Bake the pudding for about 40 to 45 minutes, until it’s set in the center. The pudding should puff slightly. It can be served warm, slightly cooled, or cold. Serves 8.
■ Margaret McEldowny’s ■ Apricot Raisin Loaf Cake
Margaret is the wife of Brooke McEldowny, the award-winning newspaper cartoonist who draws 9 Chickweed Lane and Pibgorn. She’s also a gifted operatic soprano.
1 cup boiling water
1½ cups dried apricots
½ teaspoon baking soda
1 cup granulated sugar
2 eggs
1¾ cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 cup chopped walnuts
½ cup golden raisins
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Chop dried apricots into quarters. Pour the boiling water over them and soak for 15 to 20 minutes, just until tender. Drain off the liquid. You should have 1 cup. If you have less, add just a little more water. Put this cup of liquid into large mixing bowl. Add baking soda, sugar, and eggs. Stir with wooden spoon until well mixed. Add apricots, raisins, nuts, flour, and baking powder and mix well again.
Butter and flour two loaf pans (9 × 5 × 3 loaf pans). Pour equal parts of the mixture into the two pans. Bake for about 45 minutes, or until loaves have risen, are dark in color, and the blade of a sharp knife comes out clean when inserted in the center. Cool on racks and serve. Makes 2 loaves.
NOTE: Slices can be served with a festive breakfast. For dessert, serve slices beneath scoops of your favorite ice cream.
If you wrap it securely in heavy aluminum foil, you can freeze one of the loaves to bring out when you need an emergency treat for unexpected guests.
■ Della’s Tuscan Potato Cake ■
On our only trip to Europe, Mack and I stayed at a little inn in Tuscany. The elderly woman who ran the inn made a cake unlike any I’d ever tasted. She was kind enough to show me how to make it. It’s delicious, easy, and inexpensive.
1 lb baking potatoes, scrubbed but not peeled
¼ cup all-purpose flour
¾ cup granulated sugar
1 stick butter, softened
4 large eggs, separated
1 tablespoon lemon zest (1½ to 2 lemons)
1 teaspoon grated nutmeg (fresh grated is best)
1 teaspoon almond extract
¾ cup golden raisins
½ cup pine nuts
Approximately ½ cup of powdered sugar for
dusting the top before serving
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Boil the potatoes (in their skins) in salted water until fork tender. Peel off the skins and put the hot potatoes in a bowl with the flour. Mash potatoes and flour together until mixture is smooth. (Don’t let the potatoes cool before mashing.) Now set the mixture aside to cool for 20 minutes.
Butter a 9-inch cake pan and line with waxed paper.
Beat the sugar and softened butter in a large bowl with a handheld electric mixer on High until creamy. Turn mixer down to Medium speed and add 4 egg yolks, one at a time, until just blended after each addition. (Don’t over beat.) Now turn the mixer speed to Low and beat in the potato/flour mixture, lemon zest, nutmeg, and almond extract. Stir in the golden raisins and pine nuts.
In a separate bowl, beat 4 egg whites on High speed until they form stiff peaks. With a rubber spatula, fold the stiff whites into the batter. Pour the batter into the prepared cake pan.
Bake for 35 to 45 minutes, until golden brown and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.
Cool the cake for 20 minutes, then turn out onto a cooling rack. Carefully remove the paper and let the cake cool completely. Just before serving, dust with the powdered sugar.
■ Della’s Chocolate ■ “Mt. Kilimanjaro” Cake
Turn a “mix” into a special delight.
1 box Duncan Heinz Moist Deluxe Devil’s Food cake mix
3 large eggs
½ cup vegetable oil
1⅓ cups water
1½ cups mini marshmallows
½ cup mini semisweet chocolate chips
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Prepare a Bundt pan by greasing the sides and center, and then lightly flouring it, tapping away excess flour.
