For our rehearsal dinner, we chose a clearing on the property of an old homestead next to a river about fifteen minutes north of Bellingham, with a dozen picnic tables and an old wooden water tower. Brandon’s father strung tiny globe lights around the two white tents we rented, and we ran kraft paper down the tables. Then we topped them with small jars of homemade pickles and a larger jar for a centerpiece, filled with blue cornflowers, nigella, lavender, and thistle.
We were aiming for the kind of event where the bride could wear jeans and a ponytail, the kind of evening that goes well with a bottle of Hefeweizen and a game of Frisbee. We ate sandwiches of pulled chicken stuffed into soft rosemary buns. We ate Roma tomatoes roasted to a deep, opaque red, and roasted eggplant and squash and shiitake mushrooms, and cherry tomatoes cooked on the vine. We ate sliced heirloom tomatoes with fresh mozzarella and a fingerling potato salad with sweet onions, little green beans, and mustard vinaigrette. We ate tartlets filled with mascarpone and fat, purply gooseberries, and chocolate chip cookies made with oatmeal and coconut. We ate until dark, which comes late here in the summer, and then the mosquitoes came up from the river and chased us home.
The next day, at four o’clock on a cloudy afternoon, we got married. We stood in a park on the water, between two trees, under an enormous white tent with scalloped edges and open sides, and word has it that someone’s dog ran around on the beach behind us for the better part of the ceremony. I also heard that a drunk bum wandered over, which I am grateful to have not noticed, though in retrospect, I like the idea.
I was a mess that day. I woke up feeling out of sorts, and when I sat down next to my mother at breakfast, I burst into tears. I hadn’t expected it to feel so strange without my father. Every time I walked down the hallway of the hotel, I saw an aunt or an uncle or an old friend of his from Oklahoma. But he wasn’t there. All morning, off and on, I kept catching myself starting to cry. After a while, I wasn’t even sure why, which scared me half to death. There are pictures of me getting ready to come down the aisle, my eyes rimmed with red. I am sure that my bridesmaids were secretly devising an emergency plan, in case I should make a run for it.
But then the music started playing, and my mother looped her arm through mine. She walked me down the grassy aisle, both of us teetering in our heels, and she kissed me on each cheek, and then Brandon took my hand. Our friend Shauna was officiating, and it felt good to stand there next to her. My brothers David and Adam stood up and spoke about our family. Brandon’s sister Courtney spoke about his family. Keaton talked about that night at the Alibi Room, the day after I first met Brandon. Sam spoke about his friendship with us. Brandon and I had written our own vows, and I sobbed only a little during mine, which at this point felt like a victory. When we kissed, he wrapped his arms around my waist and tipped me back, so that his curls fell onto my cheek. And when he righted me again, everyone clapped and cheered, and we ate potato chips and drank lemonade and walked to the reception with Sam and Brandon’s childhood friend Steve carrying my long veil like the train of a dress, and we were married.
When you care about food, and when you’re marrying someone who cares about food, and when you met this someone because of food, there is quite a bit of pressure to feed people well at your wedding. We gave it our best shot, and I think we did all right.
There were deviled eggs two ways: with crème fraîche and paddle-fish caviar, or with herbed aioli and capers. There were quartered apricots wrapped in prosciutto and grilled, served on thin toasts and dolloped with goat cheese. There were tiny corn cakes made up like open-faced BLTs, with basil mayonnaise and avocado, and there were toasted baguette slices with butter and radishes and salt. For dinner, there was smoked sockeye salmon with a salsa of nectarines and chiles. There was a fennel salad with shaved Parmesan, and baby beets with blue cheese and hazelnuts. There was a farro salad with feta and caramelized onions, carrots, and celery. And for dessert, there was cake, of course, which I’ll tell you more about in a minute, and ice cream. And when my mother stood up and gave her toast, the minute she said my father’s name, the sun came out. And then, for once, I wasn’t the only one crying.
