quite unexpected

Sometimes the best things are the simple things, the hidden ones, the unexpected goodness found when you least expect it.

Like Nantucket Pie, for example.

Perhaps this will not surprise you, well-informed reader, but Nantucket Pie--it's a thing! I had no idea. But it's out there. Baking in people's ovens, residing on their food blogs, perched upon dining room tables and kitchen counters. Particularly in Nantucket, I assume.

I'm told that the late Laurie Colwin has a classic version of this recipe in her book More Home Cooking. The recipe featured here today, however, came to me a few Saturdays ago in a slightly more haphazard way than, you know, a book. (As is appropriate, I imagine. My life feels much more haphazard than your typical glossy cookbook photograph.)

I purchase my cranberries faithfully from the cranberry lady at my local farmers market, who also sells blueberries in the summertime, offers a plethora of surely-scrumptious-yet-extremely-expensive jams (due to the latter part of that description, I have purchased approximately one) and is the only certified organic berry vendor at the market.

Yet I must say that Cranberry Lady is not particularly...friendly. She's not unpleasant, just distracted. Or extremely disinterested? I'm not entirely sure. On the Saturday morning in question, after she handed me my box of cranberries, I was responding with an overenthusiastic smile (in hopes of lifting her spirits) and turning to go when she reached toward me again, a brochure in her hand. No eye contact. Then one word, in complete monotone: "Here."

Now as it happens, what Cranberry Lady lacks in enthusiasm, her pamphlet provides in abundance. It is all about the humble cranberry! The pamphlet comes by way of the Michigan Cranberry Marketing Committee--which I didn't even know we had! I'm learning so many new things. "Say yes to Michigan cranberries!" the pamphlet instructs me with evident enthusiasm.

And indeed, I do. Yes, Michigan cranberries, yes.

And so it came to pass that a few days later, whilst making dinner with Ben and craving dessert (as is typical) to accompany it, I remembered the notably brief recipe I'd spotted in the brochure. Nantucket Pie, or Henrietta's Easy Cranberry Pie, it was called, though as I scanned the ingredients and extremely concise instructions, it seemed unlikely to me that this eight-line recipe was going to produce anything much like a pie. It was mysterious. I wanted dessert. We gave it a go.

Before we knew it, my apartment was filled with the scent of comfort and warmth and the holidays. Dessert was completed before dinner, but we showed tremendous restraint and ate our vegetables first.

And oh, but what a worthwhile wait! The pie was scrumptious. As I will not be the first to note, this recipe produces a "pie" that is not very pie-like. It's more reminiscent of a cake, a simple one, the kind I most enjoy. Most of the cranberries linger near the bottom, and the moist cake rises between them, culminating with a crisp top. The flavor is simple and delicious.

I made it again last night, and after I had slowly eaten my slice, pausing between each bite, I was very, very sad that it was over.

Part of the goodness of the Nantucket Pie is that its deliciousness and my sense of culinary success were so utterly unexpected. Hardly any ingredients, obscenely simple instructions, an incredibly quick preparation, the mysterious label of "pie" for something quite decidedly not pie--I had very low expectations.

If you think something is going to be good and it is good, that's wonderful. But if you have no idea what is coming and it turns out to be this good...well. That is another thing entirely.

And I probably don't even need to tell you outright, but all of this is much like my life.

Yours, too, I imagine.

Nantucket Cranberry Pie
Adapted from the Michigan Cranberry Marketing Committee brochure


2 1/2 cups cranberries, fresh or frozen (if frozen, no need to defrost)
1/2 cup walnuts or pecans, chopped, optional
1/3 - 1/2 cup sugar
3/4 cup (3 ounces) butter, melted
3/4 - 1 cup sugar (if you like, swap out 1/4 cup for brown sugar)
1 cup all-purpose flour (or, 1/2 cup white + 1/2 cup whole wheat)
2 eggs, beaten
1 tsp vanilla

Preheat over to 375 F.

Butter a 9-or-so-inch pie pan. Pour in the cranberries and then the walnuts, if using. Sprinkle the first 1/3 - 1/2 cup sugar on top.

Combine the remaining ingredients and beat until incorporated. Pour the mixture over the cranberry layer.

Bake for 30-40 minutes, until the top of the pie/cake is a lovely shade of light brown.

Yield: 6 slices

my arms are open.

It is official: fall has arrived.

This is evidenced now not only by the calendar. The trees are changing colors, I pulled my boots out from the back of my closet, my landlords have turned the heat on, I bought brussels sprouts and sweet potatoes at the market, I ate two cinnamon-coated donuts and drank hot cider at a nearby cider mill this afternoon and I am fighting a nasty cold (which would totally justify the two donuts, if I felt justification were necessary, which I do not). Also, I have baked three harvest cakes. More on that later.

Those who spend any amount of time with me know that I love fall, but I love it with hesitancy these days. I find this season enchanting and beautiful, but it comes before winter, which, though also enchanting and beautiful, is cold. I used to love winter, too, but now the best I can say is that winter and I get along alright. You see, while I adore snow and festivity and Christmastime, I also get very, very cold. Additionally, I do not appreciate the darkness that descends for the sum total of the hours I'm out of the office. And there is no one to drive me over the slick and icy roads, cover the rising cost of heating a home or shovel my car out from snowdrifts, like there was in my childhood (thanks for that, Mom and Dad). The fresh produce disappears, and I am relegated to the track at the Y, banished (or at least greatly discouraged) by the snow and cold from regular runs on my city's streets.

I know that all of this worry is premature. But sometimes, I cannot help but be irrational. As soon as I sensed summer fading, I began behaving as though mid-February was coming, you know, tomorrow. It's almost winter, I whimpered as children bought fresh notebooks and apples crept into the market stalls.

However! I come to you today with good news: I have embraced fall, even knowing that the darkness and cold of winter will follow.

The shifting of the seasons is a beautiful, magical thing, as is the passing of time, and as is the movement of our lives from one situation into the next...and we cannot have that beauty without all of the intricacies, both good and bad, of each moment along the way. I know this; I have known this for a very long time. I just tend to forget.

And after all, this is what we must do, is it not? When we've finished griping and complaining and worrying, either we embrace our circumstances and the corners of the world we inhabit, challenges and quirks included...or we don't, and life happens anyway.

So I have stopped myself mid-worry, and I am opening my arms, choosing to embrace this season of the calendar year--and, yes, this season of my life. I have resolved to invest in a few more layers of clothing and to drink as many warm beverages as it takes. I am choosing to be happy.

Now, let's get to that cake, shall we? I was prompted by my dear friend Sarah, who is currently far away from me on the isles of Hawaii, to bake a cake she spotted on the internet (wish I could have shared this with you, my dear!). It is a cake for harvest time, filled with zucchini and carrot and apple, along with an array of other wholesome and delicious ingredients. As noted, I have made it three times now, with numerous tweaks and variations along the way to bring me to the following version. It's a friendly cake, open to such things, so experiment yourself if you so desire.

