Chocolate Moist Cake Quotes

And when all of the flourless chocolate cakes & chocolate mousse or ganache cakes have come and gone, there will still be nothing like a fudgy brownie, dry & crackled on top, moist & dense within, with a glass of cold milk.

When you finish a negative sentence, it grows immediately into a paragraph, and then into a thesis, into so many words that grab your ankles and hold you in place. When a negative thought comes into your mind, you have to literally say out loud, “I have no time now.” People will look at you strangely, but you have to just keep saying it until it lodges in your mind. Release the negative thought before you put a period on the end of it. If you put a period on the end of it, you’re in the morass. On the other hand, if you don’t finish the negative thought, you can get it out of your brain by replacing it with a positive. What kind of positive? What I always say in my talks is that it is a moist chocolate Bundt cake with soft chocolate chips. No frosting.

Stirring the pastry cream and putting it in the blast chiller in the island, a total chefly indulgence that I have never once regretted. The house filling with the scent of rich, dark chocolate as the cakes rise in the oven. The treat of the moist trimmings as I even up the layers before spreading the thick custard filling between them. The fudgy frosting smoothed perfectly over the whole thing, and then immediately marred with chocolate cookie crumbs.

Caroline made a steamed fig pudding with brandy hard sauce. Hedy and Jacob brought a platter of dense, moist gingerbread squares studded with chunks of candied ginger and frosted with a lemon cream cheese icing. John and Marie brought a flourless chocolate souffle cake filled with chocolate mousse, glazed with chocolate ganache and decorated with white chocolate swirls. Jag and Nageena brought a really interesting dessert called halwa that is made with carrots. And I brought Gemma's shortbread.

Tell me about your relationship with food." How can I tell her anything she'd understand? Has she ever eaten a pan of brownies in one sitting? A half dozen salad-bar baked potatoes? A baker's dozen? What is it about slippery-sweet ice cream, about half-melted chocolate chips or moist homemade birthday cake, juicy steak seared on the grill, creamy potato salad, watermelon freshly cut and dripping with juice?

You just happen to be our ten thousandth customer," I lied, "and this is our special thank-you." I slid the bakery box across the counter to him. "Hmmmmm. Usually, I prefer to be number one, but I guess I can make an exception this time." He grinned. "What's in here?" He snapped the red-and-white -striped string on the white bakery box and opened the lid. A little greedy, too, I thought. Wanted to enjoy life now. He downed the cupcake in two bites- all moist devil's food with a dark truffle center, spread with a white-chocolate-and-coffee frosting I made with confectioner's sugar, the easy kind of buttercream. He grabbed a napkin to wipe the crumbs from his lips. "That was some cupcake, Cupcake." And I knew I had gotten him right. Strong, dark, and handsome chocolate truffle- that masculine "shoulder to lean on" fix that women loved. Risk-taking devil's food. Gregarious white chocolate, because it's boring alone, but good with almost any other ingredient. And take-charge coffee.

I pick up my teaspoon and take a small bite, and am transported. The cake is nutty and moist, the cream with the barest hint of rum, the dark chocolate ganache smooth and silky with just enough bitterness, the apricot bringing that perfect amount of tart brightness, cutting through the rich flavors, and making the whole thing sing in the mouth. It is perfectly balanced and absolutely amazing, and I'm mentally making notes to see if I can replicate it.

As I did, there, in perfect condition, to be admired by five sets of wondering eyes, was an enormous, glistening, moist, chocolate cake.

Oh, sweet mother of fuckers. I almost wept at the taste. It was the nirvana of chocolate, the perfect sweetness, the perfect moistness, the perfect richness, and then to reward the eater further, the cake was shot through with raspberry. Literally the best pairing in the world.

Nesta ate until she couldn't fit another morsel into her body, helping herself to thirds of the soup. The House seemed more than happy to oblige her, and had even offered her a slice of double-chocolate cake to finish. 'Is this Cassian-approved?' She picked up the fork and smiled at the moist, gleaming cake. 'It certainly isn't,' he said from the doorway, and Nesta whirled, scowling. He nodded toward the cake. 'But eat up.' She put down the fork. 'What do you want?' Cassian surveyed the family library. 'Why are you eating in here?' 'Isn't it obvious?' His grin was a slash of white. 'The only thing that's obvious is that you're talking to yourself.' 'I'm talking to the House. Which is a considerable step up from talking to you.' 'It doesn't talk back.' 'Exactly.' He snorted. 'I walked into that one.' He stalked across the room, eyeing the cake she still didn't touch. 'Are you really... talking to the House?' 'Don't you talk to it?' 'No.' 'It listens to me,' she insisted. 'Of course it does. It's enchanted.' 'It even brought food down to the library unasked.' His brows rose. 'Why?' 'I don't know how your faerie magic works.' 'Did you... do anything to make it act that way?' 'If you're taking a page from Devlon's book and asking if I did any witchcraft, the answer is no.' Cassian chuckled. 'That's not what I meant, but fine. The House likes you. Congratulations.' She growled, and he leaned over to pick up the fork. She went stiff at his closeness, but he said nothing as he took a bite of the cake. He let out a hum of pleasure that traveled along her bones. And then took another bite. 'That's supposed to be mine,' she groused, peering up at him as he continued to eat. 'Then take it from me,' he said.

