I Promised You Cake

I promised you cake. You can find the emphatic declaration here. And, well... I'm nothing if not good for my word.

As you know, it's been a year since this blog began. Last week I gave a little history on how it came to be and how it really got going. It was heartbreak that spurred this thing on initially, and it's been many other things that have kept it going since. Some bits of romance here and there. Moments of happiness. More sadness in between. And the most important thing of all: sharing experiences and creating community. We've come together through this, and your lovely notes and sweet emails and encouraging texts have kept me coming back. Thank you to all of you who have written to me, and also to my more silent, but diligent, readers. This cake is for you.

I thought we would try a little something different in honor of this one-year mark. A sort of year-in-review, if you will:

For one thing, there has been lots of cake. In one of my more nostalgic posts, there's even been cake on the shores of the Point Reyes National Coastline. I shared that cake with someone close to me and compared it later to sand dunes. We had a good time that day. I even remember reciting a poem. My friend's dog was there, too, yanking her leash and getting herself a muzzle full of sand at every opportunity.

There have been two notable pancake incidents—incidentally, or perhaps not-so-incidentally, following a night of sadness. In the first one, I made a sort of sexual innuendo that involved a reference to the heat from a sizzling, nonstick griddle. (Maybe not one of my finest writing moments here, but much appreciated by a certain friend of mine. M., I'm talking to you.

Recently, I wrote about my sister and how much I miss her. That was a hard post to write, but I was glad to have done it. That post has become a place where I can go when I want to think of and be close to her. I now also associate her with the colors in that first photo—the vibrant purples from that bougainvillea bush and the cool blue light on my old kitchen table.

 

We’ve also had a bit of success: I discovered one morning, much to my surprise, that my blog had been picked up by the Bon Appétit website. I celebrated by digging my heels into a couple paralyzing weeks of writer’s block (!!!), followed by happiness and disbelief, followed by more paralysis and writer’s block. I got over it eventually and somehow decided to keep writing.

Then there was meat, the first ever on the blog, and a celebration of all things animalistic and primal. That post also featured my roommate's cat. His name is Chulo. This is another photo from that shoot; a slightly less elegant—but more characteristically Chulo—moment:

In spring, there were strawberries with chamomile cream and a rhubarb clafoutis (or, rather, a Flaugnarde—a divine French custard oozing with roasted rhubarb and cinnamon sugar). I also wrote about someone I never knew in that post: my great-grandfather—the original grower of the rhubarb plants that my mother and I still pick from.

 

In the summer months, we had cold soup and watermelons with chili salt. Much earlier, in winter, we ate oatmeal with roasted cherries and almonds.

There was also a trip to New York along the way, during which I turned 30 alongside some of my closest friends and in the arms of my beloved city.

There were many other things too: things both written about and omitted, grandiose and insignificant, uplifting and tragic.

It’s been a busy year.

For the first time in a long time… no, for the first time ever, I’ve found a way to track these moments that can also be shared with others. Outside of the pages of a journal, in a slightly more dressed-up form, I’ve written about and noted and made photographs of various events both large and small. I’ve given them over here, to this format, for us to be in together.

It’s a unique experience and one that I am grateful for.

*

In honor of the occasion, I’ve made us a birthday cake, as promised, to give this blog a proper celebration.

And a celebration cake it is—orange and pistachio yogurt cake, layered high with a grand marnier buttercream, bedecked with candied orange slices… orange slices that have been simmered in a honey syrup fragrant with cardamom.

It really is quite the thing.

It took me a while to figure out what kind of cake I wanted to make. I needed something different for this post—something truly new and celebratory; something that seemed fresh and that could signal a sort of renewed excitement and energy. I saw in my mind a beautiful, creamy white frosting; I tasted citrus on my tongue; and then I built from there.

As a result, the recipe is a sort of amalgam of different sources—sources that have also been heavily tweaked by me. I might even be able to take credit for this thing as being an “original recipe.” It was inspired by many sources, yes, but it is also new and original in its own way.

Here’s to the start of another year—a fresh start; one with an infinite array of possibilities, both terrifying and intoxicating.

For the first time in a long time, I think I’m ready. 