This cake is filling and hearty, just right for the glorious early autumn now upon us, when the cold begins to brush against your skin though the sun still shines brightly, when you need a scarf around your neck but can still wear a sweater in lieu of a coat. It is a knobby cake, with a very nice crumb and a rustic sweetness. A slice of this pairs perfectly with a mug of hot cider or coffee, and it is healthful (and delicious) enough for breakfast or the most delightful of mid-morning snacks. It is also wonderful with frosting, for dessert.

And so. My arms are open, and I am embracing this season.

But as with any difficult task, cake certainly doesn't hurt.

Harvest Cake
Adapted from Roost

3 cups white whole wheat flour (or 1 1/2 cup white and 1 1/2 cup wheat flour)
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons cinnamon
pinch nutmeg
1/4 cup coconut or olive oil
1/4 cup honey (+1 tablespoon if you like, for a slightly sweeter, moister cake)
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
3 eggs, lightly beaten
1 cup carrot, grated
1 cup zucchini, grated
1 cup apple, grated
1/2 cup walnuts, chopped, optional (but very much recommended if you like nuts)

Preheat oven to 350 F.

Grease a 9 or 10-inch cake or springform pan. Combine the dry ingredients in a large bowl. Combine the wet ingredients in a separate, smaller bowl. Add the wet mixture to the dry, and stir gently to incorporate. Pour into the prepared pan.

Bake for 40-45 minutes, or until a tester inserted into the center emerges clean. Frost if you wish (one of my favorite frosting recipes follows) and enjoy!

Yield: 8-10 slices

Not-Too-Sweet Buttercream Frosting
From Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything Vegetarian

12 tablespoons (6 oz.) butter, softened
2 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar
pinch salt
1/4 cup + 2 tablespoons milk or cream, slightly more if needed
2 teaspoons vanilla extract

Using a fork or electric mixer, cream the butter. Add the sugar and salt, alternating with the milk and beating well after each addition. Stir in the vanilla. If the buttercream is too thin, refrigerate it until it hardens enough to spread easily.

everything is alright.

This tart is for you. Because everyone needs love in the form of ripe, late-summer peaches topped with bubbling sugar and surrounded by a crisp, crumbly pie dough from time to time, right?

I do, at least. Tangible good things such as this remind me that everything really is alright, and sometimes, I desperately need that reminder.

I didn't have clear expectations for my twenty-something-lady life, or even clear desires, and perhaps that's why all of this (i.e. my life at present) feels like such a surprise. Furthermore, sometimes great-big-real-world-adult life is really not all that exciting. And you see, I like excitement. Routine and plans and patterns, yes, but also excitement. I always need something to look forward to, and I have a bad habit of desiring greatness and excitement, in everything and all the time.

And so, contentment has been fleeting lately. There have been conversations and emails and musings over cups of coffee that have informed my thoughts on all of this, but the wisdom and clarity and profundity of them escape me now. Yet those moments, and the moments when the aroma of a baking cake fills my apartment, or I sit down for dinner with that fellow I love, or I catch a glimpse of the sky erupting in a million colors as the sun slips down, or I see my parents arriving at my front door for a visit, or someone once again gives me grace I don't deserve...those moments remind me that it's okay.

Because this is life, whether or not we expected it. This. All of it, imperfect though it may be. Sheets draped all over my apartment when the dryer doesn't quite finish the job and chipped toenail polish and long to do lists and dirty dishes.

Life is full of imperfection and confusion. But beauty, too. Quiet moments in a cool room while the last wave of summer heat and humidity barrels through the streets of my city. An exuberant new intern at work. Almost-but-not-quite missing the fireworks last night. A really, really wonderful new friend. Harvest cake. The enormous zucchini I bought at the market today, discounted by a friend I've not seen since springtime. Good books. Dreams for the future.

But I am still coming to terms with the fact that this is the nature of life. That this is alright. I still want to apologize when the floors aren't clean or my hair is a mess...but at the same time, I don't. And I refuse to. The very act of it would be to embrace the idea that life should be otherwise, that I can't quite live up to how I ought to be. I'd much rather work on believing that I'm doing just fine.

And so I continue to settle into the understanding that sometimes the slightly burnt edges are the very best part. The soft plums in the dimpled and sugared folds of that lopsided cake I baked for my dear friend's visit taste just the same as they would if the darned thing were symmetrical. And you can, in fact, serve the first half of a delightful peach tart to your friends on a Friday night and the second half of that same tart to your visiting parents and your boyfriend the next evening.

This tart, to be specific. And not only is it lovely and delicious and summery, but also, it is simple.

So bake this tart, or don't. And make it perfectly, or totally screw up. It's okay. You're alright. And so am I.

Amanda Hesser's Peach Tart
Adapted from Amanda Hesser's excellent recipe, found both at food52 and in her book Cooking for Mr. Latte

1 1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose or white whole wheat flour, or a combination, divided
3/4 teaspoons salt, divided
3/4 cup plus 1 teaspoon sugar (or slightly less), divided
1/4 cup mild olive oil
1/4 cup vegetable or canola oil (or use olive oil for the full 1/2 cup)
2 tablespoons milk, 2% or whole
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
2 tablespoons cold, unsalted butter
3 to 5 small ripe peaches, pitted and sliced into crescents of about 1/2 inch width

Preheat the oven to 425 F. Stir together 1 1/2 cups flour, 1/2 teaspoon salt and 1 teaspoon sugar. In another, smaller bowl, whisk the oils, milk and almond extract together. Pour the wet mixture into the dry and mix gently with a fork, being careful not to overwork the dough.

Transfer the dough to a tart pan (anything between 9 and 11 inches or so). Pat and prod the dough until it covers the bottom of the pan, and then push it up the sides to meet the pan's edges. It should be approximately 1/8 inch thick all around. Trim and discard excess dough if necessary.

Combine 3/4 cup sugar (or less if you feel so moved), 2 tablespoons flour, 1/4 teaspoon salt and the butter. For exceptionally juicy peaches, add an additional tablespoon of flour. Pinch the butter into the dry ingredients until you have a nice crumbly mixture, with both fine and pebble-sized pieces.

Starting on the outer edges of the tart, arrange the peaches, slightly overlapping them, in concentric circles. Fill the center as well, in whatever pattern you choose. (In fact, you may arrange your peaches just as haphazardly, or not, as you desire, fitting with the theme of the reflections above.) The peaches should be tucked in snugly. Sprinkle the crumbly mixture on top. (Amanda Hesser told me it would seem like a lot, and lo! she was correct. It will indeed seem like a lot.)

Bake for 35 to 45 minutes. Remove the tart from the oven when shiny, thick bubbles are beginning to cover the fruit and the crust is slightly brown. Place on a rack to cool.

Serve the tart warm or at room temperature, perhaps with large dollop of whipped cream. It will still taste delicious the following day--good enough even for company.

Yield: 8 slices

to win hearts.

In an effort to win the hearts of members of my sweetheart's extended family this weekend, I baked a cake for their picnic reunion. I still tried to be charming while with them, of course, but it was nice, people, to have a beautiful and delicious cake as backup.

