Making Do with Wacky Cake circa 1944

“That’s wacky, Ma.”

Henry Birch watched doubtfully as his mother dug three craters into a dry mixture of flour, sugar, cocoa, baking soda and salt that she’d just whisked together in a greased glass baking pan.

“What do you mean, honey?” asked Edna Birch.

“We’ve got no eggs, Ma. You can’t make a cake without eggs.”

“Rationing has made things tough,” said Edna. “No eggs. No butter. I used to make such lovely, tall cakes when you were in elementary school.”

“I hate rationing,” moaned Henry. “I thought I liked Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, but we eat it all the time.”

“It’s very thrifty,” said Edna in her “practical homemaker” voice. “We only need one rationing coupon for the blue box and it feeds the entire family.”

Henry shrugged out of his varsity sweater and continued to watch as Edna measured melted shortening into the large crater and spooned white vinegar and vanilla extract into each of the small craters. She then poured a cup of water on top of it all, and quickly mixed it into a thick, lumpy, chocolaty batter.

“That looks like a mess,” said Henry unflinchingly. “Are you really gonna get a cake out of that, Ma?”

Edna smiled patiently. “Trust your mother, Henry. The vinegar and baking soda react together. It’s what makes the cake rise up. Wacky, huh?” She slid the cake into the hot oven.

“Just like chemistry class,” mused Henry.

About a half-an-hour later, she pulled the square cake from the oven, dusted it with powdered sugar and cut a slice for Henry. He savored the deep chocolate taste and light texture.

“Delicious, Ma. Thanks for doing your part for the war effort. Now, is it okay if I meet Betty down at the Bijou? They’re showing “Lassie Come Home.”

“Speaking of everyone doing their part, have you done the work in the Victory Garden like I asked you?”

Henry glanced at the bold-faced headline stretched across the copy of the New York Daily News that was neatly folded on the kitchen table – “100,000 Allied Troops Invade Normandy.”

Maybe the Bijou could wait. He snatched up the gardening gloves and headed for the back door. The family was counting on him for dinner. There was lettuce and red radishes waiting to be picked. After all, everyone has to do their part.

Author’s Note:

Wacky Cake is said to have been named for its unconventional mixing method – the use of oil, vanilla and vinegar, poured into different wells in the dry mix and then combined at the very last minute with water right in the baking pan. The reaction of the vinegar and the baking soda gives the cake its lift, without the need for eggs. The Old Foodie explored the virtues of Wacky Cake, with this recipe during her Week of Cakes last February.

According to “America’s Best Lost Recipes” (2007), during World War II when fresh dairy ingredients were scarce, American women invented economic, “make-do” cake recipes that achieved similar results without traditional rising agents.

Wacky Cake is an ideal pantry cake. I had almost everything on hand, it took minutes to assemble and was out of the oven in 30 minutes. It actually reminded me of another “quick cake” from my youth, “The Snackin Cake” that was marketed by Betty Crocker, and as I recall, only required the addition of oil to the dry cake mix.

The cake is surprisingly moist – rich like a brownie – but much lighter and simply adorned with powdered sugar. It is a perfect, make-ahead picnic cake, and I made the Wacky Cake for our pre-Memorial Day indoor office picnic that was cooked up by our intrepid associates Ms. Zany and the belle, Mad Me-Shell.

Zany contributed her signature Macaroni Salad, sweet and savory with a touch of mustard:

Mad Me-Shell made the most amazing slow cooked pulled pork – better than anything you could find in Tennessee – nicely soused with Jack Daniel’s Barbeque Sauce:

And, a mysterious benefactor – who hardly ever darkens the door of a kitchen – conjured up the world’s best deviled eggs, richly seasoned with curry:

It was all in honor of GH, our sunny, optimistic and extremely capable colleague who is heading south for new opportunities. We will miss her, and wish her the best!

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Northeast Boy Finds Love, Peace and Chicken Grease in Memphis

Fat sizzles in the fry pan and the Blues sizzle on Beale Street in Memphis.

I have to admit, I’m a neophyte when it comes to Southern cooking, although I’ve managed to do an admirable job of self-education when it comes to baking with Jack Daniels.

I’ve got twenty-four hours in Memphis with just enough free time to check out the local cuisine. My guide on this culinary odyssey is Dan McCleary, a Shakespearean actor whose work I’ve closely followed for more than a decade. Dan has played the Bard’s greatest roles - Coriolanus, Richard III, Mark Antony, Falstaff and MacBeth. A native of Memphis, he’s back on his home turf for what may well be his greatest role – establishing a permanent Shakespeare company in the state, The Tennessee Shakespeare Company.

We walk past horse drawn carriages and hang a right onto historic Beale Street where the preponderance of neon signs dazzles the eyes. The Blues were born on Beale Street in the honky-tonks at the dawn of the 20th century. Although it is a weekday evening, the street is teaming with activity and there is a perceptible haze, which may, or may not be my jet lag. It is the annual Barbeque Fest and down on the Mississippi, pigs are roasting on slow burning fires and hordes of folks are on round-the-clock grill duty.

Dan has a jovial laugh worthy of Falstaff, and he seems to be enjoying his return to his Southern roots. He has promised the ultimate Memphis food experience. “You have to visit Miss Polly’s,” Dan says. “It’s the best fried food in Memphis.” We walk into Miss Polly’s Soul City Café. Above the door is a neon sign with a plump, matronly hen inviting us to enter and eat and eat and eat…

Inside, we are in a long narrow room and are hit by a blast of humid air and the aroma of a seasoned hot skillet. The walls are decorated with photos of the great Blues artists. We take a seat at the Ray Charles table. On the back wall is Miss Polly’s slogan: “Love, Peace and Chicken Grease.” That kind of says it all. We’re not here for health food – but we will definitely feel the love.

