Cocoa Sour Cream Bundt Cake

Life looks different at 7,000 feet. Surrounded by trees, one day filtering sun, the very next dusted with snow, we adopt a simpler cabin lifestyle for a few days. It’s a familiar holiday thanks to the proximity of the Sierras to our city life, but one with tinges of exoticism nonetheless, even in the kitchen. At mountain heights, a favorite pot of ragu boils at a lower point, lending an even gentler touch to the hours of simmering. But the alchemy of baking at altitude is unpredictable at best, like my mood on days one through three of thinner air. For both reasons, I always make sure to bake a cake at sea level in advance of the three(ish) hour car journey and bring it ready to slice on arrival (if not en route).

More often than not, I find my mountain cake coming from a bundt mold. Perhaps there is some inherent sturdiness in the Teutonic origins of this ring of cake, with its own peaks and valleys, that begs to be part of a trip through treetops. Or perhaps it’s because bundts are such great vehicles for clearing out the fridge of otherwise doomed-to-sour tubs of yoghurt or cartons of milk. Either way it has come to be a staple holiday pleasure to unearth a hunk of cake from a backpack, slightly squashed but otherwise unscathed by its journey. We unwind tight layers of wrap and enjoy a hearty slice in wooden cabin surrounds, before bedrooms are assigned or hiking boots hung.

We’ve passed through many of these cabins. They vary in size and décor, but all share a smoky, dusky aroma – the stuff of which gentlemen’s perfumiers’ dreams are made. Once the cake is eaten and bed chosen, my next task is to interrogate bookshelves and kitchen cabinets, wondering whose dream this home represents. Most cabins sport a number of bestsellers, edges curled from time on the beach, not deemed worthy of suitcase space once the week away from the grind is over. On this trip, our whimsically decorated abode boasts tasteful shelves of Joan Didion and David Sedaris, with nary an airport purchase to be found. Almost disappointingly tasteful. But the kitchen yields the pleasingly predictable set of plastic margarita glasses and ursine mugs, and the familiar pro-level sauté pans next to a drawer of too-blunt knives.

While I peruse this cabin and set up Henry in his new play area for the week, I’m munching a piece of chocolatey sour cream bundt. I know I can’t be the only person who ends up at the kitchen door, scratching my head over what end for the 7/8ths of the tub of sour cream. I would start a business selling the stuff in tablespoon packets, but then that would deprive us all of many cakes that chiefly exist for the purpose of using up the rest of those tubs. I’m a huge fan of chocolate cake where the flavor comes from cocoa rather than molten chocolate – easier to work with, somehow more intense yet lighter in texture, and bursting with a superfood (surely proof of nature’s divinity if nothing else). The cake edges are perfectly chewy, the interior light and soft. We light the wood fire and cut another slice.

Cocoa Sour Cream Bundt Cake
Adapted from Bi-Rite Market’s Eat Good Food

The method for this cake is delightfully simple: no messing with mixers involved. Perfect for a quick bake. Bundts make for excellent party cakes given the size and ease of slicing. I was lazy when making this cake and omitted the icing. I’d be tempted to add a cup of chocolate chips to the batter if I was going this route again, although the plain cake is excellent just as it is. The un-iced cake also keeps well in the freezer: if you do choose to ice it, you’ll need to eat it within a few days.

Cake
1 cup/8oz/2 sticks/230g unsalted butter
1/3 cup/1oz/30g cocoa powder
1 tsp salt
1 cup/250ml water
2 cups/9oz/250g all purpose flour
1 3/4 cups/350g sugar
1 1/2 tsp baking soda
2 large eggs
1/2 cup/125ml sour cream
1 tsp vanilla extract

Glaze
4oz/110g bittersweet chocolate (60-70% cocoa solids)
1 1/2 tbsp. agave nectar or corn syrup (UK folks can sub golden syrup)
1/2 cup/125ml heavy cream
1 1/2 tbsp. sugar

To make the cake:
Preheat the oven to 350F/175C.

Thoroughly grease a 12 cup bundt tin (the first time I made this cake it did stick a bit so make sure you really get into all the nooks and crevices of the pan. For bundts I prefer an oil spray as it’s so much easier although I generally grease with butter for better flavor). Set aside.

In a small saucepan, combine the butter, cocoa powder, salt and water and melt over a medium-low heat, stirring. Remove from the heat as soon as the mix is melted, and set aside to cool slightly.

In a large bowl, combine the flour, sugar and baking soda, using a whisk to combine well. Add half the melted butter mixture and whisk until blended – the mixture will be very thick at this point. Whisk in the remaining butter mixture. Add the eggs one by one, whisking well to combine in between. Whisk in the sour cream and vanilla until the whole mix is smooth and has a ribbony-texture.

Pour the mixture into the greased pan and bake for 40-45 minutes. When the cake is done, the edges will be pulling away from the pan slightly, and a toothpick inserted in the centre will come out clean.

Let the cake cool in the pan for 15-20 mins and then turn out onto a rack to complete cooling. If you are making the glaze, ensure the cake is completely cool before adding this.

The cake will keep well-wrapped in the freezer for 2-3 months, and wrapped at room temperature for 4-5 days.

Glaze Instructions:
Combine the chopped chocolate and agave nectar in a medium bowl. Set aside.

Pour the heavy cream into a small saucepan and add the sugar. Over a medium heat, stir until the cream is very hot and the sugar dissolves. Pour the hot cream over the chocolate and whisk until melted and smooth. If the consistency is very runny, you can let it sit for a minute or two to thicken. Drizzle over the cake.

Rhubarb Crumble Cake

There are things that everyone tells you about parenthood. You will never sleep again. You will fall deeply, unimaginably in love. You will miss the days when your baby was inside and always with you. Your life will change. You stubbornly protest that it’s easy to stick the child in the car-seat and dine out. Your life will change, they say again.

There are things that no one tells you about parenthood. You will do anything, ANYTHING, to hear your baby laugh. You will frequently lose all perspective, both for the good and for the bad. You will know every pore, follicle and fold of flesh of your child, more intimately than you know your own. Some days you will stand at the top of the stairs, holding the baby, watching the clock and waiting for someone else to come through the door and take him, just for 5 minutes even. Other days you will move and play as if one combined being again, anticipating each other’s moves, laughing at the same things. Those are the fun days.

Another thing everyone tells you: you will need help. You will need support. You run through the checklist many times in the last weeks of pregnancy: freezer full of dinners for the early months; changing table stocked with diapers, wipes, creams; multiple changes of baby clothes; overnight online shipping primed and ready. You feel pretty organized and confident. That wasn’t what they meant. What you really will need: a group of supportive, smart, non-judgmental ladies, ready to share their own ups and downs, swap advice, lend an ear. You will need a reason to leave the house good enough to change out of sweat pants, corral your wriggling, possibly screaming, bundle into carrier, car-seat, stroller, and make it somewhere within a 3 hour window. Sometimes the reason is good enough that you don’t even have to change out of sweat pants. As the months go by, making it out the house will become difficult for different reasons: naps, teeth, hunger strikes. You will still do it. You will amaze at the changes in other babies you’ve known almost as long as your own, and look forward to future rites of passage: birthday parties, playdates and more.

