Rum And Raisin Quotes

But in the end, she could not resist. She ate the stew, every hot and savory bite of it, then flaky rolls, plums in syrup, egg pudding, and a rum cake thick with raisins and brown sugar.

Love comes in many flavors. Most people start out with vanilla and chocolate and work their way up to rum raisin but that doesn't mean that’s the only way to do it.

I've been developing killer updated versions of things like Black Forest cake, now with bittersweet devil's food cake, a dried-cherry conserve, and whipped vanilla creme fraiche. I've perfected a new carrot cake, adding candied chunks of parsnips and rum-soaked golden raisins to the cake and mascarpone to the frosting. And my cheeky take on homemade Pop-Tarts will be available in three flavors- blueberry, strawberry, and peanut butter and jelly- and I've even ordered fun little silver Mylar bags to pack them in.

People are not sophisticated. They see dark, they think “bad,” “shady,” “untrustworthy.” They see light, they think “clean,” “pure,” “fresh.” Jason tells me this is racist. So sue me: I’m just saying what I’ve observed. In the ice cream industry, you always want your chocolate-based flavors to appear creamy, not earthy or bitter. Our Devil’s Food Cake, our Molten Fudge, our Cocoa-Loco. Marvelous flavors, all of them, but most of them sat in the cases for weeks, slowly crystallizing. Vanilla, meanwhile, is the number-one-selling flavor in America. You can’t tell me this is simply because of the taste. Not when you have rum raisin available. Or mint chip. Yet Aryanism still carries the day, darlings, even in the ice cream freezer. I don’t like this any more than you do. But there it is.

Zozie was still watching me with that patient half-smile, as if she expected me to say something more. When I didn't, she simply shrugged and held out a dish of mendiants. She makes them as I do myself: the chocolate thin enough to snap but thick enough to satisfy; a generous sprinkle of fat raisins; a walnut, an almond; a violet; a crystallized rose. "Try one," she said. "What do you think?" The gunpowder scent of chocolate arose from the little dish of mendiants, smelling of summer and lost time. He had tasted of chocolate when I first kissed him; and the scent of damp grass had come from the ground where we had lain side by side; and his touch had been unexpectedly soft, and his hair like summer marigolds in the dying light- Zozie was still holding out the dish of mendiants. It's made of blue Murano glass, with a little gold flower on the side. It's only a bauble, and yet I'm fond of it. Roux gave it to me in Lansquenet, and I have carried it with me ever since, in my luggage, in my pockets, like a touchstone. I looked up and saw Zozie looking at me. Her eyes were a distant, fairytale blue, like something you might see in dreams. "You won't tell anyone?" I said. "Of course not." She picked up a chocolate between delicate fingers and held it out for me to take. Rich, dark chocolate, rum-soaked raisins, vanilla, rose, and cinnamon... "Try one, Vianne," she said with a smile. "I happen to know they're your favorites.

Eleanor’s Black Cake Recipe Quantities are approximate. Eleanor never did write them down. Ingredients: 12 ounces flour 4 ounces breadcrumbs 1 teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda 1 or ½ teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon mixed spice (cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves) 1 pound dark brown sugar (plus extra for the blacking) 2 teaspoons vanilla 1 pound butter (4 sticks), at room temperature 12 eggs 5 to 6 cups dried fruit (raisins, prunes, currants), soaked at least 4 months in white or dark rum and port to cover. If using, dates and maraschino cherries should only be added at mixing time. Instructions: Preheat the oven to 350°F. Add all the dry ingredients to a bowl and blend. In a separate bowl, rub together the sugar and butter, or use a mixer on low, until smooth and fluffy. Add vanilla. Add 1 egg, mix 1-1 ½ minutes, add 1 ⅓ ounces flour-breadcrumbs mixture. Repeat until all eggs and flour are gone. Mix in the blacking. Make the blacking by melting brown sugar in a saucepan over low heat until it is caramelized. You will need more than you think! Puree half the fruits in a blender. Combine and add to the batter. Grease two cake tins. Cut wax paper circles to line the bottoms of the tins. Pour in the batter until the tins are three-quarters full. To bake: Place the tins on the middle rack of the oven. Place a separate pan filled with tap water on the rack beneath. Bake for 1 to 2 hours, until the cake starts to pull away from the side of the pan and a knife inserted into the middle comes out dry. Depends on oven, tin size, and weather.

