Brilliantly new

Images of a long weekend. Signs of spring; candy-coloured chocolate eggs and blooming red shoes.

I have my own little ritual to start the day.

Most mornings we get up just before the sun rises; we make our way downstairs in the dim predawn, drawn like moths to the glowing red eye of the coffee maker. My husband and I will chat quietly with pajamaed little boys cheerfully groggy, (relatively) quietly content to keep Mummy and Daddy company around the kitchen table.

But the day is not started yet.

My day truly begins about two hours after I get up. After coffee and orange juice and breakfast, we make our way back upstairs. This is when the day begins, as I move from room to room, pulling back the blinds which have hidden the sun from view. The windows, now unencumbered, welcome the light as it streams in.

Why, hello there World.

This is the most energetic light of the day, clear and true. Even in the winter, I anticipate this moment of revelation, this ceremony of bringing the day into our home. Now that spring has thankfully arrived on our doorstep, the morning light is even more radiant, growing increasingly-golden as the days go by.

It is a light that renders everything new, every day full of possibility.

There is a newness to childhood that I had forgotten. So many things that we grow to take for granted is bran-spankin-brilliantly new to a little one. William is in the thick of it, crawling and standing and exploring the boundaries of this new world of discoveries. There is glee in the discovery of the ability to clap, wonder at the skill of rolling a ball, unabashed joy at knocking down a block tower.

While our Benjamin has been through first teeth, first steps, first words already, he's not done yet discovering, not by a long shot. He's just getting started.

At three years of age, he has entered the world of reason. He asks questions. A lot of questions.

"Why do I need that?" (on wearing a coat)
"Who is that guy?" (in the grocery store)
"How does that work?" (too popular to pick one example)
"Where does this go?" (completing a puzzle)
"What is this?" (on oh-so-many things)

It is amazing to observe him as he considers his world. When Ben was very small, we were more concerned with the big picture, with labels like boy and dog and cat and apple. Now we also can consider the details, how he is a boy and a brother and a son and a Benjamin. And a bird can be brown and red and fat and a robin, too.

The same sort of diversity is explored in food. As much as we rely on our established recipes, variation is welcomed. Eggs can be fried and scrambled and poached and omelets and boiled; they need not be only one way.

Now and again I make it a particular point to seek out discoveries, just so I can see our boys process the new. I pretend to be casual, while slyly watching their expressions transform from curious to interested, then ponderous, and then finally wonder lights up their eyes - with this new thing, their world is forever changed. And it is marvelous.

Often, their grins match my own.

Lately we have been eating a lot of popcorn, since Benjamin declared it his favourite snack. We have always made it in relatively the same manner, with butter and salt, but sometimes with herbs and garlic or a grating of Parmesan. Curious to see his reaction, I thought I would try my hand at making caramel popcorn, one of my guilty pleasures and something he had never had before.

Pressing my luck, I chose a recipe outside the realm of the usual caramel corn - one that was salty sweet, with a hit of spice to add some interest. Last Halloween we roasted pumpkin seeds then tossed them in a heady mix of cumin, cinnamon and ground ginger. They were addicting, and Benjamin was a particular fan.

The result was more than I could have hoped for. At first the taste is sugary-sweet, then as the caramel dissolves the spices become evident. Each bite builds upon the savoury, but is never overpowering. My only trouble is, now that we've come upon this popcorn, I am not at all inclined to try another.

I might have to abandon my good intentions, at least as far as popcorn is concerned.

The publication in the photos is the ridiculously-brilliant Uppercase magazine, from the exceptional minds behind the Calgary-based gallery of the same name. It is, in a word, gorgeous. This is their inaugural issue, and I highly recommend picking up a copy. You can thank me later.

Speaking of magazines, have you entered your name in the giveaway yet?

Spicy sweet caramel corn
What you get when you mash up two recipes from Martha Stewart with a healthy dose of inspiration from David Lebovitz. Baking the popcorn makes for a thinner, crisper coating.

This recipe is technically a half batch; I find it an easy amount to handle, especially as there is only a modest amount of bubbling, scorchingly-hot sugar syrup to worry about. However, if you are making this for a crowd, or for any more than say two greedy adults and a toddler, I'd go ahead and double the quantities.