I am grateful for all the amazing, inspiring mamas in my life. This cake is for you all, with thanks.

Rhubarb Crumble Cake
Adapted from Smitten Kitchen

I made this cake for my moms’ group this week and was just going to share the link to Deb’s recipe, since her cakes are brilliantly reliable and generally un-improved-upon. But then I realized I had made enough changes that it was worth me setting out my own version as well as her one, which you can access in the link above. If you want to skip the step of making the rhubarb compote, Deb tosses rhubarb with sugar and lemon zest and puts this directly on top of the cake batter. I find, however, that cooking during nap times or however you make it work with infants, is easiest in discrete steps, so for me at least it’s better to make a compote one day, and then have that ready to integrate into another recipe a different day. Plus you can make too much of the compote and then spoon it over Greek yoghurt or waffles, oh yes.

Rhubarb Compote
2lbs rhubarb
1 cup dark brown sugar (you can use muscovado if you have it around)
2 tbsp. sherry (or any kind of wine, or you could use orange juice, or even just a splash of water)

This amount of compote should yield twice as much as you need for the cake below.

Trim the rhubarb and slice it into chunks, splitting the stalks in half lengthwise first unless they are very slender. Set about a quarter of the rhubarb chunks to one side. Combine the rest with the sugar and sherry/cooking liquid in a large, heavy-bottomed pan, and set over medium low heat. Stir over the low heat until the rhubarb starts to release its juices and the sugar melts, then cover the pot and turn the heat to low. Leave to cook on a low simmer for about 15 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove the lid and increase the heat to medium. Continue to cook, stirring the rhubarb frequently, for about 10 minutes, during which time the rhubarb chunks should soften and break down. Towards the end of this time, add the remaining rhubarb chunks and then cook for another 5 minutes. You should end up with a thick compote with chunks remaining. If there is still a lot of liquid, continue to cook for another 5 minutes or until the compote is thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. Set aside and leave to cool. You can keep this in the fridge for about a week.

Rhubarb Crumble Cake
I adapted Deb’s recipe to make an 8×8 square cake. You can use her original measurements for a 9×13 if you are serving a big group (or want leftovers), and still use the compote above instead of the rhubarb tossed in sugar, just increasing the amount of compote you use.

60g/5tbsp butter, softened
70g sugar
1/4 tsp finely grated lemon zest
1 large egg
90g all purpose (plain) flour
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp table salt
1/8 tsp ground ginger
50g sour cream

For the crumble topping
65g all purpose flour
25g light brown sugar (I used coconut sugar which I highly recommend here if you have it or want to try it in baking)
1/8 tsp ground cinnamon
2 tbsp./30g unsalted butter, melted
1 tbsp. crystallized ginger, finely chopped

Preheat the oven to 350F/170C. Grease an 8×8 square tin and line the bottom and two sides with parchment paper with one continuous sheet, like a sling (which you will later use to remove the cake). Set aside.

Cream together the butter, sugar and lemon zest in a mixer. Add the egg and beat until combined, scraping down the sides of the bowl to incorporate all the batter.

In a medium bowl, mix together the flour, baking powder, salt and ginger (I like to use a whisk to combine dry ingredients; you can also sift them together if you prefer). With the mixer on slow, add a third of the flour mix, mixing until just combined, then half the sour cream, one more third of flour, the remaining sour cream and finishing with the remaining flour mix.

Spread the batter into the prepared tin. It is likely quite a thick batter so you’ll have to work a bit to get it to spread evenly. On top of this spread the rhubarb compote (about half of the full recipe above). Set aside briefly while you make the topping.

In the bowl you used to combine the flour, make the crumble. Combine the flour, sugar, cinnamon and ginger, then mix in the melted butter. You can use your fingers to bring this into a lumpy crumble mix. Scatter this on top of the rhubarb as evenly as you can.

Put the tin into the oven and bake for about 45-55 minutes, until the top is well browned. I found it difficult to test the doneness of the cake with a skewer because of the rhubarb layer but you want the underlying cake to be set through so that a skewer comes out clean (if rhubarb comes out that’s fine so you might have to use judgement). Cut into 2×2 inch squares. The cake is good warm but also at room temperature. I found it best on the first day but you can wrap it tightly and keep for 2-3 days.

A Lemony Lemon Cake

Without wanting to sound like an over-scripted response to an interview question, my absolute biggest personal challenge is perfectionism. The character trait has become a cliché in that interview setting because we think it’s the clever answer to give, the admittance of a weakness that, in the work context at least, is actually a strength. Yet in work and in life, perfectionism is no kind of strength. It can be a crippling limitation, something that stops you from trying, from doing anything because you fear that the end result will not live up to expectations, your own and those perceived in others. It stops you from enjoying the journey, because you fixate on the end goal rather than the process and challenges along the way. It makes you judgmental, of yourself and of others. In other words, it sucks.

It’s not like I have suddenly and recently had that AHA! moment of realizing this personality trait. It’s my life’s work in many ways, finding that balance between fulfillment, effort and ease. But, boy, does motherhood bring these characteristics out kicking and screaming. With my gorgeous munchkin about to hit the 7 month mark, I’m starting to feel more pressure (from nowhere but myself I hasten to add) to figure out where the boundaries are between career and caretaker, to reclaim my body but to continue to nurse for another half year or so, to be able to go out late again but have energy for a giggling infant at 6am. And I’ve found myself shying away from decisions because of this pressure: if I can’t practice yoga 6 times a week for a couple of hours at a time, I will barely crack out a forward bend all week; if I can’t put down a few thousand words in one sitting, I won’t write at all, and so on. No more! If nothing else I’ve been keeping some cracking recipes away from you because I haven’t had the time or energy to write more than a few headwords about them. Yes, this is basically a very long-winded way of saying that I might be knocking out some shorter posts over the coming weeks, which means less naval-gazing from me and more food for you. Win-win all round then!

This lemon cake had all the signs of being perfect. I hunted out the recipe while considering the best use for a pile of meyer lemons I scored from a friend’s tree that was groaning with the gems. The promise was high: the recipe called for not only a considerable amount of lemon juice, both in the batter and then in a syrup that you pour over the cake while still warm from the oven, but also for a whole one-third-of-a-cup of lemon zest (for two loaves). No mincing about with a whisper of lemon in the background here, thankyouverymuch. And the author of the recipe was none other than Ina Garten, a brilliant self-parody of the ‘perfect’ life, tablescapes and florist friends and all, but who does know a darned good cake and, I suspect, how to throw a corker of a party.

