There's just something about a skillet cake. In general, I find baking a bit fussy—all those steps, all that precision—so when I can make a relatively impressive dessert without taking out the sifter or the Mixmaster, without whipping egg whites or weighing flour, I'm quite thrilled. It's sort of the sweet equivalent of a one-pot meal. If you haven't already tried this apple version, or this plum one, try this recipe for a rustic cornmeal cake studded with ripe blackberries. They are the dark and glorious jewels of summer, their glossy black beads bursting with a subtly floral elixir. I love to see lips and fingers stained with their scarlet juices, which also seep into the cake much like a trifle. It's no work at all to throw this together and the soft moans of pleasure it elicits will only add to your satisfaction.
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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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I don't usually do cake. Especially one that's not full of non-cakey things like buckwheat or almond flour or something equally healthy. You probably think I'm just a little too virtuous for my own good, don't you? I'll show you. Or rather, this cake will. It's plump and airy, with a rich, pale crumb worthy of an English tearoom. And that cream cheese frosting, flecked with cardamom and orange zest, is totally irresistible. If you like that sort of thing. Which I do. Once in a while. It's all about moderation.

Oh, did I mention there's a bunch of zucchini in there?
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The recipe for this torte first appeared in Marian Burros' column in the New York Times in September 1983. I've been making it for more than two decades, but I remember it as if anew every August when Italian plums appear at the greenmarket. Times readers clamor for it so often that it's run in the paper more than a dozen times. Amanda Hesser also included it in The Essential New York Times Cookbook. Why is it so popular? Hesser deems it a "nearly perfect recipe" and describes it as "crusty and light, with deep wells of slackened, sugar-glazed fruit." Naturally, I couldn't leave well enough alone, but have tweaked it to include a few flavors that I think further exalt this immensely satisfying and absurdly easy recipe. Any leftovers should be covered with foil, stored on the counter and eaten the next morning for breakfast, with or without a dollop of yogurt. Now that's living.
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Ever get a craving you just can't shake? A couple of weeks ago, I began dreaming of gingerbread: dense and dark, with chewy edges and chunks of crystallized ginger. The cakey kind, not the drier, more brittle sort used for gingerbread men and their over-decorated houses. I'm partial to a tangy lemon glaze on mine. The crackle finish it makes on top and the way it seeps into the crumb is simply irresistible. You don't need anything else with this gingerbread—no whipped cream, no ice cream, no applesauce—just a nice strong cup of tea. I don't recommend it after a hearty stew or pasta, you'll feel too leaden. It's the perfect cold-weather breakfast, lazy afternoon snack or highly anticipated finish to a light dinner.
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Pie is having a renaissance, although I'm not sure it ever really went away. As discussed in this recent NY Times article, it's about to kick the cupcake off its frosted throne. Yea! As a country, we've got quite a lot invested in the notion of pie. Just like us damn Yankees, it runs the gamut from down-home (tamale pie) to drop-dead glamorous (Baked Alaska). The best pie I've ever eaten was at a tiny shack somewhere near Nashville during a random stop on a cross-country drive. I still remember the shatteringly flaky crust (thanks to lard, no question) and the tangy, juicy whole blackberries. My own sour cherry version is a princess among pies, a slice of summer on a plate, best eaten in July with a scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream. My father had a weakness for pecan pie, that tooth-achingly sweet confection loaded with nuts and Karo syrup. And I have always looked forward to the pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving. But when it really came down to it, I realized that all I truly crave is the custard. It's that smooth, silky consistency I adore, the delicate balance of spices and a subtle sweetness—not the soggy cardboard crust, made worse by everyone's insistence on keeping pie in the fridge. (Where we know baked goods don't improve!) Besides, in this gluten-free household, I have come to realize that eating all that flour is what leaves you feeling bloated and puffy and gross. Especially on Thanksgiving, when you know you are going to load your plate with stuffing and Parker house rolls, maybe dessert is the time to think outside the crust. Or maybe not. Either way, here are a few suggestions for next week's finale.
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I woke up yesterday with an enormous zit on my chin. One of those under-the-skin whoppers that can really mess with your head—literally. Mine is practically tilted to one side. TMI? It was all because of a sudden influx of cheese into my life—starting with that truffled gratin at Eataly, followed by an aged gouda with cumin, then some extra sharp Sicilian pecorino and culminating with an unhealthy dose of cream cheese frosting while creating a birthday cake for the lovely Stephanie. Too much cheese—or dairy in general—inevitably leads to the dreaded blemish. It's my body's (humiliating and uncomfortable) way of letting me know it's had enough. I'm hoping that cutting out flour, sugar and dairy, while amping up the green juice and vegetables, will right my ship. Now, back to that cake. Stephanie has been losing weight by eating low-fat for the better part of a year, and weeks ago she put in her request for an appropriate carrot cake to be served at her birthday dinner. (The rest of the dinner featured this tasty bouillabaisse.) I was determined to bake something that lived up to my gold standard from the original Silver Palate cookbook, a divine confection made with corn oil, whole eggs, walnuts and coconut, and frosted with dreamy swirls of cream cheese-&-butter icing. Delicious, yes, but hardly low-fat. How then to replicate the rich texture and flavor without derailing my friend's diet?
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I met the impossibly dashing Albano through my friend Lisa when I visited her in Singapore several years ago. He's a dapper Australian designer of Italian extraction with impeccable taste in all things. Our friendship has been sustained mostly through Facebook, one of the very few reasons I can't be totally cynical about "social networking." He has been kind enough to share with me a couple of flawless recipes for what can best be described as tea cakes, those simple homey loaves you slice up and serve alongside a cup of something hot. Both of them allude ever-so-slightly to his Asian environs; one is made with kabocha squash, the other with Japanese sweet potato and seaweed. Toasted and buttered, with jam or just plain, a slice of these bread-like cakes hits the spot at breakfast, too.

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There is archaeological evidence to show that humans have been eating apples since 6,500 BC. And why not? They're sweet, crunchy, juicy and, as every man since Adam knows, incredibly tantalizing. This is their season, and the farmers markets are full of crates bursting with different varieties and the cider made from them. I remember the first time I ever had dinner at the original Bouley in Manhattan. You stepped into a little vestibule before entering the restaurant and it was piled floor-to-ceiling with crates of apples. Their winey perfume was intoxicating, so evocative and transporting. Eating a crisp, cold apple out of hand is a primal experience—it's just you and the fruit. Some people go all the way and even eat the core, but I enjoy tossing it out into the field. Dust to dust. Apples are also delicious cooked. Did you make this recipe last year? I really enjoy a simple apple cake. Slightly rustic and not too sweet. The one below is adapted from 101 Cookbooks. It's easy to throw together and you can use any apples you like. Something quite firm and sweet-tart is always preferable for baking, I think.
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Memorial Day weekend always marks the start of summer for me. I think back to halcyon days spent at The Shack on the North Fork, an era that has retained its halo for more than a decade now. I love that I'm still celebrating the new season with some of the same friends, but now we're doing it with a view of the woods instead of the water. Sunday's gathering at Stephanie's in Stone Ridge (our first visit there since New Year's Eve) featured an elaborate Mexican-themed buffet with the fixings for fish, beef or pork tacos. We sipped watermelon margaritas and thirst-quenching tamarind coolers, and afterward I trotted out this light, lime-glazed angel food cake with two drizzling sauces: Mexican chocolate (with the same chocolate I used for this ice cream) and fresh raspberry.
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