My two grandmothers could not have been more different. One had a German mother so she was very precise. Consequently, she was an exceptional baker. My other grandmother had a Russian mother and is the opposite of precise, whatever you call that, so not a great baker but an amazing cook. I guess I learned the precision thing because my Russian grandmother finds cooking or baking with me “exhausting.”
So it has come to my attention that not everyone likes a dense chocolate cake. Who knew? Being a die hard chocolate addict myself I assumed everyone liked chocolate cake like the one I made last year. I called it “The Best Chocolate Cake Ever” because, in my chocolate loving mind, it is. You see, to me, and fortunately to my husband, a truly good chocolate cake is so rich and dense and chocolaty that it stops just short of being a brownie.
Growing up ice cream was paramount in our household. It was always in the freezer and we ate it everyday, year round. It was not merely a summer treat to us. My father’s idea of a bowl of ice cream consisted of three healthy scoops, not marbles as he referred to stingy dips. Now an ice cream parlor just opened near me claiming they have Philly-sized scoops. I don’t know what Philly-sized scoops are (they would be just scoops to us), but I’m guessing they are large since my family’s idea of a bowl of ice cream is about 5 or 6 times what a serving of gelato in Italy would be.
“Oh I’d love someone to make a gluten-free angel food cake!” my friend squealed. “Oh and you can use it for trifle,” she added. At this point I should mention she went to college in the South where apparently trifle is common. This comes as no shock to me. I have always wondered who ate trifle. It looks so good in photos but I have never been served one. Why do I see so many recipes for a dessert no one eats (though they clearly should)? So mystery solved. It is southern. That makes sense since let’s face it, everything good seems to come from the South. Two words: Fried chicken.
So I’ve never in my life had a real s’more. I believe it requires you to actually go camping. Apparently roasting marshmallows with the fire from your gas burner isn’t s’more-worthy. So the cat’s out of the bag, I’ve never been camping either. While I find the romance of camping tempting (sleeping under the stars, becoming one with nature, etc.), I fear the reality (bugs, wild animals, did I mention bugs?) would make me absolutely miserable.
