Near as Dammit

For some reason lost to the mists of time, every month I receive via snail mail the current edition of Bon Appetit magazine. To my knowledge I have never paid for a subscription or counted myself among the publication's loyal readers, but there it is. Like clockwork, it appears in my mailbox and I dutifully flip through its pages to see what's new and exciting in the wonderful world of culinary advertising.

This month's issue, however, contained destructions for a dessert that made me sit up alertly in my favorite toile-upholstered armchair: Sticky Toffee and Banana Pudding.

Of course, the words 'sticky' and 'toffee' are likely to grab anybody's attention, particularly a gluten-freedom fighter such as myself, cruelly deprived of the goodies taken for granted by other, more fortunate souls. Additionally, seeing a recipe for bananas reminded me that I still had in my fruit bowl (even after using pounds' and pounds' worth in my preserving projects) five or six rapidly over-ripening organic beauties surplus to jam and chutney-making requirements.

So I decided to take a quick break from conserving and address myself to some baking. Just for a change, you understand.

The question of the hour, of course, was how well the recipe (let's not kid ourselves, it was really for banana cake with caramel sauce) would hold up to gluten-free ingredients. I remembered Jeff Potter's dictum for high-ratio cakes and decided to apply it in this case, thinking it would be a good mental exercise for clearing away my conserve-related cobwebs.

A high-ratio cake (as you no doubt recall) has the following characteristics:

• more sugar than flour (by weight)
• more eggs than fat (ditto)
• more liquid than sugar (ditto ditto)

I previously proved through the production of an excellent gluten-free pumpkin cake that the happy by-product of high-ratio baking is the ability to do without xanthan gum and other horrid additives in one's tea-time sweets. Would the same hold true for gateau de banane, I wondered?

I visited the USDA National Nutrient Database for some much-needed data on the moisture and sugar content of bananas and made the following calculations, based upon the recipe's ingredients list:

• sugar: 189 g (133 g granulated sugar + 56 g in the bananas)
• flour: 250 g
• fat: 170 g
• eggs: 66 g
• liquid: 200 g (58 g in the eggs, 112 g in the bananas, 30 g in rum, vanilla, etc.)

Hmmm. Clearly, I did not have a high ratio mixture in the strictest sense, but I was about half-way there. I definitely had more liquid than sugar, and although I did not have more sugar than flour, the two were reasonably close. Where I really fell down was in the eggs-to-fat-ratio, oh well.

I decided to give it a try anyway - my bananas were getting browner by the minute and I was not about to make more jam out of them when I still had pears, pineapples, limes, and Meyer lemons with which to deal.

I did a straight substitution of King Arthur Multi-Purpose Gluten-Free blend for the unbleached all-purpose flour called for by the recipe and set to work. I did not like the look of the toffee topping offered by the tipsters at Conde Naste (1.5 cups of heavy cream? really?)  and used instead the butterscotch sauce I always employ in such circumstances. 

The result was squidgy and delicious straight from the oven, especially when doused with a liberal dollop of luscious butterscotch. The most important finding was that the spirit (if not the letter) of high-ratio baking is sufficient to keep the xanthan imperative at bay. However, I think some tweaking of the recipe might improve its gluten-free deliciousness, using the above ratios as a guide (an extra egg, perhaps? less flour? Also, the cake was crying out for some chopped dates in the batter - an element without which I have never seen a proper sticky toffee pudding - and which I happen to have as a byproduct of my chutney-making).

I shall get to work this weekend and report my findings in due course.

Meanwhile, here is a recipe for the best butterscotch sauce in the world, courtesy of my go-to gal for such delicacies, Delia Smith.

Butterscotch Sauce

In a saucepan, slowly melt together 2 oz butter, 3 oz soft brown sugar, 2 oz granulated sugar, and 5 fl oz of Lyle's Golden Syrup. If, tragically, your supermarket's shipment of this wonderful indulgence is delayed by gales in the North Atlantic, dark (or light) corn syrup makes an excellent substitute.

Stir often and do not let the mixture boil! Once it has all dissolved and is liquidly lovely, cook on low heat for 5 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat.

