Sometimes the only ambition you need is a heap of browning bananas.

Both Christopher and I recently both bought bunches, and the next thing I knew, our kitchen was overcome with the smell of very ripe fruit. I came home one afternoon and realized I had to put away (or put up) five bananas before the morning, or I might not get any at all. Another neglected foodstuff came quickly to mind. And so breakfast for the week was born.

And then breakfast for another week. And snacks. I made my latest batch into muffins, so they could be toted around or easily frozen. I haven’t had to save any yet, though. I think I’ll probably just make a batch of muffins every Sunday, and finish them off by Friday. Aside for the time this loaf is in the oven, it takes longer to wash the two bowls than to use them for mixing. And there’s not a single, regrettable item in the batter.  Unless you don’t like bananas or buckwheat.

Buckwheat Banana Bread

Makes 8 slices or 12 muffins

1/2 cup buckwheat flour
1/4 cup whole wheat flour
1/4 cup oats (toast lightly in a dry skillet until golden)
1 tsp cinnamon
1/4 c toasted, chopped walnuts or pecans (plus extra for garnish) 
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 c birch sugar (or 1 c regular sugar)
5 ripe bananas, 4 mashed + 1 sliced for garnish
2 large eggs, whisked
1 c plain yogurt

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Pre-heat the oven to 350.

Mix the flours, oats, salt and spices in a medium-sized bowl.

Mix the mashed banana, sugar and yogurt in a large bowl.

Add the flour to the wet ingredients and stir gently to combine.

Pour the batter into a greased and floured bread pan.

Garnish with sliced bananas and nuts, and bake for 35-45 minutes.

(If you do these as muffins, bake only 20-25 minutes.)

At first, things seemed to go from bad to worse, the day we commemorated Jesus in the tomb. It sounds trivial by comparison, but I cut my index finger rather badly while sulking and slicing a lemon (although if I were to turn lemons into lemonade over this one, I’d say I learned a damned good lesson: never use a sharp knife if you’re feeling sour / pondering God).

After dinner—which I ate with my left hand elevated—I sulked around some more, thinking about light, Pascal things like losing my religion, and wayward Catholic priests. Fortunately, my mother suggested coloring eggs, a no-fail pagan remedy to life’s bigger questions. Honestly, the eggs really did cheer me up: nothing like a bunch of adults sitting around staining their cuticles and the smell of vinegar wafting from old, color filled tea cups, even on a day when no bells ring. Plus, my eggs turned out the spiffiest, with all of that wax running everywhere. Am I revealing my childhood personality here?

By the time I finished abut ten eggs, my finger seemed on the up and up and I thought I could possibly lift my mood to even higher levels—the way a real Catholic girl might feel about the ascension of Christ. Sadly, the only thing I really could envision rising that night was the dough of a sour cream coffee cake, and so I started with my mise en place.

Foolish, cut up, heretic that I was, I set out all of my flour, sugar, butter, vanilla, salt, cinnamon and sour cream before considering the possibility that Mom, in her zest to cheer me, had boiled every single egg in the house. I looked around as a hot, itchy panic set in: there they were, 18 colored, useless eggs, squatting in a nest of plastic grass, their insides hardened and congealed.

And so, there would be no coffee cake. I began to wonder—would there be any place on Easter morning where a person could buy a pair of eggs? Or would all of the egg sellers be wearing pastels and singing hyms? All of the stores in town had announced their intended closure in little hand-made signs taped across front doors and bulletin boards.  I lay awake that night, wondering if miracles really could happen. And when I awoke, as if he came to me in a dream, I remembered the one Muslim in Washington, Connecticut, who owns a convenience store. I drove there in pajamas and with bated breath until I saw the light: blue and red neon lights that proclaimed OPEN! So, at 7am I got to raise some dough after all and read the paper, too.

This recipe is so good, it tastes like sin. Or redemption, depending on how you tend to your gastronomical guilt. Mine is pretty laced with the lessons I learned in CCD, and with the constantly reoccurring phrase my father uses for things that are shockingly tasty, “This is so good, it should be outlawed.” I always know I’ve done right by him when villainy of the federal government is invoked. So I felt that familiar ambivalence: guilt, excitement, guilt. You can take the girl out of church, but you can never take church out of the girl.