I was taking a few chances, true, with my choice of baked good. Among them: what if I couldn't find sufficient rhubarb at the market on Saturday morning? what if the cake didn't cooperate when flipped? what if I dropped it in the grass as we walked to the picnic location? what if it turned out to be not as interesting a creation as I had anticipated? what if it was not, in fact, delicious?

But, dear readers, I had nothing to fear. And as my heart-winning endeavor seemed rather effective, or at least not ineffective, I thought I ought to share it with you, just in case someone out there needs to win over a heart or two.

And furthermore, after all of that gushing about rhubarb, I felt obliged to offer at least one recipe based on this market treasure before its season slips away--because it is, most unfortunately, slipping. The days of the farmers market, while entirely glorious, also provoke fear that I will miss some wonder of a fruit or vegetable in the prime of its season, or that I will fail to enjoy said wonder sufficiently, or that I will suffer the fate of discovering the perfect recipe for strawberries or fava beans or sorrel--or rhubarb!--just after that ingredient has vanished from the market.

It has been known to happen.

But! I had been doing very well this year in preventing such unthinkable tragedies, having pounced upon the rhubarb immediately upon its arrival to the market and then regularly buying more than I could easily/sanely work through in a week. And yet I almost missed my opportunity to bake this cake, and that, of course, would have elicited no affections from anyone.

Thankfully, at one farmer's stall, when I had nearly given up hope, a few lingering red stalks hiding alongside a pile of asparagus caught my eye--enough for this cake, plus a small stash for the freezer. A narrow escape!

And why, you may ask, does this cake deserve the label of heart-winning? It looks like a fruitcake, I hear you whisper apprehensively.

Well. Perhaps it's the warm sugar pocketed between sweet slices of rhubarb and bright threads of ginger, or the way the sugar caramelizes to the deepest brown hue and crisps perfectly along the edges. Or perhaps it's the moist cake hiding below that lovely layer of fruit, dense with oats and more brown sugar. Possibly the compelling power rests in the delight inspired by a flipped-up cake, or in knowledge of the avoided-danger such flipping requires.

Or maybe it's the desire to win those hearts in the first place, and not so much the cake itself, that wields magic. Perhaps--just perhaps--the cake has nothing to do with it.

Whatever the case may be, I urge you to make this cake. It will give you confidence, and at the end of the day, that's probably the point.

So go on now--win some hearts.

Note: If rhubarb has left your local market and you have none lingering in your freezer, I imagine you could swap in another fruit; just be sure to dial down the sugar a bit, as rhubarb is quite tart.

Rhubarb Ginger Downside-Up/Upside-Down Cake
Adapted (hardly) from Tim Hirschfeld's recipe, found both at food52 and on his blog, Bona Fide Farm Food

For the rhubarb layer:
2 1/4 cups rhubarb, 1/2 inch slices
1 tablespoon fresh ginger, grated
1 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup unsalted butter

For the oatmeal cake:
1/2 cup old fashioned oats
3/4 cup boiling water
1/4 cup unsalted butter, cut into 1/4 inch cubes
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1 egg
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup white sugar
1 cup flour (I used half white whole wheat + half all-purpose)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt

Combine the oats, boiling water and first 1/4 cup of butter in a mixing bowl, or in the pan in which you heated the water on the stovetop if you chose that method. Set aside to cool.

Preheat the over to 350 F. Place the rest of the butter in a 10-inch cast iron skillet, and set the skillet in the oven to melt the butter. Remove the pan when the butter is just melted, and spread the brown sugar on top. In a separate bowl, combine the rhubarb and ginger. Spread this mixture evenly over the butter and brown sugar. Set aside.

In the empty rhubarb bowl, combine the flour(s), baking powder, baking soda and salt.

To the cooled oatmeal mixture, add the egg, both sugars and the vanilla. Stir to combine. Add the dry ingredients to the wet; mix until combined.

Spread the cake batter uniformly over the rhubarb. Bake for 30-40 minutes, until the top of the cake is golden brown and a knife inserted in the center comes out clean (relatively so--recall that gooey, caramelized layer nestled below!).

Let the cake cool in the skillet for at least five minutes. Run a knife around its edges, and gently invert it onto a cake plate or a sheet pan.

Allow the cake to cool for at least twenty minutes before slicing and enjoying thoroughly--at home, on a picnic or wherever you might be. Hearts will be won.

Yield: 8-10 slices

easter part two: sunday comes

During a very long run on Good Friday under drizzling, gray skies, I listened to a sermon preached the Sunday before, the last in the Lenten series of a nearby church. The pastor, in his prayer before the sermon, noted the dark days before Easter and the celebration of that bright day that follows. He prayed, "As we enter into a Friday that leads to a Sunday, we ask you to give us that hope that whatever that Friday looks like, Sunday's coming."

For not the first time, a sermon by this particular fellow had me nearly had me in tears as I rounded Reed's Lake in my well-worn running shoes. As I ran under actual dark skies, my thoughts muddled and my heart weary, the parallels couldn't have been much clearer.

And as much as it never feels true during the dark days, he is right: Sunday comes; it always does.

But those dark days can be so hard. I struggle to get through them with hope still intact that Sunday is on its way.

In these two years since graduating from college, as I've begun my life out in the great big world, if I have learned anything, it is that life is hard. There are dark days, and lonely days and sad days and confusing days and days that are just plain hard. Life entails difficult decisions and reasons to cry and hurting people and a broken world.

But. In addition to being hard, life is also good. It is full of hope and promise.

Sunday always comes.

And so it did that weekend. Following the Good Friday of that wet and dreary run, Easter Sunday came with warmth and sunshine, the physical reminder of Resurrection. Ben and I enjoyed a lovely day with his family, and his sister's twin daughters--two very small people full of simple joy, with yet-unknown-but-surely-beautiful futures ahead of them--further reminded me that there is much for us to hope for.

In my life at present, I'm still rather stuck in the middle of a Friday, waiting for a Sunday. The rain comes and goes, and sometimes blue skies peak through the clouds. Yet a haze covers most of my future, and sometimes I lack even the smallest degree of clarity. But that's okay. I am still happy, and I am hopeful. The sunshine and the answers and the next pages in my story will come.

And for you also, whatever you may be experiencing, I know that those things will come.

There is hope. Sunday is coming. Christ is risen.

So whether you are celebrating a bright Sunday morning or waiting in the dark, I offer you this salad, which is full of brightness and tastes of springtime. This was my contribution to our celebratory meal on Easter Sunday, and, if I may say so, it's quite wonderful. The recipe below provides loose guidelines and makes an enormous amount of salad, so use what you have or can get your hands on, make as much or as little as you'd like, improvise as you see fit and enjoy with people you love.

Spring Sunday Salad
Adapted from Heidi Swanson at 101 Cookbooks

For the salad:
3-6 cups cooked wheat berries (or substitute farro, which to my dismay I never can find, or pearled barley or even rice)
2 cups cooked yellow split peas
1 1/2 cups green peas, fresh if it happens to be the right season, frozen if not
4 large handfuls of mixed salad greens
1-2 cups baby tomatoes
1/4 cup feta cheese, crumbled

For the Citrus Parmesan Vinaigrette:
1 orange
1 shallot, chopped
1/3 cup Parmesan cheese
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar or lemon juice
1/2 cup olive oil
salt and pepper

To cook the wheat berries, in a large saucepan, combine 2-4 cups of wheat berries with water to cover by at least an inch and a large pinch of salt. Bring to a boil and then lower heat; cover and simmer until the wheat berries are plump and chewy, about an hour. Drain and set aside.

