It all started when a very good friend asked me to make her wedding cake this winter. Let's be frank: my cakes often taste good. They NEVER look good. I demurely told her, "I would be delighted!" (Ok, actually my jaw dropped and I demanded, "are you out of your mind?!"). My brain screamed, "Dear GOD, I am going to die." Painful visions of drawn-out royal icing torture and buttercream-boarding flashed before my eyes. "Death by offset spatula." I was going to be THAT girl. The failed Martha Stewart suicide victim. And have you seen Ms. Stewart? Epic fail.
I started digging through my cake recipes to put together the tiers. So many parameters to consider--cake flour or all-purpose? What gluten content is ideal? Sour cream, oil, or butter for the fat? Chocolate, white, fruitcake? Why won't my oven turn on? It's a difficult process.
Then the bride, whom I love dearly and willingly risk an ignoble pastry death for, calls me.
"The top layer, the one we get to keep--can you put beer in it?"
Oh shit.
"Do you want me to cut a hole in it and fill it with beer?"
"Hahaha. No, I mean, can it be beer flavored?"
Now, I probably cook with beer more than I drink it. (I'm in grad school. This is a serious statement.) I have put beer in cookies, brownies, chicken stock, chili, pastas, bbq sauce, and hundreds of marinades. Never in cake. Why? The perfect cake precariously rests on a precise balance of leavening, four, and wet ingredients. The idea of putting beer--a leavening wet ingredient with high acidity--is terrifying.
When in doubt, copy someone else. I stole a recipe from Bon Appetit that featured chocolate stout. A fellow grad student also wanted to bake, so she came over and we got cracking.
First: my kitchen is partially covered in baby powder. This is because a very crazy species of harmless ant is attacking the freezer. Why? No clue. They must have some sort of Napoleon/Hitler complex and like invading cold climates. The outside of the thing is spotless, and the ants that teleport inside (it's sealed. How do they get inside?!) die. Baby powder deters the critters. So, it looks like a cocaine New Year's party in the kitchen. And we haven't even started.
Second: this cake is a calorie whore. Beer, cocoa, and butter are melted. This is whisked into egg and sour cream before dry ingredients are sifted in. Holy triple-bypass, batman!
Third: The resulting cake was chocolaty, moist, smelled terrific, and didn't taste like beer AT ALL. Infuriating!
Fourth: the white chocolate ganache smelt like a warzone of sugar and fat. That is what white chocolate ganache is. Brilliantly, I poured a cup of beer in the pan. Magically, the stuff didn't seize up. (Beer is acidic. This is bad for a fat emulsion that doesn't even like added water). But now it had to reduce. Damnit. Much stirring later, it was ready to be cooled. But our freezer was currently the Leningrad of the Kamikaze Eskimo-wannabe ants.
Shit.
Every ice tray was emptied into a big bowl and showered in salt. The pot of icing was carefully submerged, and I stirred and prayed. The Pastry Gods were merciful; it stiffened into a caramel-colored hybrid frosting. The cake was smothered in it, and now had enough calories to kill on first sight. It looked like a dilapidated trailer-park cake. For fat people. I should totally make wedding cakes for a living.
Conclusion: It is easy to make tasty beer frosting. It is harder to make tasty beer-cake. But never fear. I have a plan, and when the perfect cake emerges, you will know.
Until then leave me alone. I have to clean up a kitchen that resembles what would happen if you tried to make crack and cupcakes simultaneously.
And that is how a nut-job-grad-student-baker extraordinaire prepares for her first wedding cake.
Stout Frosting:
2 c white chocolate
1 c heavy cream
1 c stout (used young's double chocolate)
Heat beer until reduced in half. Add cream and bring to a simmer. Add chocolate, let stand two min. Stir until smooth, chill until frosting consistency. Wear your fat pants the next day.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Moving is a bitch: the beautiful bay area, proof I should leave, and self-medication.
Ah, the momentous first post. It's like a first date: you want to be witty and charming, yet you don't want to lie too much. That's just waiting for a horrible second date, when the other person gets up and leaves before dessert because they realize you're either boring, an idiot, or you sleep with a stuffed elephant named hubert.
I'm a doofus. It isn't boring, but certainly isn't brilliant. I have realized that I must be a cleaver doofus, because somehow I convinced a lot of smart people that I too am intelligent. Silly, silly professors. Now I'm stuck in grad school, wondering what I'm doing and where the free food is.
The bay area is beautiful. This is a well established fact. However, it is a freezing area. After four years in the desert, I only own four long sleeved shirts. I'm fairly sure that the lack of sunlight will have me coping with rickets from lack of vitamin D. Oh well, that is why God made sweatshirts and fortified milk.
We all know moving is a bitch. No one likes it, everyone complains, and the human population continues hating change on every level. Why would you want to read about my move? Because I have divine proof I should leave Berkeley: also known as the 'I got hit by a cracked out hobo' story.