The baking didn’t get off to the best start, or so I thought. I dutifully removed the butter and eggs from the fridge to come to room temperature when I first got out of bed, planning to knock out the cake during Henry’s morning nap. But I had forgotten to pick up buttermilk and the butter and eggs remained on the kitchen counter for the rest of the day, while other minor tasks like, you know, trying to convince your son to get the avocado IN THE MOUTH HONEY, were completed to varying degrees of success. Child fast asleep in bed, finally, my heart sank when I saw the ingredients neglected and imploring me to dust off the mixer, when really my energy levels were just about enough to mix up a Negroni and stare into the mid distance until the clock reached a time that was reasonable for a grown adult to go to bed. But, you know, What Would Ina Garten Do? and all that (actually Ina would be already on her second Negroni), and since the butter was about fit to become intelligent enough to bake the cake itself, I sucked up whatever minor reserves I had and got to creaming the butter and sugar together. And that’s where the magic actually happened. We all know that our butter should be soft, at room temperature, or whatever instruction we think that a half hour on the countertop constitutes, but it has to be one of the most under-appreciated steps in baking. I know that now, having seen the very-much-room-temperature butter and eggs and sugar transform into a pillowy light batter, rising into soft mounds reminiscent of beaten egg whites. And since I was not in any way working with mise en place, the batter got a touch of extra beating while I frantically grated lemon zest into a bowl.

The end result: a loaf cake that was feathery light, pungent in lemon flavor and aroma, with a gratifying fragility to the crumb. Was it perfect? Well: I would like to go back and prick the cake all over with a skewer before pouring over the lemon syrup, so that it penetrated every corner and crevice of the cake. I’d like not to have had to leave the cake to cool overnight covered with a towel, since there was no chance it would be wrappable before I turned into a pumpkin. I left off the suggested icing since I tend to prefer an un-iced loaf cake but am now curious as to what that extra layer of sweet and tang atop the cake would have produced. But, sitting munching a slice under tree shade in our local park, with Henry rolling around on a blanket and trying to eat grass, it was more than enough and perfect just as it was.

Lemon Loaf Cake
Adapted from Ina Garten’s Barefoot Contessa Parties!

The original recipe yielded two loaves. I halved it and made just one, but know that you can easily double this and potentially freeze a second loaf.

115g (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 1/4 cups/225g sugar
2 eggs, at room temperature
1/6 cup grated lemon zest (3 to 4 large lemons, or 5-6 smaller meyer lemons if available to you)
1 1/2 cups/165g flour
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 plus 1/8 cup (90ml) freshly squeezed lemon juice
3oz/90ml buttermilk, at room temperature
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

For the icing (optional):
1 cup/200g confectioners’ (icing) sugar, sifted
2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice

Preheat the oven to 350F/175C. Butter and flour a loaf pan (ideally about 8.5 x 4.5 inches). Line the bottom with parchment paper.

Cream the butter and 1 cup/200g granulated sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, until light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. With the mixer on medium speed, add the eggs, 1 at a time, beating well between each addition. Then add the lemon zest.

Whisk or sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a medium bowl. In another (small) bowl, combine 1/8 cup/30ml lemon juice, the buttermilk, and vanilla. Add the flour and buttermilk mixtures alternately to the batter, beginning and ending with the flour. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 45 minutes to 1 hour, a cake tester comes out clean.

Combine 1/4 cup/50g granulated sugar with 1/4 cup/60ml lemon juice in a small saucepan and cook over low heat until the sugar dissolves. When the cake is done, allow to cool for 10 minutes. Remove from the pan and set the cake on a rack set over a tray or sheet pan. Prick the cake all over with a very fine skewer then spoon the lemon syrup over so it penetrates through the cake. Allow to cool completely.

For the icing, if using, combine the confectioners’ sugar and the lemon juice in a bowl, mixing with a wire whisk until smooth (you may need to add more juice or sugar to get the right consistency). Pour over the top of the cake and allow the glaze to drizzle down the sides.

Lumberjack Cake

The cupcake has a lot to answer for. The ubiquitous pastel frosted creation, invariably displayed in towers of chintz and whimsy, reclaimed baking to the feminine sphere in a poof of mid 90s Carrie-inspired brunches. When Nigella graced the cover of her most famous book with a single cupcake, we extrapolated that all one had to do to gain “goddess” status at home was to bake such treats. Since then (thankfully) the cupcake craze has been swallowed (or daintily nibbled at the least) by macaroons, donuts, and, in a final rebellion, the fashion for savory-meets-sweet, leading to eggs hidden inside muffins, cheddar-flecked scones, and bacon-topped everything. Take that, buttercream!

Moving away from the overly simplistic division of ladylike cupcakes vs manly muffins, because of course nothing is ever, or has ever been, that straightforward, there must have been a time when cake was not just about celebration or indulgence, but about getting through the day. Nutrient-packed flapjacks come to mind, as does the heavy, iron-rich parkin variations from the northern English counties of Yorkshire and Lancashire. And I recently came across what I unknowingly would have called a date, apple and coconut loaf, but learned that the correct denomination is a Lumberjack Cake. I had never heard of such a thing, but research suggests that it hails from Canada, where the sticky, dense creation was just the thing for keeping burly men doing their tree-chopping thang all day long. I like to think of it as a retrospective alternative to the cupcake obsession, since “lumberjack” brings to mind the other side of the 90s – plaid flannel shirts and Twin Peaks and grunge. The good stuff in other words.

I made the loaf for the event that is the Superbowl (yep, that’s how slow my blogging is right now), partly because I had most of the ingredients in the cupboards and partly because I knew that I’d be unable to partake in the majority of the butter-laden treats that would likely grace our table and that I had better do something about that. It turned out that the guys and gals alike were smitten enough that the cake pretty much disappeared ahead of the chocolate frosted creations and I found myself making another one before the week was out to satisfy my own cravings. That’s good enough for me to think you need to know about it too. I adapted a recipe from the uber-tasteful Frances restaurant in our neighborhood, swapping out butter for coconut oil, grating the apple for a finer texture and baking it as a loaf rather than in the round, which gave more chewy edges to nibble. I think I also used whole wheat flour but it’s honestly too long ago for my mom-brain to be sure: I think you could play around with flours without ill effect though if you’re so inclined as it’s a pretty moist loaf. And although the name gives service to the nourishing qualities of the cake, it downplays the ingredients themselves, and the real magic takes place in the interplay between the dates, apples and coconut. The apple and coconut tag-team on texture, while the dates and apples provide the kind of moisture that makes this a week-long cake, if you can muster such self-restraint. Or, you know, go and climb a tree, scrape a knee and call it lunch. No frosting required.

