Orange (Cointreau) Chiffon Cake

THE ORANGES OF WINTER

An orange on the table, your dress on the rug, 

and you in my bed, 

sweet present of the present, cool of night, warmth of my life. 

– Jacques Prévert 

Growing up in sunny Florida, the Sunshine State, along the Indian River famed for its citrus groves, I am and always have been an orange girl. Winters meant dad’s workbench in the garage groaning under the weight of brown paper grocery bags filled to bursting with navels, tangerines, grapefruits, Valencias and Tangelos. Winters meant trips in the old green station wagon to the groves on a chilly weekend morning where we could pick them ourselves or stopovers at one of the many roadside stands piled high with red, orange or yellow red mesh sacks, my small fingers laced through the netting, the feel of citrus rind smooth yet nubbly and tempting.

Winters meant thumbs pressed into the skin of an orange or a tangerine, the aggressive, fragrant spurt of oil and juice spattering my face and shirtfront as I dug my fingers underneath the skin and pushed back, the peel yielding, giving way to the flesh, juices running down my arms all the way to the elbows. Winters meant eating the golden treats one by one by one by one non-stop until well after the end of the season, until there was no more local fruit to be had.

As summer winds down and fades into autumn, as the stone fruits and berries turn mealy and flavorless and then disappear into a memory, I begin to crave oranges. It is as natural as my craving coffee in the morning and sleep at night, as natural as my craving for a hug and a kind word when I am feeling down. I can smell the citrus before they even show up on the market stands. I can tell by the shape and color of an orange, by the heft as I weigh them in my hand whether or not they are good for the eating or if I need to bide my time, put it off and wait another week or two.

But living far from Florida, I give in too soon and am willing to start my orange season just a tad early when the oranges might still be a bit too tart, not quite sugary sweet enough, the membrane encasing the sections a tad too tough. But with each passing year, I become just that much more impatient for my oranges and need to have them just to appease my thirst, quell my craving. It must be nostalgia.

A man ought to carry himself in the world as an orange tree would if it could walk up and down in the garden, swinging perfume from every little censer it holds up to the air. 

– Henry Ward Beecher 

Winters now mean bundling up in thick wooly socks and fleece sweatshirts, curling up together with the man and the pup on the sofa as the darkness sets in, deep and inky. Winters now mean stews rich with carrots, potatoes, onions and tender chunks of meat in a thick sauce, couscous and tagines, JP spending afternoons standing in the kitchen chopping and stirring. I watch with the excitement of a child as the Christmas lights go up, as that eerie, misty haze falls over the city hinting at future snow against the milky gray sky. This past week itself I have been to two exciting chocolate and pastry events, edited an article that will soon be published and helped my husband organize his trip down to say goodbye to his mother. The sons still fly in and out and all around me in a whirlwind and we realize that life carries on as usual. Well, almost.

Clem and his friend Valentin (of Voyage to Vietnam fame) came round for dinner the other night. Clem had requested cake. Requested, demanded… just a matter of semantics. We had barely finished the Chocolate Rum Chestnut Bundt which had come hot on the heels of the Chocolate Spice Bundt Cake with Black Cherries in Syrup, so it was time for a change from chocolate. I was craving oranges and had wanted to bake an orange cake since I began seeing citrus on the market once again. The autumn chill in the air, the occasional splash of sunshine stirred up sensations of those long ago Florida winters and I knew I had no choice. I found a recipe for an Orange Chiffon Cake in my mother’s old Good Housekeeping Cook Book and decided that something ethereally light and fluffy would be the perfect change. So as JP prepared a beautiful Lamb Curry, I baked.

ORANGE (COINTREAU) CHIFFON CAKE
Adapted from the 1956 edition of Good Housekeeping Cook Book

2 egg yolks, preferably at room temperature
4 egg whites, preferably at room temperature
1 cup + 2 Tbs (150 g) cake flour
¾ cup (150 g) granulated sugar (separate out and reserve 1 Tbs)
1 ½ tsps baking powder
½ tsp salt
¼ cup (60 ml) neutral vegetable oil
Finely grated rind/zest of 1 orange
¼ cup (60 ml) + 2 Tbs total freshly squeezed orange juice –OR- replace 1 – 2 Tbs of the orange juice with Cointreau
¼ tsp vanilla
Pinch of cream of tartar, not more than ¼ tsp or pinch of the salt added to the recipe

Preheat the oven to 325°F (160°C). Have ready a 9-inch x no less than 3 ½-inch deep ungreased tube or Bundt pan.

Separate 4 eggs, placing the whites in a medium mixing bowl, preferable plastic or metal, and reserve 2 of the yolks, saving the 2 leftover yolks in the refrigerator for another recipe. Add the cream of tartare or a few grains of salt to the whites and set aside.

In a large mixing bowl, sift or stir the flour, sugar (less the 1 tablespoon reserved), baking powder, salt and finely grated zest.

Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients and add the vegetable oil, the 2 egg yolks, the orange juice and Cointreau and the vanilla. Beat on low speed until blended and then on medium for another minute until thick and creamy. 

Change or wash the beaters.