Our server is Jules, a petite woman with sleek, long auburn hair and a porcelain complexion. We order a couple of cold Pabst Blue Ribbons, which Dan devotedly describes as “nectar of the Red Neck.” Jules brings large plastic cups, but we’re classy guys and we drink from the cans.

The menu is a thing of beauty – fried food as far as the eye can see. The first course arrives, and it is a Southern classic – fried green tomatoes. Translucent, emerald-colored slices of tomato are coated in a delicate cornmeal batter with a peppery bite.

“It’s poor people food,” says Dan. “You didn’t wait for the tomatoes to get ripe, because you had to eat. Frying in cornmeal made it taste better.” Indeed, the tender crunch of the seasoned cornmeal is at first rough and hot on the tongue and then dissolves into sweet, pulpy tomato. Sweet and spicy is the preferred taste combo in the South, according to Dan.

My entrée arrives, and it confirms his culinary hypothesis. I’ve ordered the “Hen House,” a platter that includes a humongous hunk of crispy, batter-fried chicken breast, a waffle the size of a Frisbee topped with butter and maple syrup and a side of Hoppin’ John, an old slave dish of black-eyed peas, slab bacon and hot red pepper. Do I feel like a fox or what? Believe it or not, I’ve been conservative in my menu selection. I could have ordered the sixteen-piece fried chicken platter.

Dan has ordered Southern Fried Catfish. According to “A Love Affair with Southern Cooking,” by Jean Anderson (HarperCollins, 2007), 94 percent of all U.S. Farm-Raised Catfish comes from the South, and the fish is versatile enough to be baked, broiled, fried, grilled or steamed. Of course, Miss Polly ain’t going for no sissy steaming techniques. Her catfish is fried and she’s proud of it. It’s probably the Pabst Blue Ribbon, but I swear those lightly breaded, glistening white fish are so fresh they’re still wriggling with Southern hospitality. We dive in, head first. On the table, there are fancy napkins if we need them – a fresh, economy-sized roll of Bounty paper towels. You will surely think I’m fibbin' but the food is light as a feather, not heavy like you might expect. In the Northeast, we’d say “the chicken’s got a certain Wessonality” but I wouldn’t dare make such a pedestrian comment on Beale Street.

When I am sure I can’t eat any more, Dan suggests dessert. There is another sign of what’s to come on the opposite wall. It reads, “Get Yourself a Skillet Fried Pie.” We order one serving of the peach pie.

Our server Jules approves of the choice. “It’s zero calories and zero fat. How cool is that?” she giggles.

The golden crescent-moon pie arrives at the table nestled in a cast-iron skillet and sizzling in what looks like a stick of butter and some additional lard thrown in for good measure. It is topped with a dollop of vanilla ice cream that is having a meltdown. The white-hot heat off the skillet is giving me a sunburn. The pie is like sweet, molten lava. It is ridiculously good, but I fear that I will be spending the next six months on my exercise bike.

As we are about to stumble from our table, I ask Jules a question that’s been nagging at me.

“Who is Miss Polly? Is she an historic figure or did somebody make her up?”

“A lot of people ask me that, and I really don’t know,” says Jules. “I usually tell them, I’m Miss Polly.”

After an overdose of Skillet Fried Pie, I’d believe anything, too. However, it is a mystery to be solved on another visit, and we stagger (or is it swagger?) out onto Beale Street where a Bluesy rhythm rings in our ears and the scent of slow roasted pork fills the balmy Southern night.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Junda's Pastry, Crust and Crumbs: Heirloom Baking on Long Island's North Fork

When you bite into the heavenly-scented babka or buttery apple strudel available at Junda’s Pastry Crust and Crumbs, it is more than a sweet indulgence. You become an honored guest at master baker Christopher Junda’s extended family table. Ancestry, local history, antiques and heirloom recipes are all essential ingredients baked into the classic breads, cakes and pastries found within the rustic display cases at the Jamesport, Long Island community bakery.

Junda’s is set on a small embankment on the North side of Route 25, commonly referred to as “the Main Road.” It is a solid, two-story, white-shingled structure with green trim. Helen Junda greets me warmly inside the shop. She has shoulder-length dark hair and is friendly and conversational. Married to Chris, she is the business manager for the bakery and describes to me the couple’s journey that led to opening a bakery in this tiny hamlet on the rural North Fork of Long Island.

As I walk with Helen, it’s a bit like having someone take you on a tour of their home for the first time. Her pride is evident, and while Junda’s is a business, it is clear that the concept of “home” is intimately connected to the baked goods. She describes how Chris – who received his culinary training at Newbury College in Massachusetts – was between jobs as an executive pastry chef and started selling homemade pies from the porch of his parent’s home in Jamesport.

“He sold out in an hour,” Helen explains.

The pies were so popular that Jamesport residents started buzzing about the need for a bakery on the North Fork. Soon the couple set their sights on the most historic structure in town. The building was built in the 1700s and is believed to be the oldest home in Jamesport. Helen leads me to the attic, where centuries-old hand-hewn beams and the original brick chimney are visible.

The original owner may have founded Jamesport, and slaves are believed to have once worked the property. It was an antique store when the Jundas approached the owner about purchasing the house and land. Once they acquired the building, the Junda’s would spend three years on renovations. A large refrigeration unit was added, along with professional ovens and mixers. The formal parlor of the original building became the retail space. “Chris wanted to create an old fashioned bakery that was like a home,” says Helen.

The hectic demands of the modern world dissolve away and the tantalizing aromas and homespun, country feel of the parlor room cabinetry whisk you back to a bygone era. The floor beams are original and an antique pie rack from a beloved aunt is stocked with scrumptious wares.

