Every January, I end up on a citrus tear.  I’m not much for resolutions, and January is far from my favorite month (I grew up in Minnesota, and I live in Chicago, after all), but I do love the sunny spectrum of citrus that shows up at the grocery store this month.  Weekly, I haul home a heaving bag of ruby red grapefruits.  Each morning, I top segments of their tart flesh with yogurt and granola.  A pair of clementines accompany me to work every day; a crate of the little orange guys rarely outlasts the stretch between our weekly grocery trips.  Less frequently, but still dependably, I get hankerings for key lime pies, the urge to make a citrus-hued curd, and an inexplicable desire to squeeze blood oranges until my hands are stained with their brilliantly-colored juice.

And always, there is a lemon cake.

It might be a towering, layered affair, enrobed in billowy frosting.  Or a lemon-swirled cheesecake.  Or a pound cake speckled with poppy seeds.  Or a blueberry-studded bundt.  Or an olive-oil enhanced round, sliced into fat wedges and dolloped with creme fraiche.  This January, though, I was in the mood for something simpler.  Just a lemon cake, plain and simple.  Nothing folded in, no frosting, no unique pairings.

So I opted for an Ina Garten recipe, one that I made a long time ago and one that my mother-in-law makes frequently.  I checked my site for the recipe and was surprised to see that it wasn’t in the archives.  I figured I’d better fix that, and that’s what I aim to do today.  Because this is a recipe that should be in your repertoire, for when you need the perfectly fragrant, light and moist lemon cake—which is  to say, every January.

Lemon Yogurt Cake
Ina Garten

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup plain yogurt
1 1/3 cups sugar, divided
3 eggs
2 teaspoons grated lemon zest (from about 2 lemons)
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/2 cup grapeseed oil (or other neutral oil)
1/3 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Grease a loaf pan. Line the bottom with parchment paper.  Grease and flour the pan.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt into 1 bowl. In another bowl, whisk together the yogurt, 1 cup sugar, the eggs, lemon zest, and vanilla. Slowly whisk the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients. With a rubber spatula, fold the vegetable oil into the batter, making sure it’s all incorporated. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for about 50 minutes, or until a cake tester placed in the center of the loaf comes out clean.

Meanwhile, cook the 1/3 cup lemon juice and remaining 1/3 cup sugar in a small pan until the sugar dissolves and the mixture is clear. Set aside.

When the cake is done, allow it to cool in the pan for 10 minutes. Carefully place on a baking rack over a sheet pan. While the cake is still warm, pour the lemon-sugar mixture over the cake and allow it to soak in. Cool.

After a busy couple of months, I was just starting to think that I wouldn’t have much time for holiday baking.  But that’s when the urge to make these biscotti hit.  I was in the mood for a not-too-sweet cookie with crunch, and one of my favorite combinations (almond extract and poppy seeds) leapt to mind.  The dough came together in a flash, and I multi-tasked while the biscotti underwent their double-bake.  In no time, I had a tin full of festive, poppy seed-flecked cookies, redolent of almond.

With the biscotti behind me, I’m feeling less sorry for myself and my lack of time for holiday baking.

In fact, the biscotti have helped me resolve to finding little pockets of time for my baking.  A batch of thumbprints here, and a sheet of brittle there.  No rule against a late-night pan of fudge, right?  I might not have time for afternoons spent rolling truffles through multiple hues of cocoa powder (who was that person, and where did she find the time?), and I’ll leave the tedious spritz pressing and painstaking sugar cookie decorating to my mother (whose patience for such baking tasks did not pass on down to me).  But, by god, there will be some holiday baking in my kitchen.

I’ll leave you with some more holiday inspiration here.  I’m looking forward to a little time off around Christmas, and to a schedule that will slow down (fingers crossed) come 2012.  Merry merry to you all.

We visited the Green City Market on Saturday morning, and I was struck by the duplicity of this time of year.  Depending which way you looked, you might’ve found yourself in one season or the other.  To your left, there’s a pile of sweet corn, pale green husks and flaxen silks stacked high—and it speaks of deep summer, of double-booked BBQs, and boat rides, and baseball.  Straight ahead, there’s a table of peppers of every hue—and they speak of late summer, Labor Day, and long, savored days.  But then, to the right, there are crates of apples, small and tart, telling of the autumn to come, multi-colored leaves, and thick sweaters, and mugs of hot cider.

