ORANGE COINTREAU BROWNIE TIRAMISU

SNOWED IN

Mieux encore que dans la chambre j’t’aime dans la cuisine
Rien n’est plus beau que les mains d’une femme dans la farine
Quand tu fais la tarte aux pommes, poupée, tu es divine
Rien n’est plus beau que les mains d’une femme dans la farine. *
- Claude Nougaro

As, once again, Europe reposes snuggly under a blanket of white, Nantes remains bright and clear and unusually, sadly, free of dusty snow. Blizzards rage across the country and cities are buried under thick drifts of powder one after the other, yet Nantes stays temperate and dry. Oh, we did have our one flurry, whipping across the rooftops and through the streets, ever so fleetingly, but it has already fluttered away, disappearing like an ace of spades in the fingers of a magician, as ephemeral as dandelion fluff carried away on the wind. The long-promised snow came early one morning and by the afternoon we were out tromping across the stretch of white on Place Louis XVI, crunching and running and laughing, enticed outside and throughout the city like excited children. Handfuls gathered up and tossed back and forth, screeching with delight, laughing as Marty danced and skipped in a futile attempt to keep his paws out of the damp cold ice. We arrived back at the house chilled and out of breath but thrilled and content with the vibrancy and sparkle of the much-anticipated winter.


But nothing lingers; the temperature has dropped to glacial yet the lovely white has melted and gone away. The Arctic chill has driven us indoors and we stay huddled together happily, reading, watching films, working on projects. I must admit that I have been so lazy these past few days, lazy and blah and just a tad grumpy, so grumpy that I had my men dancing around me trying to cheer me up, attempting to drag a chuckle from my lips, doing what they could to pull me up and out of the doldrums. Silly faces, eye-roll-worthy jokes and a quick song and dance were mine for the asking, but, alas, I was in no mood to be consoled. I buried my chin just a little bit deeper into my collar and plunked down into my chair at the table, as if on cue, just to be fed. Despite my absolute passion for the icy winter weather, maybe the fact of being inside, albeit cozy and warm, has made me lackadaisical, my energy sapped and my brain and body simply listless. So JP decided that a jaunt out in the chill, a stroll through town, a spot of window shopping, would be just the thing to kick start my creative energy and inspire a story or two. So…

We ventured to Angers today, a wonderful city an hour outside of Nantes, where the chill factor was below frigid and snow still carpeted the ground. Simon went to take a language proficiency test, so JP and I scurried and slid across their very icy sidewalks, through the streets, looking for a warm haven in which to wait. Arm in arm, only tumbling once, we popped into a café and ordered steaming mugs of hot chocolate and nibbled on bottereaux, small square puffs of fried dough dusted with powdered sugar, a regional specialty for Carnival, and we happily wiled away an hour in the warm comfort of a barren bistro. Not ones to miss out on a little adventure and fresh air, we finally bundled back up, gathered our courage and ventured our way back out into the cold. A slippery-slidey trip through the center of Angers, we decided to once again visit the la Tenture de l’Apocalypse, the stunning XIVth century tapestries depicting the Apocalypse created for Louis 1er d’Anjou, on display in a long, dark, solemn wing of the city’s Château. We love the quiet, deserted space, miles high and so dim we had to lean in closely and squint to read the description of each tapestry. A wonderful sanctuary with a fascinating history, but back out into the snow we went to finally meet up with Simon and drive back home where….


We found Marty curled up against the radiator, slowly going bald as he mysteriously does each and every winter, and we unbundled and tried to find a warm spot in our vast, drafty apartment. An adventure and a quick call to a friend upon returning home did indeed seem to boost my spirit and knock some ideas into the old noggin and I began to organize my work and type. Yet, for three days or more, Simon has been begging me, nudging me, prodding and harassing me to bake him brownies: chocolaty yet not too chocolaty, moist yet not too dense, fluffy, crusty with enough chopped pecans to balance out the natural sweetness of a good pan of brownies. Yes, my baby is exacting, fussy and downright imperious, but what’s a mother to do? He loves my treats as long as they are always exactly the same. With nothing special or, as he says, “fishy” inside. And so I made him brownies. Little does he know and much to his horror if he ever finds out, I decided to jazz up this great, classic brownie recipe with orange and Cointreau with the idea to turn part of the recipe into a stunning, elegant, luxurious and romantic treat for Valentine’s Day. So a splash of liqueur and a bar of orange-flavored chocolate and the trick was done. And out came my heart-shaped muffin tin and the romantic girly-girl and the devoted mom merged into one and Orange Cointreau Brownies were born.

A te voir ainsi je retrouve mon âme enfantine
Rien n’est plus pur que les mains d’une femme dans la farine. *

Who says that Valentine’s Day should be pink and red. Orange is the color of burning desire, and after 25 years with my own man I can assure you that burning desire is still indeed the color of the day. Orange is fiery heat, burning bright and constant rather than explosive red bursting and then quickly fading away or gentle pink, pale, feminine and utterly forgettable. Orange is creativity and enthusiasm, deep, passionate, inspiring. So you can keep your dainty raspberry concoctions, your effeminate, sweet strawberry confections. The bright, jazzy taste of oranges, the voluptuous whipped mascarpone cream, light, ethereal yet so sumptuous, spiked with an ever-so-adult splash or three of Cointreau atop a dense orange-scented brownie infused with sharp, bitter orange marmalade is my Valentine’s Day offering, a gift from the heart. Passionate, indulgent, neither insipid nor conventional, an astonishing Tiramisu, a superbly lavish Valentine’s Day dessert to declare your burning desire.


There’s nothing quite like chocolate for Valentine’s Day and February is #chocolatelove month! Please join in on the #chocolatelove fun and romance by linking up any chocolate recipe posted during the month of February 2012 . Don't forget to hop over to this post to share your recipe. The twitter hashtag is #chocolatelove.

