Rank amateur

During my quest for knowledge about wedding cakes, I discovered that my bookshelf was sorely lacking: somehow I had entirely missed the Cake Bible by Rose Levy Beranbaum. I have since remedied this but continue to scour the library bookshelves to make sure I haven’t somehow overlooked any other painfully obvious title. And last week, there it was: One of the 10 indispensable works for serious cooks: The Professional Chef, brought to us by none other than the Culinary Institute of America. A hefty copper-colored tome, the 8^th edition is weightier than my Larousse de Cuisine (both English and French editions) and has more detailed illustrations than Julia and Simone’s Mastering the Art (Volumes I and II). I dove in with great anticipation.

And yet, I must admit some disappointment. Yes, it really does tell me how to slice carrots a gazillion different ways, but this is overshadowed by a couple of items I just cannot ignore.

On the way home from the library, Darling Husband, riding shotgun, opens the book to European cuisines, and finds the section on Southern Germany, his personal Vaterland. He reads out loud, “The states of Bavaria, Baden, and Alsace-Lorraine comprise Southern Germany.” What?! My husband looks in disbelief and continues, “The cuisine of Bavaria, which is located in southeast Germany, is influenced by its proximity to Austria and the cuisine of Alsace-Lorraine, which is located in southwest Germany has been influenced by its proximity to France.” The last time we were there (a few weeks ago), Alsace was in France. And my young self once made the mistake of referring to Alsace-Lorraine as one region. I was quickly corrected by my Nancy-born French prof: They are two distinct regions, and referring to them in the same breath is us as offensive to natives as saying there’s no difference between someone from Los Angeles and Seattle—they’re both on the West Coast, right? Puzzled, we delve into their encapsulated history of Southern Germany, and read their summation: “Germany reacquired Alsace and Lorraine after defeating France on the Battlefield in 1871. Wilhelm I, who had been King of Prussia, was installed as the first German Kaiser, which effectively united Germany under one rule.”

Which explains everything: this part of this 2006 book hasn’t been updated since Germany had a king, and doesn’t reflect the fact that Alsace and Lorraine were returned to France after World War I. It also has other geographical issues, like Baden (a city in Switzerland) is not a state, as is Baden-Wurttemberg. It turns out that the entire section on Germany is in dire need of editing: “Major cities in central Germany include Frankfurt, Dresden and Westphalia.” (Westphalia is a region, not a city.) Further reading introduces us to such great misnomers as Spaztel for Spätzle and schwartzwalder kirschtorte for Schwarzwälderkirschtorte. Mysteriously, only the German entries seem to suffer this affliction of ignorance; the rest of Europe has kept up.

Interested to see if I can learn anything that might be of interest for our upcoming annual couscous feast, I flip through the world cuisines section, only to find there is no entry whatsoever for Africa: the closest I can find is Middle Eastern, with Persian and Iranian selected as representative.

I scan the section on Chinese cuisine, and am taken aback by a sidebar on MSG (Monosodium Glutamate) that informs me that the substance was first isolated in 1908, by a Japanese scientist who dubbed it as having its own flavor, namely, umami. There is, unfortunately, no recognition of the fact that it is an ingredient that many avoid for various reasons, not the least of which is their health. Indeed, none of the Culinary Institute’s ample prose deals with the issue of allergens at all, including avoiding allergen cross-contamination.

This volume is well-known for its photos: lots and lots of color pictures, illustrating all the techniques discussed. But I am alarmed by the number of fingers and hands that are covered in obviously latex gloves. Conventional wisdom in our post-AIDS society dictates that food must be handled with single-use gloves, but no illustration, nor text covering food safety, mentions that using latex gloves can pose a hidden and life-threatening hazard to some restaurant patrons. With latex intolerance affecting 1-6 percent of the population, and the fact that for some, exposure can be fatal, it seems to this reader that the leading culinary training body in the country would set an example. It is falling to states to begin legislating against the use of latex gloves in food preparation. And vinyl isn’t much better, as they contain known carcinogens and hormone disrupters—the same ingredients that led to the ban of their use for baby toys destined for mouthing. And in truth, our food is no safer than before gloves came into widespread use, as it appears that workers often don’t change gloves at all during their shift, operating cash registers and wiping their nose in the interim. And so we come full circle: some health experts are now saying that regular hand washing would be more effective than glove use.

Which all means that I don’t see The Professional Chef as essential for my shelf. I’ll retain my amateur status, even if it does mean handling food with my bare – but washed – hands.

Love in a bowl

“Mama!”

“Mmmph?” Oooh, who sanded my throat?

“The screen fell out of my window!”

“Mmmphg. ‘k. I’m coming.”

“See? I was jumping over there, and it fell out!” How did I sleep through that?

“I see. There, all fixed” (Can I go back to bed now?)

