A Schlumpy, Dumpy Cake That Wows

Stop reading now if appearances are important to you. If you dream of mile-high cakes on stately stands. Of fluffy, feathery icing and perfectly proportioned layers.

This is not that kind of cake.

This cake is more akin to your teenage son’s room. To the kids’ bathroom on cleaning day.

It’s the cake you hide in the kitchen while the “cool” cake gets put out for company. It’s the cake Abercrombie & Fitch would sneer at.

And that’s a shame. Because this cake is fantastic. Deeply bittersweet, richly brown, textured by cornmeal (gluten free!) and scented with orange and vanilla — this is a dessert you should be proud to serve at the most casual gatherings and the fanciest soirees.

I first met chocolate pudding cornmeal cake in the pages of Lynne Rossetto Kasper’s The Italian Country Table. I made it last summer for a friend who was diagnosed with celiac disease.

True confession time … I thought I’d done something wrong when I coaxed this cake out of its pan. Its center sunk in on itself. The sugar and cocoa sprinkled on top before baking never incorporated into the finished confection. The sides seemed crinkly and almost dry.

But when we cut into it, all was right. The cake was rich, chocolaty and almost toothsome in texture (as opposed to the satin finish of flourless chocolate cake). It was particularly good the next morning when we ate it cold from the refrigerator with lots of hot coffee.

Chocolate pudding cornmeal cake takes awhile to make. That’s because you cook the cornmeal into a thick, rich pudding before mixing in the chocolate, orange zest and other ingredients. Figure two hours from start to finish.

But it’s time well spent. This is a dessert guests will ooh and ahh over. They’ll clean their plates. They’ll ask for seconds. They’ll beg you for the recipe.

Appearances aside.

Chocolate Polenta Pudding Cake (Lynne Rossetto Kasper)

Kasper calls for polenta, or coarsely ground cornmeal, in her recipe, but I’ve used medium- and fine-grained cornmeal to marvelous effect. Use whatever you have on hand.

• 2 1/2 cups whole milk
• 3/4 cup polenta or other cornmeal
• 1/2 cup plus 3 tablespoons sugar
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 8 ounces bittersweet chocolate
• Zest of 1 orange
• 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
• 1/8 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
• 4 large eggs, separated
• 1 tablespoon vanilla extract
• 1/2 cup heavy whipping cream
• 1 tablespoon unsweetened cocoa
• 1 tablespoon sugar

Make the cornmeal pudding:

Whisk the cornmeal, 1/2 cup sugar and salt in a bowl.

After 40 minutes, you’ll have a creamy cornmeal pudding.

In a large saucepan, bring the milk to a boil. Slowly whisk the hot milk into the bowl holding the cornmeal mixture. Whisk until it’s smooth, then cover the bowl tightly with foil.

Rinse out the saucepan you heated your milk in, and fill it halfway with water. Bring the water to a simmer.

Set the foil-covered bowl over the water and cook for 40 minutes, taking off the foil and whisking the cornmeal mixture every 10 minutes. (Fair warning! The first time you do this, the cornmeal will be very thick. Whisk it slowly and completely, until the mixture is smooth and any lumps are incorporated into the liquid. I like to take the bowl off the simmering water when I do this. Rest assured that the mixture gets smoother and more pudding like the longer it cooks.)

While the cornmeal is cooking, preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Butter an 8-inch springform pan and set it on a rimmed baking sheet.

Assemble the rest of your ingredients:

Bittersweet chocolate, cinnamon, orange zest, vanilla and pepper sit ready to go into the cooked cornmeal.

Finely chop three-quarters of the bittersweet chocolate. Combine it with the orange zest, the cinnamon and pepper, the egg yolks and the vanilla.

Cut the rest of the chocolate into 1-inch pieces and set them aside.

When the cornmeal is cooked, remove the bowl from atop the water. Add the chocolate mixture (not the 1-inch pieces!) and stir until the chocolate is melted and the batter is smooth. Place 1 cup of this mixture into another bowl and stir the cream into it.

