I have a problem, and it’s sitting in my kitchen cabinet. It crouches in
the corner like a jack-in-the-box. It’s packed like gunpowder ready to
explode. It’s a many-headed monster, cold and heavy, lying in wait. It,
dear reader, is eleven jars of jam.
So much
sugared, syrupy fruit should have me ecstatic, I know, and I’d be lying
if I didn’t admit to a certain amount of excitement each time I open the
cabinet door. There they are: nearly a dozen jewel-toned jars,
shimmering with promise and ready to spread. I reach for one. I turn it
over in my hand, admiring its heft and viscosity. I test the lid, making
sure that the seal is secure. And then, with a sigh, I put it back on
the shelf. I love jam—the concept of it, the process of making it, the mere fact of its existence, not to mention its flavor—but I never seem to actually eat it. Apparently, I collect it. I guess it’s more my style than stamps, or PEZ dispensers.
But
nonetheless, it’s getting obscene, if not a bit ominous. Being the
somewhat anti-waste woman that I am, I can’t help but hear a call—or,
rather, a roar from the back of the cabinet—to do something
with the stuff. To hoard so many calories really can’t be okay,
especially when I could eat them instead. Toast would be a good start,
but sadly, I prefer a glob of salty butter to any number of jams,
jellies, and preserves. PB & J would be fine, too, but I like peanut
butter plain much better. I could make a batch of Linzer cookies, I
guess, but they say Christmas to me, not late March. And really, when
dealing with this quantity of concentrated fruit, I think it best to cut
straight to the chase, and just spoon a half-cup or so on top of a
cake.
I’ve been a fan of cake-jam pairings for a little while now, since a recipe by Flo Braker
taught me that jam belongs not only on bread, but also on a simple,
buttery cake. Her method calls for a cake sandwich of sorts, with a
slathering of jam in the middle and a doily of powdered sugar on top.
It’s hard to argue with near-perfection, but this time, I wanted
something even simpler. And turning from the pantry to my pile of
cookbooks, I found just the thing: a cornmeal cake, already book-marked and waiting, no doubt, for a warm, jammy sauce and a crooked cap of whipped cream.
I
can think of many worse ways to solve a problem than with a plate of
this cake: sweet, tender, freckled with nubs of cornmeal and shards of
lemon zest, and fitted with a lacy, delicately crunchy collar. When
something is this good—really, knee-bucklingly so—any
adornment is superfluous, but because I was on a mission, I gilded my
lily with a sauce of warm jam, made silky and spoonable on the stovetop,
and then I silenced the eleven-headed monster under a few soft peaks of
whipped cream.
And before the cabinet calls again, I’m taking
the last piece of cake and catching a plane to New York. I’ll be back in
ten days—and ready, no doubt, to attend to the ten jars of jam still
waiting.
Cornmeal Cake with Warm Apricot Jam and Whipped CreamAdapted from Fresh from the Farmers’ Market, by Janet Fletcher
I
think of this cake as a sort of sexed-up cornbread. Put it this way: it
is to cornbread as a silk nightgown is to cotton pajamas. It’s still
comfortable in the way that only cornbread can be, but it’s better.
To treat it right, be sure to use a good-quality jam. I used a sunny
apricot version made by one of my favorite French producers, La
Trinquelinette. I imagine that a vibrant strawberry might be nice too—or
really, anything with a bright flavor and good balance of sweetness to
acidity. If you want to gild the lily even further, you can play at
slipping a little liqueur into the whipped cream—maybe 2 teaspoons to 1
tablespoon per cup of cream. Bourbon goes especially well with apricot,
I’m happy to report.
1 ¼ cups cake flour
6 Tbs fine yellow cornmeal
2 tsp baking powder
¼ tsp salt
½ cup milk, preferably whole
1 tsp pure vanilla extract
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs
1 tsp grated lemon zest
½ cup good-quality jam, preferably apricot
1 cup heavy cream
1 Tbs powdered sugar
Preheat
the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Grease the bottom and sides of a 9”
round cake pan with butter or cooking spray, and then dust the pan
lightly with flour, shaking out any excess.
In a bowl, whisk together the cake flour, cornmeal, baking powder, and salt. Set aside.
In a measuring cup, combine the milk and vanilla extract. Set aside.
In
a medium mixing bowl, beat the butter until creamy. Add the sugar
gradually, scraping down the bowl once or twice, until smooth and fully
incorporated. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each
addition. Add the lemon zest, and beat to incorporate. Add the flour
mixture in three batches, alternating with the milk mixture, beating on
low speed until just combined. Spread the batter evenly in the prepared
pan.
Bake the cake for 35 to 40 minutes, or until a toothpick
inserted in the center comes out clean. Allow the cake to cool for 15-20
minutes in the pan; then invert it onto a plate, and turn it topside up
onto a rack. Cool the cake to room temperature.
When you are
ready to serve the cake, spoon the jam into a small saucepan, and warm
it over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until it loosens to the
consistency of a spoonable sauce and bubbles gently around the edges. If
your jam was on the thick side to start, or if you would like a truly
drizzle-able sauce, you may want to add a bit of water—a couple of
teaspoons, maybe, or more—to help it along.
While the jam warms,
whip the cream. Pour the cream into a mixing bowl, and beat it on medium
speed until it begins to thicken. With the beaters running, slowly
sprinkle in the sugar, and continue to beat until the cream holds soft
peaks.
To serve, cut the cake into wedges, drizzle a bit of warm jam over the top, and dollop with whipped cream.
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