Lumberjack Cake
Adapted from Frances, published in 7×7 magazine

1 cup (250ml) water
1 cup dates (about 8 dates), pitted and chopped
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/4 cup (137g) all-purpose flour
¾ teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
½ cup (125g) coconut oil, at room temperature
1 cup (200g) sugar
1 egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ cup (50g) coconut flakes
1 apple, grated

Combine the water and dates in a small saucepan and bring to the boil. Whisk in the baking soda and leave to cool to room temperature (while they are cooling you can prepare the tin, grate the apple and weigh out the other ingredients if you like).

Preheat the oven to 350F/175C. Grease a 9×5 inch loaf tin and line the base with parchment paper.

Mix and sift the flour, baking powder and salt in a medium bowl. Set to one side.

Using a stand mixer or electric whisk, beat together the coconut oil and sugar until combined and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add the egg and vanilla and beat again to combine. Slowly add the date/water mixture in stages, and once integrated add the dry ingredients, mixing just until they are blended and taking care not to over-beat at this point. Using a rubber spatula or wooden spoon, fold in the coconut and the grated apple.

Pour the mixture into the prepared tin and bake for about 60 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through the baking time. Check to see if the cake is done by inserting a wooden skewer in the middle. If it comes out clean or with just an odd crumb the cake is done; if not, continue to bake for 10 minute increments. Cool in the pan for 15 minutes and then turn out onto a wire rack to finish cooling to room temperature.

Citrus Olive Oil Cake

Do you remember when you stopped calling the place you grew up “home”? Have you, even? I know more than one thirty-something for whom home still means a specific house, with a bedroom always at the ready, or a certain memory-soaked town. When you move to another country, the word becomes even more laden and confused. For a long time after landing Stateside, especially among other ex-pats, it was a common shorthand to ask if you were going “home” for Christmas, or for the summer, and I bet none of us gave the usage a second thought. I also wager that almost all of us, after two mad weeks of rushing around the mother country cramming in visits with friends and family, said something along the lines of: “I’m actually really looking forward to going home”. This time home is not where you spent your formative years, or the passport you hold, but the place you hang your hat at the end of the day, the bed you crave after days of living out of suitcases, in spare rooms, and hotels. We travel to see the place we live with fresh eyes, to realize that home may have become closer to the everyday than we had imagined.

I was pretty young when I first got interested in not being at home. It started out with some self-taught French around the age of 9 or so (and boy was I pissed when I went to high school and was assigned German instead), developed through adventures on Autobahns during school exchanges, and consolidated through a continued love of language learning, until I went to university 300 miles away from home (sounds like nothing, especially to the vast distances of America, but at the time it was just as far as being on the other side of the Atlantic). Living in Spain for a year convinced me that I was destined to go yet further afield, and my Christmas present at the age of 22 was a huge suitcase, ready for wherever I was going to go next when I graduated from my degree, so sure were we all that I would be going somewhere. At the time I was plotting time in Sydney, a city as far in distance if not in culture from home as I could conjure. As it happens, I fell in love, and the suitcase was mostly put to use moving to and from a succession of increasingly domestic dwellings, but that’s a different story. (As an aside: the case did get loaned to a friend travelling to Sri Lanka for a year, so I like to think it fulfilled some of its more exciting destiny).

In retrospect I don’t think I was ever consumed quite so much by an intrinsic wanderlust, or a desire for any kind of nomadic existence, as much as I was searching for some other form of home, and one where I actually felt at home. In this quest I readily took on whatever form of identity was called for by the setting. I borrowed my German pen-pal’s oh-so-Europe-in-the-early-90s sweatshirts and slow-danced to Roxette’s “It Must Have Been Love”. I dyed my hair bleach blonde in Barcelona and cultivated a penchant for boys with mullets (preferably Italian it turned out), and verrrrrry late nights. I settled back in Cambridge to finish up my degree and spent spare hours plotting a metaphysical novel and getting high on queer theory. And these days I inhabit the Mission district of San Francisco, ride a fixed-gear bike, listen to vinyl, tote around a yoga mat, and will walk two (ok, honestly, 5) extra blocks for the right coffee.

When we decided to put down some proper roots here in San Francisco last year, and went apartment shopping, we had a pretty clear idea of what was most important to us: location. We wanted to be in the city, not on the fringes, and we were prepared to sacrifice a reasonable number of things to make that work for our budget. So we have neighbors underneath who first of all had children who woke us up early at a time we’d now consider a lie-in, and now are twenty-somethings who wake us up at, lord forbid, the ungodly hour of midnight with their loud bedtime chatter (and more, but let’s not go there). And we don’t have a garden, or even a yard. What we have instead: an amazing park a mere block from our front door, a collection of some of the best food in the country on our doorstep, but most of all a vibrant community all of whom seem to be incredibly proud to call this part of the city home, as are we.

Right around the corner from our apartment, a cornerstone of the neighborhood, and expensively convenient, is Bi-Rite market. I love everything about it: the carefully curated produce that genuinely changes with the season – absolutely no temptation of strawberries in December; the fact that information on the provenance of the meat and fish comes readily from anyone you ask; the better than I can make at home pre-prepared food, for crazy busy evenings; and of course the justifiably famous ice-cream, especially the vegan coconut chocolate which has saved my dessert life in these non-dairy days. Last year Bi-Rite produced a lovely tome which is half cookbook, half manifesto for the style of shopping, cooking and communing over food that underpins the store. It’s probably most helpful for people who don’t do two thirds of their weekly shopping at Bi-Rite itself, but it also contains some recipe gems.

This citrus olive oil cake might seriously be one of my favourite cakes of the last year or so. The method is like nothing I’ve seen before – you start out by simmering whole oranges and lemons in simple syrup until they are soft and yielding, and then blitz them to a paste in the food processor before adding to the batter. So you get the full intensity of the whole citrus fruits, tempered by the sugar bath, along with the textural interest of the small chunks left in the paste. As if this wasn’t enough, the batter contains almond flour, or blitzed up almonds for more textural intrigue, and then olive oil as the primary fat, keeping the fruit notes high and the crumb dense and moist. When I open my little café slash bookshop slash haberdashery one day (daydream alert!), this cake will be on the opening menu for sure. Who knows where that might be, or what hairstyle I might have adopted at that point: it’s not really that important. Home is not location; it’s a state of mind, a way of being. And, yes, it’s where the cake is.

