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.

A tale of two mustards

With beautiful weather beckoning, we decided to pull out the fire pit and throw some dogs on the grill. We scrounged and found some buns in the freezer, and found ketchup and relish in the fridge. But I had to raid the larder for mustard.

Since our trip to Germany last year, Little One has been in love with the sweet deli mustard from Germany. It’s unavailable here, so we made a point of bringing back three jars (that was an adventure). Number One Son, in the meantime, has decided that he’d like to try the white bread of mustard, the bright yellow stuff (called French’s, but decidedly American), so I picked up a bottle from the local discount grocer’s for $1.25.

The German mustard, priced at an attractive 29 Euro cents, comes in a glass jar with a simple plastic lid, the idea being that you will have a free, if homely, glass for your use when finished. Judging from my admittedly unscientific sampling of the number of these sturdy glasses in cupboards throughout Southern Germany, this is a highly successful brand. The French’s, by contrast, comes in a highly engineered, disposable plastic bottle, with a “stay clean cap,” consisting of a flip-top cover over a valve spout.

I happen to believe that the smell of freshly opened mustard is one of those little joys in life, as the odor fills the immediate area. In the case of Dijon mustard, it can bring you to tears, and not from joy. And opening these two mustards is a cultural exercise. The Euro-mustard is decidedly unfussy: the plastic lid comes off with little effort, and you’re ready to spread. By contrast, the safety-at-all-costs-in-a-fear-based-society mustard requires the starving picnic-goer to first unscrew the stay clean cap and remove and discard (“where’s the garbage bag?”) the tamper-proof seal (“for your protection”). Only then can the cap be replaced and the yellow goop squeezed out onto the cooling dog.

And so it goes with so many products: the salad dressing has a seal around its neck that requires a knife to break, the cucumber is covered in a shrink-wrapped condom, and the vinegar has a pullout seal.

I am always amazed and disappointed by the little pile of plastic tear-offs, twisty-ties and baggies that amass on the counter every evening as I prepare supper (I have long since stopped throwing them out one at a time, as the repeated trips to the garbage add minutes to my preparation time). I can’t help wondering what happens when we scale it up: how many others are doing the same thing each evening, and how much of our landfill is made up of these little doodads?

And even though the seals inevitably assure me that it’s for my protection, I’m not at all convinced that they’re making my food any safer. Indeed, these little safety devices came into widespread use after the Tylenol scare in the 80s, but since then, the larger threat has not been from individual tamperers or even terrorists, but from the food producers themselves, with a little help from our governement. Yup, it seems the FDA knew there were problems at that peanut processing plant in Georgia, but were not empowered to do anything about it. And yes, that peanut butter came in sealed jars.

I recall my French teacher explaining that one must check brie for ripeness by removing it from its box and squeezing it—in the supermarket. Imagine, being able to smell and feel your food before you buy it. It’s not about the wrapper, it’s what’s inside the jar. Smell the mustard.

Fat is beautiful

My stroll through the electronic press this morning yielded an irresistible link: How To ... Make salad dressings. The Associated Press, in an effort to educate us all, writes that it’s much healthier and tastier to make our own salad dressings. No argument from me on that, but they tell me it’s healthier because (drum roll) I can reduce the fat when I make my own.

Now, I understand as well as anyone the importance of keeping calories under control (remember how I lost weight?), but categorically deeming all fats bad isn’t the answer. You see, we need fats, especially essential fatty acids (there’s a reason they’re called essential!). There is mounting evidence that our obsession with cutting all fats and our economically-driven industrialization of the food chain is throwing our fat intake out of whack, and contributing to things like heart disease. The healthy 1:1 or even 2:1 balance of omega-6 and omega-3 fats has been replaced by a whopping 20:1 or 30:1, largely due to consumption of grain-fed meats and highly-processed foods.

In this light, the AP’s technique of using reduced fat ingredients such as nonfat buttermilk and nonfat sour cream give me pause. Originally, buttermilk was the naturally low-fat product that remained after churning butter; now it’s made by culturing nonfat milk from grain fed cows. Sour cream used to be cream from these same happy cows, with enzymes added to sour it, but the current nonfat version from one commercial dairy has a far more involved ingredients list: Cultured Pasteurized Grade A Skim Milk, Modified Food Starch, Cream, Sugar, Pea Starch, Natural Flavor and Vitamin A Palmitate. In both cases, the traditional product came from a cow that grazed on grass, which contributed to the omega-3 side of the equation; our current grain feeding practices tilt the balance greatly toward the omega 6 side.