“Mama?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m hungry!” He must be feeling better. Wish I did.

“Oatmeal?”

“Triple berry! Triple berry! Triple berry!”

“OK. Triple berry.”

“Orange juice?”

“OK.”

Later, Darling Husband more than earns his keep by coming home to entertain a not-quite-well-enough-to-go-to-school-today Little One, and to bring me a bowl of steaming hot chicken soup. The savory yellow broth soothes my throat and makes me feel just a little bit better. And most certainly loved.

Dress rehearsal

During our visit to Germany this spring, I made the Persian Love Cake for two newly wed friends. With the cake still in their mouths, they blushingly made a request: would I help them plan their stateside reception by tasting wedding cake, since I clearly knew what they liked? It was easy to agree.

Home again, I dutifully went to the website of their prospective caterer, and looked over the offerings. Drop-dead gorgeous, special cakes indeed, and the flavor combinations sounded lovely for a July garden party filled with laughing children and flowing dresses. But there was a voice whispering in the back of my mind, and it started to rant loudly when I started looking at the prices and paired it with the look on our friends’ faces when the rose cake came out of the fridge.

I have a composition book where I scribble random eco-foodie thoughts, and the page for that day has a big question circled: Could I make it myself?

I begin mulling over the idea, but know I need more information. I turn to the library, which yields books with numerous variations of elegant tiered structures. I learn that the engineering isn’t a huge issue; it’s all basic support systems – circles and dowels – to keep layers from squishing each other. But looks aren’t what I’m interested in. My cake is all about texture, a sensual experience for the mouth. These books talk only about appearances. They don’t address scaling up the softness of my saffron whipped cream and candied rose petals, instead suggesting hard, inedible royal icing swags and piped flowers. I’m not sure it’s possible to do what I want.

I turn to friends: I recall that my friendly dessert rival Rick once made a wedding cake for friends, and posted a web site detailing the entire process. I read it through twice, filling the rest of that notebook page with answers and as many questions. My notes have the word “Cake Bible” underscored three times, and a school parking lot meeting has him handing over his dog-eared copy (the marginalia are informative, alternating scathing and gushing), along with cake pans and a Styrofoam “cake” for practicing with a pastry tube. Rose Levy Berenbaum’s tome falls open to a picture of a pistachio rose wedding cake. It is clearly meant to be, and within fifteen minutes, I am online, ordering a copy for myself. I am ashamed to admit that my shelf is missing this exquisite book, one that talks not only of construction techniques but considers the texture of the cake—and then tells me how to achieve it.

I know then that I can do this, though it is equally clear that it will call for planning and some serious test kitchen runs. My family is game for the testing phase, they assure me. Emboldened, I call our friends in Switzerland and pop the question: May I make their cake? They say yes, yes, yes!

Everything I read tells me that wedding cakes are butter cakes with buttercream frosting. My cake, when I make it at home, is a light génoise with a fluffy whipped cream coat. Joy tells me I need a sturdy cake; Mastering the Art talks about icing: fondant, buttercream, ganache, all solid. But I really want my soft génoise and whipped cream. Rose (for we are now soul mates and on a first-name basis, though she never calls me) comes to my rescue, assuring me that stabilizing whipped cream is not only possible, but will give me that tongue-yielding texture I desire in a package that can endure July afternoon temperatures. I must, however have a cream with between 35 and 40 percent fat content. A call to the 800 number on the back of the Organic Valley whipping cream reveals that its fat content is a whopping 38%. The reticent Midwesterner on the phone is a bit taken aback by my enthusiastic reaction, but I’m too busy with my happy dance to notice. Things are falling into place.

Armed with little génoise cupcakes, I devise a nefarious test to abuse frosting subjects A, B, and C. Frosting A is stabilized with cornstarch, cooked into the cream (handy, since I must heat the cream to infuse the saffron anyway); B is my unadulterated recipe, and C is an attempt to stabilize with gelatin (ironically, I have gelatin in my cupboard only because one of the brides handed it to me in a grocery bag during their move last year). C is by all accounts a failure—my fault, not Rose’s, since she warned me not to beat it too long, and I allowed myself to be distracted by an overly cute child. We left A & B out for long hours under hot lights, refrigerated them without covering overnight, and repeated the cycle. Visitors to our home were recruited to help evaluate the guinea pig cupcakes, and the results were resounding: B, while tasty, was drooping, so beautiful, tasty, yielding A wins. We have our frosting, and I know that I can eschew the piped look for the gentle cream wisps and rose petals.