Our wedding was exactly what I hoped for, and still, when it happened, it felt like a surprise. In that way, it felt just like us. I don’t know when I’ve ever been more proud of the two of us, and of what we love. I also don’t know when I’ve ever been sorrier for not eating more deviled eggs. I’m telling you, and I learned the hard way, don’t let socializing get between you and a platter of deviled eggs. And when you’ve had your fill, take the dance floor with your new husband, preferably to Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter’s “Night and Day,” and when he dips you at the very end, when the horns are blaring, close your eyes tight and thank the heavens that the planning is through, and that the beer is cold, and that you can dance, dance, dance.
LITTLE CORN CAKES WITH BACON, TOMATO, AND AVOCADO
Adapted from Ciaò Thyme Catering and Doug Doolittle
in most circles, the words wedding food aren’t exactly synonymous with delicious food. We wanted ours to be different. When we started planning, the caterer was one of the first elements we considered. In the end, when we decided to get married in Bellingham, we chose it not only because it was pretty and on the water and so on, but also because of the caterer we found there, Ciaò Thyme. When we asked them to make fingerling potato chips for after the ceremony, they clapped. When we said that we wanted deviled eggs during the cocktail hour, they grinned and started gushing about aioli and the hens at a farm nearby. And at the end of the night, they danced with us and kissed us both on the cheeks.
The recipe for these hors d’œuvres requires a little time and advance planning, but they’re well worth the effort. For a vegetarian version, try replacing the bacon with thinly shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese.
FOR THE ROASTED TOMATOES
½ pound cherry tomatoes (about 30 tomatoes), halved
2 teaspoons olive oil
FOR THE BACON
10 slices thin-cut bacon
FOR THE CORN CAKES
1 medium ear of corn
½ cup fine cornmeal
½ cup cake flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
¼ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon kosher salt
½ cup whole milk (not low fat or nonfat)
¼ cup water
1 tablespoon canola oil, plus more for brushing the pan
1 tablespoon pure maple syrup
1 ¼ teaspoons apple cider vinegar
FOR SERVING
Good-tasting mayonnaise, such as Hellmann’s
1 medium avocado, quartered from end to end and thinly sliced
A handful of fresh basil leaves, sliced thinly
Crunchy salt, such as Maldon salt or fleur de sel
First, prepare the tomatoes. Set an oven rack to the middle position, and preheat the oven to 325°F. Put the tomatoes on a rimmed baking sheet. Drizzle them with the oil, and use your hands to toss them gently, arranging them cut side up. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until they shrink slightly and their edges are gently shriveled. Set aside to cool. (Tomatoes may be roasted up to 3 days ahead. Refrigerate in an airtight container and bring to room temperature before serving.)
Next, prepare the bacon. Turn the oven temperature up to 400°F. Arrange the bacon slices in a single layer on a rimmed baking sheet. Bake until the fat begins to render, about 5 minutes. Rotate the pan, and continue to bake until the bacon is crisp and lightly browned, 5 to 6 minutes more. Transfer with tongs to a paper-towel-lined plate, and cool briefly. Using your fingers, snap each strip of bacon into 5 to 6 small “chips,” each 1 to 1½ inches long.
Next, prepare the corn cakes. Put a small, heavy skillet (preferably cast iron) over medium-high heat. While it warms, use a sharp knife to cut the kernels from the ear of corn. Discard the cob. When the pan is hot, add the kernels and cook, shaking the pan occasionally, until the corn is browned in spots and fragrant, 30 seconds
to 1 minute. Remove the pan from the heat, and scrape the kernels into the bowl of a food processor. Allow to cool.
While the corn cools, prepare the batter. In a medium bowl, combine the cornmeal, cake flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and whisk to mix well.
In a Pyrex measuring cup, combine the milk, water, oil, and maple syrup, whisking or stirring with a fork to blend. (Do not add the vinegar yet.)
When the corn is cool, process it briefly in the food processor, until it is finely chopped. You want it to have some texture, but no big lumps. Add the corn to the dry ingredients, along with the wet ingredients and the vinegar, and whisk to just combine. The batter will foam a bit and thicken. Allow it to rest for 5 minutes.