When Florence Allen took a bite of her dessert the expression on her face changed completely. She looked puzzled at first, as if she wasn't at all sure it was cake that she was eating. She cut herself another bite and then held up her fork and looked at it for a minute before slipping it into her mouth. She chewed slowly, as if she were a scientist engaged in an important experiment. She lifted up her plate and held it up to the light, studied it from different angles. Then she dipped down her nose and inhaled the cake. "This is sweet potato." I dabbed at my eyes again and told her that it was. "Sweet potatoes and raisins and... rum? That's a spiked glaze?" I nodded. She took another bite and this time she ate it like a person who knew what she was getting into. She closed her eyes. She savored. "This is," she said. "This is..." "Easy," I said. "I can give you the recipe." She opened up her eyes. She had lovely dark eyes. "This is brilliant. This is a brilliant piece of cake." In my family people tended to work against the cake. They wished it wasn't there even as they were enjoying it. But Florence Allen's reaction was one I rarely saw in an adult: She gave in to the cake. She allowed herself to love the cake. It wasn't that she surrendered her regrets (Oh well, I'll just have to go to the gym tomorrow, or, I won't have any dinner this week). She had no regrets. She lived in the moment. She took complete pleasure in the act of eating cake. "I'm glad you like it," I said, but that didn't come close to what I meant. "Oh, I don't just like it. I think this is-" But she didn't say it. Instead she stopped and had another bite. I could have watched her eat the whole thing, slice by slice, but no one likes to be stared at. Instead I ate my own cake. It was good, really. Every raisin bitten gave a sweet exhalation of rum. It was one of those cakes that most people say should be made for Thanksgiving, that it was by its nature a holiday cake, but why be confined? I was always one to bake whatever struck me on any given day. Florence Allen pressed her fork down several times until she had taken up every last crumb. Her plate was clean enough to be returned to the cupboard directly. "I've made sweet potato pies," she said. "I've baked them and put them in casseroles, but in a cake? That never crossed my mind." "It isn't logical. They're so dense. I think of it as the banana bread principle.

Ivyanne laughed. ‘It’s not like that,’ she assured them. ‘It’s just like... really great ice cream.’ She flicked her tail, propping herself up further out of the water. ‘You know when you go to Baskin Robins, and you can have as many flavors as you want? Sometimes you try new ones... but almost always, there’s at least two you love that just don’t go together in a banana split?’ ‘Like rum and raisin, and apple sorbet,’ Joyce said quickly. Ivyanne nodded. ‘Exactly. One’s sweet, one’s savory. And you end up standing there for the longest time, trying to pick which one you can go without…’ She shrugged. ‘That’s what this is like. When they’re together, they completely kill my appetite. But when I’m enjoying one…’ she sighed wistfully. ‘I can’t remember what the other tasted like.

After a great deal of culinary soul-searching I picked the almond apricot pound cake with Amaretto, a black chocolate espresso cake with a burnt-orange frosting, and the beloved sweet potato cake with rum-soaked raisins. I could either make it in a Bundt pan with a spiked glaze or I could make it in three layers with a cream-cheese frosting. In the end I settled on the latter because I knew my cream cheese was one of my greatest strengths (the secret being to substitute fiori di Sicilia for the vanilla). It made me slightly crazy to think of leaving out the lemon cake with lemon-curd frosting- everyone died over that cake- but the frosting was very wet and the layers had a tendency to slide when transported. I loved the little lime-soaked coconut cakes but so many people took issue with coconut. A genoise was perfect for showing off, but if I wasn't there to serve it myself, I couldn't trust that it would be completely understood and I didn't think there would be any point in sending a container of syrup on the side with written instructions. And what about the sticky toffee pudding with its stewed dates and caramel sauce? That was as much a cake as anything else if you were willing to expand your boundaries little. I wasn't sure about the chocolate. It was my best chocolate cake but I didn't absolutely love chocolate. Still, I knew other people did. I felt I needed an almond cake and this one worked in the apricots, but I wasn't so sure about not having a frosting. Would it seem too plain? And the sweet potato cake, I had to have that. That was the cake from which everything had started. I had to make a commitment. I had to bake.

