A Very Fancy Sort of Torte

Once a year I channel Martha Stewart and make a seven-layer Hungarian dobos torte, my one and only culinary endeavor with a true "wow" factor. Martha Stewart's Baking Handbook has an elaborate dobos torte recipe, but I prefer the recipe from my Hungarian friend Laura, a partner at my former law firm in D.C. If you can stand one more reference to my vintage 1930s regional cookbook, I'll tell you that an almost identical recipe appears in the "Wisconsin Dutch" section. So, you might say that this recipe has withstood the test of time--or at least 70 years.

Frosting:

1. Melt 9 oz. of chocolate (I use a 2 and 1/4 giant Hershey's bars). Cool to room temp.

2. Whisk 9 egg yolks and 3/4 cup sugar over a low burner for 15 minutes until the mixture becomes a thick custard. Stir constantly, and make the sure the mixture is smooth (if you cook too long or don't stir enough, the eggs can get chunky). Cool to room temp.

3. Blend 3/4 pound of butter until light and creamy.

4. Add the cooled custard mixture into the butter, then add the cooled chocolate. Beat well.

Cake layers:

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

2. Beat 6 eggs and 3/4 cup sugar until very thick, almost like beaten egg whites.

3. Fold in 1 cup + 2 Tbsp. flour and a pinch of salt.

4. Turn two 8- or 9-inch round cake pans upside down and butter and flour the outside bottoms. Using a small gravy ladle, spread a thin layer of batter on the outside bottoms of the pans. The layers should be thin; not like pancakes. (I put both cake pans on a cookie sheet to catch any batter that runs over.)

5. Bake about 7 minutes or until firm to touch.

6. Loosen and remove the layers from the pans and cool on a wire rack. Make 7 layers.

Assembly:

Place a cake layer on a plate and spread frosting (not too thickly) on the layer. Cover with another layer and repeat. Spread the remaining frosting on the tops and sides of the torte.

Daily Inspiration

The Colorado-based Six-Button Cowgirl, a litigator by trade, often employs her advanced trial advocacy skills and persuasion tactics to convince the Wrangler and me to relocate to her neck of the woods. She recently sent me a daily reminder of the appeal of the Centennial State--a calendar of Colorado ranches. She's crafty, that one.

Farm Mentality

My dad was raised on a farm, and I think the "stocking up" concept stuck with him. While growing up in his household, I suffered not for any lack of canned goods. In particular, we never, ever, ran out of baked beans. I can guarantee you that, as I write this, my dear dad has at least eight cans of baked beans in his pantry.

Some of us may resist it, some of us may embrace it, but there's no denying the fact that we become more like our parents with each passing year. Their quirks become our quirks but manifest themselves slightly differently. This was very clear today when I returned home from the grocery store and attempted to put away a new box of powdered sugar...but couldn't find any room for it among the eight other boxes. Doh!

Make Lefse, Not War

In my blog post on Food Anthropology earlier this month, I'd commented that the lefse recipe was the only recognizable recipe in a collection of Minnesota Scandinavian recipes from the 1930s. We made lefse over Christmas and, although I can't think of any apparent connection between lefse and cowgirls, it's an interesting tradition that we'll keep alive on the ranch. Much like bread-making, lefse-making is a cozy and communal activity that produces something simple but comforting. The potatoes are cooked, riced, and transformed into dough. A small handful of dough is rolled on a pastry board to form a very thin plate-sized sheet, which is transferred with a special lefse stick onto a round lefse griddle. The tortilla-like sheets are cooled between layers of dishtowels. Before eating a piece, we butter it, sprinkle it with brown sugar and cinnamon, and roll it tightly. Mmmm.

A Cowgirl Christmas

For the third year in a row, I spent Christmas in Colorado. There is nothing like a white Christmas, and Denver did not disappoint. The weather was moderate for the most part, but we did get a nice snowstorm a couple days before Christmas.

Amid the fun of just hanging out and catching up with the family, we squeezed in a quick trip to the famous Rockmount Ranch Wear store in downtown Denver. Rockmount was founded by Jack A. Weil (1901-2008), who introduced the first commercially-made western shirts with snaps and bolo ties. I scored a snappy pair of red lizard skin Corral boots for the Houston rodeo.

Food Anthropology

Last weekend I was browsing in an antique shop--the fun kind that is like a big yard sale--and I found two great vintage cookbooks. I collect old, interesting books, but I'm not looking for first editions or treasures that must be kept under glass (although, I wouldn't mind a few). The Betty Crocker Cookbook is from 1969 and in beautiful condition. My mom had this book while I was growing up, and many of her recipes come from it: bread, cinnamon rolls, popovers, lasagna, pie crust. The pictures brought back so many memories. It almost is a shame that the book is in such good condition because my mom's book is splattered, tattered, torn, and worn. Some of the recipes are a bit dated, but for a book that is 40 years old, it's pretty impressive that most of the recipes have remained relevant.

