German Chocolate Cake for Dad

When I was a child we had German chocolate cake for my dad's birthday every year. It was notable not only because it was his favorite, but because my mom purchased it from the supermarket's bakery instead of making it from scratch like she did other cakes. (Of course, cake was notable to begin with because ours was a macrobiotics-influenced natural foods household where sweets were reserved for special occasions. Even then, mom baked with honey, whole wheat flour and even tofu.)

Mom would arrive home from the store the evening before or the day of dad's birthday with the cake in a domed clear plastic carrier, tall and extravagantly decorated with rosettes around the edges and a red maraschino cherry on top. After dinner the cake would be plated and brought to the table; lights would be dimmed, candles lit and Happy Birthday sung. We'd sit around the table enjoying generous slices of cake with dad's favorite accompaniment, Dreyer's Grand French Vanilla ice cream, giggling and joking as the sugar made us increasingly giddy.

Over the weekend I made this cake in memory of my dad, who would have celebrated his 70th birthday had he received the liver and kidney transplant for which he was at the top of the waiting list in 2001. As I assembled the ingredients into a cake resembling those from his birthday celebrations years ago, I was reminded of how generous he was about sharing and celebrating food. I'll never forget how, in his last days, he offered his ICU nurse some of his ice chips "because they're so good." Those ice chips were all he was allowed to take by mouth (and were all the more precious because he was allotted only tiny amounts a few times per day) but he insisted on sharing the icy goodness. (That nurse has since become one of my dearest friends and I can't thank her enough for taking such good care of my dad.)

There's not a doubt in my mind that dad would have wanted you to have a slice of this German chocolate cake -- because it's so good. I hope you'll make and share it with someone you love.

And, as you make your New Year's resolutions, please consider designating yourself as an organ donor. Be sure to discuss and formalize your plans with your loved ones so that they're comfortable honoring your wishes. For more information, please visit the United Network for Organ Sharing (UNOS).

German Chocolate Cake

Makes one 9-inch four layer, or 6-inch six layer, cake.

I'd never made German chocolate cake and wanted it to be perfect, so I consulted several cookbooks and food blogs before settling on this recipe from David Lebovitz, who adapted it from his former Chez Panisse colleague Mary Jo Thoresen.

I made no changes to the cake layers or syrup, but increased the amounts of pecans and coconut in the filling. I also used my own recipe for chocolate icing, as I prefer a lighter chocolate buttercream over the dark chocolate ganache. The latter is a bit intense for the delicate rum-infused cake and nutty filling.

I can understand why my mom bought a German chocolate cake rather than make it from scratch, as this is a multi-step recipe that will take most of a day to make. But the result is well worth the time and effort.

For the cake:

2 ounces bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, chopped

2 ounces unsweetened chocolate, chopped

6 tablespoons water

8 ounces (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature

1 1/4 cup + 1/4 cup sugar

4 large eggs, separated

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1 cup buttermilk, at room temperature

1 teaspoon vanilla extract or vanilla bean paste

For the syrup:

1 cup water

2/4 cup sugar

2 tablespoons dark rum

For the filling:

1 cup heavy cream

1 cup sugar

3 large egg yolks

3 ounces butter, cut into small pieces

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt (omit if using pre-salted pecans)

1 1/2 cups pecans, toasted and chopped (note: I used store bought pecans that were roasted and salted)

2 cups shredded unsweetened coconut, toasted

For the icing:

4 ounces unsweetened chocolate, chopped

3 cups powdered (confectioners') sugar

4 ounces (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened but still cool and slightly firm to the touch

3 tablespoons milk, plus more if needed, at room temperature

1 teaspoon vanilla extract or vanilla bean paste

1/8 teaspoon fine grain salt

To make the cake layers:

1. Heat oven to 350° F. Grease two 9-inch or three 6-inch cake pans and line the bottoms with rounds of parchment or wax paper.

2. Melt both chocolates together with the 6 tablespoons of water. Use either a double-boiler or a microwave. Stir until smooth, then set aside until room temperature.

3. In the bowl of an electric mixer, or by hand, beat the butter and 1 1/4 cup of the sugar until light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Beat in the melted chocolate, then the egg yolks one at a time.

4. Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt.

5. Mix in half the dry ingredients into the creamed butter mixture, then the buttermilk and vanilla extract, then the rest of the dry ingredients. (Tip: I stir the vanilla into the buttermilk before adding it to the batter.) 

6. In a separate metal or glass bowl, beat the egg whites until the hold soft, droopy peaks. Beat int he 1/4 cup sugar until stiff.

7. Fold about one third of the egg whites into the cake batter to lighten it, then fold in the remaining egg whites until there's no trace of egg white visible.

8. Divide the batter into the prepared cake pans, smooth the tops, and bake for about 35 minutes for 6-inch cakes or 45 minutes for 9-inch cakes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Cool cake layers completely. 

While the cakes are baking and cooling, make the syrup, filling and icing.

To make the syrup:

1. In a small saucepan, heat the sugar and water until the sugar has melted. Remove from heat and stir in the dark rum.

To make the filling:

1. Put the 3 ounces butter, salt, toasted coconut and pecan pieces in a large bowl.

2. Combine the cream, sugar and egg yolks in a medium saucepan. Heat the mixture and cook, stirring constantly and scraping the bottom as you stir, until the mixture begins to thicken and coats a spoon (an instant-read thermometer will read 170° F).

3. Pour the hot custard immediately into the pecan-coconut mixture and stir until the butter is melted. Cool completely to room temperature (the mixture will thicken).

To make the icing:

1. In a small saucepan over very low heat (or a double boiler set over but not touching simmering water in the bottom pan), melt the chocolate, stirring constantly, until it's melted and smooth. Remove from heat and let cool to room temperature.

2. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine the powdered sugar, butter, 3 tablespoons milk, vanilla and salt. Beat on low speed until combined, about 1 minute. Stop the mixer and scrape down the sides of the bowl. Increase the speed to medium and beat for 2 minutes, then reduce the speed to low. Add the chocolate and beat until combined, then increase the speed to medium and beat for 1 minute more.

3. If the frosting is dry, add more milk, 1 teaspoon at a time, until it is creamy but still holds peaks. (Makes 2 generous cups.)

To assemble the cake:

1. Remove the cake layers from the pans and cut in half horizontally, using a serrated bread knife.

2. Set the first cake layer on a cake plate. Brush well with syrup. Spread 1/2 to 3/4 cup of the coconut filling over the cake layer, making sure to reach the edges. Set another cake layer on top.

3. Repeat, brushing each cake layer with syrup, then spreading coconut filling over each layer, including the top.

4. Ice the sides with the chocolate icing, then pipe a decorative border of chocolate icing around the top, encircling the coconut topping, and at the base of the cake if desired.

Happy Halloween!

I've mentioned a time or several that I wasn't permitted much in the way of sugar when I was a kid. This, combined with my family's tendency to go wild (in the best way) at every holiday, meant that on those occasions I was given free rein to indulge -- namely Halloween, Christmas and Easter -- I literally ate myself sick. I'll never forget the time I threw up all over my Shaun Cassidy glitter iron-on t-shirt and missed the rest of the day's festivities.

Clearly, I was flirting with danger whenever sugar came into play. And isn't that what Halloween is all about? Danger and sugar? During my peak trick-or-treat days, which coincided with the mass paranoia in the wake of the 1982 Tylenol poisonings, I was not unconcerned about razor blades in candy bars and cyanide powder in Pixie Stix. Of course, in those days my parents drove my brother, sister and me around the neighboring mountain communities -- in the dark of night -- to knock on strangers' doors and beg for candy. So my fears weren't completely unfounded, right?

Nowadays trick-or-treating seems to be a more hygienic activity that takes place in the light of day and among known entities. But what I love most about Halloween hasn't changed at all: pumpkin carving, adorable kids in costume, dogs in costume,  haunted hayrides... Everyone gets to be a kid and eat too much sugar and stay up too late.

Do schools still host Halloween carnivals? (I suppose they're called Harvest or Fall carnivals now?) I loved the carnival my middle school put on every year. My teachers dressed up as witches and zombies, the library was converted to a haunted house, and I tried my luck at bobbing for apples. But the best part was donning a costume my mom had spent hours making by hand especially for me.

