I’m sitting crosslegged at my desk, which looks out over the sloping roof to the backyard. The trees are mostly bare already, their limbs dark and skeletal against the slate gray sky. One stands out still—the dogwood tree—which is covered in dark wine-red leaves that tremble and shake in the wind. Rain is lashing against the windows; I’m waiting for it to let up just slightly so I can dash outside to put out the trash.
I’ve already gotten soaked this morning on my run. I slept in until the luxurious hour of 8:25, waking up just minutes before my alarm went off, which is a strange but lovely habit my body has gotten into recently. Outside the wind was whipping down the street; from my bed, I can just barely see the whitecapped waves of the bay. I imagine the water level must bw dangerously high, lapping furiously at the shoreline and splashing up and over the dock at the end of the street.
Further inspection later at the end of my run confirms this: the bay is a dark jade color, a peculiar shade of green-blue that only appears when it storms. Swollen and heavy, it looks ready to spill up onto land, and far in the distance I can just make out the big houses dotting the opposite shoreline of Shelter Island.
I’ve forced myself out into the elements to jog my regular route through town, down to the beach, and back. I pass only two people out walking their dogs. Shrouded in ponchos, they barely glance at me. By the time I loop back onto Main Street, my running shoes are drenched and my wet hair clings to my face. I’m cold and tired and ready for a hot shower.
I peel off my sodden layers, tossing them in the washing machine, and climb the stairs to the bathroom. I stand under the heavy stream of hot water, letting my skin turn red and only getting out when the bathroom is steamy and smells of the spicy rum body wash I use.
After a shower, I pull on cozy clothes and a soft cardigan, then dash out to brunch at my favorite all-day cafe just one block over. Nearly every table is full: the room buzzes happily with conversation and the air smells like drip coffee and melted butter.
I watch the servers, in their plaid shirts and aprons, bring out plates of food to nearby tables: eggs Benedict with thick slabs of ham, the white slopes of the poached eggs coated in a creamy pale green herb sauce. French toast dusted in snowy drifts of powdered sugar. A stack of flourless matcha pancakes, tinged an exotic green (a specialty here made with bananas and matcha powder and honey). An earthenware crock of French onion soup, steam rising from the layer of melted, caramelized Gruyere cheese on top.
I order soft scrambled eggs with a side of sourdough toast and smashed avocado, which is brightened with lemon juice and comes in a little dish with lashings of olive oil on top and a scattering of flaky sea salt.
This sort of Sunday is nice for sitting and reading. It’s nice for folding warm laundry and not thinking too much about what’s next beyond contemplating dinner plans (order a Sweetgreen salad with salmon and warm quinoa and spicy miso dressing? Make a pot of buttery brown rice and pile it high with roasted vegetables spiced with cumin and strewn with toasted sesame seeds, all drizzled with a yogurt tahini sauce?) and deciding whether to watch a new episode of The Crown or of The Morning Show tonight.
It’s also particularly nice baking weather. The warmth of the oven is welcome, and I like to stand next to it as it preheats, mixing cake batter and feeling the heat seep out, giving me a toasty and especially cozy feeling.
If you pick the right recipe (okay, I’ve done it for you, you’re welcome!), that toasty cozy feeling will be multiplied by 100, at least, when you smell the cake as it starts to bake.
This gingerbread cake is ideal for winter days. I’ve adapted it from a King Arthur Flour recipe, changing up the spices—I add orange zest and lots of candied ginger. Between you and me, sometimes I even add a splash of rum, so feel free to do that too. You could riff even more, swapping out the candied ginger for rum- or brandy-soaked raisins or adding chopped dark chocolate or chopped nuts. (Chocolate is actually a fantastic partner to rye flour, and is nice with gingerbread spices too). You could go even spicier, by adding cardamom and cracked black pepper.
Instead of using just all-purpose flour, I add some rye flour. I love the nutty, complex flavor it gives the cake. It stands up beautifully to all the spices, but if you don’t have any rye flour, I’d suggest using 1 cup all-purpose flour and 1 1/2 cups whole wheat or white whole wheat flour. I prefer the texture of this cake to be slightly denser and the flavor more robust, which is something other flours help achieve.
One more note: I made mine in a Bundt pan because…well, because I’m mildly obsessed with my collection of Bundt pans. But you could easily do this in a 9” x 13” sheet pan, or in two 8” or 9” pans.
Rye Gingerbread Bundt Cake
Makes one Bundt cake
2 cups (240g) all-purpose flour
1/2 cup (50g) rye flour
1 tablespoon ground ginger
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1 teaspoon nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon cloves
1/2 teaspoon allspice
zest of one orange
1/3 cup chopped candied ginger
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
3/4 cup (170g) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 1/2 cups (319g) brown sugar, packed
2 eggs
1/2 cup (170g) molasses
1 cup (227g) water
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Spray a 10-cup Bundt pan VERY thoroughly with pan spray (this is my favorite to use), then dust the inside with granulated sugar, turning the pan over and tapping to get rid of any excess sugar. I much prefer sugaring rather than flouring the pan, as it works much better in my experience to guard against your cake sticking.
In a large bowl, whisk together all the ingredients from the flour to the baking powder.
In a stand mixer, beat together the butter and brown sugar, mixing until pale and fluffy, at least 4 minutes on medium-high speed.
Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well between each addition. Add the molasses and mix well, scraping down the bowl as needed.
Add the dry ingredients and the water in two additions, alternating between each. Mix until the dough is smooth and well-combined but don’t overmix.
Pour the batter into your prepared pan and bake for 50 to 65 minutes (start checking at 50 but it’ll likely take closer to 65). The cake is done when a tester inserted into the middle comes out clean or with just a few moist crumbs clinging to it.
Remove from the oven and let the cake cool in the pan for about 15 minutes. It’s smart to run a knife or offset spatula around and into some of the edges to encourage it to loosen. Don’t try and flip it over before this! It’ll be too warm and it’ll come apart in pieces. If you wait too much longer, it’ll likely stick.
Flip the cake carefully over onto a wire rack and remove the pan. Ta-da! You’re a baking wizard.
Let cool, then eat! You can glaze it if you like with a simple sugar glaze, rum glaze, or a rum glaze mixed with some gingerbread spices. I like to serve it with some loosely whipped cream mixed with a touch of cinnamon and ginger.