Ah, the roses. Last year's roses were from that self-same bride’s garden, now under new ownership. I must find a new source for roses. I call the co-op, and they apologetically tell me they just can’t guarantee a source. Hmm. No problem, I think: all the wedding cake books I’ve read make it sound like a simple matter to just call up the florist and ask for unsprayed roses. I systematically work my way through the yellow pages, and only one florist, Lawrence in Bellevue, deigns to reply, telling me that I really don’t want his roses, for beautiful as they are, they are bred for appearance not fragrance and sprayed far too much to risk eating. He is, however, willing to help sample the baking! I relate this exchange to some parents at pickup that afternoon: an eco-reactionist friend tells me of the 230-odd chemicals that are sprayed on the roses she just picked up at Whole Foods, and the cello teacher-cum-friend quietly mentions she has beautiful, pink, fragrant roses that bloom early, and she never sprays. I smile and ask if I may have some. Yes, indeed, she says, though her motivations are not entirely altruistic—she has heard of this cake and has a soft spot for cardamom. She’s very happy to help test, should the need arise. My ranks of willing guinea pigs are swelling.

Now I only have to figure out two more things: how to actually make the cake, when all I have is a hand mixer and a 6-cup Cuisinart, and how to present it.

I figure I’ll tackle the easier matter first. I heard to the cupboard and measure all my platters. My largest is 14” in diameter, but not flat. I need something designed for the task—I can’t envision a towering cake on a tiny plate. I search for cake plates online, and discover the large silver-plated display pedestals commonly used by professionals. Yikes, though—ninety dollars for something I’d use once and that looks, well, too traditional for my purposes. eBay does a bit better on pricing, but shipping erases any advantage. I decide I’m not ready to buy a plateau, but I do look at some of the support systems for sale, and find that there are very reasonable plastic cake rounds that will fit the bill. I carefully note those specifications for later. A few days later, I’m enjoying a morning cuddle in Little One’s bed, and I look up at the delightful recycled glass icicles and hearts from Bedrock Industries that we used to embellish the IKEA light fixture: I hop downstairs, and look online at the glass curtains they make to spec. The prices are comparable to the cookie-cutter cake plates on eBay, but I can easily see myself using a handmade glass plate in many scenarios. I make a call, and Chris assures me that it should be no problem to make up something to fulfill my image—just come in some day and we’ll chat.

Which leaves only the cake itself. Rose tells me I can have my génoise, but no larger than 12 inches in diameter, and I trust her. It's still a lot of cake to make in one go, though. I think of the people from whom I bought my violin. Grounded Henry, often humming over his luthier’s workbench, is complemented by effusive Debbie, who, discovering that I bake too, leads me with a grin into the back room. Their typical 50s suburban storage room sports a wall of honey-bottomed violins and violas on one side and heavy aluminum professional baking appliances on the other. He is a third-generation luthier; she comes from professional bakers. In a place of honor stands an A200 Hobart – twenty quarts of pure mixing pleasure. We exchange baking war stories, and she says to let her know if I’d ever like to borrow it. Is she kidding? I shoot off an email, and, yes, she remains enthusiastic about sharing her toy.

The scene is set.

Warm fuzzies

I am feeling awash in positive vibes. Riding high from our biggest and most delicious couscous party ever, I can’t help but think of the grocery list of little things that cheer me:

1. My in-laws tell me that their rain barrel is full. This may not sound earth shattering, but the fact that these right-leaning Southern Germans even have a rain barrel is quite encouraging. I recall a time when our president appeared on television, wearing an Izod sweater à la Mr. Rogers, and encouraged us to turn down the thermostat and put on a sweater instead. It became non-partisan to conserve energy. Back then, only eco-freaks would have done that in Germany. Now the tables are turned, with rain barrels de rigueur and solar panels available at the hardware store in the Vaterland, while Americans plaster W’s on their hummers and refuse to remove their Kerry bumper stickers from their Prius.

2. The seal on the rice syrup I bought was a tiny little paper sticker over the edge of the jar lid. Simple, small impact, effective. After my ravings about sealing mustard from nuclear holocaust, this was so very welcome. Kisses to the folks at Lundberg for thinking about the big picture and for making my day.

3. My lettuces and peas are all asprout (and untrampled by junior couscous guests, thanks to quick-acting Number One Son), and the co-op sports the most beautiful baby greens from just 20 miles away. Clearly our dance to the May Queen worked!

4. Two long-suffering folks passed away within a day of each other, both parents of contemporaries. While it stirs up sadness in my pot of grief, I am thankful that their pain is over, and that their children can move from the roller coaster stage to the work of grieving. Our class – for it is made of parents as well as children – has been through much together, and we realize that the measure of joy and sorrow contributes immensely to the texture and color of our lives.

With several dozen dirty dishes to throw in the machine and a mysterious sticky spot in the living room, Little One woke with the flu, but I am thankful for the “down” day. We will clean a little, rest a little, and not get dressed until we actually have to go out. A Very Thoughtful Friend even brought a stack of Model Railroader magazines, which will entertain my little duck for hours.