Los Angeles, California
Ok, enough is enough. I've written about loneliness and heartache, separation and rough reentry. We've come home to a continuing bad economy, a leak in our roof, and don't get me started on what our heinous health insurance company has recently done with our rates. Enough with the chicken and the lamb, and even the namby-pamby cake. It's time to go to the mattresses. It's time for chocolate.
Now, I'm probably the last person who needs to tell you about the chemical properties of chocolate. In other words, what chocolate does for you, which is a lot. There is a reason why desperate people in desperate times turn to chocolate. And most likely you don't need me to explain this because YOU ARE ONE OF THEM. And if you're not -- well, I don't want to play in your yard.
Chocolate is oft equated with love -- those heart-shaped boxes for Valentine's Day. Or the scientific evidence that chocolate releases some endorphin-like chemical which makes you feel just like you're in love when you eat it. And I am in love. And, here's what I love with regard to that: Baskin Robbins chocolate chip ice cream; See's Candies dark chocolate bordeaux; Benes' Bakery brownies (cakelike, not fudgy); Girl Scout Thin Mints; Mallomars; Fun-sized Snickers bars, frozen; Fran's Gold Bites; Fluffernutter from Williams-Sonoma (alas, no longer available because of an absurd lawsuit), Nanaimo Bars, Boston Cream Pie. And that's the short list.
I also like chocolate pudding. And, I like chocolate cake. My mom used to make this cake when I was young. She could whip it up easily after dinner. I started making it when I was about eight. I've been making it for years, from a battered card which has the recipe written in my mom's handwriting. It's not rare. Occasionally I run across a recipe for it in food magazines, and most recently in the Los Angeles Times. But you needn't research it, as here is the recipe:
Crazy Chocolate Cake
1 1/2 cup flour
1 cup sugar
3 tablespoons cocoa
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons canola oil
1 tablespoon white vinegar
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup cold water
Sift flour, sugar, cocoa, soda and salt into ungreased 8-inch square pan. Make three depressions of graduating size in the combined dry ingredients. Into the largest, pour the oil; place vinegar in the second depression, and vanilla in the smallest. Pour water over all; mix by stirring with fork. Do not beat.
Bake for thirty minutes.
Serves nine, theoretically (cut into nine squares).
The interesting thing about this cake is that it is vegan. Now who knew we were that trendy? I think the recipe came about because it could be made with ingredients almost always on hand. Plus the no bowl thing made it attractive to busy moms who weren't really jonesing to dirty both bowl and pan. Theoretically you could eat the cake with the same fork with which you stir the ingredients together. A really good idea if you are going to eat the entire cake, in which case you won't even need a knife to cut it into squares. Seriously, you could be tempted to eat the whole thing. However, even when one needs to go to the mattresses, this could be . . . overkill.
What would Sandra do? Yes there is a Sandra & chocolate link as she makes a killer chocolate treat called Cook's Treats. Stay tuned, and thanks for reading my blog.
February 28, 2010
February 15, 2010
A Very Nice Little Roasted Chicken
Los Angeles, California
We are home. Three little words, but oh what is attached to them. After thirty days in Carmel, I packed up my notebooks, seasonings, sweaters, and heart, then Billy & I returned to our home in Los Angeles. Tony Bennett surely was misdirected when he left his heart in you-know-where. If he had ventured anywhere near Monterey County, he would never have so carelessly misplaced such an essential organ in San Francisco.
Upon our return, Los Angeles was drenched in another major rainstorm -- good, as it flies in the face of prognosticators of doom who have been throwing that nasty word -- drought, at us every chance they get. Now it rains, and it rains, but they continue to tell us it is not enough. Hillsides in Southern California are awash with mudslides, but, sorry, not enough.
I would have a hard time coming home anyway, but with all the gloom and pessimism in the state, country, and world at large, my reentry is daunting at best. Let's face it, I needed some bucking up. And I got that -- dinner with good friends, Bonnie and Marty, last Saturday night. We went to our favorite Thai restaurant which is owned by other good friends, Ricky and Rattikorn. That should have been enough. But, truth be told, I still needed . . . a chicken.
