Biscuits, Butter, and an Optimistic Cake

SCENE: Wednesday morning; the Library; coffee and newspapers and vague sporadic conversation

Mum: Oh, there was something in the Dining Section of the Times this morning that looked good.
Me: What was it?
Mum: . . . I can't remember.
Me: Well it must have been incredible then.
Mum: Shut up. I'll find it. I wanted you to make it.
Me: Yes, apparently so much that you've forgotten what it was.
Mum: Shut up. I'm finding it.
[rustle of paper for a long, long, long time]
Mum: Um . . . oooh biscuits.
Me: Biscuits? I make biscuits all the time.
Mum: No, it wasn't biscuits, but you know you haven't made them in a while and I really do like them . . .
Me: Focus. What did you see?
Mum: I'm finding it, I'm finding it. I really do like biscuits, you know.
[rustle of paper for another long, long time]
Mum: It had potatoes in it . . .

It was actually quite appropriate that the dish under discussion (Meat and Potato Gratin, incidentally, minus the meat, so Potato Gratin, hey she got the potato part right at least, baby steps) was in the Dining Section of the Times, since the recipe I'd been hoping to make this week was one of Melissa Clark's, featured two weeks ago: Orange Marmalade Cake.

My reasons behind this at the present time are threefold:
1. As a monarchist and reluctant American, I can never resist a baked good that screams "God Save the Queen."
2. I thought it would be nice to make a cake that looked and smelled like sunshine. I'M BAKING OPTIMISTICALLY, YOU GUYS. IT HAS TO GET WARMER EVENTUALLY.
3. The amount of marmalade in the pantry is approaching Doomsday Prepper-levels of hoarding. If we had the same volume in, say, MRE's of Spaghetti Bolognese, we could probably make it about three years into a total societal meltdown / nuclear winter.
     3a. This is totally on Mum. Normally I'm the one backup buying (I like to be prepared and, hey, you never know when Hannafords is going to run out of instant oatmeal, tofu dogs, or dried seaweed. You never know), but she has a marmalade-buying-compulsion thing. And it was getting slightly out of control.
     3b. For the record, AFTER the baking of this cake, a marmalade stock-take in our house reveals FOUR unopened jars of marmalade and THREE opened jars in the fridge. I'm. Just. Saying.

After the biscuit discussion, because they are easy and happy, I made those in addition to the cake, plus (also sourced from the Times) Salted Honey Butter as an accompaniment. It has been a "New York Times Kitchen" kind of day. And I'm doing pretty well in the running for "Daughter of the Year" award. Come to think of it, I should probably borrow the Amex and do a bit of light shopping whilst the iron is hot . . .

ORANGE MARMALADE CAKE 

As I said, this is Melissa Clark's recipe, adapted from Nigel Slater's of the same name from The Guardian. Under normal circumstances, I would most definitely revert to Nigel Slater, as he is my secret kitchen husband. However, after comparing the two, and noting that Melissa's was denser and had considerably more marmalade in it, I went with that.

Let it never be said that Americans (even reluctant ones) are incapable of resisting an opportunity to go bigger and better.

INGREDIENTS

• 215 grams coarse-cut orange marmalade (2/3 cup), divided
• 12 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened, plus 1/2 tablespoon for glaze, and more for greasing pan
• 150 grams granulated sugar (3/4 cup)
• 2 teaspoons grated lime zest
• 1/2 teaspoon grated orange zest
• 3 large eggs, at room temperature
• 2 tablespoons fresh orange juice
• 190 grams all-purpose flour (1 1/2 cups)
• 7 grams baking powder (1 1/2 teaspoons)
• 3 grams fine sea salt (3/4 teaspoon)
• 30 grams confectioners’ sugar (4 tablespoons)

In the bowl of an electric mixer, beat together softened butter, sugar, and orange zest until light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Beat in eggs, one at a time, until incorporated. Beat in 1/3 cup marmalade and the orange juice.

In a separate bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder and salt. Fold dry ingredients into wet until just combined.