Using very clean beaters, beat the whites on low speed for 30 seconds then increase to high speed and beat until thick and opaque; continue beating as you gradually add the reserved tablespoon of sugar. Beat until very stiff: do not underbeat; the whites should be very stiff, more so than for an angel food cake.

Place about a third of the egg whites in the batter and, using a spatula, fold until the whites are blended in and the batter has lightened and the volume increased. Now fold in the whites in 3 more additions, folding lightly but firmly in until well blended.

Pour lightly into the tube or Bundt pan and bake in the preheated oven for 50 – 55 minutes until puffed up and firm when lightly pressed with the fingers. (You would lightly dust the top of the batter with slivered almonds if you desire).

Invert the pan over a cooling rack and allow the cake to cool completely in the pan – upside down.

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Orange Cointreau and Chocolate Marble Bundt Cake

VOICES IN MY HEAD

School has started, the sweaters have been dug out of drawers and closets, the evenings are just a tad shorter and a whisper of autumn is on the breeze. And our television series are picking back up; no more the dearth of excellent crime or political series from around Europe, no more need to succumb to the nonsensical, mind-numbing offerings on rent-a-film, all the Die Hard this and the Bourne that, the super hero this and the giant-fire-balls-end-of the-world-that. The city settles down once again into its natural rhythm.

I have written before about the ghostly presence in our old apartment. Doors suddenly slamming open with the force of a gale storm wind. Creaking armoire doors, knocking in the night, feathers left on the landing just outside the front door. “It’s your brother, you know,” JP assured me one day. So scientific, so pragmatic without the least trace of superstition, he felt Michael’s presence nonetheless. Or he felt my need to think so. Yet since we moved last November, I have lost his trace. No contact has been made and we wonder if my brother had not understood that we had changed homes, wonder if he is somehow stuck in that old apartment. Possibly he is wandering up and down the hallways, weaving through the rooms, jumping in and out of closets looking for us. Lost. Sometimes I stand on the street in our old former neighborhood and stare up at the windows willing him to notice me.

I felt like I had lost him. Even as I wrote about the fourth anniversary of his death, I felt a distance, a coldness settling in around me that had little to do with the season. I wondered if I was beginning to forget the sound of his voice or lose something of his laughter. I lie in bed at night sometimes and beseech him to appear to me, send a sign, move an object, anything. Yet there iss nothing but emptiness.

Until last night. I began writing this post yesterday yet had drawn a blank, simply not knowing what to say. I now know that I was meant to wait one more night. For I dreamed about him. He finally came back after such a long stretch of time. And an odd dream it was, too. He rang the doorbell – oh, I wasn’t in my own home. I might have even been somewhere that I shouldn’t have been. But he had come to see me. I picked up the interphone and asked who was there. “It’s Michael,” he answered, apparently having expected me to be the one to answer. Oddly, I could tell by his voice that he was already ill, that he was having trouble speaking and that his mind was far from clear. I panicked, fearful that he would wander off, that by the time I got to the door to open it for him, he would be gone. I panicked because I couldn’t find my clothes (oddly enough I was wearing nothing but an apron) and because I knew that from the bedroom in which I stood, it was a long, confusing way to the front door, a long way through a series of oddly organized, winding corridors that I didn’t quite master. I panicked; I would never make it to him in time.

I asked him to wait for me, urged him not to go away. He uttered something incomprehensible and then assured me he was there to see me, already his mind wandering away and then back.

And then I awoke. With the sound of his voice in my ears. 

And so I made a variation of the Chocolate Spice Cake with black cherries in syrup. The orangey flavor of Cointreau marbled with a light chocolate is delicate yet so pleasing, perfect for breakfast or snack. A drizzle of chocolate ganache just makes it that much better.

If you love the combination of orange and chocolate, then you must try:

Chocolate Orange Grand Marnier Madeleines

Nigella's Chocolate Orange Cake

Chocolate Orange Sponge Cake

ORANGE COINTREAU AND CHOCOLATE MARBLE BUNDT CAKE

Makes one 9-inch (23 cm) Bundt – can also be baked in layers or in a loaf pan but adjust baking time as needed.

7 Tbs (100 g) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
1 cup (200 g) sugar
2 large eggs at room temperature
1 ¾ cup (230 g) flour
2 tsp baking powder
¼ tsp salt
¾ cup (scant 200 ml) milk

2 Tbs Cointreau or Grand Marnier
Zest of one orange, preferably organic or untreated
¼ tsp orange extract

¼ tsp vanilla extract
1 Tbs unsweetened cocoa powder
½ tsp instant powdered espresso, optional

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Butter a 9-inch (23 cm) Bundt pan – (or two 9-inch layer cake pans or one loaf pan).

Place the softened butter and the sugar in a large mixing bowl. Using a hand or stand mixer, cream the butter and sugar for 3 to 5 minutes until thick, smooth and doubled in volume. Beat in the eggs one at a time, beating for a minute after each addition to increase the volume of the batter.

Stir or sift together the flour, baking powder and salt in a separate bowl.

Add the dry ingredients to the batter in three additions, alternating with the milk in two, beginning and ending in dry, beating after each addition until well blended.

