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

ode to rhubarb

I know that I am not the only one singing the praises of rhubarb, but please, humor me. Rhubarb, along with asparagus, is one of the first types of local produce to arrive at the farmers market here in my home state of Michigan. I watch for it, waiting in anticipation as the days get warmer, and then it finally appears, heralding summertime, whispering of all that is to come.

So naturally, I wrote you a poem about how much I love rhubarb. That's a perfectly normal thing to do, right?

Roasted rhubarb, above, adapted from such recipes as those of Molly Wizenberg at Orangette and Luisa Weiss, the Wednesday Chef. Rhubarb tarts with a corn flour crust, below, from Kim Boyce's brillant Good to the Grain. This recipe can also be found online at the Smitten Kitchen.

Ode to Rhubarb

Your long stalks

Deepest red

Pink fading to green ends

They beckon me from where they rest
On the tables at the farmers market

And in an instant
I am dreaming of crisps and cobblers

Of warm, bright pockets of fruit

Encased within the crumb of a perfect scone

Or under the layer of brown sugar and butter

Topping my mother's quick bread,

Breakfast on the last days of school before summer
I am dreaming of ruby-red juices
Threatening to escape the confines
Of a small, misshapen tart

Which I will call rustic

In explanation of its imperfections

I am dreaming of filling my bright red pot

With chopped stalks
Of a matching hue,

Stirred with sugar and vanilla

And a splash of wine
(Red or white, I've yet to decide)

They will fall apart

And become, like magic,

Something I never know quite what to call

But will gladly put atop my oatmeal

And over ice cream and yogurt

And beneath soft pillows of whipped cream

I am pulled back to reality

As I hear the old man say,

Why not two pounds?

Why just one?

(I think to myself that
He is so thin
Like a stalk of rhubarb)
And standing there in front of his stall
Your beauty before me
I am easily convinced

As I leave the market,

My bag is heavy

And I open my heart

To summer

run far. view tulips.

This past weekend was really lovely. On Saturday, I ran twenty-five kilometers with thousands of people through the streets of Grand Rapids and along its riverbank. That fellow of mine ran a slightly shorter distance, but I'm very proud of him nonetheless, because he's awfully fast, and, well, I love him (see below).

The race left me with the sorest legs post-race that I've yet experienced, a very black-and-blue toe (nothing new there) and, for several days, a pitifully slow stair-climbing pace. But once again, it was worth it.

Saturday afternoon, because I thought we ought to pack more activity into a day that began with many-mile-long races, we went to Holland, where we saw tulips in abundance.

They were beautiful.

Life is grand.

And this coming weekend, for the first time since late February, I will not be going on a ten-to-fifteen mile run! Oh, the simple pleasures.

May these spring days, my friends, be full of simple pleasures and the things that bring you joy, whatever those things may be--long runs (or short runs) and tulips and people you love, perhaps, or evening walks on warm spring nights and family and good food and laughter.

I hope that today, from your vantage point, life seems quite grand indeed.

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.