Place the egg whites in a stand mixer and whip them until they’re frothy. Add the remaining 3 tablespoons sugar and whip the whites until soft peaks hold. Fold into the non-cream chocolate/cornmeal mixture. Add the 1-inch chocolate pieces and stir very gently.

Pour half of this batter into your prepared pan. Make a well in the center and add the reserved cream mixture. (It will spill over onto the rest of the batter, but that’s just fine.) Top with the remaining batter. Sprinkle with the cocoa and 1 tablespoon sugar.

Bake for 50 minutes to 1 hour, or until a knife inserted at the edge of the cake comes out with moist crumbs on it. Cool the cake for 15 minutes, then gently unmold it from the pan. This is good warm, room temperature or chilled.

No Flowers For My Mother’s Day

I get tomatoes instead!

Every year, we load up on a variety of tomato seedlings and plant them on Mother’s Day. I now have eight sitting tall and pretty in the garden.

What will I do with them all? Click here to find out!

How We Learned To Love Our Chard

“Don’t feed me any chard tart.”

The husband was planting Swiss chard seeds, reminding me of the colossal cooking failure I had a few summers ago when I bought a bunch of the leafy greens and made a tart for dinner. It sounded so good on the page: Vegetal, garlicy, très provençale.

In reality it was inedible: Grassy, soggy, soupy and thin.

“Don’t be making any chard tart,” he said as he covered the seeds with compost.

Memories of my tart almost kept us from ordering chard seeds last year. But the plant’s beauty and nutritional value won us over. Big, leafy greens with ruby red, neon yellow and creamy white stems are a feast for the eyes. Abundant amounts of vitamins (A, C and K) and minerals (zinc, magnesium, calcium) are a feast for the body.

“I’m not going to eat any chard tart,” the husband claimed as he stood up and wiped his hands.

He hasn’t had to. That’s because I finally figured out that when it comes to chard, less is more.

Pity the chard that went into my yucky Provençale tart. Chard is not hearty. It’s more akin to spinach than to kale or mustard greens. It takes only the slightest bit of cooking time to wilt into a succulent, silky pile. That tart recipe had me boiling the life — and nutrition — right out of the greens.

Since planting Swiss chard last year and this, we’ve eaten it several ways:

1. With pasta: Wash the chard, spin it dry, then wilt it in a hot pan. When it cooks down, cool it and squeeze out all of the moisture. Mix with ricotta cheese, minced garlic, onion, basil and oregano, then layer between lasagna noodles or strips of broiled eggplant. Top with tomato sauce and bake at 350 degrees until the cheese melts.

Swiss chard calzones fresh from the oven.

2. On a pizza or calzone: Mix cooked and squeezed Swiss chard with shredded mozzarella, fresh herbs and garlic. Spread over an entire pizza crust and bake, or spread over half the pizza dough, fold the other half on top, and bake at 500 degrees for 20-25 minutes.

Tender leaves of Swiss chard, harvested this morning from our garden.

3. In a salad: Particularly good when the chard is young and tender. Mix with other young greens like spinach and butter lettuces and toss in a light vinaigrette.

4. Creamed: Melt 2 tablespoons butter in a saute pan. Add 1 tablespoon flour and cook for 2 minutes. Slowly add 1 cup half-and-half or milk to the resulting roux and whisk until the mixture boils and thickens. Stir in salt, pepper, a dash of nutmeg and 2 to 3 cups of cooked, drained chard. Add grated Parmesan cheese it you wish.

5. By its lovely self: Heat 1 to 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a pan. Add washed and dried chard and toss until it’s just wilted. Stir in a squirt or two of lemon juice.

Now that I know how to cook it properly, we’ve all signed up for the Swiss chard fan club. Swiss chard seeds — red, yellow and white — have become must-have items on our annual seed list.

And the husband has never had to put chard tart in his mouth again.

 

Takeout, Pack Your Bags … Grilling Season Has Arrived!

“We should eat outside.”