Butterflied Lemon Chicken with Croutons
1 butterflied chicken (approx. 3.5 to 4 pounds)
3 long sprigs rosemary
1/3 cup plus 3 tablespoons olive oil
Grated zest and juice of one Meyer lemon
Kosher salt
Freshly ground pepper including red peppercorns
8 plus 1 cloves of garlic
2 fennel bulbs, halved and cut into quarters
2 stalks celery, thickly sliced
2 yellow onions, quartered
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
4 cups bread, cut into 1-inch cubes
Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
Rinse and dry butterflied chicken (have butcher do this for you, or remove backbone yourself by cutting alongside both sides of backbone and pressing down on breast to flatten or "butterfly" chicken).
Remove leaves from one stalk of rosemary. Combine with other stalks, 1/3 cup olive oil and next three ingredients; add salt and pepper. Place chicken in ziplock and add oil mixture. Mix around in bag, refrigerate for at least one hour and up to 24.
Toss 8 cloves of garlic, fennel, celery and onion with 1 tablespoon olive oil, salt, and pepper. Place in smallish roasting pan. Place chicken on top. Roast for 45 minutes to 1 hour, or until an instant-read thermometer registers 170 degrees when inserted in thigh. Remove.
Meanwhile, heat 2 tablespoons oil in large non-stick skillet. Add crushed clove of garlic. Saute bread cubes until browned and crisp. Place on platter, top with chicken and arrange vegetables around chicken on top of bread. Place roaster on one (or two burners if size necessitates) and heat. Deglaze pan with 1/3 cup white wine. Pour over chicken and SERVE. Don't bother with silver -- just pour a couple of large glasses of wine, and tear away. This chicken is so comforting, it has brought tears to my eyes.
3 to 4 servings
Without a sustaining memory for our favorite lines in films, Billy and I would be reduced to near non-verbal communication -- hand signals, perhaps. We constantly throw lines at each other, or sometimes just out into the ethos. The recipe above reminds me of a snippet of dialog from The Great Race, which is oft-repeated at our house. Disguised as a humble monk, Max, the toady of Professor Fate, has helped The Great Leslie to escape after he has been imprisoned during an attempted coup in Pottsdorf (you're following this, right?). When Professor Fate is told that The Great Leslie has escaped, with a friar, Professor Fate exclaims "Leslie's escaped? With a chicken?!?" Shortly after we are on our way to the best pie fight on film.
Tonight we are going a tad more highbrow. We are settling in to watch episode one of The Civil War again -- possibly our fifth reviewing of the series. What is up with that I don't know. But here's the deal. I have had my chicken, and some Monterey County Sauvignon blanc. And a French Macaroon or two from Trader Joe's. And tea. I am home. And I am making the best of it, damn it.
What would Sandra do? Sandra is probably one of the few people I know, besides myself and maybe Billy, who could be tempted into a really good pie fight. But, seriously, who can afford a spree like that in this economy? We can barely justify the purchase of the chicken. Nevertheless, I attempt to be of good cheer, and I thank you for reading my blog.
We are home. Three little words, but oh what is attached to them. After thirty days in Carmel, I packed up my notebooks, seasonings, sweaters, and heart, then Billy & I returned to our home in Los Angeles. Tony Bennett surely was misdirected when he left his heart in you-know-where. If he had ventured anywhere near Monterey County, he would never have so carelessly misplaced such an essential organ in San Francisco.
Upon our return, Los Angeles was drenched in another major rainstorm -- good, as it flies in the face of prognosticators of doom who have been throwing that nasty word -- drought, at us every chance they get. Now it rains, and it rains, but they continue to tell us it is not enough. Hillsides in Southern California are awash with mudslides, but, sorry, not enough.