Meanwhile, warm a nonstick pan or griddle over medium heat. When the pan is hot, brush it lightly with oil. Scoop the batter by the teaspoonful into the pan, forming round cakes about 1½ inches in diameter. Do not crowd the pan. Cook for about two minutes on the first side, until golden, then gently flip and continue cooking until the second side is cooked, another minute or less.
Transfer the finished cakes to a platter while you cook the rest of the batter, brushing the pan lightly with oil between each batch. (Corn cakes can be made up to 2 weeks ahead and stored in a ziplock freezer bag in the freezer. Thaw at room temperature, then revive their texture with a quick pass through a low oven or toaster oven.)
To finish, top each corn cake with a smear of mayonnaise. Place a slice of avocado on top of the mayonnaise, then a “chip” of bacon atop the avocado, and then a roasted tomato half, and finally a thin ribbon of basil. Sprinkle with a small pinch of salt. Serve immediately.
NOTE: These corn cakes, made a little bigger, would be good for breakfast, too. Just drop the tomatoes, avocado, mayonnaise, and basil, and serve instead with a fried egg and bacon.
Yield: about 4½ dozen corn cakes
WINNING HEARTS AND MINDS
Everyone needs a chocolate cake in her repertoire. Actually, if we’re really going to get down to it, a good soup is also important, and a basic vinaigrette, and at least one type of cookie. But a chocolate cake is essential.
The dense, silky thing I call “my” chocolate cake was inspired by a recipe I found in a French cookbook a few years ago, a recipe for what is commonly, on that side of the Atlantic, called a fondant au chocolat. Derived from the verb fondre, or “to melt,” its name translates roughly to “melting chocolate cake,” which, I would argue, is what all chocolate cakes should be. It contains nearly half a pound of chocolate and an equal amount of butter, five eggs, about one cup of sugar, and a single tablespoon of flour. In the oven, it puffs like a bastardized soufflé, and when it cools, its crust crackles like the top of a brownie. When you slice it, it yields to the knife like soft fudge. I first made it only a handful of months before I met Brandon, and I don’t think the timing was coincidental.
At the time, I was newly single and doing what felt, to me at least, like a lot of dating. I even asked out my cashier at the grocery store, however unsuccessfully. That fall, I made my chocolate cake for every man I dated, all two of them. I also made it once for my friend Kate, who requested the recipe immediately. Soon she had baked it for a guy she was seeing, and then again for an old flame who came to visit. She even called once from Jackson Hole, where she was skiing with friends for the weekend, to request an emergency reminder of the ingredient quantities, so that she could make it for a guy she’d just met. It was Kate who gave the fondant au chocolat the name by which it is now known: “The Winning Hearts and Minds Cake.” Because, politics aside, that’s what it does. It’s not something you want to serve to someone you feel so-so about. It’s what you serve when you want his undivided attention.
I would have made my chocolate cake for Brandon on his first visit to Seattle, had we had more than thirty-six hours together. I knew that I wanted him to stick around. I made it on his second visit, and his third, and his fourth.
When it came time to choose our wedding cake, we were adamant about one thing: it had to taste good. We didn’t need a white cake, or frosting, for that matter, or multiple tiers, swags, or rosettes. We didn’t even need to hire someone to make it. I wanted to do it myself. First I thought about banana cupcakes with a bittersweet ganache. I even tested a few recipes, one of which was pretty promising. But then, one night, I made the Winning Hearts and Minds Cake for a dinner party. Brandon walked into the kitchen as I was pouring the batter into the pan, and he took one look at it and said, “Why aren’t we having that for our wedding cake?”
He knows a good thing when he sees it.