Helen describes how Chris loved antiques and had a passion for art. Pastry is indeed his artistic medium. The assortment of baked goods is staggering – European-style artisanal breads, babka, chocolate linzer heart cookies, pies, pear frangipane tarts, German pfferneuse, lemon coconut cake, individual pies, tarts and cakes, individual babka, black and white cookies, and jelly- and custard-filled doughnuts. While the hackneyed “kid in the candy store” phrase comes immediately to mind, it doesn’t come close to describing the confectionary fantasy that greets you at Junda’s. A steady stream of customers file into the store. One of them tells me that the line of patrons is typically, “out the door.” Another gazes dreamily at the display cases and asks for “one of everything.”

Like a favorite relative, Helen moves through the store, assembling a bag of samples for me to take when I leave. “Chris uses all butter,” she tells me. “Most bakeries use a combination of butter and shortening.” In the kitchen she slices a piece of Junda’s signature apple strudel, a recipe inherited from a retired German baker named Alfred who worked for a time at the store.

We encounter Chris in the kitchen. He has just concluded a meeting with a couple who are planning their wedding. Junda’s supplies exquisite tiered cakes to the wedding receptions that take place in the vineyards of the North Fork. One wall of the bakery is covered with notes of thanks from couples who began their lives together with a slice of wedding cake from Junda’s.

Chris is a stocky man, and wears a tan golf shirt that is adorned with multicolored splatters of frosting. We gather around a work bench to hear his story. He reminisces about Sunday trips to the local bakery as a child, summers on the East End of Long Island, the pies his family purchased at Briermere Farms in Riverhead and the relatives and trained bakers who have influenced his career. Chris maintains that he always knew where he’d end up. Today, he is both an artisan and a curator.

“We’re an Eastern European Bakery,” he explains, pointing out that he is of Polish descent and Helen is from an Italian family. Recipes are not the kind that are typically written down, but those that are passed down from one generation to another. Chris learned to bake “by texture and feel” from relatives and professional bakers, measuring ingredients by the handful. “It’s all hand done. It’s all done the old way.”

His father supported his efforts and helped in the renovation of the bakery. Chris even had connections to the original building, and would visit the owner of the antique store that preceded the bakery. “I never bought an antique from him, but I bought his house,” Chris smiles.

With Chris handling the baking, and Helen handling finances, he says they “make a good team.” He still has an apron that belonged to an aunt. The “Aunt Alice Cake” – a chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting – is named after a relative who taught him the recipe. Fruits and vegetables are purchased from the local orchards and farms. His first customer still gets an honorary cake each year. Chris makes old fashioned jelly-doughnuts because his customers like them. And, the apple strudel bequeathed by Alfred the German baker flies off the shelves at Junda’s

It is a family business, deeply rooted in the community. “All these people watch over me,” Chris says. “The name is Junda’s. I’ve modeled it after my relatives because of what they instilled in me.”

Chris returns me to the parlor room, where we are met by my friend Mary Ellen, a North Fork real estate tycoon. We say our goodbyes to Chris and head on to our lunch engagement.

Later, back in Mary Ellen’s living room, we open the bag to examine the goodies packed by Helen. We taste German pfferneuse, delicate and crumbly, scented with nuts and spices. There are decadent butter cookies, fruity Linzer hearts and a cookie filled with dark, chocolate Grenache.

Then, we unwrap the apple strudel. Tender golden apples – with a juicy, just-picked sweetness – are tucked into translucent, shimmering layers of pastry, kissed with the delicate aroma of cinnamon and dusted with powdered sugar. It is a luminous creation, and tastes far superior to anything ever purchased at a typical bakery establishment.

With a single, succulent bite, we become a part of Chris and Helen Junda’s baking legacy.

Junda’s Pastry Crust and Crumbs is located at 1612 Main Road, Jamesport, NY, 631-722-4999.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Nesting – Black Bean Pizza with Smoked Cheddar, Avocado and Whole Wheat Crust

Everyone’s talking about the nice spring weather, but the truth is, it’s been about a 50/50 gamble most of the time. On those days when it’s cold and gloomy, I’ve been nesting, just been hanging around the house and taking life slow. Some days, I don’t even set foot outside. Maybe I’m just one of those late blooming spring bulbs.

This nesting is almost an economic necessity. You can only afford to fill up the gas tank if you happen to be billionaire Bruce Wayne.

During this time, I’ve gotten to know my kitchen space quite intimately. I’ve been finding so many uses for the bread machine, that I’ve finally decided to name him, “Hatch.” My latest “Ah-ha!!” is that “Hatch” prepares perfect pizza dough – better than anything I could ever get at the store. Not, just any pizza dough, but astonishing whole wheat pizza dough with wheat germ. Since only billionaire Bruce Wayne can afford to drive to the grocery store, why not stay home and watch the pizza dough rise? And if you’re going to be nesting, and not indulging in much physical activity, you should be sure and get a full day’s supply of fiber.

A couple of years ago – on a stunning summer afternoon (no nesting allowed that day) – I made a trip to the artist Jackson Pollock’s home out in South Hampton, Long Island. His studio was out behind the house, which was a large and sun drenched open room with paint drippings still evident on the floor. Some art historians have been able to match up Pollock’s paintings to the pattern of colors spattered on the floor. The pizza dough feels a bit like my canvas, and I toss a little of this and scatter a little of that, creating big splashes of brilliant color.

Black Bean Pizza with Smoked Cheddar, Avocado and Whole Wheat Crust

Pizza Topping

One 14-ounce can black beans, rinsed and drained
One 14 ½ ounce can “petite cut” diced tomatoes, drained
One-half green pepper, diced
One teaspoon dried oregano
About 8 ounces of smoked cheddar cheese, grated
Salt and freshly ground pepper
½ avocado sliced

Whole Wheat Pizza Dough, a la “Hatch”

Make sure all ingredients are at room temperature.

