Genoise cake and the pursuit of perfection

I started making Genoise cakes when I was in high school. I had one recipe in one book. I didn’t have a baker’s scale or an instant read thermometer. Such tools are now commonly found in the kitchens of amateur bakers. At the time, we didn’t know what we were missing.

Instead of precision, I had practice. My intuition developed with each attempt at scooping and filling a measuring cup, with each double boiler of eggs and sugar. I stirred with my hand so that I didn’t overcook the mixture. My fingers learned when to turn off the burner. I can still feel the dissolving sugar and slightly thickening eggs, the heat of the bottom of the pan, even though now I use a thermometer and therefor use a whisk.

When you’re making a Genoise, one of the most efficient and spectacular ways to make a disaster is to let this mixture get too hot. I did this once, and only on the edge of the pan, and from then on, my fingers knew something, knew what just too far past 149 degrees felt like. I wasn’t making sweet scrambled eggs. I was making the dry, ethereal masterpiece that is a 2 plus inch Genoise.

Many aspects of the Genoise Cake experience remain the same: the fear of some element of the alchemy going awry is not eliminated by the new tools. My very worst Genoise came into its disappointing existence not long ago. I was possessed of a desire to try a different method of combining the whipped eggs and sugar, the flour (and cornstarch—I’m a proponent, 8 grams, maybe?), and the butter (How much can you get away with? How much do you even want to get away with?). The cookbook author was so enthusiastic about Genoise, and he directed that the butter be added directly to the whipped eggs and sugar, all at once, before the flour. I’m sure this method has worked for some people before, but it will never work for me because there is no way that I will volunteer to risk having to watch the massive deflation that took place as the butter went in.

Knowing that such a disaster is always possible is half of what makes this cake so appealing. Usually, though—fortunately—the disaster is simply a sinking middle during cooling that results in a still tasty cake than can be easily split in two layers.

The unique quality of a successful Genoise is the other half. What a cake! It is not moist but, equally, it is not dry. It absorbs soaking solutions and syrups while maintaining its integrity. It’s not too rich or too sweet to be eaten daily, plain with coffee or tea. It is delicious with jam, if you must. The fact that its detractors characterize it as dry, bland, and boring simply adds to the appeal.

I just took a lemon Genoise out of the oven, and it sank a bit in the middle, and it will be delicious anyway. I’m disappointed but resolved to enjoy it fully and try again another day. I’m honest enough to admit that if I could get it to work every time, I would make far fewer Genoise cakes.

I Made Two Rose Barrettes

Last week was Valentine’s Day, and I made each of my kids a ribbon rose barrette. I am not particularly good at sewing, but I know from experience that hot glue does not really work for this project. Besides, I’m not very good at hot glue either. So I got out my sewing kit and ribbon, told my kids I was working on a surprise, and asked them not to look. 

They did surprisingly well, even coming up to me multiple times to share stories, ask for things that were out of reach, and to seek conflict resolution support from me (which sounds quieter than it is), all while studiously ignoring what I was doing. I did not have quiet, uninterrupted time in which to focus on my ribbon rose project. I didn’t have time to re-do anything. If my thread snagged a corner of ribbon in the wrong place, and of course it did, I had to incorporate that particular unintended curl into my rose. If the medium-quality ribbon I had on hand pulled a bit creating a hole in the ribbon (because I am not good at sewing or because someone bumped my arm) as I attached it to the barrette, I had to add a few stitches. 

I like to do things well, but that’s not always practical. I asked myself why I was making these ribbon rose barrettes, when I could go buy something cheaper and / or better, maybe both. By the second rose, I was improving. Just think how much better they would be if I made a dozen. 

The two roses I had time to make are sweet, nevertheless, and the kids were delighted to see them on Valentine’s Day. Of course they were more delighted by the chocolate and the gummy hearts.

When a friend complimented me on them, I said, “Thanks, they’re adorable, but don’t look at the back. My sewing skills are terrible!” She didn’t reply with the obvious, “Oh, no one will look at the back.” She said something equally true and much more interesting: “The point is that you’re their mother and you took the time.” 

Taking the time to make is special, not less so at a time and place where anything can be ordered from Amazon for almost instant delivery, and anything not on Amazon is on Etsy. It is still valuable to make something, to pull the needle through the ribbon, to incorporate the accidental snag into the pattern of a uniquely imperfect rose.