THE MAGIC OF THE CAKE TIN.

How does something so utilitarian produce something so divine? Like my honey, ginger and lemon cake.

The cake tin has always just been a means to an end. Ingloriously practical, it is there simply to lead to greater things. Like this.

I adore cake tins, although I am way past the novelty stage of my life, when I invested in a giant Australia-shaped tin for an Australian Gastronomy Symposium. (And then had to fashion a Tasmania shape out of silver foil in which to bake a small cake to alongside it, because Australia wouldn’t be Australia without Tasmania).

But it makes me curious - how many cake tins do you have? The number will depend on how often you bake, naturally, and at what stage you find yourself in your baking trajectory. Go on, go and count, and let us know in the comments below. By standing on a chair and opening the baking cupboard above the oven, I just did a quick inventory.

Round cake tins = 7

Square cake tins = 2

Heart-shaped cake tins = 2

Loaf tins = 4

Muffin tins = 3

Madeleine tins = 2

Lamington/slice/traybake tins = 2

Chiffon (angel food) cake tin = 1

I feel there is another box of vaguely rusting tins in the garage, but I dare not explore further, for there will be a can of worms there as well, metaphorically speaking. This is enough for now.

Because now, thanks to brother Tony and sis-in-law Lois, I also have a bundt tin. A very beautiful, somewhat glorious, bundt tin.

The bundt will be familiar to anyone who grew up with the Eastern European idea of kugelhopf – that lovely light, yeasted fruit cake baked in a deep round cake tin with a cylindrical funnel in the centre - or who has lived in America, where it is exceedingly popular.

It’s an extremely clever solution to the problem of baking a large cake. By designing a funnel in the centre, there is no “middle” of the cake that needs to be cooked through. As a result, a bundt cake will cook more evenly, and knock a good 10 minutes or so off an equivalent cake baked in a standard tin.

IT ALSO HAS A GREAT BACK STORY.

When H. David Dalquist got home from the Second World War to Minnesota, USA, he began manufacturing small household items from cast aluminium under the brand Nordic Ware.

In the 1950s, a group of local women asked him to create a large cake tin they called a bund kuchen - a party cake, or gathering cake. Bund means bond, or alliance, in German. He did so, they were delighted, and the bundt was born again, in its new country. (We think he added the t on the end in order to copyright the name).

Sales were slow and steady - until Ella Helfrich from Texas placed second in the 17^th Annual Pillsbury Bake-off in 1966 with her Tunnel of Fudge cake, baked in Nordic Ware’s bundt tin. Kapow! Demand took off, and they have now produced seventy million bundt pans. Seventy million.

There are now many variations on the original high-shouldered, fluted design, but all have the central tube.  Mine is called the Jubilee, a pattern of crenellated ridges, diamonds and rings that look beyond architectural, as if created by AI.

 It’s adorable, but it initially freaked me out, because I thought I’d never be able to remove the cake from such a vicious playground of shapes.

Well, the cake practically threw itself out of the tin when I turned it upside down. The metal conducts and holds the heat so well, that the cake gently pushes itself away from the sides when ready, without over-cooking.

I stuck with a simple recipe for this post, to reduce the variables, but am longing to use it in the depths of winter for something dark and sticky and brooding; something gingerbready with golden syrup; very Game of Throneshish.

Also something savoury, like a golden, polenta-crusted cornbread. And how could you look at that cake tin and not see a magnificent jelly mould? You’d have to be dead.

THE BUNDT TIN, A USER’S GUIDE.

If you’re new to having a bundt in the oven, then brush up on usage tips here. The main thing I learned from my due diligence was to prep properly for best results. Brush the insides extremely nerdily with butter, and then dust lightly with flour and shake off the excess – this helps to define the edges and angles.

Once you have filled it three-quarters full of batter, gently tap the cake tin on the counter, to burst any air bubbles in the batter. Twice, I made a note to do this, and twice, I forgot. If you look closely at the iced cake pic, you can see tiny little air holes in the crenellated edges. Annoying.

If you feel newly enamoured of cake tins, welcome to the club, and here is some lovely cake tin exotica – or do I mean erotica – to fuel your passion, from Williams Sonoma. There is also an Australian Nordic Ware site here. (Which I am in no way connected with commercially, I just have a thing about them).

I now feel the need to fill a gaping hole in my inventory with a cylindrical date and nut loaf tin. Oh, the cakes I will bake! (But I can wait until Christmas, thanks Tony and Lois).

HONEY, GINGER AND LEMON BUNDT CAKE

• 250 g butter, room temperature

• 200 g castor sugar

• 2 tbsp honey

• 4 x 60 g eggs, room temperature

• 250 g self-raising flour

• Grated zest of 1 lemon

• 2 tsp ground ginger (powder)

• Half tsp sea salt, crushed

• 2 tbsp lemon juice

• 3 tbsp milk

Glaze:

• 100 g icing sugar

• 1 tbsp ginger or similar marmalade

• 2 tbsp lemon juice

Heat the oven to 175C. Steal 1 tsp of the butter to melt in a small pan and use to brush the inside of the bundt tin, getting right into every corner to prevent sticking.  Lightly dust with a little of the plain flour and shake off any excess.

Cream the butter and sugar well - until ribbons form -- for about 5 minutes.

Add the honey and beat until just combined, then add the eggs one by one, beating until just combined, scraping down the sides of the bowl as necessary.

Add the lemon zest, ginger, sea salt, and lemon juice to the batter and beat until combined.

Sift half the flour over the top and fold in gently, then add the milk, and fold in, followed by remaining flour, folding in no more than is necessary.

Spoon the batter into the prepared cake tin, and smooth the top. Gently tap the cake tin on the counter, to pop any air-holes in the batter.

Bake on the middle rack for 45 minutes or until an inserted skewer comes out clean.

Leave the cake in the tin for 10 minutes, then gently turn out onto a wire rack to cool.

To make the icing, place the icing sugar in a bowl, make a well in the centre, add the marmalade and 2 tbsp lemon juice and whisk or beat until smooth. Add lemon juice by the teaspoon until you have a nice drizzling consistency.

Drizzle the glaze over the cooled cake, allowing it to drip down the sides, and leave to set.  

Cut into wedges and serve. Store in an airtight container.

#  If you use fridge-cold eggs, the batter may curdle as the butter won’t be able to emulsify properly – don’t worry, the flour will bring it all back together.

#  No need to add a glaze if you don’t want to – just dust with icing sugar.

#  You’re going to ask me if you can bake this cake in a regular pan aren’t you? Yes, of course. Use a 20 cm spring form cake tin, and bake for 50 to 55 minutes or until an inserted skewer comes out clean.

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Thanks for dropping by! And as always, thanks for your comments and suggestions. Special thanks to Terry for suggesting that a glass of Limoncello on ice would go well with a big slice of honey, lemon and ginger cake after dinner. It did.

I would also like to acknowledge the traditional owners of the lands and waters upon which I work, live, cook and play; the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation, and pay my respects to Elders past and present, and to the continuing strength and resilience of First Nations people, communities and cultures.