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 . . .