
Fine-grain sea salt
1 large shallot, thinly sliced
2 cups cooked and cooled white beans
3 cups very finely shredded cabbage
A bit of freshly grated parmesan cheese

Pour the olive oil into a large saute pan or skillet.  Heat over medium-high.  Add the potatoes and some salt.  Stir, cover, and cook for 5 to 8 minutes, until the potatoes are cooked through.  Be sure to toss them a few times in the pan so they can cook uniformly and get nicely colored on all sides.  Stir in the shallot and the beans.  Let the mixture cook in a single layer for a few so the beans can brown.  Scrape, toss again, and let the beans brown some more and get crispy-ish.  Stir in the cabbage and cook for a few more minutes, until the cabbage loses some of its structure.  Serve with parmesan.  Recipe from Super Natural Cooking Every Day by Heidi Swanson.  Ten Speed Press, 2011.

Is that Kate William, Mama?

Emilia sat on my lap this evening while we watched clip after clip of the Royal Wedding. 
'Is that Kate William?', she asked.
'Her name is Kate.  Isn't she beautiful?  And William is the name of the man she is marrying.'
A few moments later...
'Whose dress do you like best, mama?  Kate's or Pippa's?'
We both agreed that Kate's dress was the best, but that Pippa looked beautiful, too.  And what's more, is that it is much more fun to say Pippa, no?  'Is that Pippa, mama?  Is that Pippa there, too, mama?'

Highlights and clips were the way that I ended up watching the entire wedding.  I tried to stay up, even cooked the most British things I could think of to celebrate, but nothing doing.  Less than an hour into the local coverage, and I was off to bed (berating myself all the while).  But what was one to do?  Particularly when one happens to live in the worst time zone in the world to watch the exchanging of vows.  Drat -- but not to be helped.  And I realized, way too late, that the smartest thing to do would have been to set the alarm for 3am, go to bed like a normal person, get up and watch the vows, and then go back to bed. 

But the real kicker is that since we have rebuked this whole idea of cable on the telly, we had no repeated coverage the next morning.  There was no re-broadcasting of anything resembling the Royal Wedding whatsoever.  And the frustration continues to grow, as I now realize that we will be missing the entire beatification of JP2 -- that would be Pope John Paul II, née Karol Wojtyla, who died less than one week after I was received into the church.  Quite sad, one could say.  Or just simply, 'Rats!', which seems to be equally effective.

Woe is to me

Do you know, it has turned into sheer torture sitting in front of this blasted computer.  Because, as ridiculous as it sounds, it is windy -- kind of in the manner of a howling gale, only without the howling bit.  And it is right smack in my eyes, causing me to squint, or type with my eyes closed, and feeling generally downright miserable.

If you've been paying attention at all, you will know that I am an avid reader -- usually going for a new book every week or two.  As I write this, I am on page 302 of The Lacuna (by Barbara Kingsolver)**, and it has taken me weeks and weeks to get there.  I can't even read anymore, and to be perfectly frank, it is making me mad and extremely depressed.  My eyes are burning burning burning twenty four hours a day.  I'm at my wits end over here.

So I went to the doctor.  He looked me over (some quick procedure involving a very long cotton swab and a bright light, both of which went right in my eyes), and pronounced that every single duct in my eyes was clogged right up.  Well, what do you know?  He offered to fix the problem then and there, sitting alongside me and explaining it all in a very kindly manner.  I said 'sounds great', and then I immediately passed out.  I swear it's true.  One moment I am sitting there, minding my own business and freezing my tuchas off; the next I am trying to rip off my sweater as fast as I can, because I am covered with sweat and feeling a bit woozy (to say the least).  So I guess this means that I am officially 'one of those'.  I realize this is incredibly lame of me, and I have been quite disgusted and rather put out with myself ever since.  But there it is.