And for most bottled dressings, we can’t blame fat alone. A glance at the ingredients list for a “healthy” popular fat-free salad dressing should frighten any thinking person: Water, Vinegar, High Fructose Corn Syrup, Corn Syrup, Salt, Contains less than 2% of Parmesan Cheese, Part-Skim Milk, Cheese Culture, Salt, Enzymes, Garlic, Onion Juice, Whey, Phosphoric Acid, Xanthan Gum, Potassium Sorbate and Calcium Disodium EDTA as preservatives, Yeast Extract, Spice and Red Peppers, Lemon Juice Concentrate, Garlic, Buttermilk, Caramel Color, Sodium Phosphate, Enzymes, Oleoresin Paprika.

Compare this to a traditional homemade salad dressing: one part Dijon mustard, one part vinegar, six parts oil, salt & pepper. I first learned this standing in a Frenchwoman’s modest kitchen. She made this most basic vinaigrette at the bottom of the salad bowl while the freshly-washed lettuce was draining in the spinner. Since all the ingredients are shelf-stable (real Dijon mustard needs no refrigeration), they sat right there on the counter, handy for every meal. I went home and tried it, and was sold; with time, I have learned to vary it with my mood: substituting different oils and vinegars, of course, but also using things like lemon juice and soy sauce or maple syrup, and adding different herbs and spices. Oh, and real, organic cream when the whim strikes me.

Every day is Earth day

When I went to pick up my books and DVDs at the library yesterday, there was a big white easy-up with a banner proclaiming that I could get an Earth Kit. A smiling volunteer pushed a small stickered brown paper bag and a spindly dogwood seedling into my already overflowing arms.

I tucked these parcels, along with my borrowed entertainment into my 1992 Volvo wagon. The weekend library run is usually Darling Husband’s purvey, but he wasn’t going downtown otherwise, so I stopped on my way back from driving Number One Son to orchestra rehearsal (he carpools home).

After I got home, I emptied out the bag, which proclaims, “Change Climate Change!” and “Making small changes today can make big changes tomorrow,” along with a prominent display of the sponsors.

First out of the bag are two compact fluorescent bulbs. I’ve read that we’re at the tipping point on light bulbs, but our family has been using them for at least ten years, and I’ve only had to actually purchase two myself, since the utility company seems to give them out regularly (I had to buy a round globe-type so the lampshade would fit, since the freebies are almost always the spiral type). I’ll replace the burnt-out incandescent in the bathroom, and add the other one to the stockpile. The bulbs come packaged in boxes, and one is in a plastic sleeve inside the box.

There’s a tire gauge in the bag, and an admonition to keep my tires inflated for better mileage. After spending a month in $6-a-gallon Europe, it’s ironic that we should talk about tire pressure instead of our choices about cars and lifestyles. Both of our admittedly older cars—cars chosen for their balance of economy (28 mpg) and safety (four stars)—already have good-quality American-made tire gauges in the glove box. Keeping them tuned so they will last longer and taking the bus when we can is also part of our carbon-footprint reduction plan. I now have one new, Chinese pencil tire gauge—with plastic five valve caps in the bubble package. I somehow doubt the person down the street who just bought a new SUV will be interested, so I’ll add it to the pile of excess stuff slated for Freecycling/charity.

The dogwood tree seedling is very welcome, and it’s Weyerhauser label and plug shape reminds me of the time my father ordered a box of Ponderosa Pine seedlings from the Forestry Service to re-plant trees lost to an invasive beetle. For two years, he hand-watered them through the long, arid summers; fifteen years later, a good number have survived to grow taller than their patron, a legacy to his determination to leave things better than he found them. Our dogwood is tucked in our small Douglas Fir and Western Red Cedar grove, watered in with the same care my father quietly taught by example.

The bag also contains yet another refrigerator magnet from the hospital with reminders of what I can to save the planet, my health and money. There’s also a magnet for ecodeals.org (I find one of these already on the water heater, which is where I’ve been storing these things, since they can’t be recycled), and a small stack of full-color brochures. One of the brochures sounds positively Carter-esque, admonishing us to turn down the thermostat a couple of degrees; most, however, are about where I can buy energy-friendly consumer items.

And here’s where it becomes incongruous to me: none of the prose suggests things such as foregoing purchasing stuff to begin with (and then paying to store it) or eating more vegetarian or locally-sourced meals. And the bag, while full of good ideas, is still a bag of goods that had to be produced. One flyer tells me that 1,000 of these packets were put together for free distribution: that's 5,000 little plastic valve caps shipped here from China, and about 220 pounds of paper packaging and brochures that will end up in the waste stream (let's hope folks recycle them!). In the end, the only items that will actually be used in our household are the two light bulbs and the tree: everything else has been sorted and recycled or discarded.

