Fall

This cake. It was my Dad's favorite. He had a Fall birthday and this is the dessert my Mom made him every year for his office celebration. It was also the batter my Mom could barely keep us kids away from....it was so good, even before it was baked. This was back in the day when no one cared about eating raw cake batter.

This is one of those delicious, moist cakes I crave and love eating every, single time. It has such great memories for me. I can still see my Dad getting down the special crystal tray my Mom used to send with the cake. It was on a high shelf above the stove she could not reach. The platter wasn't anything expensive, just the best one she had. A bowl of real whipped cream was also packed up and served with each slice, trust me you don't want to forget the whipped cream.

My Mom acquired this recipe from a woman she used to work with over fifty years ago in downtown Los Angeles. Beyond that we have no idea where it originated from. I just know I love it. Just like my Dad.

There is magic in these fields we have - the kind of magic that store bought soil or fertilizer cannot bring about. It's a magic that I can only be a part of in the smallest of ways and then the rest is up to the sun, moon and stars. When we moved here, there were scrubby weeds that had grown taller than my husbands face and not an ounce of decent soil existed beneath them, but as the rains have given us grass, the cows have provided rich manure and so the circle of restoring our land began.

During the process of turning weeds and waste into true fertile soil, we've had the suprise of volunteer squash vines growing in great numbers. I'm completely humbled by the massive plant with it's very own intentions and whether or not I am there to trellis the tendrils or support it's fruit, the squash lives on through sun and storms.

Tip toeing amongst the mound of vigorous vines, I fall so in love with the eagerness of life that surrounds us. Everywhere I turn, life is happening in a way that is supported by a chain of different species. We all depend so greatly on eachother to grow.

As each new season arrives I begin to think that it's my favorite. The colors, the scents, and the flavors of fall are just beginning to tantalize my senses. For sure it's the rich and eye-catching colors that grab me first; the pumpkins, pomegranates, pears and apples are so beautiful they almost beg to be put on display.

Of course anything that is associated with Thanksgiving is also a hallmark of fall. Pumpkin, pecans, cranberries, even brussels sprouts. Just the words alone make my mouth water in anticipation. It seems in preparation for the winter, flavors intensify. Not that the flavors of summer aren't intense, but they have a different fresh delicate succulent quality about them that disappears in the fall.

All sorts of winter squash are turning up at the market right now. Hardy vegetables that have some staying power. They wait until you are ready for them, unlike summery tomatoes and basil that say "use me or lose me!"

When the pole bean trellis blew down for the second time, we left it. Granted, we were a bit annoyed at the pole beans. They took a lifetime to germinate and what seemed like eternity to start yielding. Meanwhile the bush beans were churning out lovely filet beans by the pound every day.  We would have ignored the pole beans altogether except for this nagging voice I had in my head, “Pole beans are better than bush beans.” I grew up with this voice. My father’s.

My father and his mother (my grandmother Honey, who “put up” pole beans at the end of every summer) were always carrying on about the superiority of “pole beans” over bush beans. (Pole beans are green bean varieties like Kentucky Wonder that grow on vines as long as 12 feet, therefore needing support in the form of poles or some other trellising.)  I needed to find out the truth for myself, as it seemed to me that our bush beans (a variety from FedCo called Beananza) were pretty darn tasty—and oh-so-lovely to look at, too. The pole beans looked kind of gnarled up and blotchy the minute they appeared on the scene.