No matter how you feel about Uncle Sam or Jesus, this cake will set differences aside—unless of course you are on a diet, in which case, please avoid my kitchen at Easter. After a heady meal of Polish sausage, Explorateur cheese, many hardboiled eggs, spiced nuts and a butter lamb—spinach, asparagus and quinoa were thrown in for good measure—we moved on to the cake. And as I took my first bite, I knew the day was holy. (Just look at these eggs!)

I got this recipe from an online personality named Jan Taylor. She posted it to All Recipes.com, and I owe every last morsel of genius to her work, except that I threw in a little extra brilliance, if I do say so myself, by doubling her crumble topping so that the ribbon through the middle of the dough was twice as thick and the crown of streusel was even more crisp and proud. I also added a cup of walnuts to the top, which really was extraordinary. I may try subbing out some of the sugar in the batter and replacing it with maple syrup, but that would be a coffee cake for another holy day—perhaps Christmas morning?

Sour Cream Coffee Cake

Serves 9

1 c butter
2 c white sugar
2 eggs
1 c sour cream
½ tsp vanilla extract
2 c all purpose flour
1 t baking powder
1/8 teaspoon salt
½ c all purpose flour
1 c packed brown sugar
4 T melted butter
1 T ground cinnamon
1 c chopped walnuts

Preheat oven to 350.

Butter and flour a 9 x 9 inch cake pan.

In a large bowl, cream butter and sugar. (I like to do this in a stand mixer and let it whip a while so that the consistency is extremely light and airy.)

Mix in eggs, one at a time, then stir in sour cream and vanilla. (Once again, I let my mixer to a lot of heavy lifting here.)

Very gently, stir in 2 c flour, baking powder and salt and spread half of batter into pan.

Prepare the topping: combine ½ c flour with brown sugar and cinnamon.

Melt butter and pour into flour and sugar mix, teasing with a fork so that some large crumbles remain intact.

Spread ½ of filling evenly over dough then carefully cover streusel with remaining batter then top with leftover filling and walnuts.

Bake for 30 minutes, then rotate and tent with aluminum foil. Bake another 20 and remove foil for a remaining 10 minutes in the oven.

Let cool slightly and serve.

It came to me sooner than I anticipated, and in an unexpected place—over a cheese omelet the very next morning. Well, actually, it came to me while waiting for my omelet and sipping cinnamon-infused coffee, a tradition that has come to Houston by way of Texas. Since I had planned on baking my brownies with some espresso powder, I was thrilled about the potential for these subtle and complementary flavors.

And then I went a little crazy. I got home and wondered what other warm, sweet ingredients I could put in, hoping to coax out more flavor than a cup of white sugar ever would. And so these were born, imagined at first, and then actualized, into what became one of my all time favorite chocolate concoctions: deep, subtle and earthy, but decadent enough to satisfy even my greedy sweet tooth—I mean really, who needs two batches of brownies on hand? But once I was on the brownie train, a few leftovers were insufficient—a tease, even. The timing was perfect: I picked away the final peppermint crumbs while melting my own dark chocolate in a double boiler.

Happily, I’ve had my fill of brownies, with not a tinge of guilt. These were created, first and foremost, as a birthday gift for a dear pal, a fellow chocolate enthusiast. The wealth was spread around town and led to a serious bout of inspiration: thank you to my co-teacher Mark Wilson (formerly a professional pastry chef Houston’s glamorous hotel Zaza) for suggesting the pairing of whipped cream and blackberries. All along, I’d just been dusting mine with cinnamon and powdered sugar and garnishing with a scoop of Bluebell vanilla. I would never have thought of adding yet another layer of flavor to this unconventional confection, but I’ll be darned, Mr. Wilson is truly an inspired eater.

When the time is right, I’ll try these with some ripe blackberries, although I suspect the whole fruit, cream and chocolate affair would be much enhanced by a bit of berry maceration. I know it sounds like there’s a lot going on here, but truly, the commingling of sweet, warm sugars and spices gives me that soul-warming comfort that few things can.