What's more was that they made me reschedule my cotton swab eyeball compression appointment because I was apparently not in the right state to continue on with it.  Right-o.  I went back for my second appointment a week later and did just fine -- seven o'clock in the morning, a healthy dose of valerian extract swimming in my system, and there I was.  The nasty procedure was done in less than ten minutes.  And I felt great for about a day and a half.  But wait, there's more. 

I called and said I had allergies something awful, 'and could you please prescribe a drop of some sort, pretty pretty please?'  And they said 'not a chance, instead we'd like you to rearrange your whole day and come back in'.  Fine.  Whatever.  So with Emilia in tow, I went in one afternoon and left an hour later with plugs.  Yes, that's right.  Plugs.  Some tiny things they squash into your eyes using a very long (and very menacing) silver pokey-thing.  I did not pass out this time, thank you very much, but am very glad that I had the presence of mind to have a nice valerian cocktail earlier.  (Oh, that stuff is a marvel!)  Anyway, Michael called when we were on our way out.  'Whatcha doing?'  'Leaving the eye doctor.  I got plugs.'  'What?  It sounded like you said plugs.'  And then he went from yelling about something or another to laughing at me for getting plugs.  Whatever.

Spelt and Yogurt Biscuits

Now then, if you happen to wake up one Saturday morning feeling slightly in the manner of a hippie genius, might I suggest whipping up a batch of these beauties?  The three of us ate them to our heart's content for breakfast, along with lots of butter, jam, and copious amounts of fresh fruit.  We also had cup after cup of coffee (for mama and dada), and a nice glass of milk (for Emilia)**.  I then froze the rest of the batch thinking I would pull them out later in the week, but ended up yanking them from the freezer late Saturday night for breakfast on Sunday.  (What can I say?  Sometimes the idea of cooking breakfast sounds like a royal pain in the arse, particularly when it is late at night and breakfast is not actually that far off.)  So we had them Sunday morning as well, then I had the last one for lunch a few hours later, and that was the end of our yummy biscuits. They were incredibly easy to make -- the dough is mixed entirely in the food processor, which makes them even easier than the scone recipe from Baking with Julia (my old stand-by).  But more importantly, they were so so good.  Julia Child's recipe is hands down the best scone recipe I've come across, but I'm sick to death of it and/or bored to tears by it.  So spelt and yogurt biscuits are completely where it's at for the moment -- not to mention being a very welcome diversion.

The recipe is from Heidi Swanson's new cookbook Super Natural Every Day, and after thumbing through it last week (it is hot off the presses, you know), I settled on the recipe for Yogurt Biscuits to try first, and the recipe on the cover to try next.  (I am always quite interested to know which recipe one chooses to do first in a brand new cookbook.  Odd, but there it is.  Could probably do all kinds of psycho-analysis just with that bit of information.  Or maybe not.  But still interesting, nonetheless.)  Anyway, the cookbook looks marvelous and I am so excited about it.  Usually I just check out her book called Super Natural Cooking from the library, but there is always such a long wait for it.  So a couple of months ago I got on Amazon's site thinking I would just buy my own copy of the damn thing already, when I saw that Miss Swanson had a new cookbook coming out-- rather soon, no less.  I immediately did the pre-order for it  (oh, how I do love a  pre-order!), and then I sat back and waited.  And waited and waited. 

Anyway, that's neither here nor there.  The book came, it looks fabulous, and this is the first recipe I did.

**Getting the girl to drink milk has turned into a nightmare -- she will only drink it if she thinks it is Michael's.  Michael, or dada for short, must then act like he is on the verge of having a bonafide tizzy fit because she is drinking all of his milk.  And yes, this act has been going on for months now.  How long does she expect us to keep it up, I wonder?  Until she is eighteen and has moved out of the house?  For hell's sake already.

