Weekly Dish

Towards the end of February, I get a little antsy. Some might call it cabin fever, but that isn’t really accurate; I get out of the house often enough. No, my end-of-winter jitters stem from the kitchen end of things. I look in the fridge, especially at the end of the week, and I try hard to get excited about finding a creative use for the bunch of carrots languishing in the crisper or the bag of sweet potatoes that seems to never end.

But sometimes I just can’t do it.

And, so, sometimes, instead of concentrating my energies on making a healthful dinner out of the seasonal ingredients I’m desperately trying to still adore (but am secretly wishing to bid goodbye for a time), I make dessert instead.

Please don’t tell anyone.

It’s just that dinner can get a bit routine come March. We eat lots and lots of broccoli: simply steamed and tossed with sauteed garlic, dressed up a little more with cashews and soy sauce, tossed in pasta, folded into an omelet with caramelized onions, pureed with chicken broth and cheddar cheese for soup. And while I love all of these meals — truly, I am thankful that farm-fresh broccoli bears only the slightest resemblance to its tough-stemmed bland cousin carried in supermarkets, and I happily toss the tender, earthy-tasting florets and stalks into all manner of meals. These quick dinners get us through the winter without breaking our budget or sending us calling for take-out.

Yet, at the end of the day, especially fickle, neither winter nor Spring days, I find myself staring into the recesses of my tiny pantry hankering to do something more with my culinary energy. Something with a little more fanfare than broccoli, again.

Last week, when this urge struck, I found a bag of Meyer lemons calling out to me, as they so often do to waken me from my winter slumber, and they asked, quite emphatically, to be made into a simple cake.

Because I grew up in the South, heiress to a whole host of vintage recipes calling for ingredients that I don’t normally buy now that I’m a little fussier about things like chemical additives and artificial sweetners, I particularly love the idea of taking an old recipe and revamping it. I heard about this one, for lemon-lime ice box cake, on NPR’s lovely segment, Kitchen Window, some time in the fall, and when I saw those Meyer lemons, I knew this cake was the one for me.

I wasn’t so concerned with the green that make the original recipe lemon-lime, — I like the striations of yellow, personally — so I stuck with lemons for all of the citrus flavor and left out the food coloring. And, while I’m sure run-of-the-mill lemons would work perfectly fine, if the season has left you any Meyers, their tempered tartness and hints of sweet florals make this cake truly irresistible.

So irresistible, in fact, that it might just get me from broccoli to asparagus. Maybe even, come fall, I’ll be wishing for winter days and the lemons they bring. That, my friends, would be a powerful cake.

Happy Easter to one and all!

Lemon Icebox Cake
Just a single layer, topped with a simple whipped cream topping, this cake’s humble appearance belies its big flavor. Which, to my mind, makes it an even better candidate for taking to an event, like an Easter dinner — no one will expect the buttery, lemony explosion as they take the first bite, and you, the humble baker will get all the praise. Not that that’s why you bake for others, of course, but just in case it’s an added bonus you appreciate.

A couple of ingredient notes: I find measurements that suggest how many lemons you need for the amounts of juice and zest to vary so widely that they are unhelpful; I measured the quantities of both as I used them, but especially for the zest, it’s okay to estimate. Fresh lemon juice is absolutely essential; yes, it takes time to zest and squeeze all of those lemons, but the result is well worth the effort.

As for the curd, a high-quality store-bought version would probably be fine; the original recipe calls for stirring it with a little water, so that it’s the right consistency to pour over the cake. I found that the texture of homemade curd, especially just after it’s made, worked perfectly.

Lemon Ice Box Cake

For the cake:

3 cups cake flour
3 t. baking powder
1/4 t. salt
1 cup butter, at room temp
1 1/2 cups sugar
4 eggs
1 cup buttermilk (whole milk works too)
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
2 t. grated lemon zest

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

Stir together the flour, salt, and baking powder in a small bowl and set aside.

In an electric mixer, cream the butter and sugar. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, and continue to beat until the mixture has doubled in volume.

Remove the bowl from the mixer, and with a rubber spatula, fold in the flour mixture and the buttermilk, alternating by thirds, until both have been incorporated. Stir in the juice and zest.

Pour the batter into a greased cake pan, and bake for 30-35 minutes, or until just moist (not wet) in the center. Turn the cake onto a rack to cool.

For the curd:

1 cup fresh lemon juice
1 cup sugar
1 T. grated lemon zest
4 large eggs, beaten
2 T. butter, diced

Whisk together the juice, sugar, zest, and eggs in a small saucepan. Stir constantly over medium-low heat, until the mixture thickens and coats a spoon. Remove from the heat and stir in the butter. When the cake has cooled slightly (it’s fine if it’s still warm, just not oven-hot), poke holes all over it with the bottom of a wooden spoon. I like to poke holes of varying depths — for some, go all the way through to the bottom, for others, just a prick in the top, and then, some in between. Pour the curd over the punctured cake, allowing it to seep into the holes. I had about 3/4 cup of curd left over. Let the cake stand while you whip the topping.