I'm not dressing up this year, but the pumpkins are carved and the house is stocked with candy. I hope I get some trick-or-treaters, because otherwise I'm stuck with a bucket of candy. And we all know how that ends.

Birthday Sushi

When I was a small child, my family observed a Japanese style macrobiotic diet about which my mom was enthusiastic and thorough. When I suffered from colic and sleeplessness as a baby, mom took me to a macrobiotic consultant whose written analysis and recommendations I still have (but don't follow). Mom even researched, wrote and illustrated a book manuscript about seaweed. And don't get me started on her homemade pan fried onigiri -- brown rice balls flecked with sesame seeds and dipped in soy sauce. Heaven.

Though my parents became more conventional and relaxed about our diet and lifestyle as we grew older, we never abandoned our love of Japanese food. I've always been partial to oyakodon, and mom loved vegetarian sushi rolls.

So, last week, in observance of what would have been my mom's 70th birthday, we went out for sushi. We wanted to go to Takami because the restaurant is donating 100% of its profits to the Red Cross Japanese Relief Fund, but for logistical reasons we ended up at our local favorite, Sushi Sei. Their sushi chefs are all from Japan, and we were relieved to learn that their families back home are safe and accounted for.

Given the situation in Japan, and that our meal was in remembrance of my mom, it was a somber celebration of life; of picking ourselves up and moving forward, stronger from (and never forgetting) our losses. Food is life, and culture, and place, and memory, all of which we are grateful for.

The meal was also an opportunity to play with my new (to me) camera for the first time. Though the following photos are rife with problems (Frankenfood, anyone?), it's remarkable that I was able to capture images at all, given the restaurant's dim green and red lighting.

My amazing husband.

Best. Tuna Tataki. Ever.



Crispy Rice Balls with Spicy Tuna and Avocado



Grilled Salmon and Scallops with Salt and Lemon
(Ack! Too much bokeh! Take a step back, Maggie.)

We made sure to leave room for birthday cake. We headed over to Zane's, which may as well be one of those restaurants that serves food in complete darkness. As you can see, mom's birthday candle was basically the only source of light.

We made a little birthday wish for mom, then devoured the most decadent chocolate layer cake on the planet. Warmed. With chocolate sauce and vanilla ice cream. Mom would have approved; even in her macrobiotics days, she always appreciated a treat.

Happy birthday, mom. We love and miss you.

Mary's Currant Scones

In the past I've written about my mom's scones and how she'd bake them on Sundays while my dad spun reggae records on the living room turntable. It's one of my most treasured childhood memories and a tradition I hope to continue with my own children someday. (Though I suppose Laird and I will have to sort out whether we'll make Nana's or my mom's scones. Maybe we'll alternate?)

Light, buttery and studded with Zante currants, mom's scones weren't the dry, heavy sugar bombs you find these days at Starbucks. I've encountered scones like hers only once: at afternoon tea on The Veranda at the Moana Surfrider Waikiki. I enjoyed them so much, the hotel sent me home with a little box of them (but not the recipe). 

I don't have my mom's recipe, either, but with some experimentation I've come up with a close approximation. They're not quite the same, but if I put on some reggae, I can almost imagine she's here with me.

Mary's Currant Scones

Makes about 8

As with any scone or biscuit, the key here is to use a very light touch. Mix the ingredients and handle the dough as little as possible.

3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

2 tablespoons sugar, plus more for sanding

1 teaspoon kosher or sea salt

3 tablespoons baking powder

3/4 cup Zante currants (Use raisins if you can't find Zante currants, but avoid the more widely available golden currants.)

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, very cold, cut into 1/4-inch pieces

1 1/4 cups whole milk, very cold

Half and half OR 1 egg yolk, whisked

1. Heat oven to 375 degrees F and line a baking sheet with parchment.

2. In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, 2 tablespoons sugar, salt and baking powder. Add the currants and toss to coat with the flour mixture. Rub in the cold butter with your fingertips, working quickly so as not to warm the butter. The mixture should resemble very coarse cornmeal with large pea sized lumps of butter throughout. Add the milk all at once and gently stir until the dough just begins to come together. Turn it a few times in the bowl to pick up the dry flour bits at the bottom.

