GourmandeMom™

Bay Fishing, Taco Night, and Fried Fresh Snapper

To my family's surprise, I was game for the 4-hour bay fishing excursion on our
family vacation on the Texas coast. This is a big change from the last outdoorsy thing I had to do/did on a family vacation: when I was in fifth grade my parents had to pay me ($5) to ride a horse just so all of us could go on the sunrise chuck wagon trail ride and breakfast at a dude ranch somewhere in Texas.  

I did not have to be bribed to do this fishing excursion, but nevertheless I am not
sure what I was thinking in being all gung-ho for as I had come completely unprepared when we arrived at Woody’s Sports Center with 40 minutes to spare (dad’s budgeting 20 minutes for an 8-minute drive into town put us ahead of schedule).  So I bought some sunglasses.  Bought a hat.  The kids are indulged in the iconic beach vacation food: bags of nacho cheese Doritos.

Finally, it was time to make our way down the docks in the marina with all the other
early birds to board the Island Queen. 

After a safety talk, and instructions from the crew on where one should relieve oneself in the event of sea sickness (overboard, not in the restrooms), the boat, at the helm of which was Captain Tom, edges out of the marina, building speed, slowly but surely.  The gulls are squawking, and the sun is streaming out from behind the clouds. 

I say to myself: well, hey this is all right.  I am glad for the 6 a.m. wake-up call for being out on the water in the morning sun at 8 a.m.  This is not so bad at all.

We go further, and further, and further.  Into bumpy waters.  Huge waves come splashing up in to the boat.  I love it, but I am soaked.  The son goes back up for more of a soaking as the boat rocks up and then down into the waves.  We drop anchor way, way out there where, though we are only still in the bay, it feels like land is very far away.

“Rods in!” the crew yells.  Huh?  

The rod and reel thing were beyond me.  And of course no way I’m touching that shrimp much less impaling them on the hook for bait.  But a nice man helped me with all that.  We all stand around with our rods in the water.  This is it?  But it’s a beautiful day. 

Uh oh:  20 minutes into the fishing out here there is the beginning of an almost-epidemic of motion sickness among the under-10 group.  A couple of them forget those crew instructions.... Just in the nick of time, the crew calls out “rods up.”  The anchor is pulled up.

Wow, really?   We’re done?  Whew!  Awesome!  That was not so bad.  I can say I did this and check it off the list. 

But no.  Not finished.  We had only been out for like 39 minutes of the 4-hour tour.

Apparently the drill is that Captain Tom moves the boat moved around to try for different fish.  From the mildly rough waters we moved around to calmer waters, near the jetty.   The son was one of the first ones to claim what was then the biggest fish of the day: a gorgeous 15-inch red snapper.

Others would catch their own red snapper.  But I did not care about them.  I cared only that Mom caught her first fish - ever -  the son caught a really awesome red snapper, and that for about 30 blissful minutes I had the entire top deck of the boat to myself to lie down in the sun, see nothing but water all around, and note with relief we only had 40 minutes left of the 4-hour tour….

Back into the marina and at the dock, the son’s fish is retrieved from where it had
been strung up.  We stop by the lean-to next to Woody’s and get the catch of the day filleted.  For $5.  We consider how to cook it....over lunch back at the condo and then later over dinner that night at the worst restaurant choice of the trip (I'll say for the time being that there was no artisanal pizza at the pizza place, but a pizza buffet and an 80s salad bar).

We finally had the family catch – last night. 

To get everyone at the table at the same time – and not have the day’s dining be just a series of snack times – and get all the kids interested in dinner at the same time, we opted for the family favorite sure-fire kid-pleaser: Taco Night.  We even set the table for it.  We even used real plates.

As everything else was just about done (the taco shells, the refried beans, the
taco meat (my sister Cathy’s special recipe: spicy Ranch dressing and regular Ranch dressing mix mixed into the taco seasoning mix), the queso, the chopped onions, tomatoes, avocados), it was time to fry up the red snapper catch. 

There was only one prize fish - did I mention my son caught that fish? -  but there were two gorgeous fillets out of it.

Recipe for Fried Fish

1. Make do with whatever random items your vacation condo has on hand to get the Fish Fry poured out onto a flat surface in which the beautiful fresh fish fillets may be dredged. 

