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Spumoni Torte — The Dessert That Ended a Week of Rehearsal

Eight days to opening. I am rehearsing. I have not rehearsed cooking since I was twenty-two and Luz María had me cook for the Christmas family dinner alone for the first time, and I rehearsed for a week, every dish three times, until my hands knew it without my brain. I am rehearsing now the same way.

Monday I made arroz blanco four times. I cooked rice four separate times in the same pot, on the same stove, with the same water-to-rice ratio, to feel it in my hands again at the level of muscle memory. Each batch I gave to a different person. Eduardo got pot one. Mami got pot two. Sofía took pot three to the hospital break room. Pot four I gave to the next-door neighbor who has a grandchild who will eat anything I make. Tuesday I made habichuelas guisadas three times. Same logic. I am ready to teach this rice and this bean. I have made them a thousand times. I want them to feel new in my hands when I demonstrate, the way they felt new when Mami first taught me.

Wednesday I went to the Parkville Community Center to walk through the kitchen. It is a different kitchen from the food bank kitchen — wider counters, a row of induction burners that I am suspicious of because gas is gas and induction is something else, four sinks, a cold storage room that is bigger than my Hartford apartment's first kitchen in 1988. Brian walked me through. He said, "Carmen, what do you need?" I said, "Brian, I need a chair to sit on. I will demonstrate from a stool. The students will stand. They will stand because they will be working." He brought me a stool. We tested it. Adequate.

Thursday Mami had her best day in two weeks. She sat up. She ate a full plate. She corrected my rehearsal habichuelas — "Carmen, more bay leaf, you have only one in this batch, two minimum" — and she watched the news with me on her little television. She fell asleep at 8 PM. I drove home.

Friday I called the family for Sunday. Special dinner. Pre-opening dinner. I cooked the entire week-one menu — arroz blanco, habichuelas, tostones, a small pernil — and the family came. Twelve people. I served them and watched them eat. Sofía said, "Ma, you are nervous." I said, "Mija, yes." Miguel Jr. said, "Ma, you have cooked this for forty years." I said, "Mijo, yes. But I have never taught it to strangers." Rosa said, "Ma, they will be in love with you by the third week." Eduardo said, "Carmen, they are in love with you already, they just do not know it yet." I cried a little at my own table. The flan was very good. Wepa.

I said the flan was very good, and it was — but the truth is I had a second dessert that night, something I made just because twelve people were coming and one dessert did not feel like enough for a week that heavy. Eduardo had made me cry at my own table. Rosa had said they would be in love with me. I needed a second dessert that matched the occasion, something layered and a little theatrical, something that said: this family showed up for me, so I showed up for this table. The Spumoni Torte was that dessert — three colors, built in stages, the kind of thing you carry out of the kitchen and set down and watch people’s faces change.

Spumoni Torte

Prep Time: 30 minutes | Cook Time: 25 minutes | Total Time: 4 hours 55 minutes (includes chilling) | Servings: 12

Ingredients

  • 1 package (18.25 oz) chocolate cake mix, plus ingredients called for on box
  • 1/2 cup chopped maraschino cherries, drained and patted dry
  • 1/2 cup chopped pistachios, divided
  • 1/2 teaspoon almond extract
  • 2 cups heavy whipping cream
  • 1/4 cup powdered sugar
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
  • 4 oz semi-sweet chocolate, finely chopped
  • 1/2 cup whole milk
  • 1 tablespoon unsalted butter
  • Red and green maraschino cherries, for garnish

Instructions

  1. Bake the layers. Prepare the chocolate cake mix according to package directions. Divide batter evenly between two greased 9-inch round cake pans. Bake as directed, then cool completely on wire racks, at least 1 hour.
  2. Make the cream filling. In a large chilled bowl, beat heavy whipping cream, powdered sugar, and vanilla extract with a hand mixer on medium-high until stiff peaks form. Gently fold in the chopped maraschino cherries, 1/4 cup of the pistachios, and almond extract until just combined. Refrigerate while you prepare the ganache.
  3. Prepare the ganache. Heat milk and butter in a small saucepan over medium heat until just simmering. Remove from heat and pour over the finely chopped chocolate in a heatproof bowl. Let sit 2 minutes, then stir until smooth and glossy. Allow to cool to a spreadable consistency, about 15 minutes.
  4. Level the cakes. If the cake layers have domed tops, use a serrated knife to trim them flat so the torte stacks evenly.
  5. Assemble the torte. Place one cake layer on a serving plate or cake board. Spread the entire cream filling evenly over the top, right to the edges. Set the second cake layer gently on top, pressing lightly to level.
  6. Glaze the top. Pour the cooled ganache over the top of the assembled torte, spreading it with an offset spatula so it covers the top and drips slightly over the edges in a few places.
  7. Garnish and chill. Scatter the remaining 1/4 cup chopped pistachios over the ganache while it is still slightly tacky. Arrange whole red and green maraschino cherries decoratively on top. Refrigerate the finished torte for at least 2 hours — or up to overnight — before slicing and serving.
  8. Serve. Slice with a sharp knife wiped clean between cuts. Serve cold directly from the refrigerator.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 420 | Protein: 5g | Fat: 24g | Carbs: 48g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 320mg

Carmen Delgado-Ortiz
About the cook who shared this
Carmen Delgado-Ortiz
Week 454 of Carmen’s 30-year story · Hartford, Connecticut
Carmen is a sixty-year-old retired hospital cafeteria manager, a grandmother of eight, and a Puerto Rican woman who survived Hurricane María in 2017 and rebuilt her life in Hartford, Connecticut, with nothing but her mother's sofrito recipe and the kind of determination that only comes from watching everything you own get washed away. She cooks arroz con pollo, pernil, and pasteles for every holiday, and her kitchen is always open because in Carmen's world, nobody eats alone.

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