Why spend love? Why
make available
a narrative that evaporates
like rubbing alcohol on cotton?
—Kimiko Hahn, an excerpt from The Lunar Calendar She Pins to the Door in Mosquito and Ant.
Three winters ago, I wasted time writing lines on a doorstep. It seems an unnatural position to assume until you realize that to some extent all writing involves an element of the stray. Wedged into a cement crevice where the sun could not reach my face, in a place I once called home, where darkness and light came to meet in the cracks of the pavement, my story began.
The cat came in the afternoon, slinking across the lane to rest in the last of the sun. We understood each other’s nature, we moved with caution, we lived by the unspoken code; the wariness at the touch of a stranger, the desperate need for warmth, always sensing who was around and how far away they were—the hesitation from being hurt. Slowly, and with encouragement, the words assembled on the pages. They were messy and incomplete. They said what I could not.
I wrote into the story and then out, retracting sentences as I did the memories, thinking nothing of the future or what it would become. I heard the bend of the trees in the wind, listened out for the voices of my deceased friends, and waited for the living. I remember him telling me he would return and somehow, I remember believing him. I tell you this not for the sake of poetic embellishment, nor even entitlement, but for no other reason than to let you know that I am the believing kind. I believe in all kinds of things—faiths and mysteries, often lies, and the voice of the man I had come to trust.
I believed during those afternoons on the step that the days would not amount. That they would be as silent and still as the sentences I would write, and remain as frozen in time as I was. Like I said, I believe in all kinds of things and as it turned out, they did. The years accumulated like a debt. I sold the book and bought more time.
New life happens slow and often it is painful. A crisp pear sliced to the paper-thin translucency of a fish-scale is the mark of an anguished hand. It is a good way to pass time, it is a better way to forget, it looks impressive to eat. But appearances aside, the thinness of the fruit is important for the tenderness and texture of this cake. The pears should delicately float across the top in a fan, without being consumed or sunken by the batter.
I think that the most endearing pears come from unknown places—pinched from a private garden, the generosity of a neighbor or friend, a thwarted tree on the side of the road, the russet-risk at a farmers market, and I start there before resorting to the supermarket—but dense and voluptuous with an elegant neck is ideal.
The fruit must be able to withstand some treatment.
As for me now, I live in a place where the roses bloom year-long. Where the landscape is cold, harsh, and exacting, and so is the work. It is enough to exist in an endless winter yet still hope for spring. God whispers through the mountains. The victories here are small and often go unseen. Every day I unearth, and wash my face with the snow. The tracks that are revealed to me seem so far off as only capable of belonging to someone else, a person I perhaps was, even for only a short while. There are days when the memories come knocking, and there are days I let them in, but less often as time passes. To know that the bed I sleep in now is where I will wake tomorrow, safe, that it is different and must be, closes the door for good.
Let it be only a story, the one I wrote and must forget.
A Rye, Hazelnut & Pear Cake
Serves 8
For the streusel
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour, 1 tablespoon granulated sugar, a pinch of ground cloves and salt, 2 tablespoons of cold butter
For the cake
1 1/3 cups (165 g) all-purpose flour, 2/3 cup (65 g) rye flour, 1/3 cup + 1 teaspoon (35 g) ground hazelnuts, 1 ¼ teaspoons baking powder, ¼ teaspoon baking soda, ½ teaspoon salt, ¾ cup + 2 teaspoons (180 g) unsalted butter (soft at room temperature), 1 cup + 2 tablespoons (225 g) granulated sugar, 1/3 cup (75 g) light brown sugar, 3 large eggs (lightly whisked together), 1 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest, ½ teaspoon vanilla extract, ¾ cup + 2 tablespoons (210 g) crème fraîche or sour cream
For finishing
2 large pears like Bosc, Anjou, Comice (cored, halved, and thinly sliced), streusel (recipe above), a small handful of chopped hazelnuts, a pinch of raw sugar, a flourish of confectioners’ sugar
Adjust a rack to the middle of the oven, then pre-heat it to 350°F (180°C). Grease and line an 8 x 4 x 3-inch (21 x 11 x 7-cm) loaf pan with parchment paper, leaving a sling over the sides.
To make the streusel, place all of the ingredients into a small bowl and massage with your fingertips until fine crumbles have formed. Freeze until required.
For the cake, sift together the flour, rye, ground hazelnuts, baking powder, soda, and salt.
In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat the butter and sugar until light and fluffy, about 3 to 5 minutes. Pause to scrape down the bowl, then resume mixing on medium speed, slowly streaming in the eggs. Beat until well incorporated. Beat through the zest and vanilla. Lower the speed. Beat in half of the dry ingredients, followed by all of the crème fraîche or sour cream, then the remainder of the dry. Beat for a further minute or so until aerated.
Scrape the batter into the prepared pan, filling it no more than 2/3d’s of the way full. Smooth out the top with an offset spatula, then gently lay over enough pears to cover, in a fluted, fan-like, arrangement. Sprinkle with a handful of streusel and the chopped hazelnuts, then finish with a pinch of raw sugar.
Bake for 1 ¼ hours, until golden brown. A skewer inserted into the middle of the cake should come out clean. Leave to cool in the pan for 15 minutes before lifting out and onto a wire rack to cool further. Serve at room temperature, or close to it, dusted with confectioners’ sugar.
It’ll keep well for about 3 days covered on the counter.