Happy/not-so-happy Election Day! But definitely happy inaugural “Where in the World is Anna Ansari?” newsletter. This month I’ve focused on America and a (once-not-so-)little something called an “election cake.” Obviously, it’s a stressful and anxious time for Americans and many across the globe; I hope this not-so-short piece gives you a well-deserved break from whatever is going through your mind today. I’ll be back in your inboxes in two weeks with something far more lighthearted and short, and in a month will take you to Britain….Scotland specifically and talk about some tasty soups.
In the meantime, it’s Election Day in America and right here too. Bon courage! xx
I like to listen to Yoyo Ma and Artie Shaw when I write or study. “Songs from the Arc of Life” was basically the soundtrack to my book (the essays and headnotes, that is—the kitchen tunes are far more energetic if not raucous) and “Self Portrait” saw me through three years of law school and the New York Bar exam. I am writing this on Monday, November 4, 2024, and the soundtrack to this inaugural newsletter is CNN.
I can’t help it. My anxiety and worry kept me up last night until 2am. My brain couldn’t shut down, couldn’t shut off. Until, of course, it did, and I managed 5 hours of “rest”. Sigh. If I were someone who bit her nails, I would be biting my nails. Nonstop. They’d be raw. I’m a mess over the spectre of a Trump restoration. Just a mess. And maybe I shouldn’t have the tv on, maybe I should just turn it off and tune it out, but I can’t. I couldn’t even start writing this until I figured out how to access CNN in London (answer: Nord VPN, the CNN app and my dad’s Xfinity login). I’m going all in on American 24-hour cable news for the next couple of days; I’m going all America all over everybody’s ass and by “everybody,” I guess I just mean my cat, because he’s the only one here with me right now. Sorry, not sorry, Enzo. But maybe actual sorry to those of you reading this today, on Election Day, especially if you’re American and especially if you’re also in pieces over this terrifying political circus.
I just yelled at the tv. That’s where I am at. But it’s not helpful, is it? Watching tv and yelling as Asa Hutchinson isn’t going to move the political needle. Not one bit. But maybe my ballot chasing has. I’ve been doing that for the last week. I’m from Michigan which, if you’ve been following the news, is an important swing state. With a large African-American population, a huge amount of blue collar and union workers, as well as the largest number of Arab-Americans in the US, and majorly populous university towns, winning Michigan, one of the so-called “blue wall” Rust Belt states, is a legitimately big deal and possibly key to winning the entire election. For better or worse, the way our electoral college system operates means that every American’s vote is not created equal. My Michigan vote for Kamala is far more valuable than my sister’s vote in New York and my niece’s vote in California—A LOT more. Yes, Michigan, the feeling’s forever..and I will forever be horrified that Trump won my home state in 2016 by just over 10,000 votes.
10,000 votes is not a lot of votes. It’s not a lot of voters. It’s a neighbor on your street sitting the election out. It’s a coworker getting to the polls too late in the evening or your boss giving up because the poll lines are too long. It’s your dentist forgetting to return their absentee ballot. 10,000 times. That’s it. That’s all it took to win Michigan in 2016 and, if the polls are to be believed, the race in Michigan is so close that, in 2024, once again, the state and its coveted 15 electoral college votes will go to the victor by the slimmest margin.
This year, that’s where I came in—absentee ballot chasing for a Michigan grassroots organization dedicated to both getting the vote out and getting Kamala into the White House. Even though I couldn’t be in the US, on the ground in Michigan this year, I had to do something, and so I did—virtually and enthusiastically. I completed my assignment and then chased ballots of kids I went to high school with and whom I haven’t seen in 25 years. “Hi so-and-so. I see you have received but not yet returned your absentee ballot. Will you please join me in voting for Harris/Walz, and returning your ballot before Election Day? Your closest drop box is located at xxxxx. Thanks so much and hope you are well! xx Anna” I got people to in Detroit return their ballots, from my computer in London. I wish I could have done more. I wish I could have been there in person. But, alas…
In 2016, jobless and childless, I decamped to my dad’s house and volunteered for Hillary at her campaign’s Southfield office. I called hundreds of voters, door-knocked, canvassed, chatted, rallied. I gave it my all. I was so excited. I was so enthusiastic. I was so incredibly hopeful. The morning of the election, I rolled up to the Bloomfield Township Clerk’s office and joyfully, proudly cast my vote for the first ever female president of the United States before hopping a plane to NYC to celebrate with my family and friends (and then Hillary herself, at her glass-ceiling breaking victory party at the Javits Center to which I had tickets.)
