What's that you say? Indeed, I failed to mention the actual recipe about which I was waxing so poetic yesterday. Without further ado, meet the Busy Day Cake from The Taste of Country Cooking by Edna Lewis. Sweet yet substantial, this simple cake requires just one bowl, can be worked up in an hour, and is proven to cure any malaise. Except, perhaps a malaise from eating too much cake.

I found out about this cake from someone else's poetic waxings--namely Molly at Orangette. Here's her adaptation of the recipe.

Have fun, and let me know when the cake's ready.

Ode to Cake

Some people meditate. Others go for a walk, or a jog, or a swim. I lack such virtue. When life gets overwhelming, I head to the kitchen to make something. If you've been reading this blog for more than, say, an hour, you'll know this to be true. When time is short and my need for comfort particularly great, I bake a cake. Nothing fancy, just a simple recipe that always works and is guaranteed to bring my life back into order.

How comforting to cream together that stick of butter with a cup of sugar. Already I can feel the chaos subside. Each egg I crack in and patiently mix, each cup of flour with baking soda and salt, each slosh of vanilla, each dash of nutmeg pulls me back to the present. With my hands, I amalgamate these humble ingredients into a dense, smooth, flavorful bowl of potential.

I pour the batter in my favorite cast-iron baking pan, give the top of a swirl for good luck, and slide it into a hot oven.

There. Like burping a baby, all those difficult emails, unclear decisions, and stressful thoughts have been temporarily released from my mind. I've put something in motion that will come to fruition in a matter of minutes. Not months or years, but minutes.

I take my time putting away the ingredients, washing the bowl, wiping the counter. Soon the kitchen fills with that comforting fragrance of butter, sugar, eggs, flour, vanilla, and nutmeg. I peek through the oven window and smile at the transformation of that yellow goo into a fully risen cake that's starting to brown on top. Success.

How civilized to sit down with a cup of tea and a little piece of cake still warm from the oven. I feel like I'm visiting with my grandma or with one of those characters you read about in books, you know, the ones who always had cake and tea at the ready for visitors.

The rest gets divvied up among friends or stored in the freezer for another rainy day. For me, it's not so much about eating the cake as it is about creating it. Kind of like spinning a pound of Shetland fleece or turning a perfect heel, only it takes less than an hour and you get to eat the results.

I hate to admit that such a simple thing can lift my spirits and bring comfort and order into my life, but it does. I've been extremely preoccupied lately as I prepare for some big changes to what my day-to-day life looks like. They're all good changes, but changes nonetheless. Yesterday afternoon I finally went on strike and made myself another little cake. For anyone who doubts the awesome and mysterious powers of cake, take heed -- they are real.

Brrrrr! It's been doing this all day and there's no sign of stopping. It's a heavy, wet snow that gathers along the tops of tree branches and power lines, making the world look like an exquisite etching.

Having lived through 12 Maine winters, I know to have a candle lit, a flashlight handy, a stack of wood by the fireplace, and a tub of water ready.

All day I've been racing against the storm, trying to complete this week's yarn review for Knitter's Review before the lights—which have been flickering ominously—finally give out, taking out my Internet connection with them. I do have a backup, which lasts only as long as my laptop battery. Tick tock, tick tock.

For all its troubles, I must say I do enjoy living in a place where I am regularly reminded who's boss (nature) and who isn't (moi). You can forget it briefly when you go into bigger places that we've covered with concrete and big buildings, but here? Not a chance.

"For last year's words belong to last year's language. And next year's words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning."
T.S. Eliot

I chose to begin my year with the world's greatest buttermilk biscuits, my tried and true comfort food that makes any morning an event. And I served them on a plate I found carefully wrapped up and stored away in my great aunt's barn - a barn that she filled with boxes from her parents' house after they died...a house that was, itself, filled with their parents' and in-laws' belongings. Which is to say it's an old plate.

My great grandmother most likely bought it (and its 7 companions) in Germany at some point in the late 1800s. The complete lack of any dings or scratches whatsoever suggests to me that she kept these plates stored away because they were simply too pretty to use. This tendency to squirrel away life's fineries is a family trait that I appear to have inherited, because there those plates have sat, hidden away in the back of my own china cabinet, for more than 10 years.

And that makes me wonder how much of life I'm squirreling away for fear of scratches or dents, heartbreak or failure. How much of life have I captured prematurely in a jar before it could reach its natural conclusion? While the natural conclusion of a plate, I assume, would involve gravity and a loud crash, life doesn't always follow suit. And you won't know unless you try.

So that, my friends, is my resolution for this year. To pull myself out of the cabinet a little more often, see the world for its possibilities, take risks, and try. How about you?