Scrape batter into a non stick or greased 9 x 5 inch loaf pan. Bake at 350 degrees until the sides are brown and starting to pull away and it passes the toothpick test, 50 to 55 minutes. Remove from oven and transfer pan to a wire rack. Cool 10 minutes, then turn it out of the pan and let it cool a bit more on a wire rack.

Heat remaining 1/3 cup marmalade in a small pot over low heat until melted. Add confectioners’ sugar and 1/2 tablespoon butter and stir until smooth. Spoon the glaze over the top of the cake, covering it evenly, and letting it drip down the sides. I had a bit left over so I just saved it for future extra-glazing-whilst-eating purposes.*

*Daughter of the year. Just saying.

BEETLE NOTES

I used orange extract instead of Orange Zest because, um, I didn't have an orange. And I just used Tropicana OJ instead of the juice of said nonexistent orange. LAME AND HILLBILLY I KNOW.

Ditto for the lime, but also because I just don't like lime, even if I'm not eating whatever I'm putting lime in. Totally random. Just don't like 'em.

Other than that, this was one of those rare recipes that I actually followed to the letter. Take a picture, dear reader. It'll probably be a while before that happens again.

I also didn't, as Melissa Clark indicated, chop up the larger bits of orange peel in the marmalade. Because I think if you're going to bother to make a orange marmalade cake, and you're going to bother to make an orange marmalade cake with coarse cut orange marmalade, then your previously mentioned orange marmalade cake with coarse cut orange marmalade should contain pieces of coarse cut orange marmalade.

Call me crazy.

I will wait for final judgement from the LL's, but this was guinea-pigged this morning and apparently makes a delightful breakfast. And I can tell from the way it slices that it's tender and dense like a pound cake should be. And it smells very bright and sunshine-y. It also, as you can see below, packs very well for transport.

Or, should it be required, for hoarding in your bunker, waiting out a zombie invasion.

And now on to biscuits . . .

BAKING POWDER BISCUITS WITH SALTED HONEY BUTTER

Old school things like biscuits require the Yankee Housewife Bible, aka my falling-apart-at-the-binding-covered-in-generations-of-stains-of-questionable-origin-passed-down-from-I-think-Great-Grandmother-Georgiana The New American Cookbook. This is the one that includes several preparations of possum, muskrat, and squirrel, as well as as many ways as you could ever want of preserving things in aspic.

It's a classic for a reason, though. 

Plus you get to be all housewife-y and use a big bowl and wooden spoon.

These can be made with regular milk or buttermilk, both work nicely. Buttermilk will give you a slightly flakier biscuit, with a more mellow taste, but either version works quite well. The big switch out is the sub of butter for shortening.

I . . . just  . . . no. Even if we DID have it in the house, I just couldn't. I know, I know, I know, everyone who has ever REALLY written about biscuits or pie crusts, everyone who really is a PROPER COOK will say that if you're not going to use shortening, don't even bother, it's just not the same thing. And you know what, I agree. I bow to your superior knowledge, and were you ever to come to dinner or tea, I would never serve you anything in which the offending swap had taken place. But that doesn't mean I'm going to use it. I'm sorry. Hate me, disparage me, mock me. I equate it with congealed industrial waste, and not even Julia Child herself could convince me otherwise. Haters gonna hate, but I'm using butter for the forseeable future.

And speaking of butter . . .

My personal salty/sweet taste cravings are fulfilled by large mouthfuls of dry instant oatmeal and dates, so I have nothing to say personally about this, but thankfully Mum's dairy-digesting abilities are stellar, and she has pronounced it delicious. I mean, how could it not be?

INGREDIENTS

• 1 stick unsalted butter, at cool room temperature
• 2 1/2 tablespoons honey, preferably raw wildflower
• 1 tablespoon coarse sea salt

Soften the butter slightly in the microwave. Using a whisk or spoon, blend in the honey and the salt. Serve at room temperature, and refrigerate the rest.*

*If you are in the Beetle Kitchen, refrigerating becomes more of a courtesy than anything else.

However, it was still soft and warm when I made Mum guinea pig them.

