Exceedingly appealing

I had not intended this humble walnut cake to be a topic of discussion. It was the fulfillment of a request of something simple to end a mid-week lunch ten whole days ago. No bells or whistles or sugarplum fairies required. No ballyhoo to be had, nothing to talk about here.

And good gracious, it was yet another walnut recipe. And not only that, it also represents not one, but another two recipes from Gourmet magazine, the apparent alpha and omega of my kitchen exploits. I assumed that my fancy, and our conversation, would move on to other things.

Silly, silly me. Despite the days that have passed the charm of that uncomplicated cake is still peerless in my estimation.

The preparation was as simple as can be. It all came together in a food processor, where toasted walnuts are left with butter and sugar to whir on their own for a while. Once smooth, they become what I can only imagine akin to what peanut butter wants to be when it grows up - a smooth blend of butter and nuts, intensely flavoured and sharply aromatic. Next it's just eggs, flour, baking soda and salt, and it's done, off to the oven.

What emerges is a cake that's fairly thin and mostly flat, with the gentlest of swells at its middle. Medium brown with darker flecks throughout, it is resolute in its plainness and yet exceedingly appealing. For the sake of fuss I improvised a frosting of one part cream cheese to equal parts soft, unripened goats cheese and butter, with enough icing sugar to sweeten and a splash of vanilla to round out the flavour. But the gilding was hardly necessary; the cake itself was memorable, moist with a tender, springy crumb.

I offered an Apple-Fig Compote at its side, fruity and jammy and tart to counter the resonant nuttiness of the cake. The combination was gorgeous.

So gorgeous in fact, I'll probably still be talking about 10 days from now. Maybe more.

Walnut Cake with Apple-Fig Compote

Recipes
Walnut Cake (omit the topping)
Apple-Fig Compote (see note below)

Notes:
• For the compote, I omitted the lemon juice and zest, and used maple syrup in place of the sugar. I popped a 1x1/4-inch piece of peeled ginger into the pot while simmering the fruit, removing it before cooling.

An impatient age

I am compelled to begin with a disclaimer on this one.

In full respect to the efforts of the family, friends and educators of my youth, I was a bright enough child; even if the story that follows might lead you to believe otherwise.

When I was less than a teen but over the age of 10, I came upon a curious round object in the storage room of my parents' house. It was about the size of a side plate, with an inscription on its face that was impressive and important in a bold, Old English-style script.

"This is a Round Tuit. Guard it with your life as tuits are hard to come by, especially the round ones. It will help you become a more efficient worker. For years you've heard people say 'I'll get that done, as soon as I get a Round Tuit.'"

Ha, ha. Funny stuff, we all get the joke. Except that I didn't.

Lost in the fanciful curls and swirls of the decorative font, I skimmed over the word "tuit" as "trivet". (This was also an impatient age for me, and I was often scolded for reading quickly rather than attentively.) From then on, I believed from that trivets must be Highly Useful Things. I was puzzled when the precious treasures were tossed carelessly onto counters and shoved into drawers with abandon, or squashed beneath hot pots at the dinner table.

Surely the adults knew that round trivets were a rarity.

Of course at some point I realized my mistake and I continued on with growing up. But what I didn't forget, was the importance of getting a round to it, every once in a while.

This is one of those times.

I adore condensed milk. I love it in baking, or spooned into dark, rich coffee or heavily-spiced tea. I have an unhealthy attachment to the little row of cans that are stashed in my pantry - and oh, don't forget, it can be used to make Dulce de Leche.

And, I must confess, I have been churning Condensed Milk Ice Cream for months, but have kept curiously quiet on the subject. That ends now.

This is shout-it-from-the-rooftops-worthy stuff. It is a churned adaptation of kulfi, the Indian frozen dessert made with condensed milks. Kulfi is densely textured and has a substantial weight on the spoon, but this my friends, this is unimaginably supple, with a deep, rounded creaminess. I imagine that if velvet could be made into ice cream, this is what it would be.

We had this ice cream alongside berries through the summer, and ate it sandwiched between these cookies in immoderate scoops. It's the one I'm keeping on hand to top pies and crisps and crumbles through fall and, in winter I'll skip the cardamom and there will be a shot of espresso involved. Maybe two. In spring rhubarb compote will be just the thing.