Separate out 1/3 of the batter into a small bowl; if in doubt, use a scale and weigh the batter. In the larger amount (2/3 of the batter), whisk or beat in the Cointreau or Grand Marnier, the zest and the orange extract. Pour and scrape the orange batter into the prepared Bundt pan, gently evening it out around the center tube.

Whisk or beat the cocoa powder, the espresso powder and the vanilla into the remaining 1/3 of the batter. Plop spoonfuls of the chocolate batter on top of the orange batter in the Bundt pan. Using a long thin blade of a knife plunged into the batter and holding it straight upright, simply slash or run the knife in swirls, cutting and swirling the chocolate batter into the orange. Just do this twice around the pan. 

Bake for 45 – 50 minutes (Note: if using layer cake pans or a loaf pan and depending upon your oven, baking times may vary greatly, so begin checking the cake for doneness after 35 minutes.) The cake is done when a tester stuck into the center of the cake comes out clean - or cleanish, with no liquid batter.

Remove from the oven onto cooling racks and allow to cool for 10 – 15 minutes before gently shaking the cake loose and turning it out of the baking pan and onto a cooling rack to cool completely.

Slide the cake onto a serving platter, dust with a bit of cocoa powder and serve. For a more elegant dessert, serve the cake drizzled with chocolate ganache.

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CRANBERRY ORANGE PECAN MUFFINS

HUMBLE BEGINNINGS

The sky was dark and gloomy, the air was damp and raw, the streets were wet and sloppy. 

The smoke hung sluggishly above the chimney-tops as if it lacked the courage to rise, 

and the rain came slowly and doggedly down, 

as if it had not even the spirit to pour. 

– Charles Dickens, The Pickwick Papers 

While the wild, furious winter carpets the northeast with snow, as my distant friends awake to yet another morning of white silence, backyards and front stoops buried beneath glorious mounds of icy brilliance, I stand in the rain under gloomy, sluggish gray skies. Again. Not one to let that hamper my mood, I channel my inner housewife and decide that nothing sparks the baking flame like a rainy day.

Inner housewife aside, there is nothing that brings out the child in me quite like homebaked cranberry muffins. Delicate cakey muffins, just sweet enough (but not too much), dotted with deep garnet berries that burst on the tongue in a clap of fruity tartness much like the anticipated yet unexpected clap of thunder that shivers the skies. I pull out that long-ago recipe learned in the Girl Scouts or junior high Home Ec, a recipe that made me utterly once and for all fall in love with baking. And succeeded in mortifying me, making me feel completely incompetent. You see, a recipe perfectly executed under the watchful eye of teacher or Scout leader, a treat so perfect that I wanted nothing more than to rush home and duplicate the recipe for my family, somehow got flipped and shuffled around in my soft and tender young head once on my own. That original recipe, still stuck away somewhere among my youthful jottings, scratched down in my loopy grade school cursive, called for three tablespoons of Crisco. Yes, you see it coming, don’t you? By the time I gathered the ingredients and found a free afternoon to bake, in my eagerness and enthusiasm, overflowing with self-confidence, those three tablespoons became three cups.

 Years of Innocence

I pulled the tin from the oven and, much to my horror and dismay, discovered tiny muffin tops floating in a sea of grease. Alas. The experience dampened my enthusiasm, much like the weather that rages outside my windows. My brother – the brother with whom I spent Sunday afternoons pulling taffy across the kitchen expanse or pouring boiling sesame-studded caramel into parchment-lined pans for candy, the brother with whom I baked my first yeast breads - peered at the mess over my shoulder and comforted me in his own brotherly way. He told me not to give up, he urged me to just start the whole project over again.

Over the years, I have reconstructed the recipe, searched and adapted new recipes and developed the one I now make every single winter season, come rain or come shine. Oddly enough, this is one treat that all three of my men, each one more persnickety than the next, absolutely love. The tender cake is not too sweet, and this one I kicked up with the fragrance of winter’s orange. I added a handful or two of coarsely chopped pecans for the bite and doused the whole with a cinnamon-sugar topping just before sliding the tin into the oven. And once the scent of those homely, fabulous muffins fills the house, the men stop what they are doing and wander into the kitchen, expectations high. And we forget the rain and gloom, forget the endless chain of dreary days, forget the misery and boredom of being stuck inside the house, huddled together in front of the tv or laptops.

In the country, the rain would have developed a thousand fresh scents, 

and every drop would have had its bright association with some beautiful form of growth or life. 

In the city, it developed only foul stale smells, 

and was a sickly, lukewarm, dirt-stained, wretched addition to the gutters. 

– Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit 

CRANBERRY ORANGE PECAN MUFFINS
Makes 12 muffins

8 Tbs (115 g) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
1 cup (200 g) sugar
2 large eggs
1 tsp vanilla
Finely grated zest of 1 orange
2 cups (260 g) flour
2 tsps baking powder
½ tsp salt
½ cup (125 ml) milk
1 ½ - 2 cups fresh cranberries, thawed if frozen
½ - 1 cup coarsely chopped pecans
Tbs sugar + 1 tsp ground cinnamon mixture for topping, optional

Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C). Line a 12-muffin tin with cupcake papers or grease them well.

Coarsely chop the pecans. Pick over the cranberries and discard any rotten berries; slice any large cranberries in half. Zest the orange.