For the topping:

8 ounces mascarpone cheese, at room temp
1/2 cup whipping cream
1/2 cup powdered sugar
2 t. grated lemon zest
4 T. lemon juice

Whip the cream on high until soft peaks form. Add the powdered sugar, zest, and mascarpone; beat on medium-low until just combined. With the mixer running, slowly pour in the lemon juice. Spread the topping over the whole cake.

If you beat the mixture too long, the mascarpone will curdle, but that’s okay; it will smooth out some when you spread it on. And if it gets really lumpy and ugly, it will still taste good, but if you’re concerned about the appearance, whip some extra cream by itself to spread on top (like I did).

You can serve it warm — straight from the pan — or refrigerate and serve it cold. We liked it equally well both ways. It cuts into neater pieces once it’s been chilled.

–Adapted from April Fulton’s adapted recipe on NPR’s Kitchen Window 

And a month later…everything has changed again. Such is the nature of caring for an infant, I know, but I’m still not used to how impossibly fast life changes when you are enmeshed with one who measures her life in months rather than years.

I don’t know how the last month went for you, but around here, February stole through our back door when we weren’t looking, hung out just long enough to bluster and spit and stir up the fickleness that is Louisiana weather, and then, just like that, he disappeared.

Thankfully, in his wake, he left us with a baby who has learned that food is good. Which is quite a relief for us, I have to say. In case you haven’t noticed, we pay a good bit of attention to what we eat. Food is, in some sense, what we do: it’s how we spend a lot of our time, how we entertain ourselves, how we commune with each other and with our friends and family. So, for Josie to so violently reject food felt like a rejection of us somehow. I know that sounds ridiculous because it is — she just wasn’t ready yet, as all of you wise moms out there reassured me. And, she’s a baby for crying out loud.

But here’s the other thing I’ve learned about my child through this process: she is some kind of opinionated (I say that in my very best southern drawl). My mother is laughing out loud right now (can you hear her glee?) that I am dealing with the fierce independence that she faced nearly thirty years ago in the guise of another baby with a mind of her own. I’ve been hearing these stories my whole life — how when Mom tried to brush my hair, I grabbed the brush and declared, “Me do it! Me do it!” or if my dad ever actually won the game of Candyland, I would throw the whole board across the room in protest. But I never expected that strong willed streak would show up so early in my own child — it seems that her already-formed opinions have been coded into her DNA.

Regardless of how it got this way, Josie has made up her mind that she will eat on her terms, which means, she is the one who puts the food in her mouth. Once we crossed that hurdle — she grabbed the spoon out of my hand one day — she has been delighted to try all kinds of things.

And just like that, I had to figure out what to feed her. Now, I’m guessing by now that you’ve picked up on the fact that I have a few opinions of my own about food, but I should say that my philosophy is very much in process. Over the last year, David and I have been making a concerted effort to stay away from processed food and to spend as much of our food budget at the farmer’s market on seasonable fruits and vegetables as we can, but we haven’t always been this way. And we could certainly still do better, but we’re trying to stay away from food that has been trucked in from far away and move towards eating the fruits of our neighbors’ harvest.

And so, of course, looking at a jar of pureed bananas and thinking about putting it into my child’s body, I had lots of questions. Even if I buy the organic brand, where were those bananas grown? What kind of farm? How are the workers treated? How long did it take them to get here? How many nutrients were removed in the processing stages they went through to get into a jar that could sit on a shelf indefinitely? I know, I know. I’m taking this way too seriously, you might be thinking. But if I am conscientious about the food I put into my own body, shouldn’t I be even more concerned about a growing, developing body that, for the time being, I have complete control over? I know that won’t always be the case, and so, for now, yes, I’m being picky about what Josie eats. We’re trying to give her only whole foods — and to take Michael Pollan’s advice, mostly plants.

Perhaps my ideas about all of this seem hard-core or militant or just too fussy. But I believe that taste in food is cultivated, and as David and I are working towards intentional habits of eating, we’re bringing Josie into that lifestyle, and we want to prepare her taste buds for it as best we can. I’m not so naive as to think that she’ll never have sugar or refined flour or (heaven forbid!) French fries. But if I can prolong her exposure to those things and increase her taste for real food, then I want to try.
Practically speaking, this decision means that we exert a little bit more effort than opening a jar to prepare her food, but in the grand scheme of things, not that much more. One afternoon’s worth of prep work — cooking, blending, storing — will last us a whole month.

For the month of February in Louisiana, that meant a Sunday afternoon roasting a winter squash and a couple of apples, steaming spinach and Swiss chard and broccoli and carrots, pureeing it all in batches with a little bit of the cooking liquid, and spooning it into ice cube trays and tupperware containers. I also ground some brown rice and oats to make her morning cereal, and we keep whole milk yogurt in the fridge.

Once the prep work is done, meal time is as simple as opening a lidded container or thawing out an ice cube.

Clean-up, on the other hand, is another story.

You all were so kind and helpful as I worked through getting my child to eat; now, I want to know, what kinds of decisions have you made about feeding your kids? What challenges to your kids’ healthy eating have you faced? What should new moms be cautious about?

And, then, I promise, I will stop using this space to obsess about my child’s eating, and Weekly Dish will return to its regularly scheduled programming. Thank you for your patience!