A Savory Moment

I’m usually busy fiddling with a cake recipe here, or sharing my thoughts about alternatives to refined sugar, but today’s post is all about soup.

I know. Boring, right? Friends know that I often say that soup is an appetizer at best, certainly not a meal. “Soup is sad,” my friend Charlotte said once. “It reminds me of the orphanage in the movie Oliver.” We laughed, but what she said resonated with me

I can’t say I’m in love with soup today, but my relationship with it has come a long way. I understand now that soup is easily digestible, and nutrient rich. And on a cold winter day, it can be the ultimate comfort food.

What changed my mind? This Creamy Parsnip Soup recipe I discovered years ago. It starts with butter, but you can easily swap that out with a good vegan substitute (I recommend Miyoko’s vegan butter). And it’s perfect as a meal or as an appetizer. Enjoy!

Creamy parsnip soup

Makes eight first-course servings, or four main course servings 

Ingredients

2 pounds parsnips, peeled, cut into 1-inch pieces (about 4 medium parsnips)

2 large carrots, peeled, cut into 1-inch pieces

3 tablespoons butter or vegan butter

1 small onion, chopped (about 1 cup)

8 cups vegetable or chicken broth

Directions

Preheat oven to 400°F. Spread out parsnips and carrots in a single layer on a rimmed baking sheet. Roast until parsnips begin to brown, about 30 minutes total. Use a fork or a large spatula to flip them halfway through.

Melt butter in a heavy, large pot over medium heat (a Dutch Oven is perfect for this). Add onion and sauté until beginning to brown, about 5 minutes. Add parsnips and carrots and sauté 5 minutes. Add stock and bring to a boil, then simmer until parsnips and carrots are tender and easily pierced with a fork, about 10minutes. Remove from heat.

Working in batches, puree soup in a blender or food processor. Return to pot. Season with salt and pepper. Can be made two days ahead. Cool, then cover and refrigerate.

Bring soup to simmer before serving.  Garnish with sour cream, yogurt, kefir, or vegan substitute of your choice.

Junk Food Memories

“Christopher,” my mother used to say when I was ten or eleven, “don’t say you hate something. Say you strongly dislike it.” She was studying early childhood then, working as a preschool teacher, and was constantly practicing her new mediation skills on me. She also started saying, “I always love you, but I don’t always like you.”

“Fine,” I said, “I strongly dislike you right now.” That got me a little smack on the butt. Big deal.

The fact that I was a smart ass wasn’t her fault; I blame it on my older siblings, and the way we all clamored for attention in a big family. The way we wanted to stand out. Mama only put up with so much griping and tattling though. She taught us not to be so self-focused.

One place she gave up the fight though, was cooking. There were five of us kids, so trying to please us and keep us well fed was a struggle. We ate a lot of meat: ground beef in our lasagna, meat balls in our spaghetti, pork ribs. She rarely cooked fish, since most of us didn’t like it, and I can’t remember her ever cooking rice either. Bread, pasta, meat, vegetables. Mostly frozen vegetables. “Frozen is second best to fresh!” she used to say, unloading the white plastic bags of Bird’s Eye from paper grocery bags and arranging them on the white wire freezer shelves. Frozen vegetables were a revelation for her: crinkly fried potatoes, sliced green beans, and my favorite: broccoli with cheddar cheese sauce.

Looking back, I realize what a picky eater I was as a kid. I didn’t like anything green at all (I just could not wrap my mind around the concept of eating spinach until I was about thirteen), so the frequency with which she got me to consume that broccoli with cheese sauce may have been solely responsible for any vitamins and minerals I ingested from the ages of five to thirteen. I also loved sweet potatoes (with brown sugar, of course) and carrots, though they had to be overcooked and drowned in butter (actually, it was most likely margarine back then). Other than that it was white bread, peanut butter and jelly, bologna sandwiches, cheese pizza, and macaroni and cheese from a box.  

