"Lemon Bread" by Judith Waller Carroll + Meyer Lemon and Rosemary Cake

Citrus has always been a gift of winter—colorful, tart, sweet, bursting globes to brighten cold, dark days. I'm partial to Meyer lemons when I can find them because they're more sweet than tart, and beg to be baked with, and while reading a new poetry collection from Judith Waller Carroll, I was transported to the kitchen more than once.  

Many of her poems explore our internal lives and coming to terms with change, like becoming an empty nester, aging, and pausing to remember something so small but meaningful as a daughter's first smile. Read "Lemon Bread" and you'll see what I mean. 

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Lemon Bread

by Judith Waller Carroll

We are straddling the gap
between winter and spring.
Wind through bare branches,
a sky more gray than blue.

Perhaps deliciously happy
is not in my makeup,
the way I opt for savory over sweet,
shun sugar for spice.

Still, there are moments, like now,
watching you in the kitchen
as you squeeze the plump lemons
over the hot, fragrant loaf.

The sun has come out
on the blossoming dogwoods,
the first new leaves
on the hydrangea's stiff stalks.

“Lemon Bread” is reprinted with permission from Judith Waller Carroll’s book What You Saw and Still Remember (Main Street Rag, 2017).

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Isn't so much of life "straddling the gap" between one thing or another? If it's not winter and spring, it's summer and fall. There are life transitions like getting married, sending your kids to college, or moving from one state to the next. I related to much of the sentiment about "deliciously happy" not being my default, always keeping some emotional distance to serve as a guard around my heart. But as the poem describes, there are moments of sheer joy, when you can't help but embrace the "blossoming dogwoods" or "the first new leaves."

Of course, I was glad to read about a blissful moment in the kitchen, lemons being squeezed over a "hot, fragrant loaf." In honor of choosing savory over sweet, I decided on a lemon cake dotted with rosemary. It strikes just the right note to embrace changing seasons and complimentary flavors that might seem opposed at first glance, but like our emotional worlds, always prove they can coexist. 

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Meyer Lemon, Yogurt, and Rosemary Cake

This loaf cake is moistened with yogurt and hits those sweet notes with Meyer lemons and savory notes with woody rosemary. It's perfect for an afternoon treat alongside a cup of tea.

For the cake
1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
2 tablespoons meyer lemon juice
Zest of 1 meyer lemon
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/2 cup plain yogurt (not Greek)
3 eggs
1 1/2 cup all purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon fresh rosemary, finely chopped

For the glaze
1 cup powdered sugar
2 to 3 tablespoons meyer lemon juice
Chopped rosemary (optional)

Preheat oven to 350° and line a loaf pan with parchment or mist with cooking spray.

Cream butter and sugar in a stand mixer until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add lemon juice, zest, vanilla and mix until just combined. Add yogurt, then eggs, one at a time, until mixed. Finally, add the dry ingredients—flour, baking soda, salt, and rosemary. Scrape down the bowl if needed, and stir until everything is smooth and well combined. 

Bake 45 to 50 minutes, until golden. Cool in pan for 10 minutes, then invert to remove and cool completely on a rack. 

Make the glaze by sifting powdered sugar into a medium bowl. Whisk in lemon juice, adding more as needed, until thick but pourable. Drizzle over cake and add rosemary sprigs, if using. Let glaze set before slicing.

Poetry In a Pot of Beans

In Jane Hirshfield's poem "Tree," there are two things that can usher in calmness during uncertain times: "this clutter of soup pots and books—" It's one of the poems I was adamant about including in the cookbook, and I paired her words with, among other things, a pot of white beans because sometimes it's the most utterly simple yet magical thing you can cook.

Once they're tender, I like to do as Rachel Roddy suggests in My Kitchen in Rome, which is to combine some whole beans with others that have been reduced to a purée. It results in a not-quite-soup situation that's still thick enough to hold its own but loose enough to gather with a spoon or a swipe of bread. We made it lunch a couple of weeks ago, after coming back from the beach.

The final thing I added was a generous drizzle of olive oil, the kind you might reserve for special occasions—Ok, I drenched them—but I've had a change of heart on the matter, and believe these little indulgences should be every day occurrences as often as possible. 

I'm very enthusiastic about this particular tin because it came to me from northern California last month I only found out about it because it's made by Robin Sloan, who I spoke with on on a panel in Michigan. Naturally, I had Googled him beforehand and asked about this olive oil situation when we met. He and his girlfriend were in the middle of the first harvest, and this bottle is from the very first pressing of these olives, ever. 

In the tasting notes (yes, olive oil can and should come with tasting notes), there are instructions for slurping and mentions of artichoke and how well the oil might pair with roasted vegetables. Then there's the very wise recommendation to use it with abandon. Because it's unfiltered, it's even more likely to spoil sooner, so it's not something to keep in the back shelf for a rainy day, which reminds me of a section in Dani Shapiro's memoir Hourglass, when she recalls a bottle of oil brought back from her honeymoon in France. 

"We waited for a special occasion to open the olive oil. No occasion seemed quite special enough. After all, we had the bottles home with us in our carry-on. You could do this back then. Finally, preparing dinner for friends one evening, we opened one. Of course, it had gone rancid."

The moral of the story, of course, is to use it and enjoy it. Don't wait. Make a pot of beans. Drizzle them with wonderful oil. Eat a plate alone, or with friends, it doesn't matter. In "Ode to Oil" Pablo Neruda writes:

Oil,
hidden and most important
ingredient of the stew,
base for partridges,
celestial key to mayonnaise...