Ingredients
6 cups of popped popcorn (plain, without seasoning)
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon ground cumin
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/8 teaspoon red chili powder, or to taste
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 tablespoon Demerara sugar (optional)
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature
2 tablespoons light corn syrup
1 tablespoon water
sprinkling of fine salt (optional)

Preheat an oven to 250°F (120°C). Line a half sheet pan or baking pan with a nonstick baking mat (Silpat) and set aside. Have your popcorn standing by in a large, wide bowl.

In a small bowl, stir together the salt, cumin, cinnamon, ginger, baking soda and chili powder. Set aside.

In a medium, heavy-bottomed saucepan, combine the butter, sugars, corn syrup and water over medium heat. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the butter is melted and the sugar is dissolved. Without stirring, bring to a boil. If necessary, use a pastry brush dipped in water to wash down the sides of the pan and remove any crystallized sugar. Swirling the pot gently now and again, allow the sugar to cook until golden in colour, around 5 minutes. Remove saucepan from heat and, working quickly, use a heatproof spatula to stir in the prepared spice mixture. Note that the sugar will bubble up due to the baking soda. Allow the foaming to subside slightly, it will only take a few seconds, before proceeding.

Quickly (and carefully) pour the caramel over the popcorn, stirring and tossing to coat. Spread the popcorn as evenly as possible over the prepared baking sheet and bake in the preheated oven for 30 minutes. While baking, stir the popcorn occasionally, gently breaking up any large clumps and keeping the popcorn in an even layer. The last time you stir the popcorn, maybe about 5 minutes before taking the tray out of the oven, sprinkle with some fine-grained sea salt, if using.

Allow the popcorn to cool completely on the tray, then break up any remaining large clusters. Store in an airtight container for up to 1 week.

Makes around 6 cups.

Notes:

• If I had not been out of light brown sugar earlier this week, I would have followed David Lebovitz's suggestion of using it instead of granulated.
• I use Kashmiri chili powder.
• While I like my caramel corn unadorned, nuts would most likely be welcomed in this recipe.
• See the link above to the Martha Stewart recipe for notes on popping popcorn on a stovetop.

Just that bit friendlier (and a giveaway!)

It was the loaf pans, I think. They were at the start of all of this.

When I set about baking homemade sandwich bread, I tried Julia Child's recipe. A recipe which specifies a 8-by-4-inch loaf pan, instead of the more common (and larger) 9-by-5-inch variety. After baking my loaves and admiring their modelesque proportions (slim, tall), I was smitten. I took to baking many of my breads and cakes in these pans, thinking there was no harm in my fondness for foods on a smaller scale.

But those pans served only as a gateway to increasingly-elfin baked goods.

When baking a pound cake, I brought out miniature tube pans and split it into six. Banana bread was divided into eight little loaves to be tucked into lunches. My super-secret recipe Chocolate Crunch Bars were made in individual squares, rather than a monstrous slab. And then, of course, there were those Valentine's Day cupcakes.

Somewhere along the way of this Lilliputian baking, I had two realizations. Well, one realization, and one moment's pause. First, I realized I have amassed more than a few baking pans. Second, I became somewhat self-conscious about my weakness for the wee.

You see, dear reader, there has been some recent criticism of diminutive cakes.

I can agree that some cupcakes are over-the-top sweet, with such an excessive helping of tooth-aching frosting that they are nearly impossible to enjoy. And I do think that some bakeries have gone a trifle mad in their pricing of these cakes.

But I cannot subscribe to the theory that lies at the root of much of the disapproval. The objection of the individuality of the single-serving cake, a trait seen as embodiment of the "mine-all-mine" mentality that represents all that is wrong with the world.

In the eyes of these critics, the small is associated with the sole, and that is seen as sad. Lonely, even isolated.

And so, if no man should be an island, should no cake be a cupcake? Has this predilection for the compact been the result of a larger trend of greed?

Pshaw.

Now lest I ignite a debate on whether or not there is room in this world for a moment to treat oneself (I am firmly in the "yes" camp on that one), I will instead consider the fact that most of these criticisms are aimed at the purchase of cupcakes. There is no mention of making cupcakes; making them is another thing entirely.

Making small cakes almost always ensures sharing. The sheer number of of treats made in a single batch encourages generosity. Sure, a large cake can be doled out in slices and wrapped for giving, but most often it is served to those who happen to attend a specific event. In contrast, an armada of cupcakes (baked right in their travelling clothes) are perfectly suited to be sent out into the world - event or not.

