But a World in You: Norwegian Apple Cake

You can kiss your family and friends good-bye and put miles between you, but at the same time you carry them with you in your heart, your mind, your stomach, because you do not just live in a world but a world lives in you.
- Frederick Buechner, Telling the Truth

Today I walked along the beach with Rangitoto to my left. Glittering water beneath a summer sun spread wide between islands and shorelines. And as my heels sunk into the sand with each wave that washed away my footing, I thought about all the salty ocean water that has romanced me.



Hawaiian waves were the first, faced in the safe grasp of my father or mother when my legs were still too wobbly and chunky, but even long after my baby fat was shed, my family would make our returns to Hawaii. Dad and I would slip out the back door together and cross the field to soft white sand and cool water for our early morning swim.

Years later I met the turquoise blue waters of the Mediterranean as they lapped against the stone wall on which I sat with an I "heart" Naxos sticker in my purse. Friends and I shared moments of awe and wonder from high on a ferry deck as we journeyed back to Athens, dark blue starry sky closing in on an orange sun that slipped beyond the horizon. Hundred Islands in the Philippines; Pacific waves that crash with Costa Rican flair; late night Mexican sand lit by beach fires and glowing cigars. Beaches along the Santa Barbara coast that acquired terms of endearment such as "good ol'" and "dear" refreshed my body and spirit, whether alone or bonding with new friends. There's homey Puget Sound, and there's the orange-lily-speckled Ibaraki coastline too.

I carry these images and memories in my heart, which tugs no less for the people with whom I shared each season than for the individual shorelines. Pebbles, shattered shells, black sand, and speckled white: I find pleasure in each circumstance and value in each face.

This little world living inside me, this world that Buechner speaks of, is indeed strongly comprised of people and places but it would not be complete without tastes. The taste of Norway on Christmas morning, India through friends' curries scooped up in wet orange fingers, Washington experienced in the sweetest of summer's berries and fall's apples.

And it's not all about geographical locations. It's about smelling coffee in the kitchen in the morning and thinking of my dad's espresso machine, eating leftover pear clafoutis with plain yogurt for breakfast and knowing my mother would have made extra for the exact same purpose, and it's about sitting down to a dinner without any vegetables in sight and wondering where the rest of the meal is. It's a marvel how much these stomach habits influence the psyche. Their disruption can depress, and their presence can comfort, restore, and inspire.

So it was that I was inspired in the making of this Norwegian Apple Cake. I was comforted in the process of halving crisp apples and turning their exposed pale faces down on the cutting board to be diced and swept into a pile on the side. I was restored in biting into something light and sweet and simple tasting that my own hands had made.

You see, I rarely spend time in the kitchen these days. And with that I have to say I miss it. I miss meal-planning and grocery shopping and knowing exactly what's going into my body. I miss the art and therapy and practicality of it all. But, in turn, I'm so grateful for the hospitality available to me in this season and will feel forever blessed by those who have opened their homes so freely to me.

Thus we return to the cake. (Sorry, this is what happens when I go too long without visiting this blog -- my fingers run away with me.) Mainly, what I'm wanting to say is that this cake was lovely. It puffed up airily in the oven and then settled into itself for a thin eggy inside and lightly crunchy top. The apples are the structure of the cake because the batter is thick and minimal in ratio, but if you use the back of a spatula it will spread out well enough in the bottom of your pan and all come together in the heat of the oven.





My accompaniment to this cake was a barely sweetened cardamom whipped cream. I wanted to emphasis the Nordic origin of the cake since it was being served at an international dinner and knew the warming presence of cardamom (so reminiscent of my grandmother's Christmas cookies) would pair well with apple. I got generous compliments on both and will be making this cake again. It's just the sort of thing that can cross over into breakfast the next day, like a proper fruit-filled crisp (or the aforementioned clafoutis).

