The minute you turn 50, I mean almost to the day, you begin to get mail from the AARP. Nowhere does it say what the acronym stands for, not even on their website. Only by going to Wikipedia will you discover that this is the organization formerly known as the American Association of Retired Persons. I guess the idea of retirement is not what it once was. I know I'm not planning on retiring. Ever. So now the mission of this nonprofit, nonpartisan organization is "to help people 50 and older improve the quality of their lives." But can it teach me how to boil an egg successfully? How did I get to be 50 years old without learning that? A properly boiled egg—one in which the white is not rubbery and the yolk is golden and tender—is essential. The technique is so elemental: water + fire + time. Yet how often is my yolk leaden and tinged with grey? And, worse still, the shell almost always clings mercilessly, turning the peeling process into a living hell. 

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Another skillet cake. Because this one was so good. And because anything that helps dispense with a surplus of apples is welcome around here. The recipe was given to me by a kindred spirit I met at Haven's Kitchen, during a preserving class with Kevin West, a handsome Southern gentleman and the author of Saving the Season, blog and book. His demonstration included a simple applesauce, a very basic sauerkraut, a lovely cranberry jam and a golden-hued cauliflower pickle with raisins and Indian spices that I will definitely be making. I arrived armed with a very pressing question: Why, regardless of cooking time, do my preserves rarely make it to the 220-degree temperature that is always specified as the desired setting point? Kevin told me to pretend that the wooden spoon he was wielding was the candy thermometer I use at home. Then he set it on the ground and mimed stamping on it. In other words, forget the thermometer. He recommends the traditional wrinkle test. But back to the cake, which was a real windfall...
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Today would have been my father's 89th birthday. He died when he was 64 and I was 26. A long time ago. Of stomach cancer. He collapsed on the tennis court, where he was known for the scrappy form he had acquired playing handball on the streets of Brooklyn. He had a leather jumprope that he used his whole life. It kept him fit. He could do this extraordinary trick of hoisting his body absolutely perpendicular to a lamppost and holding it there for an impressively long time. His hands were warm and tanned, with raised veins; they always reminded me of walnut shells. He had a beautiful singing voice and as a youth he earned money singing at weddings. His mother told him to stuff food in his pockets before he came home. They took in a border who was a page-turner for the Metropolitan Opera and he would give my father a nickel for every classical piece he could identify whenever they listened to the radio. Needless to say, my dad knew his Beethoven from his Borodin from his Bartok. He didn't go in for sweets so much, preferring to nibble on Spanish peanuts or salted almonds or cashews while he worked at his desk. Though he did have a weakness for chewy black licorice. And, paradoxically, sugary pecan pie. (I think it was the nuts.) He would have liked this simple cake. Not too sweet, not too fussy.
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A lot of things converged recently to inspire this post. My friend and colleague Justine Clay, a coach for creative professionals, was kind enough to feature me in her new blog series about people over fifty. I also read this article in the Times. Then I discovered this amazing project. And I had lunch with Kristin Perers, creator of this wonderful blog. I think no matter what your age, you spend some time and energy dealing with the cultural, physical and emotional repercussions of what that number signifies. Little kids are anxious for the freedom and autonomy that comes with age. Teens grapple with raging hormones and those "awkward" years. The twenties are about experimentation. In our thirties we feel pressure to settle and achieve. (Of course this is all gross generalization, but work with me.) Then things get a bit nebulous. If you have a partner, kids and a career, your forties and fifties must be about that, right? But what if you don't? And what about your sixties, seventies and eighties? Your nineties? (Too optimistic?) Who even talks about those decades? In the culture at large, there is so little conversation about what it means to be vital and creative and truly alive all the way to the end. So much of the focus, especially for women, is on how good we can look for our age. What about our accomplishments, our creativity, our grace, our strength, our sensuality, our talent, our humor?
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If, as Clifton Fadiman so memorably phrased it, cheese is milk’s leap toward immortality, then yogurt must be its first tentative step in that general direction. How milk got culture is actually a bit of a mystery. Most likely, the earliest yogurts were spontaneously fermented by the wild bacteria that proliferated in the goatskin bags where milk was stored. (Yo, Urg, get a whiff of this!) Wherever it took place, the result— particularly when eaten with honey—has been known as food of the gods since ancient times. And, like all godly things, down here on earth it's been widely corrupted. Perhaps you read about the recent debacle with Chobani, the Greek yogurt brand that has been giving Fage a run for its money? They recalled a ton of their product after reports that "moldy" and "fizzing" yogurt in "bloated" containers was making consumers "violently ill." There are so many things wrong with that statement that I don't even know where to begin, so I'll just say that virtually everything seems to suffer from being produced in enormous quantities. Which is why you might want to consider springing for small-batch artisanal yogurt or, better yet, making your own. It's all about quality control and maximum flavor. And health.

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