The following exchange ensued:

Mum: Those are for me, right? The cake is for the library?
Me: Yes.
Mum: Those are mine? I finished the bread this morning I don't have any left, so those are my biscuits?
Me: Mum. Yes.
Mum: I mean there aren't really that many . . .
Me: MUMMY. THEY ARE YOURS. CALM DOWN. AND I CAN MAKE ANOTHER BATCH RIGHT NOW IF YOU REALLY NEED ME TOO IT'S GOING TO BE FINE WE ARE NOT OPERATING UNDER A BISCUIT RATION HERE.
Mum: Ok, ok, don't get excited. I just wanted clarification. Pass the butter.

And now, dear reader, if you'll excuse me, my BarnesandNoble.com shopping cart is in dire need of attention . . .

Snow Day Cookies

When I say "Snow Day Cookies" let's just clarify that that appellation could easily be used for, oh, I don't know, ABOUT 59 OF THE LAST 60 DAYS.

Because, dear reader, I live in Narnia.

Now, you may think to yourself, educated dear reader that you are, "Oh, Beetle has inserted into this post one of the beautiful Pauline Baynes illustrations from The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe."

When in reality, that's the picture of the end of our driveway that I took this morning.

You think I'm making that up?

Welcome to Lantern Waste! Fur coats can be found on your left and right. Please direct all wardrobe-related directional inquires to Miss W. Beetle. And watch out for the trees . . . they're always listening. 

SNOW DAY COOKIES
or
BROWN BUTTER TEFF COOKIES

This is a Brown Butter cookie recipe that I made last year with great success. At the time, I was attempting to demonstrate to Mum that she DID in fact like Pumpkin Seeds. I was successful. And I only gloated for a little bit.

Let's chalk this Beetle Tweak up to excess snow, several days of following Mum around with a Kleenex box and Vitamin C (she's a sicko right now, bless her, the dear little mouthbreather), and having reorganised yet again the baking section of the top pantry shelf, committing to cooking with either Teff OR Amaranth OR Quinoa OR Hazlenut Flours.

I'd like to say it was a scientifically reached decision, but really it was the above combined with a casual shrug and an "eh, teff is brown, brown butter is brown, works for me." 

BROWN BUTTER TEFF COOKIES

INGREDIENTS

• 2 sticks butter
• 1 1/2 cups dark brown sugar (you can use light but I did dark) 
• 2 eggs
• 2 cups teff flour
• 1/2 tsp baking soda
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1/4 tsp ground cloves

In a small saucepan, melt and cook the butter until it starts to brown and get all those glorious bits in it. It will smell amazing, bubble like a crazy thing, and just generally be awesome. Burnt butter is one of the top 10 best smells in the universe, in my opinion.

From this . . . 

 . . . to this. In the time it took for Kim Yu Na to skate a truly breathtaking Short Programme.

Whilst that cools, measure out the flour, baking soda, salt, and cloves in a small bowl and whisk it together. 

Beat the sugar and eggs in a mixmaster until light and fluffy. Add the browned butter and mix again. Add the flour mixture in two bits, combining after each one.

Line two baking sheets with parchment paper and drop spoonfuls of dough (I used a rounded teaspoon, incidentally) about 2 inches apart.

The dough here was a strange midway-viscosity of being too sticky to form rounded balls by hand, but too dry to produce the classic "drop cookie" shape on the sheet. I tried to make them as uniform as possible with the teaspoon. They did even out in cooking and produce relatively equal sized circles.

Side Beetle Note: if you are using regular flour, or even whole wheat instead of white, space them out a bit more as they will spread considerably farther on the sheet. When I made this recipe with regular flour a few months ago they flattened almost totally and I needed a good three inches between each one. 

Side Beetle Note on that: IF, for some reason, your cookies smoosh together during baking and you have to spatula them apart when you take them off the sheet, THAT IS TOTALLY OK AND NOT IN ANY WAY THE END OF THE WORLD OR IN ANY WAY A REFLECTION OF FAILURE AT BAKING OR LIFE IN GENERAL. The cookie will still taste exactly the same (aka delicious). I just want to make that abundantly clear. Smooshy cookies are still cookies.

