An American in Paris: an interview with my favourite pastry chef and fellow expat, Amanda Bankert.

Leopard print, vamp lipstick, leather jacket, DMs. These are things that make me smile and remind me of my friend, Amanda Bankert. In 1999, we both took Suzanne Gardinier’s first year studies in poetry class called “Would You Wear My Eyes?” at Sarah Lawrence College. These days, we both live on the other side of the Atlantic. After years in London, I’m now in rural Kent and Amanda is in Paris where she is a top Cordon Bleu trained pâtissière. She has a donut shop and a brownie bar on Rue d’Aboukir called Boneshaker where The Barefoot Contessa, Ina Garten, has been known to stop by for a smackerel of something sweet quand à Paris avec le luckiest duck, Jeffrey. 

Several years ago, my husband and I were in Paris for a child-free weekend. We dropped in on Amanda to say hello and also get some donuts. They were unbelievably good. She had a particularly cheeky glint in her eye as we waxed lyrical about the pastry cream with a hint of cardamom. She waited until we finished gushing then she told us. She had recently made everything on her menu vegan. She wasn’t advertising it as such though because she was worried it might not go down well with traditionalists. Reader, her vegan treats have gone down a storm.   

Last year, Amanda authored two cookbooks–Voilà Vegan and Donuts, Café, et Good Vibes. On April 2nd, she will be in conversation with food writer, David Lebovitz, at The American Library in Paris. Tickets are free so book now. Until then, here she is in conversation with me about expat life and her first book, Voilà Vegan, which you should absolutely buy whether you’re vegan or not.

photo by Alyssa Adler

In a post about the origins of Chagrinnamon Toast, I wrote “I’ve never understood why in times of crisis, I always crave cinnamon toast–the real thing or the kids’ cereal. On the first day of kindergarten which I found extremely stressful, my mother made cinnamon toast for me after school. Cinnamon is and has always been my palliative. Kind of like French toast for Conrad in Ordinary People. When I eat it, I know I’m loved and everything is going to be okay.” When I read your section about Snickerdoodles, I realised I wasn’t alone. I had no idea cinnamon was such an American flavour. Talk to me about that. Do you think in a way, not just cinnamon, but certain flavours or recipes help when you’re feeling homesick?

AB: My donut shop is essentially a love letter to my memories of life in the US. Growing up, my family had a tradition of visiting the same donut shop every summer – Marvel’s Bakery, on Long Beach Island, NJ. The donuts are made fresh to order, with a line snaking out of the shop’s screen door on weekends. I would always get a bag of piping hot, cinnamon sugar donuts to take home. We’d eat them on the deck of our beach house, before heading out for another day of sand and swimming, and then back home for dinners of freshly shucked corn, hot dogs, and Jersey tomato salads.

Cinnamon Sugar donuts were the first prototype I developed for Boneshaker. For me, donuts (in particular, cinnamon sugar donuts) are about capturing that feeling of summer vacation: family and friends, bare feet, board games, and oldies playing on my Dad’s vintage stereo system.

Are there parts of your French life that Americans poke fun at? Or things about being American that your French friends and family find funny? I loved the anecdote about your sartorial choices for the school run that a French mother commented on rather bitingly.

AB: The sartorial choices have come full circle; I still unapologetically wear sweatpants to bring my 9 year old to school, yet I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing leggings in lieu of trousers. If it’s before 9 am, anything goes – afterwards, I try to pull myself together.

To put the previous question another way, what American habits do you feel you’ve dropped since living in France and what do you feel you’ve adopted?

AB: It’s been over 20 years since I lived in the States (yikes!) so it’s hard to say what American habits I’ve dropped. When I go back, I’m usually pretty bewildered. This is compounded by the fact that I have an American accent, so I sound like I should know what is going on. The amount of times I’ve panicked while buying a coffee or sandwich (How much to tip??! Tap or swipe or insert??! Why do they need my phone number?)…it’s a very humbling experience.

Some things I’ve adopted: les bisous, wine at lunch (hooray!), sighs, eyerolls and harrumphs as effective communication skills, and bread from the bakery ONLY.

You’re one of my heroes for many reasons, but one in particular. You completed a course at Le Cordon Bleu at age 22 whilst pregnant with your first child. Can you tell me what that was like? Did you feel there was extra pressure on you?

AB: I hid my pregnancy for the first 6 ½ months – right up until about the week before graduation. Morning sickness was rough – I didn’t enjoy adding rum to pastry cream for the pain aux raisins (the smell made me retch). And I remember discreetly asking a girlfriend to help me lift the 50 pound sugar lamps – otherwise it was business as usual. Ten years later, when I was pregnant with my second son, I also worked in a kitchen up until around the 7 month mark. I’m pretty comfortable waddling around professional kitchens “with a bun in the oven.”

What is your favourite recipe in the book?

AB: It’s hard to pick a favourite, but I’m really proud of the clafoutis recipe. It was one of the first recipes I developed for the book – and I’m really happy with the outcome. A convincing custard-based bake is a vegan triumph.

Do you have a favourite poem? Also, you’re a poet. Would you be willing to share one of your poems?

AB: My all-time favorite book of poetry is Marilyn Hacker‘s “Love, Death, and Changing of the Seasons”. I discovered her work during our Freshman Year Poetry Studies at Sarah Lawrence, and that collection is still my go-to. I haven’t written a poem in a really long time, but one of my favorites was written about an ex-boyfriend in Dublin. We met at work – he was a chef de partie, I was a pastry commis. I was 23 and married. We ended up falling in love and stayed together for about 6 years, before I moved to Paris.

What are your most beloved items of clothing/shoes/jewellery? Is there a story behind those personal effects?