Gradually stir in 4 fl oz of whipping cream and a few drops of vanilla, and stir for another few minutes until the sauce is utterly smooth and gorgeous. You should probably taste some to make sure it's done.

This sauce is stunning when poured over warm cake of any description (especially banana, I have discovered); ice cream; or apple snow. If you keep it in a jar in the refrigerator, it will be good for weeks and weeks and weeks.

Coming soon: the perils of pectin

Thrift

What is it about the possession of a cast iron skillet that inspires a certain prudent frugality? I found myself considering this question as I dished out hoecakes for a family breakfast recently.

They might have been johnnycakes. I'm still not 100% clear on the distinction between these two varieties of corn disci, except that johnnycakes appear to be from Rhode Island. I mean, does anybody really make her breakfast on garden implements these days? But I digress.

At any rate, I had begun the morning with the aforementioned skillet and my bag of corn flour, neither of which has left my side for any considerable length of time in recent weeks. Ever since November's Pileup-prompted bout of nervous exhaustion I have been thinking about suitable pancake substitutes and my gleaming bag of corn flour provided the unmistakable counteragent.

I made the Hoejonnycakes (that sounds extremely rude, I know, but I'm not sure what else to call them) by taking a cup of my wonderful corn flour and mixing in enough hot water to make mush. I added sufficient cream to make the mush into batter and added a bit of salt together with some molasses for sweetness. No emulsifiers, no xanthan gum, no exotic metallic flours - simplicity itself.

I cooked the cakes in a bit of shortening in my beautifully rustic skillet and served up the result with a pile of thick home-made apple sauce (from organic apples, no less: I am teachable, after all) and a bit of caramel (also home-made) for sweet fanciness. The Hoejonnycakes were crispy on the outside and melting on the inside, with a distinctively mellow corn flavour and aroma. The family agreed they were way more exciting than the pancakes typically found in a flapjack stack and we considered other serving options. The usual breakfast fare of bacon and poached eggs was mooted, although the cakes' similarity to blinis (in shape and size, anyway) prompted additional thoughts of sour cream and smoked salmon. I suppose the lesson here is that Hoejonnycakes have the potential to be pretty darned versatile.

You may well be wondering where frugality enters into the discussion. Well, I will tell you. With exactly the same apple sauce, caramel, and cream (I subtracted the corn flour and added a few eggs) I was able that very evening to produce a lovely gluten-free dessert of Apple Snow, which was inspired by the rather blustery conditions we have been experiencing lately.

Apple Snow was apparently the invention of the redoubtable Mrs. Beeton, but Julia Child popularized it back when raw eggs didn't require the game of Russian Roulette they do now. Since I like to live life on the edge and encourage my family to do the same, I had no qualms about beating some whites with sugar to make a foam; enriching that with a bit of whipped ream (a remnant from my panna cotta experiments); folding in the apple sauce to make a mousse; and crowning each serving with a generous dollop of caramel. The result was a rich-tasting but light-feeling treat with the taste and aroma of fresh, fresh apples.
And if that isn't a sensible use of leftovers, I don't know what is.

Hot Cocoa

I was feeling optimistic and full of holiday cheer today. I've had a number of gluten-free successes lately, both on the fabrication and consumption sides of things, which always puts me in a positive frame of mind. As loyal readers know, such equanimity often propels me to embark on new baking experiments. Since tomorrow Sir and I are journeying to lower Manhattan to meet The Most Sophisticated Person I Know for Trinity Church's annual Messiah performance, I decided today was the day to launch a fresh culinary project.

Would it end in triumph or heartbreak? I had no idea. In a modest sort of way, it was quite exciting!

But what should I make? I was feeling so unbelievably content I decided I would risk one of the boxed cake mixes I bought during my Whole Foods expedition some while back. The choice: lemon or cocoa cayenne? I was leaning towards lemon, mostly because the box was prettier and the mix had chestnut flour in it, but the Kid Squid, who will go for chocolate every time, voted me down.

Since Christmas is for the young 'uns, I acquiesced and pulled the box (gluten free! certified organic! certified fair trade!) from its pantry shelf, noting that the manufacturer's name sounded like Simply More Panic. I had a sneaking suspicion that failure was in the cards, but such was my ebullience I felt sufficiently robust to withstand even the most crushing disappointment.