* Even more than in the bedroom, I love you in the kitchen.
Nothing is more beautiful than the hands of a woman in flour.
When you make an apple pie, baby doll, you are divine
Nothing is more beautiful than the hands of a woman in flour.
Seeing you so my childhood soul returns to me
Nothing is purer than the hands of a woman in flour.
- Claude Nougaro

ORANGE COINTREAU FUDGE BROWNIES
Adapted from a recipe in Brownies by Linda Burum

3 ½ oz (100 g) Intense Orange Chocolate by Lindt (or equivalent orange-scented semisweet chocolate)
2 oz (60 g) unsweetened chocolate
1 1/3 cups (300 g) unsalted butter
2 ½ cups (500 g) sugar
¼ tsp salt
1 tsp vanilla
1 – 2 Tbs Cointreau or Grand Marnier
5 large eggs
1 ½ cups (180 g) flour (lightly spooned into measuring cup then leveled with a knife)
1 ½ cups (125 g) coarsely chopped pecans

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Lightly but thoroughly butter a six-cup heart-shaped muffin tin or equivalent (each cup holds a little more than one soup ladle of batter) and one 15 ½ x 10 ½ x 1-inch (approximately 39 x 26 x 2 ½ cm) jellyroll pan.

In a medium saucepan over low heat, melt the butter together with the chocolates, stirring gently to keep from burning. Remove from the heat when almost but not completely melted, continuing to stir off the heat until all the butter and chocolate are melted. Allow to cool slightly.

Scrape all of the chocolate-butter liquid into a large heatproof mixing bowl and add the sugar, salt and vanilla and stir or whisk until well blended. It will be grainy. Stir in the Cointreau. Vigorously whisk or stir in the eggs one at a time, blending well after each addition. The batter should become smooth and no longer grainy. Stir in the chopped pecans and the flour until well blended and smooth.

Ladle batter into each buttered muffin cup of the tin until filled about halfway and not more than ¾ full. Pour the rest into the prepared jellyroll pan and smooth, making sure the batter fills the corners and all the way to the edges.

Bake the brownies for 25 – 30 minutes, depending on the size of the pans and the oven, until the brownies are set and the top shiny. A toothpick inserted into the brownies should come out clean. If you prefer your brownies gooey and slightly undercookied in the center, take them out of the oven sooner, but the top should be uniformly set and shiny.

Remove the tins from the oven and allow to cool on racks.


ORANGE COINTREAU BROWNIE TIRAMISU
For approximately 8 individual Tiramisu

Orange Cointreau Brownies (½ x 10 ½ x 1-inch (@ 39 x 26 x 2 ½ cm) jellyroll pan)
Bitter orange marmalade or jelly + a bit of Cointreau

4 large eggs, separated
2 cups (500 g) fresh mascarpone
½ cups (100 g) granulated sugar, divided
2 – 3 Tbs Cointreau or Grand Marnier

Unsweetened cocoa powder for dusting

Separate the egg yolks from the whites. Set the whites aside is a medium bowl, preferably plastic or metal.

Beat the yolks in a large bowl with all except 1 tablespoon of the sugar until very thick, creamy and pale. Beat in the mascarpone until well blended and creamy. Stir in 2 tablespoons of Cointreau.

Beat the whites until they start to stiffen. Add the remaining tablespoon of sugar gradually, continuing to beat the whites stiff. Carefully fold the stiff egg whites, a third at a time, into the mascarpone/egg mixture: using a spatula, gently fold the whites into the mixture after each addition so as not to break the air in the whites. Taste the mascarpone cream, adding a bit more sugar or Cointreau to taste.

Using individual metal ring molds, press each mold into the brownies; carefully slide a wide spatula underneath the brownie and the ring and lift off of the pan. Invert the mold with the brownie base inside it and place the inverted ring mold on a platter; press the circle of brownie down into the mold, sliding it so it rests at the bottom on the plate (still inside of the ring): the brownie is now upside down so the crusty, shiny side is down and the moister side is up.

Once all of the ring molds have a brownie base (inverted) and are lined up on the platter or clean cookie tray, melt several tablespoons of bitter orange marmalade over very low heat, stirring to avoid burning; stir in a capful of Cointreau to liquefy the jelly. Using a pastry brush, dab a layer of bitter orange marmalade onto and all over each brownie base, as much or as little as desired. Spoon the prepared Cointreau mascarpone into each ring mold on top of the brownie base to fill up to the top of the ring.

Cover all of the filled ring molds with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight.

To serve, slide a wide spatula underneath each Tiramisu, one at a time, and place one on each individual dessert place. Dust the surface of each Tiramisu generously with unsweetened cocoa powder. Carefully slide a thin, sharp knife around each Tiramisu to loosen then gently twist and lift the ring mold off of the Tiramisu. Serve and eat immediately.

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CHOCOLATE ESPRESSO LAYER CAKE

ANOTHER BIRTHDAY

The secret to staying young is to live honestly,
eat slowly,
and to lie about your age.
~ Lucille Ball

“Oh, grow up!” he often says to me when I’ve said or done something particularly ridiculous, a smirk dancing upon his lips, a glint of humor in his eyes. “Would you really want me to?” is my usual rejoinder. We revel in our youthful silliness and utter disregard for the rules of behavior that most seem so urgently ready to apply to folks of our age. Another birthday has rolled around and I am now squarely centered in that “woman of a certain age” category. I look in the mirror and see the lines on my skin and the silver threaded through my dark hair, I feel the weight of the years upon my shoulders, pulling me down with unforgiving severity, gravity giving me a less-than-youthful appearance. These old bones creak and the back has a tendency to slouch, the elevator has taken precedence over the stairs and fabric seems to strain at snaps and buttons. But for all of the outward changes, that slow but inevitable metamorphoses that we each go through, the visible traces left by the advancing years, I somehow feel an inward subtle shift in the opposite direction.

So the “Oh, grow up!” followed immediately by the “Would you really want me to?” is a game we play, just more childish banter between two who simply do not feel that the years have made us grow old. We laugh in the face of Old Man Time and hold onto youth joyfully, in an ironclad grip.

Youth is a wonderful thing.
What a crime to waste it on children.
~ George Bernard Shaw

The body is some strange foreign vessel, almost alien in its outlandishness. There is an odd disconnect throughout our youth and well into adulthood, this relationship we have with our outer shell, as if wearing someone else’s ill-fitting clothing. As a child, we often have moments of not quite being able to control our movements nor do we quite understand the changes that happen seemingly overnight as we sleep; as a teen, there is discomfort and embarrassment in every lump and bump, every growth spurt and unruly, out-of-control development. There may be a brief moment when we achieve the perfect balance, when we reach some ideal age, that place in time where it all comes together effortlessly, without blemish, pure and sublime, our hair, our skin, our figure; we glance in the mirror and smile, content, self-confident, at ease and at peace with ourselves. “Ah, I have finally grown up and grown into the person I was meant to be all along!” we exclaim, nodding in approval as we turn to blow out the 30 or so candles. But the moment is fleeting; it rushes by, a whisper blown swiftly away on the wind. We wake up shortly after, minutes it seems, and the walls begin to crumble; the skin sags, ever so imperceptibly at first, but we notice it a bit more every day; the first gray hair sneaks in, almost as a fine joke; the knees creak and crack as we climb the stairs to the apartment and it seems just that much more difficult to push ourselves out of bed in the morning. We catch a glimpse of our face, our body as we walk in front of a mirror or plate glass window and are stunned, wondering when it was that we grew so old.

