B. Dylan Hollis

Baking Across America – Bing Bars

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One of the things that will always make me feel like a kitchen goddess or just a half decent mum is if I bake something in the morning, before people are up for breakfast. We had a plan for Saturday and I imagined baking these Bing bars, breakfasting, then being able to take photos on our picnic blanket in the botanic gardens with dappled summer sun and warm blue skies and butterflies and green grass and happy children and … and life happened, instead. I prepped the night before (the virtue! the smug!), and was very glad I did because, if you haven’t tried this, pitting and chopping cherries to get 450g of them takes a long, long time. And then it was a Bad Night, where I was ditched from bed by E before midnight and she was awake and coughing and S was awake and awake and awake and Glenn wasn’t feeling great and I slept on the sofa and while it’s not such a problem it was also not very comfortable. 

Having been a Bad Night, though, meant that E and S both had significant sleep-ins, so I could get on with baking this without endless “Mummyyyyyyy” interruptions. Extra kitchen goddess points for simultaneously making scrambled eggs for breakfasts as well as Biscoff toast and juices and cups of tea and sourdough toast and oh look at that more scrambled eggs. As the cherries took a while to cook down into jammy goodness, I also tackled some of Washing Mountain and felt extra smug. 

This recipe was definitely not next on my list of what to bake from this book (Baking Across America by B. Dylan Hollis). I was planning on trying one of the northeast cookies, I think, but my mind just kept coming back to these. I mean, what even are Bing cherries? As it turns out, they’re cherries. Normal cherries. And Australian cherries are just sold as Australian Cherries, but Bing is one of the varieties grown and sold – Google has been my friend – so instead of resisting the urge and baking something else, I caved. We have abundant cherries at present so I didn’t even buy frozen, but risked buying two punnets and pitting and chopping them myself. Next time – and there will definitely be a next time as this was definitely a winner and has been definitely requested for lunch boxes – I will use frozen. 

I am not one for selfies, but if I were, you would have seen my face in various stages of delight to worried to concerned to wide-eyed to panicked to blissed out to shocked to satisfied. What a ride. I think I possibly cooked the cherries down a little further than the recipe intended, because when it came time to transfer the mix onto the base, it turned out to be toffee. Pro tip: make somebody else wait to do what they want in the kitchen so that they clean out that tough sticky mess for you. Ahem.

Maybe it’s my Scottish heritage, but rubbing cold butter into oats and flour and sugar just makes things right. It settles me. Makes me feel connected to generations of Scots bakers before me, even if the butter isn’t really cold because this is Brisbane in summer and nothing is staying cold for more than two minutes out of the fridge. I had a slight moment when it came to the egg wash, as I drizzled it on as instructed and in the moment it took me to pick up my pastry brush, all the egg was soaked into the topping. A valiant effort was made to no avail, so one portion of the slice is impressively tan while the remainder looks ordinary but bland.

One thing I appreciate about this book is the absence of serving numbers. Who’s to say if a cake will serve 24, 12, 3 or 1? Exactly. I cut this slice into 16 squares which is a perfect amount for sating the sweet tooth but not going sugar crazy. Girls, as mentioned, loved it. Glenn is not much of a sweet tooth so had a half piece – see, it could serve 32 if it was just Glenn eating it – and seemed to enjoy it.

I was determined to take some photos outdoors, so when I took the girls outside in the afternoon we also took out the picnic blanket. What a thrill! We were just in time for late afternoon sunshine. Girls were mighty disappointed to be not eating the rest of the slice, but did their best to sneak bites anyway. We clearly left some crumbs around because every dog out for an afternoon walk was very excited, and one owner even brought her dog right into our garden. Wild.

Baking Across America – Peach Cobbler

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“Mummy, whatever you’re baking in here, it smells *awfully* good”. With that ringing endorsement from C, here beginneth the journey of Baking Across America and a peach cobbler from Georgia. That is, as close as one can get when one lives in Brisbane and has zero access to Georgia peaches. However it is that they differ from Alabama peaches or Queensland peaches.

One of my Christmas presents from Glenn was B. Dylan Hollis’ book, Baking Across America. I have been devouring it whenever I can ever since. With books like this, I love to then make the recipes – I mean, duh. But in a methodical fashion, rather like Julie and Julia but without the stress. Being me, I would normally start at the beginning and be orderly about it. However, each area contains recipes with summer fruits and recipes without, and I know if I went through systematically I would give up fairly quickly from dejectedness over lack of ingredients. As it is, I have already sent my husband out searching for fresh cranberries without success and I will be taking girls with me for a full-on excursion in quest of them at some point. Peach cobbler was chosen because peaches and Brisbane summer seemed quite doable.

I ordered a box of imperfect peaches and let them ripen a tad, which meant that some of them did that weird thing of having foul spots while still being hard. Still, I washed eight instead of the instructed five and was glad I did. One was wonky on the inside, and two of them were tiny, so I figured this amounted to about the amount of five Georgia peaches. With girls watching Nightmare Before Christmas and Glenn relaxing on his sofa, I set to work and was instantly in a happy place. It has been a long time since I baked a dessert, or baked anything from a recipe book that was not for the purpose of lunchbox snacks or freezer snacks. Methodically slicing peaches and removing the flesh from the stone and transferring to a saucepan and repeating the process, knowing that this would turn into a tasty dessert, was an instant endorphin rush. I must do so more often.

This turned out to be a “trust the process”, er, process. I should probably point out here that I think I have both made and eaten cobbler once in my life before, and not any time recently. So my knowledge of cobbler process is limited and vague and reaching back a long, long way into my memory. Still, I expected peaches then batter, instead of melted butter then batter then peaches and juices then sugar, in a process that looked shockingly wrong and rather unphotogenic. Trust the process. Because, as I was fairly confident would happen, what looked entirely ugly and as if I had most definitely read the instructions entirely incorrectly, turned out to be exactly what it ought to be. A peach cobbler. Lovely soft cinnamon sugar peaches amid blobs of sweet batter. 

A surprise, though, was the ultimate in jammy goodness hiding in sporadic pockets beneath the dough. We’re talking not just scooping out as much as possible for the next serving, but letting out an actual gasp of delighted surprise followed by furtive side eyes so as to sneak more of it. It was almost black, and it was camouflaged with the spots of stickiness that had to be worked to the extent that I felt my arms had earned another serve, and it was amazing. 

Furthermore, this was one of those desserts that seemed to be a new creation the following day. I let the girls have a serve (with ice cream!) for morning tea. When cleaning up, I had a morsel of peach and ohmygoodnessme it had caramelised and gooeyfied and … I just can’t. It was glorious.