AB: I believe in talismans. My youngest son, Loic, picked out a turquoise ring to gift me for my 40th; I wear it religiously. He just got me another one for Christmas this year, so I am slowly morphing into my “bohemian lady of a certain age covered in silver and turquoise jewelry” era, and I’m fully embracing it. I also always wear a small diamond ring that my high school boyfriend proposed to me with, as well as a Virgin Mary medallion that a monk gave me 2 years ago on the Paris metro (we sat across from each other, I smiled at him, and he pulled it out of a pouch hidden in his robes.) I’ll take all the help I can get.

What’s your favourite music to listen to at the moment?

AB: Etta James, forever and always.

Your recollection about working as a pastry chef in Ireland and having the head chef throw madeleines at your head is brilliant. So comical, but stressful. Lots of films and programs are now set in a kitchen. What about the environment do you think makes kitchen life good drama? Is it the pacing–à la minute? Is it the egos? Do you have a favourite food program?

AB: Jeremy Allen White’s Calvin Klein campaign.

Kitchens are high-drama environments. You’re always working under a certain level of pressure – whether that’s staying out of the weeds during hectic service, or keeping up with demand in a busy bakery. And – I say this with love – most restaurant lifers are weirdos (myself included). Of course, the level of drama depends greatly on who’s at the helm of the ship. I’ve worked with head chefs who’ve openly stated that the most effective way to prevent fuck ups is to instill fear. And, of course, flaring tempers and flying cakes make for excellent television. My eldest son, Finn, and I have gleefully watched Gordon Ramsay’s “Kitchen Nightmares” since it first debuted in the early 2000s. We still watch reruns on YouTube (the UK episodes are our favorite) on chill-out nights with plates of pasta balanced on our laps. It’s ABSOLUTELY ridiculous; perfectly unrealistic reality television.

I didn’t know you had OCD or anxiety until I read it in your book. I agree that cookies definitely help. Do you feel your OCD helps you in the kitchen? Or do you feel it’s something you’ve overcome?

AB: If depression is a black dog, OCD is depression’s rabid brother. (Rabies, incidentally being one of my many health anxiety “quirks” – along with botulism, tetanus, and Weil’s disease.) At my worst, I was throwing hundreds of euros of food in the trash out of fear of contamination, obsessively making appointments with health professionals, and Googling imagined symptoms like a (literal) maniac. It sucks. Cognitive behavioral therapy was a life-saver. I wouldn’t say my OCD has helped me in any way, aside from giving me a strong appreciation for the importance of mental health. I still have flare-ups, but these days my “rabid dog” is much more manageable.

Not that you’re anywhere near it, but where and how do you see yourself in retirement?

AB: More silver and turquoise jewelry. I’d love to have an Ina Garten-esque life, writing cookbooks and filming a cooking show from my house at the beach. I’m happy to “retire” to that lifestyle anytime someone wants to make me an offer. (Netflix, I’m ready, darlings!!)

OH…and didn’t I once send you a squirrel cookie cutter?!

AB: YES!! I love our shared passion for squirrels! When I was on book tour, I taught a baking class with Adam Sobel of the Cinnamon Snail at his home in New Jersey. His wife is a certified wildlife rehabilitator and she was BOTTLE-FEEDING BABY SQUIRRELS while I was at their home. A dream come true (we can add wildlife rehabilitation to my retirement plan.)

Marmalade Redux

Yesterday marked seventy-seven years since It’s a Wonderful Life premiered at the Globe Theatre in New York. Yesterday was also my first day making marmalade since hanging up my maslin pan in January. Naturally, I named this winter’s inaugural batch after the film. I suppose it was also a nod to Donna Reed who acted in the role of Mary Hatch Bailey. She was born in Denison, Iowa, not more than 30 minutes from where the corn is always knee-high by the fourth of July and my family resides in Harlan. I hope this batch serves as a reminder: No matter how bitter things may seem, remember there is still sweetness.

If you’re familiar with this blog, or you know me at all, then you’re aware I’ve been making marmalade for a long time. It started with my Indefinite Leave to Remain application in 2015 and culminated with me receiving silver marks at Dalemain six years in a row. I was the Raymond Poulidor of pure orange jelly, the Susan Lucci of Seville marmalade, a perpetual bridesmaid but never a bride. Last winter, I wrote about my marmalade obsession and my silver medalist syndrome for a magazine. Today, I’d like to share it with you. I’d also like to share my marmalade recipe as it’s changed over the years. My wish is that when you taste it, it makes you feel like George Bailey lassoing the moon.

Seville orange marmalade recipe

Ingredients:

1 kg of Seville oranges

Preserving sugar (the larger crystals dissolve slower than granulated or caster which means less froth, less skimming, and a clearer preserve)

A lemon

Equipment:

Maslin pan or the largest heavy bottom pan you can find

Cheesecloth (I buy bags made of it)

Chopping board

Large bowl

Knife

Teaspoon

Citrus reamer

Spatula

Small plate

Clean jars with lids

Ladle

Funnel (optional)

Method:

Day one:

Place your cheesecloth in a large bowl. Keep your maslin pan on the side.

Wash the oranges and pat them dry. Cut them in half and juice them. Pour the juice into the bowl with the cheesecloth. Now scrape the insides of the orange halves with your spoon. The goal is to remove as much pith as possible as it’s pith is that can make marmalade taste really bitter. Place the pith and seeds in the cheesecloth bowl.

Slice your shred. Personally, I like mine thinner, matchstick style, but sometimes, depending on how dull my knives are, this just isn’t possible. Place the shred in the maslin pan. I usually only shred 2/3 of my oranges and put the rest in the cheesecloth bag with everything else. Feel free to use it all if you like. I just prefer a high jelly content.

