Caramel Cake

Here’s something I learned on Friday: mind your caramel. Yes, certain as the sun rises in the east, an unwatched pot of caramel sauce will get all effed up.

I have been wanting to attempt this cake ever since I found it in one of my mom’s old issues of Gourmet—and then was recently reminded of it again when I was up late one night trolling Lottie & Doof’s recipe archives—but to quote Morrissey, we tried and we failed. Yes, I overcooked the caramel glaze, so that instead of a beautiful, transparent, liquid glaze (like Gourmet’s and Lottie’s), I blanketed my cake with dark brown sugar-leather.

At one point, I considered trying to remake the glaze, substituting half and half for the heavy cream (I had used all of my cream), but the hardened caramel layer and cake had melded—like a couple of best friends, inseparable.

I share this failure with you as yet another example of me trying to do too much and then doing those things poorly, instead of slowing down and doing one thing right. I need to work on this. I had an old boss who used to say: Ya do it right, ya do it light. Ya do it wrong, ya do it looooooong. I was working as a waitress in a Middle Eastern themed lunch spot, and I was given a series of very serious versions of this speech throughout my time there. And would you believe it? Eight years later, I did this caramel cake wrong. But instead of starting over (doing it long?), I simply lived with it, though I'm kind of glad I did. It was still pretty great in a dealing-with-this-dessert-is-a-bit-like-eating-a-deliciously-sweet-old-boot kind of way. And, bonus, it gave our dinner guests a good laugh.

Next time, I’ll do it right/light. Yes, next time will be different.

Caramel Cake via Gourmet
Cake:
2 cups plus 2 tablespoons sifted cake flour (not self-rising; sift before measuring)
1 teaspoon baking powder
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 stick (4 oz) unsalted butter, softened
1 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
2 large eggs, at room temperature 30 minutes
1 cup well-shaken buttermilk

Caramel Glaze:
1 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
1 tablespoon light corn syrup
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Make cake:
Preheat oven to 350°F with rack in middle. Butter an 8-inch square cake pan and line bottom with a square of parchment paper, then butter parchment.

Sift together flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.

Beat butter and sugar in a large bowl with an electric mixer at medium speed until pale and fluffy, then beat in vanilla. Add eggs 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. At low speed, beat in buttermilk until just combined (mixture may look curdled). Add flour mixture in 3 batches, mixing until each addition is just incorporated.

Spread batter evenly in cake pan, then rap pan on counter several times to eliminate air bubbles. Bake until golden and a toothpick inserted in center of cake comes out clean, 35 to 40 minutes. Cool in pan on a rack for 10 minutes, then run a knife around edge of pan. Invert onto rack and discard parchment, flip cake so it is right-side up and then cool completely, about 1 hour.

Make glaze:
Bring cream, brown sugar, corn syrup, and a pinch of salt to a boil in a 1 1/2-quart heavy saucepan over medium heat, stirring until sugar has dissolved. Boil until glaze registers 210 to 212°F on thermometer, 12 to 14 minutes, then stir in vanilla.

Put rack with cake in a shallow baking pan and pour hot glaze over top of cake, allowing it to run down sides. Cool until glaze is set, about 30 minutes.

Meditations on Pittsburgh

Recently, I was re-watching one of my favorite episodes of My So Called Life, and it ended with a shot of Angela riding her bike (or maybe it was Brian Krakow’s bike?) down a suburban street. She’s moving away from the camera, trying to let go of the handlebars to ride with no hands. She lets go and then grabs back on, lets go and grabs back on, before finally letting go and raising her hands in triumph up in the air. And as I watched, I thought about Pittsburgh—the city Angela lives in and the city where I grew up. I was reminded of the freedom I felt bicycling down very similar suburban streets as a teenager and a pang of nostalgia hit me hard, knocking me into a daydream where Matt and I moved back, I got pregnant, and we lived there, with a little yard, fewer neighbors, and a couple of animals.

