The Curious Path of a Midsummer Cake

There are many paths to knowing you have stumbled upon a winning recipe.

Perhaps the quintessential indicator is when company in the room goes silent.  (Laurie Colwin notes this is also how you know you will not be enjoying leftovers.)

Our busy lives often separate us from communal eating.  In which case, modernity may allow that you receive a message sent by way of a technological gadget in ALL CAPS.

Or it could be an employment of expletives, a telltale that transcends time.  As is the invocation of a saint or religious figure, as in: “holy Mary sweet mother of God.”  

This cake’s praise, however, took a path less traveled. After sending a slice with Brett to work, I received an ALL CAPS text.  (The cake was absolutely FANTASTIC.) But he then momentarily became a nineteenth century British diplomat and said, “I tip my hat to you madam, superb job.”

After earning madam status by way of cookery, things diverged further.  A fellow blogger-friend identified the cake’s origin by both cookbook and name, with nothing but a picture (above) and the mention of raspberries and almonds.  (I did also note its superlative breakfast qualities, though I am certain this is true of any cake known to man.)

The cookbook:  Ripe: A Cook in the Orchard. The name: A cake for midsummer.  I am painfully aware it is no longer midsummer. As I am also painfully aware I have largely missed apricot season in Massachusetts, yet again.  But this recipe has been on my list to make for an embarrassment of years and I was not going to let another cake slip past me with the summer wind.

So there are late summer peaches—instead of the white whaled New England apricot—and raspberries in the cake. (I doubt this detail matters.)

As with so many of Nigel Slater’s cake recipes, the batter is thickly stiff and still supple, like a buttercream. It then becomes littered with raspberries and chunks of stone fruit. And again, as with so many of his desserts, it becomes beloved immediately. 

The cake is a crowd-pleaser plain and simple.  Compliments, of any shape and size, don’t get that kind of thing wrong.

Raspberry Stone Fruit Cake

Adapted from Nigel Slater’s Ripe: A Cook in the Orchard

Ingredients:

¾ cup (175 grams) unsalted butter, softened

1 ground scant cup (175 grams) demerara sugar (see notes)

2 medium peaches or 4 to 5 apricots (200 grams)

2 large eggs

½ cup whole wheat pastry flour

½ cup plus 1/3 cup cake flour

2 tsp baking powder

¼ tsp salt

1 scant cup (100 grams) almond flour

2 tbsp half and half (or whole milk)

1 tsp vanilla extract

1½ cups (170 grams) raspberries

Instructions:

Butter an 8-inch springform pan; line with parchment paper and butter the paper; set aside.  Set oven to 350 degrees.

In the bowl of a stand mixer, beat the butter and sugar until pale and fluffy (about 5 minutes); scrape down the sides occasionally, if needed.  Meanwhile, halve, pit, and chop the peaches into ½-inch pieces. 

In a small bowl, lightly beat the eggs. With the mixer running on medium-low, slowly add the eggs to the creamed butter and sugar; mix until fully combined, scraping down the sides to corral the batter occasionally.

In a large bowl, sift the flours, baking powder, and salt together; mix in the almond flour.  With the mixer on low speed, add the flours in two or three additions; add in the half and half.

Remove the mixer bowl from the stand and with a rubber spatula, gently fold in the vanilla extract, peaches, and raspberries until just combined.  Scrape the mixture into the prepared pan (the batter will be thick); lightly smooth the top. 

Bake for 65 to 75 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean.  Let the cake cool slightly in the pan then run a knife around the edges and release from the springform. Let cool completely.

Yields 8 to 10 slices

Notes:

-The original recipe calls for golden bakers sugar.  If you can't find it, grind demerara or turbinado sugar in food processor instead.

-The original recipe calls for 1-1/3 cups white self-rising flour, which you could substitute for the pastry flour, cake flour, and baking powder. The salt may need to be modified, depending on the brand. ¼ tsp will yield about 600 milligrams of sodium.

