First and foremost, today I'd like to wish my wonderful husband, Steve, the BIGGEST and BEST birthday ever! On Sunday, we threw him a fun-filled surprise party, complete with friends, family, eats, and sweets. Happy Birthday, Honey!
It's lucky that we had the party when we did, because here I am, two days later, stuck in bed with an awful cold. After spending the past thirty hours either sleeping or watching movies on Lifetime, I dragged myself downstairs and attempted to salvage part of the day by blogging.
So here we go--this is how I finally got around to writing about a heritage recipe for Tomato Sauce Cake belonging to my Grandma T. As a child, I grew up identifying my grandmother with many warm, joyful things: the aged, pea green futon I'd take naps on at her house in the afternoon, the thrill of watching her soybean plants clamber toward the sky, the unbeatable taste of a lunch made up of chicken noodle soup and saloon pilots with guava jelly for dessert. If there is one thing I learned from my grandma, it's the philosophy of simple goodness: that the best things in life are the little things, and that a recipe need not be frou-frou to make an impact.
That's where the Tomato Sauce Cake comes into play. Sweet, moist, and with a tender crumb, this cake imparts a delicious--albeit puzzling--flavor. Resting amongst the branches of pumpkin, spice, and carrot cakes in the baking family tree, it's no wonder that Tomato Sauce Cake is sometimes referred to as "Mystery Cake," according to the good folks at www.foodtimeline.org.
When I first discussed the recipe with my friend Frannie, she mentioned that it seemed like an old Depression-era recipe, the kind of thing home bakers would make when chocolate and cream were luxuries. The idea made sense. Grandma's recipe lists very basic ingredients, things that most housewives of her generation would keep on hand. There are no nuts, raisins, or coconut flakes to dress it up. While other similar recipes call for a can of tomato soup, my grandmother's calls for watered-down tomato sauce. Although I imagine this cake would be terrific when topped with cream cheese frosting, all I gave it was a slight dusting of powdered sugar, because Grandma didn't include a frosting recipe. Come to think of it, most of my grandmother's cakes don't have frosting.
Here's the recipe. It just lists the ingredients necessary, as well as the baking time and temperature. In conducting previous cookery research, I've discovered that many old-time recipes (we're talking colonial America here) didn't include detailed instructions for preparing dishes because it was assumed (due to traditional gender and family roles) that the reader was skilled enough to know most prep techniques and to understand the implications of a recipe. I'm guessing the concept is similar with Tomato Sauce Cake--perhaps my grandmother jotted down the recipe from a friend or neighbor, simply writing down the ingredients because the order and method of preparation were inherent to her. Whatever the reason, she deserves to be thanked for this recipe and for teaching me the value of sweet simplicity. Thanks, Grandma!!
Tomato Sauce Cake
1 C margarine or butter
2 C sugar
4 eggs
1 8-oz. can tomato sauce blended with 3/4 C water
3 C flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 T baking powder
3/4 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. cloves
Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes.
So how did I sink my sweet tooth into this fanciful, half-cookie, half-cake, you ask? It all started when I was talking to my mom about the different desserts we bake fresh at T.O.P.S, and she suggested creating a "signature" dessert for which our restaurant could become known. Before I could say "Jumping Jellybeans!" Mom was mailing me all manner of sweet inspiration, both from local newspaper clippings and her own recipe collection.
A few weeks later, I stumbled upon the lovely Italian Rainbow Cookie Cake on one of my new favorite blogs, Always Order Dessert. I was intrigued to learn that the blog's author, Alejandra Ramos, got her foot in the door of the baking business by selling dozens of these extraordinary cakes. My curiosity was piqued; this kind of stuff just had to be good.
To tell you the truth, I was nervous about baking Rainbow Cookies. With all of the beautiful examples that had come before me, I had a lot to live up to. In between all of the mixing, melting, freezing, stacking, pressing, and my lone 9"x13" pan, I was also looking at an all-day baking project. And most of all, Steve, my primary taste tester, isn't much of a marzipan or almond extract person, so I wasn't sure he'd go wild for them. In the end, however, the cookies baked up splendidly and I had a blast! The cookies were dense and moist, with a slightly spongy texture and nice, even layers. Although I don't see myself making these glittery little gems on a regular basis, they might reappear in my kitchen over the holidays. As they say in the cooking world, it was love at first bite.
Cream butter and sugar until fluffy in electric beater. Beat in eggs and flavoring. Add half the sifted dry ingredients, and mix well. Add water to mixture, together with remaining flour. Knead slightly. Pinch off pieces of dough and roll into pencil-thin strips, about 6 inches long, fold in half and twist into a rope. Place 1 inch apart on ungreased cookie sheets. Brush with beaten egg, and sprinkle with sesame seeds. Bake in moderate oven (350 degrees) about 15 minutes, or until lightly browned. Makes about 7 dozen.
Things I loved about this recipe:
