Treats for Rainy Days

Here in Uruguay, when it rains, they have torta frita (fried cake). I suppose that to compensate the wet, they treat themselves with a dry and sweet craving. It's defined by the hole it has in the center, made to facilitate the cooking (or better, the birth): the belly button.

If it's going to be about tortas (cakes), we also have thetorta arena (sand cake). From a confusing origin, German or Austrian (Sandkuchen), the torta arena has that name because when you cut into it it collapses in grains, down the dish, hopeless. The Uruguayan recipe is prepared with flour, water, fat and salt, unlike the Argentinian one which also has yeast.

The pasta frola, on the other hand, is more gentle on the compact. It allows you to cut it without dissolution. From a humble background (just flour, eggs, fat and sugar), it climbs to the highest dressed up in quince, it's most common filling. It can also be found with dulce de leche, the maximmum exponent of this South, or with sweet potatoe. It's no secret this one was Cortázar's favourite, since it shares patriotism with Argentina. Here it is one of his tales. Lets see if we provoque, suddenly, torta frita craving:

"I don't know anymore, look, how terribly it rains. I rains all the time, outside thick and grey, here against the balcony with set and hard teardrops, which make plaf and smash like slaps one after the other, how sick. Now a little drop shows at the top of the window's frame; it remains shaking against the sky which tears it into a thousand dull sparkles, it grows and wobbles, it's going to fall now and it doesn't, not yet. It's fasten with every nail, it doesn't want to fall and you can see it's grabbing it with its teeth, while its belly grows; it's already a really big drop which hangs majesticly, and suddenly zup, there it goes, plaf, undone, nothing, a viscosity on the marble.

But there are the ones which commit suicide and surrender quickly, they emerge out of the frame and throw themselves just there; I think I can see the jump's vibration, its little legs coming off and the shout that gets them drunk in that nothing of falling and annihilate.
Sad drops, round innocent drops. Good bye drops.
Goodbye".

The Smashing of the Drops
, Julio Cortázar