8 ounces water
¾ teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon honey
2 ¼ cups organic whole wheat flour
¼ cup wheat germ
2 ¼ teaspoons active dry yeast

Measure ingredients into bread machine pan. Select Dough/Pasta setting. Press start. When display reads zero (after about an hour and twenty minutes), push stop button and remove dough. Press dough into 12 x 15 inch jelly roll pan. Let rest for 10 minutes. Spread with topping and bake in a preheated 400 degree oven for 20 minutes until crust is golden. Top with sliced avocado and serve.

Stop by this cool website and unleash your inner Jackson Pollock. Then try your hand at a little creative pizza play. Somebody once said, “Art isn’t easy,” but thanks to the admirable assistance of “Hatch,” whole wheat pizza dough topped with zesty black beans, tomatoes and buttery avocado is an absolute masterpiece.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Good Grief! The Peanuts Cook Book (1970)

Charlie Brown as a celebrity chef? Happiness is “The Peanuts Cook Book” which Scholastic Book Services (the eventual beneficiary of Harry Potter’s U.S. fortune) published in 1970. With a price tag of sixty cents, this was a favorite cook book of my formative years. The lime-green-covered paperback with hot pink pages contained 21 recipes interspersed with Peanuts cartoon strips exploring all aspects of the pint-sized culinary world.

Well before the era of Power Rangers or Teen Age Ninja Turtles, my cartoon companions were Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Lucy, Linus and friends. If Charlie Brown liked to cook, I was into it, too. “A Charlie Brown Christmas” was the hot holiday television special, and I collected a stack of paperbacks reprinting the daily cartoon strip by Charles M. Schulz. My mom even fashioned felt hand puppets for me that bore an uncanny resemblance to Charlie Brown and Lucy.

Beyond Snoopy’s craving for cookies and his penchant for quaffing down root beers as the World War I Flying Ace, or Schroeder’s insistence that one of Beethoven’s favorite dishes was Macaroni and Cheese, sustenance plays a very integral role in the security-driven philosophy of Charlie Brown, the little round-headed kid with the striped shirt. Here are just a few food-focused proverbs from the pen of Charles M. Schulz:

Security is a candy bar hidden in the freezer.

Happiness is a bread and butter sandwich folded over.

Security is knowing there’s some more pie left.

The often world-weary Peanuts gang had somewhat of a lighter touch in the kitchen. I remember preparing “Happiness is a Hot Cheese-Tomato Sandwich,” “Great Pumpkin Cookies,” “Frieda’s French Toast” and “Red Baron Root Beer” which featured frozen root beer cubes with maraschino cherries. There’s even a recipe for “Snoopy’s Steak Tartar,” with a disclaimer that it is “for DOGS only, and maybe cats.”

Perhaps the definitive Peanuts-themed recipe in the slender volume is something we all crave at one time or another. It includes kid-friendly directions, appropriate warnings about kitchen safety, and even a second quick-cook version courtesy of Linus:

SECURITY CINNAMON TOAST
(from “Peanuts Cook Book, Scholastic Book Services, 1970)

8 slices white bread
½ stick butter
6 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 scant tablespoon cinnamon

Melt butter with sugar and cinnamon. Cook gently while toasting bread on ONE side only in broiler. Spread untoasted side of bread with sugar mixture and place under medium-hot broiler until sugar is crusty and bubbly. The sugar’s hot! Be careful!

Another way Linus does it is make toast in the toaster. Then he spreads it with butter immediately, and shakes a spoonful of cinnamon sugar (2 tablespoons sugar mixed with a teaspoon of cinnamon) over the buttered toast.

Happiness is still being able to page through a favorite childhood cookbook, even after 38 years!

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Little Dose of Macaroni Healing

I got a little bruised this week. Nothing serious and it was probably my own fault. Sometimes the mouth and the brain just aren’t working together.

So as the weekend arrives and I’m searching for something more productive for the oral cavity to engage in, I stumble upon this curative recipe in The Gourmet Cookbook. It’s billed as “arguably the best mac and cheese on the planet.”

That sounds alarmingly like a controlled substance. Hey, I’m game. But, I don’t want to go on a bender or anything, so I parcel the recipe out into these fetching mini cast-iron casseroles.

The list of ingredients would give an internist the shakes – whole milk, cream, and about a pound of sharp cheddar cheese. Then there are the adventuresome flourishes, like red pepper flakes, a spoonful of Dijon mustard and a topping of crunchy, whole-wheat Panko bread crumbs. To hell with the diet. This isn’t about the body. We’re talking soul food, all the way.

Mary Poppins pushed "a spoonful of sugar" to help the medicine go down. I wonder if Mary ever tried macaroni and cheese? It’s a dose of miraculous healing, arriving piping hot to the table in a little fire-engine red package.

When Monday comes along, I’ll be ready.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

How Green is My Kitchen – Bothering More

How green is my kitchen? Well, technically, the answer would be “not very.” It’s “Chestertown Buff” a handsome shade of gold, available through the Benjamin Moore Paints Historical Color Collection.

But green is no longer a just a palette choice, but a philosophy as the more enlightened of you well know.

I’m not big on jumping on bandwagons, but Michael Pollan’s piece “Why Bother?” in the April 20th edition of the New York Times Sunday Magazine, gave me pause. Pollan discusses the personal impact we can each have on climate change, and made me consider the fact that my kitchen and some of my behaviors were probably more wasteful than I care to admit.

Pollan eloquently cuts through the verbal clutter of issues around carbon footprints and food miles and makes a strong case that the climate-change crisis is actually “a crisis of lifestyle – of character, even.” Pollan writes, “The Big Problem is nothing more or less than the sum total of countless little everyday choices, most of them made by us (consumer spending represents 70 percent of our economy), and most of the rest of them made in the name of our needs and desires and preferences.”

