FOOD ON THE FOOD

Wedding Cakes Aren't Just for Weddings

Who got married? Nobody, yet. I'm making a wedding cake for a friend in November and let's just say I need a little practice. I've never made a wedding cake before. I've never had any desire to make a wedding cake before. But you do crazy things for friends, so I thought I'd better do a few test runs so I don't ruin her wedding by mistake. (Sure, she says she doesn't care how it looks—only how it tastes—but take it from the woman who ended up buying two wedding dresses because she thought, who cares about the stupid dress? You WILL care. You'll care a lot.)



Test Run No. 1 was last week's Waltham Fields fundraiser. They needed dessert to feed a crowd and I needed someone to eat 100 pieces of cake—someone that's not me—so it worked out well. Since it was a farm fundraiser, I stuck to vegetable-themed cakes, for which I have many awesome recipes if I do say so myself. The bottom tier was carrot cake, the middle tier was chocolate beet cake, and the top tier was butternut squash cake, all slathered in cream cheese frosting. Waltham Fields donated all the veggies. I donated many, many curse words as I attempted to assemble the whole impossibly heavy thing and then fit it into my refrigerator.



The process of baking the cakes went fine, though six cakes in one day was a new record for me. The assembly is what takes forever. You have to trim the cakes to be perfectly flat and level, shaving off microscopic crumbly layers over and over because you keep making things worse. You have to whip up at least five batches of frosting. Each tier is a double layer cake, so you fill and frost two stacked cakes for each tier. (Some bakers cut each layer in half horizontally so each tier has four layers, but I was suicidal enough as it was. Plus, that's the wrong frosting-to-cake ratio in this case.)



I like to apply a crumb coat to layer cakes, which means you apply a really thin coat of frosting all over to trap the crumbs and then refrigerate the cake until the frosting stiffens to lock them in. Then you can apply a final crumb-free coat afterwards. Sounds easy, right? NOT!!! It's really hard to get the frosting to be completely flat and wrinkle-free. It doesn't want to be that way at all. Every time you lift up your icing spatula, it leaves a mark. And every time you set it down to erase the previous mark, it leaves another mark. It's an endless maddening cycle, but, whatever, I did the best I could.

Here's the real problem, though. Once you get all of your cakes nicely frosted and you're feeling fairly proud of yourself, how the fuck do you then stack 20-pound cakes on top of each other, all perfectly centered, without leaving draggy marks in your nice frosting job as you pull your fingers out from underneath? Can somebody please tell me? Because I'd really love to know.

God.

The other problem was that the finished cake was so heavy, I literally could not lift it. I couldn't do it! You may remember how much trouble I had carrying a regular-sized carrot cake a short distance last year. I've been working out, I swear, but the cakes keep getting bigger. I don't know how much this cake weighed (my kitchen scale doesn't go up that high), but here's a quick estimate based on the ingredients I used: 10 pounds of sugar, 5 pounds of cream cheese, 4 pounds of butter, 4 pounds of vegetables, 3 pounds of flour, 2 pounds of oil, 2 pounds of eggs, 1 pound of nuts, 1 pound of chocolate, and the board weighed 3 pounds. If I know simple arithmetic, that means the cake must have weighed at least 455 pounds. Luckily, Husband is strong. (I'm pretty sure he was sore the next day, but he'll never admit it.)

Here's another thing I learned: disassembling and serving wedding cakes is an unbelievably messy process. There's a reason why they take the cakes in the back to slice them: There's cake and frosting flying all over the place. I think the caterers who observed my amateur cake-wrangling skills were horrified. Once you take the tiers apart to slice them (and you need to do that or else you'll end up with an engineering disaster), the frosting in between the tiers gets suctioned right off by the cake directly above it. That means half the pieces end up with no frosting at all. Mind you, I had a GIANT bowl of leftover frosting back at the house that I could have used, but I didn't think I'd need it. None of my Wedding Cakes for Dummies books I took out of the library mentioned the bald cake part. They were all, bring a little frosting for last-minute touchups!, so I brought my little sandwich baggie of frosting that I then had to smear across 45 pieces of cake in a nearly invisible layer.

This is why you need test runs.

