A little sunshine cake

It was very rainy today.

The kind of rainy day where no matter the precautions taken, you become drenched within seconds of venturing forth into the abyss in search of the chestnut praline latte a mere yard outside your office door.

Thankfully, I had been busy last night and someone let me loose in the supermarket (when will they ever learn? Quoth the beloved Peter, Paul and Mary tune if my parents' generation) so I ended up making not one, but three persimmon cakes.

What pray tell, is a persimmon cake? Similar to many of the most delicious conditions, it was a happy accident. The combination of a lack of utter focus typically given new recipes and the addition of a glass of wine and two bourbon gingers caused a few mistaken alterations to the recipe from the New York Times, which was oroginaly intended to produce a creation referred to as a "persimmon pudding". 

By leaving out the heavy cream and adding chopped roasted almonds (leftover from Austrian Christmas cookies), I got a spongey and chewy caramelized creation with a nutty finish.

Topped with sugared pink grapefruit wedges (leftover from the prepped bourbon and fruit mixture, left to soak until Thursdays work gathering where wine will be added for a festive sangria), it produced something so intrinsically happy I could barely stand it.

So I had to eat it, and to share it. There is a lot that a sunshine cake is allowed to say that I am unable to. 

My Christmas baking has always spoken volumes to those who were the glad recipients, including neighbors, friends, and my parents and grandparents. This year tanaka me again, and I'm sending them to my far-away brothers and mom and aunt, as well as to some people whom I owe an apology, and to some who I simply can't find the courage, or the timing just yet, to tell that I love.

Lastly, it's going to a few dear friends whom I love so much, that they're heard it and I simply have to show it.

Sunshine cake, and sparkly Christmas-love bearing cookies.

the second candle of advent

we light lights, we sing songs, we bake and break bread.




life tumbles along in the wintry months. right now it is hurtling at a break neck pace and I am doing my best to find moments of calm, peace, and quiet. I find these moments often by myself, but lately I have been allowing some dear friends to join me.


last night my roommate and I walked down the street to the boy scout stand to pick our Christmas tree. We found the largest one on the lot (tall and fat!), I named him King Edward, and we proudly carried our choice home on our shoulders. Amidst giggles, wine, cookies, and dinner, we wrapped up our beloved tree in spangles and strung lights. We tied bows on its tender branches and recalled favorite memories as we hung each ornament, most handmade by either one of us, or a family member.


i pulled out the hat box my mother gave me, and began arranging my grandmother's many colorful hats around the mantle. Then I decided to add a few of them to the tree itself, to hold my grandmother's memory aloft in its piney-rich embrace.


My father's Christmas tree growing up held the images of composers and musicians past and present, and we always held a competition for the one who had earned the top of the tree. This seems to be to have been his sweet homage to those who had held him close in his times of trial and unrest. Every picture had a story.

My mother's tree was colorful and wild; one year she added a string of chilis, another year salmon topped lights (yes, plastic impersonations of salmon over Christmas lights---I hated it, but I accepted it), and then the rest was filled with the many ornaments all of us kids had made in school. Mom's tree was full of the contents of her heart; her steadfast and at times lioness-powerful love for her five children.


My tree this year is a thanksgiving. It's a celebration of my beautiful little life, crafted in a small corner of Somerville, and of my lovely roommate and dear friend Kira. It's also a celebration of my grandmother's life and all that she was to me, and to so many of her family members and friends.

It is powerful to walk in the shoes she walked in, and to wear the tiny gloves she wore. The only things that do not fit are the hats; so they are atop my tree, King Edward, the Second.