My sister's tale of apple cake mishap earlier this week, reminded me of my mother's apple cake. She often made it on a Friday, for the weekend (and it so happens that this recipe is followed by a short story, entitled Friday Cake).
My sister's mishap? Oh, should I tell? I did ask if it would be okay - and as she didn't say no... here goes. She decided to make use of the apples form their old apple tree by baking an apple cake. Nobody will eat the fruit, and the harvest is sparse, but an apple cake always goes down well. Almost always!
As she closed the oven door, she realised that she had forgotten to add baking powder, so she whipped it out a bit quick and stirred it in, then added more crushed sugar to the top (it makes a lovely, crunchy texture).
Some time later my sister and her husband, their daughter and her partner, sat down outside in the autumn air, ready to enjoy warm apple cake with cold whipped cream*. Her daughter took the first bite and almost gagged on the cake, spluttering something very uncomplimentary about the worst cake she'd ever eaten. My sister's jaw dropped and her eyes almost popped out as she watched her daughter spit her cake out. The realisation dawned, and she howled with laughter (as did the rest of them!). She had sprinkled the top of the cake liberally with - sea salt!
Her next effort was perfect.
*Whipped cream with desserts are as common in Norway as custard with apple pie over here.
My Mum’s Apple Cake
5 oz (125g) softened margarine
5 oz (125g) sugar
2 medium eggs
5 oz (125g) plain gluten free flour
5 oz (125g) corn flour
2 heaped tsp gluten free baking powder
½ tsp vanilla sugar
1 tbsp semi skimmed milk
I large or two medium dessert apples, cored, quartered and sliced
Sugar and cinnamon for sprinkling on apples
Cream sugar and margarine together, add a little of the flour, then mix in the eggs and milk. Mix all the dry ingredients together and add to mixture. You may have to get you hands in there to knead it lightly together – or I’d better re-phrase that – you will have to get your hands into the dough.
Turn into a greased and lightly floured 8” (20cm) loose bottomed sandwich tin,
(2” (5cm) deep, pushing down into tin using your fingers (I have to use my knuckles). Arrange apple slices around tin (see photo), then sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon.
Put on the middle shelf in a cold oven, then set to 180C (fan oven) and cook for one hour. If you stick a knife into the middle to test it, it should come out clean, showing that the cake is ready.
Cool, then run a knife around the edge to loosen it before removing from tin.
(If you don’t have to worry about wheat or gluten, use ordinary plain flour and omit the milk.)
*
Tip: I used ‘Fiddes Payne’ Vanilla Sugar (www.fiddespayne.co.uk), but you can easily make your own by steeping a few vanilla pods in icing sugar for a few days, then sift the sugar and store in an airtight jar.
Did you know that vanilla is made from the pods of a climbing orchid? The Aztecs used it to flavour chocolate. And we still use it.
*
SHORT STORY
Friday Cake
(Set at the turn of the 20th century)
‘Mam?’
Freddie’s mother nodded. ‘Mind your step, son.’
Freddie knew to be careful. It wasn’t the actual getting caught that worried him, but bringing shame on his mother. Despite their reduced circumstances since the death of Freddie’s father, his mother was a proud woman - and as independent as she could possibly be.
‘We do not need alms, Freddie!’ She was sure the Good Lord didn’t mind Freddie bringing home a few liberated vegetables, a bucket of coal gleaned from the so-called exhausted open-cast, and a few apples when in season, all the same. She wasn’t so sure about the landlord, though - but didn’t all young boys go scrumping now and then? At least Freddie never took more than they needed.
She couldn’t complain about the landlord, if truth be told. He had allowed them to stay on when Albert was taken ill and died - as long as Freddie took his place on the farm. There weren’t any ifs or buts. The day Freddie’s father died was the last day of school for Freddie, although his two sisters were allowed to continue. He had become the man of the house, at the tender age of thirteen, and he had to work for their meagre living.
Cutting hay was thirsty work. The landlord’s wife brought flagons of cider and the farm workers’ wives brought lunch in baskets. Freddie was the only young one and was allowed home for a bite to eat and drink. His mother didn’t like him drinking cider.
He made a quick detour by the landlord’s orchard, hiding in the shadows. Four apples he needed, and four apples he took. He had them safely under his cap quicker than the blink of an eye and was home and through the door just as his mother ladled up his broth. He slipped the apples into the larder. ‘What the eye doesn’t see…’
Freddie had a good rhythm going with the scythe and felt good as swathes of golden grass yielded to the sharp blade. He had nothing on his mind, other than what he was doing at that moment, when the landlord placed his hand on his shoulder, making him jump. Had he been seen?
‘I’ll be around this evening, young Freddie, for my Friday cake.’
Freddie smiled and nodded. ‘Yes sir!’ As long as all his mother had to do for the landlord was make a cake, he was happy.
They were sitting down to supper when the landlord called. ‘Don’t let me disturb you, but may I?’ He cut a slice off one of the cakes cooling on the rack, knowing that one was meant for him. ‘Mmm. Very good, Mrs Evans. Even better than usual.’ He nodded to himself, savouring another bite as Freddie’s mother busied herself wrapping the rest of the cake in a clean cloth, her cheeks a little pinker than usual. The landlord stopped by the door, as if to say something, but seemed to think better of it.
‘Thank you, Mrs Evans. I’m much obliged.’ With a nod he was gone.
‘Freddie, that was the wrong cake!’ His mother sounded close to tears. ‘He took the apple cake, instead of the plain one. He’ll know where we got the apples from. We’re in trouble now, for sure.’
They didn’t sleep well that night, expecting the worst, and neither Freddie nor his mother had the appetite for anything the next morning. The girls were their usual selves, glad of a day free of books and Miss Brown.
‘Can we pick flowers, mama?’
‘Eggs first, girls.’ They had three layers left, still providing them with their needs. Just.
Freddie’s sisters raced one another for the door and almost stumbled over the basket on the door step. ‘Mama!’ They hauled he basket into the kitchen. ‘Look, mama, apples! Can we have one?’
Freddie’s mother handed him a note. ‘What does it say, Freddie?’
Freddie read with a smile on his face. ‘It’s from the landlord, mam. He says that from now on you can make apple cake every week, both for him and us.’ He laughed. ‘I think there are enough there for the girls to have one each, don’t you?’
***
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