A simple cake made with yogurt and oil
‘If you show up with that man and he stays in your house, I will need to tell the entire village that he is your cousin.’
‘My cousin?‘
‘Trust me. You will create a scandal if you allow a man who is not your husband to sleep underneath the same roof as you.’
‘But he’s just a friend,’ I protest.
‘People will talk. All I can do is try to save your reputation.’
Giuliana hangs up the phone. I take another sip of coffee and mull over her ominous warning. I had invited my long time friend Liam to stay with me for a few days at my home in Liguria so that he could get away from the brutal divorce that he was going through. We were planning to drive down from Switzerland together and catch up on old times. Did it really look so bad? Surely in this day and age Italians understood that men and women could be friends.
I had asked her to make up the guestroom for him. If something were really going on, I wouldn’t have bothered… but then maybe she thinks that I did this to cover my tracks? I call my husband and tell him about Giuliana’s misgivings. Peter just laughs and says, ‘Tell the village that Liam is your lover, and then they will believe he is your cousin. You can’t begin to understand what goes on in a contadino’s head.’
And who is Giuliana to me? She and her husband Sergio have the keys to my house and they take care of my garden when I am away. There are no other contadini in the village that I would rather be in business with and I also consider them dear friends. Over the years, she has made me countless cakes and vegetable pies and we have Christmas lunch together to this day. Around 20 years older, she might see me like the daughter she never had, but I now bridle under her ‘così fan tutte’ insinuations.
While Liam and I drag our suitcases over the cobblestones towards my house, we run into Maria Rosa, who runs the bed-and-breakfast. She smiles, ever so polite, but her eyebrows rise as high as her hairline. When we pass by the open door to Attilio’s cantina, I wave to him inside. Usually, he raises his glass and calls out, ‘Beva,’ but now he just stares back at us with glassy eyes, sips his wine, then shuts the wooden door in our faces.
We enter the cool hallway of my house and the scent of homemade cake makes me forget the brewing storm outside. As usual, Giuliana has left my favourite ‘torta allo yogurt’ on the dresser. I show Liam his room and the shower then hurry downstairs with my gift. Liam does not eat sugar, so I have no qualms about massacring it while he relaxes upstairs.
Oh, glorious, yellow cake. I would eat this before any confection in a highfalutin restaurant, and Giuliana has spoiled the little girl in me again. I cut myself a thick slice, bring it to my lips, then drop it in dread. A dozen scarlet letters wink back at me through the delicate crumb. Giuliana has never put raspberries in this cake before, and she certainly wouldn’t squander her hard-earned pension cheques on them in her own home. For thrift’s sake, she slips in some grated lemon peel from her own trees or apples in the fall. These blood red fruits whisper lust, adultery and revenge.
The next morning, Giuliana and Sergio do not stop by to visit after their trip to town. This is a first in 15 years. Are they afraid to find us in flagrante delicto, or am I overthinking the situation? Liam and I decide to take the bull by the horns and pay them a visit instead.
We find them sitting on the plastic chairs underneath the pergola in the front of their house. When Giuliana sees us approaching, she jumps up like a live wire and knocks a brassiere off the clothesline behind her.
‘Ben arrivati,’ she chimes, ignoring the underwear on the ground. I thank her for the cake, then introduce everyone to each other. Sergio rises to his feet and shakes Liam’s hand, ever so cautious. Giuliana snatches the brassiere and rushes into the house to make coffee.
I pull the vacuum packed hunks of Emmenthaler that they love out of my bag and we make small talk over our espressos. Sergio looks Liam up and down once or twice, but my Irish friend turns on the charm and sooths them with his efforts in Italian. Giuliana slices more cake for us. Sure enough, it is fragrant with lemon peel and nothing else.
After a few days we drop by their house as Liam wants to say goodbye. No longer suspicious, Giuliana and Sergio tell them they hope to see him again.
I now have time to myself and decide to visit Bruna, whose husband has recently passed away. When I raise my fist to knock on her door, I notice that there is no key in the lock. I hesitate, confused. Usually, the contadini leave their keys in the front door as a sign that they are home.
‘Where would Bruna be after the siesta? She shouldn’t be out in the hot sun as frail as she is,’ I think to myself.
I hear a shuffle and then the key turns from the inside. Bruna opens the door and my arms reach out to her. As a widow, she no longer leaves the key in the front lock because the men in the village might think that she was ready for their company. This is how the contadine respect their lost husbands. I should be more careful of their ways.
‘Torta allo yogurt’ is the first cake that a child learns to make in Italy, and the French make the same one across the border. The Italians flavour theirs with lemon peel, whereas the French prefer vanilla in their ‘gâteau au yaourt’. It is worth adding to your repertoire as it is delicious and you most likely have all of the ingredients on hand. You don’t need scales, measuring cups, egg beaters or sifts. All you need is the yogurt container to measure out the ingredients and two bowls to mix the wet and dry ingredients together. Made with vegetable or a light olive oil instead of butter, it is much lighter than a pound cake and tends to last longer. I am giving you Giuliana’s recipe, which can be whipped up in a flash with a 125 gram yogurt container. As it is often not a viable measuring tool in the States (yogurt containers are larger), I encourage you to check out the recipes of some of the great food writers who have adapted it with success. Dorie Greenspan has an excellent recipe and watching the renowned pastry chef Dominique Anselm go back to his roots in this youtube video is pure joy.
Ingredients
1 jar of 125 gr natural yoghurt
2 jars of sugar
1 jar of vegetable or light olive oil
3 jars of flour
1 pot of eggs (usually 2 large eggs)
16 gr or 1 teaspoon of baking powder
1 grated lemon zest
1 pinch of salt
icing sugar (optional)
The Method
Preheat the oven to 180 degrees centigrade.
Butter and flour a 24 centimeter cake pan. (springform if possible)
Whisk the eggs with the sugar until the mixture is clear and frothy.
Add the yoghurt and vegetable or olive oil and whisk again.
Whisk the flour, baking powder and salt together in another bowl.
Add a third of the flour mixture to the wet ingredients. Fold in with a spatula. Repeat process with another 1/3 of the flour mixture. Fold in the remaining flour mixture.
Add the grated lemon rind.
Put the mixture into the buttered and floured cake pan.
Bake for approximately 30 to 40 minutes.
Use a knife or toothpick to check if it is done.
Remove from oven and cool on a rack for 10 minutes, then unmould.
Once completely cool, sprinkle with optional icing sugar.