Honey Cinnamon Brownies

Makes 9 brownies
½ Lb (1 8oz stick) unsalted butter
2 ¼ c semi-sweet chocolate chips
3 eggs
1 ½ T instant espresso granules
1 T vanilla extract
1 c honey
½ c all purpose flour, plus 2 T, set aside
½ T baking powder
1 ½ T ground cinnamon
1 t salt

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Preheat the oven to 350, grease a 6 x 9  cake pan.

Melt the butter in a double boiler with 1 c of the semi-sweet chocolate chips.

In a small bowl, toss 1 ¼ c chips plus 2 T flour until chips are coated.

When the chocolate and butter have melted, remove from heat and allow to cool.

In a large bowl, gently mix the eggs, espresso granules, vanilla and honey.

Pour melted chocolate mixture into egg mixture and cool further.

In a small bowl, sift together the remaining flour, baking powder, salt and cinnamon.

Add the flour to the chocolate mixture and fold until incorporated.

Add the remaining chocolate chips and fold gently.

Pour batter into pan and bake 20 minutes.

Turn the pan and bake another 15-20 minutes, or until toothpick comes out clean.

Serve with whipped cream, vanilla ice cream and macerated blueberries, or sprinkle with cinnamon and powdered sugar.

Anyway,  a couple of Septembers ago—trying to prepare for Lily’s birthday—I was deeply disappointed by the hole in Bittman’s big, yellow book. To comfort myself, I made some of the author’s oatmeal cookies, a few pages away from where the carrot cake recipe should have been. Perhaps I was just too incredulous to read the recipe properly, but by the end of the evening, all I could think was, “Why the h-e-double-hockey-stick does this man not have an editor?!” The cookies were so bad, I had to crumble them into granola. And it wasn’t even that delicious.

Well, I was skeptical on Wednesday when I came upon the dining section and spied a good looking recipe by a man who I have scorned since last summer. I haven’t made anything of his, tempted though I’ve been: none of the Minimalist’s 100 Salads, no veggie flatbreads, no coddled strawberries. Last Wednesday changed things, though: not just because I found a delicious new cake, but because I can finally trust Mark Bittman in a way I’ve always dreamed of. Flatbread here I come.

The kettle was shrieking as I plodded groggily from the front yard to the kitchen to attend to tea, breakfast and some morning news. I filled my cup, arranged my cereal and made it back to the kitchen table for my favorite Times section of the week. The pages flopped open, exposing none other than a beautiful upside-down cake by none other than the Minmalist, aka my baking nemesis.

Damn. I could either forgo the cake in my stubborn prejudices, or give Bittman another chance. But as it happened, I had 4 aging pears in my crisper, a beautiful bottle of Vermont maple syrup leftover from the wedding, and a terrible sweet tooth. I decided to be the bigger person, and not let a grudge get between me and good food.

In the process of making this cake, I learned not only how to bake a terrific upside-down cake, but also how to make maple caramel and how to make the most glorious cake batter I’ve ever tasted. The caramel was a deep, smooth amber, sweet and smoky and perfect and the batter shone like a pearl—I guess enough butter, sugar and milk will do that. Either way, the whole thing was glorious. I am so happy to put this one-sided rivalry behind me. I have a feeling I’ll be Bitten again soon.

Maple Pear Upside-down Cake

11 tablespoons butter at room temperature
3/4 cup pure maple syrup
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
4 pears, peeled, cored and thinly sliced
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 large eggs
1 1/2 cups flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup milk

Preheat oven to 350 degrees and grease a 9” cake pan, careful to coat the edges.

Whisk flour, baking powder and salt in a bowl.

In another bowl, beat 8 tbsp butter and white sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, along with vanilla.

Without overmixing, add dry ingredients to wet in three batches, alternating with milk.

Working quickly (you don’t want the batter to sit too long), bring 3 tbsp butter, maple syrup and brown sugar to a boil and cook for 2 minutes, stirring once at the very beginning to ensure that sugar dissolves. Remove from heat and set aside.

When caramel has cooled slightly, pour into the bottom of the cake pan. Arrange pear slices in an overlapping circle on top of the caramel, and pour batter over fruit, spreading gently with a spatula for equal cover.

Bake about 45-50 minutes. Allow cake to cool a bit before sliding a blade around the edge of the pan to loosen the cake from the edge. Place a large plate on top of the pan and flip so that the pan is on top and the plate is on the bottom. Remove baking dish and voila!