OK. I get it. I need to change and only I can make it happen. But, where does one start, especially on suburban Long Island, where the grid marks of consumption and mall traffic were firmly established after World War II? I’d love to plant a garden, but I’d never be able to care for it, and the nearest farm stand is about 75 miles away.

But, “home grown” and “sustainable” can be achieved in lots of different ways. “Culinary Types” do have the skills to prepare fresh and exceedingly edible food that is less dependent on highly-processed and excessively-packaged ingredients. So, I’ve resolved to find small solutions that as Pollan writes, may “actually beget other solutions, and not only the kinds that save carbon.” I recently revived the neglected and hibernating bread machine on my kitchen counter, and I realized that for the time it takes to drive to the supermarket, I could actually bake my weekly loaf of bread instead of buying it. It is a small investment of time to measure some simple ingredients and I produce a glorious loaf of nutritious and nutty whole wheat bread, flavored with molasses. The very thought of homemade bread in the pantry is a tantalizing reason to get out of bed, and I can’t wait to indulge in another crusty slice each morning with breakfast. It’s a positive contribution to the environment, and it might also be good for the soul.

For me, the change in behavior becomes even more focused if the results are tangible. Trying to calculate the cost savings of home baked bread is a little like contemplating the miracle of the loaves and fishes. I’m not an arithmetic genius, but some simple math does tell a compelling story. One loaf of commercially-packaged whole wheat bread costs $3.89 which, if I buy one loaf a week, adds up to $202.28 per year. By comparison, a 5-pound bag of organic whole wheat flour costs $4.99 and a five-pound bag of unbleached bread flour costs $3.95, a total of $8.94. If I purchase commercial bread for three weeks, it costs $11.67. So, the cost of the raw ingredients for multiple loaves of homemade bread is already less than the price of just three loaves of commercially-packaged bread. More important, as an eco-friendly colleague of mine pointed out, I will eliminate 52 inner plastic wraps, 52 outer plastic bags and 52 plastic fasteners from the waste stream. Given the uncertainty of the stock market, these are pretty good dividends.

However, there is more that can be done. What are your small culinary solutions? I’d love to know. And, check back in the weeks ahead as I begin to redecorate T.W. Barritt’s kitchen in shades of green.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Cake in Imitation of a Haunch of Lamb from 1895

It is high time that we give serious and scholarly consideration to cake in the shape of a haunch of lamb.

Cake, shaped like meat? At the very least, it appears a scandalous mixing of culinary metaphors, at worst, a truly shocking proposition for the vegetarians among us. Yet, there is definitive historical precedence for a confection that would appeal to carnivores.

Certainly, the movement of patisserie inspired by architecture is well known to those who followed the exploits of the brilliant French pastry chef Antonin Careme, but the philosophical mingling of cake and animal protein is perhaps more obscure. One need only look to the Victorians who had a penchant for sculpting their food into whimsical creations. This recipe was uncovered by Australia’s Old Foodie in the Encyclopaedia of Practical Cookery, by Theodore Garret published in London in 1895. This colossal tome included extravagant recipes from the top chefs of Britain’s grand hotels, and Cake in Imitation of a Haunch of Lamb could quite handily feed a banquet hall filled with Victorian dandies:

Cake in Imitation of a Haunch of Lamb (a la Soyer)

A dish of this character is of no extraordinary value, even as an eccentricity. Put the yolks of thirty-six eggs in a basin with 3lb. of caster sugar, stand the basin in another one containing hot water, and whisk the eggs till rather thick and warm, then take the basin out of the water, and continue whisking them till cold. Beat the whites of the thirty-six eggs and mix them with the yolks, then sift in gradually 3lb. of the best white flour and the finely-chopped peel of two lemons, stirring it lightly at the same time with a wooden spoon. When quite smooth, turn the batter into a very long mould and bake it. When cooked, take it out of the oven and leave till cold. If not convenient to use so large a mould, the Cake can be baked in two separate portions, and afterwards joined together with icing. When cold, trim the Cake with a sharp knife into the shape of a haunch of lamb. Make a hollow in the interior of the Cake, but fill it up again with the pieces, to keep it in shape. Colour some icing to a light gold with a small quantity of melted chocolate and cochineal, and coat the Cake over with it, and leave it till dry. Make sufficient strawberry or vanilla ice to fill the interior of the Cake. Form the knuckle-bone of the lamb with office-paste; moisten the interior with brandy and preserved strawberry-juice, then fill it with the ice. Put the haunch on to a dish, fix a paper frill round the knuckle-bone, and glaze it over with a mixture of apricot marmalade and currant jelly. Melt a small quantity of red-currant jelly with some red wine, pour it round the haunch, to imitate gravy, and serve. (Garrett, Theodore. The Encyclopaedia of Practical Cookery. London, 1895)

Certainly, lamb and it’s more mature sibling mutton have inspired everything from iconic images of great Kings to fanciful ladies’ fashions. Why not cake as well? The pool of gravy made with red-currant jelly is particularly captivating.

The discerning host must consider whether serving a dessert course that resembles an entrée would cause significant confusion to guests? Is the meal concluding, or is it beginning yet again?

Our homage to Cake in Imitation of a Haunch of Lamb does take certain liberties with the original recipe, but playing with one’s food is certainly an acceptable post-modern pursuit.

This post is dedicated to the Old Foodie, who never fails to unearth the most extraordinary events – and retro cakes – in culinary history. It is a trifle late for her Mock Food Week, but of course, one must always cook lamb to the proper temperature. There is no rushing these endeavors.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Wondrous Bread

Growing up, Wonder Bread was the “It” loaf in the grocery store.