In a mixing bowl, cream together the softened butter with the sugar until light and fluffy. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Briefly beat or stir in the vanilla and the orange zest.

Stir the flour, baking powder and salt together. Add the dry ingredients into the creamed batter in 3 additions alternating with the milk added in 2: dry-wet-dry-wet-dry, beating briefly but well after each addition. Do not overbeat.

Using a large spatula, fold the cranberries and pecans into the batter until evenly distributed.

Spoon the batter evenly into the 12 muffin cups. Don’t worry if they are mounded above the edge of the cups, this batter is firm enough that they will rise up and not spill over. Sprinkle the top of each muffin with the cinnamon-sugar mixture if desired.

Bake the muffins for 30 minutes until risen, the top golden; a tester inserted in the center of a muffin should come out clean. Remove from the oven and carefully lift each muffin out of the pan and transfer to a cooling rack to cool. (Use a small sharp knife or kabob spike to lift them up out of the tin so as to avoid burning fingers)

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CHOCOLATE CHESTNUT CLOUD CAKES

AND LET THE FESTIVITIES BEGIN!

There is probably a smell of roasted chestnuts and other good comfortable things all the time, 

for we are telling Winter Stories – Ghost Stories, or more shame for us – round the Christmas fire; and we have never stirred, except to draw a little nearer to it. 

– Charles Dickens 

Hanukkah has come upon us in a rush, almost unexpectedly. Surrounded by the remains of our renovations, pampering a sick dog, befuddled and amazed by the busy-bee energy of our normally slow-as-molasses son, time has slipped by at an almost unreal pace and we are astonished when we realize that it has only been a month since our move. Four, maybe five short weeks. It feels like we have been here forever emptying cartons, stepping over heaps of tools, tripping over coils of wire, making so many trips to the dump it has my head in a spin! And now Hanukkah has arrived and I am just not ready.

Son and I go hunting for Hanukkah gifts as the afternoon light wanes, just before rushing home to light the first candle. Late, as usual. We join the jungle of bodies, the swell of humanity clutching bags and boxes, children crying, parents hustling youngsters in and out of shops trying to retain some semblance of dignity and holiday cheer. Son hurries me, skirting the gawkers, reminding me of what we are there for and urging me onward only wanting to be home. But I am caught up in the festive air of the city, bedazzled by the neons, the garlands, the flurry of Santa hats bobbing up and down the streets. The brisk chill invigorates and the Hanukkah spirit is upon me and all I want to do is drift, weightless, carried along on the sights and sounds and smells of Christmas.

I’m just a little sentimental this time of year as the skies deepen to a dull slate gray, misty and mysterious. We venture out at night, brilliant bulbs in green, red, blue and white piercing the blackness, flickering, floating, fairy lights leading us towards the center of town. Noise and laughter rise and swirl around us like snow as we are swept along in the bustling crowd, pushed and pulled in between the brightly lit wooden stalls of the Christmas market. The smells of popcorn and churros mingle with the heady, spicy scent of mulled wine, the salty, smoky fragrance of sausages coming from the booth hawking some far-off regional delicacies, making us yearn to approach, lulled like fairytale children, spellbound, being pulled towards a candy-covered fantasy of sweets and the warmth of a blazing hearth. Images of my mom far away, thoughts of my brother rush in to fill up the spaces in my head between plans for our own festivities and the jollity and mirth, the lightness and wellbeing now mingled with emptiness, tainted by sadness. My son tugs on my sleeve, gives me a gentle nudge in the back and I turn my attention to the stands of books and the bins of dvds.

The holidays back home, the holidays of my childhood, weren’t swathed in snow or faded into a misty Winter Wonderland; no children bundled up in thick, puffs of coat, stuffing hands into mittens, tucking ever-dancing feet into boots, tugging knitted bonnets on heads. Bright bulbs flashed against crystal clear skies, luminaries flickered up and down neighborhood streets against a backdrop of deep, lush green grass. Mornings were indeed punctuated by entertaining stalagmites sprouting up from neighbors’ garden sprinklers; Santas galore were perched upon rooftops dressed in flowered cotton shirts, shorts and flip flops, ready for the balmy Florida season. By afternoon, the morning’s jackets were peeled off and we were down to warm weather outfits as we piled into the station wagon to go Hanukkah shopping with mom. We had the only house on the block, in the neighborhood, bare of decorations, the only wreathless front door. No strings of lights hung from the eaves, no garlands graced the front window. My parents were discreet, practical and sober when it came to holidays. A lone Menorah stood in the livingroom, one gift per night, a gift we had most likely chosen ourselves, was handed to each of us before we gathered around the table for a game of dreidl, peanuts or M & M’s our tokens of choice. And we were happy that way, happy being together, laughing, singing, playing with our toys. For eight nights, brightened by the candles’ flames.

Chestnuts are delicacies for princes and a lusty and masculine food for rusticks, 

and able to make women well-complexioned.