2. For us, this step required using a grill pan/skillet for the (every other bowl, plate, etc. had been used to set the table and hold the Taco Night Fixins).

[Note leftover bacon grease in the bowl. 

We cook a LOT of bacon on family vacations.]

 

3.    While you were having some leftover Edna Valley Chardonnay (I can only handle Chardonnay at the beach for some reason), you should have been heating up the pan (the one in which the bacon was fried that morning) with a hefty quantity of vegetable oil.  

Fill the pan up high enough to get the fish all covered up once the oil is really, really hot.  Do not put the fish in too soon, i.e., before the oil is really hot. 

4.  Lay the beautiful fish fillets (caught by the son) in the really hot oil.

Do not turn too soon.

Do not turn too much.

Do not burn. 

Do not get impatient and take out because the gorgeous fillets look about done.

5.  Wait until the fillets of fresh fish are crispy golden brown, then take out the fillets with whatever implement you can find at the vacation condo and drain them on a paper towel. 

6.  Serve on paper plate (because all the other plates were taken...we set the table that night).   [Thanks to Mom for the lemon garnish here.  It really does make a huge difference.]

Good thing we had Fish Fry on hand from the trip to Port "A" Seafood Co. where we got the 1.5 pounds of shrimp the other day, thinking I would fry those up and try for my own best version (a la Tyler Florence) of a fried shrimp po-boy, which remains elusive for me.  

What is no longer elusive, however, is the best fried fish ever. 

We had it on Taco Night. 

Did I mention the son caught that fish?

 

 

 

Hruska’s: Ranger Cookies, Lamps, Kitsch, and Kolaches

After a week of baseball games, practices, scrimmages—not to mention driver’s ed classes every day for the son and a really lousy week of subpar food items at GM’s house because of all this (“Mom, do you realize I had donuts for breakfast [“hey, they were Krispy Kreme”], nachos for lunch [“hey, I browned the meat myself for that taco meat topping”], and now pizza for dinner” [“now wait a minute…that was a superb thin crust on the Napoletana-style pizza at Salvation Pizza”]--it is now the weekend again.  And that means a baseball tournament—in Houston. 

I love a road trip to Houston.  Far better than road trips to Dallas, which are a living hell because of just the way I-35 is all the way from Dallas to San Antonio. 

People are divided on the best route from Austin to Houston.  Some people swear by taking 290 through Giddings and Brenham.  Others would go no way but by Highway 71 through Bastrop and catching I-10 at Columbus.  I’m a 71/I-10 person.  I would rather stick a needle in my eye than wade through all those stoplights in Giddings, Brenham, etc. taking 290.

But the best part of the 71/I-10 route is a small stretch of road on Highway 71 between Columbus and La Grange where the speed limit drops suddenly to 55 mph.  It has to drop down precipitously because you need to slow down to take the left turn (coming from Austin) into Hruska’s.    And you need to slow down also to deal with all the traffic of folks just finishing their own stop at Hruska’s and getting back on the road to Austin or Houston.

I’ve been stopping at Hruska’s as my Austin/Houston rest stop for close to a decade now.  It is a Chevron station, yes, and therefore a very good strategic stopping point to get gas before hitting the racetrack that is I-10.  And it has always been a good potty break.  But there are a couple of other gas stations nearby – such as a Shell, which I don’t know how it stays in business with Hruska’s next door.  I think it only gets business when Hruska’s is jam packed and not a single parking place is left.

Which does happen. 

HRUSKAS’S THEN

Hruska’s was a super quirky place back then, and by back then I mean just a few years ago, but it was founded in 1947 actually.  It was a little dark in there, as in low, low-end lighting.  Seating to stay and eat some sandwiches you could pick up there was maybe nothing more than picnic tables.  It was a great bathroom stop, even then.  But it also had this crazy good bakery inside with insanely good kolaches – far better than tough doughy outsides and icky sweet insides I typically think of when I think kolache (leaving aside for the moment the bacon kolache). 

But the really crazy part is that it also had a home furnishings and scrapbooking section back in the back.  Even more crazy is that they had some really great stuff.  I should know.  I bought a lot of it.  