I examined the ingredients: organic fair trade sugar (sugar is always the first item on g/f cooking mixes, I have found); organic brown rice flour; organic fair trade dutch cocoa; baking soda; xanthan gum; organic cayenne (really?); sea salt; monocalcium phosphate (neither organic nor fair trade); and organic corn starch. The destructions called for the addition of  two eggs, half a cup of water, and one tablespoon of butter, which I duly supplied - although if I'd wanted to go the vegan route, an alternative recipe called for 'powdered egg replacer' and soy butter. Yikes. I will find out what egg replacer is made from when I have the strength. It was thrilling to see that one serving of the final product would contain a whole gram of dietary fiber, though whether soluble or insoluble I could not tell.

All the organic this and certified that put my teeth on edge, particularly when I opened the box to see the asbestos-lined foil pouch in which the mix was enclosed. That packaging is going to sit in my local landfill for 350 years, at least! Does anybody else detect a certain inconsistency or is it just me?

I punctured the asbestos and dumped the mix into my biggest metal bowl. The powder was very fine and hung visibly in the air for some time. When I foolishly stuck my head over the bowl to get a better look at what I was dealing with, my nasal passages were assaulted by the pepper-filled particles and, choking and snorting in a less-than-fastidious manner, I was forced to retreat. Standing at a safe distance, I sampled a bit of the mix from my right index finger and tasted only cocoa and cayenne.

I added my eggs and water (previously whipped together) and the room temperature butter. The destructions warned sternly against over-beating, but this proved difficult since the butter didn't want to disperse quickly throughout the batter. I stopped when I judged a detente between lumps and sufficient mixing had been reached and was renumerated with a fairly nice, thickish, cake batter. Another quick taste yielded nothing but peppery heat.

This made me suspicious. I have found through prior experimentation that manufactured g/f preparations tend to be sickly sweet, presumably to mask the vile taste of xanthan gum and exotic flours manufacturers feel compelled to use. I assumed that, in this case, the cayenne was taking the sugar's place as Concealer of Dread Flavours and Aromas. Time would tell and I hastened the batter into the oven.

The recipe, strictly speaking, was for twelve cupcakes. I think cupcakes are stupid, so I used my trusty nine-inch round cake pan instead. I buttered the entire pan and lined the bottom with silicon parchment, also buttered. Into my 350 deg F oven for thirty-five minutes, whence it emerged looking and smelling cake-like.

We let it cool a bit, dusted three slices with powdered sugar (Sir added cream to his) and sat down for mid-morning kaffee und kuchen. Upon initial examination, the Cocoa and Cayenne Panic was moist and fine-crumbed. It cut well, did not fall apart all over the plate, and clung to the fork conveniently. So far so good.

The Squid was the first to sample his slice. His expression said it all - but he elaborated (perhaps unnecessarily) with the exclamation 'Gummy!' before putting his plate down and refusing to continue the test. Sir and I persevered. Gummy was certainly an appropriate description, although compared to the Screams of several weeks ago, this incarnation was as nothing. I was more concerned by the grittiness that took over after the gumminess dissipated (the rice flour?) and the way residue accumulated stickily in my molars after a few chews. The initial mild cocoa flavour soon gave way to an overpowering pepperiness, untempered by the sugar or Sir's cream. The manufacturers of the Panic were definitely hiding something - my guess is the dreaded metallic xanthan gum.

What was our verdict? As Sir so wisely put it, 'It's a question of standards.' If we went to a coffee shop and bought a slice for a couple of bucks, we wouldn't send it back. We'd probably feel obliged to eat the whole thing and it would not be an overwhelming hardship to do so, especially if it had a scoop of reasonable ice cream on top. Would I serve it to company? No. Will I keep a box on hand for emergencies? No. I'd much rather bake honest financiers or pumpkin cake (sans xanthan) when a quick treat is required.

So much for the Panic. That still leaves g/f lemon cake mix to try plus additional high-ratio cake experimentation. Am I downhearted?