Growing old is mandatory;
growing up is optional.
~ Chili Davis

Yet, although I reached my stride quite a number of years ago, my peak physical years have come and gone, and today, well, the lines are getting fuzzy, the streaks of sophisticated silver run their fingers brazenly through my unruly hair and keeping in shape takes more effort every day, my inner child is well and alive, thank you very much. Rebellious in nature, the youthful me bursts at the seams, a ball of energy, not willing to sit still and twiddle her thumbs allowing any old rather snooty Grande Dame to make the decisions. Some may say that there is something irreverent in the way I behave, that silliness does not become a woman of a certain age; others may shake their head in dismay at my adamant determination to simply not grow up, their eyes opened wide in disbelief at my jokes or antics. But although I have little control over the outer shell other than exercise, diet and a good haircut, a touch of makeup and the choice of what I wear, my spirit is my own to do with as I please.

Age is a question of mind over matter.
If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.
~ Leroy "Satchel" Paige

Yes, another birthday has come and gone with much hurrah and I was spoiled and pampered by my men in their usual, quiet way. And as is the tradition every single year, I baked my own cake. French pastry shops are abundant in tarts of glistening fruit, creams of chocolate, raspberry or vanilla studded with poached pears or bright berries and crunchy with praline or biscuits, elegant verrines of layer upon delicate layer of mousses and bavaroises topped by froths of whipped Chantilly; one jaw-dropping gorgeous, ravishingly delicious delight after another, it is true, but a birthday is simply not a birthday without a layer cake. And there is no better way to have exactly what you love best than making it yourself. I toyed with the idea of repeating last year’s wildly successful Espresso Chocolate Cake with Mocha Mascarpone Frosting, as it had indeed been one of the best cakes I have ever tasted. And although I had finally settled on the same flavor combination – a favorite – I turned instead to my favorite chocolate cake recipe, one that was handed down from my father, and my simple chocolate buttercream frosting. Yet I twisted and turned and added espresso to both the cake batter and the frosting, whisked in a container of fresh mascarpone to the buttercream for a richer, smoother, creamier frosting and voilà I created my perfect birthday cake!


A childhood delight to bring out the youthful frivolity, the joy and delight in each of us; dense, ultra moist, devilishly chocolaty layers with a diabolically inspired kiss of espresso, a cake at once flirtatious with its voluptuous swirls of mocha cream and serious in its sinful decadence. And what a cake! A flash to whip up and bring together, and oh so easy going down. Kid friendly indeed yet oh so incredibly adult.


And a perfect romantic dessert for St. Valentine's Day.

CHOCOLATE ESPRESSO LAYER CAKE
Makes a 8 ½ or 9-inch two layer cake or an 7-inch three layer cake.


1 ¾ cup flour
2 cups sugar
¾ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 ½ tsp baking powder
1 ½ tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
2 large eggs
1 cup whole milk
½ cup vegetable oil
2 tsps vanilla
1 cup prepared coffee *

* If you prefer, the coffee can be replaced with water or a mixture of water and fruit juice.

Preheat oven to 350°F (180°C). Oil and flour two 8 ½ or 9-inch round cake pans or three 7-inch cake pans generously. (I oiled the pans, lined with parchment and then lightly oiled the paper and dusted with flour.)

Combine all of the dry ingredients in a large mixing bowl. Whisk or whiz them with the electric mixer on low speed for 30 seconds until everything is well combined. Add the eggs, milk, oil and vanilla. Beat on low until well blended then increase the mixer speed to medium and beat for about 2 minutes. Bring the 1 cup of coffee just to the boil and stir in carefully by hand until very well blended. Carefully divide the batter between the two prepared cake pans – it will be liquid. (If you want to make the smaller 3-layer cake and only have 2 cake pans: oil, line and flour the two pans and divide 2/3 of the batter between the two; the pans should be filled about 1/3 to ½ full. Bake the first two layers. When they are done, remove from the oven, allow to cool for several minutes, slide a sharp knife around the edges to loosen and invert (then upright) on cooling racks to completely cool. Clean, oil, line and dust with flour one of the pans and pour the remaining third of the batter into this pan and bake as directed.)

Bake in the preheated oven for 35 – 40 minutes or until the center is set (30 – 35 minutes for the smaller layers). Remove from oven and allow to cool for 10 – 15 minutes on cooling racks before turning them out onto the racks to cool completely.

CHOCOLATE MOCHA MASCARPONE BUTTERCREAM FROSTING


11 - 12 oz (325 - 350 grams) powdered/confectioner’s sugar
8 Tbs (120 grams) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
1.8 oz (50 grams) unsweetened cocoa powder
4 Tbs very hot prepared coffee
3.5 – 5.3 oz (100 – 150 g) fresh mascarpone cheese

Using an electric hand mixer, cream the butter and the powdered sugar together. Add the cocoa powder and the hot coffee and beat, scraping down the sides as necessary, until well blended and fluffy. Beat in as much mascarpone as desired until smooth and whipped.

Chill in the refrigerator until firm enough so that, when spread and the layers are stacked, the frosting does not slide.

Frost the tops of the layers then stack, placing the bottom layer on a cake or serving plate. I slip strips of waxed paper or parchment under the edges of the cake before frosting the sides in order to keep the plate clean and frosting-free. Smooth the frosting on the sides of the cake. Pipe rosettes of frosting and decorate as desired. Gently slide the strips of parchment out from under the cake and retouch as needed. Chill in the refrigerator until the frosting has firmed. Because the frosting contains mascarpone, it is best to store uneaten cake in the refrigerator.