Combine the first 4 ingredients according to package directions: in a large bowl blend them with a mixer on low speed for 30 seconds. Then beat on medium speed for 2 minutes. (DO NOT OVERBEAT)
With a wooden spoon, stir in the mini marshmallows and the mini semisweet chocolate chips. When thoroughly combined, pour the batter into the prepared Bundt pan. Bake for 50 minutes. When cake is done, remove and set on a wire rack to cool. When cool, turn it upside down onto a cake plate.
FOR THE GLAZE
Over hot water (top half of a double boiler or in a heat-safe bowl) melt:
1½ cups regular size semisweet chocolate chips
2 tablespoons honey
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
When these are melted together, add: ⅓ cup whipping cream (this is to thin the chocolate enough to pour over cooled cake).
Just before serving: Take 1 tablespoon sifted powdered sugar and dust top of cake for the “snow” atop the “mountain.”
■ Della’s Cornish Pasties ■
FOR THE PASTRY
1 cup Crisco shortening (from the can, NOT Crisco
oil)
3⅓ cups self-rising flour
¼ teaspoon salt
Several tablespoons of ice water (1 at a time)
FOR THE FILLING
1 large brown or sweet onion, chopped
2 large potatoes, peeled, quartered, and sliced
thinly
2 carrots, scrubbed and thinly sliced (I don’t peel
carrots, I just scrub them clean)
1 tablespoon Crisco shortening (from the can, NOT
Crisco oil)
1 pound top round or chuck, fat trimmed off, diced
pretty small (pieces should be roughly fingertip
size—from length of nail to tip)
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
½ teaspoon dry English mustard
Salt & pepper
1 large egg, beaten for a glaze.
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
Make the pastry first: Sift together flour and salt. Cut in the shortening, then sprinkle the ice water, 1 tablespoon at a time until you can shape the mixture into 4 balls of dough. One at a time, roll each ball out between pieces of plastic wrap into the size and shape of a 9 inch pie shell. Make all four pastry rounds before you cook the filling.
Cook onions, potatoes, and carrots in the Crisco shortening over Medium heat until vegetables are starting to soften. Add the diced beef and cook over Medium heat, stirring until the meat is browned evenly. Turn the heat to Medium-low, season with the salt and pepper, Worcestershire sauce, and mustard. Cook for about 30 minutes, stirring frequently, until everything is tender.
Divide the filling into 4 parts. Put a quarter of the filling onto one side of a pastry circle, fold top of pastry over, curl the edge of the pastry inward, and crimp them like a pie to seal. Do this with all four circles of pastry. When you’ve made the four pasties, beat l large egg with a fork. Using a pastry brush, brush top of each pasty, including the crimped edges, to glaze.
Place the pasties on a baking sheet and bake for 15 minutes. Then turn the oven down to 350 degrees and bake for 15 minutes more.
Cool just enough so that you don’t burn your tongue. Serve with chunky applesauce or apple chutney, or whatever spiced fruit appeals to you.
■ Mrs. Herbert Hoover’s ■ Chicken Biscuit Pie
Herbert Hoover was U.S. president from 1929 to 1933. This dish is from Famous White House Recipes, reprinted by permission of my friend, Victor Bardack, publisher.
One 3-pound frying chicken
½ cup shortening
1 cup carrots, peeled and finely diced
½ cup celery, finely diced
3 cups water
¾ teaspoon
salt
¼ teaspoon pepper
1 teaspoon paprika
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Cut chicken into pieces; wash, and wipe with a clean cloth. Melt shortening in a deep frying pan. Fry chicken in the shortening until browned on all sides. Remove chicken from pan and place in a casserole with carrots and celery. Bring water to a boil. Pour over chicken. Sprinkle salt, pepper, and paprika over chicken. Bake covered 45 minutes. Remove the cover and increase oven heat to 450 degrees. Arrange unbaked cutout biscuits over top of chicken. Bake 20 minutes or until biscuits are golden brown. Serves 6-8.
