Seattle—I was making my own birthday cake. Why was this happening?! It was so very clearly wrong. One should never make one’s own birthday cake; it should arrive by the magic that is love, floating through the air with candles glowing, accompanied by a song sung in one’s honor. This was axiomatic. Also, it was hot—my birthday is in August—and the apartment was getting even hotter, despite all the windows thrown wide open, as the ancient Magic Chef electric stove cranked up.
All I wanted to do was go to the lake and fling myself in; this was my clearly stated birthday wish. Not only was this not happening, but the traditional celebratory dessert was clearly not going to materialize, either. Thus, I had begun making my own birthday cake in a spirit that would rightly be called spite-baking. This was a fine way to occupy my time ... fine. A part of me wanted more misery, to be sure: Baking a cake is the opposite of jumping in a lake, in August, especially. It was not the best of times in my life.
The cake was two layers, a chocolate situation. I had every confidence that the cake would be great. After a traumatic childhood baking experience with a Mad Hatter’s Tea Cake from an “Alice in Wonderland” cookbook that I'd carried home from the library in a state of blissful innocence—the recipe proved complicated, calling for many eggs, and the cake emerged from the oven as an inedible low-lying sludge, having somehow anti-risen—I had eventually recovered, attaining with the dawn of adulthood a degree of baking competence. I could make my Aunt Edith’s dinner rolls; I could make cakes; I found that I could even make pie crust and had deployed this skill several times in the service of quiche.
My own birthday cake baked, as did I, in the hot apartment. Ding! Time to test with a toothpick: clean, done. I let it cool, as much as anything could. The top was going to be a bit bumpy, so I used a serrated knife to carefully level it. The resulting scraps of cake lying there presented themselves as a fine snack; they were not. It is difficult to describe the dryness. “Arid” would be one word; any flavor had baked out, and a sandlike texture had been achieved. I looked at my own birthday cake, and the two rounds looked back at me.
There was very clearly only one thing to do. I picked up one half of the would-be cake and heaved it out the open window. It landed with a muffled thud on the concrete one story below, in the back driveway of the apartment building. I defenestrated the other half of the cake in the same manner, to similar sound effect. I might have wept a few self-pitying birthday tears. Swimming never happened that day.
Not even raccoons would touch the cake. If anyone drove their car over either half of it, the impact did not show. There it sat, refusing to decompose, for several days, until I finally went out and dispiritedly moved both layers to the garbage can.
This was many years ago. The relationship did not last long, but the fear of baking persisted, even after I finally figured out that it was not my fault—the old Magic Chef’s thermostat had gone bad, and it was baking, madly, at approximately 100 degrees hotter than its setting. Meanwhile, I'd been blaming myself for making poor choices and for baking with a resentful heart, which had served to impede any real problem-solving. Live and learn! I got one of those thermometers that sits in the oven and tells you what’s really happening, loyal and true.
Still, today, when I bake, I stick with what’s very easy: my Aunt Edith’s dinner rolls, the version of no-knead bread that’s even easier than no-knead bread. I’m never going to make croissants; professional bakers do that with great skill, and then you pay them for one, and there is rejoicing. I’ve not gone back to pie crust; for quiche, there is Le Pichet, and for pie, there is Mom, and, again in both cases, rejoicing.
In terms of cake, I pretty much make only the following one. The recipe from Mollie Katzen upon which it is based is intended for children, so it’s in my comfort zone (and she is much better at kids’ recipes than whoever wrote the accursed “Alice in Wonderland” cookbook of my youth). You’re supposed to mix it right in the pan for even easier-ness, but I found that substantially more messy than washing a bowl. I’ve made a couple other changes, too (including candy!). On her website, Katzen says to children/me, “Go ahead and put it in the oven ... and say to yourself, ‘I believe.’ Because a real chocolate cake will come out of that oven, and you will feel like you just performed a miracle.”
Absurdly Easy, Very Good, Not Overly Large Chocolate Cake That Is Also Vegan Depending On The Candy You Deploy
It is worth it to get really good cocoa powder for this cake and for life in general—ChefShop sells the primo stuff here in Seattle and also online. Use any kind of candy you like: A toffee candy bar is nice, or leftover candy cane, or a chocolate bar, or a vegan chocolate bar (or sub chocolate or vegan chocolate chips, for that matter). A simple design for your cutout is best, but if it causes any anxiety, skip it, and just do powdered-sugar snow; it'll still look pretty. I find this cake serves about six.—Bethany Jean Clement- 1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
- 1 cup granulated sugar
- 1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder (get the good stuff!)
- 3/4 teaspoon baking soda
- 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
- 1 cup water
- 1/3 cup coconut oil (melted, if it is solid)
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
- 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar or white vinegar
- 3 tablespoons of your favorite candy bar or other candy of your choice—cut up, crumbled, or somewhat crushed into approximately chocolate-chip size
- Powdered/confectioners’ sugar for dusting
- A heavier paper cutout heart (or another design) that'll fit in your 8- or 9-inch pan
Preheat oven to 325 degrees F.
Whisk flour, sugar, cocoa, baking soda and salt together in a large bowl.
Add the rest of the stuff, except the candy, and stir until smooth.
Pour your cake batter into a 9-inch round cake pan (an 8-inch-square glass or metal baking dish works, too), using a spatula or big spoon to get it all, then to smooth the top of your imminent cake.
Sprinkle your candy across the top of the cake batter.
Bake on the middle rack of the oven until a toothpick stuck in the middle comes out mostly clean—some crumbs, but not wet/goopy—about 28 to 33 minutes.
Let cool for about 10 minutes, then hold a plate over the top of the pan and turn it over, so that the cake now exists on a plate. If the cake won’t come out, don’t worry—you can serve it in the pan—keep going!
Lay your paper heart or other design atop the cake, load up a couple tablespoons of powdered confectioners’ sugar into a sifter or fine-mesh sieve, and let it snow. Lift paper design off carefully. Serve with a feeling of accomplishment.
—Adapted from a recipe by Mollie Katzen from her book “Honest Pretzels”
