
Chef Juliana
Biscoito de Polvilho Assado
You think this is bakery magic. It isn't. Scald sour cassava starch, beat in eggs, pipe rings, and let a hot oven crack them into crisp, hollow biscuits.
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You don't need a grandmother from Minas whispering secrets into the bowl. You need cups, spoons, a blender, and the nerve to believe cake is something a gente learns.
You hear "bolo de fubá" and somewhere inside comes that little voice: isso não é pra mim. Mineira grandmother cake, coffee cake, the kind that seems to arrive already perfect on somebody else's table. Good. Let's take that myth by the collar. Cake isn't a gift, it's a sequence. Measure, blend, bake, check. Cozinhar não é dom, é um aprendizado.
I love this cake because it sits exactly where Brazilian home cooking lives: after the pê-efe, after rice and beans and something green, when the coffee appears and someone cuts a square without ceremony. It's not fancy. It's not trying to be. It's comida de verdade made from pantry things, fubá, eggs, milk, oil, sugar, the kind of food that tells a house, yes, a gente still cooks here.
The method is almost embarrassingly kind. The blender hydrates the fubá so the cake bakes tender instead of sandy. The oil keeps it moist for tomorrow, because a good weekday cake should survive breakfast. The baking powder goes in last and briefly, because once it wakes up, it wants the oven, not a long chat on the counter.
You'll bake it until the top is golden, the edges pull back a little, and a toothpick comes out with a few moist crumbs. Not wet batter. Not dry dust. Anota aí: that's the difference between a recipe that works and a cake you apologize for. We're not apologizing today.
Bolo de fubá is strongly tied to Minas Gerais and the broader interior of Brazil, where corn and cassava-based preparations were everyday staples long before wheat flour became common in home kitchens. The word fubá comes through African languages used in Brazil to describe a fine meal or flour, and in Brazilian cooking it came to mean finely ground cornmeal. Some Mineira versions include cheese or fennel, but the plain blender cake became a twentieth-century home classic because it is cheap, quick, and made from ingredients many households already had.
Quantity
1 cup
Quantity
1 cup
Quantity
1 1/4 cups
Quantity
1 cup
Quantity
3 large
Quantity
1/2 cup
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
1/2 teaspoon
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
as needed
for greasing the pan
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| fine yellow cornmeal (fubá mimoso) | 1 cup |
| all-purpose flour | 1 cup |
| sugar | 1 1/4 cups |
| whole milk | 1 cup |
| eggs | 3 large |
| neutral oil | 1/2 cup |
| baking powder | 1 tablespoon |
| fine salt | 1/2 teaspoon |
| fennel seeds (optional) | 1 teaspoon |
| butter and cornmeal or flourfor greasing the pan | as needed |
Heat the oven to 180°C (350°F). Butter a 22 cm round pan or a medium loaf pan, then dust it with cornmeal or flour and tap out the excess. You want a thin, even coat, because this cake is tender and needs help releasing cleanly instead of leaving half its golden crust glued to the pan.
In a bowl, stir together the fubá, flour, salt, and fennel seeds if using. Break up any little lumps with your fingers. This small step spreads the salt and cornmeal evenly, so one bite doesn't taste flat while another tastes like the bottom of the measuring cup.
Put the milk, eggs, oil, and sugar in the blender. Blend for 30 seconds, until the mixture looks pale, smooth, and a little foamy. This dissolves the sugar and breaks up the eggs properly, which gives you an even crumb without making you stand there pretending whisking is a personality.
Add the dry mixture to the blender in two additions, pulsing just until the batter is smooth. Scrape the sides if you need to. Stop once you don't see dry streaks. The blender helps the fubá drink in the milk, which is why the cake bakes soft instead of sandy, but over-blending after the flour goes in can make the crumb tough.
Add the baking powder and pulse 2 or 3 times, only until mixed. That's enough. Baking powder starts working as soon as it meets the wet batter, so don't beat it to death and don't let the batter wait around while you look for the pan you should have prepared first. I say this with love and personal shame.
Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 35 to 45 minutes, depending on the pan. Look for a golden top, edges pulling slightly from the sides, and a toothpick that comes out with a few moist crumbs. If it comes out wet, keep baking. If it comes out dusty and dry, it went too far. The cake keeps cooking a little as it cools.
Let the cake rest in the pan for 10 minutes, then turn it out or slice it right there if it's a weekday and nobody is inspecting your manners. Serve warm or room temperature with coffee. The crumb should be yellow, tender, lightly sweet, and sturdy enough to hold in your hand without falling apart.
1 serving (about 90g)
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Chef Juliana
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