Orange-Pistachio Cake with Grand Marnier Buttercream and Candied Orange Slices
Serves many, many
Inspired by this, this, and this

For the cake (makes two 8-inch round cakes, to be divided into two layers each):

1 cup plain whole-milk yogurt

2 cup granulated sugar

6 eggs

3 cups all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon baking powder

1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon grated orange zest (I used Cara Cara oranges)

1 cup canola oil

Pinch of salt
1/4 cup ground pistachios

For the candied orange slices:
1 cup sugar
3/4 cup orange blossom honey
1 orange, thinly sliced
1 tablespoon crushed cardamom pods

For the buttercream frosting:
6 cups confectioner's sugar
1 1/2 cups unsalted butter, at room temperature
3 tablespoons Grand Marnier
6 tablespoons freshly squeezed orange juice


Bake the cakes:
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour two 8-inch round cake pans.

In a large bowl, combine the yogurt, sugar, and eggs until thoroughly mixed. Add the flour, baking powder, orange zest, and a pinch of salt, and stir to combine. Add the oil and stir until the batter comes together and is smooth and silky. Fold in the ground pistachios until fully incorporated.

Pour the batter into the prepared pans and bake for 45-55 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool the cakes in their pans for 20-30 minutes and then turn out onto a baking rack and allow to cool completely. 

Prepare the candied orange slices:
While the cake is baking, you can prepare the candied orange slices. They are very elegant, but require minimum effort. 

In a medium saucepan, combine the sugar, honey, and cardamom pods with 3 cups of water. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat and add the orange slices. Stir gently once or twice, and allow to simmer for 40 minutes, or until the orange slices are softened and slightly translucent. Place the orange slices on a baking sheet with parchment until you are ready to use them.

Make the Grand Marnier buttercream frosting: 
In a large bowl, cream the butter until soft and fluffy. Gradually add the confectioner's sugar until fully incorporated and no lumps remain. Stir in the Grand Marnier and the orange juice. These measurements can be fiddled with to get the right consistency; for a thicker frosting, add more sugar; if you need to thin the frosting, add juice or liquor. 

Assemble the cake: 
Once the cakes have cooled completely, you may prepare the layers. Trim the tops of each cake so that you have a relatively flat surface on each. Flip the cakes over so that the cut side is facing down. Then, score each cake about halfway up the side and around the entire cake—the score marks act as your guide for slicing the cake into two even layers. Once the score marks are made, run a large serrated knife through the cake, making sure to keep a steady hand and cut evenly through. Separate the layers, and brush away stray crumbs.

The original bottoms of each cake (with the most even surface) should be used for the top and bottom layers—for the bottom layer, place one of these layers cut side up; for the top layer, this layer should be cut side down. 

Place your first layer on a cake stand or plate. Place strips of parchment paper around the plate and under the first layer of cake to protect the surface of your serving dish. Spoon 3-4 tablespoons of frosting onto the first layer, and smooth out evenly, going almost to the edge. Place the next cake layer on top, and repeat this process until you reach the top layer. (I like very thin layers of frosting between each cake layer, so the cake does not become overly sweet.)

Once all four layers are in place, you should thinly frost the entire cake to make a "crumb coat." This first coat seals in the crumbs and will ensure a beautiful, unmarred final frosting. After the crumb coat, frost the entire cake again more thickly using a butter knife. 

Add a few candied orange slices to the top of the cake, right in the middle, and garnish with chopped pistachios, if you wish. 

Here's What Happened

It’s been coming on slowly, this feeling that I have. Slowly, over the course of this year in which I have been coming here to write—that I would eventually make this blog more explicitly personal. I’m still figuring out exactly what that means: what it means to be writing as I do, in this way, to a group of anonymous readers and also to dear friends. We’ve been figuring it out together, you and I. That is the sense that I have.

I figure it’s time to recount some history. I’ve spoken obliquely about a number of things. And last week, I wrote about my sister in the most explicit way that I’ve ever done before. I received emails and personal notes about it. It lifted my spirits and reminded me why I like to come here and what makes this experience profound.

I think it has to do with a level of trust in oneself. Because if I’m not here, if I’m not really here, all of me, there won’t be much for either of us to hold on to.

So, here’s what happened: I started this blog on November 25, 2011. I was a nervous wreck when I did. I picked it up and abandoned it in my mind a number of times. Then, at the end of January, my fiancé (and boyfriend of 10 years) and I ended our relationship. What followed was a series of tumultuous months, a parade of meaningless dates, a reconnecting of many friendships, and a stark turn inward.

