La carne es fácil...
(y piedra el que no sea culpable)
Sálense y pimiéntense sus piezas de pollo favoritas, con todo y piel.
Colóquense en sartén a medio fuego durante una buena docena de minutos por cada lado, o hasta que la piel esté a dos segundos de convertirse en chicharrón.
Retírense del fuego.
Emplátense, vístanse de púrpura, gócense.
... vestirla de cardenal, también
Comiéncese la confección del traje cardenalicio dos días antes del banquete.
Rállense dos zanahorias y dos tallos de apio.
Juliánese media col morada.
Lávese y séquese un frasco de vidrio.
Colóquese el apio en el frasco; rocíesele sal marina y vinagre blanco.
Colóquese la zanahoria y rocíesele lo mismo.
Colóquese la col, rocíesele lo mismo más el jugo de un limón.
Termínese de llenar el frasco con agua.
Ciérrese y olvídese en el refrigerador por 48 horas.
Úsese para vestir las carnes fáciles.
I’m one of those girls who didn’t start appreciating the delicacies of wine and spirits until my late twenties. Was it lack of curiosity, not finding interesting at all the “we’re teenagers, let’s get plastered for the sake of it” hype, the tiniest bit of prudery –or prudence–, all of the above? No idea. I guess I just was fulfilling my spirit’s monthly quota with something other than cheap party beer: I always liked all kinds of alcohols in my food, ever since I was a little child. Christmas fruit cake, beef stew with wine, pork marinated in beer, borrachitos poblanos, coq-au-vin, onion soup, hot chocolate with a dash of mint liquor, even those tasty sugar pills infused with alcohol and mysterious medicinal extracts that came with my family’s homeopathic doctor prescriptions, you name it.
As soon I was old enough to safely handle fire, pans and knives by myself, I started asking my mother for bottles of cheap wine to start experimenting with what I’d already classified as cocina ebria, “drunk food”. And so were born the “drunk cow” (my take on the boeuf bourgignon) and “drunk chicken” (coq-au-vin with apples and mushrooms). More on those two on my next posts.
Today’s drunk food, the first on a hopefully long series, will be one of the sweet and chocolate-y all-time classics of my kitchen: I’m writing this post to join a Sugar High Friday hosted by David Lebovitz, a Paris-based chocolate lover and blogger. Go take a look at his entries, you’ll surely have fun.
And, without further ado, let me introduce you to the sickeningly easy and sweet world of the Chocolate & Rompope Drunk Cake. It has been praised in this blog before (here and here, in Spanish), but its recipe has been kept secret. Until now.
The Chocolate + Rompope drunk cake combines the very alcoholic sweetness of rompope (an eggnog-like Mexican drink) with the bitterness of cocoa. And LOTS of eggs.
This recipe has a rather forgiving personality (as some drunks do); you can tweak the quantities, substitute the ingredients or change the baking time, and you’ll still end up with a tasty cake. There’s one particular ingredient, however, that cannot be changed without significantly altering the balance of flavors: you must use unsweetened cocoa. Mine has always been Hershey’s cocoa: there was an old can lying around in my mother’s pantry fifteen years ago, when I started to bake this particular cake, and I’ve been using this brand since. It’s widely available in Mexican supermarkets –which is very convenient– and I just can’t find any other cocoa that’ll work with this recipe, even if I’m not a fan of Hershey’s chocolate bars; I strongly dislike their artificial vanilla flavoring. Go figure.
You start by preheating your oven to 180 degrees Celsius.
Then you go gather the ingredients:
1 1/2 cup all-purpose flour 1 cup sugar 3 tsp baking powder 3 tbsp Hershey’s unsweetened cocoa 4 eggs 1/2 cup rompope 1/2 cup milk 1 cup unsalted butter, melted –bless the microwave
Throw them all in your mixer, blender, Kenmore-thingy, or whatever machine you have available. Sift the dry ingredients first, if you feel like it. Or not. It really doesn’t make that much of a difference. (See? A forgiving drunk!)
Of course, if you’d rather enjoy some elbow-grease fun –as I usually do– you can grab your bowl and mix your batter with a large fork or spatula, adding the ingredients in the same order they’re listed here.
One way or another you’ll end up with a nice and shiny batter (and believe me, with all that butter, it does shine). Pour it in a square pan (about 25x25 cm), or a couple of loaf pans properly greased and dusted. Bake it (or them) for about 30-40 minutes; use the the dry-toothpick method to tell you when they’re done.
Take the pan out of the oven, let it cool for 15 minutes before your impatience gets the best of you and makes you cut a slice and start eating it; then make a solemn vow to yourself and repeat several times “I shall not eat any more slices today”. Remember that, like all drunk foods, this cake tastes a lot better if you do let it rest for an entire day; all the rompope’s alcohol will soak in properly. Then eat some more slices with cold milk. Re-vow. Eat some more. At some point, you’ll go to sleep and the cake (or at least, a few slices) will be there next morning, ready to be enjoyed in all their alcoholic greatness.
Oh, and if you substitute the rompope and use eggnog, please let me know how it comes out.
Ustedes disculparán, pero he estado resolviendo unos asuntos freudianos con uno de mis obsequios decembrinos.
Veuillez m'excuser, mais j'ai passé mon temps à resoudre des affaires genre Freud à l'aide de l'un des cadeaux de cette saison.
Do excuse my recent absence: I've been solving a few Freudian issues by manouvering my most favorite present.
El tamaño sí importa. El mío es de doce pulgadotas. ¿Y el tuyo?
La taille est importante, bien sûr. J'en ai un à 12 pouces. Le tien, c'est comment ?
Size does matter, my friend. Mine is 12 inches long. How about yours?
Con tamaño cuchillote, cualquier envidia freudiana ha sido debidamente transferida al acero.
Vu la taille de la lame, finie la convoitise freudienne dans ma psyche.
No more Freudian envy issues for me.
