You'd have thought

“You mean you've never had rhubarb?” I say, incredulous, and pick up at the greengrocer's shop a bunch of rhubarb stalks, crimson and lanky, the leaves tightly furled. I stress 'never' in such a way you'd have thought my friend has just admitted never having had water. “And you are twenty-seven!” I don't know why I had to bring up age. As if one's placement on a time scale has anything to do with it. How old was I to try rhubarb for the first time? Twenty-five, I remember that. It was a simple rhubarb compote, I remember that too. I made it in my brand-new round Le Creuset (the colour of kiwi). I've had it for eights years now. It was the smallest in stock at the kitchenware store and it was on sale, and that's how I could afford it on my then student budget. I had just moved to Amsterdam. The shop assistant, a stocky young guy, described to me the merits and advantages of a bigger cast-iron pot, also a Le Creuset, but I recall saying I was going to use it to cook for myself only, so the smallest one would do fine, solo meals, you see. I instantly wondered if I didn't sound flirty for saying that, because I really didn't mean to sound that way. In the rhubarb compote I threw in some dried lavender flowers, I remember that too. I must have enjoyed the thing, but I assume that now, because, strangely, I don't remember if I did. I have to bend the rhubarb stalks to fit them in my shopping bag, one of which snaps and dislodges a fibrous deep purple thread. It hangs off the stem like a broken violin string. 

The crimson liquid, thick, almost viscose, is dripping through the sieve, separates from the rhubarb flesh, soft and slithery. I love the smell of roasted rhubarb. It smells fresh and clean, sharp even. The crimson flow slows down now, goes at a steady pace, like an IV drip. Arms crossed, I lean with my hips against the sink and wait until the rhubarb is fully drained. I'm putting together a rhubarb polenta cake. I have already rubbed the butter into the polenta with my fingertips. I almost got the wrong polenta meal at the supermarket – I needed the coarse polenta but distractedly pulled the fine off the shelf. Excuse me, I said to the cashier and to the ten people behind me in line at the check-out, then ran back to the grains aisle to exchange the bag. I wasn't leaving with the wrong polenta, I'm sorry. The whole point of this cake is the contrast of the gritty sugary buttery crust and the soft tart refreshing rhubarb.

What a wonderful thing! – I'd written in the margin next to the recipe after the first try, three years ago – I like how the coarse polenta requests a little extra work from the mouth, that it is a perfect foil to the fleshy rhubarb. I went on: Instead of cinnamon, which I believe would be lovely here, I used a vanilla bean, and will continue to do so, and in lieu of an orange, a lemon. But refrain adding either to the fruit itself, its clean taste is another nice contrast to the vanilla- and lemon-scented crust. And why is there no salt amongst the dry ingredients? A little of it should only zoom in on the flavours. And on: By the way, the soft, moist pink of this rhubarb looks like pure sex...

I love this cake, how it made its way into my memory and lodged itself there, solidly, despite the fact that until today I haven't made it as much as twice. That said, believe it or not, but I never stopped thinking about it. And I stress 'never' in such a way you'd have thought I've just admitted never having had a meal.

I set the kettle on for coffee and ask Anthony if he would like a slice with his cup. Yes, he'd give it a try, he says.

“I hate rhubarb. I was six when I tried it first. It used to grow in my backyard. My friends would eat it, they would eat it like a candy, can you imagine this, but I can't stand it. The only thing I hate more in my desserts than rhubarb is lemon. But this is not bad, it's actually nice, I quite like it. I won't finish my slice, though. Because I can't stand it.”

I get out for a moment to take the trash down. The slice is gone when I'm back. I know it's not in the trash bin, it can't be – I haven't yet placed a new bag in it.

I really love this cake.

