The Linda Letters by Gabriel O'Sullivan: The Baileys Cheesecake Takes On The Looks Of An Angel Food Cake

18 March 2024

1111

R. Linda:

Mam is getting old. Yes, indeed, she is getting on there, I guess. We were all helping out in the kitchen for our big holiday, St. Patrick's Day, when she took it upon herself to do most of the cooking. She says so we have "authentic" Irish cuisine. That's the excuse like I be some Irish American now who wasn't born on the old sod but here somewhere. I'd like to know when and how this happened. Me birth certificate does not reflect that at all. But SHE insists she be the only AUTHENTIC IRISH in the house.

I wasn't in the mood to argue with her as I had slipped Baileys in me coffee several times yesterday morning and wasn't in a combative mood. No, I was enjoying the silky taste of the Baileys-spiked coffee and thinking how nice a nob of whipped cream would be on top, but then, if I did that, they'd all know what I was doing and why I was enjoying me cup of joe so much.

Anyway, Mam made her soda bread. I knew it was done right. I was slouched over the counter slurring me speech at her trying to sound as American as possible just to get a few digs in. She had set up the baked beans to soak the night before. I put those together since I be (according to her) an Irish Bostonian. Don't ask; I think it is because I work there and have been here longer than she that she is nitpicking. Of course, I could be all wrong, and it's age and memory. OR, more likely a cake disaster she was hiding. I dunno.

With the beans in the pot, baking away in the oven, and the coffee all gone, I left her to it. She was going to start a Bailey's cheesecake, and I thought, what could go wrong? She's a baking whiz. I took meself to work in my home office while the clatter of pots and pans rang out in the not-so-far distance.

As I was finishing up my work and going on to my email, she came in with the mixing bowl and a spatula.

"Ere' try dis and tell me wot ye tink," she said, handing it over.

Well, not being one to turn down sweet leftovers, I dug in, and begorrah, me—it was fecking good!

"Is this a new recipe?" I asked, licking the spatula and thinking about doing the same with the bowl.

"Ay, I found me gran's old recipe and decided to try it."

I laughed deep inside. She never cooks other than her own recipes, so this was a first for me: that her grandmother's recipe might be better than her own, and it was, I hate to admit.

"By da luke of yer face, I cun see yer likes it."

I gave her the bowl and spatula and shook my head enthusiastically.

"Ok, den," she mumbled, going out.

I sat there not getting email but dreaming of that cheesecake. I know, I know, I can't help meself when it comes to food. I should be a fat man by now, but alas, still a long, tall, skinny guy.

As I finally removed myself from food dreams, I was reading an email when I heard -- cursing. Cursing that would wake the devil it was. Then it got soft and stopped just as I was about to get up and see what was happening in the kitchen.

With all quiet on the home front, I finished up and, an hour later, wandered into the kitchen. There was no sign of a cheesecake anywhere. Uh oh. I looked in the refrigerator and notta. I looked on the counter, I even looked in the trash and could not locate el cheesecake.

Panicking because it was THAT good, I went to find her when she and I almost collided. I was leaving the kitchen, and she was coming in.

"Where be the cheesecake?" I asked in amuck sweat.

"Uhhh . . . about dat," she said, looking at the ceiling and rolling her eyes.

"Yeah? Yeah?" I prompted when someone needed to be more forthcoming.

"I poot it in da wrong pan. Dare, I said it."

"Whatyamean?" I was starting to lose it.

"Don't get yer knickers in a twist, dare Gabriel, it's in da oven be where it be, but it's in an angel food cake pan. I furgot a springform pan iz da otter owan and used da wrong pan. It will be fine, duncha worry none."

I turned the oven light on. There it was, this beautiful golden cheesecake with a funnel in the middle. It looked fine, so I didn't panic any more than I had already.

"Uh, how do you put the ganache over that?" I wondered out loud.

"Not to worry," she said, shooing me out.

I wondered how she could mistake an angel food pan for a springform. Even I know the difference, and that's saying a lot.

Well, she fretted most of the day, whispering to Tonya she wasn't sure the cheesecake would not fall to pieces, and maybe she should leave it in the pan. But then there is the ganache that goes over it, oh what to do, I tell ya!

No matter what my wife suggested, she was still worried. Finally, when I was out of sight, they got the cheesecake, acting like two leprechauns up to no good. As Tonya used a knife to un-wedge the cake from the pan, Mam got a platter, actually two platters. With great care (I was spying from the lounge), Tonya upended the cake onto the platter, sliding gently onto the plate. At this, they looked at each other with big smiles and clapped their hands quietly. Then with equal care, Tonya took the other platter and turned the cheesecake right side up. And there you have it, a cheesecake with a hole in the middle!

Because Mam was flustered, she made her ganache a bit lumpy but poured it over the top anyway. There was a chocolate cookie crumb crust that held it together (miracles of miracles), so when I tasted the concoction, I thought it had too much chocolate. I will mention that if she serves this again from the right pan, she should not pour the ganache over the top but spoon a bit over the top when a piece is cut. No, I haven't told her that yet. Her feelings are all too raw at the moment. She is still muttering to herself about it.

The meal was a success in total. It was delicious. Here, take a gander, as they say in New England.