What can I say about that relationship here, now, in this way? We grew up together, he and I—that’s the most honest thing to say and the most true thing to recount. We lived overseas together, we traveled, we became recluses in a cottage in upstate New York for a period of time (in a house that was so quiet that one could hear, physically hear, the sound of a snowfall); it was a red cottage, across from a beautiful farm; I made drawings at the kitchen table in the mornings and watched the deer come to the stream to drink; it was an idyllic but also profoundly sad time for us both. We grew up together, and then, I think, we grew apart, in very different, but also oddly connected ways. Some part of ourselves is still in that little red cottage, and that’s the best that I can do to think of what happened between us, and where whatever it was—what it had been—still resides.

When it happened, I found myself coming to this blog more and more. I can’t describe what I felt or why I knew it was important, but it was. This was the place where I came to ground myself, and it always worked. There is something about seeing something that one has made, right there in front of you, that affirms to the soul that one has a home in the world. I suppose this was the reason I decided to become an artist so many years ago now. I think it was Heidegger who said something to that effect: that we make art, we create things, as a way of making a home in the world. It is something that I think we all strive for. We tear each other apart in our quest to find some bit of grace and solace. We never, ever stop searching. 

My life now is very different than it once was, and mostly for the better. I live with two lovely roommates in a quiet little house on the edge of the Mission District in San Francisco. I come here to write and to cook, and when I go home, I play my guitar and nuzzle my roommate’s little orange cat, and I drink with friends, and spend time with old acquaintances, and generally, live. I’ve forged some powerful connections to people who are now very dear to me; some from my distant past and some from a nearer present. I’ve let certain things go. I laugh a lot more than I used to. I take that to be the best sign.

I still haven’t figured out how to escape the waves of sadness—a sort of drowning that takes hold of me from time to time—but I’ve stopped trying to prevent them entirely. Yes, I wake up some mornings with tears in my eyes. It has always been this way. Sometimes I feel so stricken with sadness that I feel literally incapacitated. I feel that I simply cannot move—where my mind refuses to stop, my body will. But there is also this other thing in me; it’s the thing that makes it possible, the night after some deep moment of sadness, to get up the next day and make apple-cinnamon pancakes for my roommate. To listen to her when she tells me, “you should photograph this, Vera.”

These are the dueling impulses. I suppose, no… I trust, that we all have them.

What appears in this post, what’s been scattered throughout, is a sort of chronicle of my week. It’s incomplete, as all memories and experiences are; because what I really want to say is un-writable and un-photographable.

I inch toward it bit by bit.

This weekend I will paint my room the color of fog; that’s the best way that I can describe it. Sebald writes: “There is mist that no eye can dispel”; but we can let it envelop us, and find some bit of freedom there.

Next week, when The Moon in My Kitchen turns 1, we will celebrate with some cake. The real kind, the birthday kind, all frosted and shiny and new. 

Apple-Cinnamon Pancakes

Serves 2

This is not really a recipe, it's more of an idea. And now that we've passed through Thanksgiving, I doubt that many of you will be waking up and wanting pancakes. On the other hand, it might be just the thing. These pancakes have all of the taste of apple pie... but better, easier, and with maple syrup.

Mix up a batch of buttermilk pancakes using (gasp) your favorite mix. But if I was going to make them from scratch, I'd use this recipe, which, with the addition of oats, I think would be quite good.

Heat a non-stick griddle until droplets of water dance across the surface. Spoon out the pancake batter to your desired pancake size (I usually make four at a time), and then add thinly sliced apples (about 3-4 slices per pancake) and sprinkle with cinnamon. Wait until the surface of the pancakes bubble and make large exquisite holes across the top, and then flip once. Wait about a minute and then serve immediately, with sweet cream butter and maple syrup over top.

Not a Single Day

I’ve been thinking a lot about loss, what with the news of hurricane Sandy that’s been streaming in from the East Coast (my thoughts are with you New York, my beloved city).

I spent the duration of the storm living a sort of parallel reality, from my bed, stricken with the flu. In my feverish state, all sorts of things surfaced in my mind—there was a sort of psychic wreckage blowing around in there. And then, when I awoke, when I really awoke, when I was finally getting better, I began to see the images of overturned cars and uprooted oak trees, a blackened city skyline, and deserted streets.

There was only one other time that I remember this profound sense of emptiness that can be felt when the city’s buildings, its life force and visceral landscape, could be seen as darkened and unmoving. I hesitate to go back there in my mind.

When I was little, I used to look at the city skyline from my father’s moving car and think of how each light, in each square window, in every apartment building, represented an individual life—I remember feeling overwhelmed and comforted by this thought at the same time: that lives cross in these oblique yet profoundly intimate ways; that we are small; that moments in time can’t be counted; that things and people are constantly lapsing in and out of being.