Without question, it's worth its weight in tuits. Or trivets.

Condensed Milk Ice Cream
Since condensed milk brands will differ in terms of thickness and sweetness, there is a range for the whipping cream. If yours is on the thinner side, you will want the lower quantity of cream, if thicker, the greater. Without a custard base, the method is blessedly fret-free. In fact, if one was careful, I think you could prepare the base of milks and cream in (gasp!) a microwave.

Ingredients
1 14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk
1 14-ounce can evaporated milk
1 fresh vanilla bean
3 green cardamom cloves, bruised but not broken (optional)
A generous pinch of kosher salt
1 to 1 1/2 cups heavy cream

In a medium saucepan, combine the condensed milk and evaporated milk. Spilt the vanilla bean down its length, scraping out the seeds. Add both the seeds and the bean to the saucepan, along with the cardamom pods and salt. Heat over medium-low heat until just under a simmer, stirring often.

Pour the mixture, along with the vanilla and cardamom, into a clean bowl or pitcher. Stir in 1 cup of the heavy cream and taste. It should be very sweet, but not tooth aching. If needed, add up to 1/2 cup more cream. Chill the mixture well, then strain and freeze in an ice cream maker according to manufacturer's direction.

Makes about 1 quart.

Of true affection

There is that saying about loving something enough to give it away, and if it comes back then it was meant to be.

I'm wondering if that applies to cakes, too. Specifically a Cinnamon Walnut Mud Cake.

I made this cake for a birthday celebration I was unable to attend. It was packed up with not even a crumb missing; an exercise in willpower and an act of true affection.

The next day a generous slice was brought back to me, with thanks, so that I could share in the festivities. I took this as a sign that not only was this cake meant to be mine, but it was also meant to be one I told you all about.

My friends, this cake deserves the chatter. As straightforward as they come in method, it is a melt-n-mix affair that was just right for a midweek birthday. Despite its brooding looks, the cake is has a surprising delicacy. A fudgy underside is layered with a cracked and crumbly, mousse-like top, with airy texture that immediately melts upon contact with the tongue. Bouncy for all of its darkness, like damp, rich soil that's made of chocolate and sugar instead of, well, dirt. Walnuts break up the crumb like supple pebbles.

I sent this cake out into the world with little expectation, and it returned as a gift for me. And while a selfish little voice my be murmuring somewhere in the corners of my mind, it is a gift I am happy to share.

Grab a fork and dive in.

The box in the photo was made by simplesong designs, and is one of Suann's wonderful letterpresssed creations. Her store is full of treasures like these pencils, and her blog is a perfectly-curated collection of things that have caught her fancy, as well as her own beautiful projects (be sure to check out the adorable invitations to her son's birthday and the dinner party she recently threw for charity - it's stunning). She's just fab.

And to all my Canadian friends, Happy Thanksgiving!

Cinnamon Walnut Mud Cake
Those who appreciate the depth of chocolate might want to substitute 4 ounces of bittersweet for the same quantity of semisweet here.

Ingredients
8 ounces (2 sticks, 1 cup) unsalted butter plus more for greasing the pan
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
12 ounces semisweet chocolate, chopped
4 eggs
1 cup dark brown sugar, packed
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup chopped walnuts, toasted and lightly salted while still warm
Cocoa powder, to serve

Lightly butter a 10-inch springform pan then line the bottom with a disc of parchment paper. Use strips to line to line the sides, pressing the parchment into the butter to adhere.

Preheat an oven to 350°F (175°C).

Sift or whisk together the flour, baking powder, cinnamon and salt in a small bowl. Set aside.

In a saucepan over medium heat, melt the 8 ounces of butter with the chocolate, stirring until smooth. Remove from the heat to cool slightly.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the eggs, sugar and vanilla. You do not need to blend them together terribly vigorously, just enough so that the sugar is dissolved. The mixture should barely lighten in colour and there will be a layer of bubbles at the surface but not throughout.

Pour the egg mixture into the chocolate, and stir to combine. Fold in the flour mixture, being careful not to overmix. Stir in the walnuts.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake in a preheated oven for 35-40 minutes, or until the centre is puffed and cracked. A cake tester inserted into one of these cracks should come out with wet, clumped crumbs; gooey but not liquid. The cake will continue to cook as it cools, losing its crown and falling back upon itself.