– John Evelyn, 1620 – 1706 

No chestnuts found their way into our kitchen, nor graced our holiday table. Foreign, they were, to us Floridians who spent the winter eating citrus morning, noon and night. Pies in pumpkin, apple and cherry were reserved for Thanksgiving as was bird and sticky sweet marshmallow sweet potato casserole. A plate of latkes was our Hanukkah treat along with a tiny bag of Hanukkah gelt, thick chocolate coins wrapped in glittering, shiny gold foil, counted out, made to last eight days. These simple traditions have found their way into my own home as we, husband, two sons and I, gather round the old family Menorah, the same from my childhood, lighting the candles for eight nights, exchanging gifts and enjoying our time together.

No, no special holidays meals for Hanukkah, yet this time of year I love to bake and cook with those special seasonal ingredients that, for me, are forever linked to a joyous, sprightly winter: pumpkins and apples, oranges and chestnuts. And when I can add chocolate to the mix, well, don’t I just do it. After my recent escapade into decadence the result of which, a Chocolate Chestnut Fondant, was received with merriment, gobbled down by one and all, I decided to try yet another chocolate chestnut delicacy with the rest of the can of Crème de Marrons. This Chocolate Chestnut Cloud Cake gets its airiness from thick, creamy meringue which is folded ever so gently into chocolate and butter, flavored by chestnut cream and a festive splash of Cointreau, my tipple of choice this season. I first baked one single fluted cake and then repeated the recipe baking individual portions, mini Bundts and tiny cakes. And the holidays call for something more, a bit special, so each cake was drizzled with Chocolate Orange Ganache.

These wonderfully festive treats are perfect for December’s Monthly Mingle, created by my Zesty Sister and fellow Plate to Page instructor Meeta. This month’s host, my talented friend Simone of Junglefrog Cooking, asked us to bake Christmas Cakes and that is just what this Chocolate Chestnut Cloud Cake is!

CHOCOLATE CHESTNUT CLOUD CAKE with Chocolate Orange Ganache
Adapted from Crème de Marrons les 30 recettes culte by Sandra Mahut

5.3 oz (150 g) dark chocolate 70% cacao, broken into pieces
9 Tbs (135 g) unsalted butter
3 rounded/heaping Tbs (150 g) chestnut cream (crème de marrons Clément Faugier)
3 Tbs (30 g) flour
3 Tbs (20 g) unsweetened cocoa powder
5 large eggs, separated
½ cup (100 g) granulated sugar
1 Tbs Cointreau, optional

Orange Chocolate Ganache (this recipe can easily be halved):
3.5 oz (100 g) Lindt Excellence Orange Intense or equivalent orange-scented dark chocolate
½ cup (125 ml) heavy cream

Or confectioner’s/powdered sugar and unsweetened cocoa powder for dusting

Preheat the oven to 325-335°F (170°C). Butter and flour either a medium-sized Bundt or fluted tube pan or about 18 – 20 individual cupcake or mini-Bundt molds.

Place the butter and the broken chocolate into a medium-sized Pyrex or heatproof bowl. Melt gently either in a bain-marie, over a pot of gently simmering water or in the microwave; barely 1 minute on high heat in the microwave should melt the butter completely and more than partially, but not completely, melt the chocolate. Remove from the heat/microwave and stir or whisk until the chocolate is completely melted and the mixture well blended and smooth. Add the 3 heaping tablespoons of chestnut cream/crème de marrons and whisk to blend.

Measure the flour and the cocoa powder together into a small bowl and then sift the two onto the chocolate/butter/chestnut mixture. Whisk to blend until smooth. Whisk in the Cointreau, if using.

Separate the eggs, placing the 5 clean whites into a large, very clean bowl ideal for whipping meringue – I prefer plastic. If you like, add a drop of lemon juice and a few grains of salt to help stabilize the whites. Using an electric mixer, beat the whites for 30 seconds on low speed then increase speed to high; beat for about 2 minutes until the whites are no longer foamy, are white and opaque and soft peaks hold. Begin gradually beating in the sugar, about a teaspoon at a time while continuing to beat on high speed. This should take another couple of minutes. Continue to beat until all of the sugar is incorporated and the meringue is very thick. The entire process should take about 5 minutes.

Beat the egg yolks into the meringue one at a time, beating on medium or high speed, beating in each yolk just to combine.

Using a spatula, fold the yolky meringue into the chocolate batter, adding and folding in a quarter of the meringue at a time. Do not overmix.

Spoon into the molds and bake for not more than 30 minutes (if making one large cake, this could bake up to double the time depending on the pan and the oven). When done, the top should be set, dull (no longer shiny) and lightly crispy. The cake should spring back when gently pressed and a tester inserted in the cake should come out clean.

Remove from the oven and allow to cool in the pan until completely cool before gently loosening and turning out.

Prepare the ganache while waiting for the cakes to cool by chopping the chocolate and placing in a heatproof bowl. Bring the cream just to the boil and pour over the chopped chocolate. Stir until the chocolate is completely melted and the ganache well blended, smooth and creamy. Leave to thicken at room temperature, stirring occasionally, until drizzling consistency. If you like, allow to get very thick and then thin with a bit of Cointreau. Spoon onto individual cakes or slices as serving. Top with sugar pearls or other festive sugar decorations.