I would have a hard time coming home anyway, but with all the gloom and pessimism in the state, country, and world at large, my reentry is daunting at best. Let's face it, I needed some bucking up. And I got that -- dinner with good friends, Bonnie and Marty, last Saturday night. We went to our favorite Thai restaurant which is owned by other good friends, Ricky and Rattikorn. That should have been enough. But, truth be told, I still needed . . . a chicken.
Butterflied Lemon Chicken with Croutons
1 butterflied chicken (approx. 3.5 to 4 pounds)
3 long sprigs rosemary
1/3 cup plus 3 tablespoons olive oil
Grated zest and juice of one Meyer lemon
Kosher salt
Freshly ground pepper including red peppercorns
8 plus 1 cloves of garlic
2 fennel bulbs, halved and cut into quarters
2 stalks celery, thickly sliced
2 yellow onions, quartered
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
4 cups bread, cut into 1-inch cubes
Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
Rinse and dry butterflied chicken (have butcher do this for you, or remove backbone yourself by cutting alongside both sides of backbone and pressing down on breast to flatten or "butterfly" chicken).
Remove leaves from one stalk of rosemary. Combine with other stalks, 1/3 cup olive oil and next three ingredients; add salt and pepper. Place chicken in ziplock and add oil mixture. Mix around in bag, refrigerate for at least one hour and up to 24.
Toss 8 cloves of garlic, fennel, celery and onion with 1 tablespoon olive oil, salt, and pepper. Place in smallish roasting pan. Place chicken on top. Roast for 45 minutes to 1 hour, or until an instant-read thermometer registers 170 degrees when inserted in thigh. Remove.
Meanwhile, heat 2 tablespoons oil in large non-stick skillet. Add crushed clove of garlic. Saute bread cubes until browned and crisp. Place on platter, top with chicken and arrange vegetables around chicken on top of bread. Place roaster on one (or two burners if size necessitates) and heat. Deglaze pan with 1/3 cup white wine. Pour over chicken and SERVE. Don't bother with silver -- just pour a couple of large glasses of wine, and tear away. This chicken is so comforting, it has brought tears to my eyes.
3 to 4 servings
Without a sustaining memory for our favorite lines in films, Billy and I would be reduced to near non-verbal communication -- hand signals, perhaps. We constantly throw lines at each other, or sometimes just out into the ethos. The recipe above reminds me of a snippet of dialog from The Great Race, which is oft-repeated at our house. Disguised as a humble monk, Max, the toady of Professor Fate, has helped The Great Leslie to escape after he has been imprisoned during an attempted coup in Pottsdorf (you're following this, right?). When Professor Fate is told that The Great Leslie has escaped, with a friar, Professor Fate exclaims "Leslie's escaped? With a chicken?!?" Shortly after we are on our way to the best pie fight on film.
Tonight we are going a tad more highbrow. We are settling in to watch episode one of The Civil War again -- possibly our fifth reviewing of the series. What is up with that I don't know. But here's the deal. I have had my chicken, and some Monterey County Sauvignon blanc. And a French Macaroon or two from Trader Joe's. And tea. I am home. And I am making the best of it, damn it.
What would Sandra do? Sandra is probably one of the few people I know, besides myself and maybe Billy, who could be tempted into a really good pie fight. But, seriously, who can afford a spree like that in this economy? We can barely justify the purchase of the chicken. Nevertheless, I attempt to be of good cheer, and I thank you for reading my blog.
February 5, 2010
Chicken Skin and Other Cures for Heartache and Loneliness
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
Billy flew home today. In the rain. It was sad. He'll be back next weekend, but it's the fourth time I've said goodbye to people I love in less than three weeks. That's way too much separation anxiety shuttled into too-short a period of time. What did Karen Blixen say in Out of Africa? I'm better at hello. Well, me too.