Anyway, all three layers were moist and delicious, and the cake as a whole didn't come out half as hideous as I thought it would be. I went for the rustic, spackled look, as you can see, adding a little texture to the sides to hide imperfections. I should probably practice piping frosting embellishments one of these days, but, for now, I'm just glad I have another 3 or 4 months before I have to do this all over again for Test Run No. 2.

(and, if you're wondering, no, those are not Martha Stewart's stupid truffle eggs. They're Jordan almonds, the ubiquitous Italian wedding favors, which just happen to work perfectly for springtime cakes.)

Sprout 2013

I think we could all use a party to lift our spirits, don't you? If you happen to be in the Boston area, Waltham Fields Community Farm is having their annual fundraising fete this Friday 4/26 at the Charles River Museum of Industry. There will be local food, wine, music, and a silent auction for all kinds of great stuff, like restaurant gift certificates, local art, shares at nearby farms, and sports tickets. It's like eBay but for a good cause (and what you buy doesn't turn out to be a piece of crap!).

This year, the food will be prepared by JJ Gonson and friends of Cuisine En Locale, and I will be making some kind of giant cake for dessert. What kind of cake? Well, I guess you'll have to come to find out. It's always a good time. For more information or to buy tickets, click here.

After the Boston Marathon Bombing

I'm still processing all that happened here in Boston over the past week, from the tragic bombings that killed three and wounded nearly 200 300 at one of the country's most historic and beloved sporting events, to the shoot-out in my old Watertown neighborhood that began with the murder of a young police officer and led to the death of one bombing suspect, to the subsequent lock-down of our community as the second suspect was eventually, thankfully apprehended. I'm still in a daze of anguish, confusion, and relief.

I attempted to write something about this several times last week, but none of it came out right. A long moment of silence seemed more appropriate. Now, as I sift through all of the facts and personal feelings that come out of a tragedy so close to home, I'm left with more questions than answers. I've been a fanatical spectator of the Boston Marathon for as long as I can remember, cheering myself hoarse almost every year (this year, we decided to take an extra day to visit family instead). For me, Marathon Monday is a day to celebrate our independent spirit and for people from all over the world to come together and reward each other's personal perseverance. It's an event where the spectators are every bit as important as the runners themselves. In fact, I would argue that the Boston Marathon is less about actually fulfilling a dream as it is about the dream itself. Maybe your dream has nothing to do with running 26.2 miles, but you can bet that after the full-on love fest that is your average Boston Marathon, you'll be inspired to challenge yourself in your own way.

What I want to know is this: Of all the goals to aspire to when education and opportunity are on your side, what kind of twisted, tortured mind only strives to maim and kill innocent men, women, and children?

I'm so proud of the way law enforcement and our community spontaneously— and rather improvisationally—came together for the common good, but my heart still feels such loss. Like most people I know, I'm torn between the need to grieve and empathize and the need to carry on with my daily life. Maybe there's a way to do both? Every single year after the Boston Marathon, I start running again. It doesn't matter how ineptly I go about that task or for how long. I do it not because I want to run the Boston Marathon; I'm content to watch the race from the sidelines. I run for two reasons: because it makes me stronger, and because I believe in dreams. This year, I'll add a third reason. I'll run for those who are recovering from their greatest challenge, yet. I know others will be running for them, too—probably every single person hoofing along the Charles and huffing through neighborhoods across the nation, in fact.

I hope the injured will still keep the dreams they're so entitled to, even if it takes a little longer or a different path to achieve them. It's pretty clear that everyone in this whole fucking city will be cheering them on every step of the way.

To donate to the victims of the Boston Marathon bombings and aftermath, please visit OneFundBoston.org.

Peeping Tom

This is where I do all my cooking. Light streams in through the window above the counter, and I like to look out at the woods as I'm going about my preparations.

I looked up the other day and this is what I saw.

A male turkey in full display staring right at me.

I see wild turkeys in the yard all the time. There's a substantial slope back there, so the turkeys are right at eye level. Sometimes they stop and peer in at me, especially if the windows are open and I'm making a racket. I'll be singing to myself and suddenly I'll look up to see a turkey or two staring back at me looking even more confused than usual. Everybody's a critic.