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GLAZED ORANGE COINTREAU QUICK BREAD

A BOOZY HOLIDAY SEASON

That first spritz of orange, the citrusy scent blended with the warm scent of cinnamon and the house finally smells like the holidays. As a Florida girl who grew up a stone’s throw, just a hop over the river from the orange groves, winter has always meant oranges, grapefruits and tangerines. Even in Europe. As soon as the summer’s berries and stone fruit disappear, leaving only faded imitations of themselves behind, when apples and pears pile up golden green just begging for my attention, I begin the impatient wait. To citrus.

The holiday spirit has invaded Nantes if ever so discreetly, so very French. The lights are already hung from lamppost to lamppost, shop windows have already begun adding to the display with shows of elves and polar bears, lush wreathes and bright garlands, trees green and beribboned or merely the suggestion of trees in white lights. I love the holidays yet how I miss the vibrant, exciting, overdone American version of Christmas. Homes weighed down under too many colored lights, Santa in his sleigh, drawn by reindeer prancing across front lawns or perched precariously on rooftops. Over-the-top gaudiness, ostentatious beauty infuse every observer, whether celebrant or not, with an energy and enthusiasm strictly reserved for December.

Although the French holiday spirit is one of understated elegance, I still feel the festive rush and make the best attempt possible to inject a little of that good old fashioned joviality and merriness into our home. In the best of times, we don’t really decorate, and now with the house still in moving/renovation limbo, I’ll be lucky if I can dig out my Hanukkah candles and set up the Menorah on our buffet.

But one thing is for sure, the holidays see bottles of Champagne cross our threshold; glasses of Champagne replace the usual wine at our festivities and elegant yet simple holiday smorgasbord. Splashes of Grand Marnier and Cointreau, a heady kick of rum or a vibrant infusion of Cognac feature in so many recipes. Chocolate and chestnut desserts put on a festive appearance infused as they now are with the joviality, the sophisticated charm of booze. And citrus. Ah, citrus, my winter fetish… goes oh-so adult with the joyful addition of Cointreau or Limoncello. Which is why Lora, Barb and I decided that December’s Twelve Loaves bread would be infused with booze.*

My choice? A quick bread. Orange, of course, a salute to the season. Orange blended with Cointreau, just enough to give the bright citrus flavor an underlying hint of warmth and earthiness. A beautiful cake, moist yet light, just that much less frivolous, a deep rich flavor lending gentleness to the perfect bread for breakfast, brunch or snack, a perfect holiday treat. Adapted from a recipe for Lemon Quick Bread from Taste of Home Baking, I knew that this simple yet luscious cake would look just perfect all dressed up in orange and Cointreau.

Now, you can bake along for Twelve Loaves December challenge. You know the rules, roll up your sleeves and start kneading or stirring… bake a bread from scratch, yeast or quick, muffins, scones, focaccia or anything similar, anything that can be called bread, and just add your favourite alcohol to the batter, the icing or the end result. Post on your blog linking back to our three blogs, mentioning Twelve Loaves and the December challenge (linking back to this post), then add your blog link to the linky tool at the end of one of our blogs to be included in our Boozy Holiday Roundup.

* If you do not want to add alcohol to your baked good, it can be replaced with extract or juice.

Want more delightful boozy treats for your holiday season?

Fouace Nantaise

Orange Cointreau Brownie Tiramisu

Christmas Cookie Tree with Mascarpone Limoncello Cream

Chocolate Orange Grand Marnier Madeleines

Chocolate Rum Bundt Cake



GLAZED ORANGE COINTREAU QUICK BREAD
Just a little bit boozy for the holidays!

½ cup (115 g) butter, softened to room temperature
1 cup (200 g) sugar
2 large eggs
1 Tbs freshly squeezed orange juice
1 Tbs Cointreau or Grand Marnier (or can be replaced by 1 Tbs more orange juice)
½ tsp Nielsen-Massey orange extract, optional
1 Tbs finely grated orange zest (from an untreated or organic orange)
1 ½ cups (about 200 g) flour, lightly spooned in measuring cup and levelled
1 tsp baking powder
1/8 tsp salt
½ cup (125 ml) milk (I used 2% fat/lowfat)

Glaze:
½ cup (62 g) confectioner’s/powdered sugar
1 Tbs freshly squeezed orange juice
1 Tbs Cointreau or Grand Marnier (or can be replaced with 1 Tbs more orange juice)

My beautiful new Edgeware zester! I'm in love!

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Butter a loaf pan, either 8 x 4-inch or 9 x 5-inch) and either line the bottom with parchment paper or dust with flour, tapping out the excess.

In a large mixing bowl, cream the softened butter with the sugar until blended and fluffy. Beat in the eggs one at a time, just to blend. Beat in the orange juice, the Cointreau, the extract if using and the orange zest.

Stir together the flour, the baking powder and the salt in a small bowl; beat in the flour mixture to the creamed mixture alternately with the milk, beginning and ending with dry, beating well after each addition.

Pour into the prepared loaf pan and bake for 45 to 50 minutes or until the bread is risen, the top golden brown and the center set; a tester inserted near the center of the bread should come out clean. Remove the pan from the oven and place on a cooling rack.

Sift the confectioner’s sugar into a small bowl and add the juice and the Cointreau. Stir until you have a very smooth silky glaze. Slide along thin knife blade around the edges of the cake to loosen and spoon and spread the glaze evenly all over the hot cake, allowing some glaze to dribble down the sides.

