If you’ve read my writing much (you’re a gem if you just nodded), then you might remember that I love mail. Real mail. Handwritten letters and packages and the like. The farm where I grew up has a veeeery long driveway—about a third of a mile—and when you pull into the top of it, the entire farm is spread out in front of you like a beautifully draped blanket in greens and golds. The first bit slopes gently, then flattens out once you pass the edge of the woods; there used to be a huge, sprawling oak tree on one side and my dad kept a hive of honeybees on the other.
The mailbox sits at the very top of the driveway—if we hadn't been driving home when the mail arrived, we’d walk up the lane to get it, climbing over the metal gate and looking carefully both ways before crossing the road and opening the little tin door. When I was little, I’d feel breathless with anticipation. Who knew what would be inside? A letter? A birthday party invitation? The L.L. Bean catalog?! The thrill of it all.
I still feel that way when I open the mailbox, or check the floor of our vestibule for the pile of letters that the postman has pushed through the mail slot. Nowadays, exciting mail is much more rare—it’s mostly bills and flyers and what feels like six issues of the Marine Layer catalog every week. It’s probably a metaphor for adulthood versus childhood in some way: you’re far more aware and appreciative of excitement, but it’s also largely drowned out by a sea of ordinary and non-thrilling things.
[Is this a good time to point out that the postal service is desperately necessary and let’s all…buy some stamps immediately? Help out?]
A package is always exciting: not one I ordered myself on Amazon with, say, liquid ant traps and R&Co. shampoo and two Rhodia notebooks, but one I’ve ordered whose arrival I’ve been eagerly anticipating (in this category are pints of Jeni’s Splendid ice cream, fancy honey for my tea, any type of clothing, and books).
Just above that, I’d rank packages I did not order, which are mysterious deliveries from a friend or a sister—gifts or something like that. Last Wednesday I came home to find a large white box sitting outside my door with the words Vermont Creamery emblazoned on outside; I opened it to find a trio of small containers, each with a different flavor of fresh goat cheese dip (plain, garlic herb, and roasted red pepper) along with a pretty wooden serving board in the shape of the state of Vermont, and a box of Rustic Bakery sourdough crackers. I mean, how could that not brighten your day?
And high above all the rest are handwritten letters. Postcards, too. I like those more than any other kind of mail, and I always have.
I can picture all kinds of letters over the years—ones that would arrive from my friend Tressie in my tiny mailbox in the college campus student center, my name written in pink Sharpie in her pretty bubbled script, hearts and stickers covering the back.
Or when I lived for a semester on the coast of Maine in high school, and would find small white envelopes with my name and address spelled out in my mom’s tidy lettering.
Or at summer camp in Vermont, racing up the stairs to the upper porch to check the inter-camp mail (sent between the boys’ and girls’ camps which were a mile apart on the shore of the lake) and finding a folded square of paper with Posie Harwood, Aloha Camp on the outside in a teenage boy’s messy, nearly illegible writing and feeling my heart pick up its happy pace.
Or walking into the single post office on Block Island many summers ago, waiting patiently in line, then giving my name to the postmaster so he could check to see if anything had come for me. The island is so small that the houses have “fire numbers” (to identify them for emergency vehicles) rather than addresses. To send mail to someone on Block Island, you simply write Name, Block Island, Rhode Island. How picture book-esque is that? When the postmaster would return, I’d crane my neck to see what he was holding, crossing my fingers for the telltale red envelope that meant a new Netflix installment of Gilmore Girls.
My friend Joe used to send me postcards after college from places like Providence, Rhode Island and Larchment, New York with brief, cheery hellos! and a sentence or two about the yacht clubs where he worked teaching sailing.
Every few months, I get a letter with a return address marked Stockbridge, Massachusetts and my friend Hannah’s name. Inside is nothing but a slip of paper with a poem handwritten on it—we write them back and forth to each other in a sort of postal miniature book club.
I haven’t practiced what I preach enough lately—I’ve written a few letters and sent a few packages but talking about it now is a reminder to do more. But one thing I do practice on a reliably consistent basis is the in-person mail equivalent of sharing baked goods.
I drop off a strawberry cake to a friend with a new baby and hand over a half-batch of warm chocolate chip rye flour cookies to another friend, a farmer, who swings by with a bunch of beets straight from his field. I pack fluffy brioche cinnamon rolls on my way to wave hello to a close couple and their two-year-old twins. And tonight, I make chocolate cake so as not to arrive empty-handed to happy hour. (Although, does a handful of chubby baby count?)
We’re going over to sit in the backyard of some good friends who have a spacious lawn, a boisterous standard poodle named Alfred, and a pretty brick patio with cushioned chairs and plenty of space to stay appropriately distant but feel as close to normal as possible. They’ll have cold cans of Montauk IPA and grapefruit La Croix and likely an open bottle of Macari Vineyards rosé.
Instead of bringing more wine, I usually try to bring something useful (we spend enough time there in the summer—although not so much this year, damn you godforsaken 2020—that I’m comfortably familiar with what that would be). I’ll bring citrus (because everyone can always use more of that) or a bag of local corn to grill or extra greens from the garden.
Tonight I’ll bring chocolate cake. I’ve made this cake a few times, since it’s gluten-free and I have some friends who require that, so it’s a nice thing to have in your repertoire.
The recipe comes from King Arthur. It’s simple and moist and very, very chocolately but not too rich (it only uses cocoa rather than melted chocolate).
Coconut flour instead of all-purpose flour makes it gluten-free—but a word here, if you’ve never baked with coconut flour. It absorbs a lot of liquid, so this recipe is specifically designed to use it, and you really can’t substitute another flour. You’ll notice that the batter seems extremely liquidy (given that it calls for 6 eggs), and it’ll seem too loose.
Don’t despair! Once you add the dry ingredients, you’ll mix the batter and pour it into the pan and then let it sit for about 10 minutes before baking it. This will help the batter thicken up as the flour absorbs some of the liquid, and it’ll turn out perfectly tender and just the right amount of dense.
I sometimes make it in a loaf pan and sometimes in a square or round cake pan—all shapes will work, you’ll just need to adjust the baking time slightly (as noted in the recipe below).
I serve it plain, or with a bit of loosely whipped cream or ice cream, but you can absolutely frost it if you’re into that kind of thing. You could also double the recipe and bake two 8” layers and turn it into a frosted layer cake if you want something more celebratory.
Chocolate Coconut Cake
Adapted from King Arthur Flour
6 tablespoons (85g) unsalted butter
1/2 cup (43g) Dutch-processed cocoa
3/4 cup (149g) sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon espresso powder (optional)
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
6 eggs
1/2 cup (64g) coconut flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Line an 8 1/2” x 4 1/2” loaf pan or an 8” square cake pan with parchment.
In a small saucepan over low heat, or in the microwave, melt the butter with the cocoa—stirring until smooth.
Add the sugar, salt, and espresso powder (if using) and stir well.
Add the eggs and beat until smooth and shiny. You can do this by hand or in a stand mixer.
Add the coconut flour and baking powder and mix to combine well; the batter should be smooth.
The batter will seem way too thin, but don’t worry about it. Pour it into your prepared pan and let it sit out on the counter for about 10 minutes—it’ll thicken up as it does.
Bake the cake for 30 to 35 minutes if using an 8” square pan or 35 to 40 minutes if using a loaf pan—sometimes in a loaf pan, mine takes closer to 45 minutes. It’s ready when the top is set and a tester inserted into the center comes out clean.
Remove from the oven and let cool for 10 minutes in the pan, then turn it out onto a wire rack to finish cooling.