Remove the cake to a wire rack to come to room temperature. To serve, release the sides of the springform carefully and remove the parchment paper. Dust the top with cocoa powder pushed through a sieve.

Makes one 10-inch cake, serving 16.

Notes:
• If I am being honest, even though I have directed to sieve together the dry ingredients in the recipe, I may have simply dumped those dry ingredients onto the wet without adverse effect. Shh. Don't tell.
• This cake likes to be handled with care. For ease of serving, chill the fully-cooled cake for around 30 minutes before slicing and it will firm up. It can be stored at room temperature for a day or two, but I prefer to keep it covered in the fridge.
• A spoonful of sweetened sour cream makes an ideal accompaniment.

Nuzzle in close

I have been thinking about this Buttermilk Pudding Cake for quite some time. When I saw it's photo, with those carmine-coloured berries all snuggled up against a cushion of tender, melting cake, the image stuck with me. It looked like all things dreamy, served up on a spoon.

Nevertheless, with such a short ingredient list, the skeptic in me raised a singular eyebrow - something the actual me cannot do without looking oddly quizzical or slightly pained. Could such a meagre collection of ingredients really amount to a dessert that lived up to its looks?

Oh my yes. If I was not blissfully married already, I would be writing Mrs. Tara Buttermilk Pudding Cake over and over in notepads, with hearts all around. I might whittle a million pencils down to the tiniest of nubs, and my hands could cramp, but I wouldn't care. Not at all. I am head-over-heels lost over this cake.

After getting all your bits and bobs in order, this is a cake that takes all of five minutes to make (with a mixer, a little longer by hand), but tastes exponentially better than the effort it requires. After stirring and whipping the disparate components, they are folded together into a marshmallow-tender batter. It sighs and slips its way into a pan, baking gently until pouffed on top and turned luscious below.

The only gentle suggestion I might offer would be to switch the raspberries for fresh peaches, as around here, raspberries are terribly last month. We live in peach-growing country, and at present the trees are heavy with their weight. For this, you want the ample-bosomed variety, full and soft, with a velvet skin that begs you to nuzzle in close and get a bit familiar. That yielding flesh mimics the softness of the cake's custardy belly, in delicious repetition.

And now that you have been formally introduced I do believe you should give this cake a thought as well.

If you require more reason than the case I have laid before you, you could be like me, and take my unabashedly shameless excuse, disguised under a flimsy veil of altruism. First, agree to make a recipe for a loved one that requires buttermilk, then accidentally-on-purpose purchase more buttermilk than said recipe requires. Wait a few days. Finally, choose a quiet afternoon to nobly bake the aforementioned Buttermilk Pudding Cake, as you wouldn't want the excess to go to waste.

Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Everybody wins.

On a personal note, I want to dedicate this post to the talented and breathtakingly-honest Jess. She mentioned elsewhere that this dish took her fancy, and as she's been through more in her 28th year than many go through in decades, the least I could do is offer her something that might make her smile, as if to say - "We're so glad to see you on the other side."

Buttermilk Pudding Cake with Maple Sugar Peaches
From Gourmet.com, with minor changes. As you can see from the telltale marks on the dishes, this cake soufflés beautifully in the oven, but collapses quickly upon its removal from the heat. For the prettiest presentation, I would take the cake straight from oven to table in its fully plumped glory, then cruelly make your guests wait as it cools.

Ingredients
4 medium peaches, sliced into 1/2 to 3/4-inch wedges (or thereabouts)
2-3 tablespoons maple sugar or equal amounts of maple syrup
Softened butter for greasing the pan
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/3 cups well-shaken buttermilk
4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
3 large eggs, separated
2/3 cup granulated sugar, divided

In a medium bowl, gently stir together the peaches and enough maple sugar or syrup to sweeten to taste. Allow to macerate at room temperature while preparing the cake.

Preheat an oven to 350°F (175°C). Lightly butter the inside of a 1 1/2-quart shallow baking dish. Set aside.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour and salt. In another mixing bowl, whisk together the buttermilk, butter, egg yolks, and 1/3 cup granulated sugar until well combined and the sugar is pretty much dissolved. Add the liquids to the flour mixture, stirring until just combined. Set aside.