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APPLE DUMPLINGS & ORANGE MASCARPONE TARTLETS

STARTING OVER - BAD DREAMS AND GHOSTS


A fleeting premonition. It spun before her eyes, a flash of knowledge. Should she say something, try to get him to slow down, warn him of impending…what? Danger? She hesitates. He never liked it when she in her constant state of nervous anxiety tried to warn him, control him. And it usually all ended in nothing anyway. Or was there simply not enough time? Then there came those hang gliders, so close she could practically touch them if she rolled down her window and reached out her hand, brush her fingers across their skin; so close she could see their faces, see their smiles, weaving in and out, in and then away from the car. And then it was upon them. She turned her head and noticed that he was no longer watching the road, did not notice the curve of the highway as they sped forward, as the sharp turn in the road rushed towards them. He, too, had noticed the hang gliders so curiously close to the car, to the craggy, rugged mountainside and was observing them in wonder and slight amusement.

No barrier. She didn’t notice the lack of any wall, shield or fence at all to protect them, nothing to defend them from the fall at all, not so much as a warning, until it was too late. And the car spun off the road and took flight. Miles of emptiness hung below them as the car continued to move forward, projected into space; nothingness, miles of nothingness between the wheels of the car and the ground visible so far below them.

And the car spun forward, gently dipping in its trajectory, but mostly flying forward, less a free fall than flight, yet the threat of falling was there hanging silent and heavy between them. This has always been her greatest fear, a precipitous, dizzying drop, that fall to death. Yet her fear at this moment was overcome by a concern for him. She flung her arms around his neck, hung on tight and pressed her forehead into his warm cheek. His eyes wide open in horror, saying nothing, she calming him, letting him know with her words of tenderness and love that he was not to blame, that she loved him.

My eyes pop open. A dream, what a curious, odd dream. I have many of them, these dreams of falling, falling, more often than I would like. Sometimes I even fear the coming slumber because of those dreams. So cool and collected, so carefree and optimistic in daylight I am, taking all the bumps and knocks with a shrug and a smile, able to laugh it all off and support and soothe even his anxiety and pessimism. But close my eyes and the worries that I am able to elude during my waking hours crowd around me when I sleep, the stress and doubts I push to some far away corner of my brain bubble up to the surface and flood my imagination and gentle dreams turn black, nightmares of foreboding and terror. Yet this curious dream – was it a nightmare? I awoke with a jump, yet no lingering panic, no bad feelings clung to my body. Absence of the usual sweating and heart pounding, the usual feeling of dread…. I was strangely, unusually calm.


Flour fluttering through my fingers, soft and silent, dusting the tabletop like freshly fallen snow. Butter cool between thumb and index, smell the fragrance of fresh cream – try to describe the scent of butter! Cubes of pale yellow pressed between my fingers with that gentle resistance begging me to give them more of my attention, forcing me to be insistent. Slowly, rhythmically, these delicate mounds of butter fade into a mere trace, an illusion, creating perfect symbiosis with the flour like damp sand on the beach on a warm evening of summer. One single egg yolk plops into the center with a poof. A yellow so shocking, so deep, almost orange that thoughts of their pale, anemic cousins back home make me chuckle; no, these impose themselves, force their existence on you in their flashy dress, their plump, glistening, neon ostentation. A splash of milk splatters onto the dark golden orb and completes the scenario. I press my hands in and squeeze, satisfied; press and push until I have my perfect dough, sweet with a shower of white, white sugar glittering in the ray of neon. And I have in front of me a treasure trove of pleasures, a multitude of promises. After a night of dreams, turbulent, confusing, I long to spend the day in the kitchen pressing my hands lovingly, soothingly in the cool calm of fresh dough. And from this delicate, smooth ball I can create all that I desire.

Dreams are often so simple to interpret and it is a game I love to play. Analyzing the images that dance through those night visions in some macabre parallel world, so alive, so real yet so illusory, intangible, chimerical, becomes a way to admit our worst fears and discuss the worries that torment our subconscious minds. We laugh as we find a parallel, our worries seem to disintegrate into nothingness as we talk. Our little pastime of discussing and analyzing each nightmare becomes an amusement, a distraction that alleviates the anguish of these turbulent changes in life. “Do you think that I have driven you over some proverbial cliff?” he asks, worry searing deep into his eyes. No, of course not. We came to the decisions together, as one, and we know without a doubt it was the right choice, the only choice. And we are good. We are happy. And all will come out right in the end.


The scent of oranges bright and tangy fills the air. Quick spurts of oil and juice as my knife presses through the skin and into the flesh. Orange curd is on the agenda, thick, luxurious curd with the scent of my Florida childhood. Oranges nestled in the bottom of my basket in a joyful tumble and jumble with apples both red and green, the colors of the season. Apples sweet and tart dusted with cinnamon and paired with plump, golden raisins, enrobed in a wrap of sweet pastry dough will welcome autumn into my kitchen. I rustle through the jars and containers in the refrigerator encumbered with more than we would ever need, and come happily upon a jar of chocolate ganache and another of delectable salted butter caramel sauce and have one of those glorious eureka moments! Why make only one dessert when I can make an endless array, something for everyone?

Once again – is this the sixth or seventh time in the past two years? – we are awoken with a jolt as the bedroom door flings open with the force of a gale storm wind. It slams into the radiator with a crash as if someone angry bursts into the room, waking us purposely. We sit up with a start and then crash back down onto our pillows, our only doubts being whether or not the blast and the impact woke up the dog as well. But, no, silence. So we leave the door open and fade back into sleep.

“It’s him, you know, your brother, Michael.” He, normally so pragmatic, so practical and so scientific, states so matter of factly. “Haven’t you noticed that the closet doors creak and crack on a regular basis? It’s not just the bedroom door flung open in the night. He must be in the armoire and angry that you gave me his shirts. He’s inside the armoire trying to take his shirts back!” He chuckles and I laugh, but we know that since Michael passed away, there is really no other explanation for all the odd and ghostly occurrences. And maybe in a way it comforts us, knowing he is around, with us. Awakening in the night to the crash bang of the door doesn’t frighten us anymore. And then we laugh, the solemnity and pangs of discomfort brought on by my odd, curious dream, the worries of our future it stirred up once again fade away into daylight. And I pull out the box of flour, the sugar, the eggs and start my day.