To cook the yellow split peas, place 3 cups of water in a large saucepan and bring to a boil. Add 3/4 cup of dried yellow split peas and simmer until the peas are tender, 20-30 minutes. Drain, salt and set aside.

To prepare the green peas, boil briefly in salted water. Drain and set aside.

To prepare the tomatoes, douse generously with olive oil, sprinkle with salt and roast in the oven at 350 F until wrinkled and beginning to caramelize.

To make the dressing, whisk the zest and juice of the orange with the chopped shallot, Parmesan cheese, vinegar or lemon juice and olive oil. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Finally, assemble the salad! In a large bowl, toss the wheat berries, yellow split peas and green peas with a few spoonfuls of the Citrus Parmesan Vinaigrette until everything is thinly and evenly coated. Add the greens and tomatoes; toss gently. Add salt and more dressing if necessary, toss one last time, place in a pretty bowl or on a pretty platter and top with the feta cheese.

Then, enjoy, my friends--Sunday's coming!

Serves eight or more.

where I want to be.

Here in Michigan, we are currently in the strange in-between that brings us from winter into spring. One day, the sun shines brilliantly, and the next, there's, oh you know, an ice storm. Of course.

I sometimes feel like I'm in that strange space in my life as well. There's much that is good, but other things are...not good. In terms of what frustrates, tires and worries me most, I have tremendous hope for a time in the future when things will be different, but that's still far-off.

And really, this is a microcosm of the broader sense of life as already-and-not-yet. We experience some of the wonder and beauty of how things ought to be, how they someday will be, but we're not quite there. Rather, we are perpetually between seasons; life will always be hard and complicated and confusing...though some days more than others.

Last Monday, for example, I was feeling quite sad, and rather inexplicably so. My dearest one listened as I told him all of the small things that were contributing to my melancholy state. I'd been thinking about baking a cake, as that's generally a good cure for sadness, and, because he knows me well, he nudged me gently into the kitchen, and, because he is wonderful, he helped. Not too long after, with the cake in the oven and the scent of orange already wafting through the air, we sat back down, and I was surprised to find that I no longer felt quite so out of sorts.

Let me be honest: I'm fighting the urge to be rather sentimental right now. And I'm going to give in, if just a little bit. It turns out that it's true that sometimes one singular person can make that which is bad better. Having been in the happy-single camp for twenty-three-and-some solid years, this is kind of a revelation to me. I'm certainly not suggesting that a significant other is necessary; singleness is good and lovely, and community can bring all kinds of beauty and depth and companionship.

But for me, right now, when trouble or sadness comes, however small, I know where I want to be: with Ben. And if we happen to be sitting on the chocolate brown futon in my little apartment, the air filled with the aroma of a baking cake bright with the scent of orange...well, all the better.

Now. About this cake.

Oh, this cake, people, this cake! Along with the delightful flavor of orange, it has a delicate yet rustic crumb, is full of wholesome ingredients and requires only one bowl. One! And if you're wondering when would be an appropriate time to bake it, know that the citrus makes it perfect for winter, but it's also so fresh, like springtime. And as for the in-between times, those always necessitate cake.

So anytime, really.

Once you have baked this delightful cake, eat a piece late at night while sitting alone in the calm silence, and be reminded that life really is alright. Or share a piece with a friend or neighbor, who will certainly feel loved.

And if there is one particular fellow or lady who makes your bad days brighter, hold that hand tightly, share a slice (or two or three) and be very thankful. (Yes, I know. I didn't forget I said that.)

Olive Oil Orange Cornmeal Cake
Adapted slightly from Kristen at The Kitchen Sink, who adapted slightly from Martha Stewart.

The original recipe calls for blood oranges for the juice and zest, but on that Monday, I was not about to go out to pick up more ingredients, so we used what I had--plain old oranges--and the results were lovely. (The juice was from concentrate, to be honest, and I'm only slightly ashamed. It was easier, and that mattered. But don't worry, we ate the oranges we zested.)

1/2 cup olive oil, plus more for pan
2 large eggs
1 1/3 cup sugar, divided
1/2 cup orange juice
1 1/4 cups white whole wheat flour, or all-purpose
1/2 cup coarse-ground cornmeal (I used the pretty red one that happened to be in my freezer)
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
Zest of 2 oranges

Preheat oven to 375 F. Lightly oil an 8-inch round cake pan. Line the bottom of the pan with a round of parchment paper, and brush the paper with oil as well.

In a large bowl, whisk together the oil, eggs and juice along with 1 cup of the sugar. When the mixture is smooth, add the flour, cornmeal, baking powder, salt and orange zest. Whisk gently to combine.

Pour batter into the prepared pan, and sprinkle the top evenly with the remaining 1/3 cup of sugar.

Bake until the cake begins to pull away from the sides of the pan and a tester inserted in the center emerges clean, 35 to 40 minutes.

Cool the cake in its pan for 20 minutes. Run a knife around the edge of the cake, invert it gently onto a plate and remove the parchment paper. Turn the cake back, right-side up, onto a rack to cool completely.

Enjoy, with gusto.

sunshine muffins.

The weather has been a bit out of control this month. And right now, it is rather cold and dark once again in my little region of the world.

And also, life is hard.

Thus, I feel it is time for some baked goodness on this site.

We had that little blip of warmer weather, which was so lovely, and although I knew it wouldn't last, I felt sadder than expected when the bitter cold smacked me in the face this past Sunday afternoon, to be followed shortly by snow, and lots of it. But it is still February, after all. Those short days were just a gentle whisper reminding me that spring will come--remember? this is what it feels like--and all shall be well. And I enjoyed it while it lasted, wearing flats outdoors and going for a long run on Saturday morning outside! on dry sidewalks! in sunshine that gloriously tempered the returning cold. That made Sunday, when the storm came in full force, and the early weekday mornings that followed, when I struggled to dislodge my car from its curbside mound of snow and wondered what I would do if I couldn't get out, more bearable. (Note: bearable. Not awesome, but bearable.)

And regarding these cold temperatures, I am, for the record, attempting to keep things in perspective. In the wee hours one morning in early February, as I ran on the treadmill at the Y, the weather channel informed me that the temperature was hovering at two degrees below zero. Yeah. Cold. I was feeling all sorry for myself as I burrowed my hands in my mittens and my wet hair froze in the thirty-second walk from the doors of the gym to my car. But then, I learned that the morning had dawned in my sister and brother-in-law's current home of Renville, Minnesota with temperatures seventeen degrees below zero.

Oh.

I realized that (1) I am a wimp and (2) I need to calm down and stop complaining.