Our feet, in other words, were in two worlds: one lingering in summer, while the other stepped into fall.  In light of this, I’ve been trying to straddle the seasons.  Burgers followed by apple crisp, for instance.  Or a peach pie, preceded by a hearty stew.  But, really, I’m trying not to let summer go, to send it off too soon.  So, while the weather might call for butternuts and brussels, my mind is still dreaming of some perfect summer meals gone by.

In particular, there was a campsite dinner that is forever burned into my memory, just like the brilliant sunset that set the scene:

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Nor can I forget a dinner at my grandparents’ house, made almost entirely of food grown in the backyard garden:

But while this reel of summer’s-meals-past unfurls in my mind’s eye, I know that fall is coming.  So I’m giving it nods, here and there, while still seizing the summer produce in the markets.  To this bread, which stars summer’s zucchini, I added fall’s spices (cinnamon and nutmeg).  It’s helping to ease the transition—to remind us of where we’ve been, but still enticing us to where we’re going.

Whole Wheat-Olive Oil Zucchini Bread
Adapted from Seven Spoons

Yield: 1 loaf

2 cups whole wheat flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoons salt
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
pinch nutmeg
1/2 cup chopped walnuts, toasted
1/4 cup olive oil
1/2 cup well-shaken buttermilk
1 egg
3/4 cup brow  sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups shredded zucchini

Preheat an oven to 350°F. Grease a 9-inch loaf pan. Set aside.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon and nutmeg. Stir in the chopped walnuts. Set aside.

In another bowl, whisk together the olive oil and buttermilk. Add the eggs, sugar and vanilla, and beat until smooth. Stir in the zucchini.

Pour the wet ingredients into the dry, stir until combined, taking care not over mix. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake until a cake tester inserted into the loaf comes out almost clean, which should be around 50 minutes. Cool loaves in their pans on a rack for 20 minutes, then turn the loaf out onto a rack to cool.

The last few days of cooler weather and earlier sunsets have me nostalgic for the summer that’s all but slipped away.  For long nights on the deck.  For meandering walks through the neighborhood.  For fireflies and hoses and ice cream on a Wednesday evening.  There was all of that this summer, and there was a perfect weekend in the northwoods, too.  One I won’t forget soon.

Kevin and I drove from Chicago to the south shore of Lake Superior, to meet my family for a night of camping.  (Note to self: camp with my parents more often.  Their version of rustic is one that I can definitely get behind.)

Then we went into Minnesota, up along the north shore of Lake Superior—the shore I know like the back of my hand.

We spent two nights at my grandparents’ house.  We tried to pick wild blueberries (and failed—we’d missed the season).  We rode the Alpine Slide.  We drank beer brewed in Ashland, Wisconsin and Duluth, Minnesota.  We saw the sunset over Lake Superior, before that same sun glittered across the same lake the next day.

When we left before dawn at the end of the weekend, we saw the sunrise over the lake, too.  For as many times as I’ve seen that lake—that lake that has my heart—I’ve never seen the sun arch up over its waters.  It was spectacular.

We left with that sunrise in our rearview mirror, a tub of just-picked blueberries and raspberries from my grandpa’s garden in the backseat, and the familiar bittersweet feeling of a too-short visit home.  It’s not unlike this end-of-summer feeling.  To stretch that trip out, and I suppose to stretch out the summer too, I baked the blueberries and raspberries into a simple buttermilk cake, ribboned with the berries’ crimson and sapphire juices.

Berry Buttermilk Cake
Adapted Slight from Gourmet

Serves 6 to 8

1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 stick unsalted butter, softened
2/3 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 large egg
1/2 cup well-shaken buttermilk
1 cup fresh berries (about 5 ounces)

Kevin would be in L.A. the week before the Fourth of July.  So, we set our sights on a road trip up the coast over the long weekend.  Kevin picked me up at LAX, and we drove north along the coast, where the endless blue Pacific slipped from the pristine beaches of Malibu, studded with surfers and life guard stands, into golden, rolling hills and rugged coastline.