You see, small cakes can be more approachable than one behemoth beauty. A layer cake on its pedestal is lovely, but a bit standoff-ish. All-too-often I have been at a party, admired the cake perched prettily on its stand, and noticed that nary a crumb has been touched. Unless the host serves, rarely does a guest feel bold enough to "be the first" to mar its pristine completeness.

But set out a tray of cupcakes, or single-serving squares, and they are scooped up before you can bat an eye.

Little cakes are just that bit friendlier. They do not stand on occasion. While a slice of cake may seem like it requires a holiday, a small cake slips easily into the everyday.

While we are at it, small cakes are cute and neat. Sure it is shallow, but even though I love some messy fun in the kitchen, I do believe that the recipients of my efforts appreciate the clean edges that personally-portioned baked goods provide. I am routinely inept at cutting straight lines, and so perfect shapes would surely be preferred over my mangled efforts.

But, all said, there is one trouble with making petite treats. Miniature baking pans are truly infuriating to keep clean. I have a serious case of dishpan hands from scrubbing all those teeny-tiny nooks and crannies.

I blame Julia.

Bittersweet chocolate cake
Adapted from a recipe for Chocolate Chip Mascarpone Cupcakes by Giada de Laurentiis. A note on its flavour; despite its appearances, this cake is not overly rich. It is the sort that is best with a cup of tea in the afternoon, or as a simple dessert. Canadians (and some Americans), will find the taste of this cake is strikingly similar to the chocolate glazed doughnuts from well-known national chain.

Ingredients for the cake
3 ounces unsweetened chocolate, chopped
3 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped
1 cup water, room temperature
1/2 cup sour cream, room temperature
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon fine sea salt
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
2 1/4 cups granulated sugar
1 cup vegetable oil
3 large eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
3/4 cup mini semi-sweet chocolate chips

Ingredients for the glaze
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 shot of espresso
around 1/2 cup of water
1 1/2 teaspoons cocoa powder

Make the cakes. Preheat an oven to 325°F (160°C). Butter and flour two 8-by-4-inch loaf pans, set aside.

Place the two types of chocolate in the top of a double boiler or a heat proof bowl set over a pan of simmering water. Stir until melted; remove from heat and allow to cool slightly.

In a small bowl, whisk together the water and sour cream to combine. Set aside.

In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Set aside.

In a large bowl, using a hand mixer or whisk, beat together the sugar and oil until well blended, around 1 minute. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Scrape down the sides of the bowl as needed. Stir in the vanilla, then the cooled chocolate. Add flour mixture alternating with sour cream, starting and ending with the flour mixture and stirring until just blended. Stir in the chocolate chips.

Divide the batter between the two prepared pans and bake until a cake tester inserted into the middle of the loaves comes out clean, around 55-65 minutes. Remove from oven, cool 10 minutes in pan, then remove the cakes to a wire rack to cool completely (right side up).

For the glaze, take the shot of espresso and pour it into a 1/2 cup liquid measure. Add enough water to bring the level up to a 1/2 cup. Pour the water mixture, sugar and cocoa into a small saucepan and whisk to combine. Bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring occasionally. Simmer until the glaze is thick, about 5 minutes.

To glaze the cakes, set the cooling rack over a rimmed baking sheet. Using a pastry brush, paint the glaze all over the top and sides of the cakes; carefully apply multiple thin coats for the finest finish. Let stand until set.

Makes two 8-by-4-inch loaf cakes.

Notes:

• If you do not like espresso, use only water for the glaze.
• The cake pictured was baked in a Nordic Ware Pro Cast Brownie Bundt pan (thanks Mum!). In this size, the recipe will yield about 36 cakes.

And now for the giveaway. The fine folks at Subscription.com were generous enough to offer me a complimentary magazine subscription. Sadly, I am unable to take advantage of their kindness due to international distribution restrictions. So, we thought to pass the offer on to you.

Subscription.com will give one reader a full-year subscription to the cooking/food magazine of their choice (as selected by the winner from their list of titles). There is no cost to be incurred by the winner, the only condition is that you must be is a resident of the United States or have a US mailing address. To enter, leave a comment at the end of this post, with a mention of your desire to be included in the draw, and I will compile these comments into a master list (this way, non-entrants can still comment if they'd like). A random winner will be selected and announced on April 21, 2009.

