• blizzard of 2016

    “You know, when I was in college in Northern New York, we’d go to bed at night and the next morning there would be three feet of snow on the ground and it was no big deal. But now we get snow and everyone falls apart.”

    My husband was standing in the hallway, shedding his snow clothes, or maybe putting them on yet again, his eyes dancing. All week long he had regarded the storm predictions with cool reserve, but as soon as the storm hit, he turned giddy, so charged up he practically crackled with excitement.

    just for fun: crashing the plow into a snowbank

    He was a little bummed it wasn’t a total white-out.

    “You think I should string a rope between the house and the chicken coop just so we can say we did?” he asked.

    on a quest for cocoa powder: digging out the basement

    The power only briefly flickered off twice, and the Internet never once went down (!), but I stayed on red alert the whole time, keeping a carafe of hot water at the ready, the bathtub filled with buckets of water for potential toilet flushings, and the dishes washed up. And you know what? Aside from my niggling (and unnecessary) worry, the two days of blizzard turned out to be a delightful mini vacation.

    We played Rook and Uno, watched PK (not your typical movie—think Indian movie with subtitles, theology, excellent humor, and Bollywood—but I highly recommend it), cracked open a 1000 piece puzzle, moved snow around, rigged various shelters for the animals, and made cupcakes. I did some recipe testing for Luisa, took pictures, made hot chocolate, watched my son sprint around the house in his swimming trunks, baked a chocolate cake, talked to my mom on the phone, and read by the fire.

    Now it’s Sunday, the sun is shining, and we’re digging ourselves out from under.

    This same time, years previous: rocks in my granola, and other tales, what you can do, on thank-you notes, pink cupcakes, in no particular order, movie night, on not wanting, and capturing the moment.    

  • and so it begins

    The snow has started!

    I did all my errands yesterday, refreshing our supplies of bagels, fruit, and heavy whipping cream and tracking down sweat shirts, snow boots, and a winter coat for my severely under-dressed youngest child. Then this morning my husband tore around the house vacuuming, straightening up, and even dusting (or so a child reported) before taking the three younger children into town to get gas and more groceries and snow clothes.

    ***
    Two Asides

    Aside Number One:
    I saw a comment on social media in which someone mentioned that it makes them pissed-off mad when people empty the grocery shelves of bread and milk pre-snowstorm. Which confused me. Isn’t it smart to go shopping before a storm? I mean, don’t go crazy and take more than you’ll use, but what about simple foresight? I want plenty of milk on hand for multiple rounds of hot chocolate, plus lots of butter and eggs for my cookies and cakes. But now I’m wondering if I should feel guilty for hitting up the grocery store?

    Aside Number Two: 
    My son is taking an EMT class, and during last night’s session they toured the dispatch offices. My son reported on the eve of the snowstorm, the EMS system was revving into high gear, prepping for Day One’s rash of accidents. Day Two, he said, should be fairly calm because everyone is stuck at home. But on Day Three and Four of a snowstorm, the police department starts getting a lot of calls because—get this—there’ll be a spike in domestic violence. That there would actually be a connection between snowstorms and domestic violence incidences never occurred to me, but I guess it makes sense, in a sadly twisted sort of way. We’ll all be crawling out of our skin by then.

    *** 

    Right before the snow hit, I got a call from a friend who had just gotten a newborn foster baby. “Let me bring you lunch,” I said.

    So as the first flakes started falling, I flew around the kitchen cooking and assembling: macaroni and cheese, peas, slaw, and vanilla pudding. A loaf of fresh sourdough bread, clementines, and a wedge of pesto torte and crackers completed the meal. By the time I finished, the kitchen windows were fogged and the roads were blanketed with snow. My husband still wasn’t back from town, so my older son and I loaded up the little black car (never mind that the gas tank was nearly empty) and struck out.

    “We are those idiots driving in a snow storm,” I muttered as we inched along. My son kept his foot off the brake and didn’t even flinch as an oncoming car slid gracefully into the ditch.

    “The car behind them is stopping,” I said. “Keep going.”

    Delivery made (and new baby briefly clucked over—so cute!), we crept home. When we turned onto our road, I heaved a huge sigh. Only then did I realize that I had been barely breathing all along.

    Now, in typical Murch fashion, my husband and the kids are outside preparing for the storm in the storm. And I, in typical Jennifer fashion, am gearing up for a rash of baking while fretting about the huge mess I’ll have on my hands should the power go out.

    This same time, years previous: lazy stuffed cabbage rolls, the quotidian (1.20.14), hobo beans, world’s best pancakes, the quotidian (1.23.12), moving forward, chocolate cream pie, corn tortillas, and peanut noodles.      

  • lemon cream cake

    After receiving several enthusiastic recommendations, the kids and I have started watching The Great British Baking Show (through Netflix streaming). Everyone said we would love it, and they were right. It’s just a regular baking show with contestants, challenges, and a slow culling of the group that leaves one winner standing (or so I assume since we haven’t gotten to the end of season one), but waaay better because everyone speaks with a British accent. Cakes are “sponges,” crackers are “biscuits,” and the generic term for baked goods is “bakes,” as in “Your bakes have a nice even color.” Isn’t that delightful? Also, the moderators are cooky-funny and everyone is kind and supportive which makes the show warm and lighthearted. 