I found the recipe on a brilliant food blog called Everybody Likes Sandwiches, which features a promising looking coconut bread recipe in the same post. And I must include the blog she got the original recipe for Norwegian Apple Cake from, as it is equally brilliant and lovely: Bunny Pie.

Recipe link: Norwegian Apple Cake.

Holidaying in Raglan

Like I have mentioned, among my most cherished moments in returning to New Zealand have been reunions with old friends.

Almost two weeks ago, two friends (one acquired at the age of five and the other as friend-number-one fell in love with and married friend-number-two) drove up to Auckland for long-awaited conversations carried out with no computer in between. Of all the people I've looked forward to seeing while here, P. and H. were among the top.

We headed down to Raglan on a beautiful Sunday afternoon to spend three nights at their bach (Kiwi for vacation home). It was a lovely two-hour drive south of the city to Hamilton and then due west. The road between Hamilton and Raglan climbed to stunning views, but I knew that attempts at truly capturing it through the car window, in all its splendor - the sharp peeks and diving valleys, some shaved to clean green grass and others populated with trees - were slim.

Once in Raglan, there were plenty of photo ops, but it turned out that my favorite place to pull out the camera was at a cafe called Tongue & Groove. We went there twice for coffee, and it was just the sort of place I'd like to always have down the road. Painted wood floors with the dark naked boards revealed from wear, vintage patterned counter tops in alternating colors, a chalkboard menu, and even a table fashioned from half a surfboard protruding from the wall and paired with old brown leather theater chairs. Lovely aesthetics, friendly staff, and a damn good cappuccino.



Below is an earl grey tea that I purchased on my first visit. Then there's the brownie the three of us shared while sitting at the surfboard table.





But just so you know we didn't sit inside all day, here are some photos from around the area.

Flickers of Memories

Nothing ages you quite like going back to a place you haven't seen in fifteen years. I feel like I have lived through multiple lives, the former one being so full of events and memories that have been fuzzed out by the many that happened in the latter. Everywhere I go, I wonder if my little blonde-headed four to eight year old self stepped foot here too.

And, yet, I know that in most cases the answer is 'no'. We lived in Glendowie and so stayed mostly on the other side of the bridge from where I'm residing, on the North Shore. Thus, most of this experience is genuinely new and lovely in all its opportunities for discovery and growth.







Yesterday, I went to a new place (I think) with some new friends. Muriwai Beach was reminiscent of Hawaii with its black sand, rocky cliffs, and turquoise waves. And, yet, walking along the shore in my sweater, only letting my toes occasionally touch the chilly water, I could have easily been back on the West Coast of the U.S.

I don't mean to break this beautiful scene apart into disparate parts of the world, and dilute its Kiwi-ness. It was genuinely its own, with gannets and surfers in ice-cold water and a mix of palm trees, evergreens, and sheep-speckled hills meeting the shoreline.





Tonight I'm straddling that fifteen year bridge again. I sit at a kitchen table in a home that is entirely new to me, but has been warmly opened to the role that I'm currently living as a grown woman, a college graduate who has moved away from mum and dad to establish myself (whatever that means, right?). And, yet, I sip a drink that surely passed my lips as a child, a drink that awakens flickers of memories. Milo's milky, chocolaty warmth passes through this ceramic mug onto my cold hands that have aged from chubby and naive to slender and scarred in the course of years.

Not So Long Ago

It feels like ages ago that my sister and I passed through Oregon, meandering down the coastline highway. We stayed on the slow, scenic 101 for as long as we could, taking in its charm and beauty. Forced to turn inland about midway down the coast, we parted ways with the long stretch of shoreline, widening and narrowing but always being met by powerfully crashing waves, icy from their origin in the northern Pacific Ocean.

I say that it feels like ages ago, but in fact it was last Sunday. And Monday. Here are some favorite photos.







I'm trying to keep Flickr updated with photos (especially since my blog is so behind). Stop by there if you'd like to see more.