Years later, when Mama got sick and Pop became the family cook, I came to realize how poorly we had eaten most of our lives. I mean, there was always plenty of food, and fast food was not a big part of our family meals—though Mama loved Burger King, and what she always referred to as their “burger whopper with special sauce”—but we ate a lot of nutritionally poor convenience foods at home: hot dogs and processed lunch meat, potato chips, pasta, cornbread from a mix, and white bread. Initially, I had to beg Mama to buy Wonder bread, that doughy, wet, processed sandwich bread, but she eventually gave in. It was the same with the sugary breakfast cereal, like Captain Crunch Peanut Butter and the overly sweet Lucky Charms, with those artificially colored pastel moons and stars that dissolved in your mouth like cotton candy.

We obviously didn’t have the healthiest diet, but these memories are still so sweet.

Remembering Mama: Part Two

Some of you may know that I’m working on another memoir cookbook, titled: Kitchen Inheritance II: More Memories and Recipes from my Family of Cooks (I know, it’s not the most creative title, but sequels are like that). One request from many of my readers of the first book was, “Tell me more!” Especially when it came to Mama. So I’ve been working on more pieces about her for the next cookbook.

Mama taught me how to bake, and encouraged my passion for it. The issue here is, we only had about thirteen years together before our relationship became about surviving her illness (early onset dementia); after that, we didn’t bake together. Being a survivor of an ill parent is complicated. Sometimes I don’t want to talk about it; sometimes it’s all I want to talk about. Now, as I dig for memories of Mama like a young archeologist, I am returning to a time before her illness. What I wrote below is a taste of the safe place we inhabited together when I was a child and she was still well. Be patient with me, dear reader; I am still finding my way back to her.

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Mama singing to Vino, 1968

If I'm going to be totally honest, I'll have to begin by saying I don’t remember much. Had I known that one day I'd have no witnesses, no one to remind me, I would have held on tighter to each moment in that kitchen with her.

What I do remember is a childlike sense of playfulness—the way she and I giggled and sang together. But was it on a Sunday, when the stereo console in the living room played Ella Fitzgerald, Live at the Côte d'Azur? (It don't mean a thing/If it ain't got that swing.) Or was it the transistor radio on the sparkly Formica counter, the AM station playing the Beach Boys or the Monkeys? Maybe there wasn't music at all, just her high, sweet voice and fleshy arms, that deep dimple on her deltoid, a scar from a vaccination, big as a doughnut hole.

Mama.

Music memories conflate, but I can still see her there—so graceful—the way she moved around the kitchen with ease. The way she knew just when to let go of the olive green refrigerator door, so that it slid closed without slamming. Her short, muscular legs under a skirt, under an apron. The light in the hood above the stove, the plastic cover lost long ago, pouring onto the counter where we measured out the flour, baking powder, and salt, into a green Pyrex bowl. The clang of the cupcake pans and the clink of the beaters, the handheld mixer. Sometimes we used a boxed mix. "Duncan Hines is the best," she always said, "because it's always moist." (Or am I making that up?) Or Jiffy Corn Muffins, the cardboard box, the waxed paper pouch.

I remember being allowed to flick on the oven light and position the step stool in front of the oven window so I could watch whatever we had mixed together rise and change shape. But you see, I've written all of this before. I'm reaching back into that six-year-old's memory, trying to find new details, a new sound bite. "Christopher," she'd always say, "can you help me with this?" (Or am I making that up too?)

By the time I could read, I wanted to hold the hand mixer myself, but until I was nine or ten, I remember her hand over mine, gently. She didn't have pretty hands—short, square nails, blue veins—but they were soft and pale. I remember her engagement ring, platinum, with one solitaire and several smaller diamonds (the big one went to my sister; the small ones into posts I wear in my ears every day). I remember how the diamonds shone under the bald light, the way that ring and her plain wedding band slid around her fingers, the way she would fidget with them to line them up (though they would always slip out of place again).

It's here that I draw a blank. Because all I really have are the simple, uncomplicated memories of a young child. I lost interest in baking as a 'tween, and was thirteen when she started to lose interest in baking herself, the dementia already creeping in and taking her away bit by bit. I was fourteen when she said, "I've done that all my life, and I don't want to do it anymore." She started to say that about everything at the beginning of her disease. And it was all downhill from there.

Having Coffee with Mama

When I wrote my cookbook, people often told me they wished I had written more about my mom. Those who know me well know my baking, and since my short pieces about Mom centered around how she patiently taught me to bake as a little boy, I think they wanted more of that. But the truth is, by the time I was thirteen, my mom was already showing signs of dementia, so the memories I have of talking with her and baking with her end there. We just didn't have enough time together, so there aren't many more stories to tell.