I think of my sister whenever I think of loss—someone who I haven’t seen in six years. The story is—as they often are—a long one. I can’t go into all of it here, at least for the moment. But the sadness that pervades her loss is always with me. And though this has been said before, perhaps by many, there truly is not a single day when I don’t think of her. It’s been long enough now that I am beginning to remember her again as she once was—when she was a little girl. How we fought, and laughed, and fought again. She used to bribe me with food items: bits of butter coated in sugar and other weird childhood concoctions. I remember her chubby fingers reaching out to pass me some little morsel, and I, hungrily and greedily, leaning in to accept it. I emulated her sense of strength—the way she laughed heartily and threw passionate fits. She was always very convincing.

I will write about her more here in bits and pieces, as the memories come. She is in everything that I do and in most things that I think and feel. We suffer chronically around the loss of her.

*

To this parade of sadness and sickness today, though, I will also add some cake—because that’s what we do; that’s what I’ve always done. 

My mother and I would take to the kitchen armed with butter and sugar and a few more spare things and whip together something that could be relished and consumed. I hope that in the way that cake can be shared, so too can these thoughts—that perhaps they shore up some distant part of some other human, in their own small illuminated corner, whose life is occurring at this very moment, in parallel. There might be a little girl marveling at the light cast from your window as I type this, and you would never know it.

*

Now, the cake:

It’s from Nigel Slater’s beautiful book Ripe. It’s a pear cake. No—it’s an almond cake, scented with brown sugar; with a hearty, courageous crumb; topped with the most beautiful mess of pears: pears that have been simmered in butter and cinnamon, that have been doused in maple syrup, that have created—in this process—the most luscious, sticky syrup clinging to every bite.

It really is a lovely thing. And, perhaps most importantly, it is a perfect fall thing—it is cake that is also nourishing. It tastes like the season.

If you take care not to over-bake it, your crumb will be less firm, slightly more on the ethereal side, not as dry. That’s what you should do. But, if you forget about your cake for a moment while you are reading something—as I did, in my bedroom—you can also rest assured that your slightly over-baked cake will remain moist with maple syrup–drunk pears in every bite. And, in this state, you can also eat it out of hand.

New York friends, I wish I could share this with you. We could feel happy, at least, to have the taste of pear on our tongues, no matter the weather.

Until soon. 

Almond Cake with Pears, Maple Syrup, and Cinnamon

Adapted from Ripe by Nigel Slater

Nigel calls this "a cake of pears, muscovado, and maple syrup." I couldn't find muscovado sugar, so I dropped it both in recipe and name. But you can use it here instead of the brown sugar, if you are so inclined.  

Cake:
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup (scant) light brown sugar 
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 cup group almonds 
3 eggs
2 tablespoons milk
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract

Pears:
3 ripe pears (I used Concorde)
4 teaspoons unsalted butter
2 generous pinches cinnamon 
3 tablespoons maple syrup (plus more for serving)


Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter an 8-inch round cake pan and line with parchment; the parchment should extend over the edge of the pan on two sides to make the cake easy to remove. Butter the parchment and dust the pan with flour, tapping out the excess. 

Peel and core the pears, and chop them into 1/3-1/2 inch pieces. Place them in a shallow pan with the butter and cinnamon, and cook over medium heat for 10-12 minutes, or until just softened, stirring occasionally. Add the maple syrup to the pan—the juices will bubble up; stir the mixture once or twice, and remove the pears from the heat. 

Cream together the butter and sugars in a large bowl (I do this with a wooden spoon, but you could use an electric mixer too). In a separate bowl, combine the flour and baking powder. Add the ground almonds to the flour mixture. In a small bowl, beat the eggs and milk. Add about 1/3 of the eggs to the butter and stir to combine; then add 1/3 of the flour mixture and stir. Repeat this process until all of the ingredients are combined (do not over-mix). Stir in the vanilla extract. 

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and smooth out the top. Pour the pears and all of their sticky syrup over the cake in an even layer. 

Begin checking the cake at 50 minutes. It should be golden all over, and a toothpick, when inserted into  the cake (avoiding the fruit, if possible), should come out clean. 

Nigel suggest serving this with a little cream and maple syrup. I forgot about this part when it came time for me to eat the cake—but I would try it next time. He also suggests that it can be consumed warm. It is also the sort of thing that you can grab a slice of and eat out of hand. And, as I can attest to at this very moment, it makes a very good breakfast. 

