Life From Scratch (39 page)

¾ cup heavy cream

3 tablespoons light corn syrup

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 cup (6 ounces) semisweet chocolate chips

For the cake:

Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease and line a 10-inch springform pan with a round of parchment paper.

In the bowl of a standing mixer fitted with a whisk attachment, cream softened butter at medium speed until light and fluffy, gradually incorporating confectioner’s sugar and salt, scraping as needed. Incorporate egg yolks, one at a time, and then splash in the vanilla extract, scraping again. Whisk melted chocolate into butter mixture, taking care that it is warm, not hot. Scrape.

In a large bowl, beat egg whites on high speed with a hand beater. Gradually add the sugar and beat until medium peaks form. Fold both the cake flour and the egg white mixture into the butter mixture, alternating in thirds—starting with the cake flour and ending with the egg white mixture.

Pour into a prepared springform pan, and bake 30 to 35 minutes or until the cake springs back when pressed with a finger and an inserted toothpick comes out clean.

Let cool completely. Slice in half, making two evenly sized discs. Warm the jam in a small saucepan, to spread easier and soak into the cake better. Working on top of a cooling rack set over a sheet pan, spread the bottom disk with half the jam. Top with the second disk, and cover the top and sides of the cake with the rest of the jam to seal in the crumbs.

Finishing touches: In a small pot, heat the heavy cream, corn syrup, and vanilla until the first few bubbles break the surface. Remove from the heat, add the chocolate, and whisk until smooth and glossy. Cool about 10 minutes to thicken the glaze and ease its application. Pour over top of the cake and spread over the sides. Refrigerate to set glaze. Serve cool, but not cold.

Enough for 12 to 14

CHAPTER 25

The World Clos
e
By

Y
OU LOOK STRESSED
,” Mom declares, glancing at my sweats and low ponytail.

We’re on our way home from the airport. She’s here for Ava’s first birthday party—her first visit since the blog began six months earlier.

“Things are different now. With the blog there’s a lot to do, and not a lot of time to do it in,” I muse. “Keith’s videos add a whole other element. He’s up every Sunday night until 2, 3, 4 a.m.”

“But that’s worth it,” Mom interrupts.

“It’s
all
worth it,” I snap, but I wonder if I’m saying it for her benefit or mine. Ever since Austria, 15 countries and four months earlier, Keith and I have redoubled our efforts. There’s been some media attention—mostly local TV—and I feel increasingly in the spotlight, with a heightened need to “perform.”

As soon as we get home, Mom shoos me away. “If there’s that much to do, make good use of my time here—get caught up!” She plunks Ava and the books down on the living room carpet and settles in for an afternoon of play.

When I hesitate, she says, “We’re fine,” her chest puffed up with grandmotherly importance. She’d never admit it, but I can tell she’s glad to be needed. And I’m relieved to have her help. I thought her mission was to spend time with Ava, but I notice her eyeing me from the sidelines, as though she’s keeping her finger on my pulse, too.

I pile my cookbooks on the dining table and flip through them in search of Bulgarian recipes. Then I watch as Mom teaches Ava to feel the warm sunshine on the carpet, to tear sheets of paper, to throw balled-up socks into a laundry basket. Mom’s ability to transform everyday objects into toys reminds me that it was her creativity that kept me from realizing we were poor all those years ago.

Mom pulls several books out of her suitcase and starts reading them to Ava. Suddenly, some of the words sound familiar.

“I don’t mind a dragon THIS size,” said mother. “Why did it have to grow so BIG?”

“I’m not sure,” said Billy, “but I think it just wanted to be noticed.”

Intrigued, I come over and see that Mom is reading my old copy of
There’s No Such Thing as a Dragon
. I pick up a few of the other books: These are mine and Michael’s.

“Mom, I can’t believe you saved our books all this time—what, 20, maybe 30 years?” I hug her to my side. “Wow.”

“I hope you want them, because if you’re just going to donate them, I’ll ship them back to Boston myself.”

“Don’t you think,” I begin carefully, putting my hands on her shoulders, “that Ava can have
more
than one set of books—that she can have the old and the new?”

When the doorbell rings, Mom answers. A few moments later, she leads a tall, lamppost of a man into the house. He looks young, perhaps 20, but has the long face and sunken eyes of someone much older. I cannot imagine why Mom would have invited him in.

“Sasha, this is Nick—from
Bulgaria
.”

I furrow my brow, wondering what kind of joke she’s pulling.

“Where did you find him?”

“I didn’t—he just rang the doorbell!”

He says “Hello,” but the word comes out all chewed up. He’s clearly not from Tulsa.

Mom laughs with delight. Nick’s in town to sell educational books—his summer job. “Come in,” she says, pulling him right up to the dining room table to my teetering cookbooks. “Your timing is impeccable; my daughter is cooking Bulgarian food this week.”

Now it’s his turn to look surprised.

For the next 30 minutes, I quiz him about the traditional food from his homeland. He laughs at some of the recipes I’ve dug up, claiming they’re out of date or, worse, that he’s never heard of them. He says I absolutely
must
try a dried fruit drink called
kompot
, a chilled cucumber soup called
tarator
, and a snail-shelled cheese pastry called
banitsa
. In appreciation, I buy a set of science books for Ava and invite him to dine with us. He declines with a bashful shrug.

After he leaves, I show Mom the glittering world map above the dining table, now studded with gemstone stickers on the 26 countries we’ve cooked so far: Afghanistan to Azerbaijan; the Bahamas to Brunei. All in all, six months have passed. It feels like a lifetime.

“Ava might not remember any of these meals, but some things you just
have
to do, even if the purpose isn’t initially clear. I have to believe it will be worth it.” I glance back at her stack of books on the living room floor. “Like how you saved those books all those years. Who knew that you’d be reading them today, with my daughter—your granddaughter?”

Mom softens. “You’re right. And how amazing that Nick showed up today—what are the odds of that? Something’s going on here.” She laughs like a giddy schoolgirl: “This project, it’s not just helping your family.” She glances over to the front door and shakes her head. “It’s like you’re pulling in the whole world, Sash! No wonder you’re stressed. That’s a lot of responsibility.”

I wonder if she’s right. I wonder if, after Nick, the doorbell will continue to ring as we let in someone from Burkina Faso, then Burma, and so on, until the entire world is sitting around my dinner table. An enormous global table. No arguments. No food fights. Just people there to share a meal. What could I learn from them? What could we learn from each other?

I think back to my rough-and-tumble childhood and try to imagine all the players of my own life coming together around such a table: It’s a motley crew, to be sure.

Mom’s flight is scheduled before I serve the Bulgarian feast, but I make her a glass of kompot anyway. The Eastern European Christmas drink is inky with currants, prunes, and scattered sparks of dried apricot. The fruit plumps agreeably when simmered in sugar water, clouding the pot with a brown plume of sticky syrup.

I dig my spoon into my glass and lift one quivering prune to my lips.

Kompot

Kompot (also known as Oshav) is a glass of summertime for all seasons. In the winter, Bulgarian children enjoy kompot as part of the Christmas celebration. Most any dried fruit will make a lovely addition—especially apples, pears, and cherries. When serving, be sure to give everyone a few bits of fruit at the bottom of their glass!

10 cups water

1 cup sugar, or to taste

1 cup prunes

1 cup dried currants

1 cup dried apricots

Add all ingredients to a large pot. Cover and bring to a bubble. Cook until the fruit is well plumped, about 15 minutes. Serve chilled with several lumps of fruit in each glass. Although a straw isn’t necessary, a long-handled spoon will be much appreciated.

Makes 3½ quarts

I never considered the question of taking a vacation when I decided to cook my way around the world. Then in August, my brother Connor invites us to spend a week with his family in Virginia. I cannot pack my suitcase with all the cooking paraphernalia I might need. Keith isn’t set up to edit a video on the road.

“Why don’t we just take a week off,” Keith suggests. “Isn’t the blog about the journey, not the destination?”

But hundreds now click through my blog daily; I don’t want to disappoint our readers. Before we leave, I cram in cooking Cambodia with Burundi.

I need a few dried, brined limes for a sour chicken soup. I lay the heavy citrus on a scorching patch of driveway. On one 104-degree day, the side exposed to the sun fades from green to yellow, the once glossy skin withering into leathery hide. I flip the limes, and the next day they’re done. They should have taken one, maybe two weeks.

While Keith packs our bags, I look into Cambodian grilled eggs, street food mentioned in Steven Raichlen’s
Planet Barbecue
. There’s just one problem: no recipe. I reach out to Karen Coates, the former Asia correspondent for
Gourmet
magazine and whose blog I follow. She contacts a Khmer friend who helps explain the dish.

Turns out, it’s no small trick. A dozen raw eggs must first be blown out of their shells into a large bowl. Whip in a few fingers of sugar (palm or brown for depth) and a pucker of fish sauce. Some suggest minced kefir lime leaves, but I don’t have time to scurry over to the Asian market; the empty shells must still be painstakingly refilled with the glop and then steamed. Once firm, the eggs (shell and all) are skewered with bamboo rods and grilled.

The concept reminds me of Mom’s Jell-O eggs. But unlike hers, which we propped up in an egg carton to fill and set, these eggs need to be
steamed
upright before grilling. Some Cambodians steam them for eight hours. Finding the right vessel proves to be difficult, and I spill several batches until I discover the sides of a collapsible steamer basket can be lifted and closed around the eggs, then tied.

But the eggs boil over, coating the steamer in what looks like foam insulation. In our haste to head east, I leave the mess in the sink. It is only when I’m lounging on the beach with my family that I realize I could have probably just steamed them in the cardboard carton they came in. Back home, I tackle the dishes and consider trying again. But the breakneck pace of the blog demands I move onto another country, another meal.

Cambodian Grilled Eggs