[First ever grown up tree, December 2011.]

The end of the calendar year is so close I can hear it tip-toeing behind me as it gently (or not-so) hurries me along into 2012. 2012. I’m trying to remember December 2001, ten years ago, and what I was planning for the holidays that year. I think we were still walking around in a blind daze, pointed only toward the turning into a new year that was going to be better, would have to be. Or December 1991 — I was in eighth grade, right? Probably my afternoons were taken up with basketball practice and my nights with piano lessons and homework. (That was so very long ago. I never imagined the things that have happened in between then and now.)

Sometimes it seems life rushes by so quickly it leaves us hardly an extra moment to catch our breathes. The holiday season is a perfect illustration of such. Cards — do/mail. Cakes — make/bake. Presents — find/wrap. And on and on.

But a way to s-l-o-w down the days, or at least to create a space to savor them, is to throw a party. And so on Saturday afternoon, we invited a mix of old and new friends, relatives, and little kids over to eat, drink, and enjoy the sunshine that spilled irrepressibly into our apartment from the moment we woke up at 8a (or so) ’til dusk settled in for the night.

[Part of the spread, December 2011.]

We ate a lot of things, some of which included

phyllo-vegetable cups
an enormous cheese plate with gluten-free crackers and Acme breads
hummus and carrots
caramelized onion + mushroom pizza squares
chocolate + dried fruit + nut candies
cheesecakes with gingersnap crust
a nutmeg-spice cake (and an apple cake)
flourless chocolate cake bites
butter and jam cookies
gingerbread cookies (aptly decorated by the little girls)

I poured bubbly and sparkly lemon water in equal measure, accidentally stirred still water into the cranberry-orange punch (oooops! — said with a very Rick Perry-like smirk, except that actually I felt rather dumb) but it still tasted nice, and thrilled to see all the little treats I’d prepared be happily eaten … nay, devoured. How I like to feed people, it’s true.

Alas I was too busy putting out more smoked salmon and crackers and such to take any decent photos, though I did lug out my big camera to snap a few shots here and there. That seems to be my life lately — I want to capture everything around me but more often than not I have just a few moments in between pulling a tray of cookies out of the oven and dishing up a sort of ersatz risotto of long grain brown rice and a medley of vegetables and cheddar cheese (topped with a fried egg) before shoveling it into my mouth and starting on my holiday cards. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: thank goodness for the iphone (and Instagram), even if the pictures aren’t quite as pretty as I might like them to be …

But anyway, the main thing is the recipes, no? And I have a lovely one today: for a buttery, tender, jammy cookie I made mostly to showcase that blackberry jam I canned this summer. The jam is delicious: not-too-sweet, nice and seedy the way I like it, full of whole and partly smashed-up berries. But the surprise was the cookie base, which, made with good-tasting butter, proved slightly addictive, especially when eaten Sunday afternoon with a cup of tea after the scrubbing the apartment within an inch of its formerly dusty baseboarded self.

So I know you might not have your own homemade jam for these cookies, and that’s just fine. Any berry jam will do (note: recipe for cranberry jam coming soon, as soon as I … err … take a proper photo of the jars I canned last week, and that would be wonderful here). These cookies, I will admit, did not turn out to be the most beautiful cookies I’ve ever baked, but man were they good. Lush with butter and plushy with sugar, they’re decadent little bites of holiday goodness with a hint of the summer’s long-harvested bounty. Sit down with one and you may even be transported back to August — remember August? It was warm and sunny, the perfect weather for lake-swimming –, and that glorious summer feeling, reminding us that indeed it’s possible to slow down for a moment even in these hectic days of baking, card-making, parties, and all else.

Tuck them into your cookie tins or bring a plate in to work for the office party and watch them work their magic. Or just keep them on your table at home, sneaking one or two in between stamping envelopes and swilling tea in an effort to stay awake. It’s the last push ’til the new year. These will help.

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[Blackberries, Sebastopol, September 2011.]

This past week or so has involved lots of blackberries. Loads. Some I didn’t pick and many I did, and I still have the scratches to prove it. There were also huckleberries, which are more time-consuming to gather but less prickly, as well as three chickens roasted by me, but I will save the diatribe about the vegetarian cooking meat yet again for another time. Let’s just say I am much less squeamish about it than I used to be and am reminded again that nights when I get to cook good, healthy, happy-making food for others are the best nights, whether or not I actually eat all of the food I make. (Also, I now have a really delicious — I heard — and reliable recipe for a roasted chicken.)

Anyway, hello. It’s September. (It’s September???) It’s September, absolutely. And despite a 5:45 a.m. wake-up this morning, despite a terribly long, terribly foggy bus ride in from Sonoma County, the sun is shining in San Francisco today, I have had a deliciously strong Blue Bottle coffee from Jackson Place Cafe, and I think/hope I will be able to get through the rest of the day in one piece so that I can go home, bake chocolate cupcakes, and fling myself onto the couch to watch the Giants game before crawling into bed early.

Oh, lovely bed …

September means apples and blackberries — to pick, to eat, to jam or sauce, to bake with, to can. There are currently 100 or so tiny apples from the tree stored in my parents’ extra fridge (as an aside, I was glad to see this story in last week’s New York Times, the one I’ve been wanting to write for years, about the plight of the Gravensteins in my beloved home town) to be incorporated into a major event next month, and 80 small jars of blackberry jam neatly stacked in a closet in Inverness. I have about 20 more to go but I also think I have enough berries to manage it. I guess you could say I’m feeling good about the blackberries. (And the apples, but in the interest of the sanity I’m skipping the applesauce-making for now.)

Blackberry picking can seem daunting initially — the thorny vines, the hunting for fully ripe berries, the balancing on tiptoes to grab as many as you can — but it’s also somewhat meditative. It’s repetitive work, but because it’s not my everyday job (which is also repetitive) it doesn’t get too boring; because I’ve chosen to undertake the task it’s more fun than excruciating, which might be the word I’d use to describe it if I relied on berry-picking to pay my rent. Funny how that works. However, I will note that I will never complain at paying x for a basket of berries at the farmers’ market ever again. There’s a lot of time that goes into those pretty displays of fruit.

Out here in Northern California, the summer of 2011, we picked along the coast in Bolinas (foggy) and made friends with the horses at the farm there; we picked along the Inverness ridge (hot); we picked along the bike trail in Sebastopol late on a Sunday afternoon (sunny and just cool enough). We picked with adults and we picked with kids and I’ll go out on a limb here to profess that I think mostly everyone had a good time (the key is to quit before you get too tired/distracted). I estimate we picked about 20 pounds of blackberries in total, though as I am awful about measuring and also about being precise with recipes it’s difficult to say for sure. But — there were a lot of berries that went into the freezer. A lot.