Our first stop was Big Sur, and we got there just in time for sunset.  An orange sun slid down through the trees and over the ocean, and we ate at Big Sur Bakery, on the front porch, with a votive candle flickering between us.

We woke up rested and ready to drive, hike, snap photos, and gawk at a landscape that completely stunned us.  A wave of yellow wild flowers washed over the coastline.  A winding path led to an abandoned beach.  A waterfall pounded onto the sand below.  A hidden cove swayed with its underwater kelp forest.  An elusive fog drifted in, only to disappear as we rounded the next bend in the road.

We made the most of our day in Big Sur—and we were totally dazzled.

We spent the last minutes of daylight on the beach, where the sinking sun cast a light on the hills that made them glow and a reflection over the surf that sparkled.

And as if this weren’t all enough, we woke up the next morning and drove to Napa, a place that I can’t seem to shake.

We drove to the airport in San Francisco a couple days later, and even that drive was gorgeous.

The trip was magical.  So, this week, as we adjusted to being back home, I baked up a batch of Big Sur Bakery scones—the likes of which we’d enjoyed two mornings in a row while we were in Big Sur.  To relive the whole trip just a little bit.

The Big Sur Bakery Scones recipe is here.  (My cookbook is in the mail, and I can’t wait for it to arrive!)  More photos of our trip are here.

Well, I’m here to report that it worked!  The kale-centric goodbye gala for winter that I staged last time I was here really, really worked.  Not more than two days after that post, spring arrived—and decidedly so.  The winds were suddenly warm and the trees were all-at-once producing buds.  As we walked the sidewalks near our apartment last weekend, we stopped to gawk at the fringey-yellow bushes that had burst into bloom and the pert daffodils, tucked up against the houses, that had opened up their bonnets.

Spring’s like that, I think.  It arrives every year, yet it still manages to stun you.

Banana bread’s not so dissimilar.  No matter how many times it shows up, each time, you’re reminded how lovely it is.

And this banana bread—floral and bright with its undertones of olive oil and lemon zest—was especially lovely.  Gilding the lily, this loaf boasts a generous cup of semi-sweet chocolate chips.  Last weekend, spring gilded the lily, too, with summery heat and humidity.  It was a treat, for sure.  The banana bread, too.

Melissa Clark‘s (whose blog I’m really enjoying) recipe for Lemony Olive Oil Banana Bread with Chocolate Chips is here.  I swapped in semi-sweet chips for the hand-chopped chunks of chocolate.  I also skipped the glaze.

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It’s been one of those weeks.  The weeks where you feel like you’re hanging on for dear life, one day hurtling toward the next, and then the next.  Suddenly, it’s nearly Friday and you’ve barely caught your breath since Monday.  Barely stopped to think.  Barely said boo to your husband.

But so much of it has been good—the kind of good that’s completely out of the ordinary, in the best ways—so you can’t complain.  Your sister-in-law got engaged.  (!!!)  Your sister came to town.  (!!!)  The sun has been out all week.  (!!!)  It’s been light out well before 7 a.m. and enough past 5 p.m. to make a difference.  (!!!)

And also?  It’s March.  March!

But the quiet, normal moments have been missing.  Leaving me out of sorts.  Leaving me feeling like I miss the guy I sleep next to every night.  Two ships, and all that.

So, it’s been nice to know this week that I’ve been sending him off to work each morning, whether he’s leaving the house after me or before me, with a slice of orange-rind-flecked, olive oil-spiked cornmeal cake.  And, this week, that’s enough.

Blood Orange Cornmeal Cake
Adapted Slightly from Martha Stewart

1/2 cup olive oil, plus more for pan
2 large eggs
1 cup sugar, plus 1/3 cup for topping
1/2 cup fresh-squeezed blood orange juice
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour, spooned and leveled
1/2 cup coarse-ground yellow cornmeal
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon kosher salt
Finely grated zest of 2 blood oranges

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Brush bottom and sides of an 8-inch round cake pan with oil; line bottom with a round of wax or parchment paper, and brush paper with oil.