It's enough to make you eat. Abandonment can lead you down very dangerous paths. Especially in a house where thoughtful and generous house guests have brought all kinds of goodies. One couple actually brought two pies! When Billy is here, we cook a lot. While we have a few favorite restaurants here in Carmel, it should be pointed out that the house we rent has a six-burner Wolf range. This makes it great fun to cook here, though we generally have fun no matter where we're cooking. Too much fun, as in the spirit of throwing caution to the winds. So when we're apart, like tonight with me here and Billy back home, we both try to be good and eat more cleanly, so that we can live to misbehave another day.
After I drove Billy to the airport, I stopped by Whole Foods in Monterey and bought two chicken breast halves, a potato, and some rainbow swiss chard. I prepped both breasts with some meyer lemon-flavored olive oil, and seasonings; cut up the potato and tossed it with unpeeled garlic cloves and olive oil. Then I roasted them together. The idea was to eat one of the chicken breasts after removing the skin, and save the other one for tomorrow night's chicken soup. I roasted them in the Wolf in convection "roast" mode. This browned up the skin really nicely, and so . . . well, I ate the skin. Now, I know we're supposed to avoid the skin because of the fat. But the truth is that it was heavenly. I was just going to eat one little strip of it with the white meat, but before I knew it I had adiosed all the skin. I'm usually not this bad. Most of the time I really do peel it off. In fact, Billy's favorite chicken recipe bakes chicken breasts without the skin, breaded with panko crumbs and cayenne pepper. I should have done that one.
I had just heard this report on NPR (I think it was on Science Friday, which should be explored as an insomnia cure) that said something to the effect of this: If you tax your frontal lobe -- say you're stressed, or you take a test, or something which depletes that part of your brain function, you greatly reduce the capacity for willpower. In the study that supports this, they worked the brains of half the group, and let the other half loaf around. Then they offered both groups cookies. The loafing half had marked resistance to this temptation, compared to the other half. Hmmm, can I blame the stress of saying goodbye to Billy for my inability to resist the temptation of crispy chicken skin? And, by the way, did I mention the cookies?
Yes, I did eat cookies, too. Though, the truth is that I don't have much of a sweet tooth. Don't get me wrong, put a wonderful dessert in front of me, especially chocolate cake, and I am there. But I don't need a big slice. And I won't go back for seconds. I buy a box of Girl Scout Thin Mints every year and chuck them into the freezer. They last a long time, as does the box of Mallomars, similarly purchased when in season. If you give me a box of See's Candies, even a full pound of dark chocolate Bordeaux (my favorite), I will never finish the box. I eat one piece every so often. But I'm not so noble, people. My resistance for crunchy/salty runs appallingly, embarrassingly low: popcorn at the movies; chips at a Mexican restaurant; well-done french fries. Chicken skin. You get the picture.
So, what would Sandra do? Well Sandra brought an entire dinner to Carmel. How cool is that? A house guest who brings dinner for the first night. You gotta love her. We provided dessert. Ollalieberry pie, anyone? Le sigh . . . and thanks for reading my blog.
Billy flew home today. In the rain. It was sad. He'll be back next weekend, but it's the fourth time I've said goodbye to people I love in less than three weeks. That's way too much separation anxiety shuttled into too-short a period of time. What did Karen Blixen say in Out of Africa? I'm better at hello. Well, me too.
It's enough to make you eat. Abandonment can lead you down very dangerous paths. Especially in a house where thoughtful and generous house guests have brought all kinds of goodies. One couple actually brought two pies! When Billy is here, we cook a lot. While we have a few favorite restaurants here in Carmel, it should be pointed out that the house we rent has a six-burner Wolf range. This makes it great fun to cook here, though we generally have fun no matter where we're cooking. Too much fun, as in the spirit of throwing caution to the winds. So when we're apart, like tonight with me here and Billy back home, we both try to be good and eat more cleanly, so that we can live to misbehave another day.