Later, I turned all those berries into jam — masses of it. Me being me, I fretted over how well it was setting or if I’d have enough or if cutting down on the sugar was a good idea or if the mess all those berries made whilst they were cooking down was worth it. But I forged on anyhow — I poured and sealed and processed and tried to let the worry go. (To address the fretting: it set great once it cooled, cutting down on the sugar was a fantastic idea, and messes can be cleaned with just a little bit of extra effort.) I may be slightly crazy, but looking at my jars of jam marshaled into gleaming rows gives me an incredible sense of accomplishment, even if most (all) will be given away. Much like cooking meat, it’s about the doing of it rather than the actual eating of it that makes me happy.

[Breakfast, September 2011.]

Still — and I must honest even if it’s a bit of a brag — that jam tastes darned good, especially on toasted challah bread smeared with a little butter and alongside a 12 oz., double-shot americano from Hardcore Espresso (my new drink, dontcha know);.

[In Sebastopol, September 2011.]

One month ago we were in Yosemite — one month! It’s hard to fathom. I barely caught my breath before going on to the next thing but such is life. I am fortunate mine is made up of so many cooking projects (I cooked not a few good meals during the last week, as well as baked a gorgeous loaf of banana-cocoa bread among other things in addition to all that jam) and walks through the fields and swims in the pool downtown and good company around the table. The little things, of course, but as I’ve mentioned too many times to count, the little things are the ones that last. But they’re also fleeting — just like blackberries. You’ve got to catch hold of them while you can.

Things to do with blackberries:

Eat with Greek yogurt!
Turn into a vegan crumble
Fold into lemon cake
Incorporate into a summer fruit cobbler
Or

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**Canning/preserving instructions are available widely and will be further detailed by me at a later date … but if you choose to preserve the jam, it’s not that difficult (truly).

The cure for anything is salt water – sweat, tears, or the sea. ~ Isak Dinesen

The other night at the gym I was grumpily pounding (or rather, lightly treading) away at the elliptical machine watching some mindless show or other, thinking about chocolate cake and baking with molasses (perhaps not at the same time, however), and just feeling good to sweat a bit, when I realized that I am not a very patient person. I try, truly I do — it seems each year one of my personal resolutions goes something along the lines of cultivate patience — but it’s hard for me. I can take a setback, but not for very long. I can have a cold, but I will still work and play and move through it. I get irritated if I can’t; it’s not really a word I entertain very often. Which perhaps is a good thing?

Anyway, as I sweated and pondered Sarah Jessica Parker’s dubious choices in footwear and thought about chocolate cake, and about baking with molasses, contemplated my impatience and wished to be anywhere else, the other, resounding thought that lately growls at the back of my mind was: I want to run.

Oh — I really, really do.

For the past six weeks or so (actually I know exactly how long it’s been: since June 19, when I ran 12 miles in less than two hours up and down the hilly backroads of Sebastopol through a sunny early morning) I haven’t run much. Sure I’ve gritted through a few six-milers here and there as well as one particularly awful 10-miler way back at the beginning of July because see above about impatience and inability to sit still and also denial, but for the most part I’ve been not running. It’s been … an experience.

See — I run. I run. Running is a part of me, inextricable from my blood and bones. It’s not just a thing I do; I rarely let a week go by without a run, and most weeks I run at least four times, in varying distances of four to sixteen miles (often much less, but you know). I run for health, mental, physical, and spiritual; I run to get outside; I run to feel good; I run to sweat and to feel better; I run to feel strong; I run simply to be: in the moment, outside, through fog and sun both.

I guess running’s kind of my thing. It has stood me through many years and many moves and many continents and coasts, my constant and my familiar. This spring I had a resurgence of energy and was running better than I have in years, and was on track to run a half-marathon at the end of July here in San Francisco (this past weekend, sob!) in less than two hours (small confession: I actually was planning to run the full marathon. Yes, I am nuts. But …!). I was cramming in 10-milers after work and sort of wishing I had time for more. It felt good. It felt damned good. I was racking up the miles and chasing faster times and on some days it like I was flying. It was sort of amazing.

But, you know. I probably was pushing it a bit too much. Then I foolishly ran in worn-out shoes (be you not like me, please, I beg you) and gave myself the worst case of shin splints I’ve ever experienced. I could barely walk, let alone run. I even went to a doctor! (I never go to doctors.) He, also a runner, told me I’d nearly given myself a stress fracture and hurt my poor muscles so badly I’d need to take at least a month off (though he, the lovely man that he is, did grimace in sympathy as he told me this). And so I have been not-running — not even for the bus! I am dutifully icing and ‘taking it easy’ and doing the gym thing and grinning and bearing it (sorta) but let me tell you: this is hard. Yes, it’s ‘only’ a couple months, but ask any runner what he or she feels when running is off the table for awhile and no doubt you will receive the same answer: I am going slightly crazy. I miss it. It is a daily absence. Also: whinge x 100.

So what to do? Turn to the kitchen, of course. As a way to corral myself into being patient, distract myself from the not-running, and also to make up for some of the grumpiness pain and disruption of routine creates (and to which I’ve unfortunately subjected those around me), there’s been some baking. (OK, yes, fine — when is there not baking? Still.) I’ve baked with my left leg propped up on a chair to give it a break during the worst of it, and I’ve baked after a bike ride around the neighborhood (slight bonus to not-running: you are forced to explore other avenues, which for me means a bit of bike riding which, yeah. I’m going to be keeping that one up.) when I was feeling a little better. I’ve baked chocolate cakes and cookies and banana-cinnamon muffins and caramel cake and a pretty sweet cherry pie …

… which is my way of saying after all that moaning about: here’s a recipe for you, at long last, that I hope you’ll make this weekend. Wait — are cherries still even in season? If not, tuck it away for next summer. Because honestly, this is the most delicious, the most decadently summery pie I’ve ever made and I wish I had made it more than once. It eased the disappointment, smoothed over the non-running grump a bit, and, wonder of wonders, helped me cultivate some of that elusive patience I’m always wishing for (cherry pitting is not for the faint of heart, but put on some Gillian Welch and let your mind go. It’s oddly soothing.). I’m learning to pin it down with me to stay for awhile; hard when my body wants to gallop on ahead fecklessly. I’ve been dreaming of running lately, that it’s easy and swift again, and that I can go farther than even I ever did. Pitting cherries, making pie dough, sifting sugar — it helps me stay in the present moment. And I am learning to bide my time … mostly.