So I'm working on that. But in the meantime, since I am still a wimp, I have found that baking does wonders for my soul during these cold months, and the oven warming my apartment doesn't hurt, either. Plus, the only things I've really wanted to eat this winter are soup and baked goods. I've been appeasing my body, making and eating a good deal of both.

I made these muffins whilst snowed in under sixteen inches of white during that crazy storm at the beginning of February. The night before the storm, my office decided it wouldn't open that next day, and I thought, Is that really necessary? I'm sure it won't be that bad. But when I awoke to impassable roads and a world buried deep in snow, I realized that yes, yes it was necessary. And then I made these muffins.

If you also find yourself cold, snowed in and/or generally in need of some sunshine, these muffins will make your life a bit brighter. Like those occasional days of sunshine and rising temperatures, they will remind you that spring is coming and all shall be well. They won't solve all of your problems--my cheering up that snowy day required a walk out in the actual sunshine, a bit of human interaction with the many neighbors I encountered unearthing cars and clearing sidewalks and that wonderful man in my life who traipsed through the snow to visit me--but they are certainly an excellent start.

I made a few changes to the original recipe, replacing the sugar with honey, half of the all-purpose flour with spelt, the currents with raisins and the lemon extract with a slightly greater amount of lemon juice. With the honey and spelt, I aimed for a bit more healthfulness; the raisins and lemon juice were what I happened to have on hand. (It was a blizzard, people.) The spelt added a lovely nuttiness, but I imagine the muffins would be a bit airier and delicate without. I've noted some of the changes below; you can do as you wish. Follow your heart.

I liked these little bursts of sunshine very much, particularly, in fact, once they had cooled completely, and I actually think they may have been even better the day after. They froze well also, to be defrosted for delightful midweek breakfasts.

To sunshine!

Citrus-Currant Sunshine Muffins
Adapted from Dorie Greenspan's Baking: From my home to yours

1/2 cup sugar or honey
Zest from 1 orange
2 cups all-purpose flour or 1 cup all-purpose flour + 1 cup spelt flour
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
Pinch of salt
1 cup orange juice (reduce amount slightly if you used honey rather than sugar)
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1/4 teaspoon pure lemon extract (if you make a substitution here, check the web for advice from folks who know more about such things than I)
1 stick (8 tablespoons) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
2 large eggs
3/4 cup dried currants or raisins

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Butter the twelve molds of a muffin pan of regular size. Place the muffin pan on a baking sheet (to be honest, I'm not yet convinced that this makes a significant difference, but since it's a little tiny step that creates no additional mess, I've been doing it anyway lately).

In a large bowl, rub the sugar and orange zest together with your fingertips until the sugar is moist and the orange zest fragrant (if you use honey and/or purchased rather than fresh zest, make do with vigorous mixing. Also, if you use honey, include it with the wet ingredients rather than the dry). Whisk in the flour(s), baking powder, baking soda and salt.

In another bowl, whisk together the orange and lemon juices, lemon extract, melted butter and eggs.

Pour the wet ingredients over the dry and mix gently but quickly until blended. Lumps are fine and preferable to overmixing. Fold in the currants or raisins. Divide the batter evenly among the muffin cups.

Bake for about 20 minutes (watch closely if you used honey rather than sugar; baked goods with honey tend to brown more quickly), or until the tops of the muffins are golden and a knife inserted in the center of one comes out clean. Transfer the pan to a rack and cool for about 5 minutes before removing the muffins from the molds.

Eat warm or at room temperature, top with jam or butter, pair with coffee, think of sunshine.

Yield: 12 muffins

everyday (cake).

Let's start with the name of this cake -- Everyday Cake. Obviously, this refers to the simplicity of the cake and the fact that it is perfect for any old day; there is no need to wait for a special occasion (though I'm of the belief that one never need wait for a special occasion to do special-occasion-kinds-of things, like baking fancy cakes. So that part might be a little lost on me).

But, as per the usual, I started thinking about how this relates to life as well. Living (obviously, though the fact sometimes seems to surprise us) is an everyday affair. This is, of course, the whole finding balance, living day-to-day, being thankful theme of my life at present that I really don't need to wax poetic about here too much more. So I'll be brief. It's simply that I want my everyday life to be meaningful and beautiful and thoughtful and gracious and just; I want to live well even on boring days and sad days and any-old-day days.

And this cake is helpful in that endeavor, because it is an everyday cake, and I absolutely adore it.

The recipe comes from the trusted Molly Wizenberg, who was inspired by Edna Lewis and her Busy-Day Cake. I made the cake first this summer, and I've thought about it far more times than can be considered normal since then. Now, I'm not usually a cake-kind-of girl. Baked goods in general, yes please, but try as I might, I just cannot get that excited about cake. Especially at weddings and graduation parties where it is too sweet and buried under frosting of varied and ridiculous bright colors. But this is not that kind of cake. THIS cake is crumbly and simple and rustic, made with whole wheat flour and perfect for sunny afternoons and well... I'm sold.

This weekend was filled with the aforementioned meaningful normalcy, and with this cake. My parents came for a brief visit (a stop by to see my office, out to dinner at a great local place for much good food and conversation, back home for dessert and the viewing of pictures of their recent trip, making frittatas in the morning with my dear father to enjoy with bakery-fresh bread and jam as sun came through the window and we sipped our coffee, a walk through my neighborhood full of its lovely old houses and little flowers popping up) and a quiet afternoon with one of my dearest friends, Nicole (who is ever-so-helpful as I try to understand living). She and I made this cake. Then we ate it, with high approval. When I dropped her off at home, we shared some with her Little One, who approved as well. And there was church and a very long run and cabbage salad (again) and housecleaning and a happy movie or two. Everyday things. Good things.

Just like this cake.

Everyday Cake

(Very minimally) adapted from Molly Wizenberg

Though I haven't experimented a great deal, it seems that this cake is quite versatile. I think that the all-purpose flour could be nearly or completely replaced by more white whole wheat flour without any adverse effect. As for spices, Molly uses just a dash of nutmeg; we used both nutmeg and cinnamon. We also threw a handful of blueberries (frozen from last summer's harvest and contributed by Nicole, who clearly planned ahead for winter far better than I did this year) on top, along with a dusting of more of the spices. I'd imagine sliced almonds would work well also.

This cake is perfect for mid-morning or late afternoon; it would also be lovely breakfast treat or an actual post-dinner dessert. I think that a dollop of yogurt (normal or Greek), possibly sweetened with honey or maple syrup, goes nicely on top, as does any kind of fresh fruit, but the cake is also just wonderful plain. So follow your heart. And your stomach. And enjoy.

1 stick (4 oz.) unsalted butter, at room temperature

1 1/4 cups granulated sugar (I used slightly less)

3 eggs

2 tsp. vanilla extract

1 cup white whole wheat flour

1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour (experiment with the proportions of the flours to your taste)

2 tsp. baking powder

1/4 tsp. salt

A dash of nutmeg or cinnamon or both

1/2 cup plain yogurt (I used nonfat)

Preheat the oven to 375°. Grease a 9-inch springform pan with butter.

In a large bowl, blend the butter and sugar with a hand mixer until light and fluffy. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the vanilla extract and beat again.

