The Wharton Palate: Girls' Night In

I love spending time with my husband (I did, after all, take a vow to spend the rest of my life with him), but when he’s not around or when we do things separately, I tend to do the things that would normally make me feel a little guilty: 1) spend money and 2) shamelessly get my fill of unadulterated girl time. I cry over über-chick flicks (The Notebook… need I say more?). I get manicures and do ladies’ lunches over duck salad and champagne a la Catherine Zeta-Jones’s character in Traffic. I gossip and giggle (read: cackle).

I was invited to a girls’ night potluck in honor of a WG’09’s birthday last week. I signed up to bring cupcakes and knew that since we were going to be an estrogen powerhouse, it had to be chocolate.

I remember my first ganache more clearly than I do my first boyfriend (more an indication of my personality than his, I’m sure). Many years ago, I went to a friend’s house after school one day. My friend’s parents were avid bakers and on their way out the door (with a freshly baked strawberry rhubarb pie to bring as a hostess gift for a neighbor) they told us to eat whatever we could find. We opened the refrigerator and as if the light of heaven suddenly broke through the roof, our eyes were drawn immediately to an illuminated quarter-eaten vanilla layer cake swathed in a perfectly smooth, matte-finished, thick, creamy, decadent chocolate ganache blanket. I’ve been in love ever since.

I usually keep some ganache in the fridge just in case an impromptu fondue fest arises (you never know). This stash would save me since I didn’t have time to make frosting from scratch. And you know me—I wasn’t about to buy the premade stuff. I had a cupcake recipe, too. I found a very quick and easy recipe on allrecipes.com after I messed up a Gourmet magazine version that required whipped egg whites and yielded chocolate rocks.

After a round of golf, I ran home, threw together the cake ingredients, loaded up the muffin pan, threw them in the oven for 20 minutes, cleaned my golf clubs and put them away, popped out the finished cupcakes onto a cooling rack, took a shower, put on some clothes and an apron, met with my presentation partner for 30 minutes, kicked out my presentation partner, and then started re-melting the ganache over a double boiler, constantly stirring to make sure it did not burn. I took it off the heat when the chocolate was glossy and fully melted, picked up a cooled cupcake carefully by its base and placed it, top first, into the pot, slowly and deliberately rolling the top in the chocolate to ensure even frosting.

They resembled little hostess cupcakes without the cute rings of white icing on top. I gave each cupcake two dips and placed them carefully on a platter and then in the refrigerator to set. I wanted to try one, but couldn’t get myself to. They were little tooth-aches hiding underneath the cloak of innocent chocolate prettiness. I wasn’t going to be fooled. My husband, on the other hand…

He came back from his own round of golf as I was leaving for the birthday potluck. I doubled the recipe so I could give some to another friend whose birthday was the next day and so that we could have some at home. I instructed him to try one after dinner.

I walked the block-and-a-half to the Dorchester with my platter loosely covered with tin foil. An older couple walking in the same direction started conversation with me, mainly jokes about how they wanted a cupcake. I politely smiled to hide my annoyance and got to my destination safely, with the full dozen cupcakes intact.

I was the last to arrive and we dove immediately into the dinner, which was a motley mix of various Chinese-style vegetable dishes, fried chicken, rosemary chicken, and tomato-pecorino flat bread. Despite the inconsistency of cuisine origin, everything was wonderful and exhibited the unique personalities of the participants. The wine poured freely, as did the catty smack-talking and laughter. We complained and encouraged each other as we prepared for FIP interviews. We talked about relationships, wedding planning, and being single. Finally, we were sated and ready for dessert. Candles were lit, a happy birthday song was sung, and a birthday wish was made.

This was the moment of truth. Full disclosure: I had lost count of the cups of sugar while making the cupcakes. The recipe required three, but there was a chance I stopped at only two. I didn’t do that well in LGST 652 (Ethics) and therefore didn’t find a need to tell anyone until just now.

I definitely forgot that cup of sugar. The cupcake part was dry and tasted kind of like a Tootsie Roll (god, I hate Tootsie Rolls), like fake chocolate. Thank goodness for the ganache, which masked the off-ness of the cake and stole the show. I even saw an abandoned cupcake bottom, which had mercilessly been beheaded for its chocolate hat. Poor cupcake. Overall, they were a hit. No one stopped at one. One of us had two and most of us shared additional halves. The birthday girl took one home for later.

Sometime in the middle of the potluck, I got a BlackBerry message from my husband: “Ate a cupcake. Looks like Mr. Hershey pooped all over my face.” That was the best compliment this girl could receive. I’m still beaming.

Next Time: Melograno, a favorite amongst Whartonites, has moved, but is the food still the same? I revisit the intimate Italian with the WG’09 who took me there for my first Melograno experience.