Allow the cake to cool completely before turning out of the pan and serving.

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CHOCOLATE COINTREAU FONDANT CAKE

DÉJÀ-VU ALL OVER AGAIN
- Yogi Berra

I would say to housewives, be not daunted by one failure, nor by twenty. Resolve that you will have good bread, and never cease striving after this result till you have effected it. 

If persons without brains can accomplish this, why cannot you? 

– Housekeeping in Old Virginia, 1878 

I can always sense when something has gone wrong. I can divine when my expectations will be dashed, my high hopes and excitement evaporating into thin air right before my very eyes. Dismay and disappointment wash over me, intermingled with confusion, a thousand little questions popping up like so many bright, blinking fireflies. I peer through the oven window, suffer the blast of damp heat that swallows me up as I tug open the door; I turn my head away and count one-two-three as the mist fades from my eyeglasses and turn back again to observe. I gently press my index and middle fingers down onto the cracked, sugary crust and hear that sssssssss of foamy, undercooked cake and feel the mousse-like quality of puffed yet wet batter. Will this cake, a creation that began as something so chocolaty, so orangey, so sexy, so promising, result in a calamitous failure?

Appearances can be deceiving. A failure, or what we imagine a failure, can sometimes be recuperated, or can actually be transformed into something more than worthwhile, something bordering on spectacular. A failure is merely a reflection of our expectations. We set the bar of perfection, we wring our hands in nervous anticipation, the suspense builds as we wait, each time we reset the timer, adding on just a few more minutes, as we carefully place that square of foil over the top of the browning cake, as we pray and beg that cake to puff and rise just as beautifully as the last time. Finally, we can take it no more. Afraid of an unmitigated disaster, assuming the worst, we switch off the heat and pull that pan out of the oven and drop it onto the rack. “It looks pretty good”, I firmly tell myself, trying to convince my better judgment, my worrywart alter ego. “It may actually be perfect! Moist but perfect!” And I wander off, better to let that cake cool in silence without my eyes boring into its very soul.

I didn’t fail the test, 

I just found 100 ways to do it wrong. 

– Benjamin Franklin 

I cross husband in the diningroom several minutes later where he announces “Your cake fell,” casually, almost as if it doesn’t matter. I dash in, heart stopped, stomach churning, disheartened, at the sight of that sunken crust. I twist the center tube up and out and place it on a rack unencumbered by the outer pan, almost expecting it to melt and collapse all over the table. But it holds. I wait until it is completely cool, afraid to move it, afraid to jinx what may otherwise be salvaged. And when I finally do, well, it doesn’t look so bad. I grab hold of the parchment paper and pull up, using my chin to press down on the tube until it falls away. I remove the parchment and flip the cake onto the serving platter, once again expecting it to fall into a thousand little pieces. Still holding. I make my ganache and carefully drizzle it all over the cake, as husband wanders in and comments about how it looks just like another one I did before and why make the same thing again? Ugh. I snap some photos, putting off the inevitable, avoiding direct confrontation of what could very well be something unworthy of my readers. I think back a couple of weeks when husband collapsed in fury, pulling at his hair and wailing over his failed attempt to waterproof the balcony of our future apartment which was a make-or-break necessity for installing the hot water heater. I calmed him down in my own sensible soothing way, as I always do, and told him nothing was a disaster; with patience, reasoning and thought everything could be recuperated and turned into a success. And here I was, berating myself for a failure. Silly.

There are no failures, 

just experiences and your reactions to them. 

– Tom Krause 

 The original Decadent Chocolate Cake with Christmas Spices

And so I took my knife and sliced. I took a few photos of that oddly shaped, dark, moist, dense sliver and then I did as I always do after a shoot… I tasted. A crucial part of food blogging that first taste, after all. And with that first forkful, as I wrapped my lips around the chunk of cake, felt the delicate mousse-like confection veritably melt onto my tongue, as my tastebuds were infused with a deep chocolate flavour quickly followed by a hint, a sweet surprising sensation of orange, unexpectedly ethereal, lingering long after I had swallowed, I realized that whatever had happened in that oven it was definitely not failure. Another bite, eyes closed, head filled with chocolate and orange as if breathed in from some bustling Willy Wonka warehouse of creation.

What had gone in the oven as cake had come out as fondant.

Maybe it was the extra liquid in those couple of tablespoons of Cointreau that did it; maybe it was the uneven oven or maybe I measured out too little flour. But whatever it was that changed the texture of the cake, my doodling around just with the idea to create the dessert that I wanted to eat altered forever the results. A little experimentation, a little confidence to dare to do something new, a bit of wishful prayers, worry and agitation channeled into something positive, and, as I told my husband that day as we stood and watched rainwater trickle under the plasterboard, a failure is only a failure if you allow it to be.

And, now that I think about it, this could all just be a simple and clear analogy for a writing career. The lingering bitter taste of frustration washed away with something sweet, the desire to teach oneself to transform imminent failure into success. Patience, determination, belief in oneself, faith that you can put the right ingredients together, toss in a splash of something exotic, the heady kick of courage and action, and yes, maybe you will turn that kick in the pants into something utterly satisfying. A success, just like that cake.

