Sweetness instead

These chocolates. I almost don’t know where to begin.

Ok, let’s start here: it’s two days before Christmas. You are frantically wrapping presents, bracing yourselves for your in-laws, decking your halls, scrubbing your floors, trying to plan various menus, and holding on for dear life to your sanity. If you have the tiniest bit of time to spare in the midst of all of this, may I suggest that you do the following?

Make these Chocolate Grand Marnier Truffles.

Then, if you have a little more time after that, there’s another thing too: make Orangettes—those sublime French confections that take the meager orange rind and elevate it to something that is nothing short of perfection; a confection that asks for bitterness and gives you sweetness instead; that seeks beauty when they should speak of mere hunger.

I promise, you will thank me later.

The thing about the truffles is that they are laced with booze. The other thing about them is that they are the easiest confection in the world to make. If you have chocolate, cream, and a little liqueur on hand (and who, I ask you, doesn’t?), you are ready to go. If you have ten minutes in which to chop chocolate and scald heavy cream, and mix these things together, adding a heavy splash or two of Grand Marnier—filling your kitchen with an aroma that will drive both man and beast to distraction—then you are really all set. That’s all you need. Your friends and roommates will praise you as being a confectioner-Goddess; they will moan as they bite into the silky smooth ganache, and praise the stars above once that little bite of liqueur comes onto their palates, kicking all of their senses into high gear. People do crazy things under the influence of these chocolates. Lovers reunite, enemies shake hands, a series of little violins and a mournful cello raise themselves into song. Something like that.

(I have a certain friend out there who is about to bake from my blog with his mother for Christmas (enter sighs of sweetness and a particular warmth filling my heart)—A., might I suggest that you two make these?)

Then, there is confection-heaven part two: Orangettes. A sublime French dessert of orange rinds dipped in semisweet chocolate. Those orange rinds are candied—they have simmered themselves into delicate, sticky, shining little things, after over an hour of bubbling away in a simple syrup. They simmer away on your stovetop and fill your house with the most beautiful citrus fragrance. It’s hard not to let the spirit of the season overtake you when you are in the midst of cooking Orangettes. Then, once the rinds have candied and dried, and are shimmering elegantly on a rack, curling this way and that, you dip those rinds in melted semisweet chocolate. I don’t need to tell you what to do after that. I’ll leave the part where they dance on your tongue in a dissonant, but entirely pleasurable, symphony of bitter and sweet up to your imaginings.

I know this post is emphatic, but hey, it’s chocolate: a cause worthy of poetic uproar. I want to revise my earlier statement and say this instead: whatever you are doing right now, drop it immediately, and make something chocolate-y laced with orange instead.

Let sweetness and warmth fill you up, body and soul.

And happy baking to all.

P.S. If you get tired of dipping your Orangettes in chocolate, you can also roll them in sugar, as shown above, for an elegant fruit glacé.


Chocolate Grand Marnier Truffles
Adapted from this recipe, originally printed in 1994

10-12 ounces semisweet chocolate (60 or 62% cacao; I used this)
1/2 cup heavy cream
2 tablespoons Grand Marnier (you can also use armagnac, brandy, or Frangelico)
Unsweetened cocoa for dusting the truffles

Chop the chocolate very finely and place in a metal bowl. 

In a small saucepan, bring the heavy cream just to a boil. Pour the heavy cream over the chocolate and let it sit for 5 minutes. 

Stir the chocolate; if it is not completely melted at this point (mine never is), place the bowl over a double boiler and stir constantly until it is silky and no lumps remain.

Chill until firm (overnight, or at least 3 hours). 

When the ganache is firm, you may form the truffles: Scoop out 1/2 to 1 teaspoon spoonfuls of the chocolate at a time, and form the chocolate into small, imperfect balls. The truffles are, in my mind, most beautiful when they look like actual truffles from the earth---meaning they are misshapen and bumpy, rather than smooth and perfectly round.

Place the truffles onto a plate filled with unsweetened cocoa as you work; then, once you have 15 or so truffles made, roll them in the cocoa all at once, shaking off excess by gently tossing the truffles between your palms. 

If your house is very warm, store the truffles in the refrigerator. 


Orangettes
Adapted from here and here

4 large organic oranges (I used Cara Cara, but Navel oranges would work too; I think organic is important here since the only part of the orange you are consuming in this recipe is the rind)
1 cup of water (plus more for initial blanching and rinsing)
1 cup of sugar
12 ounces of semisweet chocolate (60-62% is ideal, any less will not be as rich and dark in color)


Fill a large saucepan or stock pot with 3 inches of water and bring to a boil.