One gauzy memory involves her coffee pot. Like many old fashioned couples, my parents had a set of fine china. Some of it may have come to them as wedding gifts—couples often registered for gifts back then, and buying a newlywed couple a place setting used to be common. Their plates and coffee cups were Continental China, made in Germany, and designed by Raymond Loewy. The thin, simple white plates have a loopy black script, forming a circle in the center. Twenty years after they had been married, my dad went to Germany on a business trip, and mom insisted he order her a coffee pot and two large oval platters, which he had shipped to our home in the Chicago suburbs.

The coffee pot was rarely used, but when it was, it was during my mother's kaffeeklatsches—intermittent, weekday afternoon gatherings—with other full time homemakers, in the newly developed neighborhood. My older siblings were in all in school then, but I was young enough at four or five to still be at home most days, and I can vaguely remember that small group of ladies sitting around the low slung marble coffee table in our living room, gossiping, laughing, eating cake, sharing recipes, and drinking cup after cup of coffee.

I'm sure I crawled onto Mom's lap (she was petite: 5'1 and 115 pounds, but as a child, I remember her having a wide lap, and strong legs). Affectionate and curious, I probably inserted myself into the chattering circle and was happy to answer any questions they may have asked me. "Christopher is a very happy baby," Mom wrote in the notes section of my photo album. "He likes people, sings and dances, was never shy."

I can't remember much about who was there and what they asked me, but I remember how it felt: warm and full and sweet. There were cookies and a sugar bowl, a simple creamer (when one of us broke it years later, she probably said, "Can't I ever have anything nice?"). I remember the clink of the porcelain cups as they were set down into the perfect groove of the little saucer. I still love that sound today, fifty years later. I watched my mother pour the coffee, dark and cocoa brown, from the elegant tall white pot; I studied how she held the lid on securely with one hand while she poured with the other, how she smiled, how she moved her hair away from her eyes. She was beautiful and kind, and she had a way of making people feel safe. I wanted to grow up to be just like her.

Baking Our Way Through the Pandemic

I’ve been a storyteller my whole life. I have invented people and places and dialogue that never existed before, but I never imagined the surreal narrative we’re living through right now. There's a lot of fear and suffering, and there are also heartrending stories of heroism and kindness. I told a friend today that my love for the human race has grown tenfold during this time.

No matter how many comparisons we might make—the Spanish Flu Epidemic, the AIDS crisis, WWII—we all know that we are living through an historic time unlike any other. And if state and federal mandatory "shelter in place" orders aren't tough enough, self-isolation for many of us has been lonely and anxiety provoking.

And what do lonely, anxious, quarantined people do? Well, where I live, it seems they bake. At least, that's what the empty shelves at the grocery stores are telling me.

Many of us have been braving the necessity of the grocery store every ten days or so. This can involve waiting in long lines outside the store while wearing a mask, then courageousy wiping down our carts and hand baskets, and making our way through what used to be a somewhat peaceful, sometimes tedious, experience. I know our access to grocery stores is still a privilege, but now it can be stressful and confusing. Despite the shock of empty shelves, and people who do not know how to measure a 4-6 foot distance, we are trying to make good choices for foods with longer shelf lives: pasta, beans, rice, canned and frozen foods. Cabbage. But the baking supplies are flying off the shelves too.

Two weeks ago there was no butter, the next week there were no eggs, then no sugar. And now there's no flour. You can search anywhere, from Costco to your corner neighborhood store, but folks have cleaned the shelves of anything resembling flour. And while I celebrate everyone's desire to bake their own bread (yeast is hard to find as well), I wish you all would leave a few bags for the rest of us.

Luckily, I've spent the last few years exploring "healthier" desserts that are gluten-free, lower in processed sugar, and sometimes even (gasp!) vegan. Inspired by a cookbook I saw in a cool bookstore in Reykjavik, and a regular workshop participant who has Celiac, I've discovered the beauty of baking with coconut sugar, maple syrup, and alternative flours. Or no flour at all. Hence, the recipe below, which became quite popular at the writing workshops I used to have in my home before all of THIS began.