Add 2 1/4 litres of water to your maslin pan which should now contain the shred and the bag of strained juice/seeds/pith/peel you didn’t slice. Cover it all with plastic wrap and leave it to soak overnight. This step is crucial as it infuses the water with pectin and flavour as well as softens the shred.

Day two:

Bring the contents of the maslin pan to a boil then simmer until the shred is tender and the contents of the pan have been reduced by 1/3.

Stick your small plate in the freezer and heat your clean jars in a warm oven.

Let the mixture cool. When it has, squeeze the cheesecloth to extract as much pectin as you can. Pectin is what sets your marmalade and gives it a wonderful wobble. Once you have done this, discard the cheesecloth and its remaining contents.

Add the juice of a lemon (once again, this is for pectin) and 800 g of sugar for each litre of liquid and shred that remains. Stir this over a low flame until the sugar completely dissolves.

Once the sugar’s dissolved, turn up the heat and let it boil. Remove any scum that foams on the surface. This can generally be avoided, as previously stated, by using preserving sugar. Over time, the consistency and colour will change. In my experience, it usually takes about 45 minutes of boiling to achieve the set I like. Do test for set early and often. The way to do this is by going round the edges of your pan with a spatula then holding it sideways. Does the mixture run off like liquid or does it cling then drop like jelly? This is known as the flake test. The other method for testing is with a frozen plate. Drop a small teaspoon of the molten mixture on the plate then stick it back in the freezer for a minute. When you remove it, push the drop with your finger. If it wrinkles, it’s set.

Once your marmalade is set, take it off the heat and allow it to cool for at least ten minutes before potting. If you pot it while it’s still very hot, all the shred will float to the top. I use a funnel when potting my marmalade, but you don’t need one. I don’t dare assume everyone’s ladling skills are as shaky as mine.

A Sour Situation: a short essay on blackberries and a shrub recipe

Hello. Mistels here. Back in early June, I pitched a piece about blackberries to an editor who was very keen and wanted copy in a week. I delivered. They disappeared. For three months, I’ve waited for an answer to the question: Do you know when this will run and if it won’t, will you please tell me? It’s funny, I suppose in a not-so-funny-way, because one of the points of my piece is that you cannot lollygag when it comes to blackberries. There is a window. You must seize the moment. After three months, there are no more blackberries in my corner of Kent. Rather than continuing to shout into the void, I’m posting my piece here. Because really, it’s not about the paltry sum one gets paid when commissioned for such a piece. It’s about getting to share one’s thoughts and enthusiasm for a specific subject that hopefully, others will also be enthusiastic about. At least for me, that is the point. Without further ado, blackberries. If for whatever reason, you are a lucky so and so with a glut of them but you have eaten all you can eat, your larder is stacked with jam, and your freezer is full, might I recommend making shrub? My recipe for it follows.

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Roses are blooming all around which means I can’t help thinking about brambles. The blackberries grow amongst the dog roses in my garden, canes and stems entwined. Edith Holden illustrated them this way in The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady so that is how I planted them. They’re little green bulbous things at the moment and hard as rocks, but experience tells me they’ll be ripe in July.  

Wild blackberries are my favourite high summer scent. Their fragrance is evocative of childhood–of purple stains and scratches on your skin or the first lip gloss I ever bought. My cousins and I used to spend summer days running barefoot through the fields around my Aunt Colleen’s house in Iowa until lightning bugs lit up the sky. Coco Bean, as we called her, would send us out to collect blackberries for pie, but we could never help ourselves. We always ate most of them then told her we couldn’t find any. Such terrible little liars were we, our hands and mouths gave us away. Talk about the mark of Cain, cane more like.  

Technically, blackberries aren’t berries at all but an aggregate of drupelets. Each fruit is like a cluster of grapes. Taste a ripe one. The first thing you’ll notice is that the juicy sweetness quickly gives way to a tartness sure to tweak salivary glands. Blackberries are bitier than raspberries and sturdier thanks to the presence of a core. From Hackney Marshes to the heaths, behind council flats in south east London, rampant in cemeteries in Kent, or grown espalier in walled gardens of Jacobean manor houses oop North, blackberries thrive any and everywhere. They are most egalitarian.

No wonder they are strongly rooted in folklore. Where we live in Kent, the first blackberries are to be left for the faerie folk. Go to the old cemetery and you will see brambles planted on top of grave stones. They were once believed to keep the dead in and the devil out. Blackberries debut in July but beware eating them past Michelmas. Lucifer was thrown out of heaven that day. After falling through the sky and landing in prickly brambles, he cursed them. Kitchen witches swear blackberry honey is the best medicine for a sore throat. During the American Civil War, Union and Confederate soldiers declared temporary truces to forage for blackberries so they could make tea for sick men. The brew was widely known as a remedy for dysentery.  

The magic of blackberries is that their flavour is equally good fresh or frozen. A few frozen berries added to apple crumbles, cobblers, or pies helps bring a taste of summer to the darkest months of the year. If you have a surfeit of blackberries, steep them in vinegar to make a shrub, a sharp tasting cordial. You can also steep them in alcohol to make crème de mûre, an essential ingredient in the Bramble, a cocktail created by barman Dick Bradsell as an homage to the blackberry-scented summers of his youth. Bake them with brie, pickle them to add piquancy to sandwiches and salads, turn them into jam, or enjoy them straight from the cane as Beatrix Potter’s rabbits did. Though there are thornless varieties, the most flavourful berries come from canes with thorns that prick you and stick to your skin. Sometimes one must experience pain to taste paradise. Cf. the revellers in Hieronymous Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights.

