There is a moment when the cake has cooled, the dishes are done
(or at least soaking) and the time has come to
breathe the cake out of the pan. Breathe being the only useful verb I can find for this process, which is
the scary moment of bundt cakes (silly as it feels to say bundt, it doesn’t make them less terrifying)
or really any thing that turns out of its pan, but especially bundts,
with their dips and grooves and textures, each
an opportunity for beauty, I suppose,
but more a place for batter to stick, for an
afternoon of today-we’re-making-a-cake! to become
well-that’s-what-frosting-is-for! outwardly optimistic,
but quietly making another admission that perhaps it’s time that I accept that
Just this past week, that thing happened that I forget about every year, when the sky is less blue and instead becomes a deep, deep almost-black gray. It makes the trees glow. This is also when people start burning wood in their wood stoves, and so the color combination smells like woodsmoke. This makes me crave dark coffee and ginger cookies. Also cigarettes, which I haven’t touched in ages. I satisfy that craving by breathing in and out. In and out. Continue reading
I finally sat down and read all the pieces people have sent to me and the ones I’ve flagged as they show up in my never-ending “feed”. It seems, on the whole, to be an attempt at an honest conversation about home cooking, although I don’t think we’re quite there yet.
I’ve got responses and feelings and a few expletives (you cross my line when you badmouth Jenny) to this collection of pieces, but this weekend, I decided to put them all together to try to see if I could hear a real conversation here. Although I certainly crafted a few soap-box speeches of my own, I realized that instead of talking at you, I really wanted to talk with you. And it did help me to see these all these pieces together as one complete picture.
My friends, Jen and Pete, have a farm in Tyringham, Massachusetts called Woven Roots Farm. I’ve known them for over a decade and they’ve been farming even longer, but ever since I tasted the first salad they brought to a potluck when our babies were all really babies, it’s been clear to me that their vegetables are… special.
Someday I’m going to start a bakery where all I sell is everyday, unexceptional, nothing special, totally delicious cakes. They’ll mostly be in square pans, and I’ll fill a whole fridge in the kitchen with buttermilk. There will be tea, too, and I’ll open from 2 to 5 so people can come and sit and have a little slab of everyday cake and recharge their batteries (metaphorically, not attached to their cellphones) and get ready for the rest of the day. (I’ll add it to the list of business ideas.) This one would be on the menu.