There was a time when I could not escape Hruska’s without getting a new set of lamps.  You could get a really darling little lamp for like $40 or far less. I have in my bedroom some cute black lamps with black and white polka-dot shades. I have this verdigris one that should be in the living room.  And the two little lamps on the buffet in my dining room are from Hruska’s. 

In addition to the kolaches, homemade bread, homemade egg noodles, and of course University of Texas Longhorn and Texas A&M  paraphernalia and ample kitsch and camo and “gone-fishin’ themed koozies, there were a few other specialty food items – some interesting sauces to pour over cream cheese to which you could add a few crackers and voila –instant tasty appetizer—and maybe some candles.  And of course the array of off-brand country western CDs up near the register and some cookbooks from the local ladies guild of one sort or another.

Hruska’s back then also had what were then (and now) the highlight of my visit there:  their specialty cookies.  They were packaged in a tidy little stack of 5 in plastic, tied with a twist tie, and labeled and piled high in square baskets – all along the top of the counter for self-serve purposes:  Ranger Cookies, Coconut Pecan Cookies, Chocolate Chip Cookies, Peanut Butter Cookies, etc. 

One day several years ago – during the weekly Houston-Austin treks with the son to check on house-building progress in Austin – the son, way young then, happened to pick out the Ranger Cookies.  I had never heard of them, but they quickly became addicting.  I noticed the ingredients: corn flakes, coconut, brown sugar, pecans – and that combo alone says something.  And they also must use my secret baking tip of extra vanilla.   Whatever it is, they became a staple and a ritual for me – for years –to stop at Hruska’s and get Ranger Cookies for the son.  I don’t know if he cares anymore, but the cookies still manage to disappear after I get them home.

Hruska’s Now

A few weeks ago I had to get to Houston - World Malbec Day at the Houston Polo Fields! - and it had been way too long since I had had a Hruska’s fix.  This time the traffic was insane coming up on Hruska’s– cars pulling in and out, into the middle lane to head east to Houston, pulling into traffic to head west to Austin.  Every gas pump had a car at it.  The parking lot was full and parking could be had only all along the curb and way down the street.  What on earth??

Well, Hruska’s was being renovated and expanded.  This I knew from the signage I’d been seeing during the past year.  But now, wow.  Hruska’s is on steroids.  It is all tricked out.  There are more and more specialty food items:  preserves and sauces and marmalades, candies, chocolate covered blueberries and coffee beans, gourmet coffees, and an express lane for cookies – for those wanting to just grab and go, those not waiting in the long line, to get a kolache or 5 or 10 and get them all warmed up to golden buttery goodness such that the tang of the cream cheese (for example) contrasts even more dramatically and deliciously with the warm tender buttery outside part… And there are rows upon rows of check-out lanes and lines of people – at all of them! 

I’m happy for the entrepreneurial spirit at work here, and love especially the mural they’ve done to warm up what is now a cavernous space, all light and bright now.

But I miss the old Hruska’s.  The people who work there are just as nice and efficient, but the quirky charm is gone.  As is the oddly good lamp selection from years past.  But, yea, I still stopped and got the Ranger Cookies today.   

In case you've been living under a rock as I had been, as I had never heard of these cookies until the son picked them out of the line up, there are recipes galore out there for Ranger Cookies -- but a recipe with corn flakes would be more true to the Hruska’s version and give it that funky texture of crunchy chewy.

I would never, ever try to make these myself. Just no point in ruining a good thing of picking up a warm stack of Ranger Cookies during a road trip to Houston.  And I'm pretty sure they are a better heart-healthy option than a stack of warm cream cheese kolaches.

My New New Orleans – Part II (Cochon, gumbo, tequila at lunch, and grits)

I was surprised Mom let me drive in New Orleans on our quick weekend trip to see family.  But this was thrilling because I love how I feel like a native in navigating that neutral ground on St. Charles Avenue when you need to whip around onto the median between the two directions of traffic, then bravely confront trolley cars while sitting there on the neutral ground perhaps, waiting for traffic to clear, and get into the traffic flow going the opposite direction. 

And so it was that I confidently set out Saturday morning to head toward our ultimate destination of lunch.  I had agonized over what our 1 or 2 meals in New Orleans might be for this short stay: Herbsaint?  Stella!?   Cochon?  