Of course not - it's the holidays!

Salmagundi

Item One
Profiteroles were in the news this past weekend, with three out of five contestants on the Next Iron Chef opting to make a croquembouche for their chocolate-inspired wedding-worthy dessert. I watched the ensuing fiasco with not a little satisfaction, knowing that my own gluten-free boules are at least as attractive as - and possibly texturally superior to - those produced by Chefs Tsai, Canora, and Caswell (definitely more attractive than Chef Canora's, which looked like demoralized and deflated golf balls when they came out of the oven). This is the second time I have been ahead of the curve, the first being when I outpaced Chef Dumont in my knowledge of xanthan gum and its wily ways. I have decided the Chairman could save himself a great deal of time and aggravation by halting his search and crowning me the next Iron Chef without further ado - it would be a doubly appropriate choice, given the fact that I spend much of my working day surrounded by great hulking piles of metal.

Item Two
Sir has been summoned to Tokyo once again, leaving the Kid Squid and me languishing at home, raking leaves and plowing through algebra homework. As a penalty for his desertion, I am requiring that he present himself at the Ginza branch of Laduree in order to purchase some macarons as my consolation prize. I have already visited the website to choose the flavors I shall require in my Boite Prestige: jasmine mango; bergamot; rose; pistachio; black currant violet; chestnut; and lemon cedrat should do nicely for a start. I will not stand in need of licorice, coconut, or mint, which is bound to make Sir's life easier. I did not know previously that Laduree lay claim to the invention of the macaron, which they attribute to one Pierre Desfontaines, cousin of the Great Man Himself. I was also unaware that they age their macarons for two days before presenting them for sale, as this holding period is deemed necessary for a 'perfect balance of texture and flavour'. This spells disaster for Toad and me, as we will this weekend be obliged to eat at least some of ours - for quality control purposes - immediately upon fabrication.

Item Three
At long last, I have been able to make my semi-annual pilgrimage to Mitsuwa, where I stocked up on a wide variety of gluten-free pantry staples, including five bags of good sushi rice, three different varieties of naturally-brewed shoyu (which I have decided is gluten-free); two kinds of organic tamari; sesame oil, mirin, rice vinegar, and lots of other goodies. I always make it a point to buy something I've never tried before, and on this visit it was a packet of goma dofu, a tofu-like substance made from white sesame seeds, water, and kuzu (or kudzu).

My Mitsuwa haul: the goma dofu is the
upright white packet in the middle

I had some for lunch today. It tasted like a very gelatinous peanut-butter pudding, and the sticky sweet miso helpfully provided as an accompaniment only served to heighten its strangeness. I was just getting ready to declare it not worth the calories when I discovered I'd eaten the whole thing. Such is often the way with Japanese delicacies, I find. They grow on you.

During subsequent research, I ascertained that goma dofu has a long and noble history and is, in fact, an artifact of Shojin Ryori, the vegan cuisine perfected by Buddhist monks. Kuzu, it turns out, is an awesome gluten-free thickener that I will be trying at the first available opportunity - although any temptation to grow it in my own garden is tempered by the warning implicit in the pea-cousin's moniker 'the foot-a-night vine' or 'the vine that ate the South'.

Item Four
On my way home from Mitzuwa (keeping an eagle-eye out for some Real Housewives - alas, they must all have been getting manicures in Paterson that day), I made a short detour to the Fort Lee, NJ branch of Whole Foods. As difficult as it may be for readers to believe, I had never before stepped into one of these organic warehouse giants, as none has yet been built within forty-five miles of my domicile. I thought I would see if they had any brands of gluten-free baking flour I might try, and possibly some g/f soba, which was conspicuouslyy absent from Mitsuwa's shelves. What riches! Two new kinds of baking mix, plus bags of buckwheat flour and sweet chestnut flour (I predict that galettes de Bretagne and crepes aux marrons are in our future). Also, I saw several different types of boxed cake preparations that I thought looked intriguing.

Readers have been telling me to stop pounding my head against the wall and go ahead and invest in some box mixes already. Hitherto, my response has been, 'If I didn't use cakes from a box before, why on earth would I now?'