Little Black and Blue Berry Cakes (or the Postmodern Muffin)

It all comes down to this.  There are some very, very strong opinions on the matter of Muffin v. Cupcake. 

Nigel Slater alludes to this in his recipe for spelt and blueberry “muffins” in Ripe.  Note the quotes.  He first creams the butter and sugar together: giving his muffin batter the cake treatment.  He says:

Muffin makers will quickly spot that my blueberry muffin is a muffin only in looks, and bears little resemblance to the traditional recipe in either method or ingredients.  In some ways, it is more like a cupcake (the butter and sugar are creamed together here, rather than the butter being melted and added at the end) …

It is clear Nigel is well aware of the great muffin—cake divide.   (The quotes are his and his alone.)  I was curious as to what others thought about muffin semantics. 

Thus, I googled.   But I was left scratching my head.  A little more confused about muffins, cupcakes, and the people who eat them.

So my next step was to easel and Sharpie it out.  Here.  On this blog.  Fair warning.  The questions I raise are not for those who easily offend, have a strong muffin and/or cupcake propensity, spit at postmodernism, maintain a nervous disposition, or dislike Frank Zappa.

If none of the aforementioned applies to you, forge on.  It’s time to question The Institution of Muffin …

Does a muffin cease to be a muffin if it is iced?

If an overmixed muffin falls on the floor, will it thud? If there is no one there to witness this, did it thud?  Is it really overmixed?  And is it even a muffin?

Will a frostingless cupcake eaten for breakfast become a breakfast cake or a muffin? 

True or false?  There is naught—nor ought there be—nothing so exalted on the face of god’s gray earth as that prince of foods … the muffin! 

Where does one find a Perkins chocolate chip muffin?  When did we flashback to 1992? And where are my paisley print stirrup leggings?!

Why are muffins being made the size of enthusiastically filled water balloons?   And—for the love of this recent legging resurgence—will you please stop? 

How come women got muffin top and men got stud muffin?

Why do so many men claim to not like cake? How do men feel about muffins?  And is this a matter of frosting?

Can a woman named Candy ever be wrong when dealing in matters of cupcakes and muffins?  (Not likely, unless Candy is a stripper name.  Then all bets are off.)

Would I be someone who corrects grammar in an online muffin forum? (Answer: yes, yes I would.)

What is your “muffin” philosophy? 

Should they contain a crunch of demerara sugar?

Have you a special place in your heart for berries?

Do you prefer the term "little cake" over cupcake between the hours of six and ten am?

Might you enjoy a morning dose of wholegrain without over-the-top wholesomeness?

Would you fancy a breakfast that’s easily made and takes kindly to freezing?

If yes, this is your muffin  cake  whatever.  They’re good.

Little Black and Blue Berry Cakes

Adapted from Ripe: A Cook in the Orchard by Nigel Slater

Ingredients:

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 cup white whole wheat flour

1½ tsp baking powder

½ tsp baking soda

½ tsp salt

4 tbsp butter, softened

2/3 cup sugar

2 eggs

1 tsp vanilla extract

scant ½ cup plain low fat yogurt (or buttermilk)

¾ cup blueberries (fresh or frozen)

¾ cup black raspberries (fresh or frozen)

demerara sugar, for sprinkling

a dusting of oats

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.  Sift together the flours, baking powder, and baking soda.  Add in the salt.  Cream the butter and sugar together in a stand mixer until it is pale yellow in color and light and fluffy, scraping down the inside of the bowl if needed.  Slowly add your eggs to the creamed mixture, one at a time, while the mixer is running on low speed.  Then add the vanilla extract and yogurt.

Slowly add in the flour mixture, while the mixer continues to run on low, and then turn off the mixer as soon as all the dry ingredients have been added in.  Use a rubber spatula to mix in the flour (be careful not to mix too much, only a few turns of the spatula should be needed here).  Fold in the berries.

Drop the batter into muffin tins lined with paper muffin liners.  (The batter will be fairly thick.)  Top each muffin with a little demerara sugar and a scattering of oats.  Bake for about 20 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the muffin comes out clean.

