baked goods

My mother would supervise and help me light the oven when I baked box cakes on my birthdays. As far as I recall she never baked a cake from scratch or made a pie—but since you don’t miss what you don’t know, I didn't feel deprived. There was frozen Sara Lee, or Entenmann’s, or maybe a babka from the bakery down the street. Anyway, I was more interested in salty crackers and chips.

Mom noshed mid-morning. A bisl bis to fit the side of a saucer or a paper napkin she’d de-crumb for later reuse, or on work days she’d tuck a foil wrapped treat in her purse. This was a habit she observed until her last days, an indulgence tenaciously guarded; her second cup of instant crystals with a bite of something sweet. All by herself. Not even with the newspaper. Over time I’ve come to understand such pleasure but as a girl I didn’t. Her ritual seemed lonely and dreary and I was never invited to join.

Baking is a part of the life I’ve built as a professional cook. I’m a competent baker though lack passion for the art, nonetheless I’ve mastered what my mother loved; rugelach, tender quick breads that are a foil to coffee, sweetened yeasted twists. She was never tempted by milie feuille, cannoli or towering lemon meringue—those were deemed fancy and she was plain, and in cake at least, our tastes converged.

I never mentioned the cakes I baked and didn’t bring her samples though I've shared with everyone else. It was like I was out doing her, being more her than she was. I suppose too it was an unconscious revenge; “I wasn’t invited to your lonely kaffeeklatsch, well mine is tastier and more fun.”  

In the weeks following her death I binge-baked, stocking my freezer for her  memorial, rolling chocolate into rising dough, pinching measures of cinnamon and cardamom, slicking danish with melted jam. The more heavenly the kitchen smelled the sadder I became, but not from grief. It was that with her gone I could begin to examine the depression that had blanketed our world. 

Those meager bites she’d allowed herself for comfort only fed my hunger. The seeds and nuts buried like gems in the pastries she loved became seeds of my despair. I had been neither good enough company, nor strong enough to rescue her. 

The other night I had a dream. I am a cartoon apple. Round, red, easily bruised. I lay fallen in the shadow of the tree, waiting for a buck’s swift kick or howling winds to carry me off, ashamed I have no legs.

Apple Cake

1 c AP flour

1/2 c dark rye flour

1/2 c buckwheat flour

1 1/2 t baking soda

1/2 t each: salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and unsweetened cocoa

3/4 c granulated sugar

1//2 c brown sugar, lightly packed

1 1/2 c unsweetened applesauce
1 apple, peeled and cut into small chunks 

2 eggs

2/3 c vegetable oil

2 t vanilla

2 cups peeled and roughly chopped apples tossed with 1/2 t cinnamon (approx 2 apples)

Pre-heat oven to 350^o Oil and flour a bundt pan and set aside. In a medium bowl combine the flour, baking soda, salt and spices. Stir to blend. In another medium bowl combine sugars, eggs, vanilla, applesauce and oil. Stir to blend. Add the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients and mix well. Stir in apple. Pour the batter into prepared pan and bake 50 - 60 minutes or until a wooden skewer inserted into the cake comes out dry.   

(If you prefer, bake in a loaf pan but you will have a cup or so too much batter for a standard 9” x 5” pan—put the extra in a mini-loaf pan or a muffin tin and bake for approx. 20 minutes). 

Allow the cake to cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then turn out onto a wire rack. Let cool. If you’d like, glaze the cake with 1/2 c confectionary sugar stirred with 2 t or 3t of apple cider.