Cochon seemed about right.  It’s hip.  The name is awesome.  And it’s French (the word, that is).  And dad told me James Beard called the fried oyster and bacon sandwich best sandwich in the United States. I don't even like oysters and that sounds pretty awesome to me.   Cochon it was: and I got an on-line reservation for 12 noon on Saturday.  I recalled Cochon as being near Lee Circle, which is toward the end of St. Charles Avenue as you get close to downtown to cross Poydras and Canal and into the quarter.  Well, it was not there.  It was not because when you revisit the web site, as I did upon pulling over, the address for Cochon is not St. Charles Avenue at all but 930 Tchoupitoulas.

Along with all the mystical words that comprise New Orleans geography (street names such as Prytania, Demonsthenes, Terpsicore, Napoleon, Esplanade), Tchoupitoulas is my absolute hands-down favorite.  One, you sound cool saying it by the mere fact that you know how and two, it’s a visceral delight to say it.  Close to the coolness of “Atchafalaya” but not quite. You can get the pronunciation here.  And to the outsider, me, it’s a cool area.  Tipatina’s is there after all – back down on the part of Tchoupitoulas closer into town (heading toward the Garden District and Uptown) at the corner of Napoleon.  And the street runs all along the Mississippi River, with nothing but a levee separating this warehouse-y street and the river.

By the time we found Cochon the tension in the car was just starting to get a little more than palpable.   We were ready to settle in and eat and relax - and get out of the car.  There are long banquettes along one side of the restaurant, and our place was there, a table along the banquette.  I love a banquette.  I am a banquette hog.  I always opt for the banquette while trying to look not too greedy or anxious to get the banquette.  Ever since an investment banker with New York restaurant scene cred told me not to apologize for wanting the banquette, as etiquette dictates that the woman always gets the banquette, I am more at peace with my banquette mania. 

We are handed the menus. And so the fun begins.

Calvin comes over and takes our drink orders.

He points out to me the cocktail menu (how did he know?!) ... perhaps I would like a cocktail?  Insanity takes over – relief at just being here, and I say: “Yes- indeed, I'm in New Orleans on a Saturday afternon...why not a cocktail?”  

He narrowed down the best choices for me: I went with the Tiger’s Tail.  A little voice in the back of my head questioned the wisdom of having a tequila-based drink at noon.  I ignored this voice, as I generally do, and was in the end glad I did, even though, in the end, it was right that this was not a wise choice.

But just one look at the cocktail when it arrived told me it was a good choice.  Good color on it.  Not girly.  It looked herbal and healthy in fact. 

One sip confirmed the choice.  Not too sweet: herbal – that’s basil floating around in it.

And then, it happened.

Calvin comes over to take our order.  Mom asks Calvin:

“So...how’s the gumbo here?”

Had I not already non-daintily sipped my way to almost done with the Tiger’s Tail in under 12 minutes, I would have wanted to crawl under the table, concerned about Calvin's reaction to the charming inquiry/cross-examination he was in for concerning proper gumbo preparation.

The thing about gumbo is that everyone – or at least in my family – has very, very strong opinions about what a proper gumbo should be. What it should look like, what it should taste like, how dark should the roux be, and how dark is too dark. 

What one person thinks is a great gumbo is just not right at all for another person.  And you can find a great gumbo in the most unexpected places.  To this day, I dream about the gumbo I had at some hole in the wall place on a frontage road to I-10 on the way to New Orleans – somewhere around, maybe Lafayette?  Mom was with me.  She agrees.   That was a special gumbo.  We have no idea of the name of the place.  Which makes that gumbo legendary now if not mythic.

But I was glad mom asked the question.  She and Calvin had a lengthy, interesting
discussion about family history, family gumbo traditions, and the nature of the
darker rather than lighter gumbo at Cochon and how Calvin’s mom made her gumbo.

In the end, Mom did not have the gumbo.  And I was glad of this too. I would have had to have another cocktail to deal with the anxiety of whether she would like this particular gumbo and whether this lovely lunch outing with my mom in New Orleans, which was so lovely, would be diminished.

