Stardust’s Saturday baker

Attention stalkers!  As of yesterday, I have been installed as Stardust’s Saturday baker, and my first day and my new little gig was good fun.  I made a batch of whole wheat buttermilk biscuits, a vegan cinnamon-raspberry cake and a “bothersome” molasses cake with “tiresome” tangy vanilla frosting.  The last piece was a debacle, because parts of the cake stuck to the tip of the Bundt pan, and to salvage the damn thing, I decided to use some frosting to cover up the mistake.  Well, the kitchen by this point was rather warm, especially with the wonderful addition of Tony (who literally jumped up and down and screamed “Yaaaaay!” upon seeing me in the back), one of Stardust’s cadre of cooks.  The kitchen was so warm, with the oven being on, the icing kept melting off of the damn cake.  I had to stick the cake *and* the icing in the beer fridge up front to keep it solidified.

So what was supposed to be an 8 am ’til 12 noon shift turned into me staying until 2 pm, with Tony and Casey, the regular baker who was working the front, battling with my inner Martha, who was going, “It’s not PERFECT!  AAAH!!”

The cake’s fuck-ups did enable me to kind of lose my mind in the kitchen, much to Tony’s amusement, and perhaps encouragement.  When I was making the frosting for the cake in a bowl, I looked down at the creamy-sweet goodness and remarked to him how I wanted to stick my face in the frosting.  “Do it,” he said, “and run around the building yelling ‘FROSTING FAAACE!’”

So, of course, we kept screaming “FROSTING FAAACE!” in the kitchen for the next two hours or so I was there.

As you can see, despite that damn debacle of a cake (that looked to have sold well later that night), I had good fun.  I’m excited to go back next Saturday.  I’m planning on scones and cupcakes this time around.  In the meantime, I hope to make some things at my new place in order to get in a bit of practice time, and to try some new recipes out.

By the way, Tony has dubbed me as the Butter Assassin, and from here on out, I’m going to use and abuse that new moniker as much as possible.  So, next Saturday, come over to Stardust from 8 am until noon (hopefully not longer… again), where you can see me puttering about in the mushroom apron my friend Melanie bought for me as a Christmas gift one year.  All the recipes I used were based on my well-worn copy of Abigail Johnson Dodge’s book, The Weeekend Baker, which is a rather apt title considering my new job–providing I can keep it.

FROSTING FAAAACE!!

All hail the Guberburger!

So I went to see the film Hamburger America at the Enzian Theater yesterday, along with This is My Cheesesteak. Both films were wonderful takes on food in America. I’m happy the Florida Film Festival included these films this year, because I am such a food lore geek, and I love hearing about the history of little mom & pop establishments, even if they’re serving up a bunch of meat I don’t eat.

This is My Cheesesteak focusing on the iconic Philly cheesesteak sandwich and a few of the sandwich shops and their owners who have made it such an institution in the city. It was a visual love letter to the authentic cheesesteak. My favourite scene was when the cheesesteak owners were shown sampling a Hot Pockets microwavable Philly cheesesteak… and all that were shown trying it spat the bite they took out! It was great. If you want to find out more about this film, the documentary has a website: www.thisismycheesesteak.com. There’s a schedule of other film festivals it will be appearing at, as well as a film trailer, and apparently you will be able to buy the DVD online soon. There’s also a listing of the steak shops featured in the film, with nearly all of them having their own website, so if you’re planning on making a visit to the city, you have your selection of cheesesteaks to try… unless you’re veg like me. Take photos at least, though, because these sort of establishments are a part of food history.

While This is My Cheesesteak showed American cuisine in one city, Hamburger America went all across the foodscape of American to tell these amazing stories about the small businesses and local chains that make up our food culture identity. It fascinated me how these little places scattered around the country are so unique in their history and also their take on the classic American hamburger. The film starts out in Memphis, Tennessee, with a burger whose burger meat is deep-fried, which should come as no surprise to the rest of the Southerners out there. The real kicker is that the meat is fried in grease that’s over 90 years old. The grease is strained and filtered, but essentially it’s still the same grease that was being used nearly a century ago.

As well as Wisconsin’s Butterburger, where a healthy(?) dollop of butter is added into the burger, New Mexico’s burger with chiles, Connecticut’s steamed meat patties (which I actually found more bizarre than the deep-fried burger patties… but then again, half of my heritage is from people raised on vitamin G–grease), there was a little place called the Wagon Weel out in some fly-over state that puts peanut butter on its hamburger patties. Ah yes, hence it’s known as the Guberburger. During the Q&A section with the director afterwards, someone had asked him which burger was his favourite, and he earnestly said he liked all of them, but he regularly makes the Guberburger at home because of its ease of replication: just add peanut butter.