Citrus Olive Oil Cake
Adapted from Bi-Rite Market’s Eat Good Food: A Grocer’s Guide to Shopping, Cooking and Creating Community Through Food by Sam Mogannam and Dabney Gough

Yield: 12 servings

3 1/2 cups sugar (2 cups = about 440 g for the simple syrup, and 1.5 cups = about 330g for the batter) with more to hand in case needed
2 cups (500ml) water
2 medium oranges
1 medium lemon
1 2/3rd cup (6oz/170g) sliced almonds, toasted (or almond flour is fine if you have it to hand)
1 cup (4 1/2 oz/120g) all purpose flour
1 tbsp. baking powder
2/3rd cup (165ml) extra virgin olive oil, plus more for the pan
4 large eggs
1/2 tsp salt

Combine 2 cups (440g) sugar along with 2 cups (500ml) water in a medium pan. Bring to a boil over a medium high heat to dissolve the sugar, and then add the oranges and lemons, whole. Make sure the liquid covers at least 2/3rds of the fruit – if needed you can add equal parts water and sugar directly to the pan to raise the level. Cover the pan and reduce the heat to a very gentle simmer. Cook, turning the fruit occasionally, until it is very soft and easily pierced by a skewer, about 45 minutes. Transfer the fruit to a plate or bowl until cool enough to handle. You can save the citrus simple syrup that is the by-product of this process to use in cocktails or to flavor sparkling water.

While the fruit is cooking, pulse the toasted almonds in a food processor until finely ground (or skip this step and just use almond flour. I prefer grinding my own for a slightly chunkier and less even texture). Transfer to a large bowl and whisk in the flour and baking powder.

Preheat the oven to 350*F/175*C. Oil a 9 inch (23 cm) springform cake pan and line the bottom with parchment paper.

Cut the cooled fruit into quarters and remove and discard any seeds or large pieces of membrane. Put the fruit in the food processor (if you used this for the almonds, don’t worry about washing it first). Pulse until the fruit is pureed and fairly smooth, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed to achieve this.

Whisk the eggs and salt using a stand mixer, or handheld electric whisk. Beat on medium-high speed until lightened in color and foamy, about 2 min. With the whisk running, gradually add the remaining 1.5 cups sugar and continue to beat until thick and creamy white, 3-4 minutes longer. Reduce the speed to medium and, with the whisk running, drizzle in the olive oil gradually.

Add the pureed fruit and mix until just blended, about another 30 seconds. Remove the bowl from the stand and gently fold in about a third of the flour mixture. When incorporated, add the rest of the flour mixture and fold just until smooth – be careful not to overmix.

Pour into the prepared pan and bake in the centre of the oven until the cake is dark golden brown and springs back after a light touch, about 1 hour and 10 minutes (resist testing the cake with a toothpick or skewer as it will cause the cake to sink in the middle). Let the cake cool in the pan for 25 mins, the run a knife around the perimeter. Turn out onto a rack to cool completely, removing the parchment from the base of the cake if it sticks.

The flavors of the cake develop over a day of resting and it keeps well for about 5 days at room temperature.

New Year, New Carrot Cake

A happy new year to you all. I hope you are feeling rejuvenated and inspired by the potential that the new starts and clean slates of a clock ringing midnight can bring. We slept through the chimes this year, catching up on too many other nights of seeing the early hours of the morning that look more like milky pjs than high heels and sparkles. We were, at least, away from home, up in the Tahoe Sierras, surrounded by friends and snow-topped fir trees, observing the effects of altitude on a 3 month old’s nap schedule (not good) and his hormonal mama’s reaction thereto (worse). Thankfully not much can remain unforgiven when you see a perfect snowflake land on a bemused eyelash, while its owner attempts to catch more on his little tongue.

I made resolutions optimistically, as though life was still Before Henry: sort out the kitchen so I have space and light to take photos more easily; find a way to write more than once every three months; start getting dressed in the morning with more thought than the nearest pair of skinny jeans; cook again in a fashion about more than last minute survival. And there are days, like now, where these seem like completely reasonable goals for a human being, even a mother, and so here I sit typing with a napping baby strapped to my chest and feeling like there may again be cake. Tomorrow – who knows. I’m getting used to that, slowly.

And so to the cake. For the last 14 weeks I have eaten next to no dairy. Yep, that does mean no butter (or milk, or cheese, but really it’s all about the butter if you’re a baker). There’s enough of a link between dairy and colic in babies that I decided to cut it out from the start, terrified by the horror stories from both sets of grandparents about how nightmarish Ollie and I both were as colicky infants. And then Henry’s worst meltdown ever came right after I unthinkingly ate a Tartine croissant, which doesn’t just contain a bit of butter, and when you’re rocking a normally cheery but now inconsolably sobbing little man over and over and over, coconut vegan ice-cream and cashew nut “cheese”cake seem like completely reasonable ways to eat for the return of that cheeky smile.

I’m working on figuring out a few tricks to baking a good butter-free cake, that don’t involve the use of ingredients that belong in a chemistry class (eg xanthan gum – anything beginning with the letter x does not belong in my baking). Recipes involving fruit or veg, like carrot or zucchini loaves, often utilize vegetable oil instead of butter, giving a dense yet moist texture as opposed to the finer crumb of a butter batter, so they are my fallback recipes for the time being. I also discovered a pear and cranberry bundt cake in the last ever issue of Gourmet magazine that without icing also fulfills the dairy-free criteria: it got rave reviews both from the Thanksgiving crowd and my moms’ group, which I feel denotes sufficient versatility to mention. But, since this is January, and we’re at least pretending to be all about antioxidants and vitamins and health, let’s go back to the carrots.

While there’s certainly a time and a place for a carrot cake that is slathered in tooth-aching frosting, it isn’t really the first month of the year. How about the radical idea of a carrot cake that tastes of carrots? That’s pretty much what this simple recipe turns out. It’s somehow a treat yet wholesome all at once. Start out with good, organic carrots and take the time to grate them finely, so they find their way into every crevice of the loaf. Even if you’re dubious about dried fruits, give this a go with the raisins included first as their sweet chewiness really does complement the carrot. And if you want to take a piece of three day old cake, gently toast and slather it with butter for breakfast, I won’t tell the resolution police.

Carroty carrot cake
Adapted from Galit Babo for Bon Appetit

125g eggs (2 large eggs for me – you can weigh your first egg and then decide if two or three of the size you have are necessary)
225g sugar
110g oil (neutral flavored like canola, vegetable or sunflower)
140g plain/all purpose flour
5g baking powder
6g cinnamon
60g raisins
60g desiccated unsweetened coconut
A few chopped walnuts or hazelnuts
160g carrots

Preheat the oven to 180 degrees C/350° degrees F.

Grate the carrots using the finer side of a box grater. Set to one side.

Beat together the eggs and sugar with an electric whisk, stand mixer or wooden spoon, until pale and well combined. Keep the mixer running on slow and very gradually beat in the oil. If you are using a wooden spoon add a small amount at a time and beat well between each addition. Turn the mixer to its lowest speed and add the flour, baking powder, coconut and cinnamon, stirring until just combined.

Put the raisins and chopped nuts in a small bowl and mix with a small amount of flour to help prevent them from sinking in the batter. Fold them into the batter and then fold in the carrots.