Two recipes for Sweet Pastry Crust to use at will, as you like, as you desire. I have made mini tartlet shells, some of which I filled with Orange Curd Mascarpone Cream, others with Dark Chocolate Ganache and Salted Butter Caramel Sauce. And part of the Sweet Pastry Crust was wrapped snugly around two apples and baked, each apple cored and stuffed with sweet golden raisins, a smidge of butter, a dash of cinnamon and a shake of granulated brown sugar. To drizzle with more Salted Butter Caramel Sauce, of course.


Feel free to stir in ¼ cup of finely ground nuts (almond, hazelnut, pistachio) into the dry ingredients of either of the following Sweet Pastry Crust recipes.


Make the Orange Curd (recipe follows) or my favorite Lime Curd and make a wonderful tart filling by whisking or beating in mascarpone in 2 to 1 proportions (twice the amount curd to mascarpone) or to taste. Or, for a lighter filling, beat 1 cup (250 ml) chilled heavy whipping cream until thick and stiff peaks hold then beat in up to 1 ½ cups Lime or Orange Curd or to taste.

And this week has all been punctuated by two very exciting honors and wonderful news!

Life’s a Feast has been selected by Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution as one of November’s Food Blogs of the Month.


My Cranberry-Cherry Macarons were featured on Gourmet Live’s Autumnal Desserts round up!


SWEET PASTRY CRUST #1

This recipe can easily be doubled for a two-crust pie.

1 1⁄4 cups (175 g) flour
1⁄4 cup (50 g) sugar
7 Tbs (100 grams) unsalted butter*
1 large egg, lightly beaten

Stir flour and sugar together in a bowl. Add the butter cut into cubes and, using thumb and finger tips, rub the flour and butter into each other vigorously until it resembles damp sand on the beach and there are no more large chunks of butter.

Pour the lightly beaten egg over the flour-sugar-butter mixture and stir vigorously with a fork until all of the dry ingredients are moistened and it starts to clump. With fingers, press together into a ball and place on a floured surface. With the heel of one hand, smear the dough forward quickly in hard, sharp movements, a little at a time (a tablespoon maybe) until all the dough has been "smeared". This blends in the last of the butter. Scrape the dough together and work briefly, just enough to form into a smooth, homogeneous ball.

Wrap in plastic wrap and put in the refrigerator until needed or, if making your pie right away, just until it is firm enough to be easy to roll out without sticking to your rolling pin.

* Most pie crust recipes call for the butter to be chilled. I have found that butter at room temperature is easier and quicker to work into the flour and the dough seems to be fluffier. If it is too sticky to roll out right away, 10 to 15 minutes in the fridge should do the trick.

SWEET PASTRY CRUST #2

1 ¾ cups (250 g) flour
1/3 cup (40 g) powdered/icing sugar
8 Tbs (115 g) unsalted butter, slightly softened, cubed
1 large egg yolk
Scant ¼ cup (50 ml) milk, slightly more if needed

Sift or whisk together the flour and powdered sugar in a large mixing bowl. Drop in the cubes of butter and, using the tips of your fingers and thumb, rub the butter and flour together quickly until all of the butter is blended in and there are no more lumps. Add the egg yolk and the milk and, using a fork, blend vigorously until all of the flour/sugar/butter mixture is moistened and starts to pull together into a dough.

Scrape the dough out onto a floured work surface and, using the heel of one hand, smear the dough inch by inch away from you in short, hard, quick movements; this will completely blend the butter in. Scrape up the smeared dough and, working very quickly, gently knead into a smooth, homogeneous ball. Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 20 to 30 minutes.
To make individual tartlet shells with either recipe:

Lightly grease with butter the sides and bottoms of 6 individual tartlet tins (4 to 4 ¼ inches/ 10 ½ to 11 cm wide) – or even tinier ones - and place the prepared tins on a baking sheet.

Remove the dough from the refrigerator and unwrap. Working on a floured surface and with the top of the dough kept lightly floured to keep it from sticking to the rolling pin, roll out the dough and line the tins by gently lifting in and pressing down the dough. Trim the edges. Cover the baking tray with the lined tins with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 30 minutes. This can also be done ahead of time.

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C).

Remove the baking tray from the refrigerator and discard the plastic wrap. Cut or tear squares of parchment paper larger than each tin. Prick each tartlet shell with a fork (not too hard or deep as you don’t want holes going all the way through the dough) and place a square or parchment over each. Weigh down the parchment with pastry weights or dried beans, pushing the beans into the corners. Bake for 10 minutes. Remove from the oven, carefully lift out the parchment squares and beans, pressing the bottoms down with your fingertips if puffed up, and return to the oven to bake until golden. If the shells are too tiny to easily fill with parchment and beans, simply bake for 15 to 20 minutes until golden then, upon removing from the oven and while still hot, carefully press down the bottoms of each shell if puffed up. Allow to cool then carefully lift or turn shells out of tins and fill.

ORANGE CURD


¾ cup (150 g) granulated sugar
2 Tbs cornstarch
1 heaping Tbs finely grated orange zest
¾ cup (190 ml) freshly squeezed orange juice (about 3 juice oranges)
6 egg yolks, lightly beaten
½ cup (115 g) unsalted butter, cubed

Place the egg yolks in a medium to large heatproof mixing bowl. I block mine by placing on a kitchen towel which I have formed into a “nest”. Whisk the egg yolks lightly.

In a medium saucepan, whisk together the sugar and the cornstarch. Whisk in the orange zest and juice until the sugar and cornstarch are dissolved. Cook over medium or medium-low heat, whisking, until thickened and bubbling.

Slowly pour the hot orange-sugar mixture into the egg yolks while whisking in order to heat the yolks gradually and gently. Once the hot mixture has been whisked into the yolks, pour everything back into the saucepan. Cook over medium-low heat, whisking constantly, until it comes to a gentle boil. Continue to cook and whisk for 2 minutes.

Remove the curd from the heat and whisk in the butter, a cube or two at a time, until all the butter is incorporated and the curd is smooth and thick. Scrape into a bowl or large measuring cup, cover with plastic wrap, pressing the wrap directly onto the surface of the curd, allow to cool to room temperature then refrigerate.

BAKED APPLE DUMPLINGS


Simply core one apple per person and fill the cavity with golden raisins (optional). Press a knob of butter down into the hole, dust with a pinch of cinnamon and sprinkle about half a teaspoon brown sugar into the hole.