In a large mixing bowl, either by hand or with a mixer, beat the reserved egg whites on medium speed until frothy and opaque. Increase the speed to medium high, or if by hand beat faster, and start adding the remaining sugar a tablespoons at a time, beating well to incorporate each addition. Continue whipping the egg whites until they just hold a stiff peak. Do not over beat.

Working quickly but gently, stir about one-third of the egg whites into the prepared batter. Once almost combined, add another third of whites, this time folding the batter over the whites to incorporate thoroughly. Repeat with the last of the whites.

Pour the batter into the prepared baking dish, place this dish in a larger dish or roasting pan, and pour hot water from a recently-boiled kettle in the larger pan until it comes halfway up the sides of the smaller. Bake the cake in this water bath in the preheated oven for 4- to 50 minutes, until puffed and golden. Remove from the oven and allow to cool 5 to 10 minutes before serving with the peaches alongside.

Serves 6, but I would really think 4, greedily, is the way to go. Sharing is difficult with this one.

Notes:
• I used Brien's superfine maple sugar, which has lighter taste than others I have tried, with an understated sweetness rather than that throat-warming hit associated with maple syrup. I further preferred maple sugar over syrup as it seemed to draw more juices out of the peaches, and thickened those juices only slightly.

Glowed in my mind

I used to have a particular prejudice against banana cream pies. When I thought of them, I thought of flabby pastry barely-restraining globs of pudding soused with imitation banana flavouring and topped with mounds of cotton-candy-sweet cream. I assumed their only use was as the punchline to a gag; the projectile of choice for one clown to toss squarely into the pucker of another - most likely right after they had exited the confines of a very small car. Discarded pie everywhere, the crowd erupts in riotous laughter.

That is what I thought of banana cream pies.

As with most prejudices, mine was not rooted in much reason. Save for an encounter with some aggressively-flavoured banana pudding I had at a friends house as a child, I do not think I have ever tried anything remotely associated to a banana cream pie. Banana bread, we're old acquaintances. But banana cream pie and I were pretty much strangers.

Most often I see it offered against the gleaming expanse of diner counters, on mile-high cake stands, with its pristine swirls captured under a glass dome. I am almost enticed. But then my wandering eye catches glimpse of Banana Cream's sibling Coconut or its dreamy cousin Chocolate, both equally (and moreso) tempting. There's no contest. It hardly needs saying that my preference consistently falls with the the latter.

My dear friend, all of that is in the past. For now I am a full-fledged, card-carrying convert.

These past few days, I have had reason to feel thankful. Thankful in a way that makes you feel lucky. That makes you feel cared for. That makes you feel light. I have had good reason to feel crazy as well, but the thankful part far outweighs all of that nonsense.

I wanted to bake something for those responsible for some of that gratitude, to wordlessly express how much their efforts were appreciated. I feel like a Wednesday is a fine reason to celebrate when they are around. With book laid open, the recipe for banana cream pie grabbed my fancy and would not let go; the notion of a proper pie just about glowed in my mind with projected nostalgia.

So I baked my first banana cream pie. And what did I learn?

I learned that banana cream pies can be sublime. Now that is an often-used word when it comes to dessert, but a more apt description would be hard to find. This pie is worlds away from any of my preconceived notions. Crisp pastry cradles slices of ripe banana layered with smooth, spiced custard. The fruit and pastry cream are meltingly supple, melding into one, singular, wonderful texture. Atop all of this a cloud of heavy cream, barely whipped and barely sweet, tangy and bright with the addition of some sour cream.

If you are going to have a banana cream pie, please take my word and make it this one. This pie is not for throwing.

Banana Cream Pie
From the book Baking: From My Home to Yours (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2006) by Dorie Greenspan. A modern classic, this book is one of my most reliable resources - I have never been disappointed by a recipe. My family will heartily attest to that.

Recipe

Notes:

• I used dark brown sugar instead of light brown sugar in the filling as that was all I had on hand. The resulting custard had a deep, rich caramel flavour; its colour was a bit muddied, but we didn't mind.
• I added a good pinch of ground ginger to go along with the cinnamon and nutmeg.