After I drove Billy to the airport, I stopped by Whole Foods in Monterey and bought two chicken breast halves, a potato, and some rainbow swiss chard. I prepped both breasts with some meyer lemon-flavored olive oil, and seasonings; cut up the potato and tossed it with unpeeled garlic cloves and olive oil. Then I roasted them together. The idea was to eat one of the chicken breasts after removing the skin, and save the other one for tomorrow night's chicken soup. I roasted them in the Wolf in convection "roast" mode. This browned up the skin really nicely, and so . . . well, I ate the skin. Now, I know we're supposed to avoid the skin because of the fat. But the truth is that it was heavenly. I was just going to eat one little strip of it with the white meat, but before I knew it I had adiosed all the skin. I'm usually not this bad. Most of the time I really do peel it off. In fact, Billy's favorite chicken recipe bakes chicken breasts without the skin, breaded with panko crumbs and cayenne pepper. I should have done that one.
I had just heard this report on NPR (I think it was on Science Friday, which should be explored as an insomnia cure) that said something to the effect of this: If you tax your frontal lobe -- say you're stressed, or you take a test, or something which depletes that part of your brain function, you greatly reduce the capacity for willpower. In the study that supports this, they worked the brains of half the group, and let the other half loaf around. Then they offered both groups cookies. The loafing half had marked resistance to this temptation, compared to the other half. Hmmm, can I blame the stress of saying goodbye to Billy for my inability to resist the temptation of crispy chicken skin? And, by the way, did I mention the cookies?
Yes, I did eat cookies, too. Though, the truth is that I don't have much of a sweet tooth. Don't get me wrong, put a wonderful dessert in front of me, especially chocolate cake, and I am there. But I don't need a big slice. And I won't go back for seconds. I buy a box of Girl Scout Thin Mints every year and chuck them into the freezer. They last a long time, as does the box of Mallomars, similarly purchased when in season. If you give me a box of See's Candies, even a full pound of dark chocolate Bordeaux (my favorite), I will never finish the box. I eat one piece every so often. But I'm not so noble, people. My resistance for crunchy/salty runs appallingly, embarrassingly low: popcorn at the movies; chips at a Mexican restaurant; well-done french fries. Chicken skin. You get the picture.
So, what would Sandra do? Well Sandra brought an entire dinner to Carmel. How cool is that? A house guest who brings dinner for the first night. You gotta love her. We provided dessert. Ollalieberry pie, anyone? Le sigh . . . and thanks for reading my blog.
February 1, 2010
When In Rome
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
The Carmel Mission Basilica was built in 1771. Do the math, people. That's five years before our forefathers signed the Declaration of Independence. It is the burial site of Father Junipero Serra who founded the California Missions. It is an awe-inspiring edifice which provides me with a sacred space when I am here in Carmel. Now, I just reread that sentence and fear that it sounds a little too touchy-feely, or worse, like I'm proselytizing. But I'm not. I am not a Catholic. I'm really nothing, I guess. I was half-heartedly sent to a Sunday school of a rather odd denomination. Casting no aspersions here, I will just say that the vaccination scar on my arm did little to endear me to my Sunday school teacher. My parents did not follow the tenants of this religious organization in which my mother had, also half-heartedly been raised. My dad was Episcopalian. I remember his story that when he was in the Navy (OK, Village People, get out of my head), he attempted to attend services that were labeled "protestant." It turned out to be on the low end (not meant pejoratively, but rather low versus high) of the protestant spectrum. Finding that service unfamiliar, he instead attended Mass with the Catholics for the rest of his tour of duty. So, that's the story on my father's side. My mother must have forgiven him for that. However, when I announced to her, when I was about ten, that I wanted to convert to Catholicism, she replied that she would "disown" me if I did that. I was ten! Doesn't that threat seem a little excessive? Anyway, later on, after a lot of shopping churches while I was growing up, my parents finally landed in a middle-of-the-road protestant denomination. I was already in college at this time, but I thought their choice was suitable. They chose a church to which you could apply the joke that whenever you find four of those parishioners, you will find . . . a fifth. It's good when your faith doesn't dictate how you spend your cocktail hour.