I can just hear the gasps out there in the blogosphere. Stick with me. This story will improve quickly.

We had to have Wonder Bread. Hey – have pity! We were just little guys. Taste and nutrition really weren’t relevant. We were fascinated by the red, yellow and blue balloons printed on the wrapper. It was the heyday of Captain Kangaroo and Super Friends and the dawn of kid marketing. That airy, spongy white bread was entertaining, too. We would roll it into balls and pop it in our mouths. It was just that soft.

Fortunately, Mom was health conscious, and Wonder Bread made a quick exit from the household as whole grain breads began to appear at the supermarket. We dined on many varieties. My favorites were kid-friendly – date and nut bread or raisin cinnamon bread spread with cream cheese. Today, I’m a total convert as I forage for nutty grains and double fiber in the bread aisle. Wonder Bread seems so 1960s.

I’ve done some extensive study in bread, but the differences between the conditions of the industrial-sized classroom and the home kitchen can be significant. I love kneading, but I’m really challenged when it comes time for the bread to rise. In class we had proofing boxes, but my kitchen is just a little drafty. I’ve tried leaving the dough by the heater in the basement, or putting it in the oven on keep-warm, with minimal luck. I even read recently that putting the dough on top of a television while viewing is an option. I wonder if an episode of The Tudors will make the dough rise more quickly than a rerun of The Andy Griffith Show?

During the recent kitchen decluttering, the Regal Breadmaker caught my eye again. It had become invisible on the counter after many years of neglect like most specialty appliances do (I’m surprised my professional declutterer didn’t target it for extinction.). It has always felt a little like cheating to resort to the breadmaker after all that intensive, hands-on class work, but then I have an epiphany. We used monstrous electric mixers with digital programs that handled the kneading in class and we let the dough proof in temperature-controlled boxes. It’s not really that different. So why not let technology be my bread-baking friend? (Give me about three minutes, and I can rationalize and dispel most forms of guilt with a quick wave of the hand.)

I have a touch of trepidation. The big box has been asleep for several years, but it emerges from hibernation and soon it is whirring and squealing like Cinderella’s furry friends. The ingredients for Raisin Cinnamon loaf layer into the bread pan in minutes – bread flour (the high protein flour has more gluten and results in better structure), golden raisins and fragrant cinnamon. Dropping the raisins into the machine as the dough rotates and kneads is almost as much fun as those red, yellow and blue balloons of yesteryear, if not just a trifle dizzying.

Admittedly, the process is devoid of most of the Zen associated with bread baking, because the machine does the heavy lifting. While it’s not the same sensory experience, with a little help from my breadmaker the results are satisfying and the exotic, warm smells of raisin and cinnamon fill the kitchen. Spread with Crosby’s Bees Honey from Vermont, it is truly a Wonder-ful bread.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Mini-Obsession - Dorie's Coconut Tea Cakes with Cardamom and Rum Cream Glaze

I confess. I have recently developed a little obsession with mini-bundt cakes.

I usually try to vary my kitchen experiments, but ever since those Little Jackie Ds popped out of the oven, I’ve been on a quest to find recipes that I can, well, miniaturize.

I’ve heard about this syndrome before. In some people, it manifests itself with an overpowering desire to bake macarons.

Of course, I’m not gaining any deep insight from this endeavor, or preparing to start a business. I’m just eating the results and probably gaining at the waistline.

My issue with obsessive behavior is not new. I once aspired to own every recording ever made by Olivia Newton-John. A pasta obsession (I would eat it by the pound) in the mid-1990s resulted in a bit of excess weight-gain, just before the low-carb craze took over. The Hollywood writers strike did little to curb my addictive fascination for the TV program Lost. Every day at 3:00 PM, I make a Pavlovian-trip to the office vending machine for a bag of M&Ms – dark chocolate only. Then there’s that issue with red sweaters, but it’s really just a seasonal obsession.

I’ve also had a strong attraction to the diminutive. Don’t bother super-sizing for me. Growing up, I was a big fan of the pint-sized super hero, The Atom who had the power to reduce himself to microscopic stature and I voraciously read every volume of The Borrowers, a British classic about a family of tiny people who live under the floorboards of an English country estate. And, I had trouble containing my glee when the Irwin Allen TV science fiction fantasy “Land of the Giants” was released on DVD. The show never made the big-time but I loved the episodes of a Lilliputian band of explorers who crash in a land filled with gargantuan adversaries.

Dorie Greenspan’s “Baking: From My House to Yours” is the perfect guide for anyone looking to experiment a bit. Her “Playing Around” section of each recipe encourages the adventurous, and I promptly begin to mess around with her classic Coconut Tea Cake, found on page 194. In my miniature world, a single bundt cake divides into six, and I guild the lily of what she describes as a “plain cake” with cardamom and a dressier rum cream glaze. The little cakes have a nice kick with the flavors of tropical coconut, jaunty dark rum and the mysteriously seductive essence of cardamom.

Mini-Bundt Coconut Tea Cakes with Cardamom and Rum Cream Glaze

(Adapted from Baking: From My Home to Yours by Dorie Greenspan)

Two cups all purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
A pinch of salt
¼ teaspoon ground cardamom
1 cup coconut cream (she recommends canned, unsweetened coconut milk, but that was unavailable)
4 tablespoons unsalted butter cut in pieces
4 large eggs at room temperature
2 cups sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 teaspoons dark rum
¾ cup unsweetened coconut

Generously grease and flour six to nine mini bundt molds (the coconut can tend to make the cake stick to the pan). Sift together flour, baking powder, salt and cardamom.

Put the coconut cream in a saucepan with the pieces of butter. Heat until the butter is melted. Remove from heat but keep warm.