Coincidentally, or perhaps guided by my daydream, I checked in on my friend who just moved from Los Angeles to the suburbs of New York to see how the wintry transition was going. And she told me her personal theory of how living in Los Angeles was just too easy and how she has learned that she needs winter to appreciate those first cold spring days. “There is always something to look forward to when you have four distinct parts of the year,” she wrote, and the poetry of her argument resonated with me. Maybe Los Angeles—with its perfect weather, proximity to the mountains and ocean, the pretty people and prettier produce, the special places like Runyon Canyon and Koreatown with its Korean spas—is too good for our own good.

So, I went home to Pittsburgh with all of this in mind, and without telling anyone, I decided I would try to imagine what living there as an adult would be like: what neighborhood Matt and I might move to, what the price of a house was there, how we might spend our Sunday afternoons, and what it would feel like to be so near the support of family.

And then I stepped off the plane into the jetway, and the cold, Pennsylvania-in-January air blew right through my purchased-in-Los-Angeles winter coat and boots, and rested in my bones where it would remain for the rest of the night.

As is customary on the first night back, Mom and I picked up Grandma, and we went for sushi. Since my last visit, because of failing kidneys, Grandma has cut sugar out of her diet, and though Mom warned me that she had lost a lot of weight and was teeny tiny now, I still wasn’t ready for the change.

In the morning, the icy wind burned my eyes, filling them with tears as Matt and I walked from a breakfast spot in Lawrenceville to the cute coffee shop a few blocks away. And when we arrived at Matt’s parents new loft space where construction just finished, instead of being able to properly ooh and aah, all I could do was sit on the couch and try to bring life back to my feet, which had become two low-functioning blocks of ice. My body had completely forgotten about winter. 

But, later in the day, I was ready to give the outdoors another shot. It was dusk; it was snowing, and I wanted to breathe in that frosty, clean air. I offered to walk Matt’s parents’ dogs. I borrowed a hat and gloves, grabbed a Havanese and went outside.

I lasted three minutes. I wasn’t even at the neighbor’s house before I handed my dog over to Matt, who was doing just fine with the other one, and ran back to the house.

That night, we were having a family dinner with both Matt’s and my family, which included Grandma, my brother and his girlfriend—these latter two I hadn’t seen in over a year and a half. Matt’s dad made a fire, Matt’s mom made chicken Parmesan, Matt made his famous garlic bread, my mom made her famous Caesar salad, and I did nothing more than clean a few mushrooms and pour red wine. It was the big holiday dinner I’d wanted all holiday-season long. And about halfway through the meal, I felt the color return to my face and the circulation to my feet.

The next day, my recluse of a dad, who lives in rural Pennsylvania, drove down to see my brother and me. He doesn’t exactly travel and so, I haven’t seen him since my wedding, over three years ago. If I was a little upset to see my grandma’s weight loss, I was even more upset to see Dad’s weight gain. He had open-heart surgery a few years ago and doesn’t seem to be taking care of himself or making the lifestyle changes I had hoped he would. In his defense, he says his dad died at 62 and that at 63 he’s living on extra time. Even if his response can be considered an argument, I find it very lacking. The good news? Between navigating controversial family topics and political conspiracy theories, he tells my brother and I about his new, online chess “clan,” the Chessperados.

Pittsburgh is cold and complicated.

*

For those of you unfamiliar with Korean spas, let me tell you that this is reason enough to live in Los Angeles or any other city that has them. For only fifteen U.S. dollars, you can spend your day spa-ing away, and for an additional thirty, you can get a body scrub that will rid you of skin layers you didn’t even know you had. Of course, my first time there, I did it all wrong. I went from the hot shower (You must shower first. This, they make very clear.), to the hot steam room, to the hot sauna, to the jade room (not sure what the benefits of this room are, but I like it.) to the scalding hot tub and back again. It was fun. So many options! And all of them hot! But by the time the woman called my number(!) for my scrub, my face was lobster red and I was having trouble stringing a sentence together. She took one look at me and diagnosed my condition: “Too much sauna!”