In a large bowl, whisk together oil, eggs, 1 cup sugar, and juice until smooth. Add flour, cornmeal, baking powder, salt, and orange zest; whisk gently to combine.

Pour batter into prepared pan; sprinkle top evenly with remaining 1/3 cup sugar (topping will be thick). Bake until cake begins to pull away from sides of pan and a tester inserted in center comes out clean, 35 to 40 minutes.

Cool in pan 20 minutes. Run a knife around edge of cake; invert cake gently onto a plate, and remove parchment paper. Reinvert cake onto a rack to cool completely. Serve with orange segments, if desired.

A quick bread is a beautiful thing.  Don’t you think?

No yeast packets.

No hovering over the bowl, willing that yeast to proof, dammit, proof!

No hours-long rises. No messy counter, dusted with post-knead flour.

They are forgiving to-the-max.  Even when you make a soda bread, haplessly swapping out the baking, er, soda, for baking powder.

Even then, the quick bread is still good.  With a tight, tangy crumb, and a seeded, cracked spine.

Quick bread: I love you.

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Heidi’s recipe for this Oat Soda Bread (via Jennifer, in the “ping-pong culture” of the Web, a notion (in Heidi’s words) that I adore) is here.  As mentioned above, I used baking powder (accidentally) in place of baking soda and was pleased as punch with the results.  Seed-wise, I used a white and black sesame seeds, poppy seeds, and cumin seeds.

Mornings, around here, in the winter are quieter and slower.  Well, I should clarify.  Weekend winter mornings, around here, are quieter and slower.  Weekday mornings—a blur of alarm clocks and yogurt, eaten quickly, and lost gloves, and running to catch the train—are another matter altogether.  On the weekend, though, it’s still and peaceful.  There’s no summery urge to throw open the windows, no fall-like need to seize the day, no spring-ish excitement about the warm air that may come.  Instead, the urges go something like this: wrap up in something warm; clutch a mug of coffee; settle onto the couch, feet tucked beneath you; when hunger arrives, oatmeal.

This week, we had a bonus morning like this—one that fell smack dab in the middle of the week, courtesy of the Groundhog Day Blizzard ’11.  So, with a snow day issued, Wednesday morning unfolded much like the above, including the oatmeal.  Especially the oatmeal.

Now, oatmeal might seem a ho-hum breakfast to some.  But, then, with a blizzard blustering around outside, churning up clouds of snow and producing deep drifts and frosting over the windows, you might as well leave the razmataz to the weather and stick to the simple in your warm apartment.  More than that, though, oatmeal—properly gussied up—is anything from boring.

After much sampling and tinkering, I’ve arrived at my preferred approach to oatmeal.  First, there’s the method for the oatmeal itself, which begins with a ratio: two parts water to one part oatmeal.  Bring that water to a boil / add a pinch of salt / add the oatmeal / cook, over moderate heat, for eight minutes, stirring every now and then.  Then, there’s the doctoring up.  Just before the eight-minute timer dings, add a pat of butter, a few drops of vanilla, a big pinch of cinnamon and a thread of thick maple syrup.  Stir, so all of these melt into and infuse the thickened oatmeal.  Spoon the oatmeal into bowls and top with a sprinkling of brown or raw sugar, a palmful of dried fruit (I like cherries, here), and some toasted nuts (whatever you have on hand, but hazelnuts are my favorite).

Next, of course: retake your spot on the couch, along with your oatmeal, thus gussied-up, and enjoy.

(More storm photos here.)

Maple Oatmeal

Serves 4

4 cups water
pinch salt
2 cups rolled oats
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 tablespoon maple syrup
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla
brown or raw sugar, for serving (optional)
dried fruit, such as cherries, for serving (optional)
toasted, chopped nuts, such as hazelnuts, for serving (optional)

Bring the water to a boil.  Add salt and oats, stir, reduce heat to moderate, and cook for 8 minutes, stirring occasionally.  With about a minute left on the 8-minute timer, stir in the butter, syrup, cinnamon and vanilla.

Spoon into bowls and top with brown sugar, dried fruit and toasted nuts, if desired.