In addition to laying out a gorgeous array of cheese and champagne at her midtown apartment, my sister, who is an extraordinary, Cordon Bleu-trained baker, had baked a shit ton of cakes. But I paid them very little attention, and I certainly didn’t have a slice. We all know what happened. November 8, 2016 was not a night for cake. It was a night for tears. And screams. Incredulity. Outrage. Disbelief. Anger. Despair. I climbed into bed at 5am and finally woke from that nightmare in November 2020 when CNN called the election for Biden.
That night in 2016 was the first time I ever heard of an “election cake.” I only vaguely remember Sara saying she was baking cakes for our gathering for some equally vague historical reason, but I honestly didn’t give “election cakes” another thought until recently—when I started plotting this newsletter. [Frankly, like many of us, I prefer to not think about the trauma of that night and the ensuing four years of hell….and maybe that collective amnesia is why polls are so close today. Oof.] Sara’s “election cake” spread included a meringue roulade, a tres leches cake, lemon curd tarts and some jammy biscuit/scone-looking baby numbers, all beautifully, artfully styled and decorated. Unsurprisingly, it turns out the “election cakes” of yore weren’t daintily decorated with flowers-- or, as I have not-so-gracefully done, covered with red, white and blue sprinkles and vanilla frosting. (Scroll down to the next cake photo if you want to see what my old-school, albeit sprinkle-covered, “election cake” looks like…..it does not resemble the ones Sara laid out for us that fateful night.) But historical accuracy, be damned! It’s the 21st century and the Ansari sisters’ election cakes, unlike the originals of 18th century New England, not only get snazzy toppings, but also—we bake them in ovens, in our heated homes that have electricity, running (clean) water and from recipes we found on a magical virtual superhighway known as “the internet.”
Early American election cake bakers were not only without internet, but also, at the very start, elections themselves! Oh yes—lest we forget, there was a king back then-- that British dude, George, from whom my ancestors not-so-ceremoniously-but-oh-so-victoriously freed themselves and their fellow would-be Americans—and under whose authority able-bodied men in colonial, pre-Revolutionary New England were summoned to towns for military training. They called this “mustering,” and the women in the towns upon which these mustered men descended called the cakes they baked to feed the hungry troops-in-training “muster cakes.”
Heavily laden with booze, fruits and warm spices, these leavened “muster cakes” evolved into “election cakes,” as the British colonies evolved into a new nation in which democracy was championed and voting was celebrated. And, of course, if you were one of the chosen few (aka a white male landowner), you got to vote! And woman and slaves got to bake you cakes! Viva democracy! Am I right, ladies?
In all seriousness though, elections in the newly established United States of America were multi-day fetes and, despite the ickiness I feel about the narrow sliver of population granted the right vote in early America, were indeed something worth celebrating. Monarch no more! We won! The great American experiment came to life. And it was groundbreaking, beautiful and inspirational. And it came with cake-- cake handed out by wives who wanted passerby to support their husband’s preferred candidate (or, gasp!, their own) at the ballot box, cakes whose consumption was encouraged alongside alcohol and days of joyous revelry, cakes which gave sustenance to voters who had travelled far to express their constitutional right to vote, to participate, to shape and to be a part of their country. Let them eat cake, indeed. Big. Huge. Cakes.
Check this recipe out. Written by Amelia Simmons and published in her 1796 cookbook American Cookery, the first ever written recipe for election cake is a BEAST
Look at this thing! One pint of wine. TWELVE pounds of raisins. Thirty QUARTS of flour. 36 fucking eggs. I can’t even contemplate the size of this thing, and I was certainly not about to try to recreate it in 2024, not even a scaled down version. What I did bake two days ago though, is Fannie Farmer’s election cake recipe, from a 1965 version of her late 18th century Boston Cooking School Cookbook that I picked up at an estate sale in Michigan earlier this year.