The ingredients on the labels were suitably natural, organic and virtuous, so I chose two - lemon and chocolate/cayenne - for trial. I also bought a box of g/f pie crust mix, since Thanksgiving is coming and there's only so much a girl can do, right?  I will report back on these gluten-free labor-savers in due course.

Oh - and Whole Foods had the soba I was looking for, too.

Chemistry Set

Last Wednesday, whilst pondering gluten-free cooking in general and the Xanthan Conundrum in particular, I recounted how up-to-the-minute chefs have been dropping by the science faculty at Harvard University to teach ignorant undergraduates a thing or two about chemistry and physics via the medium of food science. Over the weekend I was musing about how I would dearly love to go to Harvard and study with Professors Dufresne and Achatz, even though the film 'Social Network' made that venerable educational institution look like a bit of a hell hole, frankly. Suddenly, a eureka moment! I didn't need to go Crimson to experiment with molecular gastronomy - I had the means in my very own kitchen, thanks to Albert and Ferran Adria and the good people at Dean and Deluca.

I am speaking of my chemistry set.

My chemistry set, or more punctiliously, my MiniKit Sferificacion, was purchased some time ago because, living in the hinterlands as I do, I was relatively certain that if I wanted to experience the molecularly gastronomic delights of airs, foams, and spherical comestibles, I was going have to make them myself. History has borne me out on this one: local restaurants have yet to embrace even a modicum of innovation in the kitchen, despite the fact that the craze for freeze-dried mayonnaise and deconstructed sauce Bearnaise has already come and gone everywhere else on the planet. Thankfully, I have now encountered these marvels in more forward-thinking parts of the world, and I suppose that is the reason why the chemistry set has been languishing in a forgotten corner of my Metro shelving, the urgency of experimentation having diminished somewhat. Also, I confess to having been a little bit afraid when I first read the blurb inside the box: what if, like Frankenstein, I let loose forces beyond my control? 

In my new spirit of adventure, unleashed by the gluten-free gods, I decided to give my chemistry set a second look. I dug it out from its hiding place beneath the bread bin and brushed a few of last year's Christmas tree needles off the lid (to get the tree in and out of the house, we have to drag it through the kitchen).  The fact that the MiniKit's promo materials were in Spanish did little to reassure me, although I just about comprehended the stipulation of infinitas posibilidades para ampliar su abanico de elaboraciones. With some hesitation, I opened the jet-black lid.

Imagine my shock/horror when the first thing that caught my eye was a tin of Xanthan gum (known to the Adrias as Xantana). Well, at least it was a familiar ingredient, even if it has been causing me nothing but angst for the last six weeks or so. I delved deeper into the box's inky recesses. I found Algin (vital for producing the edible spheres that made the Adrias a household name - in my household, anyway); Gluco (also for spherification); Agar for gelatins (ho hum) and Lecite for making air (now that's more like it!). I also discovered nifty little lab gadgets, such as a syringe for making caviar out of grape juice or tomato water (or any other substance you can call to mind), a larger round spoon for dosing out marbles (ditto); and a perforated spoon for collecting spherical preparations from their algin baths. What fun!

Suddenly, instead of fear I am overwhelmed with excitement. Molecular gastronomy will be a valuable complement, I believe, to my gluten-free R &D, if only because I will benefit from an enhanced understanding of some of the insane ingredients with which I am compelled to work. Also, I think it will be very, very cool. So, what first? Asparagus spheres with a quail's egg 'yolk'? A fruit salad garnished with muscatel marbles? Perhaps a fillet of salmon with lemon air or shoyu jelly.

Who needs gluten when such delights await?

The MiniKit Sferificacion:
watch this space for exciting developments!

More on the Xanthan Conundrum

Xanthan gum, the bane of the gluten-freedom fighter's existence - or my existence, anyway - has had a lot of press lately. I'm sorry to report that very little of this publicity has been of the positive kind. I'm not unduly astonished by this negative attention, since my own relationship with the substance is, shall we say, highly ambivalent. Widely regarded as necessary for all gluten-free bakers, the dreaded Xg has nonetheless caused me quite a bit of grief in three-quarters of my experiments to date. I am deeply gratified to discover I am not alone in my pain.