Fit mixer with whisk attachment. Beat the eggs and sugar at medium high speed, about three minutes until pale and thick. Beat in vanilla and rum. Reduce speed to low, and add the dry ingredients, mixing just until blended.

With mixer on low, add coconut. Then add the warm coconut cream and butter, just until combined. Divide batter among mini-bundt molds, being sure to cover the inner tube with the batter.

Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for about 25 minutes. Let cool 15 minutes and then remove from pan.

Drizzle mini-bundt cakes with Rum Cream Glaze (1 tablespoon rum, one tablespoon cream and 1 cup sifted confectioners sugar whisked together until smooth) and sprinkle tops of cakes with more coconut.

Inevitably, this mini obsession will end, and I’ll move onto something else, like filling every room in the house with cut tulips, or collecting every piece of writing ever published about George Washington. But, if in the near future, I happen to announce that I am starting a new blogging project – something along the lines of baking 365 days of mini-bundt cakes – somebody please stop me.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Whiskey Rebellion – Jack Daniel’s Mini Bundt Cakes with Caramel Glaze

As spring is trying to overcome its shyness in New York, I head south to Tennessee to celebrate the birthday of brother James. He has recently relocated to the Nashville area. We come from a family of history buffs and spend some time during the visit learning about the many statesmen and politicians who emerged from the Volunteer State.

After that, we decide to do some first hand research on the really important historical figure of the region – the inventor of Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey.

It is a Sunday, and the parking lots for the local houses of worship in suburban Nashville are overflowing. We, however, are on our way to a distillery, which we will shortly learn actually has an ecclesiastical connection. Perhaps there is a chance we won’t go straight to hell.

As we leave the populace behind us, the strip malls become rolling green hills, dotted with cattle. We note a few tractors and some splashes of yellow forsythia. There is a Piggly Wiggly Store, and a number of gracious antebellum homes with log cabins out back. An establishment called Antiques & Uniques is offering concrete lawn art for sale. The selection includes the Blessed Virgin, Saint Francis and a Confederate Soldier. It’s all part of the charm of Middle Tennessee.

Some 75 miles south of Nashville, we arrive in the village of Lynchburg, a slumbering hollow with a population of 361. It is also home to the Jack Daniel's Distillery, where they’ve been making Tennessee Whiskey the same way since the 1860s.

At the spanking new visitor’s center, tucked into a stony hillside, we are met by an imposing statue of Jasper Newton “Jack” Daniel, also known as “Gentleman Jack.”

Our tour guide is Brian, a lanky rascal with white hair, a leathery complexion and a whiskey-mellowed voice. He invites us to follow him, and take it “slow and easy, the Jack Daniel’s way.” Brian takes us to the original office of Jack Daniel, located on the grounds, and now listed on the National Historic Register. We are told that Jack learned the process of making whiskey from a Lutheran minister, something they never bothered to mention to me in confirmation class. When the minister finally found religion, Jack took possession of the still and the rest is history. To say Jack Daniel’s was inspired by the divine might be pushing it a bit, but it makes James and me feel a little less like a couple of heathens, spending Sunday afternoon at the distillery.

In the office, we view the original safe. Now, here’s a cautionary tale that illustrates the virtues of patience. One morning Jack had difficulty opening the safe and kicked it out of frustration. His toe got infected, and days later he died from a blood infection. So much for slow and easy …

Inside the modern distillery, we are warned not to take flash photos, because the whiskey vapors are volatile. Tennessee whiskey is made from corn mash, but the formula is actually 80 percent corn, 12 percent barley and 8 percent rye. All over the property, the tree trunks are pitch black, the bark reacting to the yeast that fills the air. We walk past giant steel vats, where the corn mash bubbles like witches brew. We view the charcoal mellowing process, which gives the whiskey its distinctive flavor, and walk through the dimly-lit barrel room where the whiskey ages. The air in the barrel room is intoxicating. Brian advises us to “walk slow, breath deep and savor the flavor.”

Since Lynchburg is located in a “dry” county, you can’t buy Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7 brand there, and in fact, we actually end the tour with a refreshing glass of lemonade. No sense getting arrested so far from home. So, feeling a little parched, I purchase a bottle when I return to New York and recreate those Tipsy Fudge Cakes, soaked with Jack Daniel’s, that are available for purchase in every souvenir store in Tennessee.

Using the recipe found here, I bake up a half-a-dozen chocolate mini-bundt cakes (which only need to bake for 20-25 minutes) glazed with caramel whiskey sauce. With deep, rich flavors of dark chocolate, coffee and mellow whiskey, these “Little Jackie Ds” are slow and easy, just the way Gentleman Jack would have liked it.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

My Blue Heaven

The afternoon is waning, and I happen to mention to my administrative assistant that I’ve signed up for an evening class on blue cheese.

She raises one eyebrow slightly. “Oh,” she says, followed by a moment of discomforting silence. “Blue cheese certainly has an interesting flavor.”

Few people are ambiguous about blue cheese. They either love it or hate it. I fall into the love category. For me, it is an attraction that is deep, obsessive and mildly deranged.

Blue cheese is like the whiskey of the dairy world. Wimps need not apply. You’ve got to have a strong constitution. The aroma resembles that of rich loam, freshly cultivated. The smell alone can grow hair on your chest. But don’t let my clearly obsessive compulsion for the Big Blue scare you from becoming an aficionado.

I am the first to arrive at the upper room at Murray’s Cheese in Greenwich Village. Murray’s is the destination for cheese-aholics in Manhattan. The education staff is pouring wine and setting out square white plates carefully arranged with wedges of cheese. I take a chair at a U-shaped table that will seat up to 25 people. There is a large glass window at the front of the classroom, and below, I can see well-dressed Greenwich Villagers perusing the glass display cases in search of their weeknight cheese tasting.