In another bowl, mix together the dry ingredients: the flours, baking powder, salt and spice(s).

Add about 1/4 of the flour mixture to the butter mixture, and beat on low speed until just combined. Add 1/3 of the yogurt; beat again. Add the remaining flour mixture in three more doses, alternating with yogurt and beating each time to incorporate. Use a rubber spatula to scrape the sides of the bowl and stir in any loose flour.

Scrape the batter into the prepared pan, spreading it evenly across the top. Bake for about 35 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. (The cake browns rather quickly on the top, so tent with aluminum foil after about 20 minutes. I did this after about 25, and you'll notice that the edges of my cake are somewhat dark, so I would certainly recommend this step.) Remove the cake from the oven. Cool in the pan on a rack for 20 minutes, then remove the sides of the pan and continue to cool.

Serve slightly warm or at room temperature.

springtime, hope, purple cabbage

It doesn't seem that long ago that I was writing of the shifting of summer into fall. And yet, as I reflect on that season of my life and think of all that has happened since, it suddenly seems as though years and worlds have gone by. We have indeed traveled from fall through winter and into spring, and now it is official.

Happy springtime, my friends.

I probably spent, oh, the entire second half of winter reminding myself and others that I like having four seasons and that we couldn't possibly appreciate the warmth and sunshine of spring and summer as much as we do if not for the cold and dark winter that comes before. And this is true. But I am very, very glad that spring is here.

"Here," of course, is a relative term, and spring in Michigan is a fluid concept. An illustration from this past week: on several weekday evenings, I shed the running tights, Under Armour and gloves to run in shorts and a t-shirt, enjoying balmy temperatures in the high sixties, sunshine and completely dry sidewalks. I walked with a friend to a nearby bar. I marveled at the leaves of tiny tulips emerging from the ground. My bike-enthusiast friends joyfully returned to their favorite means of transportation. And then. And then Saturday came, the first day of spring marked by snow coming steadily down all the day long, blanketing the ground and pelting my face with freezing flakes as I rounded Reeds Lake on the week's longest run (of course I planned that one for Saturday).

However, today brought more sunshine, and the snow melted. And I think we're all quite aware that the official commencement of spring has nothing to do with temperatures and precipitation anyway. I look forward to all this season will bring: the return of the blessed farmers' market, bikes, tulips, sweaters and light jackets, the turned-up cuffs of my jeans, long walks, brighter evenings, hope.

And in the end, I think that's really it: what I most love about the changing of the seasons is the hope that comes with the transition. It's like a promise. Things are shifting. Greater joy, greater fullness, more beauty are yet to come...

I am well aware that we may not have seen the last of the snow/cold, so until spring proclaims its sustained presence, I will welcome it in other ways. Along with the bikes and sweaters and such, springtime makes me think of brightly colored produce. And scones. (Really, I'm serious. It does.) Since my sister covered the scones already today, I will leave you with a recipe that involves the beautiful purple cabbage I have been rather obsessed with as of late, a winter vegetable whose brilliant color speaks of more than dark skies and the moldy snowdrifts of late winter.

To me, it speaks also of hope.

Purple Cabbage Salad with Lemon and Parmesan

Adapted from Molly Wizenberg's A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table

Meticulous baker and perfectionist I may be, but surprisingly, I don't follow any calculated formula for my version of this salad. I most often just throw it together in one bowl, taste and adjust to my liking and then pop it in some tupperware for part of a workday lunch. I generally go pretty light on the olive oil and heavier with the lemon, and I always season quite thoroughly with the salt and pepper. I also think it's quite excellent with a handful of garbanzos thrown in, but I do have a bit of a thing for garbanzo beans (and by this I mean that sometimes I eat them straight from the can), so I recognize that this might not be to your liking.

All that to say approximations and variation work quite well with this recipe. I've given Molly's measurements here, though, so as not to leave you completely in the dark. As always, Molly does not disappoint... this salad is bright and lovely, just like springtime and hope.

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 tablespoons lemon juice

1 clove garlic, or to taste, pressed

1/8 teaspoon (or so) salt

1 small head (about 1 1/2 pounds) purple cabbage

1/4 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano (or another hard cheese)

ground black pepper

Whisk together the olive oil, lemon juice, garlic and salt in a small bowl. Set aside.

Prepare the cabbage by removing any bruised or wrinkled outer leaves and trimming the root end. Cut the cabbage into quarters, and then, one quarter at a time, slice the cabbage as thinly as possible (aim for 1/4 inch slivers).

In a serving bowl (or, to skip a step, your tupperware lunch container), toss the cabbage with a large spoonful or two of dressing (you will likely have some left over, but it will keep in the refrigerator and nicely top another salad or, along with a grated hard cheese such as Parmesan, a bowl of garbanzos. And please note: the latter is a brilliant and well-tested suggestion first of Molly, not of this clearly biased garbanzo-aficionado!). Add the Parmigiano-Reggiano and toss gently. Season with pepper. Taste and adjust the various components as needed.

Serve, enjoy and be filled with sustenance and joy and hope and all manner of good things.

Yield: about 4 servings as a side; about 2 as lunch

cocoa almond meringues and a new year.

Happy New Year, dear ones! I hope that you are enjoying this close of the holiday season, celebrating the year that has ended (and possibly that the year has ended; that’s okay, too) and looking ahead with hope to 2010, a new year promising new adventure, new joy, new beauty.

I have learned so much in this year, mostly adult/real world kinds of lessons that were not always enjoyable but brought new and beautiful depth to my life. At the end of four years filled with good, solid academic education (which I loved), I learned how to finish well and how to close and then open chapters of my life, how to say goodbye well and how to stay in touch (an ongoing lesson). I learned how difficult it really is to find a job in this economy and how to piece paychecks together and how little I really need to sustain myself. I learned how to best fit all of my belongings in my car when moving and how to ask for help. I learned more about loving well and about making hard decisions (although I still have a long way to go on both of those).

This year, I have come to see more clearly that in every situation, there are difficult and painful things as well as beautiful and very, very good things. I have learned how to first see that whole honest picture of my life and to then cling to and give thanks for the good things... a job, a roof over my head, food on my table, people to eat it with, the amount of justice and freedom I’m afforded. It could all be otherwise.

And this year, I learned the truth of something I always knew in my head but maybe not deep in my bones: that God is always faithful, regardless.

To celebrate the old year and welcome the new, here is what I would call a celebratory recipe from Dorie Greenspan’s big and incredible cookbook, Baking: From my home to yours. I got this book from my cousin for Christmas, and I’ve already paged through the whole thing at least twice. Great recipes, beautiful photographs. I made these meringues first, and they are delightful: light and airy on the outside and dense and slightly chewy on the inside. They are craggy and beautiful, rich with chocolate and a hint of almond, and they are amazing. AMAZING. Happy new year indeed.