The husband has come in from mowing the yard. I’m folding the laundry that multiplies like dust bunnies under our bed. I’m thinking that maybe takeout pizza will be the default dinner tonight.

“It’s not raining,” the big boy says.

“We could grill!” says the little boy.

And with that, visions of takeout stop dancing in my head. The laundry gets thrown on the chair, and I’m riffling through the refrigerator for dinnertime options.

Every spring, we count the days until it’s warm and/or dry enough to eat dinner on the porch. We wait with baited breath until it’s time to strip the cover off the Weber and inaugurate the grilling season.

And tonight — ta da! — is the night. With a cut-up chicken in the fridge, a beautiful loaf of ciabatta bread and some amazing yellow peppers from our local market, a dinner menu practically creates itself:

Grilled chicken and a Panzanella salad (grilled, of course).

It takes a couple of hours to get this on the table. And once we sit down, a breeze kicks up. Clouds begin scuttling overhead.

“I felt a raindrop,” the little boy says.

No you didn’t.

“I think it’s going to rain,” the husband says.

No it’s not.

And — blessedly — it doesn’t. We make it through the whole meal without having to get jackets or pack up and move indoors.

It’s official. Takeout pizza, we’ll see you next fall. Grilling season has begun.

Indian-Spiced Chicken & Panzanella Salad

I used whole spices for this marinade, but feel free to use ground. You may not have all of these in your spice cabinet or pantry, but they’re definitely worth the investment.

For the chicken:

• 2 teaspoons cumin seeds
• 1 teaspoon coriander seeds
• 1 teaspoon fennel seeds
• 1 Chile de Arbol, broken
• 20-30 grinds of fresh black pepper
• 1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
• Zest of a small lemon
• 3 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 tablespoon lemon juice
• 1 chicken (preferably organic), cut-up

For the salad:

• 4 to 5 1-inch-thick slices of ciabatta bread
• 2 yellow peppers
• 5 scallions, both white and green parts
• 2 large tomatoes
• 3 oz. feta cheese
• 2 tablespoons fresh herbs (I used a mix or oregano, dill and cilantro)
• 1 garlic clove, minced
• 1 tablespoon lemon juice
• 2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
• 6 tablespoons olive oil
• A pinch of sugar

Place the cumin seeds, coriander seeds, fennel seeds and Chile de Arbol in a spice grinder. Grind for a few seconds, until most of the seeds are pulverized. Place in a bowl and add the next five ingredients:

Place the cut-up chicken on a baking sheet and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Slather the marinade over the chicken and let it sit at room temperature for an hour:

Meanwhile, prepare your grill. As it’s heating, half the yellow peppers, seed them, then cut each half in half again. Assemble the peppers, scallions and bread on a sheet and take them to the grill.

When the grill is hot, brush it with canola oil and place the bread, peppers and scallions on it. Grill until the bread and vegetables are slightly charred, turning once. Remove and let them cool slightly.

Oil the grill again. Place the chicken pieces on it, and sear the pieces on both sides. Then, move the chicken to a spot on the grill where they get indirect heat. Cover the grill. Cook for about 40 minutes, checking the heat and turning the chicken occasionally.

While the chicken grills, coarsely chop the tomatoes, peppers and scallions. Tear the bread into 1-inch pieces. Place everything in a bowl, along with the herbs and feta cheese.

Combine the garlic, lemon juice and red wine vinegar in a small bowl. Whisk in the olive oil. Add the pinch of sugar, plus salt and pepper. Taste. If the dressing tastes too vinegary for you, add a bit more olive oil. Pour the dressing over the salad, and toss to combine.

Remove the chicken from the grill when it’s done. Serve with the salad.

My Manicure Is Filthy …

… but I have radishes for dinner! Our first garden harvest:

 

Kanye, Kim & Calamari

Once upon a time — before the Kardashians careered into our collective consciousness — there was such a thing as too much information.

My own introduction to TMI came courtesy of an acquaintance I’ll call Jilly.

