Honey Cake

Tradition is an interesting thing. We perpetuate certain ideals, advocate certain processes, even propogate lies, all in the name of "tradition." It provides a basis for the continued existence of certain items, techniques or processes that might have otherwise fallen by the wayside as the underappreciated victims of social darwinism.

But we humans are emotional beings, a feature with which the rational actor model is still grappling. Certain traditions, yes, are rooted in fact or in religious circumstance, but some happenings take place time after time, year after year, just because that's the way it always was, or how it had always been done before.

Because of these emotional connections we often feel towards the traditional, we frequently tend to just accept tradition as is, and don't question at all the reasons why we do what we do or how we do it or why we've adopted a particular means of accomplishing the end result of whatever the tradition in question may be.

One such tradition is the consumption of honey around the Jewish New Year (yes, I HAVE waited that long to write this post - please forgive me). There is a definite reason why honey finds its way to the Rosh Hashanah table - it is meant as a symbol of the sweetness we hope to experience in the coming year. Honey makes its way to the table in various forms, though most typically in a shallow dish in which we dip slice after slice of apple, which is always delicious in its simplicity. The other most common vehicle for honey around the high holidays is the ubiquitous honey cake. Dense, deep...dense honey cake.



There are few redeeming features of a typical honey cake. Actually, I might take that back - there is one redeeming feature of most honey cakes - the very top crust. Soaked through and through with honey, the top layer is rich, sweet and oh so deliciously sticky. The rest of the cake, though, forget about it. Dry, dense, the rest of your standard rosh hashanah honey cake is a waste of time, really. But that top layer - the top layer of any honey cake around our house at the holidays is just ripe for the picking, my attempts at denial rendered futile by my sticky fingers. The rest of that cake, though, just sits there, and sits there, and sits there. The funny thing about honey cake is that it really takes forever to go stale - with all the honey and sugar and oil it stays just as moist as it was on day one (which is to say, not all that moist) for far longer than most other cakes. And so it can sit there, on the counter, no less, and taunt you, with it's deep, dark color, as if to say "I could be delicious, why don't you just grab another little bit," for upwards of a week.

Tradition dictates that we have honey cake on the table each and every year. We don't question it, don't second guess it. There has been honey cake on the table every year prior, why stop this year? But why can't we question the honey cake itself. If it has to be on the table, can't it at least be delicious? Anything based around something as sweet and pure an ingredient as honey should certainly have the potential to taste fabulous. So I set out on a search to find a delicious honey cake, one with certain ingredients that would add a depth of flavor and prevent the cake from being cloyingly sweet - one that would allow the honey to shine, rather than to overpower. And I found it, with a four-fork rating on epicurious. I figured, if any honey cake could be so universally approved, it had to be good. But there was still a part of me that thought legitimately good, or is it good for honey cake? The ingredient list looked like it would balance out the intense sweetness of the honey, with citrusy notes from the orange juice, aumtumnal spices and a deep richness from the coffee. And it did not disappoint.

This honey cake will change your mind about honey cake. A new tradition began at our house this high holiday season: a tradition of truly delicious honey cake, one that we will all look forward to on the dessert table at the holidays, and not just one that sits on the table because it should. A honey cake that is happily eaten, top to bottom.



Marcy Goldman's Majestic and Moist New Year's Honey Cake
from A Treasury of Jewish Holiday Baking, recipe also availabe here

Ingredients
3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
4 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon ground allspice
1 cup vegetable oil
1 cup honey
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
3 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup warm coffee or strong tea
1/2 cup fresh orange juice
1/4 cup rye or whisky (I subbed orange juice, as my whiskey was dreadfully close to empty, and well, I wanted it)
1/2 cup slivered or sliced almonds (I went without)

Method

I like this cake best baked in a 9-inch angel food cake pan, but you can also make it in a 10-inch tube or bundt cake pan, a 9 by 13-inch sheetpan, or three 8 by 4 1/2-inch loaf pans.

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Lightly grease two loaf pan(s)*.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and spices. Make a well in the center and add the oil, honey, sugars, eggs, vanilla, coffee, orange juice, and rye or whisky.

Using a strong wire whisk or an electric mixer on slow speed, combine the ingredients well to make a thick batter, making sure that no ingredients are stuck to the bottom of the bowl.

Spoon the batter into the prepared pan(s) and sprinkle the top of the cake(s) evenly with the almonds. Place the cake pan(s) on 2 baking sheets stacked together and bake until the cake springs back when you touch it gently in the center. For angel and tube cake pans, bake for 60 to 70 minutes; loaf cakes, 45 to 55 minutes. For sheet-style cakes, the baking time is 40 to 45 minutes. This is a liquidy batter and, depending on your oven, it may need extra time. Cake should spring back when gently pressed.

