Last Sunday dawned with rainfall – and the rain didn’t stop until the day gave away its light. I looked out at the pool, covered with leaves and ice and its dark green cover, and watched as the raindrops splashed into tiny countless umbrels, each lasting but a millisecond. Later in the day, it would turn to wet snow – large, clumpy flakes that didn’t do anything but cloud the sky. The earth wasn’t ready to let them stay just yet.
Andy remarked it was a day just like the one on which we buried his Mum. I stood there staring out the window, wishing for the sun, wishing for warmth, wishing for a little less hurt. A little while later he headed out in the rain to visit the cemetery. I stayed home and quickly assembled an applesauce cake that his mother used to make, using her original recipe.
Baking brings comfort to many, and I could understand why. The process was peaceful, even if little mistakes were made. Discovering that we were out of ground allspice, I remembered purchasing a package of whole allspice a while back, so I brought out the mortar and pestle and went to work. Usually I’ll forego sifting the dry ingredients because I’m in such a rush – this time I sifted and was happy to see some of the larger chunks of spice filtered out. (Also, here’s a gratuitous plug for Penzeys Spices which is an amazing company.)
Over the years I’ve gotten over my aversion to all things raisins and nuts, and these two ingredients are key in this applesauce cake. That doesn’t mean I went overboard with them – just the precise amount the recipe called for, and it was just enough.
The rainy/snowy sky had darkened, and in the kitchen the scene had turned to one of cozy warmth, shot through with the scent of cinnamon and allspice and cloves. It wouldn’t bring back the past, but it was a way of remembering, of keeping love alive. When Andy returned home, it was time to check the cake. He would take over the frosting part because he does it so much better. With some buttercream frosting and festive sugar sparkle, the cake was complete.
Sometimes two are enough for holiday joy and giving thanks for what we have.