You can accuse me of trying to sweeten up a pandemic, or helping you to take your mind off the worry we are face to face with every time we leave the house or listen to the news. Go ahead. I don't mind. We need more sweetness now, just as we need the ritual and the beauty of home baking. And so, until there's flour on the grocery store shelves again, at least you'll have this brownie recipe in your baking arsenal.

Enjoy. Be safe. Keep washing your hands. Feed yourself.

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Laguna Writers Flourless Brownies

Ingredients

4 oz dark chocolate

½ cup coconut oil

¼ cup coconut sugar

¼ cup maple syrup

1 teaspoon vanilla

3 eggs

½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder (sifted)

1 tablespoon instant espresso (or 2 tablespoons strong brewed coffee)

Directions

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Cut a sheet of parchment or waxed paper and use coconut oil or coconut spray to "butter" a     9 x 9 inch baking pan (an 8 x 8 will work also).

Line the bottom of the pan with the paper, leaving enough extra paper to hang over two opposite edges of the pan. (These will be your "handles" when you lift the brownies out of the pan later to cut them.)

Melt the chocolate in a pan over very low heat, then add coconut oil. When oil is melted, remove from heat and whisk until smooth. Set aside.

Using a hand mixer or a standing mixer, combine sugar, maple syrup, vanilla, and eggs. Add eggs one at a time until just blended: over-blending this batter will make it tough.

Add the melted chocolate mixture and mix until batter just comes together.

Add cocoa and espresso and mix until there are no more cocoa chunks.

The batter may be slightly sticky or viscous, so use a silicone spatula to edge it to the corners of the prepared baking pan.

Tap the pan against the counter to get all air bubbles out.

Bake for 14-16 minutes, or until the center is no longer gooey.

(Note: the brownies may bubble up and look lumpy; if this happens, gently tap the pan when you remove it from the oven. The brownies will eventually flatten out on their own.)

When the pan is cool enough to touch, run a plastic knife around the edge to prepare the brownies to be released from the pan.

Once the brownies are cool, lift the paper from the pan and transfer to a cutting board. 

Using a large, sharp knife, carefully cut the brownies into 16 even squares.

If you're feeling gluttonous, sprinkle with powdered sugar before serving.

Nostalgia on a Plate

I nearly cried the day I placed it in the dishwasher, felt the impact, and heard it crack. Mama's cake plate. The large, round glass plate on which she served all of our birthday cakes.

Crack! I closed my eyes for a minute; it felt like I had just broken a bone. "No, no, no, no! Shit!" But as I pulled it out, there was the proof: a big triangular chunk was missing, and a hairline crack traveled halfway up the plate.

It took a moment to memorialize it, to really see it again. It had a swirl etched into the underside, and a clear, round circle in the center. It's in so many of our family photos: my siblings holding it up in front of them, pretending to eat the whole cake, or the one of me at two years old, on Mama's lap, giddy at the sight of candles glowing on a white cake. Throwing it into the recycling bin broke my heart. I had literally destroyed a relic from my childhood.

Mama's things became sacred to me after she died. I think this is normal when you lose a parent at a young age, but as my emotional attachment to the objects she left behind waned over the years, the few that I kept held extra importance. The cake plate was one of those items. How many years had she handled it carefully? Twenty years? Thirty? It was scratched, but never chipped. And in one careless swoop, I had managed to erase a family ritual and the handful of memories I had left.

I had even invented a narrative around the cake plate. I imagined she's received it as a wedding gift. Crystal, I thought, from some expensive department store, circa 1943. I did a good job beating myself up about this for months. You broke Mama's cake plate. How could you be so careless?

And then, one day, while dreamily cruising on Etsy, I saw one just like it, and I froze. Wait! There was one exactly like it for sale? And only $25? I clicked on the familiar image and found out it was depression glass from a company called Federal Glass, and down the rabbit hole I went.

What I discovered proved to me once again that I am a fiction writer, because my nostalgic guilt trip was far from factual. For starters, it wasn't a cake plate at all. Actually, it was part of a set, described as the "diana punch bowl and underplate," (hence the clear glass circle in the center of the plate where the bowl's base fit right in). Moreover, it was mass produced. Federal glass made this set for decades: literally thousands of them, and in every color, including gold, green, blue and pink.