I met Jilly through the ad agency I worked for. She was new to town and asked if I’d like to have dinner. Before we even ordered wine, she began telling me about:

1. The ex-boyfriend who was stalking her;
2. The date who was freaked out by the ex-boyfriend stalking her;
3. The night she met Cheech (yes, that Cheech);
4. The night she spent with Cheech;
5. The Valentine’s date Cheech invited her on;
6. The dress, bra and panties she bought to wear on the date Cheech invited her on;
7. The way Cheech stood her up, leaving her all alone while the ex-boyfriend stalker peered through her blinds.

“Oh,” she chirped as the waiter came over for our order. “Let’s have calamari.”

I didn’t like calamari. I didn’t want calamari. But I was so thankful for a lull in the TMI cascade that I nodded enthusiastically.

“I don’t usually eat calamari,” I told her.

“Oh, you’ll love it here,” she said. “So, do you think Cheech will leave his wife for me? Why do you think …

blah blah blah

I never had dinner with Jilly again. But bless her Cheech-lovin’, too-much-information-given’ heart. I learned to love calamari that night.

Number one, it was delicious. Lightly breaded, lightly fried and doused with abundant amounts of lemon juice, this was calamari like I’d never had. The light touch let the subtle, saline flavor of the mollusk shine through; the breading acted as a complement rather than a coverup; the lemon brought a freshness and pop to the entire dish.

Number two, it shut Jilly up. As long as calamari was on Jilly’s plate, it kept her mouth full and stopped her from spilling ever more intimate details about her life.

Hmmm, calamari as a weapon against TMI. Could we use it as an antidote to Kim and Kanye?

Kim & Kanye Calamari

Fried foods don’t often grace our dinner table, but this is a fun, once-in-awhile dish that’s perfect for Friday night dinners. It isn’t pretty (the reason you don’t see a picture of the finished dish!), but it’s fun family fare. I like to throw the fried and drained squid into a big wooden bowl, toss it with a lot of lemon, and serve it with a romaine, tomato and cucumber salad. Ahhh, the sounds of silent people munching.

Thaw 1 package of whole, cleaned calamari. Dry the thawed squid, then cut off the tentacles and slice the bodies into 1/2-inch rings.

Place the squid into a marinade made of 1 sliced onion, 2 cups buttermilk, 2-3 chopped garlic cloves, 1 tablespoon kosher salt, 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper and a generous amount of Tabasco sauce (10 or more shakes). Cover with plastic wrap and place in the refrigerator for at least a couple of hours. (I like to prepare this in the morning and let the calamari hang out in its marinade all day.)

About 45 minutes before dinnertime, drain the calamari and pat it and the onions dry. In a plastic zip-top bag, place 3/4 cup of some flour-like combination. I use 1/4 cup cornmeal, 1/4 cup all-purpose flour and 1/4 semolina flour, but you could use all cornmeal, all flour or all semolina. Add 1 teaspoon salt, `1/2 teaspoon pepper and 1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika. Combine well.

Add the calamari and onions to the flour mixture in batches, shaking well. Remove them and place in a single layer on waxed paper to dry for 30 minutes.

If you have a deep fryer, fry your calamari according to its directions. I don’t, so I heat 1- to 1 1/2 inches of canola oil in a cast-iron skillet. When bubbles form around the end of a wooden spoon inserted in the oil, I know the fat is ready. Working in batches and being careful not to crowd the pan, slip the calamari into the oil, and fry it for 2-3 minutes, until the breading is golden. Transfer to a paper towel-lined plate and continue until all the squid is cooked.

Season to taste with additional salt and pepper. Squeeze on the juice of 1 lemon.

Books To Warm Mom’s Hearth

My mother taught herself to cook.

