by Krista Davis
¾ teaspoon salt
¾ teaspoon cinnamon
1 stick butter (8 tablespoons) at room temperature
¾ cup dark brown sugar
½ cup regular sugar
3 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 pints fresh raspberries (may use fresh blueberries or halved small strawberries)
Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Line a bread baking pan with parchment paper so that it hangs over the long sides. Butter the interior ends of the pan. Pour the vinegar into the 1 cup of milk and set aside. Place the flour, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon in a bowl and mix well. Set aside. Cream the butter with the sugar. Beat in the eggs. On a slow speed, add the flour in batches, alternating with the vinegar-milk and berries. Add the vanilla and beat. Bake around 60 to 70 minutes or until a cake tester comes out clean. Lift out of pan with the parchment “wings.” If using a small loaf pan, bake the remainder of the batter as small cupcakes for 16 minutes or giant cupcakes for 20 minutes.
Vanilla Glaze
3 tablespoons melted butter
1 cup powdered sugar
1½ tablespoons heavy cream
1 teaspoon vanilla
Krista’s tip: For easy cleanup and application, make this in a microwave-safe glass measuring cup.
Melt the butter in the microwave for about 30 to 40 seconds. Add the powdered sugar, the cream, and vanilla. Stir or whisk until thick and smooth. Pour over cooled bread.
Strawberries and Cream Torte
Cake
¼ cup flour
5 slightly heaping tablespoons cornstarch
1 teaspoon baking powder
4 large eggs at room temperature
3–4 tablespoons warm water
½ cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Grease two 8- or 9-inch baking pans. Cut parchment paper for the bottoms and insert. In a bowl, whisk together the flour, corn starch, and baking powder. Set aside. Separate the eggs into two mixing bowls. Four egg whites go in bowl one. The 4 egg yolks go in bowl two.
Lightly mix the egg yolks with the warm water. Add half the sugar and beat.
Beat the egg whites on a low speed until foamy. Then increase to medium speed. Beat to soft, moist peaks. Add the remaining half of the sugar and beat. Do not overbeat! They should still be a little bit soft.
Stir the flour mixture into the egg yolks. Add the vanilla. Gently fold the egg yolks and egg whites together until the flour cannot be seen and everything is incorporated. Pour into prepared pans. Bake 10 to 15 minutes. When touched, it should be firm but spring back. Remove from oven, place on kitchen towels, and immediately loosen by running a knife around the edges. Place a plate over top, and grip with the towels to flip. Peel off the parchment paper. Flip from plate onto cooling rack. Cool before frosting.
Cream
4 teaspoons of cold water or cold heavy cream
1 packet (about 1 teaspoon) unflavored gelatin
1 cup heavy cream for whipping
¼ to ⅓ cup powdered sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla
Pour the 4 teaspoons of water or heavy cream into a small pot. Sprinkle the gelatin over it. Give it a few minutes to thicken. Meanwhile, beat the 1 cup of heavy cream until it begins to thicken and take shape. Add the sugar and vanilla and whip. Do not overbeat! Place the gelatin over medium-low heat and stir constantly until gelatin is completely dissolved. Remove from heat and cool, but don’t allow it to set. (If it should set, try reheating and stirring to dissolve it again.) While slowly beating the cream, pour the gelatin into it. Whip at high speed until it holds a stiff peak.
Assembly
2 to 3 16-ounce packages of fresh strawberries
Set aside 3 or 4 pretty strawberries for the top. Place the bottom layer of the cake on a serving plate. Top with cream and spread. Hull and halve the strawberries (or chop them if you prefer) and arrange on the cream. Place the top layer over the strawberries. Spread cream over top and sides. Ideally, you will have enough strawberries to halve them and place them around the base, point up. If not, then pipe cream at the base and on the top. Add halved strawberries to the top.
Turn the page for a preview of Krista Davis’s next
Domestic Diva Mystery . . .
The Diva Cooks Up a Storm
Coming June 2018 from Kensington Publishing
Dear Sophie,
I met a very cute guy recently. We went out once and now he has invited me to an “underground dinner.” He doesn’t know where it will be, what will be served, or who else will be there. This sounds very suspicious. I don’t want to end up under the ground! Is this a real thing?
Trepidatious in Lick Fork, Virginia
Dear Trepidatious,
Underground dinners, also known as pop-up dinners, are all the rage right now. An undisclosed but well-known chef prepares a surprise menu in a location that isn’t revealed until the last minute. Tickets are typically bought well in advance. They’re a lot of fun, but you’ll have to decide whether this is what the new boyfriend actually has in mind.
Sophie
At ten in the morning on the first day of my summer vacation, a bloodcurdling scream pierced the tranquility of my neighborhood in Old Town Alexandria. My hound mix, Daisy, had been sniffing around my backyard while I enjoyed a mug of coffee.
Daisy barked once and ran for the front gate. Dogs have far better hearing than humans, so I trusted her inclination about the direction of the trouble and followed right behind her.
A man ran toward us on the sidewalk, his gait awkward and ungainly. He waved his hands madly around his head and continued screaming.
By that time, my neighbors Nina Reid Norwood and Francie Vanderhoosen had emerged from their homes.
At first blush, the man appeared to be deranged. But as he neared, his dilemma became readily apparent. Angry bees buzzed around him and more followed.