An example of a Spatula Cookie. Sometimes, even Beetles make spacing judgement errors. 

Bake at 375 degrees for 12 minutes, until slightly brown on the edges, then transfer to a rack to cool completely.

BEETLE NOTES

A WORD ABOUT TEFF

For those of you who don't know (and for those who do, feel free to space out over the next paragraph or so) Teff is one of those "ancient grains" that are en vogue at the moment. It comes from Ethiopia and Eritrea, and is a very hardy, flourishes-in-difficult-climates grain. If you've ever heard about the Ethiopian flatbread called "injera", THAT's teff.

SUPER FUN NERDY FACT: the grain itself is very small, so small in fact that the name "teff" is from Ethio-Semitic root of the word "tff" which means "lost." (thank you, Wikipedia, I love you)


HEALTH BENEFITS OF TEFF

• High in calcium, iron, and Vitamin C
• High in the kind of dietary fiber that is good for blood sugar, weight control, and colon health
• It is estimated that Ethiopians get up to two thirds of their dietary protein from teff

RANDOM AWESOME FACT (from www.teffco.com)

• One pound of teff can produce up to one ton of grain in only 12 weeks. This amount is hundreds of times smaller than that required for planting wheat. This productive potential and minimal time and seed requirements have protected the Ethiopians from hunger when their food supply was under attack from numerous invaders in the past.

When these came out of the oven they were very squishy. And having the darkness of Teff, it was harder to see whether or not the edges were appropriately browned and golden. So I pulled them out at 12 minutes exactly rather than leave them in until it was too late. Upon cooling however, they became very, VERY crispy, and very, VERY light. 

Because there's no gluten in them, there's very little rising and expansion of the dough, so there's no puffing up of the cookies as they cook. And when you take that away, you take away the chewiness and "softness" that a regular flour would have given you. 

The fun part is that teff "flour" is actually just teff grains - the grain itself is so tiny they don't actually have to grind it up, they just pour it in a bag and call it a day. And because you're then eating whole teff grains instead of ground up wheat, you get crunch, and a lot of it. 

It tastes distinctly of "health", even when combined with 2 sticks of butter. It's very earthy and nutty and dark and dense and oh-so-interesting. 

The LL's approve of this experiment, incidentally, as does Mum. (Teff, taken in equal measures with cough syrup, is the best way to beat a cold, I'm sure.) Somehow these got to them through a snowstorm, and now rain, and now (projected by STORM FORCE for later tonight) an impending thunderstorm. 

If anything comes of this experiment in cooking and guinea-pigging my Lovely Librarians, dear reader, it will be this: I am learning how to pump the brakes instead of slamming them on when I go into a skid in front of a snow plow.

Say It With Waffles

Fun Fact #1: I own a heart-shaped waffle iron.

Fun Fact #2: The aforementioned waffle iron does not have an ON switch. You just plug it in and it starts getting hot pretty much instantly. 

Fun Fact #3: I didn't know this.

I'm sure you know what happened next.

But, you know what they say, dear reader?

LOVE HURTS.

And I have the burn to prove it.

HOWEVER. All worth it in the pursuit of a Valentine's Treat for Mum and for my Lovely Librarians that wasn't chocolate, overly sweet, or in any way candy heart / teddy bear / red rose related. Because I've been seeing those Russel Stover heart shaped chocolate boxes in the grocery store since December, and enough is enough already.

Personally, I'll take these over a "Romantic Truffle Selection" any day.

But how to show my love in a way that wasn't cluttered with commercial detritus and cheap, mainstream trappings?

Well. Waffles seemed like as good a place as any to start.

This is my Dad's waffle iron. There were many, many happy mornings where I would drown these suckers in maple syrup and eat until I couldn't move (which, my stomach capacity at 10, a disturbing amount of waffles). I actually preferred these to Swedish pancakes, if truth be told. And since we're putting it all out there, this was viewed as a moral failing on my part, and generated a significant amount of mockery and scorn.

I'm just saying, my childhood was a judgmental minefield.

