Skip to main content

Holiday cake and old friends

Chocolate cake.

Most of us who bake probably have a favourite chocolate cake recipe - the one that always works; that forgives being made in a rush or once without eggs (added to the cake tin five minutes after it was initially placed in the oven ... even I didn't think I'd get away with that one); that tolerates the fickle heat of different ovens and different tins and without fail, at first sniff of it baking, brings back delicious memories of old friends and old holidays. And picnics and sand between toes and laughter and blustery walks and holding hands and eating too much and wind in your hair and squinting in the sun and dancing in the rain and dragonflies hitching a ride and castles and hill-tops and freezing cold lochs and a long walk with a black and white cat.

This is my favourite chocolate cake recipe. Written by the dearest of old friends, on this scrap of paper, over twenty years ago. (Annotated by he who should have known better and me. He was right about the 3 eggs though, especially if those available are a medium size.)




It is a recipe I have baked often at home. And often on holiday.

Because it's very good and it's very easy.

Only one pan gets dirty.

It tolerates being made by a distracted new-baby-headed mother (the missing eggs episode, many years ago) and copes with being lactose-free, made with lactose-free butter. I've experimented with adding a tablespoon of marmalade to the mixture and the one below had some raspberry jam in it. Sometimes, I use pale brown sugar, sometimes dark and occasionally a mixture of dark and molasses sugars - this latter version makes it incredibly rich. Delicious: the smell is divine.




This week, I burnt it slightly ... in my defence, my Aga at home has no fan and the oven on holiday did. So my timing was a bit squiffy. And the cake a bit dark. 




Cook as a conventional cake with nothing sticking to a skewer at the end of cooking time, or slightly undercook it, if you want it for pudding. 

As a pudding, it surpasses most chocolate brownie recipes. I serve it with a mix of raspberries, blackberries and strawberries, piled next to a small slice that has been drenched in cointreau and topped with good vanilla ice-cream. Warm with custard is almost as good. I imagine a sprinkling of Baileys and some coffee ice-cream served with a hot espresso would be pretty outstanding. Even those who profess to not being pudding people (not a sentiment I understand!) have been known to succumb to this cake.

Wrapped in foil, the cake version is light enough to carry up a mountain and enjoy at the summit.

This is Littlest, at the top of Ben Venue, on Friday.




Try it.

To all old friends and chocolate-cake-lovers out there, Happy Holidays and Happy Easter.

And to my dearest old friend, thank you.

xx


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Colour, Delacroix, flochetage and why don't we all have a go at inventing words

Yes - it is a real word. Flochetage. Well, a real-ish word. One invented by the painter Delacroix, when he found the dictionary cupboard bare and required a word to describe his technique of layering different coloured paints, using lightly pulled brush strokes to create texture and pattern and thereby enhance his base-layer colours (... lost? - stick around, read on and all will become clear. Or perhaps muddier ...). Flochetage implies both stringiness and threadiness. Apparently. And it sounds good - in a filling-the-mouth-with-sound sort of a way. Try it ... flochetaaaage. Not that I speak French. So I am probably mis-pronouncing it. Nor am I an artist. So what do I know about painting techniques - except that I think this one works. What I do like is the concept - you invent a new technique in whatever it is you do, hunt around for the vocabulary to describe it, find the dictionary is lacking, so make up a word of your own and announce to the world what it means. Delacroix isn&#

My beloved boy, how lucky I have been

It's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die ... and I say someone here even though the one in question was a dog - but to us he had character and a place forever in our hearts and was more of a familiar someone than some of the people in our lives. So, I'll start again - it's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die, our senses go into overdrive. We notice things that normally would be part of the background of our every day. We breathe more - or rather, we don't but what we do is notice our breathing more, as we watch his. We pause. We think. We listen to ourselves and our inner voices speak. Memories flood our dreams ... though sleep is fitful.  Why am I telling you this? ... ... we lost this beautiful boy today And in the hours before he went, I saw perfect spheres of dew on blades of grass - little orbs holding micro-images of our world; a bumble bee drunk on nectar, yellow-dusted with pollen, resting in a crocus; ten - yes, ten!

Curlews, summer skies and walking in circles.

Summer skies over the Yorkshire Dales and my mind is set to rest mode. But that rest is not totally restful; there is a niggle ... a memory, a hint of childhood, something that unsettles slightly - a light brush stroke of discomfort; a gossamer breath of discombobulation and a 'Woah! Wait a moment!' moment of 'that's-not-right!' - we're about as far from the sea as it is possible to be in middle Britain and yet, I can hear the distinctive Peep! Peep! of oystercatchers and the piercing cry of curlew. Here -  in the blue skies of the North Yorkshire dales and along the footpaths - and above the endless miles of drystone walls are birds that should be at the coast.  Oystercatchers, with their distinctive red pliers attached to their heads feed on - you've guessed it - oyster beds. All along the coastline of the British Isles, their distinctive cry is the call of summer. Drowned out somewhat by the banter of seagulls but sharp and