While the water comes to a boil, prepare the orange rinds: Cut the top and bottom off each orange to make a flat surface on each side, leaving as much rind as possible lengthwise. Stand the orange upright on one of the cut ends, and cut from top to bottom with a serrated knife in such a way as to remove only the rind (trying not to cut into the flesh of the orange). The white pith should remain on the rind. If some of the fruit comes off with the rind, scrape it out using a spoon. Repeat with all four oranges. 

Slice the large pieces of rind into thin, julienned strips. Plunge the strips into the boiling water and let them blanche for 4-5 minutes. Drain, and rinse with cold water. Refill the pot with 3 inches of water and bring to a boil again, repeating this process. (This blanching process is necessary in order to make the orange rinds less bitter.) 

Drain the orange rinds and return them to the now-dry pot. 

Add 1 cup of water and 1 cup of sugar to the pot with the orange rinds, stir gently, and turn the heat on to medium. When the mixture begins to bubble, turn the heat down to low, and allow to simmer for 1 hour, uncovered, stirring occasionally. The mixture should stay at a gentle simmer for the entire hour. After an hour, the liquid should have reduced and almost entirely evaporated, leaving a glossy syrup clinging to each orange rind strip. 

Arrange the orange rinds in a single layer on a wire rack (the rack should be placed over a baking sheet to catch the drips), and allow to dry overnight (or at least 6 hours). 

To finish the orangettes: Chop the chocolate and place it in a metal bowl. Set the bowl over a pot with 2 inches of water in it, and bring the water to a boil. Stir the chocolate until it has melted thoroughly and no lumps remain. 

Dip each slice of orange rind in the melted chocolate, so that two-thirds of the orange rind is coated in chocolate. Place the rinds on a rack or on waxed paper. Allow to cool for 2 hours, or until the chocolate is set and can be handled. 

You can also reserve some of the candied rinds for rolling in sugar to make candied orange glacé.

Store the orangettes wrapped in parchment in an airtight container. 

Here We Go

Hi.

Well, people, the season is upon us. I’m feeling a little late to the game this year. But I did buy firewood yesterday, which is resting calmly in the back of my pick-up truck, and I did drink a lovely little brandy cocktail last night, so that’s a start.

I also did something else yesterday evening, right before friends arrived: I made Viennese Almond Crescents—the single most important Christmas cookie in my mind, and the most crucial item in my family’s cookie repertoire.

I wanted to share it with you.

My mother and I have been making these for years. As with most good traditions, I can’t really remember when it first started. But the NY Times magazine from which it was extracted is dated 1992—so twenty years ago. That sounds about right. Most likely, in other words, I have been making these cookies for Christmas since I was ten.

This gives you a sense of how well-used the recipe is:

There are a lot of lovely things about them that I could recount: they are buttery, tender, and flecked with ground almonds; they have an earthy nuttiness that keeps the cookies from ever seeming too sweet; and they are coated in a dusting of billowy powdered sugar—sugar that clings to your fingers when you eat them, that you lick off of your fingertips when you are done. But there’s something else about these cookies that I love too: They’re crescent shaped.

Little moons.

For the next couple of days I’m going to try (I repeat, try) to make a selection of sweets to suit the season; I’ll post them here as soon as they are done and documented. I’ll keep the writing to a minimum—because you have a lot of baking to do, and so do I.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy these.

P.S. Ever since I posted about Anis Plätzchen (those tiny German anise cookies), I have received numerous inquiries about where to buy them and where to find a recipe. My answer is always the same: I have no idea. But, recently, a very generous reader posted his research on the cookies, along with a detailed recipe of how to make them at home. You can find it here; scroll down to the comments.

And thank you, Jake.

Viennese Almond Crescents

Adapted from the NY Times, December 13, 1992

Makes roughly 30 cookies

1 cup unsalted butter, cool and cut into chunks

1/3 cup granulated sugar

2/3 cups ground almonds (I use sliced almonds with the skins on and then grind them in a blender)

1 2/3 cups all-purpose flour

1/8 teaspoon salt

Powdered sugar, for coating the cookies

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper and set aside.

Cream together the cool butter and the sugar. Add the almonds, and stir to combine. In a separate bowl, toss together the flour and the salt, and then stir this into the butter mixture. I use my hands to help bring the cookie dough together once it is nearly combined, but don’t handle the dough too much, or the butter will warm and the cookies will lose their shape when baked.

Break off about 1 tablespoon of dough, and roll the dough in your palms to form a cigar shape; curve each little cigar into a crescent shape. Repeat until you have finished the dough, placing the cookies approximately 2 inches apart on the parchment-lined cookie sheets.

Bake until the cookies have browned ever so slightly around the edges: about 12-18 minutes. Begin checking them at 12 minutes and watch closely from there.

Transfer baked cookies to a rack to cool. Directly before serving, roll in powdered sugar; shake off excess powdered sugar by tossing each cookie lightly between your palms.

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.