I’m heading off to the mountains today with some of my favorite people, to sleep out under the stars and breathe that clean, dry air and drink (filtered) water from snow-melt and cook outside every night and s-l-o-w down. Pictures and stories upon my return.

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[4th of July baking, July 2011.]

Suddenly, am obsessed with making pie. I’m not sure why this is exactly — maybe because it’s been so warm-hot here, and July just feels like it should be pie and cold glasses of unsweetened mint tea and maybe a scoop of vanilla ice cream, too — because I don’t really consider myself to be much of a pie person. There’s too much crust for me (and it’s really take-your-chances if the crust involved will be any good), the fruit’s hard to get right, the squidge factor, etc., etc. I will bake pie on occasion, sure, but it usually comprises an olive-oil crust and apples from the tree — simple and fine. Nothing much to write home about, though.

But did you know? It’s summer. It’s honest-to-god summer right now in San Francisco and I am soaking it in. The sun is shining in July! I keep expecting the fog to descend, as it usually does around this time of year, and have scarves at the ready just in case. But for these sweet, sweet moments all is bright, clear skies and short sleeve shirts and, though no-one is more surprised by this than myself, a need — nay, a compulsion! — to bake pie.

In truth, I haven’t baked a summer pie in a few years. The last time, a coworker had brought in piles of peaches and we were to have a lunch barbecue; I offered to make pie, of course. And — I failed fairly miserably at it, though my coworkers very nicely ate it all up and didn’t complain. Maybe in actuality it wasn’t that bad, but to me it was sub-par. The crust was a tad soggy, the peaches too sweet. All rather blah in general. So I sort of tucked away the idea pie-baking for awhile, though I will crank out a few serviceable apple or apple-pear pies around the holidays and even a pumpkin last November, all made with my trusty butter-free crust that rarely lets me down. A little whole-wheat pastry flour combined with white, a little olive oil, a little ice water and I’m golden.

Yet … uninspired.

Enter summer 2011 and I’ve been galvanized to tackle pie again — but this time I want it to be proper, stick-to-your ribs, summer fruity old-fashioned pie. Old-fashioned pie, to me, involves luscious fruit that bubbles and oozes as it bakes under a tender, flaky crust that shatters a bit when you cut into it and is lightly browned on top. It is never mushy. It will cool on the windowsill sending a tempting aroma throughout the house and woods, luring bears and black labs alike. It should bring to mind splintery picnic table benches and clear lake water and soft serve ice cream and lazy, hammocked afternoons reading in the shade. In a word, it’s summer.

After the spring’s flurry of cake-baking, somewhere in the back of my mind I vowed, darn it, that this would be the year I finally conquered pie once and for all — no underbaked crust, no half-arsed attempts at fancy fillings. Just simple, delicious, no-nonsense pie. What’s more, I would actually enjoy it. And it would have to be very good — good enoughthat I would want to eat more than one piece.

So, how to put this? Without much thinking about it, I baked a pie for the 4th of July that wildly surpassed all my expectations. It was not mushy. The crust was perfection! It was sweet but not-too, with rhubarb from the garden and beautifully ripe strawberries and a hint of cinnamon. There was a bad moment when I rolled out the dough and it stuck to the waxed paper I’d carefully put down on the counter (note to self: go for just the flour on counter trick, damn the clean-up later. It makes for a better rolling-out.) and I had to start again, but it all turned out fine. And yes: I would’ve had seconds but we’d eaten the whole thing — this, my first-ever strawberry rhubarb pie and my first real pie-baking in nearly three years.

I could quit while I’m ahead, I suppose, but rather am feeling completely the opposite. I cannot help but to envision my next attempts and am focused currently on the idea of cherry pie, latticed of course, that shall be served with lemon ice cream. I may bake one tonight, in fact. After all, right now it feels like summer both in spirit and in actuality. I We all deserve a treat.

See?

[Near the bay, July 2011.]

The weekend was: sun and bare feet and the dog and chasing chickens and lots of coffee at Toby’s. It was shorts and a swim in Tomales Bay even though it was cold, and clear skies from first thing in the morning ’til the last at night, hitting tennis balls on the lawn and drinking champagne on the deck just because, old friends and homemade pesto for dinner, and owl-watching as dusk came down through the trees, hearing their eerie screeches throughout the night.

It was magic.

So was this pie.

More, soon.

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Oh spring. Oh the lovely season. I just slipped out of work for 20 minutes to take advantage of the day and went directly to the park where I threw down my coat and stretched out like a cat in the sun, The grass was blazingly green. I listened to gulls screaming at each other high above as the fog began its slow whisping in; I heard the dull roar of a Coast Guard helicopter heading for the coast. I dozed for a few moments. I read a little Alice Munro. I watched the butterflies. It was terribly idyllic.

The weather turned last week and while I doubt it will last I’m soaking up every last drop of sun, of blue sky, of sea-swept wind. I realized last week I’ve lived in San Francisco for five years and I barely even noticed it, life has been so busy. Usually I take a minute to reflect, but this year I think it only necessary to say Thank g-d I moved. And, I love this place.

I love this place for many reasons, and one of those is coworkers who have orange trees in their backyards and who then bring those oranges in to the office to share. (Note: these weren’t even the oranges growing on the trees but the ones that had fallen off. A bounty of oranges! In the backyard! I think I’m moving to the East Bay.) I don’t usually like to eat oranges much; it’s such a gamble whether they’ll be juicy or deplorably wizened once you cut into them, plus the pith, plus the effort. But these … these were small miracles of brightness, sweet and full of flavor. I ate three in one afternoon — just eating them! I never do that. Another handful I took home and squeezed into juice for my Sunday morning breakfast.

As I drank, I felt lucky to live here, and lucky to have such generous friends.

Actually, that’s a lot of what I’m feeling lately: lucky. The word ticks away at the back of my mind even when I feel the wee-est bit stretched to my limit (deadlines? I gots ‘em!) and desperately needing a nap. But really — I’m lucky. I need to remember that.

