Daily Cake: Berry Buttermilk

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who could happily eat cake every single day, and those who save it for special occasions. I am of the eat cake today! variety, though I aspire to be a bit more measured in my approach to slabs of the soft, dense, sweet stuff.

(Of course I also hope to have enough family, children, friends, and hangers-on around that I could make magnificent cakes with piles of frosting weekly, and they would all disappear with me only having eaten the perfect bite or two. But that's a big fantasy....) 

Perhaps it is the seasons starting to change, but my hunger for cake has been pronounced. It has taken all forms: birthday cake, chocolate cake, muffins, tea cakes, pillowy scones. And most days, I've given in. It's been a bit of a carbohydrate fueled dream around here, though I've tried to slice a peach on top and call it shortcake, or douse a slice with ice cream just for good, summery measure.

Here is the cake that started it all: a Berry Buttermilk Cake borrowed from 101 Cookbooks. I made it for a friend's birthday picnic, and was purposefully restrained in my approach to this celebratory number. We were moving from picnic and wine tasting to dinner, and I knew there'd be a gussied up, candle flecked chocolate number to steal the show at the end of the night.

I wanted something vaguely sweet, that could sit alongside bread and cheese, and not mar the final sips of wine. Oh, and it had to travel well, because no one likes a cake that shows up slumped and tired looking.

This cake fit the bill -- and almost fit it too well. It is a decidedly every day cake. It begs for a dressing of some sort: I dreamed of whole milk yogurt, ice cream, or whipped cream would do too. Far from showy, it is a stable cake, more like a large, stoic scone than a dense, moist buttermilk shortcake.

I carried home half the cake at the end of the night, and the next day is where I discovered the glory of it all: crumbled on top of my morning yogurt, a slender slice mid afternoon, even a bite or two before dinner.

An every day cake! Eat cake every day? Yes!

Berry Buttermilk Cake, Adapted slightly from 101 Cookbooks. 

2 1/2 cups whole wheat pastry flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 cup fine-grain natural cane sugar (or brown sugar)
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
1 cup buttermilk
1/4 cup butter, melted and cooled a bit
zest of 2 lemons
1 cup + berries (mixed or strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, alone. The berries add some needed moisture, so don't go too over the top, but be liberal. You'll be glad.)
3 tablespoons large grain raw sugar

Preheat oven to 400F degrees, racks in the middle. Grease and flour (or line bottom with parchment paper) one 11-inch tart/quiche/pie pan.
Combine the flour, baking powder, and sugar and salt in a large bowl. In a separate smaller bowl whisk together the eggs and the buttermilk, whisk in the melted butter, and the lemon zest. Pour the buttermilk mixture over the flour mixture and stir until just combined - try not to over mix.
Spoon the batter into the prepared pan, pushing out toward the edges. Now drop the berries across top. Sprinkle with the large grain sugar. Bake for about 20-25 minutes or until cake is set (or a toothpick in the center comes out clean), and a touch golden on top.
Heidi estimates it serves 12, in my opinion that was ambitious, unless your heaping on ice cream or dealing with light sweet eaters.

Plum Jam

It was a huge luxury to be able to ignore nearly everything in my life in favor of finishing the manuscript of my first book. But now I’m discovering the dark side of such irresponsibility: I’m disorganized in a way I’ve never been. I’ve missed phone calls, birthdays, anniversaries, and gotten numerous parking tickets.

And then there’s the plums.

Every summer for several years I’ve made jam. Usually it is berry based: strawberry, golden raspberry, ollallieberry. But early summer and berry season blew by, and all of a sudden it was late summer and the season of stone fruit.

I bought several pounds of Santa Rosa plums at the farmer’s market, and set them in a bowl to ripen. A couple of days passed; then a few more. Soon it had been over one week since I’d purchased the plums. If I didn’t do something with them soon, it would be twenty dollars of produce wasted.

It was no longer about wanting to make jam. I had to make jam. I trudged to the hardware store in the San Francisco cold for canning supplies, cursing my industrious nature.