A Leg of Lamb, Trussed and Tied

There are few things that are as satisfying as holding a large piece of meat in your hands, brushing your fingers over the thick layers of fat and marbleized cartilage, feeling the cold flesh give way as you prod and pull, shaping the hunk this way and that. It is primal and animalistic—it reconnects you to some deep, instinctual part of the soul that sees and feels meat and knows that hunger will soon be sated; that you have proven, with that piece of meat between your fingers, that you can survive and nourish and care for yourself.

It is good to be reminded of this from time to time. And, as someone said to me recently, you have to do what works for you.

For some, I imagine, it would be other things. For me, it’s the food that I prepare and consume—the way in which it reminds me of the primordial instincts in us all—how it takes me out of my head and puts me in the realm of fur and earth and soil and sand.

It’s a very different realm from the one that I inhabit when writing. But this is why food and writing are so interesting when placed in proximity to one another. They call up a series of satisfying opposites: lofty and grounded, ethereal and substantial; they transport, but they also keep us firmly planted on the ground, in that place where our primal urges—hunger and thirst, passion and desire—are allowed to reign.

I like it very much there.

*

This past weekend, I made a leg of lamb with my roommate. I rubbed course salt and pepper into the flesh; I drizzled olive oil and I pressed the oils of rosemary sprigs into the thick layer of fat; I made incisions all over the surface and pushed crushed garlic cloves into the meat. We roasted it slowly, and then halfway through, slathered it with a mustard rub containing thyme, Dijon, olive oil, and more rosemary. We let it sit in its own juices as it roasted. We tented it with foil when it was done.

Plum Cake, Sandy Shores, and Dinner with Friends

There are moments that require photography, and then there are moments that don’t.

Photographs—however beautiful—never capture, never replace, never stand-in for the lived moment. They make something new where there was previously nothing. We live through them in many ways, but they don’t account—they simply can’t account—for the tangible, the very physical and visceral, experience of living.

This was how it was for the plum cake and me. We found ourselves on the distant shores of the Point Reyes coastline in Northern California, nestled in warm arms, feeling the breeze of the ocean on our skin, tasting the sweet, salty air on our lips. That was ceremony enough.

I could have photographed that day, but I didn’t need to. It etched itself into my mind in a deeper way—and for me, bound to food as I am, it will always carry the taste of warm plums and brown sugar, the bite of lemon zest, and the moistness of a sour cream cake.

I did eventually photograph the cake—a different one (the second of the weekend)—when I took it the very next day to dinner with friends. (You can find those images below.) But the cake didn’t require it; it didn’t ask for it. So I listened, on that first day, and recorded something else—in a non-photographic way—instead.

When I think of the cake, and when I think of those sand dunes, I find some parallels between them: the way that the dunes rise and fall, nestling things, hidden, secretively, out of view, is very similar to the way in which this cake conceals its pockets of warm, almost-melted plum. Your fork will seek them out—they taste like compote; they are slightly tart, with only their natural sweetness to carry them; they melt and mingle with the crispness of the brown sugar and the moistness of the cake’s tender crumb.

As good as all of this is on the first day, when the cake is still warm, wrapped snugly in parchment, it is even better the next morning, with fresh memories and warm laughter still singing in your veins. I recommend it both ways.

And then, again still, on a sleepy Sunday evening, with a full weekend at your back, it is also wonderful shared with friends.

We didn’t really need a photograph of that evening either, so delicious the experience was—to be gathered around an old wooden table, drunk on wine, pasta, and a sweet dessert—but I took one anyway. For you, mostly.

Happy plum season.

Plum Cake (adapted from Food52)

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour (plus more for pan)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt

3/4 teaspoon lemon zest
1/2 cup unsalted butter (plus more for pan)
2/3 cup sugar
2 large eggs (room temperature)
3/4 cup sour cream (room temperature)
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 tablespoons light brown sugar, firmly packed
6-7 red plums (or Flavor King pluots)


Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 9 x 2 inch round cake pan. Lay down a piece of parchment that will cover the bottom of the pan and that will reach up 1-2 inches on two sides over the rim of the pan (this will make the cake very easy to remove and serve). Butter the parchment, then dust the pan with flour; tap out excess. 

Stir together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt with a light touch. 