But this time the windows were closed and I wasn't singing. Mr. Turkey was pacing back and forth, staring at me through the window, clearly agitated, tail feathers straining. Can he tell I'm making chicken? Is there a poultry alliance I'm not aware of? I continued chopping my vegetables. Meanwhile, he proceeded with his very important turkey business, whatever that might be, which appeared to involve nothing but pacing and staring at me through the window for 15 more minutes. I searched his beady eyes. Is he mistaking me for a suitable mate? He continued pacing and staring, pacing and staring, tail feathers fanned and vibrating. I cranked open the window and yelled out: Shoo, Turkey! I'm not available!

That only seemed to encourage him. Typical.

Then I went into another room to get a better look. There she was: a female turkey perched on a fallen tree a short distance away. She had been out of view of the kitchen window. She was preening herself nonchalantly. Clearly the show wasn't intended for me at all.

I'll admit I was a little disappointed. That was the most male attention I'd gotten all week.

Parsnip Soup and Righteous Clichés

I have a milestone birthday coming up this year, like many of my friends. And as much as I'll be glad to reach it, I'm also bummed out about this whole aging thing.

You know what I'm talking about. Back in high school, everything is poised to get better. The braces will be pried off soon. The glasses can be traded in for contact lenses, maybe even the kind that turn your muddy eyes a cool shade of aquamarine like a mood ring. You're finally easing up on all the Aqua Net (step away from the can of hairspray, Tammy). The ugly duckling becomes a swan and all that crap. Meanwhile, you're making a little cash throwing together sandwiches on the weekends and you feel real smart with that diploma in your hand.

The world is yours for the taking!

In high school, you can't wait for college. In college, you look forward to getting out of college because all this studying is putting a damper on your social life. Plus, you want a fun job with a decent paycheck. You want a mode of transportation besides your own two feet. Dates at fancy restaurants. A place to live that's not a dump. Vacations. Soon you have some stuff, and you like your stuff, but you want something more. You want love. You want a family of your own. Then you get a family of your own and, for the whole first year, you can't believe what a horrible mistake you've made. No more dates at fancy restaurants. Your place becomes a dump. Vacations take on an entirely new and unwelcome meaning. Sometimes you wish you'd just stayed home.

But then you learn to stop being so selfish all the time and things gets better. Your family becomes your whole life. Does anyone else have kids as awesome as yours? NO WAY! IMPOSSIBLE! And then you realize something. Your kids are halfway through their childhood already. They're going to spend the whole second half hating you. And then they're going to leave.

They say you get better with age, but in what way specifically? Nicer? I don't think so. If anything, I'm getting more crotchety and even less charitable behind the wheel of a car. Wiser? Uh-uh. By my calculations, I'm getting stupider by the day. I've always been a wee bit forgetful, but this is ridiculous. I left my coat somewhere last week. At the library? At Walgreens? Where? How did I not notice my coat was missing? True, it felt colder, but all that ran through my head was: That's New England for you. One minute you're toasty warm in your nice winter jacket and the next minute you're shivering by the parking meters fumbling for change while the icy wind sucker punches you in the spleen and there's no logical explanation for it whatsoever. (I still haven't found it, by the way. My coat. It's puffy and gray with a big hood.)

The other night I looked in the mirror and realized that it's all downhill from here. This is as smart/healthy/attractive as I will ever be for the whole rest of my life. And, I'll be honest, the bar didn't seem very high.

Is this what a midlife crisis looks like?

Spring Parsnip Soup     

This recipe is stupefyingly simple. I don't even use stock anymore, just water. It's silky and surprisingly sweet. Snip a few chives on top and you have something tasty and healthful to warm you up on a chilly spring day when your coat is nowhere to be found.

1 Tbsp. unsalted butter
1 medium onion, chopped
2 celery stalks, chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
3 cups water (or veggie stock)
1 pound parsnips, peeled, cored*, diced
Salt and pepper

Melt the butter in a medium saucepan over medium-low heat. Sauté the chopped onion and celery for 4 to 5 minutes until soft and translucent. Don't let the vegetables brown. Add the garlic and sauté for 15 seconds until fragrant. Add the water or stock and the parsnips. Bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer until the parsnips are soft, 15 to 20 minutes. Let cool and purée in a blender or with a stick blender until perfectly smooth. Season with salt and pepper. Serves 2 or 3. The recipe can be doubled (just be sure to purée the soup in half-batches if using a blender).