But then I got home. I sliced the plums, sprinkled them with sugar, and set them aside to macerate. I gathered the necessary tools, prepared my jars, then placed the plums on the stove to cook. I’d forgotten how easy it was to make jam. And if you’re dealing with small amounts of fruit, it’s quick, too.

Yet in a busy world, jam making is also pleasantly slow. As I waited for the fruit to turn into jam, I stared out the window in my sun room and read part of a book. I realized my list was just that -- a list. There would always be more to do. No matter how quickly I crossed something off, there would always be something to replace it. And being overwhelmed? It’s just a function of being a grownup. I have so many things to do and so many things I care about, I simply can’t find time for it all.

But that jam: purple and sweet, but with plenty of natural tart, was delicious. And that day of making it was one of the best of the entire summer. My few jars are an important reminder of my summer: its harried days, unfinished lists, and, at the end of the season, the importance of doing a few things just for me. 

Plum Jam
2 pounds small plums, pitted and cut into 1/2-inch wedges
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 lemon, seeded

In a large, nonreactive saucepan, toss the plums with the sugar and let stand, stirring occasionally, until the sugar is mostly dissolved, about 1 hour.

Squeeze the lemon over the plums, add it to the saucepan and bring to a boil, stirring until the sugar is dissolved. Cook over moderate heat, stirring, until the liquid runs off the side of a spoon in thick, heavy drops, 20 to 25 minutes. Skim off any scum that rises to the surface of the jam.

Discard the lemon and spoon the plum jam into three 1/2-pint jars, leaving about 1/4 inch of space at the top. Close the jars and let the jam cool to room temperature. Store the jam in the refrigerator for up to 3 months. Alternately, you can cook the jam till it is set, ladle into clean, well- prepared jars, and process in a water bath. Then the jam will keep in the cupboard for about a year. 

Makes three, 12 ounce jars, plus a little more for tasting. 

August Panzanella: cooking without a map

The other day I heard someone say that they started every meal by walking into the kitchen and asking themselves "what do I have?" This is an idea I love. This is also, I realize, how I cook. 

It didn't used to be. I used to plan everything. Each meal required multiple recipes, and if I needed a teaspoon of fresh chopped thyme, I'd get it, or save the recipe for another time.

Now I'm on a shoestring budget. Often it doesn't matter what I'm in the mood for. I need to use what I've already invested in, stretching the contents of the fridge and pantry into something that will satisfy. Sometimes I can make something out of nothing. The other week it was a light dinner of sauteed patty pan squash, torn basil leaves, and goat cheese.

This cooking without a map is a coveted skill, and one I am proud to hone. And what gives me the most delight are the meals I cook up that are even better than what I could make if I had all the money in the world.

Really good panzanella is made with chunks of good bread that has been fried lightly in olive oil and then tossed immediately with tomatoes, basil, mozzarella, and greens. The other times I've made panzanella its been underwhelming, in part because I haven't been willing to douse my pan with shimmering pools of olive oil.

Panzanella does not usually call for bacon. But I had good bacon and was feeding a fellow with a bottomless pit stomach. The addition of bacon to my panzanella made me think that I could fry my bread in the bacon grease. It was a decadent and daring idea. It was also something that made me slightly squeamish: all that fat! All that grease!

I did it anyway, deciding I only lived once and that summer would be over soon, taking with it any hope of frying bread in bacon grease again. I tossed everything together at just the right moment, dressing it quickly and serving it in its hot meets cold, salty meets sweet, crunchy meets creamy, perfection. I couldn't have planned it any better.

There isn't really a recipe -- do you really need a recipe to make a salad? -- but here's what I used:
2 large heirloom tomatoes; I like big juicy bites
a handful of fresh basil leaves, torn
2 medium sized mozzarella balls, cut into chunks
2 cupfuls of arugula
5 slices bacon
1/2 of a five day old baguette, hacked into crouton sized hunks
leftover sweet onion vinaigrette from the epic savory peach salad
salt and pepper

Sweet onion vinaigrette:
1/2 small sweet onion
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar (the best you've got, it's worth it)
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
2 tablespoons olive oil
juice of 1/4 lemon
Slice the onion in quarters and cut into very delicate rings. Place in a small bowl. Add vinegars, olive oil, and lemon juice to the onion bowl, stir and let sit while you prepare the salad, stirring occasionally. I like to make this a few hours in advance, if time allows. The flavors mellow. 