And I am: up the street from me there are cypress that are old and bent with age and wind; the landscape of my childhood. If I run the 4-ish miles through the park I’ll be at the beach, and often there are lots of dogs. I can take the bus up north to home, my childhood house. I can slip across the bay on the ferry to Marin, over the hills and into the woods to a sweet black lab who very patiently allows me to hug him at whim. I can drive up to the mountains and the Yosemite Valley. (Going to the mountains is going home, according to John Muir. Indeed: yes.) I am lucky for good friends, for real love, for piles of books from the library, for rain often and sun oftener (the fog, which comes even oftener than those, I am not so lucky for), for plane tickets east, for making udon noodles on a Friday night and sliding into bed early to watch a movie, for drinking champagne on a Sunday afternoon.

So I guess I do need to mark time’s passing a bit after all, mostly just to say:

Dear California: thanks for five years. You’re awesome.

Yesterday I fell out of strange dreams to make tea, a fried egg sandwich, quinoa soup, read the NY Times, do laundry, think about homemade jam, drink lots of water, lace up my running shoes for what turned out to be a ridiculously long excursion (12! miles!). The sun was out from the moment I stepped out of bed ’til the moment I went back to it, shining along Ocean Beach and up the coast to Marin (I could tell) and bathing the city in that white-gold light that’s so endemic here and which I’ve not seen anywhere else in quite the same way.

Just before leaving the house I drank a glass of the orange juice from my friend’s oranges — it tasted like sun, like spring, like the weather right now. I know it’s the end of citrus season and I may have to wait another year to enjoy its like again but I feel — yes! — lucky I got to savor it while I did.

So: it’s April now. Spring. There’s asparagus everywhere. I saw some tiny strawberries at the market this weekend. The guy who sells eggs at my farmers’ market is graduating college and how nice that is. I forgot my coffee on the table when I bought radishes but it didn’t matter. Later, I thinly sliced those radishes and ate them along with peeled carrots, just dipping them gently into a little pile of sea salt. Bliss.

Did I mention — lucky? I’m going to catch hold of that feeling by its heels and hang on to it for as long as possible.

[Cake for Whitney, May 2009.]

Once, a few years ago, I had a long layover in Munich on the way back from Thessaloniki to Washington, DC. I wandered the airport in a fog of sleepiness and humidity (who knew Germany was so grey and hot in the summer?) and bought a sweater in Benetton on the euro that I ended up hardly ever wearing. I checked in early and looked for a place to eat — not a sandwich, as I’d had so many of those during the past few weeks (or at least, lots of cheese and bread) — but something sit-down and proper. I can’t remember exactly what I got (!) but it was delicious. I read my magazine and sipped a strong cup of coffee, and then I tucked into a slice of chocolate cake

What was so special about that cake? Nothing, probably — it was just chocolate, after all, topped with thick bittersweet ganache. But oh, did it taste so good to that weary traveler, already aching a bit for the Greece I’d just left.

Or maybe I was jetlagged?

Jetlag can do funny things to the brain. It can prompt one to send text messages in the early morning hours of the day from the Philadelphia airport regarding wishes to catch the next plane … anywhere, perhaps to Burlington or Belize or Bahrain or all or neither. It can create naps while waiting for the next flight, curled up into those uncomfortable airport seats. It can cause you to fall asleep at 6p and wake up at 3a ready to start the day even though there’s no way you should be starting the day at 3a.

Mostly, it necessitates lots of coffee and sometimes also cake.

There’s a certain cake I used to bake a lot for birthdays when I lived in Washington : a confectioner’s ideal of smooth white cake layers sandwiching cool pineapple, filled and frosted with fluffy whipped cream, and sprinkled all over with toasted coconut. Individually each of these components could stand on its own — fresh pineapple for breakfast is one of my favorite treats, and I swear I could eat shredded coconut by the handful — so together they form a sort of cake-y splendor that transcends even the dream of cake.

Yes, perhaps it seems as though I exaggerate a bit. But really I’m not. Promise.

(Look at that thing — it’s really so awfully pretty, don’t you think?)

It’s a true stunner.

This weekend we celebrated my parents’ 40th anniversary with a garden party (or, rather, a party in the backyard, complete with lots of cold champagne and a ping-pong table set up in the field). My brother and his girlfriend Emily were in from Maine, as well as my uncle and his girlfriend, Sharon, from Florida and so we cooked and drank and feasted quite well for about two days. Our menu included

Spanikopita and dolmades
Hummus and breads
Assorted cheeses

Grilled salmon, with choice of almond-parsley pesto or nectarine salsa
Roasted potato-pesto salad
Grilled zucchini
Slow-roasted tomatoes
Vegetable skewers (mushrooms, peppers, onions)
Couscous-feta salad
Greek salad

Oatmeal-chocolate chip cookies
Mini vegan chocolate cupcakes
Two coconut cakes, one filled with pineapple and one filled with peaches

It was a time, and I have photos. Oh-so-many photos. But for the moment I can only offer you this cake: appropriate for birthdays, weddings, anniversary celebrations, last days at the office — or just tonight. It’s dreamy and perfect any time of year and for any occasion. And I wish I had a piece right now with some Greek coffee to tide me through the rest of the afternoon.

Coconut-pineapple Layer Cake

For cake layers
2 1/3 cups cake flour (not self-rising)
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup milk

1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla
2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, softened
1 1/2 cups sugar
5 large eggs, beaten lightly

For filling
a 28-ounce can crushed pineapple in unsweetened juice
1 tablespoon cornstarch
a rounded 1/4 cup sugar

2 2/3 cups sweetened flaked coconut (a 7-ounce bag), toasted golden
and cooled

1 carton whipped cream, whipped

Make cake layers:
Preheat oven to 350°F. Line bottoms of 2 buttered 9- by2-inch round cake pans with rounds of wax paper. Dust pans with flour, knocking out excess.

Into a bowl sift together flour, baking powder, and salt. In a glass measuring cup stir together milk and vanilla. In a bowl with an electric mixer on medium speed cream butter 1 minute and add sugar in a steady stream, beating until light and fluffy, about 4 minutes, scraping bowl occasionally. Beat in eggs, a little at a time, beating well after each addition, until pale and fluffy. Stir in flour mixture in 4 batches alternately with milk, beginning and ending with flour mixture and stirring after each addition until batter is smooth.

Divide batter between pans, smoothing tops, and bake in middle of oven until a tester inserted in center comes out clean, about 30 minutes. Cool cake layers in pans on racks 10 minutes. Run a thin knife around edge of each pan and invert cake layers onto racks. Remove wax paper carefully and cool cake layers completely. Cake layers may be made 5 days ahead and frozen, wrapped in plastic wrap and foil. Thaw cake layers in refrigerator 1 day before proceeding with recipe.

