Where Do You Stand on Butter vs. Better vs. Whipped?

I've always loved frosting. A good chocolate frosting, to be precise. The actual cake it sits on top of, not so much. Because for me, it’s the frosting that makes or breaks a cake. If the frosting is good, then the cake will at least have something to compliment it. If the frosting is bad or less than satisfying, then it really doesn’t matter how good the cake is; the overall taste has been tainted.

When I was a child, I once asked my parents for a giant bowl of frosting for my birthday. I didn’t even want the cake. Just the frosting, and maybe a couple of candles. To my surprise, that is exactly what they gave me, and the next day I understood why. The resulting stomachache I got from eating all that super sweet frosting forever cured my need for an entire bowl of it. At last, I finally understood the purpose of the cake. It was to cut the taste of the frosting. From then on, I never ate frosting without some form of cake attached.

Which brings us to the point of this article: what is the best form of frosting for a cake? Many people seem to enjoy the light airiness of a whipped cream frosting. Famous NYC bakeries like The Cupcake Café cater to this type of taste. Their cupcakes are beautifully crafted and designed, but the cake is usually refrigerated so it tends to be rather dry. This would be okay if the frosting atop it had a creamy sweetness to counter the cold, almost stale interior. But a whipped cream frosting doesn’t have any weight to it, so the heaviness of the cake tends to overpower it, leaving the consumer gasping for more substance. (At least this consumer does.)

The other kind of frosting currently popular at bakeries is known as “Better” frosting (not to be confused with good old fashioned “Butter” frosting, which is my personal favorite). Better frosting is somebody’s idea of a healthy combination of a whipped cream and butter frosting, with the result that neither expectation is fully satisfied. Most grocery store bakeries tend to use “Better” these days unless you are adamant about requesting a pure butter frosting. (And even then you’re taking your chances.)

Then comes the cream of the crop: Butter frosting. Pure butter, confectioner’s sugar, a little vanilla, and lots of other flavorings make this traditional cake frosting my all-time favorite. And I’m talking about the homemade variety; not the canned version, which has a metallic aftertaste I find less than appetizing on my various cake creations. This type of “manufactured” frosting also shows up on products made by Entenmann’s, or any of the other snack cake companies, where you can practically taste all the preservative s and other chemicals more than the flavor of the frosting. They are poor excuses for the creamy coating that only a butter frosting can provide.

But that’s just me. Where do you stand on the controversy of Butter vs. Better vs. Whipped?

Do You Waffle, Pancake or Popover?

There was a wonderful tradition in our house when I was growing up. Every Sunday morning my father would get up early so he could fiddle around in the kitchen, preparing one of three favorite family breakfasts---Waffles, Pancakes or Popovers. To make sure we got up in time for Church, the smell of cinnamon and maple syrup would wake us, and we’d happily trudge down to the dining room to see which of our three favorite meals he’d prepared. Not only that, but we’d also have to guess what secret ingredient he’d added that week.

For you see, my father didn’t rest on his laurels when it came to making the perfect pancake or award-winning waffle. He was constantly trying to improve on the recipes Aunt Jemima and Bisquick had already established. Adding a few drops of fresh orange juice or a tablespoon of wheat germ was common, but he also experimented with other spices, fruits, and flavorings. Sometimes he even ventured into the confectionery world, with surprise additions of chocolate chips, M & Ms or peanut butter. But mostly, he stuck with the basics, preferring to experiment with the mixture itself, rather than trying to overpower it with a lot of bells and whistles. (Or in my case, chocolate and peanut butter.)

The one experiment that truly went wrong was when he somehow found a recipe for Sauerkraut pancakes, a combination I still don’t understand to this day. But apparently if you added a small amount of Sauerkraut to the recipe, it gave the pancakes a moister flavor, or some such nonsense. (What can I say? It was the late sixties. Someone was probably on an acid trip when they came up with the formula.) Anyway, nowhere in the recipe did it say you had to chop up the Sauerkraut into tiny pieces before putting it into the mix. So my father, always diligent when it came to following recipes, threw whole pieces of Sauerkraut into the bowl. This created quite a mess when the batter was then poured onto the skillet. Needless to say, the pancakes ended up looking like small baseball mounds, with weeds poking out from all directions. Even when we drowned the pancakes in maple syrup, it didn’t help the taste. Or the weird texture. After that, my father was a little less daring when it came to tampering with the family classics.

The long-standing staple of Sunday mornings had to be the pancake. We had pancakes on a fairly regular basis; certainly more often than both waffles and popovers combined. Probably because it was the easiest to prepare, and was a virtual winner every time.

In our family, we liked our pancakes of the thinner variety. Not necessarily silver dollar size, but definitely silver dollar consistency. I was never a fan of the thick heavy pancake you find at most IHOPs and Denny’s. They are weighted down with so much dough and filler, you can’t even get through one, let alone a stack of three. But with my father’s light and airy pancakes, I was able to eat eight to twelve, an astonishing feat for someone so young. Slathered with butter and dripping with syrup, these tempting little treats always started the day off on the right foot. (Though halfway through the church service we attended afterwards, I would begin to feel the after-effects and often doze off during Communion.)

Waffles were also a favorite in our household. But for some reason, they’d often make the transition from breakfast to dinner. And more often than not, we would eat Waffles at night rather than on a Sunday morning. I’m not sure why this was exactly. Maybe because the waffle iron took so long to heat up and go through its cycle, it somehow elevated the meal to a more important status. Whereas pancakes could be turned out pretty fast, there was nothing to quicken the pace of our old waffle iron. One waffle every five minutes was about all it could handle, which meant most of the waffles were put in the oven to warm until the entire process was completed. This meant that some of the first waffles would be a little crispier than the final waffle off the iron. Still, the little pockets and holes were perfect for filling with butter and syrup, and gave me my first basic lesson in how to compartmentalize.

The final Sunday morning treat, and certainly my favorite, was the Popover. An English tradition that my father somehow incorporated into our heritage as well, the popover was a magical creation that took the longest to make, but was definitely the most fun to eat. With its soft airy interior and crispy outside, it was the perfect vessel for honey or jelly or anything sweet. I loved to break them open and watch the steam rise, as the doughy interior screamed to be covered in butter. (Or Country Crock, or whatever was in the plastic tub in the center of the table.)

The popover had to go through a two-step process in the oven, which was so critical to its success, my family practically didn’t speak until the batter successfully made it through the popping process. Sometimes we’d even monitor the progress through the oven window, just to make sure all the little cups of batter were rising properly.

But no matter which of the three Sunday morning treats we had, it was always the best meal of the week. Even if it meant we’d have to go to Church afterwards. (Which of course, as a child, I really hated…BORING!) Which makes me wonder if my father’s motivation for creating these amazing Sunday morning concoctions had less to do with making something delicious, and more to do with making sure we got to Church on time. Either way, I will always associate Sunday mornings with my father’s creative cooking, as I continue to carry on his tradition to this very day.

But that’s just me. What’s your favorite Sunday morning meal?