Now, back to the Mission. This is where I attend Mass when I am in Carmel, which started when house guests brought me along one Sunday a few years back. It was the end of Advent, and the altar was filled, filled with poinsettias. The Mission has the most beautiful choir, and we sang a hymn of Gloria with the sopranos soaring over the top of us. That first visit meant a lot to me, so I now go to Mass each Sunday when I am in Carmel. My mom still doesn't approve, so I tell her it's about the music and the architecture. But it's not. It's about having a sacred time and place where for an hour each week, I can be clear on what is truly important. For some reason, the Mission provides this for me.
Last week we sang the hymn whose melody Cat Stevens used for his song Morning Has Broken. That was pretty cool. And there was a collection for relief in Haiti. But mostly it was a rainy Sunday when residents and tourists filled the space, and the experience filled my heart. When I go home, I will not attend church, and on most Sunday mornings I will pick up my gardening trowel instead of my car keys. I will stay home, and if weather is good, we will spend the morning gardening. But most of the year my heart yearns for what I experience each Sunday in January, here in Carmel.
Carmel Mission Basilica was restored back about seventy-five years ago, and today is once again in need of repairs and restoration. If you are interested in helping, or just interested in the Mission, you can find more information here.
What would Sandra do? Sandra was the house guest who took me to the Mission the first time. I baked her this cake as a thank you. And thank you for reading my blog.
Mission Cake
3/4 cup sugar
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour, sifted
1 teaspoon baking powder
2 eggs
pinch salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 ripe bosc pears, peeled, cored, and sliced into eighths
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1-2 tablespoons turbinado sugar (one brand is Sugar in the Raw)
powdered sugar
Place a rack in the lower third of the oven. Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
Cream 3/4 cup sugar and butter. Add flour, baking powder, eggs, vanilla, and salt. Beat to mix well. Place in a 9 inch ungreased springform pan. Cover the top with a single layer of the pears, in a decorative spiral fashion or not. Mix the cinnamon with the remaining sugar and sprinkle over the top.
Bake for 40 to 50 minutes, give or take (I've had it take only 30 minutes, but I suspect my oven was born under the sign of Capricorn -- it's rather moody, which causes me to regularly attempt to calibrate it. That day it must have been running hot). At any rate, give it the ol' toothpick test. Remove, cool before removing sides of pan. Place on a plate and give it a good dusting of powdered sugar. Excellent when served with dulce con leche ice cream or frozen yogurt when presented as dessert. Also good for Sunday breakfast or brunch -- skip the frozen cream bit.
Note: This is a year-round cake which can made with peaches, plums, berries or a mix of all. I made it for Christmas this year with cranberries. This required the full two tablespoons of raw sugar in the topping. You can also vary the extract or eliminate it entirely.
8 servings
The Carmel Mission Basilica was built in 1771. Do the math, people. That's five years before our forefathers signed the Declaration of Independence. It is the burial site of Father Junipero Serra who founded the California Missions. It is an awe-inspiring edifice which provides me with a sacred space when I am here in Carmel. Now, I just reread that sentence and fear that it sounds a little too touchy-feely, or worse, like I'm proselytizing. But I'm not. I am not a Catholic. I'm really nothing, I guess. I was half-heartedly sent to a Sunday school of a rather odd denomination. Casting no aspersions here, I will just say that the vaccination scar on my arm did little to endear me to my Sunday school teacher. My parents did not follow the tenants of this religious organization in which my mother had, also half-heartedly been raised. My dad was Episcopalian. I remember his story that when he was in the Navy (OK, Village People, get out of my head), he attempted to attend services that were labeled "protestant." It turned out to be on the low end (not meant pejoratively, but rather low versus high) of the protestant spectrum. Finding that service unfamiliar, he instead attended Mass with the Catholics for the rest of his tour of duty. So, that's the story on my father's side. My mother must have forgiven him for that. However, when I announced to her, when I was about ten, that I wanted to convert to Catholicism, she replied that she would "disown" me if I did that. I was ten! Doesn't that threat seem a little excessive? Anyway, later on, after a lot of shopping churches while I was growing up, my parents finally landed in a middle-of-the-road protestant denomination. I was already in college at this time, but I thought their choice was suitable. They chose a church to which you could apply the joke that whenever you find four of those parishioners, you will find . . . a fifth. It's good when your faith doesn't dictate how you spend your cocktail hour.
