I made a Ghirardelli cake last night, from scratch. It turned out superb. (Except for the fact that I waited almost too long to take it out of the pans, so it looks like a five-year-old made it. But I have a rep for being a talented baker, so our guests will know it tastes better than it looks.)
The recipe, including the frosting, called for:
4 oz. each of two different kinds of chocolate
4 eggs
2 1/2 sticks of butter
2 cups granulated sugar
3 cups powdered sugar
1 cup buttermilk
2/3 cup regular milk.
A little while ago, Mr. Rilch and I were watching some Memorial Day programming, and I realized something: I could never have made this cake during WWII, at least not on a whim. In America it could have been done by saving up ration tickets, or by getting our guests to contribute (can you imagine doing that today? “Come over to our place on Sunday…oh, and bring eggs!”) but that would have meant some pretty thin breakfasts before and afterwards. In Britain, it would have been virtually impossible, because even if all the coupons could have been garnered, the butter might have been rancid or the eggs might have had embryos.
So I hereby express my sympathy to all those on the home front who used it up, wore it out, made it do and did without. And of course, my gratitude to all the veterans who made the world safe for unlimited sugar and dairy products.