A week or so later, I came across this super interesting article, which among other things, discussed the spa culture of Sweden. The article revealed my mistake: I hadn’t cold plunged. I had gone from hot to hot to hot to hot, and guess what? Body don’t like that. And now that I thought about it, I had seen a few brave women plunging themselves in this one tiny pool, but when I dipped my toe in and it nearly froze, I promptly trotted off toward the sauna.

*

Two knots in my lower back had me dreaming of a massage all weekend long, and so when we got home to Los Angeles, I ran myself to the Korean spa where the price is right when it comes to massages. As a seasoned veteran, I know now to cold plunge between trips to the sauna and steam room. This knowledge doesn’t make it any easier. Your whole being is screaming to get out of that freezing water. What does make it easier is knowing how great you’ll feel once you’re out. Maybe life is like this. Hot and cold—no matter where we live. And maybe the trickier part is in the moments in between, when we’re not sure where we're headed or how to feel.

Pittsburgh is a beautiful city. And for better or worse, it's responsible for much of my constitution.
But this morning, Los Angeles didn’t feel so scattered and demanding. We woke up to rain, and Matt made pancakes, substituting the called-for milk with half and half. And guess what else? That dreamy shot of Angela Chase riding her bike on that suburban street? I bet they shot that in L.A.

Video Attempt: Poutine

As per usual, a few things to note:
1. Thank you, Tim! I love when Internet friendships turn into real-world friendships.
2. If you attempt this dish at home, a few words of advice: invite friends and maybe include a giant salad. When I say, "Let's go finish this," at the end of the video, what I probably should have said is: "Let's go have a few more bites!" As it turns out, there's a reason why at Animal, this dish comes towards the end and is best shared with a group—it's super rich.

Poutine with Oxtail Gravy
I combined two recipes to make this crazy dish. If there's any trick, it's in timing it so that the French fries don't sit for too long before the gravy is ready. Definitely start with the oxtail and then, when it only has a half hour or so left in the oven, start the fries. That way, you can plate the hot fries; cover with the hot gravy and meat, and then sprinkle with cheese.

A stew of oxtail and onions via Nigel Slater's Tender
olive oil
oxtail (4 pounds)
large onions - 2
3 bay leaves
a glass of white wine
heavy cream 1 1/4 cups
smooth Dijon mustard - a tablespoon
whole-grain mustard - a tablespoon
1/2-3/4 cup cheese curds or grated cheddar (for sprinkling on top later)

Warm a little olive oil in a Dutch oven or other heavy pot. Season the oxtail all over with salt and black pepper. Lower into the oil and let color on all sides. Meanwhile halve, peel, and thinly slice the onions, while occasionally turning the meat so that it browns lightly and evenly. Remove the oxtail from the pot and add the onions, letting them soften a little but not color.

Preheat the oven to 325 (not 375, which is WRONG). Hide the meat among the onions, tuck in the bay leaves, and pour over the white wine. Lay a piece of buttered or oiled wax paper over the top, then cover with a lid. Bake for two and half hours, checking now and again that is not dry. If it is, add a little more liquid. Remove from the oven.

Lift the lid and remove the meat to a warm dish. Pour off any obvious fat from the pan, then stir in the cream and the mustards, and check the seasoning. Bring to a boil on the stove and bubble hard for five to ten minutes to reduce the quantity, stirring in any pan stickings as you go. Once it's reduced, you're good to go!

French fries via America's Test Kitchen
2 1/2 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes, scrubbed, dried, sides squared off, and cut lengthwise in 1/4 inch by 1/4 inch batons
6 cups peanut oil (I used Safflower oil.)
salt

Combine the potatoes and oil in a large Dutch oven. Cook over high heat until the oil has reached a rolling boil, about 5 minutes. Continue to cook, without sitrring, until the potateos are pale golden and the exteriors are beginning to crisp, about 15 minutes. [the fragile Yukon Gold potatoe tends to break into pieces if you stir before giving it the full 15 minutes, so be patient here, friends!)

Using tongs, stir the potatoes, gently scraping up any that stick, and continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until golden and crisp, 5 to 10 minutes longer. Using a skimmer or slotted spoon, transfer the fries to a thick paper bag or paper towels. Season with the salt to taste, check to see if Kennywood's open, and serve immediately. [And by serve, obviously, I mean, top with gravy, meat, and cheese!] [You're welcome!]