Biking is the way to go over here. It is fast, cheap, better for you, and doesn't give you dirty looks from environmentalists. I was on a search for a cheap yet functional bike--and failing spectacularly. My definition of cheap and bike shops' definition of cheap vary drastically.
I was test riding a bicycle near a shop and just rounding my first corner when a small old man jumped out at me, swearing obscenely and waving his hands at me, trying to scare scare me of the bike. Clearly the man was on drugs, mentally ill, or both. Fortunately, my undergrad was at a state school where males notify females that they are capable of reproduction by honking loudly and shouting. Four years ago I would've fallen off the bike and then gone on a feminist tirade when I returned. Now I'm in grad school: I'm chill. No problems.
The rest of the ride was great. I was contemplating how to afford such a bike when, 10 min later, I rounded the other corner of the block. Now, my Derrogatory Asshole Blocking Skills (or DABS) were in high gear. This is great when all people do is shout or honk. This is very bad when cracked out hobos get angry, jump out at you, and hit you straight across the face. In fact, DABS is a fantastic way to not feel your face for a good 10 minutes while you digest the fact that you just were attacked by a nutjob the size of Frodo and you haven't even been in the city for five days. Welcome to Berkeley.
Now I must phase out of DABS and learn the sacred art of BSDAK (Bicycle Self Defense and Ass-kicking: pronounced like Nasdaq). I will be ready for a rematch. Until then, I still have to adjust to a new area, new life, and new life crises.
Self medication: What does a girl crave for comfort? Sugar and fat. What does a grad student crave? alcohol. So, the following recipe was born. It's fantastic if you move into a new kitchen and forget certain baking essentials, like baking soda. This is the first generation recipe, so if you don't like it, fix it yourself. Don't blame the girl who got hit by a hobo.
New Belgium Ales 1554 Chocolate Chip Cookies
2.5 c Flour
1 t Salt
1 c Butter, softened
2 Eggs
1 c ea White and Brown sugar
1 t Vanilla
5 T 1554 or similar Beer
1 c Chocolate Chips
Make like normal choclate chip cookies, but add the beer before thse chocolate chips. Bake, unless you like raw cookie dough and don't believe in salmonella.
I'm a doofus. It isn't boring, but certainly isn't brilliant. I have realized that I must be a cleaver doofus, because somehow I convinced a lot of smart people that I too am intelligent. Silly, silly professors. Now I'm stuck in grad school, wondering what I'm doing and where the free food is.
The bay area is beautiful. This is a well established fact. However, it is a freezing area. After four years in the desert, I only own four long sleeved shirts. I'm fairly sure that the lack of sunlight will have me coping with rickets from lack of vitamin D. Oh well, that is why God made sweatshirts and fortified milk.
We all know moving is a bitch. No one likes it, everyone complains, and the human population continues hating change on every level. Why would you want to read about my move? Because I have divine proof I should leave Berkeley: also known as the 'I got hit by a cracked out hobo' story.
Biking is the way to go over here. It is fast, cheap, better for you, and doesn't give you dirty looks from environmentalists. I was on a search for a cheap yet functional bike--and failing spectacularly. My definition of cheap and bike shops' definition of cheap vary drastically.
I was test riding a bicycle near a shop and just rounding my first corner when a small old man jumped out at me, swearing obscenely and waving his hands at me, trying to scare scare me of the bike. Clearly the man was on drugs, mentally ill, or both. Fortunately, my undergrad was at a state school where males notify females that they are capable of reproduction by honking loudly and shouting. Four years ago I would've fallen off the bike and then gone on a feminist tirade when I returned. Now I'm in grad school: I'm chill. No problems.
The rest of the ride was great. I was contemplating how to afford such a bike when, 10 min later, I rounded the other corner of the block. Now, my Derrogatory Asshole Blocking Skills (or DABS) were in high gear. This is great when all people do is shout or honk. This is very bad when cracked out hobos get angry, jump out at you, and hit you straight across the face. In fact, DABS is a fantastic way to not feel your face for a good 10 minutes while you digest the fact that you just were attacked by a nutjob the size of Frodo and you haven't even been in the city for five days. Welcome to Berkeley.
Now I must phase out of DABS and learn the sacred art of BSDAK (Bicycle Self Defense and Ass-kicking: pronounced like Nasdaq). I will be ready for a rematch. Until then, I still have to adjust to a new area, new life, and new life crises.
Self medication: What does a girl crave for comfort? Sugar and fat. What does a grad student crave? alcohol. So, the following recipe was born. It's fantastic if you move into a new kitchen and forget certain baking essentials, like baking soda. This is the first generation recipe, so if you don't like it, fix it yourself. Don't blame the girl who got hit by a hobo.
New Belgium Ales 1554 Chocolate Chip Cookies
2.5 c Flour
1 t Salt
1 c Butter, softened
2 Eggs
1 c ea White and Brown sugar
1 t Vanilla
5 T 1554 or similar Beer
1 c Chocolate Chips
Make like normal choclate chip cookies, but add the beer before thse chocolate chips. Bake, unless you like raw cookie dough and don't believe in salmonella.
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