Posts Tagged ‘fruitcake’

Black Cake and Homemade Wreaths

Thursday, December 15th, 2011

 

My family is kind of traditional and kind of not.  Since I’ve been a child my mother and I have made our own wreaths and garland for Christmas, only we don’t do it every year.  Some years someone’s too busy, or not around, or we can’t find the clippers.  My family is also members of that mocked tribe of humanity who eat fruitcake.  My grandmother  – not a warm, round gramma type but a bony, mascara-ed, glamorous Daaahling of a grandmother – made a moist, black glistening loaf every year.   Consuming it was a rite of passage; if you could put down a slice of Miney-Me’s (our nickname for her) whisky-soaked cake you were old enough for a lot of things.

It would be romantic to say that we’ve continued the tradition of making my grandmother’s fruitcake every year, and some years we do.  But we also like fruitcake so much we’re willing to experiment.  Yeah, I know, who experiments with fruitcake?  Pie? sure.  Crock-pot recipes?  of course.  No, my family takes their traditions and shakes them up.

 

This year my mother and I found both time and our clippers, so my daughters and I went to my mother’s house with a great bag of boxwood, juniper, white pine, and assorted scavenged greens.  (My mother clipped some of her rhododendron leaves and blossoms, good for focus and structure.  Dried hydangea and lavender give a little Provencal atmosphere.)

While we tied little bundles of greens with wire, my mother served her most recent fruitcake trial:  Black Cake from a 2007 article in the New York Times.  In this cake the dried fruits macerate for a few days, and are then ground in a food processor before being mixed into the batter.  Black Cake has all the rich, complicated flavors of fruitcake with a texture like moist gingerbread.

Like lots of fruitcake recipes, this one could be made now and held for a year to mellow, but it wouldn’t be too young if you served it on Christmas Eve.  No one would mock you for adding a few slices to a tray of Sugar Cookies, and some guest just might even come forward to reveal their “I’m a fan of fruitcake” badge.  Chances are, they also secretly call people “Dahling.”

 

 

Black Cake

Adapted from the Naparima Girls’ High School Cookbook

 

Igredients

1 pound prunes

1 pound dark raisins

1/2 pound golden raisins

1 pound currants

1 1/2 pounds dried cherries, or 1 pound dried cherries plus 1/2 pound glacé cherries

1/4 pound mixed candied citrus peel

2 cups dark rum; more for brushing cake

1 1/2 cups cherry brandy or Manischewitz Concord grape wine; more for grinding fruit

1/4 pound blanched almonds

1 cup white or light brown sugar for burning, or 1/4 cup dark molasses or cane syrup; more molasses for coloring batter

4 sticks (1 pound) butter; more for buttering pans

1 pound (about 2 1/2 cups) light or dark brown sugar

10 eggs

Zest of 2 limes

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1/2 teaspoon Angostura bitters

4 cups (1 pound) all-purpose flour

4 teaspoons baking powder

2 teaspoons cinnamon.

Instructions

At least 2 days before baking, combine prunes, raisins, currants, cherries, candied peel, rum and brandy in a glass jar or sturdy plastic container. Cover tightly; shake or stir occasionally.

When ready to bake, put soaked fruit and almonds in a blender or food processor; work in batches that the machine can handle. Grind to a rough paste, leaving some chunks of fruit intact. Add a little brandy or wine if needed to loosen mixture in the machine.

If burning sugar, place a deep, heavy-bottomed pot over high heat. Add 1 cup white or light brown sugar, and melt, stirring with a wooden spoon. Stir, letting sugar darken. (It will smoke.) When sugar is almost black, stir in 1/4 cup boiling water. (It will splatter.) Turn off heat.

Heat oven to 250 degrees. Butter three 9-inch or four 8-inch cake pans; line bottoms with a double layer of parchment or wax paper.

In a mixer, cream butter and 1 pound light or dark brown sugar until smooth and fluffy. Mix in eggs one at a time, then lime zest, vanilla and bitters. Transfer mixture to a very large bowl. In a separate bowl, combine flour, baking powder and cinnamon. Fold dry ingredients into butter mixture. Stir in fruit paste and 1/4 cup burnt sugar or molasses. Batter should be a medium-dark brown; if too light, add a tablespoon or two of burnt sugar or molasses.

Divide among prepared pans; cakes will not rise much, so fill pans almost to top. Bake 1 hour, and reduce heat to 225 degrees; bake 2 to 3 hours longer, until a tester inserted in center comes out clean. Remove to a rack.