The class is aptly titled, “Got the Blues.” At my place setting there are six glasses partially filled with different varieties of sweet wines. They range from deep-red to amber to honey-colored. Before me are six triangles of off-white cheese speckled with veins of greenish-blue on a stark white dish. There is an intriguing, pungent aroma wafting off the plate.

Shortly, the classroom is packed, and I am relieved to know there are others like me in the naked city. The instructor is a young man named Chris Munsey, who works in the wholesale department of Murray’s. He has tousled hair, a cherubic expression and an encyclopedic knowledge on the basics of blue cheese.

We follow a plating chart, that maps out our wine selections and corresponding cheeses. Straight away, Chris warns us that our palates are in for a workout. Blue cheese and sweet wines are the stuff of intense flavors.

We start our tasting in the traditional way – the cheese at the 12 o’clock position on the plate is sampled first, and then you proceed clockwise around the perimeter of the plate.

Chris explains why he has selected sweet wines to contrast the dramatic, earthy flavors of the cheese – “Blue cheese tramples dry wines.”

An important word about that bluish green stuff on the cheese – it is mold, plain and simple. But it’s a good kind of mold, responsible for some of the most amazing salty, earthy, tangy and arresting flavors one can possibly experience. If you think you’ve been living on automatic pilot, have a bite of blue cheese. You’ll snap out of it.

“Blue cheese won’t hurt you. It will just make you stronger,” Chris advises.

He explains the process, which involves aging cheese laced with a mold called penicillium. After some time, the ripened cheese is injected with holes, allowing oxygen to interact with the penicillium and create that distinctive bluish-green shade usually seen in certain Van Gogh paintings. Blue cheese loves humidity and moisture and tends to thrive in caves. Nobody knows exactly how it was discovered, but as is usually the case in culinary one-upmanship Italy, France and Spain all claim credit for inventing blue cheese.

As we circle the plate, we travel the world. There is a mild blue cheese made from raw cow’s milk in France and a creamy gorgonzola. We are told that Stilton from England has a reputation for producing strange dreams. We taste a glorious “Bayley Hazen Blue” from Jasper Hill Farm in Vermont and we sample my top choice – Cabrales from Spain. Cabrales has a strong, gritty mineral flavor that practically brings tears to my eyes. The wines mingled artfully with the acerbic taste of the cheese. My head is reeling.

Chris says that the trick to pairing wine with blue cheese is that “both flavors are harmonious, not fighting each other.”

The class is concluded, and I set out for the train feeling slightly intoxicated and a bit heady, and it’s not because of the wine. I’ve had my Blue fix and I feel good. An ordinary evening has tasted extraordinary, and Murray’s has secured its reputation as a Mecca for colorful curds. With all that Stilton in my veins, I am sure I will dream of kings, sea monsters, despots and big blue oceans tonight.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Enchanted Egg Cake

The Easter season always inspires my memories of the Enchanted Egg. While I can barely remember the story, the image is fixed in my mind, an icon of the spring celebration. It was an exquisitely-decorated egg with a mysterious hole at one end. Peer into the hole, and inside you’d discover an enchanted world of eternal springtime.

The legend of the Enchanted Egg appears to spring from a children’s book of the same name, written by Peggy Burrows in 1956. The cover looks very familiar to me, but the tale has faded into my distant memories.

Richly decorated eggs have been a part of the Easter celebration for centuries. Ukrainian Easter Eggs, called "pysanka" were given as gifts as a symbol of spiritual rebirth. For many years, jewel-encrusted Faberge Eggs were presented by Russian Tsar Alexander III to Empress Maria as an annual Easter gift. Each egg contained a surprise hidden inside.

In the holiday television special, It’s the Easter Beagle, Charlie Brown, Snoopy picks up an Enchanted Egg in a department store and gazes in. He even leaps into the egg and dances a minuet in a meadow filled with cuddly white bunnies.

When I was a just a youngster, my grandmother Hilda even found us an Enchanted Egg, probably in the local candy and stationary store. It was made of white granulated sugar with squiggly pastel yellow trim. When you looked into the spy-hole you were treated to a bucolic spring scene. We kept it for several years and displayed it every Easter. In elementary school, I even crafted an Enchanted Egg the color of a robin’s egg out of paper Mache in Mrs. Shaw's art class. My mother still displays it each Easter in her home.

I decided to recreate the Enchanted Egg as a cake for our family’s Easter Dinner, decorated with butter cream and fondant. Before you leave, click below to take a peek inside the Enchanted Egg and revel in a sweet and magical melody of spring.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Asparagus Tart and Rites of Spring

March seems just a little early for a change of seasons. There’s still a distinct chill in the air, but now and then, I will encounter a tantalizing hint of spring. A bashful lavender crocus pokes through the once-frozen ground. If I am particularly alert, I might spot a robin. And, of course, there is the appearance of a massive flock of canary-yellow Marshmallow Peeps in the supermarket.

For me, the real harbinger of spring is the arrival of pencil-thin shoots of emerald-green asparagus. Certainly, asparagus is available year-round, but the tastiest are those tender, impossibly-green shafts topped with feathery deep-purple buds that show up in the best markets about the time of the Vernal Equinox.

Asparagus is an ancient, perennial plant from the lily family. It was cultivated in Egypt and the Roman Empire. The Roman cookery manuscript Apicius – from the third century – recommends cooking asparagus upright in hot water. Asparagus took root in France in the 1400s, and England in the 1500s, and eventually migrated to North America in the late 19th century.

This Asparagus Gruyere Tart from Everyday Food has become one of my annual rituals of spring. A flaky, buttery pastry frames the slender stalks, highlighting their earthy beauty. It is a delicacy worth savoring in a ethereal season that often times seems fragile and fleeting.

Happy Spring!

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved