{"id":1676,"date":"2006-03-25T02:23:00","date_gmt":"2006-03-25T02:23:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/elitemporaryblog.wordpress.com\/2006\/03\/25\/when-the-cabinet-calls"},"modified":"2015-09-24T03:54:08","modified_gmt":"2015-09-24T03:54:08","slug":"when-the-cabinet-calls","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/orangette.net\/2006\/03\/when-the-cabinet-calls\/","title":{"rendered":"When the cabinet calls"},"content":{"rendered":"
I have a problem, and it\u2019s sitting in my kitchen cabinet. It crouches in the corner like a jack-in-the-box. It\u2019s packed like gunpowder ready to explode. It\u2019s a many-headed monster, cold and heavy, lying in wait. It, dear reader, is eleven jars of jam<\/strong>.<\/p>\n So much sugared, syrupy fruit should have me ecstatic, I know, and I\u2019d be lying if I didn\u2019t 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\u2014the concept of it, the process of making it<\/a>, the mere fact of its existence, not to mention its flavor\u2014but I never seem to actually eat<\/em> it. Apparently, I collect it. I guess it\u2019s more my style than stamps, or PEZ dispensers<\/a>.<\/p>\n But nonetheless, it\u2019s getting obscene, if not a bit ominous. Being the somewhat anti-waste woman that I am, I can\u2019t help but hear a call\u2014or, rather, a roar from the back of the cabinet<\/strong>\u2014to do something<\/em> with the stuff. To hoard so many calories really can\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n I\u2019ve been a fan of cake-jam pairings for a little while now, since a recipe by Flo Braker<\/a> 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\u2019s 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. And before the cabinet calls again, I\u2019m taking the last piece of cake and catching a plane to New York. I\u2019ll be back in ten days\u2014and ready, no doubt, to attend to the ten jars of jam still waiting.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
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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\u2014really, knee-bucklingly so<\/strong>\u2014any 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.<\/p>\n