Pour the mixture into a loaf pan (I used a 9×5 inch) and bake for around 60 minutes. Start checking the loaf around 50 minutes – it is ready when a wooden skewer inserted into the centre of the cake comes out with just a few crumbs sticking. Allow to cool in the pan for 15 minutes then turn onto a wire rack to finish cooling. Serve at room temperature. The cake will keep, well wrapped, for about 3 days, or you can freeze it for up to 2 months.

A Cake of Cheese and Cherries

My brain is evidently on my brain. Last time I told you about how my mind was a jumble of mushed up this and that. Today, all I can think, as I stare at this picture of cheesecake, is that the pregnant brain is about 8% smaller than normal, a fact that I learned at childbirth class on Sunday. That, and a generic, mmmmmm… cheesecake. Neither are really the basis for a stimulating blog post, but I hope you’ll be lenient with me, since apparently being a bit brain dead and eating cheese-based snacks are the ideal building blocks for getting this bag of wriggles out of my tummy and into the world at some point.

The cake was inspired by a weekend away – the first of several planned ‘babymoons’ – in Sonoma. The sun was hot and we picnicked, did some mild hiking, took naps and read books. We also went to the girl and the fig for dinner, a gem of a restaurant on the chintzy main square in Sonoma, where we ate beets dotted with the creamiest ricotta, and garlicky mussels with shoestring fries (me), and a juicy strip of steak (him), and then cheesecake. Since these days my stomach resides somewhere high in my ribs, I rarely make it to dessert within a single meal (don’t worry, I make up for it during the day) but this time I had strategically ordered, and it paid off. The cake was creamy and light all at once, atop a base flecked with pistachios, and with roasted cherries staining the otherwise virginal white surface.

I don’t bake cheesecake that often since I tend to find it requires a really large group to do it justice but the Sonoma one played on my mind so much that when I was assigned the dessert contribution to a bbq, I hunted for something that might be comparable. Cheesecakes encompass quite a lot of varieties: dense, intense, New York style, lighter and crumblier Eastern European cakes, some tangy with goat’s cheese, others set rather than baked, and topped with jam. I got my cheesecake hand in originally with a recipe from How to be a Domestic Goddess (surely in the future that book will be studied as a piece of social and cultural history as a turning point in the return of the feminine domestic – ok, maybe I have some brain left) which is a tease of a cake, all lemon and egg, with a layer of sour cream baked on top right at the end for extra tang. But this time I wanted something lighter, more suited to an old fashioned china-plated cafe than an urban deli. And this one, from Tender Vol 2 (or the much better named Ripe in the US), was perfect – not too sweet, delicate, and the perfect match for Bing cherries roasted with a little bit of sugar and sherry.

Here’s the thing – everyone seems to bring some kind of nostalgia to cheesecake, which makes it a guaranteed crowd pleaser. I knew this one had come out well when a Polish lady at the bbq in question demanded to know what cheese I had used, as it was just like the cake her grandma used to make. High praise indeed. My own cheesecake nostalgia is pretty limited, more to the sour cream one above and learning to cook it than to youthful treats. But now that I’ve acquired a taste for it, I’ll remember this cake as something I ate when I was pregnant, over-heated and slow-witted in the summer of 2012. Who knows, maybe in the future, this is the cake my baby boy will ask for on his birthday, or after a scratched knee, or when he’s home from college. I hope so.

Cheesecake with Baked Cherries
Adapted from Tender Vol 2/Ripe by Nigel Slater

Easily serves 8-10

For the filling:
500g/1 lb ricotta
200g/7oz cream cheese or mascarpone
150ml double cream/heavy whipping cream
150g/5ooz sugar
2 lemons
1 tsp vanilla extract
4 eggs
1 egg yolk
1 tbsp cornflour/cornstarch

For the crust:
350g shortbread biscuits or graham crackers
90g butter

For the cherries:
450g/1 pint cherries
1 tbsp sugar
1–2 tbsp sherry or white wine

Lightly butter a 20cm/8inch square cake tin and line the base with baking parchment. Crush the biscuits to crumbs, either using a food processor, or putting them in a plastic bag and tapping (ok, banging) with a rolling pin. Melt the butter, add the crushed biscuits and mix well. Tip the buttered crumbs into the cake tin and pat down lightly (I only used about 2/3rds of my biscuits in the end as the base was starting to look too much – use your judgement here if your one looks the same). Refrigerate for about half an hour, or until the butter sets.

Towards the end of this time, preheat the oven to 180C/350F. Put the ricotta, cream cheese or mascarpone, cream and sugar in a food processor and blend briefly. Add the finely grated zest and juice of the lemons, the vanilla extract, then the eggs and egg yolk. Lastly, blend in the cornflour. Pour the mixture into the cake tin and slide it into the oven (it will be quite full). Bake for 50 minutes to an hour, covering the top with foil if it colouring even slightly. Turn the heat off and leave the cake in the oven to cool. Refrigerate completely – ideally overnight, but at least 4-6 hours.

I bake my cherries while the oven is still on for the cake and then serve them cool, but you could bake them just before serving if you prefer. Either way, halve the cherries and remove the pits. Toss the cherries with the sugar and sherry or wine in a baking dish and bake in a 180C/350F oven for about 20 minutes, until the cherries are softening and their juices have combined with the sugar and wine to caramelize. Either leave to cool and then serve cold or reheated, or spoon over the cake and serve immediately.

Almond Raspberry Cake

I imagine that if some intrepid researcher helped herself to a wedge of my brain right now, she’d find quite a sight. There’d be a jumble of onsies and diapers, parades of strollers, facts about the pelvis and prenatal yoga modifications. Every third thought would involve meat, or almond butter, or some other protein delivery device. The whirling stream would, however, cease its incessant flow approximately every four hours, when it would be defeated by the kind of desire to nap ordinarily only felt by narcoleptics. In the wedge of brain, however, there would not be much baking to be found, and really only a minor amount of cake.

Before I get on to the joys of one of the two cakes I’ve baked in the two months we’ve lived in our new place, please indulge me and let me regale you with two of the cooler facts I’ve learned while beefing up on all things baby. Number 1: did you know that babies are basically born with jet-lag? They reserve their acrobatics, high kicks, plies, goal-scoring practice (insert any other prodigious talent you have already begun to project onto your unborn genius) predominantly for the night hours, when you are still and relaxed. So they basically emerge into the world with the body clock of a Spanish club-goer. This simultaneously delights and terrifies me. Number 2: 10 days after the devastating 1985 Mexico City earthquake, rescuers pulled several newborn survivors from the rubble of a hospital, where there had been little remaining hope of life. Babies are basically born with immense reserves of energy and nutrition from their time in the womb, leaving them with innate initial survival capabilities of which Bear Grylls can only dream. It is possibly only one facing the responsibility of keeping a tiny other person alive in the ever-nearing future who finds reassurance in such macabre stories, but I still think it’s pretty awesome all the same.