Black noses

Scombre was found shivering in a snowy embankment in Shasta County. Her black nose stood out against the white snow, and we stopped. Thrilled with her newly adoptive family, she became my father’s fast friend, barking at the lawn mower as he pushed it every Saturday. She died of old age, long after my brother and I had left home.

Molly was a castoff from a single mom who couldn’t give the gentle dog enough attention and didn’t want to deal in impending puppies. She died on the vet’s table during the spaying procedure, her unknown hemophilia becoming apparent too late.

Peggy started life as the last of Molly’s seven puppies, just barely weaned when she was orphaned. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, she was very affectionate, my father’s faithful companion as he mapped out pioneer graves. She too died peacefully, of old age.

Nellie was featured in the local paper as the Humane Society’s pet of the week, shortly after Peggy’s death. A small, quiet Australian Shepherd (like all her predecessors), she was the perfect dog for my father’s declining years. Her favorite place was by his side, quietly waiting—even under his pew at church.

From overseas, I hear news of tainted pet food: wheat gluten, and now rice protein concentrate, contaminated with the chemical melamine, linked to the death of 16 animals. The list of brand names is 54 long, each one representing several types: literally hundreds of kinds are affected, with rebranding making the web more difficult to untangle. Our industrialized model harms not only us, but also those we love and protect. Yes, they are “only” pets, but the mounting numbers, each with a story behind them, must serve as (yet another) wakeup call. Had this been baby formula or Ensure, our grief would not go so quietly.

Nellie became ill suddenly and inexplicably. She died at the vet’s, quite unexpectedly and many years before her time. My mother’s grief at the loss of husband and elderly cat is compounded. No, Nellie is not counted in the official number, but she counted to us.

The best things in life are really cheap

I am awake far too early, listening to the birds greet the day. My belly is grumbling, expecting dinner some nine time zones away. Not wanting to disturb my hopefully sleeping family, I am lying here, scheming breakfast. In Dublin, it was a full Irish, with thick back rashers and a fried egg, in Germany, a Bretzel, fresh from the bakery, filled with thick slabs of cold sweet butter. If I had broken my fast in France, it would have been with a pain au chocolat dunked in a bowl of hot chocolate. But I am home, and my body is begging for a respite from the onslaught of delicious and tempting allergens.

During my Dublin shopping expeditions, I cringed at the prices every time I took another item off the shelf, as they all seemed to have a price tag of at least €2.99. My first bag of not-so-special groceries set me back over 40 Euro. I’m not a great mathematician, but the knowledge that the Euro is hovering around $1.30 made me realize that most of what I was putting in my cart was exorbitantly expensive. Everything, that is, until I found a lone bag of “plain oats” at Tesco. An unassuming white paper bag, no fancy features or brand name, it promised me many breakfasts for a mere 49 Euro cents. I brought it back to our Dublin digs, and at every packing juncture, I found myself resistant to chuck it, instead tucking its dwindling self into the luggage. By the time we made our last stop, I had making it down pat and the boys would beg for some too: bubbling and thick, with a handful of raisins, a sprinkling of Demerara sugar, and a river of thick soy milk. There are probably only one or two servings left in the little white bag, but I am certain that at least one of them will disappear this morning.

It’s not that I’m cheap (indeed, next to the legendary tightfistedness of my Darling Husband, I could be seen as living quite high on the hog), but sometimes the inexpensive everyday makes a bigger difference than the big splurges.

On our last trip to Germany, Little One discovered the joy of dipping lovely sausages from the Vaterland into sweet deli mustard. He begged for one of the jars at the supermarket, and since it was only 25 Euro cents, I bought it. He has shown incredible reserve, using just enough to not waste a smidgen (though also not willing to share with anyone else, thank you very much). With only a few servings to go, a trip to Plus was on his agenda. His brother also wanted a jar, and since I know he’s going to hit a growth spurt any day now, I splurged and bought three—at 29 Euro cents each (and I get a free glass when I’m done!). When our luggage was overweight, I pulled two jars and put them in the carryons, which led to a dodgy moment at security: it turns out they’re considered a gel. To his credit, the security agent who escorted Darling Husband back to baggage check did see the humor in the situation: the mustard was only Mittelscharf, sharf being the German word for both spicy and sharp—and we all know there are no sharp objects allowed in aircraft.