 

Rhubarb Polenta Cake

Adapted from Ripe, by Nigel Slater

For the filling
500 g (1 pound) rhubarb
50 g (heaped 1/4 cup) unrefined cane sugar
4 tablespoons water

For the crust
125 g (¾ cup) coarse polenta
200 g (1 ½ cups plus 1 tablespoon) all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt
150 g (heaped 3/4 cup) unrefined cane sugar, plus 1 tablespoon more for sprinkling
1 plump vanilla pod, seeds only
grated zest of a small lemon
150 g (10 tablespoons) butter, cut in small pieces
1 large egg
3 tablespoons milk

Lightly oil or butter a 20cm (8-inch) springform cake pan. Heat the oven to 180 degrees Celsius (350 F) and put a baking sheet in the middle of it to get hot. Trim the rhubarb, cut each stem into short lengths, and put them in a baking dish. Scatter over the sugar and water and bake for twenty minutes, until the rhubarb is soft but still holds its shape. Remove the rhubarb pieces from the dish and put them in a colander or large sieve to drain. (Reserve the rhubarb juices to serve with the cake.) You can prepare the rhubarb filling up to one day in advance.

Combine the polenta, flour, sugar, salt and baking powder in a large mixing bowl. Add the vanilla seeds, lemon zest and butter. Rub the butter into the polenta with your fingertips until the mixture looks like coarse rubble. Alternatively, blitz the mixture in a food processor. But really, do it manually. Not only it's a cinch to do, saves on washing up, is a peaceful thing to do, yes yes yes, but rubbing the butter into the polenta mixture with your fingers will also help to release the essential oils in the lemon zest and distribute the vanilla beans more evenly. Break the egg into a small bowl and mix with the milk, then blend into the crumble mix. Take care not to overmix; it's done when the dry and wet ingredients have come together to form a soft, slightly sticky dough. If it isn't a little sticky, add a touch more milk

Slightly wet your hands and press about two-thirds of the mixture into the prepared cake pan, pushing it 2cm up the sides. Make sure there are no large cracks or holes. Place the drained rhubarb on top, leaving a small rim around the edge. Crumble lumps of the remaining polenta mixture over the fruit with your fingertips, but don't worry if the rhubarb isn't all covered. Scatter over 1 tablespoon of unrefined cane sugar.

Put on the hot baking sheet and bake for 45-50 minutes, or until the edges and the crust turn deep golden brown. Mine was done after about 35 minutes, so I'd suggest to start checking from then on. Cool before removing from the pan. Serve in slices, with coffee.

Believe it or not

Looks like I might have fallen off the earth, right?

And while that’s not the case, it must, however, be told that time, this savage beast, fell on me and chewed holes in my fiber. I mean, how else, Dear Reader, could I explain the fact that I haven’t coughed up a word here for more than a month? The thought of it makes me sick, literally.

What was I doing then, you might, I hope, ask.

Studies-wise, I was, and am, feverishly grinding up the gristle of linguistics. Academic articles on metaphor have solidly taken up residence on my desk and bed table. My brains? They are afflicted too! Academic essay writing, Power Point presentations and all that jazz are my religion now.

As to my job in the bakery, on this front things are in full throttle too. I can do the dishes and tartlets real fast now. A week ago I rejoiced over my small personal achievement: Issa, our master baker, taught me how to make pate sucree, an event that marked my evolution from a tartlet molder into an occasional tartlet-dough maker, occasional because I can only lend my helping hands in the bakery in between or after I tackle newly-formed mountains of dishes. Besides, every week I’m learning new, more interesting ways to cut my fingers or to bruise my limbs. My latest finding is that you can easily traumatize yourself with a plastic dough scraper (don’t ask). But the accomplishment I’m most proud of is that I made friends with a bunch of exceptionally fine, fine people from the bakery.

One of whom is one French girl named Maud. She took pride in dirtying every single bowl while preparing stuff for baking, to keep me busy, as she explained when I gave her furious glances of appreciation. Yet, I can’t complain. She fed me macaroons, and croissants, and financiers. Oh yes, Maud and I we hit it off all right from my very first day in the bakery. A few weeks ago Maud left back for France and now we are all very sad. Me, I am not sad. I am sorrowful.