Let cool on a wire rack.

Makes a dozen muffins

Notes:

-Any combination of berries will work here.  I liked the black and blue concept (plus those were the berries that were lurking in the freezer).  I’ve also made a triple berry version with some leftover frozen cranberries that was very enjoyable.  If you are using frozen berries, don’t defrost them before you add them into the batter.

-The original recipe calls for 1 cup spelt flour.  A number of whole grain flours would do well here.  I chose white whole wheat flour because I had it around.  It’s a whole grain, but it will produce a muffin that is lighter in texture compared to many other whole grain flours.

-These muffins have almost a biscuit or shortcake quality that I’ve become quite taken with.  They’ve quickly become a favorite muffin. Which, in this moment, is a term that I’m I am using interchangeably with little cakes.  Sigh.

-I’ve been on a bit of a demerara bender, I know.  If you don’t have any you could probably, ahem, borrow a few of those Sugar in the Raw packets from your local coffee joint.

-I am also on a bit of a Nigel Slater bender.  I don’t know when this will stop exactly.  But it’s not looking good.

Whole Wheat Stone Fruit Marmalade Cake, Only a Minor Mess

There is no socially acceptable way to eat an August peach.  Especially in an office setting.  Believe me, I’ve tried. 

I’ve tried one-handed with a paper towel cupped under the fruit.  I’ve tried hovering in the corner, hunched over my miniature garbage can like Quasimodo.  I’ve tried the three-bite approach. (Definitely not recommended unless someone is standing by, Heimlich-ready.) 

I’ve found the best way to eat a peach is with the office door closed. And to be far, far away from the keyboard so as to prevent an unfortunate incident where the letter F gets sticky and remains this way no matter the number of disinfectant wipes used. 

But such problems assure that you’ve found a good peach.  You know instantly.  Something happens on a chemical level. Much like you know when you’ve found a good mate. (Note: if said person brings you espelette pepper jelly for no apparent reason; suggests you watch Harold and Maude; and doesn’t balk at your lack of AC in a July heat wave, you can be pretty sure he’ll be around for longer than a summer peach.)

But back to fruit.  You can’t take the dribbles and soft, perfumed flesh away from the peach.  At least, you shouldn’t.  Of course, this messiness is not limited to peaches alone.  Just the other day it happened with a pluot.

So stone fruits, they drip summer.  Great for eating.  Not so great for adhering to office breakfasting etiquette.  I knew there had to be a way to circumvent this between nine and five.  And—like many problems needing mending and romances worth their weight—it involved cake.

Full disclosure: the version pictured was made with apricots; apricots have now faded from view here in New England.  My suspicion is that the Italian prune plum would be dynamite here, perhaps with a little addition of cardamom and pistachio.  And don’t forget, our lady peach is still reigning. In fact, I suspect any number of the usual stone fruit suspects would do well in this role. As would apples—which is what the original version calls for—if you’ve sworn off your oven for the remainder of August. 

While apricots tend to have less juice than some other summer fruits, I believe this cake to be a very good way to use up office-problematic varieties.  And because the recipe uses whole wheat flour, calls for marmalade, and comes to you in a loaf pan, it can easily be coaxed into a perfectly acceptable breakfast option.  In fact, I was one step away from calling it a bread because—despite the multiple sugar sources in the recipe—it is not super sweet.  But the addictive demerera crunch on top and the cake’s slight butterscotch notes kept me from downgrading it.

Though—and I should be clear here—regardless of what it is called, I still get its crumbs in my keyboard.  But that’s probably just me.