Use about 1/3 recipe Sweet Pastry Crust for 2 baked apples: roll out and wrap each apple in a piece of dough, gently pulling and pressing up the dough around the apple, cutting off excess. Slightly overlap the dough on top of the apple, press to seal. Decorate with cut out leaves, stems, etc, “gluing” the decorations/leaves onto the dough with milk. Place in a baking dish and refrigerate for about 30 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Remove the dish with the prepared, wrapped apples from the fridge, brush all over with milk and sprinkle with granulated brown sugar. Bake for 45 minutes to an hour until the pastry is a deep golden color.


Serve drizzled with Salted Butter Caramel Sauce.

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CHOCOLATE TRUFFLE TART WITH MASCARPONE CREAM AND STRAWBERRIES

A JAUNT THROUGH PARIS


I rarely travel to Paris these years and I forget how beautiful a city it is. Living in Paris had become a hardship, that glorious city becoming a cage and I merely a rat on a treadmill. Rushing along crowded sidewalks through a jumble of tourists on my way to work or pushing my way along quays, weaving in and out among the motley crew lining the track’s edges down in the gloomy, damp bowels of the earth, each one of us with somewhere important to go, bothered by the unforgiving heat of the bodies pressing too close, the weight of impatience blocking the watery light above. Frustration always accompanied me wherever I went, blinding me to the loveliness of what surrounded me; aggravation and exhaustion painting the city in soot and noise, taking away any pleasure I could possibly have. Always in a rush, dashing from one appointment to the next, I quickly became disenchanted, the romance of the City of Lights turned sour and I wanted nothing more than to leave as quickly as I could.


Time away has healed the wounds and I was anxious to return if for nothing more than to spend a quiet, enjoyable day with a friend. Yet once out of the station, out of the flurry of travelers and the smell of trains and onto the street, I turn my face into the cool breeze and feel the warmth of the sun on my skin and the joy of being back in Paris washes over me. My step is light and bouncy as I weave along my route and dance down the pavement towards where she is waiting. I admire the stunning old buildings all gussied up by Belle Epoque mosaics and balconies graced with delicate floral motifs. I find myself following a stone wall enclosing one of Paris’ quiet, beautiful cemeteries and all is calm and green. I nod my head at the majestic Lion de Belfort at Place Denfert-Rochereau as an old friend and I am glad to be back. I finally find my friend waiting in front of her hotel, sipping tea so cool and collected as if she has lived here forever. We hug as friends do and began chattering as if we met every single day, as if old, old friends since childhood.

I now see Paris through a tourist’s eyes. Glancing up at the buildings standing side by side in elegant disarray, each dressed in pearl gray grandeur adorned by stylish swirls of ironwork and I pause to admire them. Like true Parisiennes, these beautiful buildings are both graceful and stately, inviting and imposing, haughty women confident in their ability to impress. We slip through silent, empty squares, shadowed, cool respite, or scurry across the busy streets, dodging cars and bikes, skirting around tables of diners and coffee drinkers who spill out of cafés and bistros onto the too-narrow sidewalks, just whiling away the sunny afternoon as good Parisians are wont to do. Pausing to check our maps or search out street signs, we hurry along, backtrack or change direction, all the while giggling and jabbering like schoolgirls on their first jaunt through this mythic city.


I spent a day in Paris last week with Abby Dodge. First, I want to clarify that I have no close girlfriends… okay, to be totally honest, I have no girlfriends at all nearby. No one to go shopping with, not a one to meet for lunch and a good gossip, no friend with whom to gaze longingly at the gorgeous and outrageous shoes poised like precious jewels or objets d’art in the Christian Louboutin boutique window. And certainly no friend, male or female, as passionate about baking as I with whom to spend hours upon hours giddily gliding between the towering shelves of baking supplies, one shop after the next, ogling each and every mold, utensil, pan, squealing with delight, screeching with amazement, each of us grabbing up objects and holding them aloft for the other to see, calling each other excitedly from another aisle like teenagers gawking at movie stars or finding the perfect dress or just the right shade of nail polish for the prom. “Oh, look, Abby! Isn’t this fabulous?” or “Jamie, oooh I have always wanted one of these!” or “Quick, come over here! Look at these colors!” or “You most definitely need a cake pan/cookie cutter/chocolate mold/fill in the blank… in the shape of the Eiffel Tower!” filled our hours together in joyous abandon. A luxurious pause for lunch with some more serious talk followed by more shopping after quite a number of minutes with our envious noses pressed against the glass panes of that luxury shoe store. Ah, what a day! At 5 p.m. I left her newly ensconced in that same armchair in front of her hotel and dashed off to catch my train home, wishing I could have stayed one more day. I definitely deserve to spend more girly days just like that one with a friend like Abby, adorable, delightful, smart and absolute fun… What a joy finally getting to meet and getting to know someone I have only known on-line. And I ended that day feeling as if I had known her forever.


And speaking of Twitter, a few of us decided that since we couldn’t enjoy a day of baking together in person, well, baking together virtually was the next best thing. Abby, chef patissière that she is, selected an incredible Chocolate Truffle Tart that she had created for Fine Cooking magazine and offered us the recipe. She took control of the situation and suggested we all bake the same luscious tart only giving it our own individual, personal twist. I replaced her graham cracker crust with my own Sweet Pastry Crust adding a handful of finely ground, emerald green pistachios, which I had bought with her in Paris. I added Amaretto to the chocolate truffle filling then simply circled my individual tartlets (though big enough for two to share) with fresh, ripe strawberries. Perfect. Sweet and fudgy filling on a wonderful, delicate pastry shell and topped with a luscious mascarpone cream, this dessert is worthy of the most elegant Parisian dinner party and the balance of creamy, fudgy and fruity is just perfect to split with a good friend.


Now go ahead, it’s your turn!


I am proud, nay thrilled, to share with you my feature in the May issue of CRUSH, South Africa’s stunning on-line food and wine magazine. Thanks to my gorgeous, super talented friend, chef extraordinaire and wine connoisseur Michael Olivier, I am featured (along with 5 of my recipes) in Which wine? Which food? which you can find on pages 10 and 11. You must subscribe to this beautiful and informative magazine (it’s free!) and don’t forget to follow them on Twitter at @Crush_online.


CHOCOLATE TRUFFLE TORTE WITH MASCARPONE CREAM AND BERRIES

Prepare the Sweet Pastry Crust, the Chocolate Truffle Filling and the Mascarpone Cream as follows.

