These Norwegian Gold cupcakes (or cake!) with sour cream ganache frosting have been in our family since I can remember. They’re my go-to for my own birthday and that of our newly minted teenager. 🙂
Editor’s note: Holy moly, I first published this post on September 29, 2009 for the 5th birthday of the wonderful girl who just turned 13 yesterday. I’ve updated the photos and the recipe format but left everything else as-is. We made these yesterday, of course. Hope you love them as much as we do.
A week ago today was my 33rd birthday. I’m writing that down because already I can hardly remember. The day was relaxed and lovely. Lunch with an old friend, a little self-centered shopping, a whole lot of dinner. (Yup, I’ve tried hard to set my birthday excitement quotient at a level I can sustain until I’m 103.)
Dinner started with a flute of bubbly, sipped between bites of Taleggio and prosciutto on thin slices of baguette. It meandered through a truly unsustainable amount of sushi on its way to the world’s best cupcakes. These cupcakes come all the way from Norway and are made of solid gold. Okay, no, those are lies. But the recipe has shepherded our family through an average of three birthday parties a year for the past 28 years, which is more cupcakes than I’d care to count. It uses an unusual mixing method—creaming the butter with the flour for five minutes to get things started—which is everything you’ve ever heard about what not to do with cake. But the results are so spectacular that I’ve never been able to understand why anyone would bother to make any other kind of cake ever, except that maybe they don’t have this recipe. Well, now you do. And with that sort of urgency at stake, it’s about time I’ve gotten around to sharing it.
So I think that in view of the food if nothing else, you’ll believe me when I say that I am trying to remember my birthday. It’s just that a lot has happened since then. A 36-hour trip to California, a fifth birthday and a lesson in the importance of sticking your neck out, to name a few highlights before I pass out for three weeks.
Up there is my gorgeous sister Allison, of Parisian coffee and poultry confusion fame. She up and joined me on my whirlwind trip to San Francisco this weekend, because she’s the kind of person who would do that for me. Probably for you, too. Also, she’s always wanted to fly to California just for dinner. The trip got off to an auspicious start from a culinary perspective when the airport security personnel asked the guy in line in front of us whether he had any electronics in his baggage.
“I have a sandwich,” he answered.
“A sandwich?” said the agent, in his best what-kind-of-terrorist-are-you voice. “Sandwiches are not electronic.”
Still, Allison reminded me upon takeoff to please stow my tray-table and turn off my sandwich.