BISCUIT DOUGH
1¾ cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
5 tablespoons chilled butter
¾ cup milk
Sift together flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Cut in butter. Stir in milk all at once and mix lightly to form a dough. Turn out dough onto a floured board. Knead lightly. Roll out to a thickness of ½ inch. Cut out biscuits with a floured biscuit cutter.
Turn the page for a preview of the
next book in the Della Cooks
Mysteries by Melinda Wells . . .
The Proof Is in the Pudding
Coming soon from
Berkley Prime Crime!
“You’re going to love what I’ve done to promote your show!” said Phil Logan, as soon as he finished gasping for air.
Phil, head of publicity for the Better Living Channel where I hosted In the Kitchen with Della, had spotted me walking with my black standard poodle, Tuffy, along the grassy area at the far end of the cable network’s North Hollywood production facility. He’d waved wildly and burst into a sprint to join us.
Because the property was surrounded by a security fence, I had let Tuffy off the leash. He had been sniffing happily at scented trails that no human could follow, but he stopped and looked up to watch Phil dashing toward us.
What with Phil’s abundant mane of sandy hair and his unlined face, he looked a decade younger than his thirty-two years, but he wasn’t in as good shape as his reedy frame suggested. By the time he covered the fifty yards that separated us he was red-faced with exertion and looked ready to collapse.
I reached out to steady him. “Lean forward, Phil. Put your hands on your knees and take deep breaths.”
After a few gulps of cool air, his complexion lost its unnatural crimson shade and resumed its normal color, which was somewhere between parchment and the ivory keys on a piano. A workaholic, Phil Logan was definitely an indoor man.
He straightened up. “You’re just what every guy needs—a good-looking woman who’s a nurturer. Unfortunately, my ex-wife was only good-looking.” He shook off that rare moment of melancholy and aimed a triumphant grin at me. “Wait ‘til you hear my news!”
I admired Phil’s zeal for his job, but I had every reason to be wary when I saw that “I’ve got a great idea” expression on his face.
I said, “Your last stunt almost put a Los Angeles Dodger on the disabled list.”
Two weeks ago, as a tie-in to the show I was preparing called “Cooking for the Ball Game,” Phil convinced me to put on a Los Angeles Dodgers’ baseball uniform and be photographed “practicing” with the team.
I’d warned him that I wasn’t even remotely athletic. “In school, the only team I was ever chosen for was Debating.”
“You don’t have to play,” he’d said. “Just take a couple swings with the bat while my photographer gets some shots.”
One of the new Dodger pitchers, a polite young man who told me that his mother loved my show, threw an easy one toward me. I swung. Miraculously, the bat connected with the ball, but cheers turned to gasps when the ball struck shortstop Tony Cuervo on the ankle. His yelp of pain brought the team’s medic running. In addition to feeling awful that I’d hurt him, I had a horrible vision of the team’s owner suing me for the player’s astronomical salary.
Luckily, Cuervo wasn’t injured. He claimed he just cried out because he was surprised “the girl” could hit a ball. The picture that landed on the sports page of the Los Angeles Chronicle showed me gaping in horror, like that Edvard Munch painting, “The Scream.”
Nicholas D’Martino, the man in my life, now calls me “slugger.”
The Chronicle headlined the story “Cook Conks Cuervo.” Phil got it picked up by the wire services and published all over the country.
“National publicity,” he said proudly.
“You mean national humiliation.”
“They spelled your name right, In the Kitchen with Della got a bump up in the ratings, and people all over the country who only read the sports section now know about you.”
In a gesture of fondness, Tuffy leaned against Phil’s thigh. Phil responded by reaching down to give him an ear scratch, but at that moment Tuffy spotted a squirrel a few yards away and took off after it. Tuffy was five years old, and try though he might, had never caught a squirrel. I presumed that by now he gave chase just for the exercise.
Watching Tuffy, Phil said, “Your big guy gets fan mail. My secretary answers it for him, on paw print stationery I had made.”
“Isn’t that going a little far? Too cutesy?”