My apologies to Canadian and international readers for their exclusion. There will be some more giveaways in the future to make it up to you; please understand that I simply could not pass up the opportunity to share this prize.

Rah-rah-sis-boom-bah

[Thursday, March 26, 2009: Due to an under-the-weather little one, I will not be able to post today . Until he's feeling better, here is a sneak peak at what we've been enjoying this week - a luscious Grapefruit Tart with a buttery, shortbread crust. Just a bit of puckery-brightness for these early spring days.

Back soon.

Tuesday, March 31, 2009: Everyone is all better, and so I am back. Thanks for all your concern and well-wishes, and for keeping a spot warm for me.]

Orange peel. Air that is sugary sweet and heavy, ripe with moisture and the scent of citrus. I shut my eyes and inhale, swallowing whole.

Its February and I am in my parents' kitchen.

For years, my Mum made marmalade; each time turning to the same book, using the same recipe for as long as I can remember. Stains and smears have turned the page translucent in places, smudging the penciled notes along the margins.

The ceremony of marmalade making took the day. The speckled charcoal pot, used only for canning, appeared from the depths of cupboards. Sterilized jars lined up like soldiers on the counter, gleaming, waiting to be of service. I have a mix of memories of the procedure; the infinite boiling, reducing, concentrating of flavours, the endless task of cutting the thin peel into even thinner strips, staining my nails in the process.

And although at the time I did not much care for marmalade, the notion of those jars is still one of my strongest culinary memories and present-day aspirations. What care was there of winter when there was such warmth in the kitchen, such delicious bounty to be enjoyed?

While the calendar may (almost) read April, it still (almost) feels like February here. At best, early March. Maybe.

The sun may be warm but the wind is not; it still breathes bitterly against our faces each morning, sending me shivering back into the warmth of the house and reaching for a scarf. Just the other day I was greeted with snow in the moments just after sunrise; it cascaded delicately, like icing sugar upon a cake rather than a true snowfall, but it was frozen nonetheless. This morning there was no snow, thank goodness, but the grass was frost-tipped and blue in the early light.

Spring is dragging her feet.

But, there is hope. There are the teeniest buds on our lilac tree; tiny, perfect little bundled fists of green, holding within their grasp the promise of warm days to come. The afternoon light has changed its character, doffing its winter garb of blue-grey hues for warmer shades of palest flax. And while I wait, as patiently as I can, for local rhubarb and asparagus and, sigh, berries to make their way to market, at least I can count on citrus to bring even more sunshine to our day.

Bold and boisterous on the tongue, citrus is rah-rah-sis-boom-bah blithe, full of cheer and high kicks. Citrus fruits are sharp and spry, marching merrily ahead as spring lags behind, with enough pep in their step to wake our palates from the sedative effect of a season's worth of comforting richness.

I was looking for a tag-along companion for a Sunday brunch invite, something that could add some brilliance to what could be a gray morning. Citrus was surely the ticket, and I wanted to journey on the path of least-resistance; some quick Saturday baking and Sunday primping, with little worry and few opportunities to be lead astray.

I wholly ignored the option of sometimes-temperamental shortcrust pastry, eyeing in its stead a forgiving shortbread crust. I passed on the idea of a persnickety curd for its filling; with its demands of patient stirring over gentle heat and its abject fear of overcooking, a curd can be such the little fusspot. Not what I was looking for in a brunch guest.

A grapefruit-modified version of a traditional Key lime filling was my choice, whisked together and briefly baked, it demanded only the slightest attention; its presence fit perfectly in the bleary-eyed pottering about of Sunday morning.

Yellow upon yellow, this tart speaks of brightness in golden tones. The floral notes of Ruby Red grapefruit are accented by twangy lemon, and tempered by creamy-sweet condensed milk. The shortbread crust is the perfect foil for the citrus, buttery against all the tang of the filling.

So thoroughly-cheered was I, I (almost) felt prepared to be patient as I wait for spring's arrival. Almost.