Make filling:
In a heavy saucepan over medium heat, combine the pineapple, sugar, and cornstarch. Stir well to combine and bring to boil. Reduce heat and simmer until thick. Remove from heat and let cool completely.

Assembly:
Spread one cake layer with about 1/4 of the whipped cream. Top with the pineapple filling and sprinkle coconut lightly over it. Top with the other cake layer. Spread the cake with the remaining whipped cream, covering completely. Liberally sprinkle coconut over the cake.

It feels like like spring a little bit – today, which is smack in mid-February (though, I will note, it’s just one month until the official first day of spring), probably because of the birds. I woke up to them chirping madly away at 8a, and stretched luxuriously under the covers, unfortunately wide-awake slightly too early for a Saturday (I fell back asleep for another hour). Now, as I sip my freshly brewed Blue Bottle, a swath of sun lays golden and sweet across my reading chair and still they are singing gladly on from the light pole outside my window. Perhaps they’re calling the sun back? Yesterday was gorgeous with warmer temperatures than we’ve felt in awhile, but today the rain is supposed to descend again and I will enjoy these few stolen hours until it does. I swear, though, that right now the main bird-sound I hear is a blue jay — one of the obnoxious, raucous, plumy-proud sort that loves to hang out in redwood forests on a spring-summer weekend, screaming down into the quiet trees though I live on a fairly busy street in a fairly major city.

(I do love when nature seeps into city life and in this city, it happens pretty frequently though it can be a little disorienting.)

This morning I ran 8 miles. I didn’t really mean to, but I hardly went at all the last week due to rain, and I was set for a big dinner, and I wanted to get moving (yoga is gonna feel so good tomorrow), and, well, sometimes I just do stuff like that. A few weeks ago when I was in Sebastopol I ran my old marathon training route up and down the winding back roads and then back again in the sun just to see how it felt. It was a hot day and I hadn’t had enough water but it was so good to be out there. I tried to remember how long it had been since I’d last done it — two years? maybe more? — and not much had changed, really, except maybe the old white horses that used to look at me curiously were not there in their field and more apple trees were cut down to lie grey and leafless on the bare ground (it truly hurts my heart to see them). I had to walk the parts I used to walk (perhaps a tiny bit more, now) and when I climbed the the last hill I had that old feeling of holy crap, there are three miles still to go.

I can’t believe how much I used to run; that fall I ran probably 9 miles four or five days a week, with a rest day or two, and then a long run of 10 miles or more building up to my longest of 21 miles two weeks before the race. Most marathon training programs tell you to work up to the extra long distances over four months or so; I did the accelerated ‘program’ (meaning, I just started running more than usual without a strict plan) in two months with I think a week off when my grandfather died and I went to New Jersey. Madness. And yet, I finished in 4.5 hours and was back running a week later. Sometimes I miss those days, a little bit. I could never do that now and I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. I don’t know if the body is made to be pushed so very hard and far and yet … and yet. There are few things that compare to a long run — I love that scoured-out, absolutely tired feeling at the end of it, when I’m sweaty and starving and somehow euphoric.

So today I ran a very lot and then I came home and ate banana bread.

[Banana bread, February 2009.]

Really it was the only thing to do. And it’s rather easy to keep on slogging away when you know you have a sweet reward just a few miles down the road.

I have a very fine banana bread recipe which I’ve posted here before, but lately I’ve been making a new one. It’s not nearly as health-conscious but, boy, is it delicious (I’ll blame the butter. And the chocolate chips.). I made it as a trial a few weeks ago for my coworkers and I think it barely lasted an hour; I made it last weekend for my guests and we gobbled it up over the course of just a few days with the two of us left fighting over the last slice on Monday morning. It’s more of a banana cake than a banana bread, but as you bake the batter in a loaf pan you might as well just go along with that whole ‘bread’ concept that, especially since it largely consists of fruit (think of the potassium!), makes you virtuously pat yourself on the back and think about how very healthy you’re being.

Well, it’s a nice thought anyway. I suppose it’s true that if you left out the chocolate chips (oh but why?) it’d be a little bit better for you (substitute some blanched almonds perhaps), or swapped in a cup of wheat flour for white (this makes for a denser, chewier crumb which is a pleasure in and of itself) this ‘bread’ might live up better to its name. But really, it’s so good as-is: simple, moist, and run through with sweetly scented bananas. This is a bread-cake fit for beloved visitors and family members, all; it’s a bread-cake just right for brightening a rainy Monday morning at the office; and it’s exactly the bread-cake you want to eat after coming in just a bit wind-whipped and exhausted (and hungry) from a run.

A friend of mine used to tease me about running: Nicole, what are you running from? he’d question when I’d tell him I’d dragged myself up early to go before work. Oh now! I’d reply. Maybe it’s what I’m running toward instead of away! I’m not sure if either one of us was ‘right’ — some days I wonder why I do log such long miles, except then I do and feel so good I just know; I like to joke I’m not training toward any race right now except perhaps my sanity — but when I think about a thick slice of this pain au banane waiting for me on my kitchen table, ready to be smeared with a good bit of butter and devoured, I can’t help but pick up my pace and point my well-worn running shoes toward home and a fortifying slice. Some days maybe that’s all the reason I need.

Banana-chocolate bread, adapted from williams sonoma

Vegans, do I have a loaf for you! Well, soonish anyway.

6 Tbs. (3/4 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
3/4 cup sugar
3 very ripe bananas, coarsely mashed (about 1 1/2 cups)
3 eggs, lightly beaten
1/2 cup buttermilk
1 tsp. vanilla
2 cups all-purpose flour (or one white, one wheat)
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. salt
3/4 cup chocolate chips

Preheat an oven to 350°F. Grease and lightly flour a 9-by-5-inch loaf pan.

In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the flat beater, beat together the butter and sugar on medium speed until creamy, about 1 minute. Add the bananas, vanilla, and eggs and beat until smooth. Add the buttermilk and beat just until combined.

In a bowl, stir together the flour, baking soda, baking powder, nutmeg, cinnamon, and salt. Add the flour mixture to the banana mixture and beat just until combined. Add the chocolate chips. The batter should be slightly lumpy. Scrape down the sides of the bowl.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan. It should be no more than two-thirds full. Bake until the loaf is dark golden brown and dry to the touch and the edges pull away from the sides of the pan, 55 to 60 minutes. A toothpick inserted into the center should come out clean. Let the bread rest in the pan for 5 minutes, then turn the loaf out onto a wire rack and let cool completely. Cut into thick slices to serve. Makes one 9-by-5-inch loaf.