Oil,
with our voice,
our chorus,
with intimate
powerful smoothness
you sing...

It is indeed an "abundant treasure." In recent weeks I've rubbed some into kale leaves, swirled it on soup. And of course, the beans, where so much poetry resides, and where a plate feeds you mightily, body and soul.

"5 World Trade Center" by James Penha + Apple Cider Donuts

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I woke up in my parent's house. It was a few weeks before my sophomore year of college started, and I'd spent the summer lifeguarding before moving back to campus. I was tan, well rested, and excited to see my boyfriend again.

I remember my mom coming into my room, then words like "New York" and "terrorism" and "planes" hitting my ears. I moved to the couch, curled up with a blanket, and listened to everything Peter Jennings had to say. He was wearing a light blue shirt, I remember. His eyes looked tired but warm, and he was occasionally on the brink of tears, like us all. He didn't leave the desk for twenty-four hours, maybe more. I didn't leave the couch very often, either. There was nothing else to do in those first few hours except wait and watch.

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5 World Trade Center

By James Penha

Home in Indonesia we watched by night
plane after plane crash into the towers and the towers
come crashing down and I thought in the crash
of recollections in the hours that followed
of the sweet servers at a Krispy Kreme beneath
the Plaza we visited every year at least once
on our trips to my New York hometown.
The company declared the store destroyed
though workers and customers escaped unharmed
and pictures surfaced later
showing trays of donuts waiting still to be told
where to go while a rag and spray bottle
of cleaning solution lay on a table under
a profound film of dust no one wiped away.

Penha, James. "5 World Trade Center." Copyright © 2017 by James Penha. First published
in The Book of Donuts (Terrapin Books). Reprinted by permission of Terrapin Books.

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The best poems, I find, are usually about two things. Of course there are the urgent, present details being shared on the page. But underneath the surface, there's often much more. Reading these lines thrust me sixteen years back in time, and like the donuts and the spray bottle, left me perhaps a little frozen remembering the bright, unsuspecting Tuesday morning.

Let's begin with the donuts. On the morning of 9/11, a New York native watches the events unfold halfway around the world, from his home in Indonesia. In darkness, a memory appears, and he recalls a Krispy Kreme shop, the one he always visited during annual trips to the city. Before this moment, you might not have imagined a donut being capable of eliciting such an emotional response. It's only flour and sugar, after all. 

But below the donuts, the poem seeks to make sense of tragedy (a theme this year, no?). The details we remember might seem trivial, but in a poet's hands, they become relatable. How many donuts have we eaten in our lifetime already? I've certainly had my share, and now I may never eat another without remembering these words or the image of dusty confections, trays of them, never delivered, utterly symbolic of the lives of men and women who perished, lives never fully lived. 

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Apple Cider Donuts

Recipe adapted from Bon Appetit; Makes about 8 donuts, plus 12-16 donut holes

The original recipe makes 18 donuts, but I really don’t need that many at home, so I made a smaller batch. Also, it’s good to know in advance that these are a bit of a project. Don’t expect to wake up Wednesday morning and make donuts (well, unless you do everything in advance.) There are about 20-30 minutes when the cider needs to reduce on the stove, and the dough needs to chill for 3 hours before frying. 

Some ingredient notes: Apple cider is recommended, but I totally forgot to check at my farmers’ market and ended up grabbing a bottle of juice from the store. Oh, apple butter is a nice addition here, I used the Eden Foods brand.

1 3-inch cinnamon stick
1 1/2 cups apple cider or juice
1/4 cup apple butter
1/4 cup buttermilk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
1/8 teaspoon baking soda
1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 3/4 cup all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
2 teaspoons cinnamon, divided
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, room temperature
2 tablespoons (packed) light brown sugar
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons granulated sugar, divided
1 egg
Vegetable or canola oil, for frying (about 4 cups)

Bring cinnamon stick and cider to a boil in a small saucepan over medium-high heat. Cook until thick, syrupy, and reduced to about 2 tablespoons. Discard cinnamon stick, then scrape into a medium bowl and whisk in apple butter, buttermilk, and vanilla until smooth.

While the cider reduces, whisk baking powder, salt, baking soda, nutmeg, flour, and 1 teaspoon cinnamon in a medium bowl. In a stand mixer, beat butter, brown sugar, and 2 tablespoons granulated sugar until light and fluffy, about 4 minutes. Add egg, beating well. Reduce mixer speed to low and add dry ingredients in two additions, alternating with liquid ingredients. The dough will be very soft and sticky.

Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and dust generously with flour (at least 1/4 cup). Dust hands and top of dough with more flour, then gently pat dough to 3/4-inch thick. Dust with more flour and cover with plastic wrap; refrigerate 3 hours.

Whisk remaining 1/2 cup granulated sugar and 1 teaspoon cinnamon in a small bowl. 

Working on baking sheet, punch out as many rounds as you can using a 3-inch cutter, then punch out the center with a smaller cutter. Gather donut scraps and gently re-roll without overworking the dough. 

Set a wire rack on a rimmed baking sheet. Pour oil into a 4-quart dutch oven and heat to 350°. Working in batches, fry donuts until deep golden brown, about 3 minutes per side. Fry donut holes until deep golden brown, about 2 minutes per side. Transfer to the rack, then toss in cinnamon sugar before serving.