Heed the warning: there is a window. Summer rain brings blackberries to life, but storms decimate them. One week they’re perfect. The next, they’re bloated and fermenting. On the other end of the weather spectrum, severe dry spells and heat waves can make them wither instantly. ‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,’ Robert Herrick advised. No offence to the poet, but he should have added ‘Ye blackberries too!’

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SHRUB RECIPE

Blackberry shrub is very easy to make. It can take a few days, but that’s just waiting time. All that’s required is equal parts fruit, sugar, and vinegar.

Ingredients:

blackberries

caster or granulated sugar

apple cider vinegar

aromatics like a bay leaf or a bit of lemon peel or lavender are optional

Method:

Weigh your blackberries.

Macerate them with an equal amount of sugar and vinegar. Add aromatics if you fancy it. I always add some, but remove them after a few hours so their flavour doesn’t overpower the blackberries. Cover this mixture and leave it in the refrigerator for at least 24 hours or up to 3 days. I usually sample my shrub after day 1 to see if it needs adjusting–more sugar, more vinegar. Make the recipe suit you.

Sieve the mixture or use a cheesecloth to strain it.

To serve: Add the shrub to sparkling or tonic water to taste. I usually use only a tablespoon or two and drink it over ice. Top it up with whatever calls you–gin, vodka, a drop of white port. Or drink it alcohol free. It’s refreshing no matter how you have it. Garnish with a sprig of rosemary, lavender, or thyme if you like. Add berries of any kind.

Marilyn, Mrs. Miller, Matzo Ball Soup and Me

Matzo balls make me think of Marilyn Monroe. I’ll explain. When she was married to Arthur Miller, his mother, Isadore, often served them in soup. She served them so much that one evening her daughter-in-law asked, “Isn’t there any other part of the matzo you can eat?” Badum-tisch! I’ve always loved this and thought it proper Borscht Belt comedy. Well played, Marilyn. You were wittier than people gave you credit.

For a while when I was growing up, both my parents were busy working long hours at different studios. My stepfather was at Warner Brothers and my mother was at Sunset Gower. This coincided with my matzo ball soup phase when all I wanted to eat was–you guessed it. What do you do for a child like that? Open a house account at a Jewish deli, of course. The deli was Greenblatt’s and if you didn’t hit a red light, it was less than a five minute drive from where we lived in the canyon. Not only did this legendary deli open in 1926, the same year Marilyn Monroe was born, but it was one of her haunts during her Joe DiMaggio years. I guess that’s why Arthur Miller preferred Canter’s.

Greenblatt’s is sadly no longer. Their doors closed on August 12th 2021, but their memory lives on. It was the deli of my dreams–Yams, lemon pepper chicken, latkes with sour cream and apple sauce, roast turkey dinners, macaroni and cheese, hot pastrami sandwiches with cole slaw and Russian dressing served au jus, fruit tarts, Dr. Brown’s sodas, Nat Sherman cigarettes next to the cash register, and posters of saucy Edwardian ladies baring their ankles in the powder room.

There was a Frenchman called Yves who worked there in the 1990s. My father tells a story about ordering from Greenblatt’s shortly after I went to college in New York. For whatever reason, my parents had a yen for some deli food. When Da opened the door, Yves looked at him skeptically. “Where eese zee leetle gelle?” In all his years of delivering to our house, I was the only one who ever greeted him. My absence confused him.

Post graduation, I moved back to L.A. and continued ordering from Greenblatt’s even after Yves left the deli. The sandwiches were a thing to behold, but for me, the matzo ball soup was the main event. It was what I ordered every Friday night after I finished taping Living With Fran. Quality matzo balls are light and fluffy. They float. They have flavour. Eating them is pure comfort. Greenblatt’s were massive. Make whatever joke you like but they were and they sat in the most magical golden broth.

A bite of a good matzo ball is like basking in afterglow. It makes you feel like Marilyn in Arthur’s embrace. People eat matzo and matzo balls year round, but they are crucial at Passover because of what they represent. They serve as a reminder of the unleavened bread the Jews had to eat whilst fleeing Egypt. Passover is a celebration of freedom and matzo balls are symbolic of this. Though Marilyn’s life ended tragically, I see her as a symbol of freedom too. But that is another piece in and of itself.

I told you Marilyn Monroe makes me think of matzo balls. Now, maybe she will you too.

Below is my recipe. I’m sharing it not only because Passover is approaching and the weather is terrible and conducive to eating such a dish, but because the ink has faded on my recipe and I’d like to have it here for safekeeping. It’s changed a bit over the years. I used to make it with schmaltz, but found that oil yields a lighter fluffier result. Ditto sparkling water instead of stock. Besides, a savoury stock will infuse your matzo balls with more than enough flavour.

Happy noshing. If you enjoy this, you might like my recipe for chocolate matzo torte with marmalade.

Ingredients:

1 cup matzo meal (I am partial to Manischewitz, but Rakusen’s is fine too. I buy matzo meal from Ocado, Tesco, or Amazon.)

2 tsp salt

1/2 tsp black pepper

4 eggs, lightly beaten

4 Tbsp vegetable oil

4 Tbsp sparkling water

2 litres of chicken/vegetable stock

Method:

Combine the matzo meal and seasonings in a medium sized bowl.

In another bowl, use a fork to lightly beat 4 eggs. Then add the vegetable oil and sparkling water to it.

Pour the wet ingredients in to the dry. Stir them together until everything is combined. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and place it in the refrigerator for at least half an hour. This will give the matzo meal enough time to soak up the egg mixture.