In a separate bowl, cream the butter and the sugar using a wooden spoon (this is my technique), or an electric mixer, until pale in color. Mix in the eggs one by one, until well incorporated. Add to this the sour cream, vanilla extract, and lemon zest, and stir to combine. 

Add the flour mixture, stirring until just combined (do not over-mix or the batter will become tough at this stage). 

Pour half of the batter into the prepared pan and smooth out evenly. Sprinkle the batter with 1 tablespoon of brown sugar. Quarter 4-5 of the plums. Arrange the plum quarters in a circle over the batter, with one quarter in the center. The plums should have approximately 1/2-3/4 inches of space between them (don't worry about over plum-ing the cake). 

Dollop the rest of the batter over the plums, and spread it out to make an even layer. Cut the remaining plums into eights, and arrange the slices in a circle, with two slices overlapping in the center of the cake (about 1 inch of space between slices works well on the top of the cake). Sprinkle the top of the cake with the remaining brown sugar. 

Bake for 50-55 minutes, or until golden and a toothpick inserted near the center comes out clean (avoiding the fruit). 

Let the cake cool on a rack, in the pan, for 20 minutes. Lift the parchment on both sides to remove the cake from the pan. 

I like to serve the cake on its baking parchment. You may serve it warm, and then eat it again the next day for breakfast. 

Wrap the cake in parchment to store.

On Friends, Marriage, and Warm Nights

Last I was here I was reminiscing about gazpacho soup and forging my way toward an homage to my sister. Now, as I knew it would, the weather has turned, and it is cold and foggy, with no thoughts of cold soup to return to. We are heading into a true San Francisco summer. I left the house this morning in a plaid wool coat and I thought, even, about pulling on my old leather gloves. The resistance that one feels in these moments—but it's July, my mind cries out to itself—is tempered only by the shivers and visible breaths that one sees in the early morning light. By noon or so, the fog may burn off and if we're lucky we will have a couple hours of sunshine—if we're lucky. 

I've been gone for a couple of weeks and during part of it I was at the wedding of an old college friend. It was lovely. Gathered together in an old farmhouse in the Berkshires were my oldest friends and I—we spent long nights on blankets outside, playing the guitar, telling stories, laughing as I haven't laughed in years. My friends said that it seemed to them that I was back—back from a long slumber, the depressive kind in which, without even knowing it, one marches through life in a sort of haze, forgetting how to laugh in that doubled-over sort of way, forgetting how to savor life's enjoyments: jokes, meals, the sort of banter and sweet teasing that one does, and perhaps can only do, with ones very closest of friends. I miss them so much already. If we could all have moved right into that farmhouse, I think we would have. But we boarded planes and got into cars and went to bus stations at the end of it, and we parted ways with happy minds and clenched throats, saying to ourselves and one another, until the next time.

So now, as I return to my normal life and as I return to this little blog, I want to dedicate this cake, that one up there in the photograph, to that lovely group of women (and of course to that very special friend-in-law too, who manages to ride the waves of girl talk with grace and humor and pitch-perfect sarcasm). Each of you is as dear to me as my own blood family, and I hope you know it. I wish we could be eating this cake together, on that back porch, between belly laughs and inappropriate jokes.

The cake is a good one. It's majestic and regal, but also simple and unfussy—can you tell by now that that's my favorite combination of things in a dessert? It calls out with the essence of summer, which, though far off by now in our San Francisco chill, is still with me in my heart. It's the kind of thing you want to eat out of doors, with a large, boisterous group, with some sips of a lemonade in between, or a glass of chilled champagne; it wants you to be happy, this cake—just try to make it, just try to gulp down spoonfuls of whipped cream and mountainous blackberries, and just try, when you do, to tell this thing that you are sad. The cake mocks you. The cake stares you down and says: be cheerful, damn it, it's summertime. 

I hope you all enjoy it too. I hope that, wherever you are, and in whatever throws of life and circumstance, in whatever season, that you can find some bit of summertime in your soul. Lap it up. Like all good things, it's fleeting but beautiful.

AND, a most heartfelt congratulations to Amanda and Gery—the loveliest of couples, to whom I wish an infinite and boundless array of happy moments, laughter, and love. You are both so beautiful and your love and support for one another gives hope to us all. May your marriage be full of warm summer nights and cake to make you smile.