Grapefruit tart with shortbread crust

Ingredients for the crust
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature
1/2 cup confectioners' sugar
2 large egg yolks, room temperature
2-3 teaspoons heavy cream

Ingredients for the filling
4 large egg yolks
1 can sweetened condensed milk
2 teaspoons grated grapefruit zest
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
1/2 cup freshly squeezed grapefruit juice (preferably Ruby Red)
1 1/2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/8 teaspoon salt

Prepare the crust first. Whisk together the flour and salt in a medium bowl and set aside. In the bowl of a stand mixer with the paddle attachment, or in a large bowl using a hand mixer, cream together the butter and sugar on low until light and well blended.

Add the eggs yolks, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Scrape down the sides of the bowl as needed. Add the flour and mix until almost blended. Slowly add 2 teaspoons of cream, checking if the dough has come together. If it is still a bit dry, add the rest. Stop mixing as soon as there is no longer flour visible.

Turn the dough out onto a piece of plastic wrap, using the wrap to shape the dough into a flattened disk. Wrap tightly, then refrigerate for 1 hour.

After the dough has chilled, lightly flour your work surface. Roll out the dough into a 1/4-inch thick circle, about 12 inches in diameter. On a parchment-lined baking sheet, drape the dough over a 9-inch flan ring, fitting the dough gently and pressing it into the edges. Chill the dough for 10 minutes.

Using a sharp paring knife, trim the dough so that it is flush with the rim. Return the tart shell to the refrigerator for 30 minutes to firm up and chill thoroughly.

Preheat an oven to 375°F (190°C). Line the tart shell with parchment, allowing a 1-inch overhand. Fill lined shell with pie weights and bake until the pastry's edges are beginning to colour, about 15 minutes. Remove parchment and weights, using the overhang of paper to assist. Continue baking until the pastry is light golden all over, about eight minutes more. Remove from the oven and transfer to a wire rack to cool completely (still on parchment lined baking sheet).

Turn the oven down to 350°F (175°C).

In the bowl of a stand mixer with the whisk attachment, or in a medium bowl with a hand mixer or whisk, beat the yolks on medium-high speed until fluffy and pale, about 3 minutes. Add condensed milk, zests, juices and salt, and beat to combine, scraping down side of bowl as needed.

Pour the filling into the cooled prepared tart shell and bake until just set, about 10 minutes. Still on its parchment, transfer the tart to a wire rack. Cool completely, then loosely cover in clingfilm and refrigerate for at least 1 hour or up to overnight.

Allow the tart to sit at room temperature for about 10 minutes before serving; remove the flan ring and garnish with some softly-whipped cream, crème Anglaise or simply with a dusting of confectioners' sugar.

Makes one 9-inch tart, serving 12.

Notes:

• Alternatively, use the leftover egg whites to top the tart with a torched Swiss meringue.
• The tart as shown was baked in a 10-inch quiche pan with extra-deeps sides and a removable bottom. The amount of filling and pastry require a deeper capacity.

I love you anyway.*

Shown from their good side, the few that survived a cavalcade of failure; Fresh Apple Cupcakes with Swissamon Buttercream.

When you first fall in love, everything is perfection. Your hair is always neat, your clothes are always pressed, and you are never anything less than your wittiest, cutest, most capable and charming self.

Which brings me to this week. This week I have been a mess. The cold I thought I had long been rid of walloped me upside the head Monday morning; I was back to comfy clothes and congestion. A portrait of prettiness, indeed.

But this week planned to be special; it is the first Valentine's Day that Benjamin truly understands, and William's first ever. So despite everything, on Monday we made stained glass windows out of crayons and waxed paper, on Tuesday we made cards and banners and cutout hearts. Our tables were lost under pencil crayons and safety scissors, ribbons and rickrack, doilies and glue.

And then Wednesday we made cupcakes. With the intention of sending some of our sweet sentiments to our family and friends, I thought we would bake them early and have them ready to deliver on the days leading up to St. Valentine's.

I should have known better, and quit while I was ahead. All of our crafty endeavours had progressed with nary a hitch; all was bedazzled and beautiful, and I could have easily stopped the festive preparations there.

But no. I had wanted to do something specifically-special for our Valentine, our most favourite person in the whole wide world - Daddy. Daddy loves cupcakes, Mummy loves baking, Ben loves frosting and Will is often mesmerized by the whir of the stand mixer. It all seemed simple enough.

Oh, how I was wrong.

Maybe it was the sinus infection causing some sort of pressure on my brain that totally relieved me of my good sense, but I illogically thought it would be a grand idea to not only bake, but also create a new cake especially for my dear husband.