While the matzo ball mixtures chills, slowly bring your stock to the boil.

When you are ready to make matzo balls, remove the mixture from the fridge. Keep a small bowl of water next to you so you can wet your hands between shaping the balls. It helps keep things from getting too sticky. This recipe yields 10-12 balls. Shape them carefully. Don’t pack the matzo meal tightly. You want them to be light.

After you shape a matzo ball, drop it in the stock. Once you’ve got them all in the pot, turn down the heat so they simmer with a lid on top. Let them simmer for about 15 minutes before turning off the heat completely, but keep the lid on tight and do not lift it. The steam is what will gently cook the matzo balls.

Be sure not to boil your matzo balls. This will make them dense.

After an extra 20 minutes of steaming with the heat off, your matzo ball soup should be ready to eat.

I like to serve mine with parsley and dill but not everyone enjoys it this way. Have it however suits.

Mrs Jaffe’s Chocolate Matzo and Marmalade (Re)Torte to Anti-Semitism

Hanukkah, the Jewish festival of light, begins at sundown today and were it not for the fact that I’m feeling poorly, I would be making this cake. Mercifully, Hanukkah lasts for eight nights and days so there is plenty of time to heal and get baking. This recipe is my take on one of Europe’s most famous cakes, the sachertorte, which I consider the tuxedo of tortes. The end result on the palate and the plate is elegant yet simple and I love the way it’s served–just a tidy dark slice next to a mountain of whipped cream. The first time I tasted it was in Vienna with my husband who has family there. 

What’s different is that my torte is made with marmalade instead of the usual apricot jam. If you know me you know that marmalade holds a special place in my heart. I learned to make it whilst studying for my Life in the U.K. test and waiting for my citizenship to be granted. I learned about sticky wickets, Sevilles, the Divine Right of Kings and how to cut shred all at the same time. For this reason, marmalade and Britishness are inextricably linked for me. 

My recipe uses matzo meal in lieu of flour which is a nod to those early covid days when flour was scarce so I baked with matzo meal instead. It’s also a nod to Franz Sacher, the young Jewish baker, who created this cake for Metternich in 1832. It’s also a nod to my own part-Jewish family. 

I mentioned in the first paragraph that my husband has family in Vienna. He does and they are Roman Catholic. They are his mother’s family, but his father’s family was Jewish. They were Russian Polish Jews who escaped the pogroms and came to Britain in the 1890s. 

My husband’s Levy family in East London circa 1910.

Dorothy Jeffreys nee Levy, my husband’s paternal grandmother.

At the end of October, I posted the following on Instagram. . . 

“I don’t share my husband’s surname; but if I did, it should be Jaffe, not Jeffreys. Jeffreys was a name they chose in the 1920s so the children would have an easier time at boarding school. So they could join the country club and assimilate and just be British without being Jewish first. This chimes with what my 87 year old nana from Brooklyn has said about moving to Cincinnati in the 1960s. As a Lemkin née Bernstein, she wasn’t allowed at the country clubs there either. Lately, friends of mine in Los Angeles have reported all kinds of hateful mishegoss. Vile anti-Semitic fliers have been delivered to their doorsteps in plastic bags containing rocks so those evil words don’t fly away. This has happened on multiple occasions. At the weekend, a banner reading “Kanye is right about the Jews” was hung across the 405 by the Goyim Defense League who gave nazi salutes and encouraged drivers to honk in support. Anti-Semitism cannot be tolerated. I support my Jewish friends and family. #callmemrsjaffe”

Someone I don’t know replied to my post with abusive anti-Semitic comments and despite the many friends and family who reported the hate to Instagram, it took ages for the comments to be removed. The account that originally posted them has multiple hate accounts that still exist. My point in sharing this is that anti-Semitism is alive and well. I never thought I’d have friends who were scared to display their Jewishness, especially in Los Angeles, but here we are.

An exchange with a friend of mine in California.

On a menorah there is a helper candle called a shamash. It is the candle used to light the others. Coincidentally, Shamash is also the name of my husband’s oncologist who helped heal him years ago, but as usual, I digress. On this night, the first night of Hanukkah, I want to thank the helper candles in my life, the ones who go out out of their way to make sure we all burn brighter. I hope I illuminate your life too. A bit of light dispels a lot of darkness. Sometimes so can a quality chocolate cake.

Chag sameach! Happy Hanukkah!

A photo taken by Rosi Posner from her home in Kiel in 1931.

Ingredients

For the cake:

140g dark chocolate with a minimum of 55% cocoa content (I use 63% for this recipe)

150g unsalted butter, room temperature

210g caster sugar, divided into 110 g and 100 g

1tsp vanilla bean paste

A pinch of salt flakes

6 medium eggs at room temperature

50g ground almonds

100g matzo meal

For filling and glazing the cake:

340g jar of fine shred marmalade

For the glaze:

125ml black tea (Breakfast, Earl Grey or Darjeeling)

150g caster sugar

150g dark chocolate, once again with a minimum of 55% cocoa content

For piping:

30g milk chocolate

NB: Make sure your eggs and butter really are at room temperature because if they’re not, your batter could curdle. If your eggs are cold, place them in a bowl of warm water for ten minutes. If your butter is cold, cut it into cubes. You can even microwave it for a few seconds to soften but do not let it melt. 

Method

Preheat the oven to 180°C/160°C fan/Gas 4.

Prepare a 23cm cake tin by lightly greasing it and lining it with baking paper.

Melt 140g of dark chocolate in a bowl over boiling water. Allow it to cool slightly so it’s still warm and runny, but not hot. 

Next, separate your eggs. Put the whites in a large bowl and the yolks in a smaller one.