[The sky the other night, February 2009.]

Probably one of the last things you’d think of doing after being out for a solid 12 hours of the day is to bake — but last night, walking home from my bus through the cool darkness, I knew I just had to (I mean, look at that sky!). I started thinking a bit dreamily about the morning’s first cup of coffee (yes, I am a creature of habit and no, I cannot mind) and that maybe I’d like to have a little sweet to go along with it. But what kind? A pastry? I didn’t want to buy one (trying to cut back on extraneous expenses) and I’d already made a banana bread earlier in the week. I didn’t feel much like cookies and brownies I think are more for an afternoon snack. Coffee cake? I didn’t want to dig up a recipe and really, I never eat coffee cake anyway. Oh, maybe I’d just give it up altogether! But no.

Mentally I surveyed the contents of my fridge and cabinets. I knew I had fresh eggs, plenty of good milk, probably enough flour and sugar, a lot of lemon juice. Blueberry muffins? Well, I definitely knew I didn’t have blueberries, neither fresh nor frozen, and I absolutely

knew I didn’t want to go to the store (my bus drops me right across from my little organic market and I know myself well — if I went in ‘just’ for a bag of frozen fruit I’d probably emerge with marinated tofu, brussels sprouts, a bunch of radishes, maybe some baby spinach, a few clementines, you know, the essentials) so a batch was out of the question. Yet, muffins, I thought … Muffins are delicious, quick to make, and just the right amount of sweet to go along with my morning cup. And I had a lemon that had been kicking around for a bit staring my in the face begging to be put to good use, as well as some poppy seeds leftover from the holidays so really, I had no choice.

Lemon-poppy seed muffins it was, then — almost like it was meant to be.

[Lemon-poppy seed muffins, February 2009.]

Muffins always seem like the kind of thing you’d want to eat in bed on a weekend morning propped up with pillows with the paper or a book spread out all around you, with a proper cup of tea and miraculously no crumbs. It might be sunny, in early spring perhaps, and the city would be still and quiet so the sounds of the birds would come in clear and sweet through the windows. Or it might be a rainy one, the light in your room blue and ethereal and soft. You’d nibble your muffin and snuggle down further into the blankets and not have anywhere to be for awhile.

Then again, muffins might be something you’d want to eat while out on a brisk walk. Even if homemade, you’d pop one into a crisp little bag, tuck it into a pocket, and head off into the day, sneaking little crumbs every so often as you industriously climbed San Francisco’s (seemingly endless) hilly streets. You’d stop for a cup of coffee, as strong as possible, please, but no pastry today because you had your own you see. You’d pat dogs — especially friendly, because they smelled a treat — and tie your scarf a bit tighter and window shop and think about what you’d like to make for dinner.

Then again, maybe muffins should be saved strictly for vacations. The everyday workday calls for bowls of oatmeal or granola or even a piece of toast and peanut butter (hold the jam), with coffee gulped down quickly on the walk from bus to office. But vacation days … oh, vacation. Vacation mornings can be late and lazy, to be savored (they can, of course, also be bright and early and full of the sunrise; the point is that they’re yours) with a frappe and a swim in the ocean. They can be spent at a campground along the coast; they can be spent in your childhood home; they can be spent in the most exotic of locales. Pretty much, they are elusive and perfect and sought-after — something which the ordinary muffin clearly is not. Yet if if can create a sort of vacation-feeling, perhaps not so ordinary after all?

Now, I can’t say the muffins I baked last night made me feel today as though I was on a vacation, but the thought of them certainly helped me walk to my bus with a lighter step than I’ve had in a few days. (This is not to say those darn Emirates Airlines ads in the BART — nonstop from San Francisco to Athens, the Philippines, the Maldives. Kate! — don’t make me want to throw practicality out the window; they do.) Still and all, my wee cake this morning was a decent consolation. Lemony and sweet-tart, rich with butter and laced with poppy seeds, these are the kind of muffins that could make almost any day seem like a day off, even when it’s not.

If a few weeks ago I had one of those days, today I am having quite another. I woke up in the night to rain pouring in through my perpetually cracked-open bathroom window and stumbled sleepily in to pull out the screen (it’s one of those sort of 1/4-window screen things) and push down the glass; when I woke up again for work it was still raining and thus nearly impossible to get myself out of the house. And then, predictably, I got soaked coming in to work but, you know, we need the rain so very awfully I somehow didn’t mind. I put the ipod on shuffle and Madredeus came along in the cycle (it’s the perfect music for a chilly, drippy winter morning) which in turn made me think of my beloved friends who introduced me to their music in the first place (now in Leiden and Spain) and so I sighed a little in missing them — and then suddenly there I was at work, with coffee and a lunch date in my immediate future.

So really I didn’t mind the rain too much, damp shoes and all. Can I blame the muffins? Oh fine, I will. Make a batch and see if you can, too.

ps: check out the questionnaire I did for cookthink! It was fun to do (and yes, clearly I am obsessed with vegetables) — feel free to share your own foodish loves and non-loves.

Lemon Poppy seed Muffins, adapted from foodnetwork.com

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon fine salt
1/2 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus more for greasing the pan
Zest of one lemon, plus 4 tb. juice
2/3 cup granulated sugar, plus up to 1 tablespoon for topping the muffins, if desired
2 large eggs, at room temperature
4 teaspoons poppy seeds
1/2 cup milk

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Lightly brush a 12-cup muffin tin with butter and set aside. Sift the flour, baking powder, and salt into a medium bowl and set aside.

In a standing mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, or with an electric hand-held mixer in a large bowl, cream the butter, zest, and 2/3 cup sugar until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Remove the bowl from the mixer. Stir in the poppy seeds.

Fold the flour in 3 parts into the butter mixture, alternating with the milk in 2 parts, until just combined. Take care not to overmix the batter. Divide the batter evenly into the muffin tin and sprinkle the tops with sugar. Bake until golden brown, about 25 minutes. Cool muffins in the pan on a rack. Serve warm.