But I’m here not to whine. Instead, I’m going to tell you about white wine cake. Before Maud and her boyfriend Jean-michel (a fine Dutch guy with a French name!) bid adieu to Holland, I hurried up to invite myself over to their place for dinner. I knew well that I would be served delectable food. What I did not expect was that I would be exposed to five (!!!) cakes for dessert alone. “I didn’t know what to choose, so I made five”, revealed Maud. That left me breathless with admiration and awe, but only for a second. What followed was an orgy of dessert eating: chocolate cake, tarte Tatin, two charlottes, and ...white wine cake.

Later that day I, over-desserted all right, would be coming back to Amsterdam and it’d be there, on a night train with just a few sleepy passengers lullaby-ed by the late hour, that I’d realize I’d found a new friend whose name was white wine cake. It’s simple, it’s sweet, it’s spirited. If you think it’s tipsy from wine, it is not, not a bit. It’s sober and means business: It pumps you up and makes you smile.

When the mist is thick and you feel somewhat reluctant to poke your head out there and do whatever you should, call for white wine cake first. You take eggs and separate them, then you mix the yolks with sugar and white wine; afterwards, you add vanilla, whose fragrance will make you feel warm and homey. Then you fold in flour, along with baking powder, and mix everything well. Oil, for moisture, goes in next. Last parade the egg whites to which you added a pinch of salt earlier and which you whipped up before adding. All this you pour in a buttered cake pan (or a loaf pan, why not?) and send in the oven. After 30-40 minutes white wine cake will be ready.

And I’ll tell you what, the moment you slice and put a sun-coloured piece on your plate, say, the one with tiny flowers around the rim, the clouds will part, believe it or not, reminding you to never give up, stop fretting, and be always grateful – for the friends, for the cake, for everything.

I’m happy I’m here today. I missed you, Dear Reader!

And before I round off, I should also say that since I’m oven-less, this time my cravings for baking were enabled by a philanthropic soul, Anthony. Who is Anthony, you may be wondering. Anthony is, quite simply, my brother in arms: He stoically tolerated me in his kitchen as I baked, and sometimes burnt, this white wine cake, which I did four times within two past weeks. In real life, Anthony is an American Amsterdammer doing graphic design, at leisure an outstanding thinker, for only outstanding thinkers can list activities such as ‘idiot ignoring’ and ‘weekend enjoying’ among their favourtie pastimes. So thank you, Anthony!

White Wine Cake

Adapted from Maud Chalons

Head note: when you choose white wine, go for the one with fruity and floral aromas -- basically, the more fragrant the wine, the richer in flavour the cake.

3 medium eggs, at room temperature
1/4 tsp salt
1 cup (200 gr) light brown sugar

2/3 cup (160 ml) white wine, at room temperature

2/3 cup (160 ml) non-fragrant oil such as sunflower oil

1 Tbsp vanilla sugar (or 1 tsp vanilla extract)
1 3/4 cup (200 gr) unbleached all-purpose flour, sifted
1 Tsb baking powder


1) Pre-heat the oven to 180 C (350 F).

2) Separate the eggs. Add the salt to the egg whites.

3) In a large bowl, beat the yolks with half amount of the sugar. Whisk in half amount of white wine and mix well. Add the remaining half of sugar plus vanilla sugar (or vanilla extract) and mix very well again. Proceed with the remaining amount of white wine; mix whole-heartedly. Pour in the oil; stir until fully-incorporated.

4) In another bowl, whisk the flour and the baking powder together. Pour the white wine mixture into the flour mixture and mix just until the flour is incorporated. Don’t overmix; it’s ok if there are some lumps in the batter, they’ll dissipate during baking.

4) Whip the egg whites until stiff. Using a rubber spatula, gently fold them in the batter. Pour in a buttered 9-inch round cake pan (I think it's not a crime to use a standard-sized, 9 by 5 inches, loaf pan) and bake for 30-40 mins, or until a toothpick inserted in the centre comes out clean. Remove from the oven and let cool for 10-15 mins.

This cake is delicious plain, but I find that a piece of fruit, say, a juicy pear or a crunchy crispy-skinned apple, is not wrong here at all. Not a bit.