He opens a lower cabinet to reveal that it is a mini fridge, and brings over two plates that each have a slice of what looks like flan, dark at the top from being baked with caramel. He hands me a plate and fork, and pours me a glass of wine. I take a bite. And my eyes snap open. "Gateau de semoule?" I say in disbelief. "Mais oui, mademoiselle, bien sur." He smiles. "I thought you might like it." "I adore it. And I haven't had it in years." The very French dessert is essentially baked creme caramel-type custard, thickened with semolina for an amazing texture and added nuttiness. There are juicy golden raisins, which I believe he has soaked in rum, and the caramel you make for the bottom of the baking dish turns itself into a light sauce when you unmold it. It is the kind of dessert that any French maman would make on a weeknight for dessert. Unfunny, unfussy, and completely comforting and delicious.

On the coffee table is a bottle of Madeira, a plate of dark chocolates, a bowl of tiny tangerines. He opens a lower cabinet to reveal that it is a mini fridge, and brings over two plates that each have a slice of what looks like flan, dark at the top from being baked with caramel. He hands me a plate and fork, and pours me a glass of wine. I take a bite. And my eyes snap open. "Gateau de semoule?" I say in disbelief. "Mais oui, mademoiselle, bien sur." He smiles. "I thought you might like it." "I adore it. And I haven't had it in years." The very French dessert is essentially baked creme caramel-type custard, thickened with semolina for an amazing texture and added nuttiness. There are juicy golden raisins, which I believe he has soaked in rum, and the caramel you make for the bottom of the baking dish turns itself into a light sauce when you unmold it. It is the kind of dessert that any French maman would make on a weeknight for dessert. Unfancy, unfussy, and completely comforting and delicious.

Berthillon's ice cream is dense and creamy--- served, in keeping with French rules of moderation, in golf-ball-size scoops. You have to be a real purist to order a simple (pronounced samp-le"). I usually ordered a double (doob-le"). Menthe (fresh mint), Créole (rum raisin), and nougat-miel (honey-nougat) are at the top of my list. But as good as the ice cream is, it's the sorbets that are Berthillon's real standouts. I almost always order cacao amer, a bitter chocolate sorbet so dark it's closing in on black. My second scoop depends on the season: pear, melon, rhubarb, or framboise à la rose (raspberry with a hint of rose). But habit often sets in and I go back to my old favorite: fraise des bois (wild strawberry). These tiny gem-like fruits are the equivalent of strawberry grenades, releasing a tart, concentrated flavor that downgrades every other strawberry I've tasted to the level of Bubblicious.

Irene was my mom's 60 year old church friend who blew her hair out like Whitney Houston from the Bodyguard days and still rocked her rum raisin lipstick like it was 1992.

BURNING LOVE 8 slices bread 3 cups heavy cream 1 whole egg 3 egg yolks 1-½ cups sugar ½ teaspoon nutmeg ½ teaspoon cinnamon ¼ cup rum ½ cup raisins or currants, steeped for 15 minutes in a cup of very hot water (reserve liquid) Preheat the oven to 350°F. Dice bread into cubes. Whisk together cream, whole egg, egg yolks, ½ cup sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon, and 1 tablespoon of rum. Combine bread cubes and cream mixture. Drain raisins and reserve the liquid. Add raisins to bread mixture. Spoon mixture into soufflé cups. Place cups in a baking pan filled with hot water ½ inch deep. Bake until a knife inserted in center of custards comes out clean, about 30 minutes. Just before serving, combine reserved liquid and remaining sugar in a small saucepan and bring to a simmer, whisking constantly, over high heat. When sugar turns amber, carefully whisk another ½ cup of hot water. Return to a simmer and cook until mixture becomes the consistency of syrup. Stir in remaining rum and return to heat for 15 seconds. Remove saucepan from heat and touch a match to sauce. Pour flaming caramel over puddings and serve.

At the Bernachon table, I stared at all the amazing flavors- espresso, orange, hazelnut, rum raisin- wondering how to choose. But it was simple: I let Denise do it. (And thank goodness. When I unwrapped my pâte d'amandine pistache chocolate bar back at the hotel, it was like inhaling vats of molten cocoa in a chocolate factory. Delicious without even taking a bite. Between the richness of the 62 percent cacao and the sweet grittiness of Sicilian pistachio paste, I thought I had ascended to chocolate heaven.)