So I made twenty of them. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounds. It was actually sort of therapeutic. The Winning Hearts and Minds Cake is a breeze to make, and it freezes beautifully. All I had to do was stir, bake, wrap, and freeze; stir, bake, wrap, and freeze; stir, bake, wrap, and freeze. The day before the wedding, our friends Ashley and Chris retrieved them from our freezer and delivered them to the caterer, each cake snug in its own 10-inch pizza box. It was the easiest wedding cake, or cakes, I can imagine. They weren’t beauty queens, with their thick waists and crackly, crinkled skin, but I didn’t care. The work-to-pleasure ratio was about 1:10, which is just the way I like it.
Our guests apparently liked it, too. I’d never seen so many empty, chocolate-smeared plates as I saw that night, scattered across tables and perched atop chairs. We had only three cakes left over, which we sent home with anyone who wanted them. My sister Lisa took one back to her hotel room. I later heard that the next morning, when she went to check out, she accidentally left it in the mini-bar refrigerator. By the time she got back upstairs to retrieve it, the housekeeper had come with her cart and its enormous trash can, on whose rim was now balanced, ever so precariously, the cake in its pizza box. Lisa was undeterred. She took it anyway. That’s high praise for a wedding cake, I would say. The Winning Hearts and Minds Cake never fails.
The day after Brandon’s first visit to Seattle, which now seems like pleasantly ancient history, I sent Kate an e-mail.
“He was amazing,” I gushed. “So sweet. So funny. I drove him to the airport this morning and cried all the way home. I think this might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And the hardest.”
“I’m so excited for you,” she gushed in reply. “You’ve been taking this on with your whole heart and that oversized mind of yours. Don’t stop now. This is the bread and butter! This is what it’s all about.”
I burst into tears when I read that. I’ve never forgotten it. When I was making our wedding cakes, all those hours at the oven, all that stirring and baking, I kept saying it. This is the bread and butter. This is what it’s all about.
It’s going to sound silly, I know, but I think that what it all comes down to is winning hearts and minds. Underneath everything else, all the plans and goals and hopes, that’s why we get up in the morning, why we believe, why we try, why we bake chocolate cakes. That’s the best we can ever hope to do: to win hearts and minds, to love and be loved.
THE WINNING HEARTS AND MINDS CAKE OR, OUR WEDDING CAKE
this recipe is as simple as can be: all it takes is five ingredients, a bowl, a spoon, and a cake pan. Because it’s all about chocolate, you’ll want a good one whose flavor you love, with 60 to 70% cocoa solids. I like Scharffen Berger quite a bit, but in a pinch, I’ve also used Ghirardelli 60% chips. They have a nice flavor and are very inexpensive, and you don’t even have to chop them, which saves a lot of time.
Also, note that this cake freezes surprisingly well. In fact, its texture and flavor are actually improved by freezing. Try to make it far enough in advance that you can freeze it for at least a day or so, and be sure to allow 24 hours for it to then return to room temperature before serving. It’s worth the trouble.
7 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped
1¾ sticks (7 ounces) unsalted butter, cut into ½-inch cubes
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons granulated sugar
5
large eggs
1 tablespoon unbleached all-purpose flour
Lightly sweetened whipped cream, for serving
Preheat the oven to 375°F, and butter an 8-inch round cake pan. Line the bottom of the pan with a round of parchment paper, and butter the paper, too.
Put the chocolate and butter in a medium microwavable bowl. Microwave on high for 30 seconds at a time, stirring often, until just smooth. (Alternatively, you can melt the chocolate and butter in a double boiler or a heatproof bowl set over, but not touching, barely simmering water.) When the mixture is smooth, add the sugar, stirring well to incorporate. Set the batter aside to cool for 5 minutes. Then add the eggs one by one, stirring well after each addition. Add the flour and stir to mix well. The batter should be dark and silky.
Pour the batter into the prepared pan, and bake for about 25 minutes, or until the top is lightly crackled, the edges are puffed, and the center of the cake looks set. I usually set the timer for 20 minutes to start with, and then I check the cake every 2 minutes after that, until it’s ready. At 20 minutes, the center of the cake is usually still quite jiggly; you’ll know it’s done when the center only jiggles slightly, if at all.
A Homemade Life Page 24