Newly married, she embraced the life of a homemaker and set about mastering a domain her own mother kept tightly sealed. For her guide, she turned to the red- and white-plaid Better Homes and Gardens Cook Book. Within its three-ring-notebook style, she found tutorials in roasting meat, mixing pie doughs and making fast kitchen substitutions. She learned to dress her cole slaws, dice her vegetables and troubleshoot her cakes. To this day, she uses the book as a filing system for recipes she clips from newspapers and magazines (a rather retro trait she has passed on to me):

When I graduated from college, my mom gave me my own copy of her beloved cookbook, updated as the Better Homes and Gardens New Cook Book. Years later, I still look to it when I need a quick reminder on roasting times, a foolproof recipe for cupcakes or — yes — a creamy cole slaw dressing.

The red-and-white BHG came to mind this week as I pondered kitchen books for Mother’s Day. I am hopelessly in love with cook books, even though the iPad, the Kindle, the Nook and the Internet are rendering them obsolete (or so I’m told). I love the physicality of them … their weight; their heft; their pages waiting to be dog-eared and spattered. I love the sheer mass of them sitting on my shelves:

So it’s with this bias that I offer these suggestions for Mother’s Day gifts: Five cookbooks I turn to again and again for their breadth, depth and artful writing; and a food-centric work of fiction that describes in achingly beautiful language the way love wends its way through the meals we make.

You can find these online (or so I’m told). But my mom will get a book.

1. Baking, by Dorie Greenspan. The quintessential baking guide for novices and pros alike. As she unspools her favorite recipes for breads, pies, cakes and cookies, Greenspan offers tutorials on rolling sticky doughs, melting finicky chocolate and knowing exactly when that cake is done. Best, she encourages you to play with your food, tossing out additions and substitutions you can make so a baked good is uniquely your own. Try the cocoa-nana bread (page 46), the tarte noir (page 351) or the linzer sables (page 134).

2. Sunday Suppers At Lucques, by Suzanne Goin. Fair warning … many of Goin’s recipes are downright daunting. But her writing is warm and approachable and includes charming stories from her life as a child and professional cook. The introductory sections on seasonal produce and Goin’s creative menu ideas make this book well worth its $35 price tag. And not all of her recipes take three days to create. Try the tomato gazpacho (page 163), the summer squash gratin (page 141) with salsa verde (page 132), and the candied walnut wedge (page 187).

3. The Bon Appetit Cookbook, edited by Barbara Fairchild. Over 700 pages of nuts-and-bolts breakfasts, dinners, lunches and snacks that you’ll turn to again and again. This is a book for the mom who’s looking for familiar standbys as well as brand-new menu items. Each recipe is introduced by a helpful summary; the book is written with a casual, approachable touch that novice cooks will welcome and experienced cooks will value. Try the wild mushroom tart (page 84), the mushroom-artichoke lasagna (page 249) and the Grand Marnier-spiked chocolate pudding (page 621).

4. The Italian Country Table, by Lynne Rossetto Kasper. This is so much more than pasta! Kasper gleaned these authentic recipes during her travels through the Italian countryside. Regional stories and tales of the Italian farmers she met are interspersed throughout the book. The “Cook to Cook” notes are helpful hints that Kasper has discovered over a lifetime of cooking … tips she shares like your best kitchen friend. Try the balsamico roast chicken & potatoes (page 224), the garlic-caper pork chops (page 146) or the chocolate polenta cake (page 360).

5. Gourmet Today, edited by Ruth Reichl. This is Gourmet magazine for cooks who don’t have hours to spend coaxing a showstopping dish from stove to table. Most entrees take 20-30 minutes to prepare but feature innovative ingredients and techniques. Think of this cookbook as the gateway drug to serious chef-ing. Try the roasted grape relish (page 51), the lentil & tomato salad (page 189) and the apricot chicken with almonds (page 396).

6. The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, by Aimee Bender. In this gorgeous novel, a young girl is haunted by her ability to discern the innermost feelings of people by eating something that they’ve cooked. After 292 pages, she comes to accept this rather startling character trait as a gift. Bender’s prose gives language to the often elusive feeling we cooks have of translating love and empathy and emotion through our food and onto our loved ones’ plates.

Happy reading, Mom.