“It’s good public relations,” Phil said. “Speaking of which, our crazy Dodgers’ story opened the door to this new opportunity, which I grabbed like a mongoose grabs . . . whatever they grab.”
“Cobras,” I said.
Phil’s lips retracted in a grimace. “I hate snakes. Sorry I brought it up.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask, but what opportunity are you talking about?”
The happy grin returned. “You’ve heard about the Celebrity Cook-Off Charity Gala at the Olympia Grand Hotel this Wednesday night.”
“Of course. All the entertainment news reporters have talked about it. But the celebrities who’ll be participating are major movie and TV stars. I’m not in that league.”
“True,” Phil said, “but what I got you is even better. There’ll be twenty celebs, but you’re going to be one of only three judges.”
“How can that be? Wednesday is day after tomorrow. The names of the judges were announced weeks ago.”
“Ahhhh, but one of them had to withdraw this morning.” Phil’s tone was positively gleeful. “It’s the retired chef who runs that wildlife sanctuary north of Santa Barbara. One of his endangered species bit him.”
“That’s terrible! Is he all right?”
Phil gave my question a dismissive shrug. “He just got a scratch on that big red drinker’s nose of his, but he’s acting like he’ll need major plastic surgery before he can appear in public again. Frankly, I think he wants to use this as an excuse to have some work done. In a few weeks he’ll emerge from seclusion looking—as they say—rested. Anyway, the point is that as soon as I heard he’d backed out of judging, I rushed over to the charity’s PR office and offered you as a substitute. You’re still hot from the Tony Cuervo story, so they said yes. I called my secretary, dictated the press release announcement over the phone and had her do a blast e-mail to all the outlets.”
I stared at Phil in astonishment. “You told everybody I’d do it before you asked me?”
“Well, yeah. The national story I sent out doesn’t just mention your TV show, I also promoted that mail-order fudge business you started up—Della’s Sweet Dreams. A second release went out to the local outlets that also mentions you teach cooking classes in Santa Monica.”
Two vertical frown lines suddenly appeared between Phil’s eyebrows. “Jeez, this came up so fast I forgot to check. You still teach cooking, don’t you?”
“Yes, on weekends.”
“That’s a relief.” Phil’s face relaxed, but he didn’t look happy. “Not making sure about the classes first—that was careless of me. I pride myself on the fact that anyone can take a Phil Logan press release right to the nearest bank.”
Take a press release to the bank . . . He
aring another of those semimetaphors I’d come to think of as Logan-isms made me smile with affection for Phil.
Seven months ago Mickey Jordan, owner of the Better Living Channel, out of desperation had hired me as a replacement host. The desperation was both his and mine. He’d fired the previous host and had to fill vacant time on his cable network, and I was on the verge of drowning in debt trying to keep my little cooking school going. Now I was probably on the second lowest rung of the “celebrity ladder,” but the fact that I was known to anyone at all beyond my immediate circle of family and friends was because of Phil Logan’s passion for his work.
Phil pulled a folded sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to me. “Details about what criteria you’re supposed to use for judging, and how many points you can give any particular dish. When you show up Wednesday night you’ll each be given your judging cards and a clipboard. Hey, this’ll be the easiest gig in the world. All you’ll have to do is walk around in an evening gown and watch other people cook.”
Perhaps remembering my notorious lack of interest in fashion, his eyes narrowed and he frowned at me. “Do you have an evening gown?”
“I used to . . . but it’s been years since—”
“Never mind. I know some designers—I’ll get you a loaner. Try not to spill anything on it.”
Phil started to leave, but stopped after taking a single step. When he turned back to me I saw an expression on his face that I’d never seen before: Embarrassment.
“Look,” he said, glancing down at the ground, “you know by now that I don’t get involved in other people’s sex lives, but I think in this case a kind of warning is necessary.”
Instantly on the alert against criticism of my relationship with Nicholas D’Martino, I bristled. “Hold it. We’re not going to discuss my personal life—”
Death Takes the Cake Page 28