Let the cake stand for 15 minutes before removing it from the pan. Then invert it onto a wire rack to cool completely.

* You can also use a tube or angel food pan for this cake.

An Experiment in Coconut Cake

Growing up, I did most of my baking according to three-step directions on the back of boxes of Duncan Hines and Betty Crocker mixes. My parents, while both avid cooks, were never bakers. So when the time came to bring cupcakes into class for our birthdays, my brother and I would turn to the mixes that always hung around our cupboards. Funfetti was, unsurprisingly, an elementary school staple in the Parnes household; my brother and I, like most children, were unable to deny the temptations of sprinkles within the cake batter.

I'm slightly hesitant to admit this (though admittedly, only slightly), it was not so far out of the norm for me to eat sprinkles by the spoonful, straight out of the tub. Why I found (ok, find) these little bits of wax and artificial colorings to be so delicious I will never know, since they don't really taste like much more than the sum of their parts after all, which is, of course, to say that they taste like wax. Few cupcakes, however, (particularly of the boxed-mix variety) have been made the worse for wear by the fanciful addition of sprinkles to the party. Sure a few sprinkles crowning a twist of frosting is all well and good, but theres just something to be said for sprinkles that are actually integrated into the cupcakes themselves - like colorful stars against an otherwise pale vanilla cupcake sky, without actually altering the predictably nostalgic taste of the cupcake itself.

But really, I digress. I did have a point, after all. The backs of these cake mix boxes all contain variations on the same basic step-by-step procedure to create foolproof cakes; add eggs, oil and water, mix and bake. Where these mixes allow you a bit of creative license, however, is in your chosen baking vessel. This same mix could be a 9-inch layer cake, or 18-24 cupcakes, or a sheet cake, or two smaller square cakes, all dependent upon what you chose to bake it in. My take-away from this, which has stuck with me years later, was that any cake batter can be made into cupcakes, and any cupcake batter into cake. While this adage may be true on a more general level, it is, apparently, not without its exceptions. I learned not to cast broad baking strokes the hard, (very) dense way.

It was my mother's birthday a week ago. As we all know, all proper celebrations require cake. My mother is not a fan of chocolate cakes (in fact, we're not a big chocolate-cake family, or a cake family at all - if I didn't sporadically bring cake with me on my visits to my parent's house it's unlikely that they'd ever eat it). I turned instead to a coconut cake recipe, which seemed befitting the recent wave of nice weather we'd been experiencing.

This was not your typical coconut cake, as it called for reduced coconut milk, which I found pretty intriguing. In fact, was not a cake recipe at all. It was a recipe for coconut cupcakes, which looked so-adorable-I-could-pinch-them on the glossy pages of Bon Appetit. But cupcakes just would not do. Cupcakes don't feel as celebratory as cake does. Perhaps it's the fact that, when dealing with cupcakes, you don't all share in slices of the same larger whole, which feels slightly less communal to me. When eating cake, we have to pause, and wait for the pieces to be actually cut, providing a moment in which to share in a joyous, cake-worthy event. Cupcakes can just be grabbed, willy-nilly, without any regard to why they were baked in the first place.

The recipe was for 18 cupcakes, so I decided to make it into a cake, for the aforementioned celebratory reasons. In the same vein, I went the layer-cake route, since we all know that layer cakes are far more celebratory than non-layer cakes. Somewhere along the way, though, something went wrong. The cake had great flavor, the coconut made its subtle presence known against the comforting warmth of the butter. This cake will definitely not knock you over the head with its coconutiness, but it is perceptibly hanging around in the mix, more utility man than power slugger; more Joey Fatone than JT.

Something was amiss, however, and my cupcake conversion was not successful. The cake was far too dense, to the extent that I felt legitimate resistance as I tried to cut through it. And despite my mother's insistence that the cake had good flavor, we all knew it was a failure. While the prior desserts I've delivered had been well-received, this was undeniably sub-par. But my family loves me, and ate it anyway (with minimal criticism). In spite of the fact that it was dense, the cake was still fat and sugar, and the flavors were still there. But I learned a valuable lesson, one that I will take with me as I continue along my path to baking enlightenment.



Coconut-Milk Cupcakes (or cake, at your own risk) with Coconut Frosting
Adapted from Bon Appétit, April 2009

While this attempt was not a success, I think this recipe can be made truly great with a couple of minor tweaks - and even has the potential to succeed in cake form.