While cakes are hot, brush tops with rum and let soak in. Repeat while cakes cool; they will absorb about 4 tablespoons total. When cakes are completely cool, they can be turned out and served. To keep longer, wrap cakes tightly in wax or parchment paper, then in foil. Store in a cool, dry place for up to 1 month.

Yield: 3 or 4 cakes, about 4 dozen servings.

 

Where to find fresh Marzipan and Citron

Sunday, December 4th, 2011

In Europe this time of year one can buy a pound of fresh marzipan to take home and shape into little mushrooms as easily as one can buy Brie.  As far as I know there is one, and only one, source for Christmas old world staples like fresh marzipan and fresh citron by the pound in the Northeast:  Polcari’s Coffee in Boston’s North End.

 

When I lived in the North End years ago, Ralph Polcari, who inherited the business from his father, ground my French Roast coffee once a week, his white shirt sleeves rolled up.  Something makes me think he often had a cigar in the corner of his mouth, but the place never smelled like anything but fifty years of cumin seed, cardamon and coffee.  A fat black and white cat always lay in the window, and Ralph would give him a smile and a pat when he passed on the way to measure out dried chickpeas from a barrel for a customer.

At Polcaris you can still walk up to the counter and ask for a pound of fresh marzipan, and they don’t look at you like you’re crazy.  They just reach for the large vats underneath the counter, weigh out a chunk, wrap it in paper, and say, “and what else can I get you?”

 

 

 

Bobby Eustace was the unlikely looking young man, a skinny kid with a few earrings and a spikey punk haircut, working beside Ralph years ago.   Bobby helped Ralph on busy Saturdays, jumping back and forth waiting on old ladies often while talking to a friend standing in the back of the crowd.  Bobby would be weighing cinnamon and talking to his friend about the mosh pit last night, but his “and, yes, Ma’m, what else can I get you, Ma’m”’s arrived with a gentle, earnest smile.  It was a funny scene, this antique store with square, solid Ralph behind the counter beside New Wave Bobby talking bands.

Ralph had no family; when he died he left the business to Bobby, but nothing has changed at Polcari’s Coffee.  -  Ok, I didn’t see a cat the other day.

No one agrees on marzipan.  The Germans have a law for their ratio of almond paste to sugar, thus codifying their little marzipan pigs.  French marzipan has syrup in it and is cooked more, so it is whiter and lighter.  The British don’t cook theirs at all, and add egg whites.

So, when I say that Polcari’s is the only store I know of that sells soft, fragrant, moist, marzipan by the pound, there’s a reason for you to wonder how sweet or almondy it is, how crumbly or pilable, or if it’s ready to shape into a peach and paint, because marzipan is many things to many countries.   My feeling is don’t ask questions of the Polcari’s version; it’s soft, almondy and fresh, weighed out for you by Bobby, an entirely different product than the cans in the grocery store, which not living in Brooklyn or Berlin, are my only other options.

Fresh citron reminds everyone of fruitcake, which divides the world into those who do and those who don’t.  My family does fruitcake, and so a source of real candied citron,  and candied fruits, which again is nothing like those little plastic boxes next to the walnut display at Shaw’s this time of year, is nothing short of a treasure chest.

 

Citron, by the way, is a whole fruit that looks a little like a grapefruit and lemon, but is mostly peel.  At one point in history it was honored for medicinal purposes.  The cherries and citron weighed out by the pound from Polcari’s are moist, sweet jewels.  No, none of this stuff tastes like the original fruit; it’s not intended to.  Candied, it becomes something different, a rich, colorful, textured sweet, fruits saved in sugar to bring color and sweetness to the darkest time of year.

Bobby says he considers himself a museum keeper, but there is nothing not alive about Polcaris Coffee.  A small crowd of customers stood waiting to be served at the counter when I was there the other day.  One man was there to buy mustard seeds to make his own mustard, a recipe from Molly O’Neill in the New York Times years ago.  People travel to Polcaris for things like that, and things like candied citron.  Just because you can’t find these foods anymore doesn’t mean people have stopped needing them.  That’s the strange thing about the way foods disappear.  The cheerful, busy counter at Polcari’s is proof that people are still making stews with dried chickpeas and Christmas marzipan potatoes.

By the way, a stroll through the North End, particularly this time of year,  is also a pleasure that hasn’t disappeared.