Juicy Satsuma Orange Cake

One of my Christmas presents from Matt was a collection of Virginia Woolf’s letters, which I’m really enjoying, and to which, the introduction reads: “In turn-of-the-century handbooks on how to write a proper letter, women were advised to be self-effacing. Ladies, they were told, do not begin a letter with ‘I’. They begin instead with something that will interest their correspondents, chiefly themselves.” Therefore, “The proper female letter writer was simply another version of the hostess.” 

Maybe because I was sick on New Year’s Eve, spending it with a crazy headache and no champagne, Matt and I didn’t feel forced into a discussion about resolutions. And maybe because, in a bit of a turn-of-the-century-inspired change of pace for this usually non-self-effacing writer, I haven’t felt compelled to publicly (or privately) set a single resolution for 2012.

I—here ‘I’ go again!—think it’s because I’m a bit tired of setting goals. Even when my dear friend broached the topic with me and told me about how her resolution for 2011 had been to have more fun, and I instantly wanted to steal it for myself, the more I thought about it, the more I wondered: what does it mean—to have “more fun”? Does that mean I should watch more TV? Does that mean I should throw a Downton-Abbey inspired cocktail party? Does it mean I should meditate more so that I can become less stressed and more open for a good time in general? Or, does it mean I should go to amusement parks with friends and ride the roller coasters with no hands? Do you see what I’m saying? It started becoming goal-oriented. So, alas, here I sit, one week into 2012 and very much resolution-less.

But hey, I don’t want to rain on your 2012-resolutions parade. In fact, please tell me: how’s it going for you? Are you doing the Gwyneth/Goop cleanse? Are you making macaroni and cheese? What about cake? Surely, you can fit in one slice of heavenly orange cake, no?

What if I told you that when you pull this cake out of the oven, you have to wait until it’s cooled down a bit before brushing the orange glaze on top, and that during this interim period, I nearly pressed my face into the cake’s surface as the smell was that intoxicating? It was floral but orangey, and sweet. So, naturally, I hovered over it with my nose only one centimeter from the top for at least thirty seconds, if not a full minute.

This is a beauty of a cake—perfect for a winter dinner party or, just for yourself. In fact, while I was eating a slice, I had the thought that if it weren’t for Bon Appetémpt, I wonder if I would have made such a pretty, fairly involved cake. Perhaps, but probably not midweek with only Matt and I to eat it, which is really a shame because it made an ordinarily drab Wednesday so much better.

Isn’t that funny? That while we may no longer approach letters, or emails, with a hostess mentality, or any real sense of etiquette for that matter, (I know I use a lot of emoticons.) we still do when it comes to actual hosting, over 100-years later. The editor of this collection, Joanne Trautmann Banks, writes: “The successful Victorian hostess devoted herself to her guests and appeared to deny herself.” And isn’t that the same for the successful present-day hostess? We vacuum the whole apartment, make special cakes, wash a million pans, and then wave off any compliments with, “Oh, it was nothing! Thank you for coming!” I’m not complaining, I promise—I’m not at all ready to say goodbye to this tradition. There’s nothing I love more than being invited to dinner, to being hosted.

Maybe that could be my resolution—to treat myself like I would my guests? Oh, but I’ve strayed. Back to you! Would you be interested in having me for dinner? Thanks in advance!

Juicy Satsuma Orange Cake via Andrea Reusing's Cooking in the Moment
Oranges and Glaze
5 satsuma oranges
Juice of 1/2 lemon
1 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

Cake
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus more for greasing the pan
3/4 cup sugar
2 large eggs, at room temperature
1/3 cup semolina flour
2/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon table salt

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Butter a 10-inch round pan. (I used a 9-inch and, plain as the eye can see, it worked out great.)