It's kind of tasty. It’s not a looker. A little too boozy for my liking, but I’m not against it. My neighbors enjoyed it. And I can see why hungry New England voters in the 18th century would have appreciated a slice or two. It’s just not my cup of tea. Even with a cup of tea. Whether I liked it or not is irrelevant to me, though. No, what really strikes me about election cakes is not how they taste or how many pints of wine they contain; why I wanted to bake one (or two, as it were) and why I thought this dish and this country would be a good place for us to start our international journey through food together, is the feeling of solidarity I have with those early American bakers.
I’m here on my couch in London in 2024, chasing Michigan ballots from overseas, trying to do the best that I can to help democracy, freedom and the future of my country. I’ve been doing the only things I can, within the limits of my physical possibilities. I like to image that the women (and/or enslaved men and women) who baked early American election cakes weren’t only doing so to be kind or good hostesses or wives, but because baking these cakes was the only form of political participation available to them—because they too loved their country and the ideals for which it stood, even if they were sidelined by gender and/or race realities of the time. Maybe, like me, they were just doing what they could, within the limits of their physical possibilities, to help democracy, freedom and the future of their country.
I mean, maybe I’m projecting too much on them. I don’t know. I don’t even care. I do know that women have used cooking and baking and housework as forms of agency and power for centuries, when they have had no other outlet or means of expression, so I am ok with imagining and hoping that my projections held true for at least some of the early American election cake bakers.
I like to say that I’m the most American person I know. My mother’s family came over on the Mayflower—one ancestor was the governor of Plymouth Colony and, generations later, another was one of George Washington’s personal bodyguards. When my father was in his late 20s, he moved to the United States in 1964 from Iran. Barely speaking any English, my dad made a successful, fruitful life for himself in America in a way he never could have in Iran. American dreams. On both sides. First and many generations back. I do believe we are better than Trump. I have to. And I have to hope that this year, when it’s all over, I’ll enjoy a slice of victory cake. If that’s not the case, at least I know I have done what I could do, within the realm of my physical possibilities….and made a good cake too.
Anna’s Election Cake:
Head’s up: this is not a quick bake. Like early American elections, this cake is a multi-day affair so plan accordingly. Frankly, though, it’s looking like we aren’t going to have the results of today’s election today, so if you start the cake now, you might be able to enjoy (or cry over) a slice by the time we finally know who’s won.
PLEASE DEAR LORD DO NOT LET IT BE TRUMP.
PLEASE WHITE WOMEN AND AFRICAN-AMERICANS-- SAVE US ALL AS YOUR ANCESTORS ONCE SAVED PEOPLE WITH THEIR OLD-TIMEY ELECTION CAKES.
If you give the Fannie Farmer recipe a Google, you’ll see that I’ve written mine in the same style. For shits and giggles, and also a delicious cake.
Put in a bowl
240ml (1 cup) warm water
Sprinkle over it
1 7g package active dry yeast
Add
1 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
350g (2.5 cups) plain white flour
Beat thoroughly, cover, and let rise overnight or at least 6 hours.
Soak
300g (2 cups) dried cranberries or cherries in
240ml (1 cup) whisky or rum overnight or for at least 30 minutes.
Butter 3 loaf tins or a 10cup Bundt pan.
Cream
225g (1 cup) unsalted butter, at room temperature
Cream in
400g (2 cups) light brown sugar
Add
4 eggs, well beaten and at room temperature
Stir in
1 tablespoon grated orange rind
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 tsp almond extract
Sift together
185g (1½ cups) plain white flour
1 ½ teaspoons baking soda
2 tsp cinnamon
1 ½ tsp ground nutmeg
½ tsp ground coriander
¼ tsp ground black pepper
¼ tsp ground cloves
Add to the butter mixture.
Add the soaked berries and their liquid.
Stir everything into the yeast batter and beat to blend well. Divide the dough into the tins or tip into the Bundt pan. Cover and let rise 1 hour.
Bake about 1 hour at 180°C (160C fan/350°F/Gas 4). Let cool.
Mix together until your desired constituency
165g (5¾oz) icing sugar
½ tsp almond extract
½ tsp vanilla extract
110g (3¾oz) Greek yogurt.
Drizzle or paint over your cooled cake.
Top with
Extra zested orange rind
Toasted flaked almonds or
A catastrophic amount of red, white and blue sprinkles.
Eat your cake. Hope your candidate won. As long as your candidate isn’t/wasn’t Trump.