In another large bowl, cream the 150g of unsalted butter, 110g of caster sugar, teaspoon of vanilla bean paste, and pinch of salt until pale and fluffy. I use a handmixer at medium speed. Cream them until the consistency is satiny, but not whipped. This will take longer than you think. I note it’s approximately 8 to 10 minutes.

Whisk the yolks into the butter mixture one at a time. Make sure each yolk is fully incorporated before adding the next. Lest your emulsion become unstable and splits. 

Slowly whisk in the melted chocolate.   

Then use a blender, food processor, or pestle and mortar to grind your almonds and matzo meal or flour as finely as possible. Sieve these flours into the chocolate butter mixture. 

Now whip the egg whites. I do this in a standing mixer but a hand mixer is fine too. Gradually add the remaining 100g of caster sugar, a tablespoonful at a time. Beat the whites until soft peaks form, but do not take them past this point. If you beat them until stiff peaks appear, the egg whites won’t develop fully in the oven which is where you want them to expand so your cake will rise. 

When the egg whites are sufficiently voluminous, use a large metal spoon and fold ⅓ of them into the batter. Add another third and fold it until it’s incorporated. Then repeat one last time. Get as much air folded into your batter as possible as aeration yields a lighter fluffier result. 

Pour the batter into the prepared cake tin. Place it in the oven and bake for approximately 45 minutes or until the top springs back when gently pushed with a finger. Or test it as I do by sticking an uncooked piece of spaghetti into the centre then pulling it out to check if it’s clean. 

Once the cake is ready, remove it from the oven and let it cool in its tin for ten minutes. After this time, transfer it to a cooling rack and remove any baking paper that remains. 

As the cake cools, sieve your marmalade over a bowl. If it is too thick to sieve, heat it slightly in a saucepan but do not let it go all liquidy. There must be enough viscosity so it can fill the cake rather than saturate it. Keep the shred that collects in the sieve. Should the shred be particularly long, cut it shorter with a knife. Set the shred and the sieved marmalade aside.

When your cake is cool to the touch, carefully cut it in half on the horizontal. Place the rounds next to each other with the cut side up. Use ⅓ of the sieved marmalade to brush across both layers. Then spoon enough shred on to the bottom layer so it is completely covered. Do not omit the shred. If you do, your cake will not have that burst of citrus sunshine that it should. 

Put the layers back together and now using only the sieved marmalade, paint it over the rest of the cake. Use only the sieved marmalade for this or your chocolate glaze will not be smooth. Brush ⅓ on the top and ⅓ on the sides. Place the cake in the freezer for approximately 20 minutes or until the jam is set–not frozen, but set.

In the meantime, make the chocolate glaze. Start by brewing a strong cup of tea. This will not make the glaze taste of tea, but the tannins in it will subtly enhance the dark chocolate flavour. Mix 125ml of tea with 150g of caster sugar in a saucepan over low heat. Once the sugar has dissolved, bring this to a boil then simmer until it thickens and becomes syrupy, approximately 4 minutes. Then take it off the heat and leave it to cool slightly. Add 150g of dark chocolate to the syrup and stir it until it has melted and the mixture is smooth and shiny. You’ll know the glaze is the right consistency if it can coat a spoon. 

To glaze the cake, put it on a rack then pour the lukewarm chocolate all at once over the cake’s centre. Use a palette knife or spatula to make sure the sides are covered and the top is smooth. Leave the glaze to set.  

Melt 30g of milk chocolate in a bowl over hot water then spoon it into a plastic piping bag. If you don’t have one, you can fashion one out of a small sandwich bag. Snip the corner and write whatever you like on the top as steadily as you can. I always practice my piping on a bit of baking paper before attempting the real thing. If piping makes you nervous, take a deep breath and have courage.   

This torte says ER as I made it in celebration of the late Queen’s Platinum Jubilee.

Your cake will be ready to eat once the chocolate has set and while it’s perfect from day one, it only improves with age.

Cut the cake and serve it with copious amounts of unsweetened whipped cream. 

Honey Marmalade Cake

My in-laws were recently in France sorting my husband’s late Auntie Marianne’s affairs. While there they made two discoveries.  One: Auntie M. took it upon herself to edit the books she read.  Incorrect spellings and dropped punctuation were fixed with her red pen. Two: She had vats of local honey sitting in the cellar.  Honey as thick and rich as creme fraiche caramels and flecked with bits of the forest from which it came.  Everyone got a kilo upon their return.

Honey is a staple in my home.  I love it.  Runny, set, manuka, clover, English wildflower, Scottish heather–I’ve got it all.  But this new honey, Auntie Marianne’s garrigue honey, really is the bee’s knees.  Other than enjoying it in my tea, I wanted to bake something special with it.

Last year, a dear friend of mine gave me an old cookbook called  More Honey in the Kitchen.  It was written by Joyce White who was a cookery demonstrator and lecturer in beekeeping.  The book was illustrated by her grandchildren and published in 1991.  It could not be any more charming if it tried.

Today I baked a honey marmalade cake from it and it was perfection.  Below is the recipe.  I’d like to think Ms. White would have been proud and Auntie M. would have approved.

 

Watercolor Wisdom

“As for me, I am watercolor. I wash off.”

This last line of an Anne Sexton poem sucker-punched me one evening in the tenth grade. Until then I was filled with a child’s ego and content in the knowledge confirmed by my parents that I was a forever-burning star. Years later, I look at this passage and see the line of demarcation between my childish fantasy and adult reality.