Mama had either broken the punch bowl at some point and decided to use the plate for cakes by default, or just as likely, had bought it in the early 60's at a garage sale for $1.00, the price scribbled in ballpoint ink on a ragged piece of masking tape. She loved garage sales and was a master at bartering. "It never hurts to ask," she used to muse.

Rather than feel deflated, I had one of those lovely ghost moments, the kind you have when you are let in on a joke by a beloved deceased, and I heard her ask, "What color will you buy, Sweetheart?" I chose the clear glass one, of course. A classic. And four days later, it arrived in the mail, and I had a new one of my very own, just like that. It was almost as if I had never broken it at all.

Never Say Never

Those of you who have read my book, or have visited this blog, know that I pride myself in using natural products in my baked goods, and that includes no artificial coloring. If you peruse other posts on this blog, you can easily find me berating blue cakes. But recently, something happened in my kitchen that produced a blue cake, and I feel like I owe an apology to the color blue.

What happened was this: a friend bought me a big bottle of Bigallet French violet syrup. This family-owned company has been making naturally derived floral syrups for baking and cocktail mixing for over a century. (I’ll admit here that they actually add color to their syrup; but distilled violet water turns pink, strangely enough, and most consumers want purple violet syrups and liqueurs, understandably.)

Anyway, I have been talking about wanting to make a violet frosting for a chocolate cake since 2010, when I had a violet mousse at Carl Marletti Patiserries in the Latin Quarter in Paris (if you have a chance go there, don’t miss it). That year everything in France seemed to be about violets, including macaroons and jams. And I was crazy for all of it.

After receiving the violet syrup, I had a chance to make that cake, and I have to tell you: it was fabulous. Two tablespoons is all you need in a batch of plain frosting (3 sticks butter + 3 cups sifted powdered sugar). Is was light and floral and smelled faintly of violets. Quite elegant. I made it for a friend’s baby shower, and since she is expecting a boy, I thought it would be fun to make a purple cake in order to eschew any corny references to the pale pink and baby blue we so often see at baby showers.

But the violet syrup tends to make everything a ghostly pale lavender, closer to grey, and the only thing I find more disturbing than a bright blue cake is a grey cake. So I added some natural food coloring—unfortunately, I was out of red, so I could only add blue—and I ended up with a baby blue frosting so pretty, I just had to share it with you. I’ve also shared links to the french bakery, as well as the violet syrup and natural food coloring I prefer (my links appear in bold font). To get my favorite chocolate cake recipe, click here. And let it be known from this day forward: some blue cakes are just downright beautiful.

Readings, Reunions, and Recipes

I've been away from this blog for way too long now. It seems life has gotten in the way of the important ritual of sitting down to share a thought or a recipe, and isn't that just the way it often goes for a writer? And yet, one must make time to sit, to write, and to give our words away.

Since the book launch in March, I've had the chance to read from my cookbook several times, including at an intimate dinner party in London, and a crowded rooftop brunch in Berlin. A few of these readings were quite emotional for me. I had two surprise appearances at Reader's Books in Oakland: a friend from high school I hadn't seen in 25 years, and a college pal who I lost touch with two decades ago. What a wonderful feeling it is to be found again.

I'm planning more readings for this fall and winter too (see this info for the reprise reading at Expressions Gallery in Berkeley on 11/16). But this blog post is about taking this very moment to be grateful, to acknowledge the love, support, and enthusiasm I've received from all my readers, and and to give back with a few photos, and of course, a recipe.

Check out this Flourless Chocolate Cake recipe from my blog The Catalyst. It's the same one from the cookbook, chapter titled, "Kitchen Sister," and it comes with a few writing prompts, as all of the posts do on that blog. You can find other recipes there as well, and there are more recipes coming. I'm already working on a second book (Kitchen Inheritance Two: More Memories and Recipes from my Family of Cooks).

In the meantime, keep trying out my recipes from the first book, and keep sending me photos and messages. You inspire me.