Combine tomato chunks, basil, mozzarella, and arugula in a large bowl. Set aside.
Fry bacon in skillet till it is nice and crispy. Remove to plate lined with paper towel and allow to drain.
Fry croutons in all that bacon grease. If your bacon isn't very greasy, you might add some olive oil.
When bread is hot and crispy, add to salad and toss, seasoning with salt, pepper, and vinaigrette.
Panzanella is one of summer's greatest pleasures. Enjoy.

Peaches + Pleasure

I have been thinking a lot about pleasure lately, and how it is connected to food. Sure, we eat because we have to. But we also eat because it tastes good. This is especially true in summertime, when the produce is popping and the colors at the market stun with their rainbow hues.

But a cold summer in San Francisco has taught me a lot about how food pleasure is intimately tied to our other senses. It's been cold here. My sweaters and jeans are lined up on my closet shelf, and there's always a scarf in my handbag. Last week I found myself eating tomato soup and grilled cheese on a Monday in July. I've never been a fan of exceedingly hot temperatures, but the injustice of a wintery meal on what should be a warm summer night was too much.

The next day I visited the farmer's market stand and bought pounds of peaches, white corn, a huge bunch of basil and a bag of arugula. I would bring summer to San Francisco with a meal that screamed hot days and equally warm nights. We would eat salad for dinner, even if we had to freeze doing it.

I felt a little guilty as I sliced peaches and tore basil leaves on a cold, gray night. It was almost as if I had paid to have extravagant treats shipped from warm corners of the world, not purchased produce from just a few miles away.

But as it all came together: peaches, corn, basil, arugula, bacon, feta, onions and rich balsamic and olive oil, I got more and more excited. The peaches were juicy, and the corn slipped off the cob. It was summer, somewhere, and we were going to feast.

I don't know how to describe the sound that left my date's mouth when he took a bite of the salad. Let's  just say it was indecent -- the sort that got M.F.K. Fisher sent away from the table as a very young girl.

It reminded me that sometimes we should eat what we want to eat -- tomato soup and grilled cheddar cheese -- and sometimes we should eat something delicious and extravagant no matter what the cost and inconvenience.

Eating peaches, basil, and corn hardly seems revolutionary, but on that night, it was. It was cold outside, wintery gray with a brisk breeze. The food brought indescribable, decadent and summery pleasure.

This is what food and cooking (and being human) is all about, I think. And it's how I want to eat and live every day: like I deserve to really enjoy the food I put in my body.

I found the recipe for this savory peach salad at Pithy and Cleaver, one of my favorite sites. I only made a few decadent tweaks:

1/2 small sweet onion
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar (the best you've got, it's worth it)
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
2 tablespoons olive oil
juice of 1/4 lemon
3 ears of corn, shucked
3 peaches (large)
small bunch arugula
1/2 cup torn basil leaves
4 strips of bacon
3/4 cup cubed feta
salt and pepper
Slice the onion in quarters and cut into very delicate rings. Place in a small bowl. Add vinegars, olive oil, and lemon juice to the onion bowl, stir and let sit while you prepare the salad, stirring occasionally. Cut corn kernels off the cob into a large salad bowl. Cut peaches in one-inch squares and add to salad bowl. Wash arugula well and add, along with basil leaves. Cook bacon until crisp and crumble or dice. Add bacon and feta to the salad, then the onions and their liquid. Toss well. Add salt and pepper to taste and serve immediately.
Perfect for 2-3 as a main dish, or more as a side. 

Notes: Use the best ingredients possible: farmer's market produce and great balsamic. It makes a difference.
I didn't use all the dressing and found it kept in the fridge nicely and was perfect for a salad redux the next night.
I upped the bacon and cheese. Decadent, I know, but that was the point.