Now, back to the Mission. This is where I attend Mass when I am in Carmel, which started when house guests brought me along one Sunday a few years back. It was the end of Advent, and the altar was filled, filled with poinsettias. The Mission has the most beautiful choir, and we sang a hymn of Gloria with the sopranos soaring over the top of us. That first visit meant a lot to me, so I now go to Mass each Sunday when I am in Carmel. My mom still doesn't approve, so I tell her it's about the music and the architecture. But it's not. It's about having a sacred time and place where for an hour each week, I can be clear on what is truly important. For some reason, the Mission provides this for me.
Last week we sang the hymn whose melody Cat Stevens used for his song Morning Has Broken. That was pretty cool. And there was a collection for relief in Haiti. But mostly it was a rainy Sunday when residents and tourists filled the space, and the experience filled my heart. When I go home, I will not attend church, and on most Sunday mornings I will pick up my gardening trowel instead of my car keys. I will stay home, and if weather is good, we will spend the morning gardening. But most of the year my heart yearns for what I experience each Sunday in January, here in Carmel.
Carmel Mission Basilica was restored back about seventy-five years ago, and today is once again in need of repairs and restoration. If you are interested in helping, or just interested in the Mission, you can find more information here.
What would Sandra do? Sandra was the house guest who took me to the Mission the first time. I baked her this cake as a thank you. And thank you for reading my blog.
Mission Cake
3/4 cup sugar
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour, sifted
1 teaspoon baking powder
2 eggs
pinch salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 ripe bosc pears, peeled, cored, and sliced into eighths
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1-2 tablespoons turbinado sugar (one brand is Sugar in the Raw)
powdered sugar
Place a rack in the lower third of the oven. Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
Cream 3/4 cup sugar and butter. Add flour, baking powder, eggs, vanilla, and salt. Beat to mix well. Place in a 9 inch ungreased springform pan. Cover the top with a single layer of the pears, in a decorative spiral fashion or not. Mix the cinnamon with the remaining sugar and sprinkle over the top.
Bake for 40 to 50 minutes, give or take (I've had it take only 30 minutes, but I suspect my oven was born under the sign of Capricorn -- it's rather moody, which causes me to regularly attempt to calibrate it. That day it must have been running hot). At any rate, give it the ol' toothpick test. Remove, cool before removing sides of pan. Place on a plate and give it a good dusting of powdered sugar. Excellent when served with dulce con leche ice cream or frozen yogurt when presented as dessert. Also good for Sunday breakfast or brunch -- skip the frozen cream bit.
Note: This is a year-round cake which can made with peaches, plums, berries or a mix of all. I made it for Christmas this year with cranberries. This required the full two tablespoons of raw sugar in the topping. You can also vary the extract or eliminate it entirely.
8 servings
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About Me
- Bronte Healy
- California, United States
- Once, I came up with this brilliant idea (well, I thought so, anyway) that the key to happiness was to concentrate on three things -- to choose three interests, then focus and funnel your energy into that trio. I was an English major in college and have always written in some shape or form. So, my first choice was writing. I've always kept journals, and have also written plays, novels, poetry, and shopping lists. I do have a day job. It deals with numbers (assets and finances). Go figure. I went to college at a California University. I live in California, Los Angeles, but not downtown. No children, and sadly, between dogs at the moment (dog person, not a cat person). Enough info? I was going for just enough to not be a cypher, yet not enough to entice a stalker. And, I started my blog after being dragged, kicking and screaming, to do so. Blogs! Read about ME here, right? But I have been advised that this is a way to write regularly, and to put your writing OUT THERE. So, here goes. My name is Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.