The first occasion of Xg ballyhoo was during this past Sunday's episode of the Food Network's Next Iron Chef. Poor Mary Dumont, eager to flex her 'resourcefulness' muscles, stupefied the judges with the pineapple sauce for her scorpion fish tartare. 'I put just a little xanthan gum in it,' she explained, rather defensively I thought. She added it as a thickener, presumably, since enhancing viscosity is one of the things xanthan gum does best. Alton Brown's incredulous, 'A little?!' could only be appreciated by one such as myself, who has experienced first-hand - and on multiple occasions - the throat-coating metallic awfulness that an excess of Xg perpetrates on the unwary diner. Much as I admire Chef Dumont, in my opinion her overuse of xanthan gum was far too egregious an error to overlook and the judges agreed. I admit I felt a twinge of schadenfreude as she exited through the Chairman's black Curtain of Doom, a great chef brought down by the evil with which I have been struggling for weeks.

The second time xanthan gum came bobbing into my consciousness was when my dear friend Toad forwarded me an excellent article from that source of all knowledge and wisdom, The New York Times. The piece was all about a new Harvard undergraduate science course that teaches the basics of physics and chemistry through food science and molecular gastronomy. Visiting professors like Wylie Dufresne and Grant Achatz drop by the lab to give guest lectures on Parmesan noodles, fruit gelees, and olive oil jelly. Now that is an educational initiative I can really get behind! Toad and I are planning to enroll tout de suite.

One comment leapt from the page, however. During experiments on the aforementioned olive oil jelly (an invention of Carlos Tejedor from - where else? - Barcelona), instructors substituted guar gum for Xg, the original choice. Why? A postdoctoral researcher described the problem:

'At high concentrations, [xanthan gum] has strange properties we couldn't explain.'

Wait a minute. Did I hear that right? Are Harvard chemists telling us that xanthan gum behaves in ways unknown to science? Xanthan gum has defeated some of the best minds of our generation. This was one of my biggest 'AHA' moments of the last five weeks! Suddenly it all became clear, all my trials and tribulations: why xanthan gum was clearly required in some circumstances but not in others, seemingly identical; why even a pinch can be too much, despite the recommended dose of a half-teaspoon per cup of flour. The answer is so simple.

We're not supposed to understand. It's a mystery. Inexplicable. Defying all logic and scientific explanation.

Mind you, I can't say I'm the least bit surprised.

Kitchen Sponge

It was a banner weekend chez Fractured Amy, since Sir finally returned from Tokyo just in time to celebrate his birthday. A cake was required for the festivities and the birthday boy, as per tradition, was given free choice. A flourless chocolate cake, perhaps? Maybe a dacquoise or a meringue? Something gluten-free, of course.

Imagine my palpitations when the man-of-the-house insisted that only a humble jam sponge would do.

I need to parse this request for Colonial readers. A sponge is a simple English cake made with butter, sugar, eggs, and flour - and not much else: the texture is hard to describe, as its equivalent is unknown on this side of the Atlantic. The flavour and color are similar to poundcake, but it has an airier texture and a coarser crumb. A good sponge is very light and melty. As long as it's refrigerated, it has excellent keeping abilities - and can even be frozen with no ill effects. Sponges are traditionally served at tea time, split and filled with jam and/or cream and dusted with powdered sugar. They are, as the saying goes, top-ho.

And, needless to say, full of gluten. I have not baked a proper sponge since gluten-freedom was imposed from above over a month ago.

Never one to be deterred by such concerns, I set to work with a will. I have always used a classic all-in-one sponge recipe that was given to me when I was first married by a friend who felt my English husband would not be satisfied otherwise. In adapting the recipe, I considered some lessons gleaned from my madeleine experiments. First, a small amount of xanthan gum would be required, although far less than the usually-recommended 1/2 tsp. per cup of flour, which causes a dreadful metallic aftertaste and molar-coating sliminess. Second, the recipe would need either more moisture or less flour, to avoid the corn-bread texture problem that perennially plagues the user of g/f flour - or plagues me, anyway.

