Whoopie Pies!

It's a good thing that I take photographs of the things that I cook and eat. Most of the time I forget to look back at them, remembering only when (ahem) I have failed to blog for two straight months. But on those not-so-rare occasions, it's great to have a little trail of bread crumbs to help me recall what I've been doing in the kitchen.

My wife sent me all of the vintage food pictures off our camera, commenting that there was "nothing great" but that maybe I'd be able to work some magic with the images. Clearly she has become jaded, because just look at those miniature whoopie pies that she made for our housewarming party! Those are something great, that's for sure. Since Sarah was raised in the great state of Maine, birthplace of the whoopie pie (and don't let anyone tell you different), I deferred to her when it came to making these. Ordinarily the filling is marshmallow, or some Crisco-stiffened frosting-like business. We thought we could do one better using good, all-natural sweet butter and clouds of confectionary sugar. Without delving into the specifics, suffice to say that it didn't really work—turns out vegetable shortening does have its place. I'm sure some of you are now horrified and distrusting, and let me assure you that I am not the type to use shortening in place of any natural fats. But in this case ...

You certainly could make these full-size, but the petite version is great for a party, a potluck, anytime there will be a lot of food around. The cake is moist in the way that the sandwich part of an ice cream sandwich is moist, sticking to one's fingers. Using good cocoa is a nice idea here, and be sure to err on the side of underbaking, lest you end up with dusty pucks. And the Crisco? Yes, trust me about the Crisco. Now that I have you excited, I must report that Sarah has been a little slow to type up her secret recipe, which was an amalgam of a few different recipes, including one from the Dysart's cookbook, published by a truck stop restaurant in Bangor. (For real. You should buy it.) But once I have Sarah's secret, time-honored recipe, I will amend this post.

This cake won't change the world, but it might make you feel better

We're just coming off of a long weekend of parties, finding ourselves facing a very busy week with not quite enough rest under our belts, and all of a sudden it seems like there is an awful lot looking for our attention. Beneath my feet, two dogs (ours and a spare we're sitting on for the week) wrestle around; on the table, a stack of unopened mail and unread magazines towers. And for some reason, in spite of the bright blue sky outside and the secure knowledge that things are really quite good, I find myself a little bit down today.

In order to combat that, I'll tell you about the party we went to on Sunday night. It was a big collection of friends from various restaurants, gathering together to fire up the pizza oven that will be installed at the Slow Food Nation bread pavilion this weekend. And fire it up they did, filling it with pizzas and ratatouille, with slow-roasted goat and crispy potatoes and wild salmon and wax beans and peaches and...well, you get the idea. A whole mess of food. The whole event was held in a metal-work studio a couple blocks from our house, and had the lovely bohemian quality that makes this part of the world so great. Somehow 80 people were fed from that oven, the wine didn't run out, the place didn't catch fire, and a feeling of wellness and plenty rolled over the crowd like a wave. It's too bad you can't bottle that feeling.

I didn't want to show up empty-handed, so Sarah and I made a bunch of nectarine upside-down cakes using our old favorite recipe from The Best Recipe cookbook, put out by Cooks Illustrated. In the scheme of things, this cake is relatively easy to turn out in quantity and it never disappoints (well, it disappointed once, when I accidentally forgot to fold in the beaten egg whites at the end. Oops.). You could make this cake over the weekend, serve it to dinner guests and then eat the leftovers for breakfast. Top it with pineapple or peaches or nectarines or prune plums or cherries.

Fruit upside-down cake

This cake bakes up very nicely in a 10-inch cast-iron skillet, and you can make the caramel topping right in the pan. If you don't have one, you ought to buy one. But if you want to make this cake RIGHT NOW you can use a 9-inch round cake pan, so long as it's got 3-inch deep sides.

For the topping:

4 tablespoons unsalted butter

3/4 cup light brown sugar

fruit of your choice, cut into this wedges or slices

Cake:

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

3 tablespoons cornmeal

1 1/2 tsp. baking powder

1/2 tsp. salt

1 stick butter, at room temperature

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar

4 eggs, separated and at room temperature

1 1/2 tsp. vanilla

2/3 cup milk

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and grease pan (you don't need to grease a cast-iron). Melt butter in skillet. Once foaming subsides, stir in brown sugar and cook 2-3 minutes. The sugar and butter will clump and look terrible, but don't despair. Transfer to a cake pan, if using, or just proceed with next step if using cast-iron. That's the way it's supposed to look. Arrange fruit over sugar mixture in an attractive pattern and set aside.

2. In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, cornmeal, baking powder and salt. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat butter and 1 cup of the sugar until light and fluffy. Turn mixer to low and add egg yolks and vanilla, stopping mixer occasionally to scrape down sides of bowl. With mixer on low, add dry ingredients little by little, alternating with milk, beginning and ending with dry ingredients.

3. In a separate, clean, bowl, beat egg whites until foamy, then add in remaining 2 tbsp. sugar and continue beating until egg whites form stiff peaks. Stir 1/4 of the beaten egg whites into batter to lighten it, then gently fold in the remaining whites until there are no longer white streaks in the batter.