Imagine the shock. My life was a temporal treat to the universe offered up to the gods as a situation comedy—mildly amusing, minorly offensive and over before your clothes in the dryer are done. I welcomed this revelation as one would the stuffy air of one’s own coffin. Could it be that I wasn’t remarkable? Was the watercolor painting I called my life so easily washed away like someone spraying a hose over sidewalk chalk drawings? I needed to investigate.

I came to my own defense citing the positive relationships in my life. Surely those would last forever—like my kindergarten friendship with Olive who would later develop schizophrenia. I remained a true friend when everyone else had long abandoned her. That was honest and altruistic of me. Surely that situation was worthy of a hearty oil based paint, was it not? Then a heat began to burn in my neck and my face flushed. I couldn’t remember her last name. It had been erased from my memory like old voice mail. So much for relationships that last forever.

One hundred years from now,all the funny stories of my life will be accredited to other people and with me long dead I will never have the chance to correct them. My talents, hopes, dreams, and desires will be given to newborn children whose parents will convince them, like mine once did, that theirs too is a special place in the universe. And this will make me smile from beyond because I get the joke.

“As for me, I am watercolor. I wash off.” I temporarily color my world and stain the hands of those that I have touched. I feel my colors strong and deep and I watch my steamy bath dilute them every night. So there I soak, a small freckly me, dreaming of a safe place behind complimentary matting and a cool protective shield of glass where the watercolor of my life can live forever.

Perhaps this is why fleeting pleasures are my favorite. There is something magical about the blossom that lasts for only a day or the cup of tea that provides perfection for a mere few minutes.  Let it brew too long and the magic disappears.  Don’t steep it long enough and there will be no evidence of magic at all.  My favorite at the moment is Bouddha Bleu by Mariage Frères which is a delicate green tea with cornflower petals. Its bouquet is heavenly, a delicate balance of fruit and flowers. If I could distill the scent, I’d wear nothing else.  Unlike black tea which can leave you with too frenetic of a buzz, Bouddha Bleu imparts a feeling of clarity and acuity I find invigorating.  Even if or especially because the magic washes off as quickly as watercolor.

 

 

 

Blood Clots, Codeine, Cookies and Cashmere

If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.  Actually, that statement’s not true but it is how I felt Wednesday afternoon.  Just as John McClane picked a bad day to give up smoking, so was Wednesday the worst possible day to wake up with debilitating chest pain and be coughing blood.  In case you don’t live in Britain and are not aware, Wednesday was the junior doctors’ strike.

People were protesting Jeremy Hunt’s contract outside the hospital entrance as I staggered into A&E.  Inside, people with various ailments were packed like sardines.  Some patients with cannulas held their own IV bags as there weren’t enough stands to go round.  In triage a medic apologized to me for the wait.  She explained that with the strike there was only one surgical doctor in the hospital that day.  It was plain to me that present staff were clearly working overtime.

I was relieved when I finally saw the doctor who had not only the same surname as my mother but also the same comforting kindness.  When I explained to her that I was suffering from crushing chest pain that radiated round my back, she ordered an x-ray and a full blood panel.

Not long after a trip to the radiology department, a nurse named Nadine was giving me an injection in my stomach and telling me I was to be admitted.  She put me in a bed and hooked me up to oxygen as my levels were low.  As I lay there in a bay sectioned off by a paper curtain, I was too distracted by the sounds around me to read.

A woman was being sick in a nearby bin.  Around the corner, Evangelicals prayed at top volume and sang hymns to their afflicted.  The shadows of their waving hands sailed up and down the bit of corridor I could see.  And in the distance, a drunk man named Jim shouted abuse at everyone around him and dared them to call the cops.

This cacophony was drowned out though the moment the doctor pulled back the curtain and said she suspected a blood clot in my lungs.  Suddenly all I heard was Fantine’s voice in my head except it was my own.  Tell Cosette I love her and I’ll see her when I wake.  

My mind began to race.  I thought about how before school that morning I promised my daughter I’d play Candy Land with her when she got home.  I felt terrible for not being able to make good on my word and I felt worse still that I wouldn’t be home to read her a bedtime story that night either.  I wondered if non-British citizens were allowed to be buried in British cemeteries.  I struggled to recall the details of the life insurance policy my husband and I had.  I wondered if he noticed we were out of ham and that Helena would need something else for lunch tomorrow.  Eventually I quieted my thoughts the same way I did when I was a child and couldn’t sleep.  I sang Blue Shadows to myself.

The next day’s CT scan showed I didn’t have a blood clot in my lungs so much as I had multiple blood clots and on both sides of my lungs.  I’m told it’s treatable but that I am at risk of having a stroke.  On one hand it’s nice to understand why I’ve felt so terrible.  On the other, I hate knowing the only reason I lost half a stone in 4 days was because I’m actually quite ill.  My treatment will last about four months during which time I’ll be on anticoagulants to stabilize my clots.  I was warned the drug I’m taking will render me like a haemophiliac so I’m to take extra precaution not to cut myself.  Dihydrocodeine has been prescribed for the pain.

Considering the circumstances of Wednesday, I feel extremely lucky and grateful for the NHS who even on an understaffed strike day made sure I was properly seen to and diagnosed.  If it weren’t for their thoroughness I could have died.  Americans who are scared of socialized health care, don’t be.

My husband, Henry, has been a hero.  He has essentially been a single parent for weeks while the GP has struggled to find out what’s wrong with me.  He has also been a loving partner and the ultimate calm in spite of this storm.  Helena has lavished me with love and comes home every day with little smashed flowers in her pockets that she picks on the walk home from school.  I keep them next to my bedside next to the picture of me holding her when she came down with flu during the Mad Hatter’s tea party we had to celebrate her second birthday.