In Berlin, with the beautiful Oberbaumbrucke behind me, circa 1895. (July 2018)

In Mill Valley, with flowers from a friend's garden (May 2018)

Looking very serious while signing books at Reader's Books in Oakland. (June 2018)

The Green Cake Report

(View the complete Kitchen Inheritance reading schedule here)

Okay, if you're familiar with my rants about how much I detest artificial anything—especially food coloring—you may wonder how I can criticize blue cakes, then write a post singing the praises of green cake. But wait! This cake gets it's color naturally, from Matcha powder (green tea leaves). And because the recipe includes milk, the result is a moist cake with a slightly earthy undertone, almost like cocoa. It's a cake for those who aren't fond of chocolate (I know, I know, but these people deserve love and cake too).

This great recipe from Real Simple has just the right balance of soft crumb and dense moisture, and the Matcha is subtle, not cloying. I chose to pair it with plum frosting instead of the vanilla pictured here; the green and soft pink combo, as well as the flavor combination, are a nice nod to Japanese cuisine. All you need is a few tablespoons of plum jam to add to your favorite vanilla frosting, and voila! Pink frosting, nature baker-boy style.

One of my workshop participants took one look at my cupcakes and said, "I'm not sure I can eat green cake, but I may try a tiny bite." Two cupcakes later, she was a convert. Get the scrumptious recipe here, and transcend your fear of green cake too.

Are Chocolate Chip Blondies an Oxymoron?

(View the complete Kitchen Inheritance reading schedule here)

Recently, someone asked me what makes my blondies so special. When I confessed I thought it was the combination of white chocolate chips, dark chocolate chips, and mini-peanut butter cups, they laughed. "They have chocolate in them?" they asked. "Then they're not really blondies, are they?"

Okay, I admit it: blondies are supposed to be the anti-brownie. Blondies were probably invented because there are actually some people out there who don't like chocolate (and really, I'm cool with that, but we're probably not going to ever get married). The classic blondie has white chocolate chips, often walnuts, and in one memorable version my Pop loved, dried cranberries (to get the whole story there, read, "A Shared Palate," the first memoir piece in my cookbook).

So sure, you could make my blondies without chocolate. I don't really see the point of living without chocolate, but go ahead, knock yourself out. Because my entire cookbook is really about generosity, I've included the recipe below. 

Enjoy.

BEAUTIFUL BLONDIES

1 1/2 cups light brown sugar
1 cup unsalted butter
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon fine salt

2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3/4 cup dark chocolate chips
3/4 mini peanut butter cups                                                                                                                                                 3/4 white chocolate chips

1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

2. Butter and flour a 9 x 13 Pyrex (glass) baking dish (metal pans won't work as well)

3. Firmly pack the sugar and place in a large bowl. Melt the butter slowly in a small pan over low heat, or in the microwave in a glass measuring cup. Stir the butter into the sugar until smooth.

4. Meanwhile, in another medium bowl, whisk the flour, baking soda, and salt together.

5. Beat the eggs lightly, then add with vanilla into the sugar mixture. Add the flour mixture a bit at a time and mix until a smooth, thick batter forms. Stir in the chips.

6. Spoon the batter to the prepared dish and spread to evenly fill the dish. (note: it will be sticky, so work that spatula!)

7. Bake until the blondies are light brown around the edges and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean: 20 minutes is just perfect.

8. Remove from the oven and let cool. Cut into squares and serve.

Book Launch at the San Francisco Ferry Building, Book Passage: March 10, 2018

(View the complete Kitchen Inheritance reading schedule here)

Seeing this image of me in front of a wall of books makes me quite happy. I keep saying it was the happiest day of my life. The room was filled with people who represent the whole spectrum of my life's work, from graduate schools friends, current workshop participants, recent USF students, siblings, old friends and chosen family, writers whom I've known for over a decade, even local musicians and fine artists whose work has consistently inspired me.

I also began what will surely become a tradition: serving sweets made from the recipes in my cookbook. And I couldn't have asked for a warmer reception from the bookstore staff. The fog even lifted and the sun came out. The universe was smiling down on me.

If you missed this one, not to worry. I have more readings planned in the Bay Area, and am working on one on the Peninsula in the summer. For a schedule of upcoming readings, see the Reading Schedule link in the menu bar above. And be sure to scroll down this page to view past blog posts.