And so, with that bit of mental clutter aired, to the cake. I had imagined that the first cake I would bake in our new home would be a Victoria sponge, for all its significance to me, but I wanted to save that for a Jubilee-themed dinner that was on the horizon (aka an excuse to make coronation chicken disguised as mild patriotism). Otherwise I was looking out for something light and summery, featuring a hint of the current seasonal fruit bounty, but straightforward so as to give our oven a fair trial without too much chance of user or recipe error. This cake, consisting of a buttery almond batter, with a layer of fresh raspberries baked into the centre, was sufficiently simple in the first place to appeal enough to my baby-soaked brain for the Kitchen Aid to be dusted off, and then proved to be a great addition to my (limited) summer cake repertoire by pairing perfectly with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream. The fragrant almond base to the batter sets off the ever-so-slightly tart berries in an addictive fashion, but what really makes this cake is the crunchy topping of flaked almonds and large-grained sugar. And trust me when I say it’s one of the easier cakes I’ve posted here: if I can fight past the hormones to make it right now, it must be child’s play.

Almond Raspberry Cake
Adapted from a little baking booklet that accompanied an issue of Jamie Magazine (a great publication)

5oz/140g butter, at room temperature
5oz/140g cane/caster sugar
5oz/140g self-raising flour (or 140g all purpose/plain flour plus 2 tsp baking powder and a pinch of salt)
2 eggs, ideally at room temperature
1 tsp vanilla extract
1-2 tbsp milk
9oz/250g raspberries (basically one punnet)
a handful of flaked almonds
2 tbsp large-grained sugar, such as turbinado or demerara

Preheat the oven to 350F/180C. Grease the base and sides of a 20cm/8 inch spring-form round cake pan (if you only have 9 inch that’s probably ok although your cake will be flatter) and line the base with parchment paper.

Using a stand mixer, electric whisk or wooden spoon, beat together the butter and sugar until pale and creamy. Beat in the eggs one by one, and then the vanilla extract.

Whisk together the flour (and baking powder and salt if needed) and ground almonds in a small bowl and then add to the batter. Mix gently until just combined. The mixture will probably be quite dense – beat in a small amount of milk, gradually, just to loosen the batter slightly – a tablespoon or two will be plenty here.

Spread half the mixture over the base of the cake pan, and then evenly distribute the raspberries over the top. Cover them with the remaining batter and then sprinkle over the flaked almonds and 2 tbsp of chunky sugar – raw, turbinado or demerara are ideal for this. Bake for 50-60 minutes until firm and golden.

Candied Meyer Lemon Almond Loaf

When you first move, for a short while at least, everything looks a bit different. Nothing is within a mindless, habitual grasp and by necessity you have to slow down, look around you a bit more, and figure things out as though for the very first time. I love it: freedom from ingrained routine, from the laziness of convenience, from not noticing the beauty in the most mundane aspects of your everyday surroundings.

Before we reached this sweet spot, there were boxes. Days of cardboard, and newspaper, and bubble wrap. Of trying to streamline years of paper and obsolete gadgets. Of memories unearthed at the backs of drawers, in the dusty recesses of boxes not touched since the last move, saved purely to be found and giggled over one more time. And to help us along the way, there was one final cake from the kitchen where this blog was born, where pounds of butter made their merry marriage with sugars and eggs. My plans were more practical than anything: use up some beautiful meyer lemons I had picked up the previous week and bake something which didn’t otherwise involve adding to the fridge of food we were frantically eating our way through. The result: a new favourite.

The base recipe for this cake comes from my favourite cookbook, The Kitchen Diaries, and I had made it before, albeit years ago. What I hazily remembered was that the lemon slices always sunk into the batter, rather than caramelizing from their perch atop the loaf, and that they never quite delivered on their promise. The meyer lemons I had were left over from making chocolate-topped matzah for Passover, where I had candied them, which just involves cutting fine slices and simmering in a water and sugar mix for an hour or so, until they become translucent, slightly gummy, and completely addictive. I decided to replace the original topping in this recipe of a regular lemon given a brief (5 min) boil in sugar water for this full candied version, which also meant I could overlap the small slices and give me more chance that they wouldn’t sink to the bottom of the batter halfway through. The recipe also makes good thrifty use of the by-product of the candying process: meyer lemon simple syrup, which you drizzle over the cake as it cools from the oven, permeating the whole batter with the sweet lemon perfume and sticky moisture of the liquid.

If you’re still here, and not already halfway to the kitchen or to your nearest meyer lemon source, the other thing of note about this cake is the loaf itself. I am an absolute sucker for almond meal in cake: I love the dense, slightly coarse texture which acts like a flavour sponge as well as keeping this loaf moist for days. The edges become slightly chewy as the cake bakes making the end slice a well-deserved gift for its cook. This loaf might carry the memories of those past weeks of packing and dust and turmoil, but I won’t be waiting until our next move to make it again.

Candied Meyer Lemon Almond Loaf Cake
Adapted from Nigel Slater’s The Kitchen Diaries

So for all the big talk about meyer lemons, I know a lot of you, especially in the UK, won’t be able to get hold of that variety. Don’t let that put you off: just find the juiciest, smallest unwaxed (ideally organic) lemons available, slice them as finely as you possibly can, and continue with the candying stage as per the instructions below. You’re looking to ensure that the lemon rind will be easily edible, with a texture almost reminiscent of old-fashioned sweets from a jar, like wine gums. It should take about an hour to get this consistency but it won’t hurt to simmer the slices for a little longer if you’re unsure.

3-4 small meyer lemons, or 2-3 regular sized lemons
1 cup (250ml) water
1 cup (200g) caster sugar

200g/7oz butter, at room temperature
200g/7oz demerara or raw/turbinado sugar (you can use regular sugar if you can’t get hold of these)
90g/3oz all purpose (plain) flour
90g/3.5oz ground almonds (sold in the US as almond flour or almond meal, or grind your own in a food processor)
1/2 tsp baking powder
1 large lemon/meyer lemon
4 eggs

Begin by candying the lemons. Put the water and sugar in a pan, ideally a heavy-bottomed broad one, and bring to a boil to dissolve the sugar into the water. Reduce to a low simmer. While the water is heating, thinly slice the lemons. Place the slices into the sugar water in as close to a single layer as you can manage and simmer them over a low heat for 45 minutes to an hour depending on the size of the slices. When they are ready the whites should be turning translucent and the slices will be soft and gummy. Transfer with tongs to a cooling sheet and set aside while you make the cake batter. Keep the lemon simple syrup to one side too, off the heat.

Heat the oven to 160*C/320*F and line a loaf tin (around 25x11cm/9x5in) with parchment paper.