Makes a great breakfast.

But what I love most about September is its people. My sister, my father, both of my grandfathers, my mother and father in law (to be), and me, too… all September babies. All of those lives coming into the world is really something to cheer about. Clearly our forefathers were having fun at Christmastime—and happened to make a long string of personal holidays nine months later.

This year I had a beautiful day, full of cupcakes, good wine and some twenty-five elementary students singing me the birthday song over a batch of recently baked zucchini muffins. It was quite blissful, especially since I’m currently anticipating a lot of wonderful changes…none the least of which is a trip down the aisle a week hence—followed promptly by a long drive down Highway 1.

But before once celebration is swallowed by another, I’d like to take a moment and pay homage to the homage recently paid to my sister Lily, who turned a year wiser this month. May she eat carrots in the form of cake for decades to come. And may I always be the one to bake them that way.

We started the tradition of carrot cake last year, when I made some cupcakes. This year, things got a little more serious with the addition of some key, New England ingredients, and an added layer to a full-grown version. Even though we abandoned the diminutive cakes, we stuck with some important elements, including toasted walnuts and classic cream cheese frosting, smoothed on top, over the sides, and in a thick layer between. It was a great way to mark a year’s worth of improved baking. Just a subtle, nutty and sweet hint of autumn’s favorite foods, folded into the batter and laced into the cake’s silky, white dress. God bless New England at the onset of fall—and hip hip hooray for all the lovers out there. The holidays are just around the corner.

Maple Walnut Carrot Cake

1.5 c chopped, toasted walnuts
2 ½ c grated carrots
½ c pure maple syrup
2 cups sugar
1.5 c vegetable oil
2 tsp vanilla extract
3 eggs
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp cinnamon
2 tsp baking soda
1.5 tsp kosher salt

Cream Cheese Frosting:

1/2 cup soft, unsalted butter
16 oz cream cheese (2 regular sized packages)
4 cups confectioner’s sugar, sifted
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
zest of 2 lemons
¼ c pure maple syrup

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For Cake

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Blend maple syrup, sugar, oil and vanilla extract in a large bowl. Beating in eggs one at a time.

In another bowl, sift flour, cinnamon, baking soda and salt.

Gently blend dry ingredients into wet ingredients.

Fold in carrots and 1 c walnuts.

Divide equally into two 9 x 2” cake pans and bake 30 minutes.

Let stand on wire rack to cool completely.

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For Frosting

With a hand or stand mixer, blend butter, cream cheese, vanilla extract, lemon juice and maple syrup until creamy.

Add confectioners sugar and mix to incorporate.

When cakes are cool, place one top down (so that the flat side faces up) on a platter.

Generously top with frosting—the layer must be thick enough to stand up once another layer of cake is placed on top. Sprinkle with half of remaining walnuts.

Place second cake on top of the first, also with the top down.

Spread remaining frosting over the top and sides of cake.

Garnish with leftover walnuts.

In fact, just last week, Mom and I found some spectacular Maine blueberries on a trip up north, and I thought I would share this recipe with you in case you happen upon a similar trove. Perhaps you have some tenacious bushes in your backyard. Maybe a lucky farmer at the market. Maybe even, you’re climbing to the high end of the Appalachian trail, and will find some of these along your route. If so, I can confidently recommend the following recipe as a worthy blueberry send-off.

Inspiration for this came three years back, when Christopher and I went blueberry picking in Connecticut and came home with 5 fecund bags. We made a lot of pancakes, and a lot of muffins. We also made a buckle—his favorite childhood dessert. And because his timing is generally perfect, it has become something of a tradition that every August, for his birthday, another one gets made.

This year’s rendition came alongside a meal at his request: au gratin potatoes with caramelized onion and Poblano peppers, Ribeye with béarnaise sauce and sautéed spinach with shallots. I spent a nice afternoon in the kitchen, but after all of that whisking of butter and eggs for the béarnaise; the grilling of peppers and caramelizing of onion for the gratin and the searing of a rather large hunk of meat in a rather intimidating pad of butter, I was happy to dip my spoon into a fluffy yellow batter and fold in some perfect, little bluettes—the final round of the season.