Pariva was a small village, unimportant enough that it rarely appeared on any maps of Esperia. Bordered by mountains and sea, it seemed untouched by time. The school looked the same as she remembered; so did the market and Mangia Road---a block of eating establishments that included the locally famous Belmagio bakery---and cypress and laurel and pine trees still surrounded the local square, where the villagers came out to gossip or play chess or even sing together. Had it really been forty years since she had returned? It seemed like only yesterday that she'd strolled down Pariva's narrow streets, carrying a sack of pine nuts to her parents' bakery or stopping by the docks to watch the fishing boats sail across the glittering sea. Back then, she'd been a daughter, a sister, a friend. A mere slip of a young woman. Home had been a humble two-storied house on Constanza Street, with a door as yellow as daffodils and cobblestoned stairs that led into a small courtyard in the back. Her father had kept a garden of herbs; he was always frustrated by how the mint grew wild when what he truly wanted to grow was basil. The herbs went into the bread that her parents sold at their bakery. Papa crafted the savory loaves and Mamma the sweet ones, along with almond cakes drizzled with lemon glaze, chocolate biscuits with hazelnut pralines, and her famous cinnamon cookies. The magic the Blue Fairy had grown up with was sugar shimmering on her fingertips and flour dusting her hair like snow. It was her older brother, Niccolo, coaxing their finicky oven into working again, and Mamma listening for the crackle of a golden-brown crust just before her bread sang. It was her little sister Ilaria's tongue turning green after she ate too many pistachio cakes. Most of all, magic was the smile on Mamma's, Papa's, Niccolo's, and Ilaria's faces when they brought home the bakery's leftover chocolate cake and sank their forks into a sumptuous, moist slice. After dinner, the Blue Fairy and her siblings made music together in the Blue Room. Its walls were bluer than the midsummer sky, and the windows arched like rainbows. It'd been her favorite room in the house.

As the lamb roasted slowly for hours, Roland turned it and rubbed it with a mixture of olive oil, paprika, cayenne, salt, rosemary, and sage, so that the outside crusted into a beautiful reddish mahogany color. We cut it up before our guests on a large wooden picnic table. The inside was pink and moist, the outside charred and crusty, and the couscous accompaniment flavorful, hot, and plentiful. We also served tomatoes with basil from the garden, red beets with shallots, a pâté of chicken and duck livers, homemade saucisson, wild mushrooms à la grecque (marinated in olive oil and lemon juice with coriander seed), and breads that Loulou had baked fresh. We washed all of this down with cooled Beaujolais and half-gallons of Almadén white wine. For dessert, we had summer fruits with cognac, a chocolate mousse, and a pound cake made by Jean-Claude.

Dishes are set before him: grilled pheasant and pomegranate salad; the haggis, neeps, and tatties soup; a savory doughnut stuffed with fresh crabmeat; lemon, zucchini, and Anster cheese soufflé; a slab of moist sourdough bread with a pot of freshly made crowdie and preserved lemons to spread on top; and, of course, the pudding. This one was born from Susan's childhood memories: after-school treats of bananas split in half and spread with peanut butter, and her mother's chocolate-chip studded banana bread, lavished with butter or dripping with honey. This pudding starts with a cake: the bottom layer is a rich, dark, fudgy chocolate as luscious as velvet. On top of that a layer of banana honey cake laced with cinnamon- just sweet enough to balance out the bittersweet bottom layer. And finally, a peanut butter mousse that dissolves as soon as it reaches your tongue, melding creamily with the other layers like a slightly salty, addictive sauce. Shards of honey and peanut praline decorate the cake, and it's accompanied by a little peanut-flavored candy-floss "lollipop" on the side.

The first two square tarts, pistachio-raspberry and pear-grapefruit, were both built upon thick, moist shortbread crusts, the only difference between them being the beautiful marzipan center of the pistachio-raspberry slice. The third cake was a dreamy dark chocolate creation that included layers of praline, mousse, and ganache.

2 ounces chopped bittersweet chocolate 1 tablespoon instant coffee 1¼ cups boiling water 2¾ cups all-purpose flour 2¾ cups granulated sugar ¾ cup unsweetened cocoa powder ½ teaspoon salt 2 teaspoons baking soda 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 cup vegetable oil 1¼ cups buttermilk 4 large eggs 2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract Preheat the oven to 350°F. Grease and flour a 9″ × 13″ cake pan. Place the chocolate and coffee in a small bowl. Pour the boiling water over the chocolate and coffee and let it stand 5 minutes. Whisk until smooth. Using an electric mixer, combine the flour, sugar, cocoa powder, salt, baking soda, and baking powder in a large bowl. Mix on low speed until well combined. Add the oil and buttermilk and mix well, scraping down the sides as needed. Add the eggs one at a time, beating after each until incorporated. Add the chocolate-coffee mixture very carefully, on the lowest speed, as it will slosh around the bowl. Add the vanilla. Finish by scraping the bowl down and mixing all the batter with a rubber spatula. Scrape the batter into the prepared pan and bake for about 45 minutes, until the cake feels firm when touched lightly in the center or a toothpick inserted in the center comes out with a few moist crumbs attached. If the toothpick comes out clean, the cake is over baked. Cool the cake completely in the pan on a wire rack. Dust with confectioners' sugar and serve right out of the pan.