The flavours were easy to decide upon; apple and cinnamon - Sean's favourites. And while those flavours are old-fashioned and lovely, I did not want an old-fashioned sort of taste. I am already looking ahead to spring, and so I wanted a cake that was fresh and light, with a cloud of delicate frosting as its crown. Dark and decadent was not my aim; I wanted to capture the tart tang of an apple when you first bite into it. I wanted to set aside the sweet, deep resonance of slow-cooked apple pie or cobbler. Bright, twangy. That's what I wanted.

After days of reading over other recipes, I improvised my own. A barely-cooked applesauce formed the base, with lemon and sour cream highlighting that acidity. Cake flour was there for ethereal texture, and just enough butter to add a hint of richness. Perfection.

And then things started to go wrong. After making the batter I realized that I had the wrong size of liner for my muffin trays. I knew the batter would not wait for the required trip to the market for replacements, so I foolheartedly forged ahead, measuring and scooping, filling my 24 ill-fitting cupcake liners neatly.

Although my good sense knew better, I convinced myself that these little cakes could magically defy the laws of physics and remain upright even without sufficient support. I popped them into the oven and sent up a silent prayer, hoping that somehow they would bake up prettily.

Ten minutes later, I returned to the kitchen for a peek in the oven; one look, and I knew I was in trouble. Without the proper structure surrounding them, the cakes had risen unevenly; some cakes had crested over their liners and were oozing lazily across the tin, while others had simply given up any attempt to stand upright, instead sagging in on themselves rather sadly.

Undaunted, I rotated the trays and let them bake until done. Maybe all would end well.

Summoned by the timer, I returned to the kitchen to experience the most fabulous of scents; buttery, vanilla-scented air greeted me. It smelled gorgeous. Unfortunately, when I opened the oven door, not everything looked as good as it smelled. Most of the cakes were okay, some even fine, but others were especially Suessian in their looks.

It was of these skewed morsels that I split open to share with Benjamin to try. As we bit into our cake, still warm from the oven, I watched as his face lit up with pride and delight. The cupcake was delicious.

Tender, moist and with subtle apple coming through, the taste was perfect.

I had already planned my frosting, a Swiss meringue buttercream accented with cinnamon; maybe icing could cover my multitude of sins. I could feel that my energy was waning but, buoyed by the cupcakes (or perhaps a sugar rush), I tackled the recipe with gusto and fingers crossed that if I hurried, I would could hold off my cold symptoms until everything was finished.

To rush is to fail when it comes to certain things. Swiss meringue buttercream is one of those things. In my haste, I did not allow the meringue to completely cool before adding my butter; there was enough residual heat in the bowl to turn the frosting from a marshmallow-y mass to a melted mess. The fat turned liquid, and the meringue deflated under the weight.

That's when I walked away from the kitchen for a few hours.

Batch number two came together later in the evening, and without incident. Due to the crooked tops of a few of the cakes, some of my swirls were comically slanted when frosted. Nevertheless, these fairy cakes had their own whimsical charm that had me smitten.

And that is when the final disaster struck. I was lifting the cupcakes off the counter when I inexplicably lost all co-ordination and stumbled, losing my grip on their tray in the process. The cakes were not dropped from a great height, mind you, but from just enough that a few bumped their brethren; just enough that those then tumbled sideways, squashing their curlicued peaks into flattened plateaus.

Hearing my startled yelp, Benjamin ran over to see what was the matter. He saw the tray, surveyed them thoroughly and declared with a grin, "I love these cupcakes. Can I have one please?"

The way he looked at me, I felt brilliant.

Being a Mummy has taught me many things. It has taught me what blocks make the tallest towers, the words to The Gruffalo by heart, speedy tricks for effective stain removal, that baby giggles trump alarm clocks, that kisses can make most boo-boos better and that disheveled hair and smeared frosting will not stop some people from thinking that you're nifty.

Thank goodness for that. Happy Valentine's Day.

* Anyone with small children in their lives might recognize the title; it is the last line from the book Olivia (Atheneum/Anne Schwartz Book, 2000) by Ian Falconer.

Fresh Apple Cupcakes with Swissamon Buttercream
The title is a bit kitch, but Valentine's Day deserves a bit of fun.