Select fresh, ripe strawberries, raspberries or blackberries to top. I find that the rich chocolate fudge (because, yes, it becomes very fudge-like) and the luscious cream are gorgeously balanced by the light fruitiness of fresh, juicy berries!

Have extra finely ground pistachios and a bit of powdered sugar to decorate the top of the Tart or Tartlets.

Serves 12

1 Sweet Pastry Crust, prebaked:

1 1/4 cup (175 g) flour
1/4 (50 g) cup sugar
¼ cup (about 50 g) finely ground pistachio nuts
7 Tbs (100 grams) unsalted butter, cubed *
1 egg, lightly beaten

* Most pie crust recipes call for the butter to be chilled. I have found that butter at room temperature is easier and quicker to work into the flour and to dough seems to be fluffier. If the dough is too sticky to roll out right away, several minutes in the fridge should do the trick.

Combine flour, sugar and ground pistachio nuts in a mixing bowl or on a work surface and toss or whisk to combine. Using only your thumbs and fingertips, rub the butter into the flour until the consistency of damp sand and there are no more large chunks of butter. With a fork, vigorously stir in the lightly beaten egg until all the dry ingredients are moistened and a dough starts to form.

Gather the dough together into a ball and place on a lightly floured surface. Using the heel of one hand, smear the dough little by little away from you in quick, hard strokes in order to make sure that all of the butter is blended in well.

Scrape up the dough together, re-flour the surface lightly and work very briefly and quickly until you have a smooth, homogenous dough. Wrap the ball of dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 15 to 30 minutes or until it can be easily rolled out without sticking to your rolling pin.

Keeping your work surface as well as the surface of the dough lightly floured at all times, roll out the dough and line a buttered 9” fluted pie dish, springform pan or similar or six 4 ¼-inch individual tartlet pans. Refrigerate for 30 minutes or until ready to bake.


Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Line the tart shell or tartlet shells (it is easier to line up the individual tartlet pans on one baking sheet) with parchment paper and fill with pastry weights or dried beans. Bake in the preheated oven for 8 minutes then very carefully remove the pie plate or tins from the oven, lift out the parchment paper with the weights, lightly prick the shell(s) with a fork then return to the oven to bake for an additional 10 minutes or until completely baked: the shell should be set and dull and beginning to turn golden around the edges. If using a glass pie plate, carefully lift up the dish and check that the bottom of the pie crust is evenly golden brown.

Remove the baked Sweet Pastry Crust from the oven and allow to cool completely on a cooling rack. If using individual tartlet shells, gently and carefully lift the baked shells out of the tins (slide a small, sharp knife under the edge of the shell and lift out onto a plate or rack once cooled.

Chocolate Truffle Filling:

12 oz (340 g) bittersweet chocolate, chopped **
4 Tbs (60 g) unsalted butter, cut into 4 pieces
1 Tbs Amaretto
½ cup (125 ml) heavy cream
½ cup (125 ml) whole milk
½ tsp pure vanilla extract
Pinch table salt

** I used mostly Lindt 70% chocolat doux which is a milder tasting, less bitter bittersweet chocolate. About 20 grams was Lindt chilli chocolate and another 20 or 30 grams was Lindt chocolate with orange. I basically used up what I had in my pantry, but all of it was 70%.

In a heatproof medium bowl, melt the chocolate, heavy cream, milk and butter in a microwave or over simmering water. Remove from the heat and add Amaretto, vanilla and salt. Whisk the mixture until well blended. Set aside, whisking occasionally, until room temperature and slightly thickened, about 1 hour. (For faster cooling, refrigerate the filling until thickened to a pudding consistency, about 30 minutes, whisking and scraping the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula every 5 minutes.)


With a rubber spatula, scrape the mixture into the pre-baked crust and spread evenly. Let cool completely, cover, and refrigerate until the filling is set, about 4 hours and up to 1 day before proceeding with the recipe.


Mascarpone Cream Topping:

8 oz (I used one 250 g/ml package) mascarpone
¾ cup (about 190 ml) chilled heavy whipping cream
¼ cup (50 g) granulated sugar, or to taste
½ tsp pure vanilla extract

Have the beaters of an electric mixer and a glass bowl chilled. Simply beat the mascarpone and heavy cream on low speed until combined and smooth then increase mixer speed to medium and beat until thick and creamy and firm peaks hold. Using a small spatula or the back of a tablespoon, spread the Mascarpone Cream over the chilled Chocolate Truffle Filling leaving lots of swirls and peaks. Cover loosely and chill until ready to serve. Abby recommends chilling for several hours but I found the Tartlets ready immediately.


Serve the Tart or Tartlets dusted with finely ground pistachios and powdered sugar.

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CHOCOLATE ALMOND TORTE FOR PASSOVER

EXODUS or Let My People Go!


Zig, Puce and their trusty black and white sidekick Alfred have finally made a return appearance. The silly cartoon side of our couple has been in hibernation for much too long, huddling together in our secret hideaway, keeping together and keeping our heads low. Our once-weekly ramble through the vineyards on the outskirts of town took a downturn that arrived with hunting season and slogged on throughout the cold, wet months of autumn and winter. No fun strolling through mud, whistling or singing loudly so as not to be mistaken for the odd hare or deer as the shots ring out and whistle by. And then as trouble mounted, as our world began closing in with tough choices and tension had us in a stranglehold, we chose the safety of our cozy apartment, stuck close to home and took shelter in each other’s company. We survived on love, humor and baked goods, making plans as best we could, our dreams tempered by the odd dash of reality.

Zig, Puce et Alfred by Alain Saint-Ogan

Bad parents, we knew that Marty suffered from our reclusion. He spent the winter and well into the spring moping about the house, shuffling from radiator to sun spot and back again as the day shifted into evening. Heavy sighs communicated his discontent, sadness and boredom pervaded the hallway each time he plopped down onto the carpet with a thud. He yearned for a romp in the great outdoors and with no garden, yard or terrace and with no energy or desire to make that long trek out of town and into the mud, we could offer him little more than a toy toss indoors and a cuddle in front of the occasional televised rugby match.

But hope springs eternal and patience is eventually rewarded and as Sunday morning broke bright and clear, a brilliant sun gracing the pale blue sky, JP closed his book and asked me what I thought about a walk through the vineyards. In these odd times we are living through, I knew that nothing would be better for both his and Marty’s mental and physical wellbeing as a Sunday morning excursion.

