This article is taken from the December-January 2026 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Get five issues for just £25.
Here’s a good challenge for the Christmas quiz. Guess what this could be: in 1917 the US Navy ordered a new-fangled piece of machinery for three recently constructed battleships.
Later, this indispensable contribution to the weapons of war became standard issue on all US Navy ships. Its presence eased work for those below decks, and enhanced life for those above. And it has continued to help, not just within the armed forces, but in civvy street, too.
Its design has changed little through the years, and it is estimated that there are currently over 50 million of these contraptions in use worldwide.
Guess no further: it is the KitchenAid food mixer. Born in the US of A. Reassuringly expensive — Fortnum’s have a nifty-looking bespoke copper and duck-egg blue number for £799 — it may make an ideal Christmas present.
Mind you, as gifts go, it could be in the same category as a bread maker. Many a happy marriage has been sliced up over that one. But this iconic mixer has class: it has graced the kitchens of Julia Child, Martha Stewart, Henry Ford and, it is rumoured, the Prince and Princess of Wales.
Even I have one. Like the husband, it is elderly, but reliable. It sits heavily on the kitchen counter. At a moment’s notice and the flick of a switch it is ready to advance into battle. If mixers could talk, it would tell me it served in ’Nam.
It is, like all good warriors, eager to wage war on land and sea. It can do things I can merely dream of. This especially applies to the construction of the Genoese (or génoise) sponge, a cake of temperament and perversity which often defeats even the most experienced baker. Its creation has been credited to a 16th century Italian chef, Giobatta Cabona. He was obliged to whip it up at the behest of his employer, the Marchese Domenico Pallavicini, who was hosting a reception at the Spanish Court.
Giobatta’s kitchen must have had an abundance of strong-armed minions, or perhaps even a well-trained octopus, since vigorous and prolonged beating is essential. The cake contains no leavening agent except air.
Whisking over a bain-marie may help, but who wants to sweat in the kitchen? My advice is that unless you are intent on reducing bingo wings pronto, do not try this at home without an electric mixer. And yes, other brands are available.
But if you have the necessary equipment (scales are also essential), this is the ideal, proverbial showstopper. It is the cake to replace all those Christmassy sweet treats that lots of us do not like. Bah humbug to lumpen dried fruit concoctions that sit like a toad on the stomach, till the King’s speech is long over.
The sponge, whisper-light, has few ingredients: free-range eggs, which should be at room temperature, and flour finely sifted several times till it resembles the dainty ashes of a fairy. The eggs should then be beaten with caster sugar on the highest setting of whatever machine you favour.
This might take an age. Read a book or walk your dog. Lesser food mixers may canter clumsily across the counter, but my trusty beast remains solidly rooted to the spot and works its miracle without demur. With luck on your side, the eggs and sugar will become transformed into the lightest, heavenly mousse, leaving a trail like a frou-frou frill on a silk negligée.
But beware, a moment of angst follows: the fairy dust flour should be oh so delicately folded into the mixture, and the teeniest bit of melted butter discreetly slipped into the margins of the bowl. Not one molecule of air can be lost.
Then oven-wards, and with an eye on the timer, the cake emerges with a spring in its step and the merest shrinkage from the sides of the tin.
Once cooled on a rack, split it carefully so that you have two perfect halves. Stuff it as you will: whipped double cream, mascarpone, raspberries, lethal doses of Chambord, home-brewed sloe gin or, as I did with my prize-winning cake at our village’s flower and produce show, Eton Mess. Sorry to brag!
And there we go — the battle is over and won. Christmas cake and pudding doubled up in a jiffy (it freezes brilliantly), with amusing quizzes to throw at Aunt Dahlia. All you have to do now is fling the turkey in the oven, and pretend you like your Christmas presents.