Let me say one thing for this powerhouse ‘buckle:’ it’s not really a buckle. It’s more of a cake-crumble, which I like because it keeps the berries suspended and contained in its batter, rather than leaving them to spill out each time you lift a piece of dough from the top. That is not a bad thing, mind you: I love oozy blueberries, barely clinging to the times of my fork in their syrupy, deflated way. But I also like them a little bit pert—sweet, surprising bursts that pop out of a bite of dough.

On top of that, cobblers and traditional buckles are hard to serve for breakfast. It can be done, but you will most definitely look like you are eating last night’s dessert in the morning hours. This rendition, however, hints of a rustic loaf—especially if you cut it into squares instead of the traditional cake-angle. It’s amazing what presentation can do for your entire perception of a meal.

Anyway, if you can do this, do it now. If not, wait for next summer, or substitute the blueberries for something that remains in season… I hear there are some exquisite huckleberries in Wyoming these days. Blackberries, another personal favorite, are still very much gracing their needly bushes.

Blueberry Buckle Cake

Adapted from Gourmet

Serves 6-8

For the Top

1/4 cup soft, unsalted butter, softened

1/2 cup raw sugar

1/3 cup flour (whole wheat or all purpose)

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1/2 tsp nutmeg

For the Batter:

3/4 cup soft, unsalted butter, softened

3/4 cup raw sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

1/4 teaspoon double-acting baking powder

1 1/3 cups all-purpose flour (or 1 c all-purpose; 1/3 c whole wheat) plus 1 tbsp

1/2 teaspoon salt

3 large eggs

4 cups blueberries, clean and stemless

Preheat oven to 350 degrees and butter a round 10″ x 2″ cake pan.

Make the topping:

Blend butter, sugar, flour cinnamon and nutmeg until incorporated and pearl-sized balls form.

Cover and store in the refrigerator while preparing batter.

Make the batter:

Toss blueberries with 1 tbsp flour, set aside.

Cream together butter and sugar in a medium bowl with an electric mixer. Add vanilla.

In another bowl, stir together baking powder, flour and salt.

Beat flour mixture into butter mixture alternating with the eggs, one at a time.

Pour batter into cake pan and bake from 40-45 minutes, or until toothpick inserted into center of cake comes out clean and the topping is golden.

I love their ridges, their fuzz, their changing gradations of pink and yellow. I love the leaves that spring from their tops—they look so biblical. They’re more beautiful in person than any still life, though I can see why they’ve inspired great art through the ages. We should all be so lucky to be as pretty as a peach.

And even though a peach devoured raw and dribbling is as good as summertime gets, I decided to practice some self restraint for once and see how they would look in a dessert. I deliberated for a couple of days, letting them ripen further in a brown paper bag. When I finally pulled them out, their sides were so soft I actually treated them like sparrows in my palm.

I wanted something that would showcase their shape. Buckles and pies are lovely to taste, but fruit ends up something of a juicy mass beneath their crusts and crumbs. I wanted more for my peaches. They needed great presentation: a subtle platform for their astonishing color and shape. And then I came upon it—the Clafoutis, a French dish traditionally done with cherries.

The Clafoutis is an almost flan-like dessert and it’s easy to see why pert, tart cherries would complement its silky richness. That said, the ultra ripe peach wedges were hardly cloying. I would even consider making this with a layer of caramelized pears or apples and serving it after brunch. It’s sweet, but the texture is light enough to enjoy during daylight hours.

When I first started researching the Clafoutis, I was slightly confused. Recipes call for pouring batter over fruit arranged in the bottom of a baking pan. I wondered if every Clafoutis recipe author had forgotten to mention that the dish had to be flipped before serving, like an upside-down cake.

Fortunately, a life lesson applied: when everyone else is WRONG, there’s probably something going on with me. So I took a leap of faith and trusted that my beautiful babies would be properly showcased like the cherries pictured in traditional Clafoutis preparations.

And indeed, like all shining stars, they rose to the occasion—literally. As soon as I mixed the liquid custard I understood: the batter worked its way under every slice, lifting the pattern to the top of the pan, where the fruit floated in pink and gold glory. Everything about a peach is beautiful, but when a spiral of slices hover over a custard, they can take your breath away.