Gathering up our belongings (coats, backpacks, keys and a box of cookies…you never know when you will need sustenance) we hooked the leash onto Marty’s collar and off we went. A mere twenty minutes later finds us knee deep in vines, their tiny green leaves fluttering in the wind as they twine gracefully along the wires connecting the stubby pale brown clumps of tree. The ground is littered with twigs that snap underfoot, the pathways that separate the elegant squares of vines a peril to navigate, the churned dirt spotted with holes and rocks, perfectly imitating the ups and downs of life. He takes my hand and, face up to capture every warm touch of sun, the breeze ruffling my hair, I follow happily in his wake, allowing his strong hold to guide and lead me deeper and deeper into the countryside. The air is clear and brisk with just enough chill to keep us moving and we feel miles and miles away from the rough and tumble of city life, the madness of the rat race. These walks, surrounded by nothing more than the green and brown of the earth and no living body other than that black and white character excitedly dashing in and out of the vines as much for our entertainment as his own, have always been our solitude, our safe haven, our personal therapist’s couch for discussing, sharing, dreaming and calculating. Here, as if separated from all mankind and civilization, we are able to step back and imagine our life as it really is, not caught up in someone else’s expectations but rather as it is only as it pertains to us, our needs and our happiness.


Passover is a time of exodus, and I certainly don’t intend to go all biblical on you, but it seems strangely fortuitous that as we enter this festive period celebrating the Jews’ freedom from slavery, my husband and I balance the risks and benefits, the pros and cons of changing our life, moving on, of instigating our own personal exodus. Sometimes we feel as if we are being released from a certain kind of bondage, and that we, too, must wander through some proverbial desert until we stumble into not quite a Promised Land but a place that we create ourselves, a Brave New World of sorts, a land both unknown yet familiar, a land beautiful yet ruggedly barren, an empty space ours to build and create.

Let’s say, then, that we pick up a sharpened pencil and slide a clean, crisp sheet of paper towards us, or how about an entire notebook with pages enough for a very long story, and begin to draw, box by box, a new comic strip. The characters have already been invented, their trusty sidekick ever present, two handsome young men alternating between comic relief and teen antagonists at the ready to draw on their adolescent hormonally-fueled behavior to drive us bonkers or at least place stumbling blocks in our path and the world is the setting for our all new adventures. And as we control the pencil and draw in the action and fill in the bubbles with conversation, we can write the story just as we see fit, changing the mood and the era as we feel. Like those long ago pioneers settling a new land of milk and honey after long years of trial and tribulation, so are we about to release ourselves from our fetters and go wandering off to discover life as it should be.


As we returned tired and hungry from our healthy saunter through the vines, we head straight to the kitchen to start lunch. Marty, happy as a bug, skittles over to his warm, sunny spot on the carpet and curls up into a tight little ball, exhausted but happy. We share a meal, knowing that we have done our duty towards ourselves and our dog, content and satisfied in the decisions that we made while out in the sunshine, one step forward. Out there in our own Secret Garden, in between the giggles, jokes and snatches of tunes sung loudly and carried away on the wind, we let our minds wander to other places and greater things. And in between our hard work and dedication, we hope for a lot of milk and honey.


Like Manna from Heaven, this Chocolate Nut Torte is one wonderful treat to help us through the week of Passover. Very moist and light, a rich chocolate flavor followed by the fruitiness of the cherry juice, we enjoy this cake morning, noon and night, for breakfast, snack or an elegant after-dinner dessert with the addition of a dollop of whipped cream.


For yet another great Passover-friendly (and gluten-free) dessert, visit my latest on Huffington Post Food where I present a luscious Berry Mascarpone Cheesecake on a Chocolate Cake Base.


CHOCOLATE ALMOND TORTE FOR PASSOVER
Adapted from Rose Levy Beranbaum’s The Cake Bible


½ cup (65 g) unsweetened cocoa powder
½ cup (120 ml) boiling liquid *
1 tsp vanilla
16 Tbs (225 g) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
1 cup + 2 Tbs (230 g) sugar, separated
6 large eggs, separated, keeping the whites clean with no trace of yolk or shell
1/8 tsp salt
Scant 1 2/3 cups (170 g) finely ground almonds
½ tsp ground cinnamon

* the original recipe calls for water. I replaced the water with the juice from jarred cherries although coffee would also be a fabulous substitute. Even think of replacing half or all of the liquid with orange juice.

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Line an ungreased 9-inch (23 cm) baking pan or springform pan with parchment paper.

In a small, heatproof bowl, stir the boiling liquid into the cocoa powder and stir until the cocoa is dissolved and the mixture perfectly smooth. Stir in the vanilla and set aside to cool.

In a large mixing bowl, beat the softened butter with 1 cup of sugar on low speed until all of the sugar is incorporated into the butter then increase speed to medium and beat for about 2 minutes until light and fluffy. Beat in the egg yolks two at a time, beating after each addition just until incorporated, scraping down the sides as necessary. Beat in the cocoa mixture followed by the almonds and ground cinnamon until well blended and the batter is smooth and creamy.

Place the whites in a very clean bowl, preferably plastic or metal if possible, with the salt. Using very clean beaters, beat on low speed for 30 seconds, then increase beater speed to high and continue whipping the whites until opaque and soft peaks form. Gradually add the remaining 2 tablespoons of the sugar while continuing to beat until stiff peak form.

Using a spatula, fold in about a quarter of the stiff egg whites to lighten the batter, then fold in the remaining whites, a third at a time, until completely incorporated with no white lumps. The batter should be light and smooth. Scrape into the prepared pan, smooth the top and bake for 60 to 65 minutes. After the first 30 minutes you will want to cover the top of the cake loosely with a square of aluminum foil to avoid overbrowning. The cake is done when the center is just set. Do not overbake.

Remove the cake from the oven and allow to cool in the pan for about 45 minutes. Run a sharp knife blade around the edge to loosen from the sides of the pan before turning the cake out onto a cooling rack or directly onto a serving platter.


Allow the cake to set overnight. I find that it does get moister and the flavors meld when allowed to rest. The full flavor of the cherry came through the chocolate in a perfect, sweet balance after having set for 24 hours. Serve the cake dusted with powdered sugar and accompanied by lightly sweetened whipped cream or ice cream.

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