Wednesday, July 4, 2007

From the bottom up

Procrastination aside, I was waiting patiently for the opportunity to try out the largest layer of The Wedding Cake, when our conductor announced “party Monday evening!” before the downbeat of our finale (Stars and Stripes Forever, since it’s that time of year).

I started off my Monday morning by infusing 4 cups of cream with saffron, and adding cornstarch to cook it to stabilize the cream once whipped. Once it’s cool, I’m to add rosewater, so I open up the cupboard and take out two bottles: one half bottle leftover from Germany, and a new blue plastic bottle from Whole Foods. I open the German flask and sniff; it smells heavenly, like delicate roses on a dewy morning. But I only have a little bit left, and I need three teaspoons. Since this is a test, I figure I should open the other one. The smell is heady and strong, like a purple-haired lady’s perfumed soap. Vexed, I take both bottles upstairs to Number One’s nose, which is buried in a thick book. He validates my impression: the blue bottle is soapy-smelling – clearly, we need to investigate alternate sources, but I need to use it for now. I make a note to visit the Persian market to see what they have to offer, and dash off an email to my mother-in-law in the Vaterland to see if she’s game to picking some up. I set the pudding-like mixture out in the cool morning air with a sheet of plastic wrap to keep it from skinning over. The boys eye and sniff it, but wisely decided it isn’t interesting enough to stick their fingers in.

I then set up to make two 12-inch layers. The Cake Goddess warns me that I can’t go larger than 12 inches, since the genoise doesn’t have the structural integrity to support itself in a larger size. I set up the bowls to separate 10 eggs, when Number One happens by (the way the adolescent male stomach reacts to activity in the kitchen is an interesting phenomenon). He receives the same explanation my mother gave me when I asked why she used three bowls to separate eggs, and grabs an apple from the fruit bowl. He does humor me by cutting the parchment circles for the cake pans – with one hand, since the apple takes a few minutes to devour.

Mixing the batter goes off without a hitch, though I make a note in the margin of the recipe to use my absolutely largest bowl to fold in the egg whites. The batter fits in my big bread bowl, but there’s not a lot of room to spare.

Thirty minutes later, I remove the two layers from the oven, and go to turn them out on the racks. It is here that I discover I should have read Rose more carefully, for she admonishes me to not only check that my pans fit the oven, but that I have enough and sufficiently large racks. Alas, my racks are a scant 10 inches. I grab a roasting rack that is just barely 12 inches for one, then do a quick wipe-down of my oven rack. They’ll do in a pinch, but their wires are a bit far apart, so I make yet another note, this time to go to the restaurant supply house and get some real ones.

We pile in the car to go grocery shopping (I have used up the last of the canola oil and we are running short on ice cream). The Persian market has rose water, to be sure – in quart-sized bottles. But it’s only $4.99, so I buy one. The woman must think we’re odd, as we pile in the car and immediately twist off the cap, our noses vying to get a sniff. It smells good – stronger than the German one, but not as soapy as the blue bottle. We devise another test with little bowls of cream flavored with A, B, and C rose waters. We three decide that the Persian bottle is fine, but Darling Husband is adamant that only the German one will do, and promptly issues stern orders to his mother to hie to the store and express a package hence.

With but a few hours until the party, I begin assembling the cake. The Cake Bible notes that a layer can be expected to shrink a bit, but I am alarmed to note that the shrinkage that was apparent in the six-inch layer is greatly magnified for the twelve, with the bottom diameter now a full two inches smaller than the top. I have two options at this point: either trim the cake or fill the voids with cream. Fearing a syndrome similar to trimming table legs, I opt for the latter, and whip up eight cups of cream. I end up using about six cups, half a cup more than Rose predicted, but it doesn’t look lopsided at all.

The party-goers’ reviews are unanimously rave; one person asks for the recipe, another for my business card. However, that same light texture that makes the cake delicately yield makes it very difficult to cut the cake into small portions, and I only get 30 servings out of a layer that is supposed to yield 75. Even an extra layer in the back room won’t make up for this shortcoming, and I must consider other options.

The next morning, I sit down and spend some quality time with Rose, adapting her basic butter cake for this recipe. Instead of whites or yolks only, I opt for whole eggs; butter is replaced by oil, since I fear the butter flavor will overwhelm. A single six-inch layer is my test subject, and it holds its shape perfectly as it cools. I feed it to Darling Husband and British Neighbor, both of whom are familiar with the original. We are surprised to find the delicate flavors of cardamom and lemon peel more pronounced in this cake, but there is no consensus on the texture: Darling Husband feels it has lost its special quality, but British Neighbor is pragmatic, pointing out that if she had never tasted the fluffy genoise she would consider this a terrific cake.

The brides will blow into town in a few days, and we have decided that they will be greeted by two cakes. They will have to make the final call.


Tuesday, July 3, 2007

Full moon

Last night, I watched the moon set and the sun begin its rise, thanks to a visit from the insomnia gremlins. I had hoped to be in good form, as we had planned a hike with Darling Husband’s Tea Buddy, and had had to reschedule it one too many times already. As I drifted off near morning, I was sure I wouldn’t have the energy to go, let alone hike a canyon. But the day rose sunny, with riotous bird song, and we decided on a late start rather than a rain check.

On our trek away from suburbia, we had driven past successively rustic-looking past farm stands (some with fireworks for sale as well), and it was nearing snack time. But we were anxious to meet up at the trail head, so we promised ourselves local fruit later in the day. We took our time descending into Robe Canyon, pausing often to examine the lush flora. What a pleasant discovery to find local as local could be right here on the trail: oodles of ripe salmonberries, fat and juicy, yielding to our fingers, the boys like baby birds opening their mouths wide for me to pop them in. And then the mother lode of wild berries, the black-capped raspberry, though only enough for one apiece.


The boys and I thoroughly enjoyed getting to know this man who has quietly mentored my husband for years now. Little One announced that he wanted to go play at Tea Buddy's house, Number One decided he was cool, and I indulged in the rarity of being able to use Americanisms and have them be understood. After we had consumed everything in our backpacks, mentor opened his bag and shared the contents, including Gummi Incredibles and Junior Mints. It would be a travesty to describe the purchases made at the Tom Thumb Grocery Store in Granite Falls for the sun-drenched drive home as food, but they did add to the texture of the day’s experiences.

But the best part was waking late the next morning to sunlight streaming through my window, the house still blissfully still. Little One did not wander during the wee hours, and we all had slept like proverbial logs.