    It’s actually inspiring, too. The contestants are amateur cooks (there’s a 17-year-old!) but most of them are leagues beyond me. I don’t really care about all the decorating (though it’s great fun to watch), but my knowledge of pastry creams, piping creams, gênoise sponges, fondant, shortbread-like pastry, homemade caramels, and meringues is rather limited. I’m generally for desserts that are straightforward, but the show is making me reconsider my hum-drum approach. Why not knock out something a little fancier than normal? You know, an extra sauce here, a couple different fillings there… It can’t be that hard, right?

    So I decided to make a layered yellow cake. I’d split the cake into two layers, fill it with vanilla pastry cream and raspberry sauce, and top the whole thing with billows of whipped cream. That was the dream anyway. The reality went like so:

    1. Some of the cake batter seeped out of the springform pan and charred into a stinky mess on the oven floor.
    2. The cake was underbaked in the middle, but I simply made like a Brit and cut out the middle. I’d make extra whip cream and ice the whole cake.
    3. The jam didn’t thicken properly.
    4. The pastry cream wasn’t firm enough to support the second layer (is any pastry cream firm enough for layering???) and oozed all over the plate.
    5. There was no way the whipped cream, no matter how much I made, could cover that wreck of a cake. So…
    6. I made a vanilla pudding, chopped the cake into slices, and made a trifle from the cake, pudding, whipped cream, and more berries.
    7. After a day or so in the fridge (because no one was crazy about my cake wreck), the creams in the trifle separated and the bottom of the bowl filled with water so the chickens had a sweet feast.

    I licked my wounds and went back to drawing board. I was certain a good sponge and cream fillings were possible—the British contestants made them all the time. Some quick recipe research later and Round Two was underway.

    And it was a success! I made two sponges—so light! so airy! so buttery!—and divided them each in half to make a four-layered cake. The vanilla cream filling held its shape and provided a light cheesy creaminess. And a thin schmear of lemon curd between each layer added punch.

    I assembled the cake one evening before supper. I thought of serving it for the book club I was hosting that evening, but I had already promised the group warm chocolate chip cookies so I decided to stick with the plan. After they left, I pulled the cake out of the fridge to admire it. I nearly cut into it—the temptation was almost physically painful—but cake at 10:45 at night? That was too late. Plus, it was so beautiful. Something that lovely required a big reveal with lots of people present to ooh and aah. So back into the fridge went the cake.

    Lunchtime the next day, the house was bursting with people: my parents, brother, nieces and nephews. It was the ideal cake-devouring crowd, and devour it they did! My mother swooned, and my husband—the man who is not a huge fan of sweet stuff—even had two pieces. The leftover cake I claimed for myself, eating it piece by delicious piece over the next several days. When the kids realized that the cake was gone, they were miffed. And rightfully so.

    Lemon Cream Cake
    Recipes for the cake and vanilla cream are adapted from Cook’s Illustrated Cookbook.

    I still don’t know how to make a gênoise sponge, but I don’t care. The real deal looks unnecessarily complicated, and this hot milk sponge tastes wonderful and is  simple to make. KISS, y’all (keep it simple, stupid).

    The lemon curd (I used store-bought) was delicious, but be forewarned: it adds sweetness to an already sweet cake. Perhaps a tart jam—maybe folded into the vanilla cream?—would help to cut the sweetness.

    for the hot milk sponge:
    ¾ cup milk
    6 tablespoons butter
    1½ teaspoons vanilla
    1½ cups flour
    1½ teaspoons baking powder
    ¾ teaspoon salt
    3 eggs
    1½ cups sugar

    Put the milk and butter in a saucepan and heat until butter is melted. Remove from heat and add vanilla.

    Combine dry ingredients in a small bowl. 

    Cream the eggs and sugar for about 5 minutes. Whisk in the warm milk mixture. Whisk in the dry ingredients.

    Pour the batter into two greased, parchment-lined, 9-inch round cake pans. Bake the cakes at 325 degrees for about 20 minutes. Cool cakes completely before inverting onto a wire rack.

    Cakes can be wrapped in plastic and stored at room temperature for a day (and probably longer, if needed).

    for the vanilla cream:
    8 ounces cream cheese
    ½ cup sugar
    1 teaspoon vanilla
    1/8 teaspoon salt
    2 cups whipping cream

    Beat the first four ingredients together (if using a stand mixer, use the whip attachment) for a couple minutes. Turn the mixer to low and slowly pour in the whipping cream. Increase the speed and whip for about two more minutes or until stiff peaks form. Cover with plastic and chill until ready to use. 

    for the assembly:
    the two hot-milk sponge cakes, split in half lengthwise (use a serrated bread knife)
    the vanilla cream
    a double batch of buttercream frosting (or maybe a double batch of cream fluff frosting?)
    about 1 cup (or a 10 ounce jar) lemon curd

    Put one of the cake layers on a stand. Spread it first with a thin layer of lemon curd (about 1/3 cup) and then with a third of the vanilla cream. Repeat the layers, ending with the final layer of cake. Chill the cake for an hour to let it set up.

    Dirty ice the cake with the buttercream. Chill to set. Do the final icing. Store cake in the fridge. Let set at room temp for about 15 minutes before serving.

    This same time, years previous: the quotidian (1.19.15), cream cheese dip, the good and the bad, polenta and greens, multigrain bread, chuck roast braised in red wine, quick fruit cobbler, cranberry relish, Julia’s chocolate almond cake, spots of pretty, and five-minute bread.