What we did have, in addition to a blast, was great food.  Mom loved the oysters on the fried oyster and bacon sandwich.  But she admits/confesses, she's not a big fan of bacon.  I am stunned.  We order more wine.

But the real star of the show?   The sides.   When I ordered as my side the eggplant and shrimp dressing, Calvin had nodded in approval.  “That is exactly what I was
going to recommend for you.” 

Grits were the other side we ordered.  Grits are another thing my family gets
annoyed by because no one knows how to do them right.  Mom and Dad will get all excited about a place having grits and then are deeply disappointed and critical.  So at those times when they order such things, deep down I cringe:  “No.  Don’t do it.  Don’t order it.  You know you’re not going to like it.  You know you’ll be disappointed.”  But these grits were right on.  And now I understand why mom’s
radar goes on high alert if grits are a side anywhere.  But they are never like this.  These grits must have had cups and cups of heavy cream.  Not a bit of the graininess you may get in a disappointing batch.  These are high-end grits.

But the dressing. 

We will leave oyster dressing for another day – recall that post from back in December and the ritual of making oyster dressing.  This dressing is like that: a bread-based one, that soft texture, but with ample chunks of goodness in the shrimp scattered throughout in hot crusty casserole brought to the table in a miniature cast iron skillet.  This stuff does not photograph well, but I'll give it a try.  It was delicious: hot, savory, interesting enough to make you take bite after bite after you say no, no more, must not.

And as the second glass of wine kicked in post tequila cocktail, the sight of a dessert with chocolate and salted caramel said to me: “Yes, must
try me.  You know you want to.”

And so I did. 

We also ordered the Chocolate Cream Pie with Salted Caramel.

 

 

It was layers of a thick chocolate ganache it seemed, followed by a layer of salted caramel, followed by more layers, followed by a layer of homemade marshmallow, and then topped with malted milk ball crumbles.

And our big time at Cochon was followed by….a long nap.  Because in only a few hours, we would be eating again.  And although we need more naps and recovery time these days, at least that eating part and great family memories part about our New Orleans experiences have not changed.

 

(My) New New Orleans - Part I

I remember the phone call from my dad the day Katrina hit.  I was sitting in my office in downtown Austin. 

“It’s gone. It’s all over.”

By this I knew he meant that every feeling, taste, and vista that was our idea of our New Orleans would never be the same.  But I could not really grasp then that even if it, the city, was not literally wiped off the map, the fine network of individual lives that have to get all bound up together to create a culture, a history – a soul...all those layers were maybe all gone.   I couldn't bear to watch the news.

Growing up in West Texas I felt like I had a secret double life.  Ok, if not exactly a double life at least an alternate reality.  That alternate reality was New Orleans.  We lived our daily lives in a small town of about 70,000 in the dry heat of West Texas.  With no good coffee.  Lots of Tex-Mex restaurants.  But no other type of real restaurant to speak of.  We did not have gorgeous mossy towering oak trees or jazz in sultry courtyards or freakishly large crepe myrtles bowing down under the weight of a ton of bright hot pink blossoms.  In short, we had no sultry.  We had mesquite trees. 

But several times a year, and mostly the summer, we would be with the New Orleans people.  When we did this pilgrimage by car, as we were crossing the Sabine River I would lift my feet off the floor of the car and not put them down until they landed, figuratively, on Louisiana soil, which crossing the Sabine River means you have done.  We would cross the Atchafalaya Swamp Freeway.  That 18.2 mile stretch of I-10 built over and in a swamp.  And if you have to take an engineering marvel of a freeway, built in a swamp, to get somewhere, you get the feeling that you're headed into some serious foreign territory.

After we would exit I-10 East onto Carrollton Avenue, there was the obligatory stop at Ye Olde College Inn for the iconic roast beef po-boy (fully “dressed” of course, with mayonnaise).  No way to describe just how good mayonnaise tastes mixed in with au jus and the feeling of it all running down your forearms as you lift the sandwich up to take that first bite, when the outside of the French bread is still flaky crusty and the inside is hot, savory roast beef in a hot mess of mayonnaise and gravy juice stuff.  It's pretty good.  Or it was.  This po-boy does not exist there, that way, anymore. 