Finely grate the zest of one of the oranges, and reserve the zest for the cake batter. Cut the orange in half, juice it, and strain the juice; you should have 1/3 cup juice. Slice the remaining 4 oranges into 1/4-inch-thick rounds. Combine the orange juice, lemon juice, sugar, salt, and orange slices in a medium saucepan, and bring to a slow simmer over low heat. Cook for 6 to 7 minutes, until the centers of the orange slices are starting to become tender and translucent but are not falling apart. Carefully transfer the orange slices to a plate with a slotted spoon, and continue to simmer the syrup until it has reduced to 1/2 cup, 5 to 8 minutes. Set the glaze aside. (I did this step and then went to yoga class, came back an hour and a half later and finished everything up. Just in case, you need to break up this baking session.)

To make the cake, combine the butter and sugar in an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment and mix until fluffy. While the mixer is running, add an egg and wait for it to be incorporated before adding the other. Add the reserved grated orange zest. In a bowl, sift together the semolina flour, all-purpose flour, baking powder, and salt. Add the flour mixture, a little at a time, to the batter mixture and mix until all of it is incorporated. Pour the batter into the pan and arrange the orange slices in one layer on top of the batter. Bake for 15 minutes.

Reduce the oven temperature to 350 and bake for 35 to 40 minutes, until the cake is an even golden brown and baked through; a toothpick inserted in the center should come out clean. Let the cake cool on a wire rack until it is warm. Then, using a wooden skewer, poke holes all over the surface of the cake. Brush the glaze over the top, using a pastry brush. Allow the cake to cool to room temperature, and then unmold.

Oyster Stew with Mashed Potatoes

This was my first Christmas as an adult with a real tree (and a real tree stand). In November, Matt and I had grand plans to go to one of those farms where you can chop down your own tree, but as December moved onward without our schedules coordinating for such an outing, Matt, my Hanukkah-celebrating husband, decided to take on the task of acquiring and setting up the tree all by himself. In retrospect, as the lone lifetime Christmas celebrator in the family, I should have gone over a few things with him beforehand—like the understood tree-to-room-size ratio, e.g., Times Square gets a giant tree because Times Square is a giant space; an ant gets a tiny pine needle because it’s all that can fit inside the anthill. And then there is the whole tradition of trimming the tree with friends and family along with a glass of eggnog and Christmas music. But I took all of this knowledge for granted, left him to it, and had the wonderful shock of coming home to a completely decorated, towering tree in our living room.

This is Matt and this is one of the many reasons I love him. He tackled the Christmas tree like a challenge and presented it to me in all of its fully-executed glory. It served us quite well. But a few days ago, the tree was looking less-than-healthy and ready to be excused. Against tradition (I have no childhood memories of taking the ornaments off the tree.), we de-trimmed it together. And that’s when I realized that the ball ornaments he’d bought to decorate our first tree were plastic. I don’t know why this surprised me so much except for the fact that growing up, all of our ball ornaments were made of glass. In Matt’s defense: “I don’t know. I had a couple of hours to decorate an enormous tree and Target was selling this giant box of ornaments.”

I wish I had photos of us getting this tree out of the back door of our apartment. Branches were snapping left and right, and when it was finally out, our kitchen had become a spitting image of Sherwood Forest. (I watched Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves recently.) Once it was outside, we were faced with another challenge. What do you do with a Christmas tree when you’re done with it? In the suburbs where my parents live, I faintly remember a “Tree pick-up day” or something like that. Well, sans Googling/knowledge of our community’s tree removal services/policies, we took it to the dumpster where we take our regular trash, which is located in an alley behind our unit’s garages, which serves, along with the alley itself, as a bit of a magnet to members of West Hollywood’s homeless population. Once in the alley, instead of tossing the tree inside one of the dumpsters, we propped it up against the wall on the opposite side of the alley. Please forgive us if this is your Christmas pet peeve. In the morning, it was New Year’s Eve, and I had an 8am spinning class to attend. I opened the garage door and reversed the car to find our large Christmas tree still propped against the wall, only now it was thoughtfully decorated with purple ornaments very similar to the ones Matt had bought. 

