This culinary adventure started the way of many such calamities: my wife had an idea. “I’m going to make a lemon desert with the Meyer Lemons from our tree.”
“Sounds good, honey,” I replied, careful not to be too enthusiastic lest I get enlisted to help. With company due to arrive in about two hours, I had my hands full: a pool to clean and chlorinate, a floor to vacuum, lamb to marinate, and my infamously messy desk to clear – unsightly as it was, tucked into a corner of the dining room and covered with papers, electrical components and other detritus from my emptied pockets. B priorities of sorting and organizing had once again gotten lumped together into a single A priority: make it all disappear!
As my wife moved about, attending to some of her pre-guest-arrival items, I began to hear the disconcerting use of the second person pronoun. “I have to go to the store. You could make one of your cakes. Why don’t you make a Sherry cake? You could just put some lemon in it.”
I marveled at the way these ideas could so readily be assigned to me. Even after thirty years of marriage, I was still surprised and amazed at this sleight of hand, or of word. I struggled to deflect. “I thought you were going to make something: a lemon cake, or perhaps a lemon chiffon pie.”
“No, not a pie. A lemon cake would be good. Would you be willing to make a cake?” My brain had become a quick translator for such phrases. “ Would you be willing” was stronger and more passively threatening than a simple “please.” A refusal would imply unwillingness to help, a lack of concern for the love of my life. This phrase had recently replaced the hail for family members to “co-operate,” which itself meant “do the thing on my attention list I want to have done.” After all, since her items were well-intentioned for everyone’s benefit, why wouldn’t we want to do them? Immediately!?
“I’ll see if I can get to it,” I offered, non-noncommittally. With the tide turning, she questioned what else I was doing – always eager to help me re-prioritize my day. She brought out ingredients from the pantry to speed me along on my corrected course, then dashed off to the store.
Coming into the kitchen an hour later to marinade the meat after cleaning the pool, I remembered the cake. Funny how these things manage to slip my mind. I resolved to prep the meat after I stuck the cake in the oven. After all, this was my Magic Sherry Cake, immortalized by its inclusion into the Nursery School Cookbook way back when our Master’s Degree-ed children were scampering around on the floor. It stood the tests of time and simplicity: a box of yellow cake, a box of vanilla pudding, a few other odds and ends like milk and eggs. I added a few spices: a pinch here, a smidgeon there, no time to measure exactly. I love vanilla. Why not amp up the vanilla pudding with some real vanilla? In went a capful. Then of course there was the Sherry for the Sherry cake. Or was there?
I hadn’t recalled seeing any in the cupboard. Whiskey, rum, gin and vodka? Yes. Sherry? A check of the pantry found it to be lacking. There are two modern wonders of the cell phone: everyone has them, but often don’t answer them. There would be no rescue provisions from the store. I was on my own. The bowl was waiting. The lamb was waiting. Plan B was waiting. I initiated it.
For a fleeting moment, I wondered how Scotch Whiskey and Nursery School fit together; but there was no time for hesitation. I splashed some in, blended the various ingredients by approximate, unleveled teaspoon, thinking all the while about the lemon requirement that had gotten me into this. It didn’t seem to fit the ingredients of a sherry/whiskey cake; but a lemon topping or glaze might just work.
Finishing the blending, I reached for the round, bundt pan. No, I was thinking a square cake with icing. I retrieved a 9” by 9” pan and fetched the cake mix box to compare baking times with my recipe. It suggested two round pans or a 9 by 13 rectangular. I wasn’t making a high rise nor a birthday party sheet cake. My pan was square but deeper and far more fashionable. Into the pan went the yellow lava and into the oven went the whole thing.
After tending to the lamb, I went in search of an old friend: The Boston Cook book, with pages turned copper and falling away from the backing. Opening its pages always felt as if I were consulting an ancient oracle. This time, it revealed to me the secrets of lemon glaze.
Glaze? No, I think “Glazeé! Lemon Glazeé Cake.” As I returned the sacred tome back to its place in the pantry, my eye caught the nut jars. That would be good; perhaps chopped walnuts! That jar was empty. The Costco jar had a mix of nuts; I could pull out the pistachios. Then I spied a jar of pistachios still in their shells: fresh and direct. I shelled them, scattered them on a cutting board, and chopped away.
The timer buzzed. Opening the oven door, I found my square cake had risen – above the rim and into the wireframe shelf above it such that I had to draw both shelves out to disengage the upper from my territorially infringed cake! Maybe there was something to that suggestion of 9 by 13.
Its appearance wasn’t good, displaying parallel lines in a domed field as if I had been grilling it face down. I could cut it flat, restoring the shape and leaving a rather guillotined effect. I contemplated further. I could flip it and use the inverted bottom as a level surface for the top. Loosening the sides with a spatula, I placed a serving plate over it and flipped, hoping for an intact result. Fortune took pity and a complete, flat bottom appeared beneath the pan.
Only it was dark brown and pocked, very unlike the smooth, golden top I had seen before the branding incident. If the glaze dried white, I’d be saved. With hopeful anticipation, I spooned the sugar and lemon mixture over the top. With lessening hope, I repeated this gesture, watching each time as the liquid soaked into the rough surface, changing the color not in the least. Alas, it would be a transparent glaze, not a white frosting.
Undaunted – well slightly daunted – I sprinkled the chopped pistachios around the square playing field, dribbled the last of the glazeé over them, and called it done. The one problem with a cake, versus cupcakes, is that the cook cannot exercise his prerogative and taste test the result. It tends to leave a suspicious gap at a corner and throws the symmetry of the geometric shape into disarray. I considered blaming the void on the dog. No; good or otherwise, it was done. Placing it on the table, center stage, I returned to my remaining list of chores just as the door opened and my marital dynamism resumed. “I’m back. How’s the lemon cake? Is it done?”
After a lovely dinner of grilled lamb with asparagus, I presented my desert offering. In silent truth, this was more of an experimentation upon unwitting guests than a confident culinary presentation. However, I had to my advantage the earlier group consumption of a bottle of champagne and another of red wine – nectar with which to persuade, or at least obfuscate. I decided to watch the reactions before I ate, less to face my fear and more to observe an honest response.
Faces brightened. Praise was voiced. I decided the coast was clear: I lifted a forkful to my mouth. Yes! Another spontaneous adventure successfully concluded.
“Really, Jim, this is wonderful. Can I have the recipe?”
Recipe?