I baked the batter in two separate 9-inch pans. This might have been my first mistake - a better move might have been to bake the cake in one pan and then cut the single cake into two layers with a serrated knife. But the problem with this cake was its heaviness, so I'm not sure that a one-pan-approach is the solution. A better solution is probably to use cake flour, as opposed to all-purpose. I had tried three separate grocery stores in the Union Square area for cake flour, and was wholly unsuccessful in my endeavor. The recipe below is adapted for cake flour (if you use all purpose, you'll only need two cups - but definitely go the cupcake route), since I think that's a big key to making this recipe work.

The most time consuming aspect of the recipe is reducing the coconut milk - don't be afraid to really let it boil. Otherwise, it will take quite a long time for it to sufficiently reduce - just use a larger pot and you'll be fine. I also found the frosting below a bit too sweet for the subtlety of the cake itself, so I'll reduce the amount of sugar used the next time I make these, perhaps by as much as a cup.

REDUCED COCONUT MILK

2 13- to 14-ounce cans unsweetened coconut milk (preferably organic) [
3 tablespoons unsweetened, shredded coconut (optional; I would refrain from using sweetened, flaked coconut, since the flavor would likely be too strong).

CUPCAKES

2 1/4 cups cake flour
2 1/4 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup unsalted butter, room temperature
1 1/3 cups sugar
3 large eggs
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 cup reduced coconut milk (see above), room temperature

FROSTING

1 cup unsalted butter, room temperature
2 1/2 cups powdered sugar (Note: I found this frosting to border on cloying, and would use close to 1 1/2 cups next time, though I am admittedly not a buttercream person, as I find it far too sweet, so this is a matter of personal taste)
1/3 cup reduced coconut milk (see above), room temperature
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups sweetened flaked coconut, lightly toasted (for garnish)

DIRECTIONS

REDUCED COCONUT MILK
Bring coconut milk to boil in large deep saucepan over medium-high heat (coconut milk will boil up high in pan). Reduce heat to medium-low; boil until reduced to 1 1/2 cups, stirring occasionally, 25 to 30 minutes (Note: I found it took a bit longer than that). Towards the end of this time period, add the unsweetened, coconut to the pan; stir to combine. Once sufficiently reduced, remove from the heat and allow to cool completely. Transfer to small bowl. Cover; chill (coconut milk will settle slightly as it cools). DO AHEAD Can be made 2 days ahead. Keep chilled.

CUPCAKES
Position rack in center of oven; preheat to 350°F. Line eighteen 1/3-cup muffin cups with paper liners (or cake pan). Whisk flour, baking powder, and salt in medium bowl. Using electric mixer, beat butter in large bowl until smooth. Add sugar; beat on medium-high speed until well blended, about 2 minutes. Add 2 eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition and occasionally scraping down sides of bowl. Beat in seeds from vanilla bean and remaining egg. Add half of flour mixture; mix on low speed just until blended. Add 1 cup reduced coconut milk; mix just until blended. Add remaining flour mixture; mix on low speed just until blended. Divide batter among muffin cups.
Bake cupcakes until tops spring back when gently touched and tester inserted into center comes out clean, about 20 minutes. Transfer cupcakes in pans to rack; cool 10 minutes. Carefully remove cupcakes from pans and cool completely on rack.

FROSTING
Using electric mixer, beat butter in large bowl until smooth. Add sugar, 1/3 cup reduced coconut milk, seeds from vanilla bean, and salt. Beat on medium-low speed until blended, scraping down sides of bowl. Increase to medium-high and beat until light and fluffy.

Using pastry bag fitted with large star tip (NOTE: I used a ziploc bag with the corner snipped off), pipe frosting onto cooled cupcakes. (Alternatively, top each cupcake with 2 tablespoons frosting. Using small offset spatula, swirl frosting over top of cupcakes, leaving 1/2-inch plain border.) Sprinkle with coconut.DO AHEAD Can be made 1 day ahead. Store in airtight containers; chill. Bring to room temperature before serving.

Spices of the Season

There are some flavors you feel comfortable eating all year. Vanilla, chocolate, peanut butter, meat (meat's a flavor, right? That's what I thought) to name a few. Some flavors, however, have such a strong seasonal connotation that they're seemingly relegated to being consumed during only a limited few weeks every year. Pumpkin is one such flavor. Yes, obviously this has to do with the seasonality of the gourd and the fact that it's a symbol of the bounty of fall harvest. Pumpkin is so strongly tied to autumn and Thanksgiving that it seems just plain wrong when eaten any other time. Pumpkin in spring is so out of context that it just doesn't make sense. Pumpkin isn't even on my flavor radar (fladar?) in May.