Here are the things I should be doing right now: making the two rounds of pie crust that I resolved to make last weekend; packing my suitcase; practicing my bowling game (as I will be ushering myself into my 30s on Saturday with a bowling birthday party, because, apparently, 30 is the new 8); cleaning out my DVR (What?  You don’t consider that a pre-vacation must?); tying up a million loose ends at work; getting my nails done (only to have them destroyed in the flurry of celery-chopping, onion-peeling, pie crust-crimping, and dish-scrubbing that will soon ensue); doing a few sit-ups in a futile attempt to ward off the feasts that are about to unfold.

And the list goes on.  I’m sure you all have pre-Thanksgiving lists of your own.  But, for a few minutes, at least, I need to set aside my to do’s and I’m really hoping you’ll do the same.  It’s about cake.  Priorities, people.

A cranberry-studded, confectioner’s sugar-dusted stunner of a cake, that is.  Like I said, you’ll want to pay attention here.  First, you’ll want to make this cake.  Of that, I’m sure.  But my instructions are more specific than that.  You’ll want to make it this weekend.  This Thanksgiving weekend, of course.  Because this cake has holiday weekend written all over it.

The exact date and time for serving the cake are up to you.  Perhaps it’ll serve as a mid-morning pick-me-up on Thanksgiving itself, served with hot coffee (soused with a nip of booze — it’s Thanksgiving!), for the flagging cook(s).  You know the moment that calls for that pick-me-up, I’m sure.  The turkey is roasting, the burners are all aflame beneath bubbling pots, a mountain of dishes looms in the sink.  Just think what a boost this cake would be in that exact moment—before even one of those dishes is washed.

I dare say it’d be at home on a Thanksgiving dessert table, too, presenting variety for the non-pie lovers among us (difficult as it is for me to imagine such creatures) and a lovely, garnet splash of color, much needed after a day full of brown and orange foods.

Then there’s the morning after Thanksgiving.  For my money, that’s when I’d serve the cake.  True, this cake will again compete with pie (leftover, cold, eaten with a fork straight from the tin—not that I would know), but I think it will do so handily.  The cake’s cranberry topping lends a tart bite and the lemon zest in the cake’s batter imparts brightness.  And bite and brightness are in short supply in the Thanksgiving meal and they’re just the types of flavors one craves in the wake of a heavy feast.

Plus—and this is the kicker for me—this cake would make for the perfect bridge from one holiday season to the next.  The vehicle is the mighty cranberry, of course, and it will take you out of November (relish! compote!) and deposit you in December (cake!  and snow-sprinkled cake, at that!).  And that’s really why I think this cake would be right at home this Friday, the day when we imperceptibly shift from Thanksgiving mode into a Christmas state-of-mind.

With that, I turn back to my to-do list and invite you to do  the same.  You’ve got a new item to add to the list, after all: this cake.

To all those celebrating: Happy Thanksgiving!  Wishing you a delicious and happy holiday.

Cranberry Cake
Adapted from Martha Stewart

Yield: 8 to 10 slices

3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature, plus more for pan
1 1/2 cups plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour (spooned and leveled)
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup packed light-brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
3 large eggs
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
2 teaspoons finely grated lemon zest
1/4 cup sour cream
2 cups fresh cranberries
Confectioners’ sugar, for dusting

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Butter an 8-by-2-inch or a 9-inch cake pan and line bottom with a round of parchment. In a large bowl, whisk together 1 1/2 cups flour, baking soda, and salt.

Using an electric mixer, beat butter and sugars until light and fluffy. With mixer on low, beat in eggs, one at a time, until incorporated; beat in vanilla and lemon zest. Beat in 1/2 the flour mixture, then sour cream. Add remaining flour mixture; mix just until combined.

Spread batter into pan and smooth top with a knife. In a bowl, toss cranberries with 2 tablespoons flour and sprinkle over batter.

Bake until cake is golden, about 30 minutes; loosely tent with foil and bake until cake pulls away from side of pan and a cake tester inserted in center comes out clean, about 35 to 45 minutes more. Let cake cool completely in pan. Run knife around cake edge and remove cake from pan. Dust with confectioners’ sugar before serving.