Orange Yogurt Cake with Blackberries and Cream

(Serves a boisterous group of the greatest of friends)

This cake is adapted from many sources. I first found the inspiration for it here (a good place to find inspiration, by the way), in the form of a link to this cake. This was the first seed of the idea—something light and airy with berries and cream sandwiched between. I happened to have three 1/2 pints of blackberries in my fridge (let’s call this inspiration number 2). I then went on a quest for the right sort of cake that would serve as the layers, into which I would arrange those blackberries and dollop thick cream. I checked with Julia, and I googled around a bit, and ended back at Orangette, reading with glee and relief this amazingly easy recipe for a French Yogurt Cake with Lemon (inspiration number 3). This I adapted by replacing the lemon with orange (the fourth, and mostly final, inspiration). You can discover the rest of what took place below. Happy baking, friends.

For the cake:

1/2 cup plain yogurt

1 cup granulated sugar

3 eggs

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

2 teaspoons grated orange zest

1/2 cup canola oil

Pinch of salt

Orange syrup for between layers:

Juice of one medium to large orange (sorry, I didn't measure)

1/8 cup powdered sugar

For the filling and icing:

1 pint heavy cream

2 tablespoons sugar

2 1/2 pints blackberries washed and thoroughly dried

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 9-inch round cake pan and set aside.

In a large bowl combine the yogurt, sugar, and eggs until thoroughly mixed. Add the flour, baking powder, orange zest, and a pinch of salt, and stir to combine. Add the oil and stir until the batter comes together and is smooth and silky.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 45-55 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean (the original recipe calls for 30-35 minutes, but I found my cake took closer to 55 minutes; I would begin testing it at 40 and watch it closely from there).

Cool the cake in the pan for 20-30 minutes and then turn out onto a baking rack and allow it to cool completely. 

Once the cake has cooled, you may prepare the layers: First, trim the top of the cake so that each layer will lay flat. What was once the top, will become the bottom of the cake. Next, with a large serrated knife, make several score marks all around the edge halfway up the cake, to mark where you will need to cut it in half (this acts as your guide). With your knife, and following your marks, cut the cake in half into two even layers. Set each layer on waxed paper with the cut side facing up. 

In a small bowl, mix together the orange juice and powdered sugar to form a thin syrup. Place the bottom layer on the plate or serving dish that you wish to serve the cake on. 

Brush the orange syrup onto the cut side of each layer, or spoon over. Just moisten the cake slightly with this, you don't want to soak it (you will have leftover syrup).

In a medium bowl, whip the cream with the sugar until you have a stiff whipped cream. 

Onto the bottom layer, spread a layer of the whipped cream, staying within an inch of the outer rim of the cake all around. Arrange a layer of blackberries on top of the cream (they should be close together, but not touching). Dollop heavy cream on top of the blackberries. 

Place the other cake layer on top of this (cut side down) and press it gently to secure it. Add a generous amount of whipped cream to the center of the cake and spread it over the surface, again keeping the cream within 1/2 to 1 inch from the outer edge of the cake. Mound some blackberries on top of the whipped cream, in the center of the cake, and garnish with orange zest. 

Consume immediately. Any leftovers will need to be refrigerated—and the cake even gets better the second day.

Me and the girls, yucking it up.

The beautiful bride. Sadly I don't have any photos of the bride and groom
together, but he was dashing, I assure you.

Hot and Cold

When I was young, it was one of the things that I most looked forward to. Slurping the bottom of the bowl with the ice cubes clanging against my spoon, their frozen bodies making the last drops of the thick, tomato-y broth watery and refreshing and ice cold. The salty croutons were always the first to go; next the garnish. We sipped and licked and downed spoonfuls of this refreshing, summer treat. We drained the last drops from the pitcher of the blender and bemoaned when there was finally, at last, after two bowls full at least, no more. We scraped up the vegetable scraps and we put our dishes in the sink and we all, I think, each of us in our own way, left the table with a feeling of satisfaction and refreshment.

These were the warm nights on which my mother made us gazpacho soup. I looked forward to them for weeks sometimes. I would request it again and again, waiting at long last to hear the whirl of the blender, to see the just-washed tomatoes and cucumbers and scallions and green peppers lining the table, to wait for that first crunch of crouton against the smooth silk of the cold soup, to feel that bite of fresh pepper crash between my teeth, to taste the lick of the olive oil, and to hear the crush of the ice cube beneath my spoon.

It’s recipes like this that make cooking worthwhile—they are inherently ceremonial; they inherently transport. Tonight, alone in my kitchen, without the buzz of mosquitos from a NY summer, or the swelter of our humid Washington Heights apartment, or the hum of cars below my window, I made it again, for the first time this year. I think I will be playing this one on repeat until the fog rolls in thickly for the later summer months and we settle into that particular type of coldness that descends here, in San Francisco, all the way through August.