*Some parsnips have a woody central core that runs from top to bottom. To remove it, I usually just slice the peeled sides right off the core, which is a slightly different color. (Then chop up the sides and discard the core.) But if you're not sure exactly where or how big the core is, you can also quarter the parsnip the long way. Then you can see it a lot better. Just trim along the interior edge of each quarter with a paring knife to remove it.

Springtime and Rhubarb Crisp

So far this spring, we've had very little in the way of April showers and lots in the way of freezing cold Arctic blasts that take your breath away. But I know you're coming, Spring. I know it because the snow piles have finally receded, exposing all the computer monitors that have been dumped in the woods behind our house, sun glinting off the screens at various times of day. I also know because the turkey vultures have returned to roost back there, as they do every year around this time, lured by rumors of carrion and free wifi.

But it's the appearance of rhubarb in the markets that truly announces warmer days ahead. Nothing says spring like weird pink vegetables. I made this ginger-laced rhubarb crisp for Easter weekend as the mercury inched past sixty degrees. The first real taste of spring!

I'm ready for more.


Rhubarb Ginger Crisp     

Bracing and bright, these two flavors were made for each other. You want fresh ginger here, not ground.

1-1/2 pounds rhubarb, cut into 1-inch pieces
1 Tbsp. minced fresh ginger
1-1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 cup all-purpose flour
Pinch of salt
4 ounces (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C). Butter the inside of a 9-inch pie plate or 8x8-inch baking dish.

Combine the rhubarb, ginger and 1 cup of the sugar in the prepared dish. Set aside.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, salt, and the remaining 1/4 cup of sugar. Cut the butter into the dry ingredients with your fingers (pinching the butter into smaller and smaller pieces) or using a pastry blender until the mixture resembles a coarse meal flecked with pea-sized pieces of butter (you can also do this in a food processor). Scatter the mixture over the rhubarb.

Bake for about 1 hour and 15 minutes, or until the top is golden brown and the rhubarb juices are bubbly. Remove from the oven and let it cool slightly. Serve warm with vanilla ice cream.

Source: Adapted from The Country Cooking of Ireland by Colman Andrews.

Business Time

Look at me all professional! I just made myself some sweet business cards through MOO even though I'm not sure what I do here constitutes legitimate business. But, hey, as long as you guys keep showing up, they might let me keep writing books and if that's not the awesomest business plan, I don't know what is.

In my earlier professional life, I was always too shy to give out business cards, if I had any at all. Perhaps I was worried people would be intimidated by my high-powered career titles like Administrative Sorceress. Executive Ass-Kicker. Editorial Ninja. Kung Fu Fact Checker. Trust me, the last thing you want in your entry-level position is someone with strong opinions about serial commas and an overactive sense of justice.

The truth is, I was more afraid that if I gave out my real business cards, which sadly never reflected the appropriate amount of badassery I brought to the table, somebody would immediately ask me for a cup of coffee. Because even though technically people weren't supposed to do that anymore, they still did. I wonder if that's why I never developed a coffee habit? Because I got so sick of grown adults asking me to get them coffee when they already knew where the kitchen was and they presumably learned how to pour their own beverages at some point in their hazy past. Can't you see I'm too busy with this very important filing to get you coffee? If these dumb forms don't get filed in the right place, you're not going to be able to find them later and who's going to have to deal with your caffeine-fueled rage? Me!

You know what nobody likes? An admin assistant with fricking attitude.

Ah, but soon I'll be a published author with fricking attitude. A published author who can't make a decent cup of coffee, but who, despite the state of the rest of the house, has the neatest files you've ever seen. (And business cards!)

Summer Dreaming

So, what'll you have today, good sirs and madams? 

(Photo taken at Wells Hollow Creamery in Shelton, Connecticut. Their flavor descriptions are here if you're having trouble deciding what you want on your imaginary ice cream cone.)