I was astonished to get it right after only three cakes. The first was quite reasonable but had a slightly heavy texture and did not rise properly in the middle. I attributed this to a deficit of baking powder and a lack of moisture. I remedied the situation by adding an additional half teaspoon of baking powder and 3 tablespoons of water to the second batch of sponge batter. While I was thrilled with the result (an evenly-risen, light and airy sponge), Sir was convinced he could taste the excess baking powder.  Dismayed, I glared at the baking powder tin accusingly, only to discover the contents were well past their best-by date. 

The final perfect cake was produced with fresh baking powder (the original amount) and extra water.  The result was very, very delicious, and gobbled up happily by all concerned.

It must be recorded, in the interest of full disclosure, that when Sir sliced himself a second (or was it a third?) piece of cake, he accidentally did so from the sponge with extra baking powder, and did not notice the difference.

Classic All-in-One Gluten-Free Sponge

• 4 oz. gluten-free all-purpose baking flour
• 2.5 teaspoons very fresh baking powder (otherwise 3 tsp.)
• scant 1/8 tsp. xanthan gum
• 4 oz. sugar
• 4 oz. butter, softened at room temperature
• 2 large eggs
• 2-3 drops vanilla extract
• a few tablespoons of warm water

Preheat the oven to 325 deg F and butter an 8-inch round cake pan. Line with parchment/silicon paper and butter that, too.

Sift the flour, baking powder, xanthan gum and sugar several times into a reasonably large mixing bowl. Cream the butter a bit to soften, then add it and the eggs to the dry mix, beating with your best electric handmixer until it's creamy. The final compound should drop with a spludge when you tap a wooden-spoonful of it onto the side of the bowl: I find with g/f flour, you need to add a full 2 or 3 tblsp. of warm water to get the consistency right. It will not be a thin batter like many American cakes: it is a thick mixture the consistency of, say, creamy smooth mashed potatoes.

Glop the batter into the prepared pan - you will need a spatula for this. Spread the mixture right to the edges of the pan and flatten out any obvious molehills.

Bake for 30 minutes or until it's done. Upon removing it from the oven, let it cool ever-so-briefly, then flip it onto a cake rack and remove the paper so to the sponge can cool completely. You can split it and fill with whatever you like or bake two and pile one on t'other with deliciousness in between. Sir likes strawberry jam and buttercream; I am a lemon curd/whipped cream sort of girl. You can keep any leftover cake in the fridge.

NB A wonderful gluten-filled sponge may be produced by substituting 4 oz. self-raising flour for the g/f flour, baking powder and xanthan gum. In that case, you will probably not need to add additional water. The method is identical.

The sponge, cross-sectioned: note the even rising and light texture,
achieved with just the merest hint of xanthan gum.
It was sandwiched as per Sir's request 
with strawberry jam and custard buttercream.

Next up: I reveal my super-secret recipes for lemon curd and buttercream, without which no sponge is complete.

Mad About Madeleines: Premier Partie

Emboldened by my financier success of two weeks ago and with my spaghetti-testing on hiatus, I decided yesterday to tackle the next gluten-free baking challenge on my docket, madeleines. Madeleines could not be simpler to produce: whip together sugar and eggs until they turn white and triple in volume; add a splash of vanilla; fold in flour, baking powder, and melted butter; invigorate with some grated lemon or orange zest and you are done. The result is a subtle yet complex little cake, slightly dry but aromatic -  perfect with tea a la Proust. The only tricky part might be locating the shell-shaped tins in which madeleines are traditionally baked, but mine are always conveniently stacked on their Metro shelves, ready to go when fever strikes.

I predicted that madeleines would be less amenable to g/f ingredients than financiers had proved to be. For one thing, the proportion of flour was much higher, with no ground almonds to provide added support. The lack of almonds also meant that the aroma and flavor of the flour would be front and center, with no opportunity to hide behind marzipan-y goodness. In the good old days, I baked my madeleines with cake flour, which had both positive and negative implications for my current project. On the one hand, cake flour is very finely milled, which helps to keep the final product light and ethereal. On the other hand, cake flour is low in gluten, which keeps the final product tender. I suspected, therefore, that the lack of gluten in Bob's Red Mill all-purpose flour might not be a problem, but I wasn't sure what the effects of its texture might be. 