Whole Wheat Stone Fruit Marmalade Cake

Inspired from Ripe: A Cook in the Orchard  by Nigel Slater

Ingredients:

2 cups white whole wheat flour

1 heaping tsp baking powder

few pinches of salt

pinch of cinnamon

heafty pinch of allspice

3-4 fresh apricots (or other stone fruit), pits removed and chopped between ¼-½ inch-sized pieces (about 1 cup, give or take)

¼ cup plus 2 tbsp of a citrus marmalade

zest of 1 lemon (or orange; you can mimic whatever citrus your marmalade is made of)

½ cup butter, at room temperature

a scant cup light muscovado sugar

1/3 cup olive oil

4 eggs

1 tsp vanilla extract

½ cup chopped walnuts

demerara sugar, for sprinkling

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 325.  Line 1-2 loaf pans (depending on their size) with parchment paper, allowing the paper to hang over the long sides of the pan. Butter the parchment paper and any exposed inside pan parts not covered by the paper.  (Alternatively, you could use an 8-inch round cake or springform pan.) 

Sift together flour, baking powder, salt, and spices into a medium bowl.  In a small bowl, combine the apricots, marmalade, and lemon zest.

In a stand mixer, cream the butter and sugar together until they start to get lighter in color and then slowly pour in the olive oil and continue to beat until well mixed. Slowly add the eggs, one at a time, while the mixer is running on low, until the eggs are fully incorporated.  (Things may start to curdle, keep going.)  Add in the vanilla. Then, with the mixer running, slowly add in the sifted flour mixture until just combined. Remove the bowl from the stand and fold in the apricot marmalade mixture, along with the walnuts.

Pour the cake batter into your prepared pan(s) and toss a few spoonfuls of demerara sugar on top.  Bake for 75-90 minutes, or until a toothpick or cake tester comes out clean when inserted into the cake.  Cool on wire rack before removing the cake from the pan(s).

Makes 1-2 loaves, depending on the size of your pans (see note), or one 8-inch cake

Notes:

-A few things.  My loaf pans are long and narrow.  I have yet to measure their volume.  If you decide to use a loaf pan, you’ll want to fill it only about 2/3 of the way up with batter, regardless of its size.  If you have leftover batter, you can pour it into smaller tins to bake.  Alternatively, you could make a round cake.  Your cooking time may vary slightly, depending on what you use, so just keep a watchful eye.

-I used this recipe for the marmalade.  It’s my favorite.  And I still have one remaining pint in my freezer from February.

-If you don’t have muscovado you can use brown sugar (don’t tightly pack it).

-A wide variety of nuts could work here.  I love walnuts with stone fruits.  I imagine pistachio would be particularly nice with plums and almonds with peaches, as well.

-It’s a bad habit, but I very rarely measure my spices in snack cake recipes.  The original cake (which contains apples) calls for ½ tsp cinnamon and no other spices.

Rhubarb Cinnamon Cornmeal Cake in the Kitchen, #NigelSlater

I’ve finally succumbed to Twitter.  There.  I said it.  Phew. #thatfeltgood. I’m pretty sure the constant stimulation isn’t spectacular for my anxiety.  But I’m now one twitchy, instantly updated food enthusiast.

I’m not entirely sure how successful my Twitter career will be given my struggle to sacrifice correct grammar and substitute x’s where ‘anks’s and ‘icken’s truly belong.  I’m a bit stodgy with this sort of thing. Give me freedom to execute an oxford comma or give me death.  So this is a work in progress.

Where twitter-speak truly sings is the hashtag.  I’ve become quite taken with its ability to convey wit or sarcasm in lieu of punctuation.  For instance, being both a New Yorker at heart and rhubarb aficionado, I instantly took to #rhubarbstateofmind, as noted in Charlotte Druckman's feed. (Thanks, Charlotte!) (Thx @cettedrucks)

Hashtags aside, I’m a book sentimentalist through and through.  And I've recently became intimately acquainted with a certain Nigel Slater; I bought both Tender and Ripe a few weeks ago.  I’m reading them like bedtime stories, tucking myself in a few chapters at a time.  I am currently up to Nigel’s eggplant seduction, though I cheated with Ripe and went straight to rhubarb.  And I’ve eaten close to five pounds of it over the course of a week. (I don’t have to say it: you know what kind of state I’ve been in.)

