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.
No comments:
Post a Comment