The other cookbook I found is the United States Regional Cookbook, Prudence Penny Edition, from 1939. This one is so much fun. The recipes are divided according to region, and one section is "Minnesota Scandinavian: Fine Old Recipes." I may attempt to cook an old-fashioned Scandinavian meal, circa 1939, for my Norwegian husband. I can start with a nice bowl of filbunke (sour milk soup) and a platter of fisk bollers, move on to the main event, gos med dill sas (baked pike fish with dill sauce), and end with some sweet Norske kroners. It appears that the melting pot was too hot in Minnesota--70 years after the publication of this cookbook, there are traces of Scandinavian influences in Minnesotan cuisine (herring, fish, dill, and meatballs), but only the lefse recipe looks familiar. 

No Turning Back on My Alpacas

I know it's starting to seem as if the Rainy Day Ranch has an Animal of the Week (and it all began with the urban chickens), but this just proves the point that I really need a real ranch or farm ASAP. So many animals, so little...land. Because now, in addition to those crazy chickens, silly pygmy goats, and cute-as-buttons baby doll sheep, alpacas have wormed their way into my heart.

Alpacas are similar to but much smaller than llamas and are kept for their fiber. Alpaca hair is plentiful and soft and makes wonderful woven material for sweaters and blankets. Alpacas are not cheap--they cost anywhere from a couple thousand to many, many thousands of dollars. I've seen quite a few in the $30,000 to $40,000 range. Hmm--new car or one alpaca? It is obviously going to be a tough choice.

Or is it? I've been looking into alpaca farms and found the Stargazer Ranch in Loveland, Colorado. Stargazer hosts an NBA ("Nothing But Alpacas") Weekend at the Ranch. The weekend includes 16 hours of workshops on the alpaca industry, practical topics (fencing, animal care), and marketing. The Stargazer brochure boasts that, by the end of the weekend, "it will be easy to see why so many families have traded their curb and gutter for irrigation ditches." The brochure asks whether it is likely that my stock portfolio will increase by 100% in the next year. Uh, that would be a "no." Well, then, urges the brochure, I should "consider the compounding advantages of breeding livestock." Will do! The brochure also asks if I'm interested in tax saving opportunities, to which I answer a resounding "yes!" During the NBA weekend, I will learn about the "extensive tax incentives for owners of breeding livestock." Okay, I am sold on alpacas already.

Haycations

December is shaping up to be the busiest month of the year--by far--at the office, which has left this urban cowgirl longing for her ranch. Luckily, I have my Six-Button Cowgirls to keep me looking ahead to brighter days and greener pastures. Literally. We have a number of ideas for 2010:

March in Houston is synonymous with the Livestock Show and Rodeo, which is a month-long extravaganza of all things Texan. I'm thinking BBQ contests, livestock auctions, calf scrambles, concerts, chuck wagon races, bull riding, and steer wrestling (as a spectator, not a participant!). Or we could pay a visit to the 660-acre Coach Farm in upstate New York next summer. Thanks to the farm's 900 Alpine French dairy goats, the farm produces fresh and aged artisan cheese that is sold in upscale restaurants and specialty shops in New York City. Miles and Lillian Cahn, the founders of the famous Coach line of leather handbags, initially purchased the farm as a weekend getaway. It eventually became clear that they needed to choose whether to spend their time running the handbag business or running the farm. They chose to run the farm.

I've also been thinking that I'm overdue for a visit to my dad's family farm in southern Minnesota. But as it currently is a balmy 5 degrees below zero in those parts, I can wait until spring.

Planning Ahead

Next May the Redrock Farm in Chelsea, Vermont will plant a Fraser fir for me and care for it until it is ready to harvest. Twice a year I'll receive pictures of it with a yardstick so I can track its progress. For now, this seems like a reasonable alternative to starting my own New England Christmas tree farm. I can rest assured that I'll have my Fraser fir for Christmas 2022. And you can rest assured that this is my last post on Christmas trees for a while.

Tree-mendous

My Grand fir was harvested and unceremoniously FedExed to the Rainy Day Ranch last Monday.
The Wrangler cut an inch off the stump (we will glue our annual family Christmas card photo onto the stump ring, glaze with shallac, and use as an ornament--pretty crafty, yes?) and placed the tree into the stand within minutes of the tree's arrival.
As I snipped the last length of twine that bound the branches, the tree regained its dignity with a "whoosh" and instantly quadrupled in width. This was in stark contrast to the frozen trees of years past that took a day or two to settle in.

My dear tree is extremely fragrant--the smell is so intense that it can be difficult to sleep or concentrate. But the Wrangler and I discuss this only in whispers and are careful to be very discreet if opening a window here and there to let in some fresh air. The tree is giving us its best, and we wouldn't want to discourage it.