Once, a very long time ago, I was staying for a week or so at the house in the woods probably because my parents had gone out of town and that was where my brother and I usually went while they were away. There was tea in the mornings and bars of Trader Joe’s one-pound milk chocolate in the cabinets, fires in the afternoons and a whole forest to ramble through. Not that we didn’t like our own place, of course, with its redwood trees looming above the house and cats to cajole in from the rain, but to wake up with the bright blue of the bay shining out the bedroom windows was a special treat.

One gray afternoon we tumbled in chilly and wind-blown from an afternoon with the dogs at Kehoe and found an angel food cake on the kitchen table glowing through the pre-twilight gloom, sweetly scented and impossibly light. Now, you may wonder how it is I remember this cake so vividly as I was only around 10 years old (I must always have been concerned with food even then) but the truth is that it wasn’t just any old angel food cake — it was an orange angel food cake.

I don’t think I was necessarily a very adventurous eater back in those early days; birthdays usually consisted of strawberry jam sandwiched between layers of white cake (though I later graduated to boston cream pie like the rest of the family) and I generally plowed through my mom’s then-staples of meatloaf, roast chicken, spaghetti, and pot roast without thinking twice (well, I eventually did start thinking about the meat but that is another story altogether). At the very edge of my consciousness there was always the lingering idea that food was incredibly interesting and maybe I’d like like to get into the kitchen myself, but it was barely acknowledged and, even less, acted upon. Yet for some reason the idea of a citrus-infused cake was infinitely appealing — and, truth be told, it still is.

It feels wrong somehow to be longing for a bit of the breezy on a day on which the sun still relentlessly shines, capping off a weekend of incredibly warm and dry weather, but I am. I love a hot beach — and will in fact long for it when I’m nowhere near one, which is most of the time here in my city by the bay except for a day here and there in May or September — but it’s winter. There was a snowstorm in London and elsewhere in the States rain is pouring down but here in Northern California the drought has settled in for the long haul and there’s not a raincloud in sight (well, at least until later in the week). It’s a strange time — surreal, sultry, summery, and entirely bizarre. I am eating as many blood oranges as I can stuff into my market bag to compensate.

Blood oranges are delicious. I mostly eat them straight out-of-hand but they are also wonderful in sorbet, salad, tarts, cake. There’s something special, somehow decadent and exotic, about them; how ordinary orange they may seem from the outside but that faintly tinged, blushing skin hides a shockingly dark interior — much darker than, say, a grapefruit or even a plum. The blood orange is a master of surprise, jewel-like and mysterious. Not to mention that the taste is like an orange distilled, with a an added punch of fruity sweetness. If were to bake a citrusy, cloud-like cake composed mainly of egg whites and a bit of flour and sugar I’d most certainly swap in the zest of a blood orange, along with a few tablespoons of its juice, to make the most of its charms. That, I think, would be something approximating perfection. It would be the kind of cake you’d want to tunnel into, James and the Giant Peach-like, to rest for a time and in which you’d then maybe like to traverse the world. It’s a cake for King Henry, though he’d probably not deserve it. It’s a cake for winter days by the sea.

The new month is: days full of sun; a false spring and blossoms blooming on the poor trees up the street, confused by the warm air; decadent brunches with girlfriends, complete with brie-based mac and cheese and mozzarella-basil panini; walks in the park; runs in the park; the New York Times Sunday and tea and waking up at 8a; friends planning to visit very soon; upcoming long weekends; birthdays; chocolate cupcakes; new computers; dreaming of Colorado; quinoa soup; vegan ginger cookies; news that your brother will be out in July; beans on toast; blood oranges; slices of cake.

Welcome, February.

Brown Sugar Blood Orange Angel Food Cake, adapted from various online recipes

This calls for a lot of egg whites. I recommend saving whites if you’re making a custard (they will keep for up to a week in the fridge, or a month in the freezer) or some other recipe that calls for yolks-only.

1 1/4 cups sifted cake flour, not self-rising
1 1/2 cups packed light-brown sugar, sifted
14 large egg whites, room temperature
1 1/2 teaspoons cream of tartar
Pinch of salt
2 tablespoons grated blood orange rind
1 teaspoon orange extract
1 1/2 teaspoons fresh blood orange juice

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Stir together flour and 3/4 cup brown sugar. Sift twice.

Put egg whites into the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment. Beat on medium speed until foamy. Add cream of tartar and salt. Raise speed to high, and beat until soft peaks form. Sprinkle half the remaining 3/4 cup brown sugar over egg white mixture, and beat until combined. Sprinkle the remaining brown sugar over egg white mixture, add the orange extract and juice, and beat until stiff, glossy peaks form.

Transfer egg white mixture to a large bowl. Fold in flour mixture in 3 batches, folding in zest with last batch.

Spoon batter into an ungreased 10-inch tube pan (not nonstick) with a removable bottom. Run a knife through batter to eliminate air pockets. Bake until cake is golden and springs back when lightly touched, about 45 minutes.

Invert pan onto its legs or over a narrow-neck bottle; let cool 1 hour. Reinvert, and run a knife around sides and tube to loosen; remove sides. Run a long knife along bottom of cake; remove from tube.

Makes 10 servings.

Like clockwork, every year just before Christmas I catch a cold. Perhaps it’s because it’s our extra busy season at work, or that I’m realizing the end of the year is mere days away and I get flustered, or because those holiday cards aren’t writing themselves, or because of the very chilly temperature outside — I don’t know. But it’s becoming endemic, and here it is: the only thing to do is to eat soup, drink Cold Care tea, and try to go to bed early.

Ha! Well, it’s a nice thought. And I have been drinking lots of tea, eating soup, and wistfully hoping to go to bed early (and, you know, that tea really does help. Strange but true.) though since it’s that time of year I have lots to do that keeps me up past 10.30. Still, if I’m going to have to get sick I’d much rather do it the week before Christmas than on Christmas itself, you know? And really, I’m not that sick, just a little sniffly and achey and sleepy — nothing a stout shot of whisky can’t cure.

Last night when I got home I thought, should I run? I hadn’t in a couple of days and was feeling pretty slothful. Also, there was that holiday party the other night where I ate my weight in (delicious) guacamole and chips — two rounds! — plus (amazing) vegetarian empanadas, (really very good) beans and rice and tortillas, and then a tiny taste of flan (I’m not a big fan of flan) with a few margaritas (good tequila — who knew? That’s my end-of-year revelation, for sure) to wash it all down. And then there was that very afternoon’s indulgence in latkes — the potatoes fried to crisp, melting perfection — chocolate cream pie, brown butter brown sugar cookies (!), and I quake to mention the melted brie with caramelized onions. So even though it was so cold, and my throat hurt so awfully, and it was so dark out I dragged myself into my running clothes and got through six miles before tumbling in again to get warm. And it wasn’t bad at all: very cool, a slight spattering of rain, my malaise whisked out of me as I pounded through the miles.