3. Transfer the dough to the prepared baking sheet and quickly shape it into a rectangle about 1 1/4 inch thick. Cut the rectangle on the diagonal to form 8 wedges (see below). Brush with half and half or whisked egg yolk, and sprinkle with sugar. 

4.  Bake for 18-25 minutes, rotating pan halfway through, until scones are golden brown on top and sound hollow when tapped. Cool on a rack for 5 minutes, break into wedges, and serve with butter and jam.

Scones are best served warm, on the day they're made. However, I've had success freezing and then reheating them in a 350 degree F oven.

Rubber Soul



Image: MTV



Today, the 30th anniversary of John Lennon's murder, I mourn him as do millions of fans the world over. Though I was very young when he was shot and my memory is fuzzy, I remember my parents giving me the shocking news. More than what was said, I recall images and emotions: I pictured Lennon being gunned down in front of his apartment on that dark, cold night. I felt confused, sad and angry, and I asked my parents to explain the inexplicable: why.

Music was as revered in my family as food and education, and my relatives -- whose record collections were staggering -- exposed me to a range of genres. My grandparents and their siblings appreciated classical and opera; my dad loved rock and roll and the blues; and my mom was partial to jazz and reggae. They took me to the opera and the symphony; to music appreciation society meetings; and to festivals and concerts (some of which they organized). I even met Stevie Ray Vaughan once, at a blues festival where he recorded a promo for my dad's weekly radio program, "Blues People." 

I loved all of the music I was exposed to -- still do -- but The Beatles were my favorite. As a child I listened to them for hours while I played with my toys, singing along to the tinny tracks warbling from the Panasonic cassette player I carried everywhere.

Rubber Soul was my favorite Beatles album (probably in part because my dad had nicknamed me Rubber Belly Tomato Seed), and Michelle was my favorite song. Alhough Paul McCartney sings vocals on the track, today I'm listening to it and remembering Lennon and my dear, departed family members. Especially my mom, who would tirelessly translate the French lyrics for me over and over again (which was silly when you think about it). We reminisced about this during her final days; I treasure that conversation and the intimacy of it.

Sometimes I like to imagine that my family is having a big jam session up in heaven. Stevie Ray Vaughan, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Bob Marley, John Lennon, Mozart, Bach, Bizet... Maybe they're all up there performing for Dad, Mom, Papa, Mama, Aunt Flora and Uncle Ben. (Wouldn't that be something to see and hear.)

They're no longer with us, but the music they wrote, performed and loved is. And I'm forever grateful for it and them.

Thanksgiving Wishes

Here's hoping your Thanksgiving was filled with love, laughter and good food.

Clockwise from left: Great Aunt Flora, Great Uncle Ben, Great Aunt Lillian,
Papa, Mama, Mom, Great Granddad and Great Granny.

Sourdough Soft Pretzels

As I alluded to in my previous post about sourdough English muffins, when I was growing up I was tight with my maternal grandparents. Actually, I was (am) tight with all of my mom's relatives. An only child, mom hails from a small but close-knit clan (yes, clan) whose origins have been traced all the way to fourteenth-century Scotland by my genealogy-loving family. But I digress.

The point I'm laboring at has to do with the regular treks we'd make every summer from our farm in the mountains to my grandparents' home in the Berkeley Hills. We'd spend a month or so with them, familying it up around the Bay Area, watching television and eating "regular" food slipped to us kids by my grandmother. Although I was in awe of television (we didn't have one at home) and besotted with the Hershey's bars my grandfather bought for me at the ninth hole snack bar when I accompanied him to his regular Saturday golf games, my favorite treats were sourdough soft pretzels from the carts which dotted San Francisco's financial district.

Once a week or so, I'd accompany my mom on an errand to the City, during which we'd stop by my grandfather's office on Kearny Street. In exchange for quietly banging on typewriters and scribbling on my grandfather's stationery while the adults talked, I was treated to a pretzel from a cart on Market Street to eat on the BART ride back to Berkeley.