I served a slice of this Chocolate Cointreau Cake, now officially dubbed Fondant, to husband. Expectant glances, nervous waiting were finally answered with his “mmmmmm” and his “this is fabulous!” Oh, yes, it was.

And on another note... and speaking of successes, prepare yourself for the impending announcement of our next From Plate to Page food writing, styling & photography workshop! Dublin, Ireland. May 2013. Intensive, hands-on, non-stop sessions in a glorious setting, infused with convivialty, good drink and food, all the while honing your food writing, styling and photography skills and boosting your creativity! I'll be there!

Photo courtesy of P2P Tuscany alum Elizabeth of Roast Duck and a Big Gooey Cake!

CHOCOLATE COINTREAU FONDANT (CAKE)
With Chocolate Orange Almond Ganache Drizzle

Find the original recipe for Decadent Chocolate Cake with Christmas Spices here.

1 cup boiling water *
3 oz (90 g) unsweetened, bittersweet or semisweet chocolate
8 Tbs (115 g) unsalted butter
1 tsp vanilla
2 cups (400 g) sugar
2 large eggs, separated
1 tsp baking soda
½ cup (125 ml) sour cream (I used creamy 0% fat fromage frais/quark)
2 cups less 2 Tbs (250 g) flour (increase flour by 1 Tbs/10 g for a drier cake)
1 tsp baking powder
2 Tbs Cointreau **
Chocolate Ganache (recipe follows)

* What I love about cakes that add water is that all or part of the water can be replaced with other liquids to change the flavor of the cake; you can replace part of the water with strong coffee, orange juice or even the juice from jarred fruit such as cherries or blueberries. Just taste before using more than half a cup of flavored liquid. And make sure if you choose to replace some of the water with another liquid it goes well with whatever spice you decide to add. Or leave out the spice completely. And replace the Cointreau with Grand Marnier, Kahlua, Amaretto or rum.

** If you want the orange flavour but don’t want to add liqueur (Cointreau or Grand Marnier), feel free to replace it with the finely grated zest of an orange and/or ½ tsp of orange extract.

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Grease and flour a 10-inch (25-cm) tube pan. I lined mine with ovenproof parchment paper as I was afraid that the batter would leak out the bottom of the pan.

Chop the chocolate, cube the butter and place them both together in a large heat-safe (Pyrex) mixing bowl. Bring the one cup of water* to the boil then pour over the chocolate and the butter, allowing it to stand and stirring until completely melted and smooth. Allow to cool slightly. Stir in the vanilla and the sugar, then whisk in the egg yolks, one at a time, until well blended.

Stir the baking soda into the sour cream. In a separate bowl, combine the flour and the baking powder together (if adding spices such as cinnamon, add the dry ground spice to the flour and baking powder here). First whisk the sour cream into the chocolate batter, then the flour, whisking until smooth and homogenous. Whisk in the Cointreau.

Using an electric mixer, beat the egg whites until stiff peaks hold. Fold about a third of the whipped whites into the chocolate batter until most of the white has disappeared, then fold in the rest of the whites in one or two additions. Try not to overwork the batter as you will beat out the air incorporated with the egg whites, but don’t be afraid to really fold and make sure no white lumps of any size remain or your finished cake, gorgeously dark, will have white spots in it.

Carefully pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for about 50 minutes (depending on your pan and your oven), until the cake is set and a tester stuck down into the cake comes out clean. When I touched and gently pressed the surface of my cake at 40 and then 45 minutes I felt liquid or unset batter under the surface. After another couple of minutes, I touched and gently pressed the surface again and felt some resistance and knew that it was time to stick a tester (I use a long metal brochette spear) in. Done! Watch the cake carefully at the end as you neither want this cake underdone nor overdone and dry.

Note: as I mentioned in my story, the cake tester did come out clean yet this cake – with a bit more liquid and a tad less flour than the original cake did come out extremely moist, almost damp when cooled, sliced and eaten, yet it was light and ethereal, almost mousse-like.

To see photos of the cake as it comes out of the oven, look here.

Remove the cake from the oven and onto a cooling rack. Allow the cake to cool completely before loosening the cake from the sides of the pan (and the inner tube) with a sharp knife and carefully lifting it out of the pan. If you have lined the pan with parchment, you can grip the edges of the paper and lift it off of the tube. Then place a rack on the top of the cake, flip it over, peel off the parchment from the bottom of the cake, place your serving platter onto the upturned bottom of the cake then flip upright.

Prepare the Chocolate Orange Almond Ganache :

The orange flavor comes simply from using Lindt Excellence Orange Intense Chocolate with Almond bits in it; this is fabulous on this cake, adding just an extra zing of orange flavor.

Chop ¾ cup (100 g) dark chocolate and place in a medium-sized pyrex bowl.

Bring ½ cup (125 ml) heavy cream to a boil. Pour it over the chopped chocolate and allow to sit, stirring, until the chocolate is completely melted and the ganache is perfectly smooth.

Allow to sit at room temperature until it the desired consistency: to drizzle over the cake, it should retain its pouring consistency yet be just thick enough that it doesn’t all run off of and puddle around the cake on the plate.

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