If you know me you know that most days I wear pearl earrings.  Recently as I was hacking and crying, Helena waited until I caught my breath again and brought them to me.  “Here, mommy.”  I put them on and changed out of my polka dot pajamas.  She was right.  Reinstating this little bit of normalcy did make me feel better.  I think it made us both feel better.  As did the cashmere dress I paired with a fur stole and a flick of black eyeliner.  My mama always said no one should have to look exactly how they feel.  Or as one of my friends has put it, “A little powder, a little paint, makes a woman what she ain’t.”  Some days this isn’t feasible, but on that one it was.

I think you’ll understand when I say I’m going to post here even less than usual.  Believe me, nothing I’m eating these days is worthy of being recorded–a teaspoon of Marigold powder in a cup of boiling water, half a banana, oat cakes, a bit of roast chicken and soft prunes.  I know, try not to be jealous.  Actually that’s not entirely true.  Today, I had some fortifying noodle soup at Tonkotsu and the weekend before I went into hospital, I made Claire Ptak’s egg yolk chocolate chip cookies.  Some of the dough is still in my freezer.  Hopefully just like the peonies of late spring, I’ll be back and full of color soon.

 

 

A Case for Thanksgiving

 

Last November Waitrose said their turkey sales were up 95% as compared with five years ago.  It wasn’t just Waitrose though.  Turkeys were being sold everywhere, from specialist butchers in the East End to Ocado and beyond.  Census data says approximately 200,000 Americans live in Britain, but that’s only .003 percent of the population.  Why then do an estimated 1 in 6 Britons now celebrate Thanksgiving?  Because it’s one of the best holidays that’s why.  

Though I moved from Los Angeles to London six years ago, I still can’t get used to the British Christmas that drags on until January.  In America, a twelve day long Christmas does not exist.  Boxing Day is not observed.  And no one watches “It’s a Wonderful Life” after the 25th, not because they don’t like it but because the window has closed.  In The U.K. all that’s standard practice.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love Christmas but it is entirely possible to stay too long at the fair.  Thanksgiving, however, is just a day and one that always leaves me wanting more.

Where Christmas is an occasion for family, Thanksgiving is one for friends and strangers.  Tables are not complete without the addition of extra last minute seats.  When The World Trade Center was attacked I was in college in New York.  That Thanksgiving many parents (mine included) didn’t want their children flying home for fear of another terrorist related tragedy.  But instead of having to eat instant noodles in our dormitories alone, we were welcomed at the tables of people we tenuously knew or didn’t know at all–friends of our parents’ friends, professors from school, the families of those we interned with in Manhattan.  Thanksgiving is the ultimate holiday for taking in displaced strays.

Best of all you don’t have to buy presents for anyone.  I am always filled with a slight dread when it comes to Christmas gift-giving.  I never want to leave anybody out.  My nightmare scenario is receiving a present from someone for whom I’ve not purchased or made a thing.  I know Britons hate the idea of Black Friday which has sadly become inextricably linked with Thanksgiving, but so do many Americans.  With my hand over my heart I can honestly say I have never been out shopping the day after Thanksgiving.  Lots of other people who also celebrate Thanksgiving can tell you the same.  Capitalism is not the heart of this holiday.    

The feast is the focus of Thanksgiving, primarily the sharing of it.  You might think this would make it more stressful than Christmas in terms of preparation, but in fact it is calmer.  Tradition dictates that the person hosting makes the turkey and a few sides, but most guests also bring a dish or two.  The other wonderful thing about Thanksgiving dinner is that it gets turkey out of the way so if you do celebrate Christmas you can indulge in something tastier like a crown of pork or roast beef.    

Lots of Britons assume Thanksgiving means having to eat things they think sound absolutely disgusting to them like yams with marshmallows.  It does not.  You serve what you like, though most people do have pumpkin pie on the table.  My mother always made panna cotta with a cranberry and fig port sauce.  

Because Thanksgiving is a federal holiday (proclaimed by Lincoln in 1863) and has no real religious affiliation, it creates a feeling of inclusivity that Christmas lacks.  People of all creeds are welcome to participate.  It doesn’t matter what you eat or if you pray.  The point is to share what you have and be thankful.        

When I was growing up one of my friends was Hindu.  Each Thanksgiving the women in her family would prepare a full vegetarian feast.  Despite their upbringing, my friend and her brother loved meat and ate it on the sly.  Knowing that their dinner would never include roast turkey, it became a tradition that they would sneak out of the house for In N Out hamburgers before relatives would arrive in the afternoon.  The wonderful thing about Thanksgiving is that your traditions can be whatever you want.

Throughout the years the meaning of Thanksgiving has evolved.  These days I’d say it has nothing to do with celebrating the Pilgrim Fathers.  Nor should it, as their friendship with the indigenous tribes was spurious.  Thanksgiving is about giving thanks and most importantly, sharing what you have.  It is a day to invite not just loved ones and friends, but also strangers into your home.  It is a day to volunteer and feed the poor.  It is a day for generosity.  Of course these are tenets that should be part of our daily lives, but Thanksgiving highlights them and reminds us of the kindness and generosity of spirit we should embrace the whole year through.  

So with a thankful heart I wish you and yours a very happy Thanksgiving.      

 

British Reserve

How does an American make friends in England?

No, seriously.  I’m asking.  Because I’m still figuring it out.  When you’re Kardashian loud and an oversharer who doesn’t really drink, making friends in the U.K. can be tough.

Which is why I have written a piece about it for The Pool.  One of the biggest challenges for me has been British reserve–i.e. people keeping to themselves and not saying what they mean (unless drunk).  That said, I’ve persisted and made some really lovely friends.  You can read about it here.