My grandmother made Belgian waffles, the kind with egg-whites folded in. THAT, incidentally, is how I learned to fold egg-whites into liquid batter with a spatula (you learn pretty damn fast when your grandmother smacks the back of your wrist every time you stir instead of fold). I also learned that although whipped egg-whites LOOK like whipped cream, they are NOT WHIPPED CREAM. And if you lick enough raw egg-whites off the beaters, you will get sick.

Trial and error, dear reader, trial and error.



Because a Belgian waffle iron is deeper than a heart shaped one, I didn't so much drown them in syrup as fill every hole to the brim with an equal-to-the-millimetre amount.*

*OCD rears its waffle-eating head

I have to say, the Hearts were always my favourite. The Belgians were great, but in my memory they were always a bit too dry (and under a gallon of syrup, that's saying something). I think that the Heart's lack of egg-whites gave them that density, that richness, that I loved. Yes, they were thinner, but the taste was so much more intense, the bite so much more satisfying. They were dense without being heavy, rich and buttery without being overwhelming; they were fluffy without being powdery, light without being insubstantial.

It was the sweet spot of waffles for me, is what I'm trying to say. Plus, DUH, they were shaped like hearts. Did I NEED another reason?


I decided that rather than something chocolate, or sugar and pink icing based, I would do something slightly unusual that still conveyed that I LOVE YOU message. Also something that could be breakfast OR an afternoon snack OR a dessert.

Equal-opportunity-affection-based-baked-goods. That was the goal here.

VALENTINE'S WAFFLES FOR THOSE I LOVE

Of course I used my Dad's recipe. Origins unknown, written in his good-little-Catholic-school-boy-cursive on a 5x7 index card spattered with batter in the wooden box on the counter. Right between Swedish Pancakes and, for some strange reason, Lobster Thermidor. I'm not throwing it one out to the interwebs ether (ha, for the 12 people that might see it, right?) so if you want it, hit me up. Certain things should be shared in private, I feel.

Rest assured, it's your classic waffle.

A lot of butter. 

Only a tablespoon of sugar, though.
We Yankees don't want to get TOO wild and crazy at breakfast. 

The one addition I made this time, in an effort to make them more "snack" than "breakfast food" was this:

I knew I was going to dust them with powdered sugar, and my idea was that a small kick of almond would go along nicely, and also pave the way towards widening their "time of day enjoyment window". (Mum seems to approve, LL's, you will have to let me know.) It's always a crap shoot with these extract experimentations, though, because you either don't add enough and there's no discernible difference and you're all BUT I ADDED EXTRACT or you don't realise how strong it is and you take a bite and you're all WELL NOW MY HEAD HAS TURNED INTO AN ALMOND THANKS FOR THAT.

So. Slightly nervous going in.

Deep breath, Beetle. 

After realising a bit too late that the waffle iron had been heating up for 15 minutes BEFORE I grabbed it with my bare hands, flinging it across the counter screaming, terrifying the cats, cleaning up, applying bandaids and ice, and aplogising to the cats for a good half hour, I was, once again, ready to go.

Once they cooled down and crisped up, I broke them into singles, figuring I was probably the only person who could house SEVERAL SHEETS OF HEARTS in one sitting, and that "one waffle" probably, in normal people speak, meant, um, one waffle. (Personally, I don't get it, but I bow to convention.)

I left the batter edges and side-drips on, because I liked how they looked that way. You know, like snowflakes. EVERY WAFFLE IS UNIQUE.

Mum had hers for dessert AND breakfast, spread with first Raspberry jam (for dessert) and then with Lingonberry jam (for breakfast). She also came home later in the day and went OMG IT SMELLS LIKE WAFFLES! Which was happy. 

For the LL's, I took a topping cue from the STORM FORCE BLIZZARD that was happening outside: 

And I can report that Mum is on her way with these right now. So I hope they find you filled to the brim with love and cuddles for your, um, library patrons . . . ? No. Um . . . me . . . ? YES THAT'S BETTER. 

I mean, filled to the brim, but with room enough for waffles. 

There should always be room for waffles.