As this was the first time I have made this recipe, and since the results tasty but inconsistent, I am going to hold off from publishing the details just yet. I will be sure to share once I have tried it again and everything is just right.

A matter of taste; even more chocolate cake

A sugar-high birthday; taste testing chocolate cakes. In the bottom left photo, the famed Double Layer Chocolate Cake (in cupcake form) sits to the left of Martha Stewart's One Bowl Chocolate Cupcakes.

January 16th marked Benjamin's third birthday, a perfect excuse for round two of the chocolate cake battle raging in my recipe file. Our biggest little man had requested "chocolate with chocolate" to celebrate his day, and what sort of Mummy would I be if I refused?

I forget how it was exactly, but I stumbled upon the recipe for Double Chocolate Layer cake, from Chef Ed Kasky (as published in Gourmet magazine, March 1999). I must have been living under a rock this last decade, because this cake has quite a following, with over 1200 (hyperbole-laden) comments on Epicurious. It has also appeared on countless other sites and discussed in detail.

With all of that fanfare, there was no alternative than to try this cake for myself. It might be a bit of retread of covered territory, but I have never been one to deny my curiosity. I had to know what the fuss was about.

With multiple celebrations ahead of us, I followed my same procedure as before, this time with Martha Stewart's One Bowl Cupcakes, as published in her Baking Handbook (Clarkson Potter, 2005), against the lauded Double Layer Chocolate cake. The major difference between the two recipes is that the former is an all-cocoa preparation, whereas the latter includes both cocoa and melted chocolate. It should be noted, as reported in my earlier test, that I substitute some prepared coffee for the water called for in the Stewart cake.

The batters were equally-easy to come prepre, with the Gourmet recipe notably thinner in its consistency. The Stewart batter was more viscous, and was my preference when I surreptitiously licked some from the bowl while cleaning up.

Half of each batter went into cupcakes, with their liners marked to indicate the recipe used. The remaining batter was combined, weighed, divided and baked into layers for a single, staggeringly-tall four-layer cake. It was one of the tallest cakes I have ever made, taller than it was wide, and inspiring an awed reaction from our birthday boy.

Despite the impressive stature of the cake, the cupcakes were of my real interest. Using the same (by weight) of batter for each cup, the Martha Stewart cupcakes baked up ever-so-slightly taller, with a gentle dome and a bit of a rimmed edge. They were pretty, perfectly-formed and slightly cracked on top, an example of what a cupcake should look like. The Gourmet recipe baked up slightly flatter, but beyond that, the texture, colour and overall look of the cupcakes were identical.

So it was down to taste. We tasted the two blindly, cake alone and then with frosting, and it was a unanimous decision.

The Gourmet recipe for Double Chocolate Layer Cake won.

Here's the thing. This cake deserves fanfare. The most fantastic, festive, fanciful fanfare that you can imagine - and more. Deeply flavoured, with a dark and even crumb, the cake is moist and tender but just a bit toothsome. Truthfully, it is similar to the Martha Stewart recipe, boasting just about every quality that had made me declare it the winner over Beatty's Chocolate Cake from Ina Garten last summer. Where the Gourmet cake took an edge was in its subtle fudginess, a bit of (excuse the technical term) squidgy-ness, that made each bite that much more satisfying.

Now I will admit I am tempted to try the One Bowl Chocolate Cupcakes with a bit of melted chocolate stirred in, just to see how it would turn out. But for now, I am more than satisfied to say that the Double Layer Chocolate Cake from Gourmet warrants its fame.

Double Chocolate Layer Cake
From Chef Ed Kasky, as published in Gourmet Magazine, March 1999.

The recipe can be found online here.

Notes:
• Some comments on the Epicurious site report that they have had trouble with the Double-Chocolate Layer Cake overflowing their standard 10" pans. The recipe specifically requires 2" deep pans, which may remedy this problem. I can only comment on the taste of the cake, as I baked mine in four 8" round cake pans, with the remainder used for cupcakes, as pictured.

One Bowl Chocolate Cupcakes
From Martha Stewart's Baking Handbook.

The Martha Stewart Recipe from the Baking Handbook is not the same as the One Bowl Cupcakes recipe that has been published on her site online, nor is it the one that was published in Martha Stewart Living for February 2009. The recipe is subject to copyright; however, a quick search does find it published online (you are looking for the recipe that begins with flour as the first ingredient).