Cocoa Almond Meringues

Adapted from Dorie Greenspan’s Baking: From my home to yours

Ingredients:

1 cup confectioners’ sugar, plus extra for dusting

1/3 cup finely ground almonds

1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

4 large egg whites

Pinch of salt

1/2 cup sugar

1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1/3 cup finely chopped bittersweet chocolate

Position the racks in the oven to divide it into thirds, and preheat the oven to 300 degrees F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper or silicone mats (I just purchased my first silicone baking mat with Christmas money from my grandparents, and it is incredible!).

Mix together the confectioners’ sugar, ground almonds and cocoa.

Using a stand mixer with a whisk attachment or a hand mixer in a large, dry bowl, whip the egg whites and salt at medium speed until the whites are opaque. Increase the speed to medium-high or high and continue whipping, adding the sugar about a tablespoon at a time. Whip until the whites are firm, hold stiff peaks and are very shiny. This will take a very long time, up to 15 or 20 minutes (so don’t panic if it seems like nothing is happening!). Beat in the vanilla.

Quickly and gently fold the dry ingredients and then the chopped chocolate into the egg whites. Work with a light touch to minimize the deflation of the egg whites, but realize that they will deflate somewhat, regardless.

Drop the meringue by tablespoonfuls onto the baking sheets, spacing them about 2 inches apart. Dust them lightly with confectioners’ sugar (very pretty).

Place the baking sheets into the oven and bake for 10 minutes. Then, without opening the oven door, reduce the oven temperature to 200 degrees F, and bake for one hour more. Remove the baking sheets from the oven and allow the meringues to cool. Peel them off of the parchment paper or silicone mats. Marvel at their loveliness and enjoy!

Store the meringues in a cool, dry environment, either in an airtight container or uncovered in a basket at room temperature.

Yield: about 30 little chocolaty mountains

So may this year be filled with laughter, new lessons to humbly learn, community and good meals shared with friends, and much beauty and thankfulness throughout your days. May this year bring more justice and more peace in our homes, neighborhoods, cities, countries and world, and may we live and love with more compassion and grace and hope.

It’s a new year.

tranquility, friendship and banana bread

A few Saturdays ago, desiring a bit of tranquility and peace, Sarah, Nick, Taylor and I made plans to gather that evening at Nick and Taylor's house to sink into the couches in the front room of the house with glasses of red wine in our hands, reading and writing by the glow of candles and the dim light of a lamp, classical music swirling about us and brisk fall winds blowing on the other side of the windows.

It really was a fabulous idea.

The only thing that could make the evening more lovely, I felt, would be some kind of baked good. But not just any old baked good. Banana bread. With dark chocolate and bits of crystallized ginger.

I had long ago discovered this recipe both on Molly Wizenberg's blog and in her book, and it seemed it would be a fitting addition to the evening... a bread made dense and sweet with ripe bananas, slivers of chocolate melting in each bite and spicy undertones of ginger throughout. Yes, this would be perfect indeed.

I always have this desire to bake for gatherings with friends. A key element of my food philosophy (more on this another day) is the idea of nourishment. I love preparing food for others because it is an incredibly basic way of showing them I care for them by investing time and energy into something that nourishes their bodies and souls... enabling life to continue. For whatever reason, I find this sense of caring for others through food particularly strong when baking, maybe because we knead bread with our hands or because dessert is an "unnecessary" luxury or because of Christmas cookies and homemade bread with soup on cold days and freshly baked cookies as only mothers make them.

But whatever the reason, I wanted to bake banana bread.

I whipped up the batter for the bread at home, borrowed a pan from those gracious men as I so often do, slid the borrowed pan into the borrowed oven and joined my friends in the living room, pulling a blanket around my toes and writing away in my journal.

An hour later, when our quiet reading/writing endeavors had transitioned into conversation about the environment and saving the world (as per the usual) and the house had filled with the sweet aroma of the baking bread, Taylor and I ventured into the kitchen.

I pulled the bread out of the oven. It looked lovely, the top lightly browned and cracked. I placed it on the stovetop to cool for a few minutes as Taylor and I talked. As we had no cooling rack (and I don't judge; we don't have a cooling rack in my kitchen either!), we decided to tip it out onto those metal grates over the burners on the stovetop instead. Still talking cheerily with Taylor, I tipped the bread.

Although what happened next is still a blur, I do know for certain that it was not pretty nor graceful.

The bottom of the loaf stayed firmly attached to the pan. The middle was goop and oozed around the more solid pieces that had broken off, seeping out of the pan and between the grates of the stovetop.

Remember what I said about nourishment and caring for others through baking? In that moment, my heart dropped. The symbol of my affection for my friends was spreading across the stovetop in a sticky, oozing mess.

I stood frozen, holding the hot pan in its halfway-tipped position and making various noises of helplessness and distress. Taylor was the first to move, and I quickly emerged from my paralysis to join him in awkwardly attempting to salvage the part of the loaf that remained in one piece, to return the goop and solid bits of bread to the pan, to clean the stovetop, to do something. After several unsuccessful attempts at preservation, Taylor grabbed a spoon from the counter.

I stood in front of the oven, mournfully staring at the situation before me. My bread was ruined. And ugly. My friends' stovetop was a mess. I was an awful nourish-er.

And then I noticed that Taylor, done trying to salvage or clean, had begun eating the gooey insides of the bread off of the stovetop with his spoon. He was grinning. I paused for just a moment. Then, laughing, I reached for a spoon and joined him.

We piled the broken and soft pieces of bread back into the pan and returned to the living room with a stack of spoons. Sitting around the low coffee table on our knees, the four of us and David, another of Nick and Taylor's housemates, polished off the entire loaf of bread, the hot, melted chocolate dribbling from our spoons.

Nick told me confidently that it was better this way than it could have possibly been otherwise.

It could have been a disaster. If I had been alone in my house, making something to take with me to a dinner gathering or a party, I would have been depressed and disappointed. But instead, the moment of panic was brief, and as soon as I saw Taylor with spoon in hand, I knew it would be fine. More than fine.

You see, my friends, this is part of the purpose that community serves, to take an event that might otherwise be construed as disaster and make it into beauty.

And my love is messy anyway. This misshapen and unattractive loaf of bread probably offered a more true metaphor than any perfectly textured scone or delicately arched cake ever could.

I knew immediately that I wanted to share this story and this recipe with you here, but I also wanted to attain more conventional success with the recipe before posting it. Various factors may have contributed to the outcome of that first attempt: a very thick pan, the particular combination of flours I used or the amount of time I waited before removing the bread from the pan. In my second attempt, I used a slightly different version of the recipe, a thinner pan and a simpler combination of flours, and I waited a good 10-15 minutes before attempting removal from the pan.

This second attempt produced a (more traditionally) beautiful and equally (?) delicious loaf of bread. Cut into thick slices, seven of us shared it, moaning at its goodness (yet exercising enough restraint this time to even leave a good-sized piece for me to enjoy the following day). But if I'm being completely honest, I may have enjoyed it most in its half-solid, half-gooey form, eaten with spoons and joy in disaster converted...

Either way, this is incredible bread. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Banana Bread with Chocolate and Crystallized Ginger

Adapted from Molly Wizenberg's A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes From My Kitchen Table (Note: My first attempt more closely followed Molly's earlier version of the recipe, posted here on her blog, Orangette.)