This inspired me. Later on that evening, with the help of my wonderful friend Marie who bought me a few of the rather essential ingredients, I created a Southeast Asian/vegetarian hommage to the Guberburger. I put lettuce and a sliced-up cherry tomato on the bottom bun, then added some fresh basil leaves, then cooked up a veggie burger patty and plopped in on top. While it was still hot from the pan, I put on a layer of non-hydrogenated peanut butter (stir, stir), then sprinkled on some crunchy bean sprouts and squeezed a proper bit of lime on top of that and on the underside of the top bun as well. It was gorgeous! I forgot to take a photograph, as I was so caught up in wanting to know what it would taste like, but I’ll definitely include another entry of making it with a photograph for my Open Source Food profile. It will be brilliant.

If you missed out on the film, you can buy it on DVD from the Hamburger America website. In addition to the film, George Motz is putting out a book that will showcase more burger establishments in the United States. There’s also a Hamburger America blog, which should keep you up-to-date about the upcoming book tour in, as George Motz put it, the Burger Belt.

Praise the man or woman who came up with the concept of putting peanut butter on a hamburger, and praise films like this that champion the small establishments that contribute to America’s flavour.

Gettin’ all Martha up in my parents’ kitchen

I’m more exhausted than usual after making a cake, because I made this particular cake at my parents’ house. Since I’m living with them, this is the first time I’ve baked anything in their abode, and I admit, I was having some serious moments–shock and awe–upon realising how unprepared my parents’ kitchen was for me.

It all started with these wild lemons my parents got from my Aunt Becky’s ranch. These warty-skinned wonders looked up at me from the basket my parents have them in, and they begged to be made into a tart. Well, I haven’t tried my amateur hand at tarts yet, so the lemons and I agreed upon a cake instead. I looked at the ingredients of an orange cake recipe I had (which I had altered to create this Glazed Orange Spice Cake), and determined the only things I needed to grab was some sour cream and powdered sugar.

So it was off to the nearby Oviedo Publix, which had a lovely NASCAR display, nicely flanked by cubes of Molson Ice or some other nasty equivalent. I picked up the missing ingredients, calling as I meandered the aisles to ask my father how many eggs we had (”We got five!”), then threaded my way past the soccer and lacrosse moms to the check-out aisle, whereupon I believe I creeped the manager bagging my groceries with my “Candy from Strangers” reusable shop bag I got from BlueQ.

Anyhoo, so I get back to my parents, and grab a couple of bumpy wild lemons to zest. However, there’s a problem: my parents do not own a zester. They neither own a grater. Wait, they *think* they own one of the two… so a search ensues. My mother discovers here angel food cake pan, along with a little hand juicer she bought at Publix, but no dice with the zester or a cheese grater. So, after a poor attempt to zest with a steak knife, I moved onto an apple peeler, which produced less than the 4 teaspoons of required zest in an uneven fashion. Oh well, no big deal, it’s good enough.

Then comes the time to measure the ingredients, and so ensues another hunt for measuring cups and spoons. After much, much digging, and some suggestions I outright refused, including what appeared to be the cup for cough syrup (”Well, that’s a teaspoon right there at the notch.”), Ma finally procures a set of measuring cups and a lone measuring spoon–1/2 teaspoon. Lucky for me, the recipe didn’t need anything measured in tablespoons, so I pressed on, considering the irony of the Bed, Bath & Beyond gift certificate I received this past Christmas, when maybe my parents should have picked up a set of measuring spoons with it instead. And a grater, or even more fancy, a microplane.

When it came time for the eggs, I opened up the fridge and, sure enough, there were five eggs. I only needed two, but there was, again, another problem: the eggs had a “Best before” date of January 25th. Folks, that was a month ago to the day.

So, I went back to Publix at around 8 pm, which is around the time most of the single men tend to do their Publix shopping, loading their carts and baskets with frozen foods and Molson Ice. I plunked in my basket eggs (”Best before March 30 ‘08″), measuring spoons and a grater.

After that, I didn’t run into any more problems, and the cake looks good. My ma’s been sticking her face in the cake since it’s been done, and I have to shoo her away, and I poured a lemon glaze over the top. I’ve got to say, it can be pretty exasperating baking and cooking in someone else’s kitchen. I remember the last time I had this much trouble, it was when I was baking biscuits at Mike George’s apartment. The poor man didn’t even have any knives, aside from his pocket knife that he offered, which I declined. I had to wait for Clark to come with a knife from his house so I could cut the dough into little squares for the biscuits.

To be fair, though, everyone’s kitchen is suited to them and how they make–or in some cases, just heat or reheat–food. My parents’ kitchen works for them for the most part, and that’s the important thing. I don’t plan on baking on a daily basis here, although I’m sure my mother would love it if I did.

So what does this wild lemon cake taste like? To be honest… I’m too tired to try it out right now. I took a photo on my digital camera of it post-glaze, and I’m about to cut it in half so that I can take a portion to my someone tomorrow. Of course, I have to relate my tale of guerrilla baking to him in order for there to be an understanding as to all that I went through to make this lemon cake.

I don’t think he reads my blog.

But, apparently, my Granny does! Hey, Granny!