It's no Angel

I am certain Angel Food Cake served in any smart town-house on the Eastern Seaboard, no let's narrow it down to the genteel cafes of North Carolina, does NOT come out like this: Further south the ladies of Maycomb county would hide this disgrace in the cleft of an oak rather than send it round to Boo Radley.

Marshmallowy. A stench of sugar on the burn-turn and the leathery yet oozing and sticky surface of Jabba the Hutt. What went wrong? Does anyone know? There must be a perfect alchemic formula, a golden proportion of egg white, sugar and flour. And then of course there is the final piece of the perfect cake puzzle: Know Thine Oven Like The Back Of Thine Hand. I am between ovens at present, waiting for a new one to be fitted. I used my Mother-in-Law's fan-forced electric. Only I now know it to be a fan-fettered electric. My Mother-in-Law likes to cover fans with tin foil; the one in her oven, the top of the outside air-con unit. Dunno why. Maybe she got spooked by Angelheart.

However, never wishing to miss an opportunity to experiment I filled the two layers with what I fancy is a butterscotch pastry cream: Butter and raw sugar cooked together for some minutes and finished off the heat with milk and cream. Back on the heat with cornflour stirred through until it is cohesive and set.

My word, it is delicious. Not pretty or easy to serve. Delicious.

Hmm..... trial and error is the only way to learn. I shall pursue my quest for the right recipe and right method (and very likely right mood) for this American Classic. Watch this space.

Now American Chocolate Fudge Brownies, the type that Alicia Keys' PA vetoed, now those I CAN DO.