It's sometimes hard to figure out why some flavors don't translate well among seasons. We've clearly reached a stage with technological advances in food that it's beyond possible to artificially create any flavor imaginable any time of year. And the flavor of pumpkin that we crave isn't really the pumpkin itself, but the spices with which it has become so inextricably linked with thanks to countless renditions of pumpkin pie year after year after year. This is not to say that I think we should be artificially re-creating pumpkin flavors and genetically altering the gourd family just so that we can enjoy pumpkin-flavored desserts year-round, I just find it odd that most people rarely crave pumpkin spice goods at other times of year.



It is this same air of seasonal-exclusivity of pumpkin-spice treats that make them that much more special. They're firmly tied to Thanksgiving, which is probably my favorite holiday of them all. The air around you at this time of year also seems spicier, though I can't really pinpoint why; I imagine it has to do with all the roasting nuts and the knowledge that somewhere, at that very moment, there is a roaring fire going, even if you're not the one seated in front of it. Were we to enjoy pumpkin spice all year round, it would not have this same association, and it would lose some of its charm and crave-ability. It's quite rare that a flavor has such a widely-held element of nostalgia, that so many people around the country have the same association and can have these same warm memories conjured up by a simple taste of pumpkin spice. Even those that don't like pumpkin pie are often hard-pressed to deny the allure of the spice.

That's why, when my parents' anniversary rolled around at the end of last month, a pumpkin spice cake seemed like a perfect choice to celebrate (that, and my mother loves spice cakes). A pumpkin spice cake in the middle of autumn is a sure-fire winner, and though the heyday of fall is behind us, I see no reason to not extend the pumpkin-spiceness of the season just a little bit. As long as the air is still more crisp than cold, and as long as the pumpkins and squash line the stalls of the farmers market, it's pumpkin spice season (and I figure as long as the pumpkin spice custard is on the menu at the Shake Shack, we're in the clear anyway). Pumpkin spice is just that much more special in November and December than it is in March, so heed my advice and make this cake -stat! - you will not regret it.



Pumpkin Spice Cake with Caramel Cream Cheese Frosting

from Bon Appetit, November 2008

This cake is truly fantastic. The cake itself is supremely moist and has a subtle but wholly recognizable spice to it. The addition of caramel tempers the cream cheese frosting, which might otherwise have overwhelmed the rather delicate spices of the cake. The caramel deepens the flavor of the frosting, making it less cloying and more subtle than your typical cream cheese frosting. I burned my caramel just a tad, but I took the chance and mixed it in anyway, and this actually added a nuttiness and complexity to the icing that I quite enjoyed. This recipe makes more than enough frosting, so don't worry about running out when icing the bottom layer.

Ingredients:

For the Cake:
3 cups all purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom
1 15-ounce can pure pumpkin
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 1/4 cups vegetable oil
4 large eggs
2 teaspoons finely grated orange peel

For the Frosting:
1 1-pound box powdered sugar, divided
1/2 cup plus 1 tablespoon heavy whipping cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 8-ounce package cream cheese, room temperature
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature
Candied orange peel* (note: I used candied ginger; feel free to use either or neither according to your taste)

Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter and flour two 9-inch cake pans with 1 1/2-inch-high sides, tapping out any excess flour. Whisk first 9 ingredients in large bowl. Using electric mixer, beat pumpkin, sugar, and oil in another large bowl. Add eggs 1 at a time, beating to incorporate between additions. Mix in orange peel. Add flour mixture; beat on low speed just to blend. Divide batter between prepared pans.

Bake cakes until tester inserted into center comes out clean, about 33 minutes. Cool in pans 10 minutes. Invert onto rack, then turn top side up and cool completely.

For frosting:
Sprinkle 1/2 cup powdered sugar over bottom of small nonstick skillet. Cook over medium heat until sugar melts (do not stir). Continue cooking until sugar turns deep amber, stirring occasionally, about 2 minutes. Carefully stir in 1/2 cup cream, vanilla, and salt (mixture will bubble vigorously). Stir until any caramel bits dissolve. Stir in remaining 1 tablespoon cream. Strain into small bowl. Cool caramel to room temperature.

Sift remaining powdered sugar into medium bowl. Using electric mixer, beat cream cheese and butter in large bowl. Gradually beat in powdered sugar. Beat in cooled caramel. Cover and chill frosting until firm enough to spread, about 2 hours.

Using long serrated knife, trim rounded tops from cakes. Place 1 cake layer on cake plate, cut side up. Spread 3/4 cup frosting over. Place second cake layer, cut side down, atop frosting. Cover top and sides of cake with remaining frosting, creating smooth surface. DO AHEAD: Can be made 2 days ahead. Cover with cake dome or large bowl and chill. Let stand at room temperature 2 hours before serving.

Arrange candied orange peel/ginger on cake as desired. Slice and enjoy.