I was alone tonight, and as I made this I missed my family. Perhaps it had to do with having just finished Gabrielle Hamilton’s memoir, in which family, in its many pitfalls and myriad joys, features prominently. In the final pages, she sits down to eat with her surrogate family (the in-laws) and hopes that she might, despite her divorce from their son, still be welcome at the table. She finds that she is—though things are different of course, after the wear of many years and the tumult and break of many promises.

I can’t somehow picture my sister at the gazpacho table—not completely. And I suppose it is her that I miss the most. We always joked that she was the eater and I the cook—this was a good arrangement for us in many ways. She used to bribe me with food promises, incite me with pantry items that I couldn’t reach (because I was the littler) in exchange for holding secrets, persuading my parents of something that she absolutely needed, or promising not to tell on her for whatever little insignificant thing she might have done wrong on that particular day.

I always abided.

It is uncharacteristic to think of eating something cold and feeling something warm, but that was how it was for me tonight. I ate this alone. I lit a candle. I tried not to feel so far away, and, in truth, I didn’t. We were all in there really, fighting for the last crouton, slurping the last drops of our near-frozen tomato-y soup, waiting for the heat to break, and spending perhaps a little bit longer than usual at the family table.

Gazpacho Soup with Croutons

Serves 4 (approximately), increase the recipe to account for seconds or thirds (you will need them)

4 large heirloom tomatoes (Brandywine is my favorite)

3 medium cucumbers

1 green bell pepper

6 scallions, dark green tops removed

A handful of Italian parsley

Salt and pepper

Half a rustic loaf of bread (I like Acme's Sweet Batard or Pain au Levain)

Olive oil

A small disclaimer: This recipe, since it lives in my mind, is always an approximation, and it always varies with the produce that one can find in the moment. The beauty of this is that it is very hard to ruin; you can make it in endless variations and still be satisfied with the result. The one main thing that I strongly suggest is that you use tomatoes that are very red (to achieve that vibrant color in the final soup) and that are as tomato-y as you can find. Local, organic, heirloom varieties tend to be the best ones out there, and the closest to the kinds of tomatoes you ate when you were a kid, with no mealy, white, sorry-excuse-for-a-tomato inside in sight. 

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. 

Wash and lay out all of your produce. Peel 2 of the cucumbers in such a way as to leave half of the skin on (I always make stripes, having watched my mother do this a hundred times), and cut them in quarters. Trim 4 of the scallions of the dark green tops, leaving all of the light green and white parts intact. 

Directly over a blender (so as to not lose any juice), quarter and drop in your tomatoes. Add the cucumbers and the scallions. Add half of a green bell pepper (a little piece of jalapeno is also great here, without the seeds or the vein). Pulse for about 30 seconds, or until everything is incorporated—it does not have to be completely smooth, a bit of texture is nice. Add the handful of parsley and season with salt and pepper. Pulse again. Add a drizzle of olive oil and pulse one more time. 

Taste and adjust the vegetable proportions and seasoning according to your preference—sometimes at this stage I will add more scallion, or more pepper, or even more tomato if I find the soup is not red enough; so much of this depends on the quality of the produce that it is nearly impossible to predict what you will want more of, so just taste as you go. 

When you are satisfied with your soup, place it in the refrigerator (leaving it in the pitcher of the blender) to chill while you make the croutons and prepare the garnish. 

Line a baking sheet with parchment or foil. Cut the bread into thick 1-2 inch cubes. Lay the bread on the parchment and drizzle heartily with 3-4 tablespoons of olive oil—each cube should be glistening and coated. Sprinkle liberally with Kosher salt and pepper, and toss until thoroughly coated. Bake in the preheated oven for 10-15 minutes, turning frequently, until the croutons are golden brown on all sides. 

While the croutons bake, prepare the garnish. Chop a cucumber, 2-3 scallions, the rest of the green pepper, and some more parsley roughly and set it out on a board or a plate for the table. I usually leave each vegetable separate but in close proximity so that you can choose exactly what you would like more of. 

Moments before the croutons are ready to come out of the oven, retrieve the soup from the fridge and pulse it again. Set out your bowls; add 1-2 ice cubes in each. Ladle the gazpacho soup over the ice. To each bowl of soup, add a bit of garnish on top, and finish with a handful of piping-hot croutons. 

Eat immediately.