These peaches came courtesy of Lightsey Farm in Mexia, TX. I used a recipe from The Joy of Cooking as my base, but changed some rather significant details. When I do a fall Clafoutis with apples, I will do it exactly the same way.

Peach Clafoutis

4-6 peaches (enough to cover the bottom of a 9” round cake pan)
4 eggs
¾ c granulated sugar
1 c half and half
¾ c all purpose flour
1 tbsp amaretto
1.5 tsp vanilla extract
Pinch of salt
Confectioner’s sugar for dusting
Vanilla ice cream for serving

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Preheat oven to 375.

Arrange peaches in the bottom of a 9” cake pan.

Beat eggs and sugar until frothy about 2 minutes.

Stir in half and half, Amaretto and vanilla.

Add flour and salt and blend until smooth.

Carefully pour batter over peaches and bake for 10 minutes.

Reduce heat to 350 and bake another 30-35 minutes until Clafoutis puffs and edges are golden brown—a toothpick inserted in the middle should come out clean.

Cool slightly before serving (with Vanilla ice cream) and dust with confectioner’s sugar.

But on a Saturday or Sunday, especially after a night of revelry, it' s difficult for me to sympathize with the fact that the dog does not have a weekend setting. At the same time every day, to the minute, she demands to be fed, walked, pet and fawned over. If this doesn' t happen, she goes right for the things I love best, chewing up the expensive pair of high heals slung by the side of the bed…the corners of my coffee table books… the corner of my coffee table. Bleary eyed I rise, make a pot of coffee, drink it all, and then make a breakfast whose smells will wake up other members of my species who may have slept through the early morning canine whining.

(Lupe at the ready, 6:05am)

But today I was a happy riser, even though the light was still silvery-blue, and even though it was too early to consider turning on the wheezing, rollicking Car Talk, the show that never fails to amuse and awaken. After Lupe' s kibble and my coffee, I spent a considerable amount of time in the kitchen, staring at the greatest present I' ve been given since the gift of life, some 23 years ago.

A copper skillet.

I thought I would have to wait at least another 20 years for my first copper cooking accoutrement. But I am a lucky woman, indeed. Lucky enough to cohabit with a man who likes eggs so much that he bought me a pan that won' t burn them. This Saturday morning scramble was a joy in every sense.

No sticking! No cursing the day the swine got fat! All of the egg-making methods I' ve tried to put into play all these weekend mornings finally resulted in absolute victory. I started by frying the bacon in the skillet. This was the pan' s first glimpse at heat and pig strips, two things it will meet every weekend morning, as long as I live.

Then I poured out most of the fat, but left enough to grease the bottom of the pan. In a little mug I beat the local eggs, mixed them with a teaspoon of lime juice, a tablespoon of whole milk and lots of salt and pepper. All this while a buttered English Muffin browned around the edges in the oven. It was all ready, all at the same time, none of it sticky or burned or unevenly cooked. This copper skillet is magical. I can' t wait to do it all over again tomorrow morning! But now I' m going to nap.

When you crack a just-plucked egg (although a farm fresh dozen will still taste good after a generous two weeks in the fridge) you’ll feel like you’re staring at a pair of bright, orange eyes. Fresh egg yolks glow. I was so hypnotized Sunday morning pre-breakfast that I forgot to take a photo. You’ll just have to get some newly-hatched eggs and see for yourself.

You won’t need nearly as much seasoning to make them taste good when scrambled, which is my happiest cooking method. You’ll still do well to pre-season your batch with salt, pepper, milk and a squeeze of lime juice, however. Whisk all of those ingredients in a coffee mug before they hit the hot pan. It sounds strange, but you can’t taste the citrus or milk, and your scramble will fluff instead of falling. Re-season at the end, and mid-way through add whatever cheese, herbs or vegetables you like. Goat and cheddar cheeses are great with eggs, as are fresh chives and sautéed shallots or mushrooms.

(If you ever have me over, avoid brie please. It’s just to sticky and strong for breakfast.) Making eggs and bacon in the morning is my favorite way to wake up the house. Add a pinch of pot banging if the aromas don’t do the trick off the bat.