Beat the butter and sugar together in a stand mixer, with an electric whisk, or a wooden spoon, until light and fluffy. While it mixes (if using a stand mixer), take a medium bowl and combine the almond meal, plain flour and baking powder. Grate the zest of a lemon and add to this mix.

Reduce the mixer speed and add the eggs to the batter one at a time, beating well after each addition. The batter may curdle slightly: don’t worry. Remove the bowl from the mixer and fold in the almond/flour mix using a large metal spoon or plastic spatula (not a wooden spoon), to keep the air in the batter.

Scoop the batter into the prepared tin and then lay slices of the candied lemons on top. I slightly overlapped mine to try and avoid them sinking too much into the cake. Reserve a few to add halfway through baking in case those in the very centre do begin to sink. Bake for 45 minutes to an hour, checking halfway through and adding more lemon slices if needed. The cake is ready when risen and golden; you should check the centre with a metal skewer: if it comes out clean the cake is done, if there is batter sticking then it needs longer. Mine took the full hour to reach this point.

Set the cake to one side, still in its tin. Spike the top of the cake with a skewer and drizzle 2-3 tablespoons of the lemon simple syrup leftover from the candying over the cake. Leave to cool in the tin, then remove and serve. The cake will keep, well-wrapped, for at least 3 days.

A Decadent Chocolate Pudding Cake

It’s hard to focus on this post. 8 feet ahead of me are floor to ceiling windows revealing a classic winter wonderland: gusting snow settling in large clumps on the edges of tall pine trees clustered around wooden cabins, identical to the 60s-throwback one in which I sit and write. I’ve always found snow mesmerising. Growing up it mostly meant a day off school, and almost always a snowman with a carrot for a nose, pebbles for eyes and mouth, and an old scarf foraged from a parent’s drawer to keep him warm. The closest we got to skiing was hurtling down a hill on a tea-tray – not really that dissimilar in skill or grace from my snowboarding attempts these past years in California. Anyway, as I am with child I am not currently advised to continue my wobbly progress on the slopes for a little while at least. So I find myself with a blissfully quiet cabin by a roaring log fire, with two snoaring dogs for company. There’s a loaf rising for tomorrow morning’s bacon sandwiches, no-knead pizza dough finishing its slow, bubbly ferment. In the oven tomatoes slow-roast along with beets for a salad, and earlier I caramelized leeks with butter, onions with balsamic, and fried off some spicy Italian sausage. For now at least, I’m quite happy to potter at leisure, and get ready to feed the hungry masses when they return damp and flushed from the slopes.

If your normal routine is cooking for two, cooking for 6 or 8 or 10 for a weekend is actually a treat. You can make things that you just wouldn’t consider within your normal couple’s routine, either because of effort or through fear of eating leftovers of the same dish for a whole week. This is true on a whole other level when it comes to cake. Knowing well our lack of self-restraint, I rarely dare knock out, say, a cheesecake or chocolate roulade just for fun unless we are guaranteed to have company. We will eat the whole thing and then never want to eat it ever again, and that’s just too tragic an ending to any story involving cake.

So when a friend recently asked me to bring a dessert to a dinner party, I wanted to make something truly decadent, worthy of a spring gathering on a Saturday night. I did think about cheesecake, since it comes with the added benefit of requiring an overnight rest, reducing chances of total ruin or last minute panic. But, as it so often does, chocolate called to me. And when I came upon this recipe, serving 10-12, that basically combined a cheesecake base with a sinfully rich chocolate mousse style topping, and that came with a note suggesting it was better made the day before, I was sold.

You begin this cake as many good things in life should begin: the melting together of butter and chocolate. While they meld into dark glossy ribbons, you blitz or bash biscuits (of the English rather than American breakfast variety) into fine crumbs. The original recipe specifies digestive biscuits, a British ingredient if ever there was one, and I had intended to switch out graham crackers instead. But when I saw the bag of gingernuts on the shelf I was sold. I love ginger in all forms, not least combined with chocolate. The slight spice in the base gave the cake a subtle warmth as well as the characteristic gingernut chew. And then, as the base readies itself for the glorious next steps with a short rest in the fridge, you melt more butter and chocolate together, whip eggs, muscovado sugar and cream into a frothy delight, and then combine the two gently into an airy mousse-like batter which tops the base. With the coaxing of gentle heat from the oven, the batter rises proudly into a soft souffle, then cracks and sinks in perfect encouragement of a topping of mixed berries and cream. Call up your 8 best friends and get baking, stat.

Chocolate Pudding Pie
Adapted from The Green & Black’s Organic Ultimate Chocolate Recipes: The New Collection

Serves 10-12, with berries and cream

for the base:

80g/3oz/6 tbsp unsalted butter, plus more for the pan
60g/2oz dark chocolate (70-80% cocoa solids)
225g/8oz gingernut biscuits

for the filling:

180g/6oz chocolate (Green and Black’s recommend 70%; I used mostly 63% as that was what I had in the house)
180g/6oz unsalted butter
4 large eggs
180g/6oz muscovado sugar (you can use soft dark brown sugar if you can’t get hold of muscovado – or don’t want the added expense)
180ml double cream

Preheat the oven to 180*C/350*F. Butter and line the base of a 9 inch round springform tin.

Begin by preparing the base. Set a small bowl over a pan of barely simmering water, being sure that the bottom of the bowl doesn’t touch the water (or use a double boiler if you have one). Place the chocolate and butter in the bowl and stir occasionally until just melted. While the chocolate is melting, blitz the gingernut biscuits in a food processor or with a blender. Alternatively you can put them in a plastic bag and bash with a rolling pin, which can be satisfying on a bad day. Tip the crushed biscuits into the melted chocolate/butter and mix to combine well. Pour into the prepared tin, press down gently and evenly, and then place in the fridge to rest while you make the topping.

Melt the butter and chocolate for the topping in the same way as for the base, in a bowl over a simmering pan. Set to one side to cool. Combine the eggs, cream and sugar in a food processor or blender and mix together (or use a whisk). The next step is to combine the chocolate with the egg mix but you have to be very careful as the warm chocolate can curdle the eggs and cream. You can either wait until the chocolate is at room temperature or you can carefully temper the two together by mixing a spoonful of the egg mix into the chocolate and combining, then another spoonful and so on, until both mixes are roughly the same temperature. When the two are mixed together, return to the processor/blender/whisk and blend well.

Remove the base from the fridge and pour the chocolate batter over. Place in the oven and bake for about 45 minutes, until firm. My cake took a lot longer – maybe 15 minutes longer – for the centre to bake through. It might be worth considering using a water bath to keep the cooking gentle and even – I will try that myself next time.

Remove the cake from the oven and cool for about 15-20 minutes in the tin. Remove to a wire rack for the cake to cool completely. At this point you can wrap it well in plastic wrap and leave in the fridge overnight, bringing it back to room temperature for eating. Top with mixed berries and serve with cream or creme fraiche.