I called Matt to tell him, and he divulged that the previous night he had also thrown away some of the excess ornaments, the bulk of which were purple. In Matt’s defense: “There were just so many of them.” And so, we theorized that while we slept, a homeless person went through the dumpster, found the ornaments, and trimmed the tree.

I don’t know why exactly I’m telling you this story. I can’t find a way to tie it into the delicious oyster stew I made. I can’t even tie it into a way of summing up 2011 and wishing you a happy 2012. All I can say is that it seemed like a story worth sharing and is one I keep thinking about. 

*

Okay. I bought 10 oysters for Christmas Day without knowing what I was going to do with them. So, on Christmas Eve, when I opened my Hanukkah gift from my brother and sister-in-law and found Cooking in the Moment, and soon thereafter found Andrea Reusing’s uber simple oyster stew recipe, our Christmas dinner appetizer was born.

Perhaps calling it uber simple isn’t quite fair. There is the process of shucking a lot of oysters and doing it in such a way that you reserve as much of the surrounding oyster liquor as possible. With help from Matt, I managed to do this. I also managed to reserve a lot of shell fragments. (How do the professionals do it without getting all those little shell bits in there? Practice? Magic?)

After this step, things get easier. You simmer some cream, add a pinch of cayenne and a bit of salt and pepper. Next, you add the sea-salty oyster liquor, bring it to a simmer again, and then add the oysters for about 30 seconds. You divide this into warm bowls where a softened tablespoon of butter awaits, and voila, a decadent oyster stew. But wait, I didn’t stop there. While Matt shucked a few oysters, I boiled some potatoes that I had on hand. And while the cream was simmering, I drained and mashed them with just a bit of butter and milk. And then, after I’d eaten the oysters out of my stew and had nothing left but the delicious, creamy, slightly spicy broth, I poured it over the potatoes, and the result was over-the-top amazing. Seriously, if I had a restaurant, mashed potatoes with creamy oyster broth would be on the menu. And the restaurant would be called: Amelia’s Fish Wish. (Kidding about the latter. Very serious about the former.)

As for our alley-based Christmas tree, Matt and I packed up some of our leftovers from our New Year’s Eve dinner (oxtail stew) and placed it under the tree with a note. This morning, we checked and it was gone. I know it’s hardly anything in the great scheme of helping others, but it’s something, which is better than nothing, which is a positive start for the New Year. Wouldn’t you say?

Happy New Year, Friends! Hope it's one filled with hot stews, dear friends, and as much plaid flannel as possible.

Oyster Stew (with mashed potatoes) adapted from Andrea Reusing’s Cooking in the Moment

serves 2

4-5 small to medium Yukon gold potatoes

10 salty oysters, freshly shucked and liquor reserved

1 cup half and half

3 tablespoons butter, at room temperature

¼ teaspoon kosher salt (more ore less depending on the saltiness of the oysters

Pinch of cayenne

Freshly ground black pepper

Wash and scrub the potatoes, and then place them in a large stockpot. Cover them with water and a pinch of salt and bring the pot to a boil. Boil the potatoes until fork tender. (I just keep checking on them with a fork after about 10 minutes.) Once they’re tender, strain them and then return them to the hot pot. Mash them up with a scant ¼ cup of the half and half, 1 tablespoon of the butter, and salt and pepper to taste. Cover the pot with a lid to keep the potatoes warm while you make the stew.

Strain the oysters, reserving the liquid. (I put the oysters over a strainer and freed them of shell fragments before placing them in a prep bowl until they were ready to add to the cream.) 

Heat ¾ cup of the half and half in a heavy nonreactive pot to a low simmer over medium heat, being careful not to let it scorch. In the meantime, warm two small bowls, add 1 tablespoon of the butter to each bowl, and set them in a warm spot.

Season the cream with the salt, cayenne, and black pepper. Add the oyster liquor and return to a simmer. Add the oysters and cook for 30 seconds, until they start to curl and are just heated through. Adjust the seasoning, and divide the oysters and sauce among the warm bowls. Serve alongside the mashed potatoes, spooning the potatoes into the stew or vice versa, whenever it strikes your fancy.