I’ve been roasting rhubarb with Pinot Gris and spliced vanilla beans.  I’ve been blanching rhubarb, letting it get acquainted with radishes and scallions in a spring salsa fashion.  And I’ve been making cake. Rhubarb cake. With cornmeal.  In Ripe it’s titled "Rhubarb Cinnamon Polenta Cake"—which is a lovely sounding name and an even better dessert—but I was a bit hesitant to carry on with the polenta namesake.  Technically it’s cake, not cornmeal porridge.  Though I do see where Nigel is going with this one. 

Once baked, the cake’s texture retains creaminess amid crunchy bits, courtesy of the cornmeal, and is reminiscent of the famed polenta squares from Northern Italy.  Either way, the coarse cornmeal is a wonderful partner for the slight raciness of rhubarb.  I added a bit more cinnamon than originally called for because it plays so nicely with tart fruit.  No disappointment there.

In fact, the leftover cake continues to have me under its spell.  So much so that I keep forgetting to drizzle the sauce, which the recipe makes as rhubarb byproduct, over top.  I have a feeling it will probably make its cocktail début with some bourbon later on this season.  Or perhaps as a spritzer.  For now, I have plenty of cake to keep me occupied.  And I’ve got rhubarb for days.

So I might be wise to loosen up on my tweets, after all.  I have quite a few rhubarb recipes that would probably take kindly to brevity. Houston, #wehavearhubarbsitch.

Rhubarb Cinnamon Cornmeal Cake

Adapted from Ripe: A Cook in the Orchard by Nigel Slater

Ingredients:

About 1 pound of rhubarb

About 1 cup turbinado sugar (see note), divided

4 tbsp fresh orange juice

Pinch of salt

¾ cup polenta (course ground)

1½ all-purpose flour

1 tsp baking powder

½ tsp cinnamon

Zest of an orange

10 tbsp cold butter, cut into ½-1 inch pieces

1 egg

2-4 tbsp half and half

Instructions:

Butter the sides and bottom of an 8-inch springform pan.  Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and put a baking sheet in the oven to get it hot.  Cut the rhubarb into pieces, roughly 1-2 inch in size, and place them in a baking dish.  Grind a very heaping cup of turbinado sugar in the food processor until powdered in consistency.  (You may want to grind a little more than this so you have extra, if needed.)  Scatter about ¼ cup of the ground tubinado sugar over the rhubarb and then toss with the orange juice and a pinch of salt.  Bake for about 30 minutes, or until the rhubarb is soft but still maintains its shape.  Place the rhubarb through a sieve to separate out the rhubarb from its juice.  Set the juice aside.

Place the polenta, along with sifted flour, baking powder, and cinnamon; ¾ cup ground turbinado sugar; and another pinch of salt in the food processor.  Add the zest and butter and process a few times until the mixture is still clumpy but has started to come together in rough crumbles.  Mix the egg with 2 tbsp of half and half in a small bowl and then blend it into the dough, being careful not to overmix it; the dough should still look shaggy and will be a bit sticky (add a little more half and half, as needed).

Place about two-thirds of the mixture into the buttered pan so that it comes about ¾ of an inch up the sides.  (Look out for any breaks in the dough and push the dough around to cover them up, as necessary.) Scatter the rhubarb pieces on top, leaving some space along the edges of the pan.  Crumble the remaining dough on top; there will be holes.  Scatter with about 1 tbsp of the ground turbinado sugar on top and place on the hot baking sheet in the oven.  Cook for 45-55 minutes or until it is golden brown.  Let cool before removing the cake from the pan. 

At this stage, you can serve the reserved syrup alongside the cake.  I reduced the syrup a bit, adding a pinch of sugar, a split vanilla bean, and a splash of orange blossom water: but it’s in my freezer for now, as I keep forgetting to use it.

Makes 1 cake.

Notes:

-Nigel calls for golden baker’s sugar, which I couldn’t find.  You can take turbinado sugar though and grind it down in a food processor to achieve a similar effect. I measured out closer to 1½ cups of turbinado to grind.

-You’ll want to avoid finely ground cornmeal for this recipe; the course cornmeal texture is a nice contrast in the cake.