There's really nothing better than a piping hot sourdough pretzel -- salty and crusty on the outside, soft and tangy on the inside. (That's what she said? Sorry. It's reflexive.) I'm fairly certain there's a gene for loving salt and bread, and that I have it. I've searched high and low for pretzels like those from my childhood, but nothing has ever come close. I've tried to order them from reputed bakeries in Philadelphia (unfortunately one can only buy them frozen and in bulk), and I fall for the monstrosities at the pretzel carts in New York City every time. I know from sight alone that they're awful, but I secretly hope that by sheer will, I can conjure them to be like those from my childhood.

It turns out I can conjure the pretzels from my childhood, in my very own kitchen. Or pretty darn close, anyway. Who says time travel isn't possible, or that baking isn't magical...?

Sourdough Soft Pretzels

Adapted from Smitten Kitchen and The Foppish Baker

Makes about 16 full-size or 32 miniature pretzels

2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 tablespoon + 2 tablespoons sugar
1 cup hot (but not boiling) water
1 1/2 cups sourdough starter
2 teaspoons kosher salt
3 cups all purpose flour
2 1/2 cups bread flour
1/4 cup baking soda
1 egg
Sea or kosher salt, for sprinkling

1. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, dissolve the butter and 1 tablespoon sugar in the hot water. Add the sourdough starter and stir to combine. Add 3 cups all purpose flour and mix on low speed until the flour is incorporated. Stop the mixer and swap out the paddle attachment for the dough hook.

2. Add 2 1/2 cups bread flour and mix on low speed until the dough pulls away from the sides of the bowl and becomes elastic, about 2 to 3 minutes. Transfer the dough to a large oil-coated bowl. Lightly coat the top and sides of the dough with oil, cover the bowl and set in a warm place two hours or until the dough has doubled in size.

3. Punch down dough to remove bubbles and transfer to a lightly floured board. Knead a couple of times, then divide into 16 pieces (or 32 if miniature pretzels). [I cut the dough in half, made 16 miniature pretzels and froze the remaining dough.]

4. Roll one piece of dough at a time into a strip about 12 inches long. [Like Deb, I found that rolling the dough on an unfloured board was easier.] Twist into pretzel shape, transfer to a parchment-lined baking sheet and cover with a kitchen towel. Repeat with remaining dough.



I fear we will soon resemble these plump little guys, what with the
more-eating-than-exercising thing we've got going on here at Flour Child.



5. Fill a large, shallow pan with about 2 inches of water. [I used a saute pan.] Bring to a boil. Add 2 tablespoons sugar and baking soda and carefully stir until dissolved. Reduce to a simmer and transfer 3 or 4 pretzels at a time to the water. Poach for a minute on each side and transfer with a slotted spatula to a cooling rack set over a towel or baking sheet.

6. Heat oven to 450 degrees F. In a small bowl, whisk egg with 1 tablespoon water. Brush pretzels with egg glaze and sprinkle with salt.

7. Transfer pretzels back to the original parchment-lined baking sheet and bake for about 15 minutes or until evenly browned. [My oven has hot spots, so I rotated the sheet halfway through baking.]

The pretzels are best eaten warm on the day they're made, but according to Deb they can be stored, uncovered, for two days. I bagged and froze mine so that I could enjoy them one at a time, reheated in the microwave or oven.

Rubber Belly Tomato Seed

Baby Maggie

I've thoroughly enjoyed Summer Fest 2010, particularly the inventive and entertaining recipes over at Simmer Till Done. Cherry Tomato and Maytag Blue Beignets? Yes, please.

I had every intention of contributing a post on Wednesday for Tomato Week -- perhaps cioppino or a tomato tart -- but every time I sat down to write about tomatoes, all I could think about was my most vivid childhood memory, of sneaking out of the house early one morning and eating cherry tomatoes from our garden.

It must have been the August a couple of months before my second birthday, because I was old enough to walk but my brother hadn't yet been born. (Meeting him the following April after his middle-of-the-night home birth is the second most vivid memory from my childhood.) Wearing only a cloth diaper, I climbed out of my crib, creeped out of the house and toddled down the flagstone path to our backyard garden.