Here’s a confession: lately I’ve been wanting not much else to do but lie on the couch drinking tea and reading. I’ve zipped through a few food memoirs lately (Kim Sunée’s Trail of Crumbs: Hunger, Love, and the Search for Home was simply beautiful) and caught up, almost, on the pile of magazines that threatens to drown my apartment. These are all very lovely pursuits, and when I’ve accomplished the little tasks I’ve set out for myself for that night (baked goods for holiday gifts; finishing up the last of the cards; wrapping a few presents) I let myself take a break and flop down for a good hour or so. It’s very cozy and comforting and all that. But I realized last night that despite all that relaxation and warm tea and and and, it was missing something.

It was missing cake.

[Pear-ginger upside-down cake, December 2008.]

When I read essays about people who cook for one, I always feel like I’m a bit out of the ordinary. Most of the writers discuss their love of a particular thing, such as scallops or even brussels sprouts, that their true love/s abhor and so when that loved one is away the cook embarks on a frenzy of scallop or brussels sprouts preparation or. Me, on the other hand — well, I’m always pretty good to myself all of the time. If I feel like a roasted cauliflower for dinner one night, well, by god that’s what I’ll have and nothing else. A baked potato with loads of sour cream? Yes please. Quinoa soup three nights in a row? Why not. If I have an urge to bake, I do. I look at cooking for one — and that one being me — as a necessary extravagance of taste every single night of the year.

While we’re on the subject of confessions, here’s a few more: sometimes I leave dishes overnight in the sink (just a few, though, like my tea cup and a spoon); I eat ice cream straight out of the carton but I often just have a few bites; I occasionally obsess over boys (quelle horreur!); I feel I could live off of roasted asparagus and good bread alone; lots of times I’ll make a cake just because I want to — such as an upside-down ginger pear cake perfect for December.

Alone in my kitchen time simmers and slows. The wind may bang against the windows and blow in through the cracks very cold and strong (I mean, it’s not Maine cold or Antarctica cold but by San Francisco standards it can get pretty cold) but inside my oven hums along quietly. I leave butter to soften on the counter while I write a few cards. I sift flour and brown sugar and core pears, hoping I have enough cinnamon in the jar. I melt chocolate on low, and whisk eggs into buttermilk and make a cup of tea. Sometimes I take a break and look out my window as night comes down. It’s a simple pleasure, to cook alone with good music on in the other room, my apartment clean and cozy as I like it, but it is mine, and I am grateful to have it.

I dreamed last night of a green water, a white beach, islands. Strange whales rose out of the sea. It was hot, sunny. I saw many people I miss; we had tea, chocolates, lazy afternoons and I woke up a bit empty and wishing to go to Rochester this weekend. I must realize and accept, then, that I will always miss someone because no place exists in this world where all of your loved ones live neatly within a 20-minute walk, and where you can see them nearly every day. Instead, I will embrace the knowledge that I have places all over the globe to visit. I will send cookies across the country and plan visits to Colorado. I will save my pennies for trans-continental flights. I will bake and bake until I simply can’t anymore.

Anyway: this cake. It’s delicious. It’s moist and dense and not-too-sweet. The cinnamon-laced caramelized pears somehow hold their integrity even through over an hour in the oven and are the perfect foil for the slightly spicy cake. And after all that nonsense about cooking only for me, I packed up about half of it and brought it in to work today (they loved it). This morning I woke to rain against the glass but in the past hour or so the sun has struggled through and it’s wonderfully clear and crisp. I just went to the post office and on my walk back the sky stretched out clean and blue save for the clouds at the end of the street piling up like whipped cream, the wind lessened to just a sweet, cool breeze. I came back in to have a slice of cake and a slip of coffee and oh, Friday, I do love you so.

Ginger Pear Upside-Down Cake, adapted from Leslie Mackie’s Macrina Bakery & Café Cookbook

For the topping:
3 Tbs unsalted butter, at room temperature
½ cup light brown sugar
1 ½ tsp ground cinnamon
4-5 medium to large ripe pears, peeled, cored, and quartered lengthwise

For the batter:
8 ounces (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
¾ cup light brown sugar
2 Tbs peeled, grated ginger
3 large eggs
2/3 cup molasses
3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 ½ tsp baking powder
1 ½ tsp baking soda
1 tsp. powdered ginger
½ tsp salt

1 ½ cups buttermilk

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit. Oil a 9-inch springform pan, and line the bottom with a 10-inch circle of parchment paper.

To make the topping, combine 3 Tbs butter, ½ cup brown sugar, and cinnamon in a medium saucepan. Melt the butter over medium heat for about 1 minute; then pour the mixture into the prepared springform pan, completely coating the parchment paper. Place the quartered pears on top of the butter-sugar mixture, lining the pieces up tightly so that none of the bottom shows through.

To make the batter, cut 2 sticks of butter into 1-inch pieces, and put them in a large mixing bowl. Add ¾ cup brown sugar, and cream the mixture on medium speed for 3-5 minutes, until it is smooth and a pale tan color. Add the grated ginger, and beat 1 minute more. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula. Add the eggs one at a time, beating on low speed and making sure that each egg is fully incorporated before adding another. When all the eggs have been added, slowly pour in the molasses and beat to fully mix.

In a separate medium bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, ginger, and salt. Whisk to fully combine.

Alternately add small amounts of flour and buttermilk to the batter, stirring and folding with a rubber spatula until the dry ingredients are just absorbed. Do not overmix. Pour and scrape the batter into the pear-lined pan, smoothing the top with a rubber surface. The pan will be nearly full.

Carefully transfer the pan to the center rack of the oven, and bake for about 1 hour and 45 minutes, until a skewer inserted in the cake’s center comes out clean. Let the cake cool in the pan for 10 minutes on a wire rack. Cover the pan with an upside-down serving plate; then carefully invert them together. Release the sides of the pan, and lift it away. Gently lift the pan’s base off the cake, and peel away the parchment paper. Allow the cake to cool for a half hour or so, and serve warm, with whipped cream.

*Thanks to Ms. Colwin for the title inspiration.

And don’t forget! Menu for Hope is still going strong. Please choose UW16 for yummy coffee-and-cake and take a look at all the other wonderful offerings.