Spelt and Yogurt Biscuits

1 ¼ cups spelt flour or whole what pastry flour
1 ¼ cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 ½ teaspoons fine-grain sea-salt (I used my regular kosher salt and will happily do it again because the sea-salt was too far in the back of the cupboard to be bothered)
1 tablespoon aluminum-free baking powder

½ cup unsalted butter, chilled and cut into cubes

1 ⅓ cup greek-style plain yogurt

Preheat the oven to 450ºF.  Place an ungreased baking sheet in the oven at the same time to preheat along with it. 

Combine the flours, salt, and baking powder in the bowl of the food processor.  Scatter the butter across the top and pulse about 20 times.  The mixture should look nice and sandy with a few lumps here or there.  Add the yogurt and pulse again until incorporated.  Go easily here because it is very easy to over-mix.  Gather the dough into a ball and place on a lightly floured surface.  Knead five times until the dough comes together.  Press the dough until it is about half an inch thick and a nice square.  Cut the dough in half.  Place one half on top of the other and press again.  Do this two more times -- cut in half, stack, and then press.  Add a bit more flour if necessary, just to avoid stickiness.  This stacking process will give the biscuits their nice flaky layers once they have baked, and goodness knows that's the whole point of biscuits.

Press (or roll) the dough into a ¾-inch rectangle.  (Any higher and the biscuits will bake tilted and wonky.)  Cut the dough into twelve equal biscuits.

Take the baking sheet out of the oven, quickly place the biscuits on it, spacing about 2 inches in-between, and then place back in the oven.  Bake for 15-18 minutes.  Both the tops and bottom will be nicely golden and look divine.  (Recipe from Super Natural Every Day by Heidi Swanson. Ten Speed Press, 2011.)  

Royal Wedding Tea

Ooh, lookee!  Look what I just got!  Er, what I mean to say is, what has become of me?  I mean, really -- who buys this crap?  (Actually, it would seem that loads of people buy it. Otherwise, why on earth would they sell it?*)  The funny thing is that the second I pulled it out of the box yesterday, I immediately plonked it on the counter for all to see.  'All' would be Michael -- the one who I knew full-well would openly make fun of me to his heart's content.  And he did not disappoint, I'll tell you that much.

Ordinarily this is just the sort of thing that I would tuck into the back of a closet somewhere and deny owning, or indeed, ever seeing before, all the while feeling quite pleased with myself for making the purchase.  You know how it is.  But for some reason I couldn't do it with my Royal Wedding Tea.  The tea in the fancy tin caddy is by Ahmad's of London, which is totally legit, and it is really quite good.  I know because I had some this morning.  And what's more, this was not a frivolous purchase.  I was actually in dire need of tea.  I've been out for a month now, couldn't be bothered driving to Metropolitan Market** for some more, and became an ardent coffee fan in the meantime.  And what's more, it only cost a buck or two more than the other teas I ordered.  My all-time favorite is actually Brodie's Famous Edinburgh, and I've discovered that I can order it in a mondo-sized-box.  After that, I've become a big fan of Bewley's (Irish Afternoon, in particular), also in mondo-size.  Yorkshire Gold has fallen way down on the list, on account of the fact that I am bored to tears with the stuff.  PG Tips I buy when I'm in a pinch, but the older I get the more bitter it seems to taste.  And not to sound too high-falutin, but it clearly is not the best quality.

And so, with that, I suppose I've indulged (and divulged) my inner anglophile-isms a bit too much.  But I stand by it.  After all, who doesn't like Will and Kate?***  He seems quite nice and she wears lovely boots.  And rumor has it that the doll made in her likeness is flying off the shelves.  Hmmm, maybe Emilia needs one?  Because, to be perfectly honest, there is something very American about the Middletons.  They are entirely self-made, which I find rather admirable and so very respectable.  They are not the worst role-models I've ever seen, that's for sure.  Ah, forget it.  I think we'll stick with Madeline and Mary Poppins for now.  But just make sure you keep me off the computer late at night, after a really long day and all that.  Because goodness knows I am capable of doing a lot of damage.  Or, at least as much damage as our already reeling checking account can take, which isn't much.  So we're safe for now.