4. Pour batter over fruit in pan and gently spread it to evenly cover, taking care to avoid disturbing the fruit layer. Bake until well-browned and a skewer inserted in the center comes out clean (do not poke all the way to the bottom of the pan, as the fruit layer will remain gooey), about 50 minutes if you're using a cast-iron skillet, or 60-65 if you're using a traditional cake pan. Let rest on cooling rack two minutes, then run a knife around the edge of the pan and flip cake out onto platter. Reposition any fruit that may have stuck to the bottom of the pan.

Shake it don't break it

I have been dutifully documenting meals and recipes these last many weeks, with plans to share lots of images and stories with you. Wholesome things, mostly, summer squash, farm eggs, raspberry lime rickeys. But let's face it, sometimes you just want the money shot. So that's what I'm going to bring you today. We just returned from a too-short trip to Michigan and have returned with a new motto: Michigan-who knew?

Who knew, for example, that Lake Michigan is like a salt- and shark-free ocean, with waves and tides? That heartlanders really are as nice as is reported? That Northern Michigan really is the cherry capital? Some of you surely did, but you were wise to keep it a secret. Otherwise, you'd never have the place to yourselves. But we crashed the party and I'm glad. Because if we hadn't, I wouldn't be able to tell you about the cherry shake at Don's Drive-in in Traverse City.

Don's cherry shake brings all the boys to the yard.

And though you might be able to guess at the sheer glory of good vanilla ice cream blended with ripe, just-picked Bing cherries, now you know for sure. Best of all? Don's offers a real, true small size, 10 ounces of creamy goodness that's just enough to satiate, but not so much it sickens. After all, I had a lot of research left to do to find the state's best tart cherry pie, so I couldn't let my appetite be hampered by too much cherry shake. If you happen to be in this part of the world during cherry season, make a bee-line to Don's (2030 N US Highway 31 N, Traverse City, MI 49686, 231-938-1860).

I'm sorry. Want a slice of cake?

Dear almond cake, I think I love you.

It has been so long that I'm not sure where to begin. Well, I figure that people really like cake, so what better way to say hello, sorry, than with this lovely little number? There, now don't we all feel better? I'm not the first cook to notice that almond paste and butter and sugar make very, very fine bedfellows, but I'm here to underscore their observations. This is the kind of cake you'll be glad to have in your recipe box. It's perfectly moist, with a tender crumb, and the crowning touch of toasted, sliced almonds adds just the right amount of texture. It also has the added benefit of being incredibly versatile, the black dress of cakes. It's great on its own (even for-ahem-breakfast) but you can gussy it up with any number of seasonal accompaniments.

A little rhubarb compote, maybe, fragrant with orange zest? Some sliced strawberries? A gilding-the-lily drizzle of chocolate? Poached apricots in vanilla syrup? Well, you get the point. I wish I could tell you that I invented this cake myself, that I awoke one morning with a vision of dessert, realized on the first attempt. Alas, credit must be given to the good people up at Thomas Keller's Bouchon Bakery. The recipe is in Keller's cookbook, Bouchon, which is filled with recipes that normal people can actually make...in sharp contrast to the collection of recipes in his French Laundry cookbook. Before discovering this recipe I had a go-to almond cake in my repertoire, one so loaded with butter and almond paste that it always collapsed after coming out of the oven, which I dealt with by filling the depression with berries. But that cake has now been removed from rotation, because this one, this one is just perfect.

Gateau Aux Amandes from Bouchon Bakery

7 ounces almond paste
1/4 cup granulated sugar
8 tablespoons (4 ounces) unsalted butter, cut into small pieces and chilled
2 tablespoons mild-flavored honey
3 large eggs
2 tablespoons amaretto, plus additional for brushing
1/3 cup all-purpose flour, sifted
kosher salt
1/2 cup sliced almonds, toasted
confectioners' sugar

3/4 cup creme fraiche, whipped to soft peaks (we made our own...I'll share that technique in my next post, as it's well worth knowing about.)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour an 8-inch round cake pan and line the bottom with parchment paper. Put the almond paste and sugar in the bowl of a heavy-duty mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Cream mixture on low speed to break up almond paste, then increase the speed to medium for about 2 minutes, or until paste is broken into fine particles. Add the butter and mix for 4 to 5 minutes, until mixture is airy and light in color; stop the machine and scrape down the sides as necessary. It is important to mix long enough or the cake will have a dense texture. Mix in the honey, then add the eggs one at a time, beating until each one is fully incorporated before adding the next. Add amaretto, flour, and a pinch of salt and mix just to combine.

Scrape the batter into the prepared pan and smooth the top. Bake for about 25 minutes, or until the cake is golden and springs back when pressed. Transfer to a cooling rack to cool. Invert the cake onto the rack, remove the parchment, and invert the cake again so that the top is once again facing upward. Brush the top of the cake with amaretto and sprinkle with toasted almonds. Dust generously with confectioners' sugar. The cake will keep, well-wrapped, for up to two days (like it'll last that long).

Serve with a dollop of whipped creme fraiche and the fruit accompaniment of your choice. Die and go to heaven.