With that fix, we could continue on down Carrollton Avenue, down to the end to make that left turn onto St. Charles Avenue and into Uptown and around Audubon Park, into Uptown's towering oak trees, sidewalks and front porches, crawfish boils, Sunday walks to mass at a grand cathedral at Loyola University, and Mardi Gras beads from the last parade hanging from the trees still.  No tumbleweeds.  No dust.

Here, being Catholic (as we were, are) meant you were not a curious minority as can be the case out in West Texas.  Here in New Orleans we were part of the vast majority where memories and rituals of rosaries, candles, adorations of Mary, altars, and feasts for St. Joseph were merged into a collective communal memory of a very rich food life.  

 
This life also had relatives who did not timidly hug upon greeting you upon your arrival but kissed you on the cheek (!)...a life full of tales of crewes and their exotic, regal names - Rex, Babylon, Hermes - Mardi Gras queens and kings, bacon grease, alligator hunting, duck hunting, tracts and horses and boudin and cattle drives. 

All this is bound up in the memory of thick New Orleans accents around command central that was my grandmother’s large oval Scandinavian design table.  Here it became very obvious that the far cooler cousins of my vintage (there are 32 (first) cousins) – the ones who lived in Lafayette - had a firm command over their food personas at a very early age. 

At no more than 11 or 12 (in the 1970s) they were drinking something they called "café au lait" with breakfast and had strong opinions about how much filé to add to their gumbo.  They might as well have been smoking Marlboros at the table as shocked as I was by this libertine activity. 

To make up for the deprivation in West Texas these trips to New Orleans were Dionysian food fests.  We cannot eat this way now.  But eat this way we did then. 

There was this extraordinary ice cream place:  "Haagen-Dazs."  Exotic for us in the 1970s.  There was a French pastry shop, on Carrollton close to where the original Camellia Grill is now.  There were meals at all the old standards, by today's standards:   The Gumbo Shop on rue St. Peter in the Quarter and that praline sundae (a caramel sauce with pecans floating in it poured over a single scoop of vanilla ice cream in an icy cold metal dish), beignets out at Morning Call in Metairie, brunch at Brennans and Commander’s Palace – where Ella Brennan back then would be holding court - and The Bon Ton, Christian's, Casamento's, Stephen & Martin.  And a long ago lost tradition and lost art: nectar sodas at the K&B. 

I just went back to New Orleans for only the third or fourth time since Katrina.  This visit, I note the city is looking pretty darn perky: Starbucks is packed on Maple Street, Carrollton Avenue has been repaved - no more bone-crushing potholes - and there is a construction boom for high-end real estate around the Metairie Country Club. 

I find I am more accepting of New Orleans with her frailties still laid bare - the canopy of lush foliage over St. Charles Avenue is still not quite as lush, the "neutral ground" - that patch of green that divides St. Charles Avenue and hosts the trolley car tracks - is still sad and unkempt to my eye, for example.  But there is so much renovation and reinvention too:  The Roosevelt Hotel is all spiffy and chic now, for example.  We were told they will soon have live jazz in the evenings in the ornate yet hip grand lobby.  The Sazerac Bar, which looked pretty dang comfy and mod enough already, will be getting a makeover soon to match the rest of the way more mod furnishings elsewhere in the public spaces of the hotel.  (I'm not entirely sold on this idea in terms of historic preservation, but it's a good educational reason to visit again.)

And so I am way ready to get way more acquainted with the new New Orleans - its urban renewal to be sure but especially the restaurant scene. 

This all started with one lunch.  At Cochon.  And one really spectacular cocktail. 

This part of my old New Orleans has definitely not changed.

To be continued ... with Part II, or "Mom, did you really have to ask the waiter if he liked the gumbo??"

Giada, PW (Pioneer Woman) & Prosecco

I’m still agog that Giada was on Chealsea Lately.  But moving on – I have the cookbook now, weeknights with Giada, and I have to say the array of recipes is quite nice.  Nice in the sense that they are just different enough, just easy enough, and written well enough in a nice choice of font, that it made me want to start cooking again.  What’s not to love about these recipes with titles like “risotto with currants, pine nuts, and feta cheese” and the first dish I cooked out of it for the son, my first meal post-Paris and that aftermath: “whole wheat linguine with bacon, shrimp, and basil”-- And the pictures of Todd, Giada in cleavage, and their adorable little girl are not over the top.  