I seized his hand. “Quick. Into the house!”
Daisy snapped at the bees as we ran, Nina and Francie bringing up the rear. We rushed into my kitchen and quickly closed the door behind us.
A few bees had made it inside. Nina and Francie grabbed sections of the newspaper and swatted at them while Daisy continued to chase and snap at them.
Meanwhile, I sat the man down. Thirtyish, I guessed. His green T-shirt bore the hound face logo of The Laughing Hound, a local restaurant. His jeans were dusty, as though he’d been doing lawn work in them. He was having trouble breathing. Red welts had already formed on his face.
“Do you have a bee allergy?” I asked.
“Noh. Gihzzy.” He opened his mouth for some deep breaths. There was no mistaking the swelling of his tongue.
I grabbed the phone, dialed 911, and handed it to Nina while I wet a kitchen towel with cold water. I had no idea whether that was the right thing to do, but I held it against his face.
Francie seized the beautiful pink begonia from my bay window, pulled it out of the pot, and scooped up dirt in her hands. “Scoot over, Sophie.”
She packed the dirt against his face. One of his eyes was swelling shut.
“Will you look at that?” asked Nina. “Bees are still buzzing around your kitchen door.”
Some of them were even hitting the glass window in the door.
Moments later the reassuring wail of an ambulance soothed my nerves. Allergic or not, this guy needed medical attention. I opened the front door and they walked inside, calm as a serene lake.
An emergency medical technician asked the man, “What’s your name, sir?”
His speech was so garbled that none of us could understand it.
“You ladies know him?”
The three of us looked at one another and shook our heads.
“He came running down the street with bees buzzing all around him,” I said.
The EMT felt the young man’s pockets for a wallet and extracted it while another EMT asked what was on his face.
Francie
beamed when she said, “Dirt. It’s an old home remedy. Soothes the stings.”
The EMT shook his head in obvious disbelief.
The one with the wallet said, “I don’t see any allergy alerts in here. You’re Angus Bogdanoff?”
The young man nodded.
“Got any allergies?”
“Noh.” He shook his head.
They administered a shot of epinephrine, put him on a stretcher, and wheeled him out to the ambulance. We trailed along, feeling helpless. We couldn’t even notify anyone for the poor guy.
When the ambulance departed, Nina, Francie, and I returned to my kitchen. I took lemonade and iced tea out of the fridge to make Arnold Palmers.
“I’d suggest sitting in the garden,” said Francie, “but we probably ought to let any lingering bees dissipate.”
“Not to mention that it’s already getting warm,” Nina groaned. “I swear this is the hottest summer I can remember. I try to stay indoors until six in the evening. Thank heaven the underground dinner tonight doesn’t start earlier. They’d have people fainting all over the place.”
“Everyone is too pampered these days. We didn’t have air-conditioning when I was growing up. I remember my daddy sitting outside to read at ten o’clock at night because it was too stuffy in the house. And no one had air-conditioning in their cars, either. We kids sat in the back with the windows rolled down. Mom and Dad made ice cream with an old crank machine and whole milk. It was such fun running around the neighborhood, catching fireflies in the dark. Now that’s how summer ought to be.”
Nina shot her a sideways glance. “I bet you wouldn’t go without air-conditioning today.”
She’d caught Francie, who laughed. “I bet I could weather it better than you.”
I suspected that might be the case. A true outdoorsy Southerner, Francie had reached the age where she said what she thought, even if it might sting. She made no effort to tame her yellow strawlike hair or hide the wrinkles she had earned from years of gardening and bird watching in all kinds of weather.
“What do you know about bees, Francie?” I asked. “What do you suppose possessed them to chase Angus like that?”
“Bees can be ornery little buggers. They’re focused on protecting the hive and the queen. My guess is that Angus accidentally stumbled onto a hive and disturbed it. I’ve heard they’ll chase a person up to half a mile.”
Nina shuddered. “I love honey, but bees scare me.”
I was handing the refreshing drinks to my friends when someone knocked on the front door. Daisy accompanied me to open it.
Hollis Haberman, who lived on the next block, stood on my stoop. In his fifties, Hollis liked to eat and had long ago given up any sort of exercise. His face was flushed from the heat and the short walk to my house.
“Hollis! Come on in out of the sun. Could I offer you an Arnold Palmer?”
“That would hit the spot. Sorry to disturb you, but my yard man vanished, and I’m told he was seen headed this way acting kind of strange.”
I closed the door behind him. “Angus was working for you? Come into the kitchen. Nina and Francie are here. It was the strangest thing. He was being chased by bees. You’d better be careful in your yard.”
Hollis touched my arm ever so gently. “Could I have a word with you out here first?”
“Sure.” I frowned at him. “What’s up?”
Hollis’s belly heaved when he took a deep breath. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Do you know of a way to test your food at home to be sure nobody poisoned it?”
Krista Davis is the New York Times bestselling author of the Domestic Diva Mysteries and the Paws & Claws Mysteries. Several of her books have been nominated for the Agatha Award. Krista lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia with two cats and a brood of dogs. Her friends and family complain about being guinea pigs for her recipes, but she notices they keep coming back for more. Please visit her at www.kristadavis.com.