I don't actually remember the climbing out of the crib part, but I vividly recall standing among the rows of beans and snap peas and tomato plants, plucking cherry tomatoes straight from the vine and smashing them into my mouth. And then I was back in the house, peering over the the edge of my parents' bed on my dad's side, asking with raised arms to be picked up.

I remember my dad taking in the sight of my rubber ball of a tummy streaked with the tomato seeds and juice that pooled in my belly button, and laughing and calling me Rubber Belly Tomato Seed. And my little toddler self squealing with delight at my silly new nickname.

That last month my dad was in the hospital, I would hold his hand during the increasingly frequent procedures to drain fluid from his abdomen. It was a lengthy and anxiety-producing process involving a resident with hopefully steady hands and a very long needle in close proximity to vital organs. And it required my dad to lay very, very still.

To lighten the mood and conjure happy thoughts, I'd playfully point to his swollen belly and whisper, "Who's the Rubber Belly Tomato Seed now?" And we'd talk about that morning so long ago when he picked me up from the side of the bed and held me up above him, tomato juice raining down as he lay there on his back. And he'd tell me that his favorite thing in his whole life was scooping up his children and holding us close.

So I suppose my recipe for Tomato Week goes something like this: get some cherry tomatoes (preferably homegrown and still warm from the morning sun), smash them in your face, let the juice and seeds run down your torso and into your belly button, and hug someone you love. Because tomatoes, like life, are messy and juicy and sometimes best savored in your underwear.

Vegan Minestrone

When I was in college, my great aunt Flora (gardener, foodie, all-around amazing human being), taught me how to make Minestrone. It's based on a recipe she clipped from the San Francisco Chronicle Food Section many, many years ago. Were she here now, Flora would tell you that the soffritto (the Italian variation of mirepoix) is the most important element, and it's true. Without it, the soup lacks flavor and depth.

One of my favorite things about this recipe is that you can play around with the ingredients, substituting vegetables and legumes to suit your tastes and the seasons. You could also add pasta, protein, grains...you get the idea.

Vegan Minestrone

Makes about 18 1-cup servings

For the soffritto:

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 small (or 1/2 of one large) white onion, diced very fine

1 large carrot, peeled and finely diced very fine

2 stalks celery, diced very fine

2 garlic cloves, peeled and minced

For the soup:

2 cups vegetable stock

1 28-oz can crushed tomatoes with basil

3 cups water

1 15-oz can kidney beans, drained and rinsed

1 15-oz can garbanzo beans, drained and rinsed

2 medium zucchini, cut into 1/2-inch chunks

2 medium yellow (summer) squash, cut into 1/2-inch chunks

1 teaspoon dried oregano (or 2 teaspoons fresh, minced)

1 bunch Swiss chard, stalks removed and leaves roughly chopped

salt and freshly-ground pepper

2 tablespoons pesto

1. Saute the soffritto: In a medium or large soup/stock pot over medium high heat, saute the onion, carrots and celery in the olive oil until the onion is translucent and the vegetables release their juices. This takes about 10 minutes; a sprinkle of salt aids the process. Add the garlic and saute for a minute or two. (Adding the garlic any earlier will cause it brown and become bitter.)

2. Make the soup: Add the vegetable stock, tomatoes and water. Increase heat to high and bring to a low boil. Add the beans, zucchini, yellow squash, and oregano. Reduce heat and simmer, stirring occasionally, for about 5-8 minutes or until the zucchini and squash start to get tender. Stir in the Swiss chard and simmer for another 5 minutes, until the chard starts to get tender. Season to taste with salt and pepper. (I'm guessing I use about 1/2 teaspoon salt and 1/4 teaspoon pepper. But I like my food salty.)

3. Just before serving, stir in the pesto. Don't cook the soup after you've added the pesto; doing so will dampen its bright flavor.

SOFFRITTO PREPPED FOR THE POT

SOFFRITTO, PRE-SAUTE
SOFFRITTO, SAUTEED AND READY FOR THE GARLIC