The one cookbook inspired two forays back into cooking:  dinner for the son, for whom I had not really cooked in weeks – out of Giada’s cookbook - and the son’s birthday cake, out of Pioneer Woman’s (“PW”) cookbook.   Both forays were accompanied by one of my absolutely favorite pastimes of all time, drinking while cooking.  I prefer to call it however the hour of the apéro.  I know the aperitif experience is not supposed to be done by oneself – because that’s just drinking alone, and doesn’t sound as nice as an aperitif ritual.  But what’s not to love about a holiday weekend of cooking in the kitchen, French radio on the iPhone, a good first draft done of a brief – and a nice crisp and cool Argentinean white wine and almonds with light dusting of sea salt. 

But there are hazards to drinking while baking. 

First, baking requires precise measurements.  They should be precise even for such a rough-hewn and simple but rich and decadent recipe as Pioneer Woman’s recipe: a classic chocolate sheet cake.  The kind with that dense moist cakey part, not too sweet, and the thick (chocolate) confectioner’s sugar frosting loaded up with vanilla and nuts and more dark cocoa powder and all of that poured over the cake while it is still hot.  All it took was half a glass of wine and I could not keep track of the flour measurement.  All I could find that was clean was the one-third cup measure: that meant I needed six (6) of those for two (2) cups.  I started, stopped, started over – twice.  It Is hard to count to 6 with certainty when over 45 and having a classy apéro/drinking alone in the kitchen.

Second, because I am not a spatial relationships or math person, I did not so great when I opted to go it alone and not follow the PW’s instructions and pour the batter into a baking sheet – used the old reliable baking pan.  I did some “rough math” in my head to increase the cooking time appropriately.   This would end up, I realized, most likely, with a molten lava cake in the middle.  But I figured once it cooled, then sat in fridge overnight, then came out for party time, it would be like a chocolate molten lava cake but with no running lava.  It was.  (See below finished product.)

Third, I had 3 partially full 2-pound bags of confectioner’s sugar.   The PW recipe calls for 1 pound of confectioner’s sugar for that frosting, which cooks up quickly while the cake is baking (which is a mere 20 minutes if you used the correct baking equipment, which I had not).   And no, I do not have a scale.  I just had to eyeball the amount (after 1 glass of wine) while pouring it into the butter and cocoa powder mixture.   As this all occurred, including my usual baking secret (add extra vanilla and nuts—always) into glass no. 2 of wine.  This occurred not only on glass no. 2 but also after serious sugar overload from taking walnut halves and dragging them through the thick chocolate batter in the big metal bowl and eating them.  Seriatim.  

This simple sheet cake.  I am seeing everywhere now, and it is touted as some secret delicious hip and groovy new dessert trend.  It is nothing new though.  It has been in my family – as in my growing-up family – since like forever.  It was our specially requested birthday cake for many years when we were growing up, and mostly when we were grown up (i.e., after age 35).  When I announced to mom and dad this would be the birthday cake choice for the son, and that it was from PW’s cookbook, they both had a critical eye to how she did hers.  Lard or oil, they asked.  Neither, I said.  Huh, they said. 

I did not fully appreciate the cake until after the party.  During the party there was too much self-analysis going on and monitoring of conversation with and among former spouse, his parents, the son, my parents – and making sure someone else, anyone, was having Prosecco besides just me.   

After the party though, after everyone had gone, and the son nowhere to be seen, ensconced back in the boy cave again, there was just me and the cake and the Prosecco and the French lounge music.  The cake I noticed had some odd, uneven edges based on the haphazard cutting and serving ritual (mine).  They were very annoying.  They were therefore evened out, little by little, with a fork and knife, by me (and remnants consumed also by me), into nice 90-degree angles and/or straight lines.  

Cooking tips – which I rarely have: 

(1)    Undercook the cake;

(2)    Add more vanilla and more pecans/walnuts than the recipe calls for; and

(3)    Save a square, or sliver or two or three, for when you can really focus on how simple yet good and complex this cake is (i.e., by yourself).  If you must enjoy this experience with a friend, I would refer you to Mr. Prosecco.