6 tablespoons unsalted butter

2 cups flour (I used white whole wheat)

3/4 cup sugar

3/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

3/4 - 1 cup semisweet chocolate chips (or chopped up bar of chocolate)

1/3 cup or more chopped crystallized ginger

2 large eggs

1 1/2 cups (about three large) mashed ripe bananas

1/4 cup plain yogurt (despite a warning in the recipe, I used nonfat, and it worked just fine)

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350°. Grease 9- by 5-inch loaf pan.

Microwave the butter until just melted and set aside.

In a large bowl, sift together flour, sugar, baking soda and salt. Add the chocolate and ginger; mix well to combine. Set aside.

In a separate bowl, lightly beat the eggs with a fork. Add the mashed banana, yogurt, butter and vanilla and mix well. Pour this wet mixture into the dry one, stirring gently with a spatula until just combined. Make sure all flour is incorporated, but don't worry if the batter is lumpy and thick. Pour the batter into the greased pan.

Bake 50 minutes - 1 hour. The bread should be a deep shade of golden brown and a toothpick inserted into the center should come out clean. If loaf is browning too quickly, tent it with tin foil.

Cool the bread in the pan for 5 minutes (or longer, all things considered). Tip it out (preferably onto a wire rack, but make do as necessary). Let it cool, but not for too long, as this bread is wonderful warm!

Bring your friends around, eat and enjoy. And if your bread falls apart or isn't quite done, don't worry. Just get the spoons.

Yield: about 8 servings (that is, if you exercise self-control...)

functioning oven, poppyseed cookies and living gracefully

All of my posts thus far have been relatively serious, so on a lighter note, let me tell you two very good things that happened approximately a week ago:

1. Handyman Dave came and fixed the oven.

2. We turned on the heat in the flat.

I was so happy.

Let's talk about the oven. Our oven has been out of commission since the very start of the summer. It has been awful. The saga began with the pilot light being out. This seems like it should be easy to deal with, but it was not. First, a neighbor of mine lit it briefly, but the following morning ALL of the pilot lights (oven and stovetop) were out. Even Taylor, lying on the kitchen floor in his work clothes and reaching matches back into the depths of our oven, could not light it. And Taylor is good at these sorts of things. So finally Landlord Man sent Handyman Dave, who lit the pilot light but apparently did not check to make sure the oven worked. Because it did not. And then by this time, I was discouraged and frustrated, and I thought I was moving out at the end of the summer, so I just let it ago.

But when I realized I was staying, I was bound and determined to have that oven functioning. As Landlord Man was not all that responsive when the chimney fell off the house earlier this summer, I didn't expect a lot, but he was actually very responsive this time. But then again, I was quite firm. (As another result of this firmness, he has also now dedicated himself to the task of helping us catch our squadron of mice. But that's a story for another day.)

So last Friday, Handyman Dave (who is really not only knowledgeable but also very kind) came over and banged around under the oven for awhile and then informed me that it was fixed. As he explained to me and I now repeat to you, in my layperson terminology and probably quite inaccurately, there was gunk on the small pipe that the gas flows through to get to the big pipe where something else gets lit, at which point the newly lit thing, whatever it is, makes a whooshing sound and heats up the oven.

He knocked the gunk off the pipe.

There was whooshing.

There was heat.

I was thrilled.

Now, two good things did result from our oven being broken for this long, sad time. First, I now have a much better understand of gas appliances in general and our stove in particular. And second, I learned to be very resourceful in my cooking. I cooked many a thing on the stovetop this summer. I was particularly proud of my successful use of a skillet on the stovetop (rather than a pan in the oven) to roast tomatoes and to roast spiced chickpeas. I may not have been as innovative as my sister, but then again, she's pretty brilliant.

BUT.

But I couldn't bake. No scones, no muffins, no bread. And you cannot roast a butternut squash in a skillet on the stovetop. At least I don't think you can.

However, now the oven works! So as soon as I felt I could trust it, I baked. Constrained by a lack of baking ingredients, I perused my cookbooks until I found this recipe for poppyseed cookies in a little green book called The Peaceful Cook, written by Harriet Kolfalk in 1991. My sister got this book secondhand and then passed it on to me a year or so ago. (As a note, I must mention that my sister and I agree that the book takes the concepts of holistic living and interconnectedness further than we are comfortable with, but the recipes within are unique, healthful, seasonal and focused on whole foods. Good stuff.)

These cookies are soft and somewhat crumbly, just slightly sweet and with a faint crunch from the poppyseeds. My friend Abby said that they reminded her of scones; I think I'll try that next I return to this recipe.

Poppyseed Cookies for Celebration and Graceful Living

Adapted from The Peaceful Cook

1/2 cup skim milk

2/3 cup poppyseeds

1/2 cup raisins

1 1/4 cup white whole wheat flour

1 tsp. baking powder

1/2 cup butter

1/3 cup honey

1/2 tsp. vanilla extract

1/2 tsp. lemon extract

Heat oven (!!!) to 350°.

In a saucepan, heat milk to nearly boiling. Remove from heat and stir in poppyseeds and raisins. Set aside.

Mix dry ingredients together. Cream butter until smooth; add honey, vanilla and lemon. Combine butter mixture and dry ingredients. Fold in poppyseed mixture. (You may need to add a bit more flour as I did at this point if your dough is overly wet.)

Drop small spoonfuls onto buttered cookie sheet. Bake 15 minutes or until cookies are light brown at the edges.

Yield: about 3 dozen small cookies

Here author Harriet would insert some comment about harmony with nature through poppyseeds. I do like harmony. But today I just say this: Let the cookies cool. Eat. Enjoy. Be thankful for your oven. Be thankful in general.

That's the final thing I want to touch on today. Aforementioned friend Abby and I were talking earlier this week about being in this strange phase of life that we've found ourselves in and being confused and discouraged and disoriented. I had been frustrated about something, but with fierce independence, I said to Abby that I can handle this. I can. I can handle a lot of things, and I can take it, whatever it may be.

But wise Abby reminded me that actually, everyone "handles things." As long as we continue living, that is what we are doing. And so people handle tragedy, the death of those they love, cancer, unemployment, homelessness, depression, disappointment, betrayal... but sometimes they handle these things poorly.

So yes, of course I can deal with the situations I am in. The question is not if I can handle things (as they are and will be) but rather how I will handle them. Will I do so gracefully... or no?

I want to handle things gracefully.

But I don't always do a fabulous job of this. I think that at many times in the last few weeks in particular, I've been very far from graceful. And I apologize, flatmates, dear friends, family, all you who have had to deal with me being so clumsy. I'm working on regaining my balance, being stable, living as if I am dancing, figuring out what it means to be graceful when being graceful is so hard. Feel free to keep me accountable... but also please be patient.

Summary: The nice handyman fixed the oven, and we turned on our heat. I felt thankful. I made cookies. The thankfulness continued. I realized that life is not about just handling what comes my way but about doing that well. I decided that I need to live more gracefully.

And there it is. If I forget, I'll just go make some more cookies.