First things first. Determined to render the g/f flour as fine as possible, I whizzed it in my food processor, as I often do with granulated sugar. The outer electrons in the flour molecules objected to this treatment, however, and  rewarded me by clinging to the food processor bowl in unsightly lumps, so charged that I had difficulty removing them from my silicon spatula. I discarded the machine and sifted the flour several times through my finest mesh sieve until I was satisfied that it was as minute as I could make it.

I then proceeded as I had during the financier experiment, adding one-quarter of a teaspoon of Xanthan gum to half the dry ingredients (3 oz, or just over half a cup of flour). Whereas during my previous investigation the effects of Xanthan were only discernible after baking, its presence this time was perceived at once. When I poured the non-Xanthaned batter into its shell shapes, it went spludge and flattened out immediately to the edges of the tins. The Xanthaned batter, however, was fulsomely thick, and needed to be spooned (rather than poured) into its molds, where it held its shape as a cake mixture should, with a lovely little mound in the center.

Into the oven! The non-Xanthaned cakes required a solid three minutes of extra cooking, but that may have been the result of their initial placement on the bottom oven shelf. At the end of baking, the Xanthaned cakes were more evenly browned, more risen, and springier to the touch than the others, which, in addition to being flatter and paler, stuck to the pan in an irritating way when it came time to remove them.

Aerial view of the finished cakes:
the more physically appealing Xanthaned specimen is on the right

The proof of the madeleines is in the eating, I always say. Sir, currently gallivanting around Tokyo, could not attend the subsequent tasting, but the Kid Squid and KSGP (see Financiers: Part 1) were both available. Fortuitously, the 'Rents showed up for a surprise visit and enthusiastically agreed to take part. I asked for comments regarding appearance, texture, taste, and overall appeal. Concerned about subjects' preconceptions, I did not inform the tasters which cakes contained the Xanthan.

The results were unanimous, intriguing, and not a little troubling:

• Non-Xanthaned madeleines. Five out of five tasters agreed they were less appealing to look at than the Xanthaned cakes, with flat, almost concave bottoms and large pores. The flavour was described as 'sweet,' 'good,' 'buttery,' and 'melt-in-your-mouth.' Every taster agreed that the cakes had an unexpected texture that was slightly gritty or sandy, which HSR likened to cornbread (hastily adding that it was 'not unpleasant,' which I call damning with faint praise). The general consensus was that they were fine little cakes, but texturally inconsistent with madeleines.
• Xanthaned madeleines. Five out of five tasters agreed they were beguiling to look at, with a more evenly-browned, slightly crisper crust and uniform texture, which DMR (who kindly left me her tasting notes) described as 'airy.' She was moved to dunk hers in her tea, where it unexpectedly dissolved and disappeared forever - an important finding! All the tasters, given the greater physical appeal of the Xanthaned cakes, were (I believe) unpleasantly surprised by their eating quality. The cakes proved 'blander' and 'less tasty' than the others, with a metallic aftertaste not unlike some artificial sweeteners. HSR reported that the residue irksomely coated his molars and I myself felt the need to brush my teeth shortly afterwards. 

The airiness of the Xanthaned cake
may be clearly seen on the right

In summary, all the tasters preferred the flavour and mouth-feel (despite the slight grittiness) of the non-Xanthaned cakes over the Xanthaned ones, despite the latters' advantages in appearance and texture. The Kid Squid, ever truthful, said he wouldn't eat either of them very happily in the future, but the rest of the panel found sufficient appeal in the non-Xanthaned cakes to eat them if tendered on subsequent visits.

I believe there is still room for improvement and will be refining the procedure during future trials. It is possible that the addition of less Xanthan gum will provide textural benefits without detriment to flavor. I will also try using a different, perhaps less aggressive g/f flour mixture (there are several on the market, plus many formuli for creating one's own). The recipe will be withheld until perfection has been achieved and I am able to produce a little cake worthy of the name madeleine.