The days have rapidly grown colder in the past week. On Sunday, out on Long Island, it was still warm enough to end my morning run at the dock and sit, legs crossed, with my face tilted up to the sun. After a minute of some truly pathetic attempts at vigorous stretching, I took a deep breath and untied my shoes and shimmied down the ladder to dunk my head—whoosh—under the surface of the water, glinting like diamonds in the sunlight. It wasn’t terribly frigid yet, but it was cold enough to make me gasp, scrabbling for the edges of the ladder and climbing out to shake the droplets from my wet hair.
The weather has already turned a corner enough that my Sunday swim feels like it must have been weeks ago. Yesterday was gray, the sky threatening rain until a steady drizzle began around 4 PM, turning heavier by the minute and drenching me thoroughly as I took a late afternoon walk in Central Park. I rushed home to shower, summon some mighty internal energy to get dressed up in a pair of dark jeans, a cozy sweater, gold earrings, and…drumroll please…even a touch of mascara. (I will accept an award for that anytime.)
Finding a cab can be an exercise in futility on rainy nights in New York, but I lucked out seeing one lit up driving towards me. I ducked in, showering the torn leather seat with raindrops from my wet umbrella, and leaned forward breathlessly to give the address to the driver. I headed downtown, racing down 11th Avenue until we hit standstill traffic backed up from the Lincoln Tunnel. I jumped out and with my umbrella held high, ducking into a brightly lit shop. I step inside, greeted by warm, spice-scented air. I’m here for the launch party of a new cookbook written by Lior Lev Sercarz, the mastermind behind the very cool spice shop La Boîte. I’ve been lucky to get to know him over the years, and unsurprisingly the party is as fun as he is. There are rows and racks of spices to smell and wonder over, bourbon cocktails mixed with Lior’s custom-spiced Amaro, trays of tiny cookies in thrilling flavors like chocolate with orange blossom and mango turmeric peanut, and a bowl of his addictive “pizza posto” popcorn: each fat kernel dusted with a potent blend of tomato, oregano, garlic, Parmesan, and salt.
I stay at the party for an hour, mingling and running into an odd collection of old coworkers and people I recognize from all walks of life, like the bubbly Australian woman who owns a tahini shop in Chelsea and sneaks me tastes of freshly made halva of when I visit.
The downpour feels even gloomier now that night has fallen, and I’m happy to be home and warm and tired. I watch an episode of Downton Abbey (yes, I am many years behind and only on season 2, and no, I can’t be bothered about that because I love it too much!) and then practically crawl into bed.
The rest of the week is quiet but productive. I make an effort to change my morning routine to match the changing season: a barre class one morning (go ahead, have a laugh imagining me attempting poise and grace at the tender hour of 7 AM) and laps in the gym pool on another.
I make breakfast: scrambled eggs with sharp Vermont cheddar cheese grated generously over top at the last minute, so it has a minute to melt as I scrape the eggs onto my plate and butter a slice of darkly toasted sourdough bread. I scrounge for lunch: leftover salad mixed with warm quinoa and lentils, a cup of split pea soup with meaty bits of ham from the bakery two blocks over, leftover chicken crisped in the oven with a handful of roasted butternut squash and a drizzle of pomegranate molasses.
Dinner is a pleasure to cook, one I like to plan and prep for, getting things in order before I take a walk in the early evenings so I can come home to the best part of cooking: the sizzle of oil and the sharp scent of garlic hitting the hot pan and the meditative motion of stirring a pan of vegetables with a worn wooden spoon.
I make a simple skillet dish of Italian sausage with kale, mushrooms, and carrots, all swimming in marinara sauce and topped with a soft-boiled egg, its jammy yolk spilling liquid gold over the plate when I cut it open.
On Tuesday I do pasta: fat rigatoni noodles tossed with a creamy sauce of almond milk, porcini powder, onion powder, and garlic. I add fresh peas, shallots, mushrooms, baby spinach, and chicken that I roasted earlier in the oven. Sidebar: Why have I not been roasting chicken breasts more often? It’s so simple and less messy than using the stovetop: I rubbed them with olive oil and sprinkled them with salt, pepper, garlic powder, and paprika then baked them (in a small baking dish) for about 25 minutes at 425 degrees F.
Tonight will be dinner out: a new neighborhood spot, tiny and rustic and Italian. I plan to order and share as much as possible: meatballs and the crispy, garlicky mushrooms and possibly the marinated beets with mint and probably a pasta. I like the sound of the gnocchi with butternut squash and brown butter and sage or perhaps the simple cacio e pepe.
It’s lovely to go to dinner when you can walk there, excitement (and hunger) mounting until you push through the swinging doors to a busy dining room. And it’s even lovelier to walk home, full of good food and that happy, buzzy feeling of being out in the world.
And as much as a good restaurant dessert can be a must now and again, there’s something particularly nice about saving dessert til you get home—you get the best of both worlds, a night out and a cozy bit of quiet on the couch, just you and a slice of cake.
In this case, lemon loaf cake, which is my attempt to replicate that moist, closely-crumbed loaf you find in so many coffee shops. The trick is getting a good texture that’s denser than regular cake but not as heavy as pound cake—for this I use mostly butter with a bit of oil.
And to achieve an actually bold lemon flavor, rather than that meek “hi, maybe this is citrus? if you try another bite'“ sort of situation, you’ll need lemon zest and lemon juice and lemon oil. Sorry. But you just do!
One recipe note: If you want even MORE lemon flavor, you can prepare a simple lemon syrup of sugar, water, and lemon juice. While the loaf is still warm, but after you’ve removed it from the pan, poke holes in the cake using a knife or skewer and brush the glaze over the top. Then let it finish cooling and glaze as directed.
Coffee Shop Lemon Loaf
Makes one 8 x 4 loaf
For the cake
1 1/2 (180g) cups all-purpose flour
¾ teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (113g) unsalted butter, softened
1 cup (198g) granulated sugar
1/4 cup vegetable oil
3 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon lemon oil
zest and juice of 1 large lemon
1/2 cup buttermilk
For the icing
1 cup confectioners’ sugar
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1-2 tablespoons milk
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Grease an 8x4- or 9x5-inch loaf pan and sprinkle the inside lightly with granulated sugar.
In a small bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.
Place the granulated sugar in a separate small bowl and add the lemon zest, rubbing it into the sugar with your fingertips until fragrant.
In a stand mixer, beat together the butter and lemon sugar until pale and fluffy, at least 3 minutes. Add the vegetable oil and beat until combined, then add the eggs, one at a time, beating very well between each addition.
Add the vanilla, lemon oil, and lemon juice and mix to combine.
Add the dry ingredients and the buttermilk, alternating between each, until you get a smooth and thick batter.
Pour the batter into your prepared loaf pan and bake for about 45 to 55 minutes, or until a tester inserted in the center comes out clean.
Remove from the oven and run a knife around the edges of the pan, then let cool for about 10 minutes before turning out onto a wire rack to finish cooling.
While the loaf cools, make the glaze by whisking together all the glaze ingredients. If you need, add more confectioners’ sugar or milk to get the right consistency: it should fall in a slow, thick ribbon from a spoon.
Once the loaf cools fully, pour the glaze over top.