* However, I do draw the line with the Royal Wedding fridge because that's just absurd.
     
**Metropolitan Market is one of the only shops around that sells strong British tea.  Whole Foods and PCC only have odd hippie tea, which is probably quite nice -- really healthy and all that crap, but I'm partial to my British stuff.

***My Chinese brother claims to never have heard of them before.  I told him that they were getting married on his birthday and he said, and I quote, 'Who?  Are you talking about that show?  Will and Grace or something?' 

Our Daily Constitutional

At the table this morning, Emilia and I sat eating our breakfast and staring at the grey drizzly day outside our window, when she said, 'It is almost about to get dark outside, mama! But we're awake!' So you see, all my complaints about grey days are not figments of my imagination. Our own daughter was convinced that at roughly 9:30 this morning (yes, we eat late, alright? -- what of it?) it was almost dark enough outside to be considered night time.

Yet, she still went on to say, 'Maybe we should go for a quick run!' 'But, Emilia, look outside! It's dark and it's raining!' She then countered with, 'But I have my cover, mama!' Fine. She makes a good point. And besides, I told her yesterday (same time, same place) that there was not a chance we were going running in that weather -- cover or no cover. Supposedly we got three inches of rain yesterday, and I'm no nit-wit. I can handle a little rain, but not the bouncing off the roads kind-of rain. It makes for very wet running shoes, don't you know? Or, rather, very muddy running shoes when we make our way up the path by the horses. And we always have to go that way -- it is a nice little hill to nearly knock me flat, with loads of bumps and branches and such (a bit like off-roading, I suppose), and we usually stop for a second at the top so she can get a nice view and we practice our Spanish:
'How do you say horse in Spanish again?'
'I dunno.'
'Yes, you do!'
'I dunno.'
'Caballo! For pete's sake, it's CABALLO! Say hola caballo.'
'Hola caballo. Adios caballo.'
'Now, how do you say horse in Spanish?'
'I dunno.'
And we are off again. To see the chickens and the goat, but we don't stop then unless she really begs, because we ain't out for no nature walk. We are out for a run.

It is fabulous, though, having just discovered the beauty of a cover on the jogger. (It's actually called a Weather Shield for the Bob joggers -- I ordered it on-line while in Oregon with my mom and David before Emilia was even a year old -- and officially just pulled it out of the wrap last week.  Ahem, moving on.)  Typically I get the girl bundled up to the high heavens, because it gets cold out there.  You know, hat, gloves, coat, sweater, blanket, snack, drink, St. Gerard, Mary Magdalene, garage door opener, and anything else we can possibly squeeze into the thing.  We're like an armoire on wheels.  But accoutrements aside, I am officially pushing a third of my body weight in the thing.  I find this is an excellent way to justify my rather slow pace.  Or maybe the slow pace is on account of the fact that I let my husband load up my i-pod with songs he claimed would be great for running. (I've created a play-list for you.  It's all ready to go!')  Here I am running down the street, all excited to have new songs to add to my list of tiresome songs that really need to be replaced, and what I get is -- er, well, not exactly running songs.  I've been referring to them as sex jams, but you can call them what you will.  I called him on the carpet for it, all the while doing a demonstration of the ridiculous running one would likely have to do while listening to them, and all he says it, 'I'm no idiot.'  So I guess it will be back to Eminem for me.  Oh, and Michael is no longer allowed to touch my i-pod.

And so, right when we get home, and the chance that there is nary a raindrop in sight, we quickly take Governor on a walk.  (He, rather annoyingly, refuses to take one step outside if it is raining.)  The jogger goes back in the garage, along with all its trappings, and we head out.  Governor pulling this way and that, and Emilia either running as fast as she can in front of me saying, 'Now I'm going for a quick run, too!'; or, trailing after Governor and lifting her leg in a very rude manner, pretending to be said dog, laughing so hard she nearly falls over.  But there it is, the daily constitutional.  And if not daily, I suppose it should be.

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.