American Cake: A History Lesson

(View the complete Kitchen Inheritance reading schedule here)

At this point, you think I'd be tired of cake, but the truth is, I could cake talk for hours. There's always so much more to learn. After hearing Anne Byrn interviewed on NPR I spent nearly an hour trying to find her recipe for a Cowboy Cake—a cake baked on the stove top in a cast iron pan—but to no avail. Byrn recently published a new cookbook titled, The American Cake: A History, and I was salivating just looking at the picture above. Byrn's remake of the sticky, raisin-based concoction (which is void of eggs and best made with strong coffee), seems to be locked up inside the book. Even Pinterest couldn't do much better than a dark brown, gummy looking version. So I've been Cowboy Cake frustrated ever since.

This isn't the first time a cake has frustrated me. Several years ago I entered a cake baking contest honoring Julia Child and the 50th anniversary of her seminal cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, (which will change the way you think about pastry crust forever). The prize was $1000, so I entered my Champagne Cake and got to work writing up the directions. It was the very first time I had written out a recipe using that level of detail, not just copying it or jotting it down for a friend, but step by step, and I found it quite challenging. But that wasn't the frustrating part: two weeks later I lost to a blue cake. Blue! Although I admit the winner had ingeniously designed her cake to look like a replica of Child's book cover, I found the FD & C blue #5 color unappetizing (not to mention carcinogenic). Really, people? You want to eat a blue cake?

There are some random cake disasters in my baking history too: a Tres Leches nightmare comes to mind, as does a chocolate cake that fell apart because I used golden organic sugar. Not cute at all. It seems cocoa and moreno sugar make a fragile cake, but killer brownies. Who knew? But this is how one learns as a baker: through little disappointments and big fat disasters. Baking is alchemy, after all, a science.

For some reason, I'm hearing Marie Antoinette in my head now.

"Madame," they said, "the villagers have no bread."

"Well then," she answered, "let them eat cake."

You may think of her as innocent, heartless, or horribly naive; historians disagree. "Cake" it seems, was also a term at the time for crumbs left in the bread drawer, so she may have been saying, "Who cares? Let them eat crumbs." The jury is out on what she actually meant, but after visiting Versailles many years ago, I can empathize with the French Revolutionaries. She lost her head soon after she uttered those words, but the poor dear might have been sincere. After all, what would you rather have for breakfast? Whole wheat toast or chocolate cake? For me, the answer is obvious.

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Check out this less than satisfying recipe for Texas Cowboy Cake

A Lifetime of Cake

(View the complete Kitchen Inheritance reading schedule here)

Many years ago, a two-year-old I loved demanded that we get to work in the kitchen. "Bake cake! Bake cake!" she said. By her fourth birthday, she was a bit more specific, requesting a strawberry cake: bright pink, with bright pink frosting. That became the ritual and annual request until her tenth birthday, when without consulting her, I gave up the artificial color and used strawberry jam to make a pale pink beauty that pleased me, but really disappointed her. "It tastes good," she said, "but it's not pink enough."

That year I learned a very important lesson: if you're going to bake a cake for someone, bake them the cake they want, even if it's blue—(which I detest)—even if it's hot pink. I struggled with this lesson, and sometimes faltered. Not that long ago I caught myself trying to push a cake flavor on a close friend. She wanted a mocha cake with caramel frosting, but I tried to encourage her to have a chocolate cake with lemon frosting. On an ice cream related note, my sister always wants a chocolate cake with mint chip ice cream on the side, preferably Baskin Robbins, which is a nuclear green. One year I bought Breyer's Natural mint chip instead, a beautiful french vanilla with chocolate shavings and natural peppermint oil. "It's good," she said, "but it's not the same." Oh. That again.

What I've finally learned after all these years baking birthday cakes is this: if you're baking someone a cake, it shouldn't become a negotiation or a compromise, not even if we're talking about the difference between au naturel and carcinogens. To bake or not to bake? That should  never be the question. Because baking a cake for someone is about being generous, caring, and thoughtful. And you can't be thoughtful and controlling at the same time.

I think I figured this out in the wee morning hours. I nearly named my baking business "The Midnight Baker," because I am often up past the bewitching hour watching that miracle rise in the oven, flipping the pans to release the warm layers, then waiting until they are completely cool so I can frost them and place that layer cake safely in a cake carrier. It may look pretty on the table, but true satisfaction comes only when I give that cake away, when I can cut into it and place the first slice on a pretty plate and offer it up to the lucky recipient, like the gift that it is.