Vanilla Bean Malt Cake

Deep down, there's a part of me that believes that I belong in the city. Though I grew up in a city of sixty thousand, I spent most of my youth daydreaming of faraway places. Tropical islands, foreign countries, and big city lights were what I saw (and still see) when I closed my eyes. There was something about the tall buildings, the bustle of both cars and people, and the glowing of the city that I saw on television that drew me in.

Eventually I moved to one such city and fell in love—in love with the culture, the people, and the feeling of belonging. However, as all things go, the day came where I had to say goodbye. I packed my bags and left, my heart breaking in two.

As the years have passed since then, the chaos of the city, both wonderful and maddening, is something I have sorely missed. I made a promise to myself that I would return to the city again one day. When I began applying for jobs last spring, I sent applications far and wide. While I couldn't have predicted where I would end up, the reality surprised everyone, including myself. Instead of moving to my big city, I moved to a small town, population 3000.

I now reside in the heart of lakes country. Life moves slowly and conversation circles around whether the fish are biting and when hunting season begins. It is a very different life from the one I had in the big city, but it is neither better nor worse. There is one thing to be certain, however—it will take some getting used to.

Three stoplights fill the roads, allowing cars to traverse the small town in just a few short minutes. My restaurant options have decreased by ten fold, exchanging chains for mom and pop diners. I have to drive over an hour away to find dairy-free butter, a staple in my kitchen. Some days this place feels smotheringly small, so different and unfamiliar from what I am accustomed, and others it feels like a wide open space, peaceful and inviting.

The other evening I opened my window to allow the night breeze in. While the blinds occasionally rustled, it took me awhile to realize the gravity of what was taking place. There was silence outside the window. No cars on the highway or on the nearby streets, no airplanes overhead or sirens in the distance. It was so quiet I double checked to make sure the window was even open at all. In that moment, I wondered if this small town might just grow on me after all.

Vanilla Bean Malt Cake is a dessert for all weather, warm or cold. The cake has a heavy flavor of malt and vanilla bean, though the crumb itself is light and moist. A light vanilla malt glaze tops the cake, coating the top and soaking into the bottom. I shared this cake with my new coworkers, a small gift of butter and sugar, and it disappeared both quickly and quietly. Light enough for warm fall weather and bold enough for a chilled evening, this cake will find a place on your table during all seasons.

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Vanilla Ice Cream Cake from Judi & Nicole of Some Kitchen Stories

Some Kitchen Stories came into my life a year ago. Judi, the writer, and Nicole, the photographer, work together to create this beautiful, passionate space. With each post, Judi shares a fictional story that weaves through the recipe while Nicole manages to capture the essence behind her lens. This duo keeps me on my toes—each time I visit I find myself in the mind of someone new and in the kitchen of someone familiar.

Helen was a nervous sort of creature and had always been so. For the most part, that was okay. Nerves meant good manners and good grades. Usually.

She stopped on the sidewalk and pulled the paper from her bag and stared at the curved C at the top, the bottom of the letter just touching the H in her name. How could the daughter of a renowned biologist come home with a C in science?

Her mother would have to see it, she knew. Her teacher, Mr. Ballingham had made sure of it by affixing a note to the top of the paper. "Please have your mother sign this- Mr. B."

Helen stuffed the paper back in her bag and turned to the big, rambling house at the end of the road, the one they called home. Usually she loved the look of it, tall and ramshackle, so unlike the others on the lane, its windows sticking out like elephant ears. Now it looked forbidding. It offered no comfort.

Inside the house, it was chaos as usual. Ramses, her brother, had recently started walking and that had translated into climbing. She found him affixed to the bookshelf, the third shelf, and he blinked at her and waved as she dropped her school bag on the floor. She sighed and wrapped her arm around him to pull him free and carried him past the den, where the twins were setting an elaborate maze of dominoes. They looked up at her and blinked in unison before resuming their path in quiet whispers. Helen knew it was useless to speak to her sisters when they were focused on a project so she moved on without a word. In her arms, the baby squirmed. They stepped over a small mountain of plastic toys. The cat scurried past them and Ramses clapped.

The kitchen, if one could call it a kitchen, was covered in flour and milk. It clung to the cabinets and dripped from the counters. In the corner, huddled between the stove and a set of bunsen burners, her mother frowned over a cluster of papers. She too was covered in flour and milk, her salt-and-pepper hair piled high up on her head. She looked up and blinked at Helen, just like the twins, but at least Helen's face registered with her and her face cracked into a tired smile. "It's been a day."

"Yes." Helen swallowed hard. Ramses grabbed her brown hair and yanked hard and when she looked at him, he pointed to the ground with a scowl. Helen turned, walked a few steps and put him in his pen. It was really several pens cobbled together and the fence went up to the ceiling, the floor inside it covered in a foot of old mattress and pillows. In there, he could climb to his heart's content like a monkey but it didn't matter; he always escaped. The bookshelves that covered the walls of the house were far more appealing.

Helen was never one for delay. She reached into her backpack and removed the test and set it on the counter.

Her mother studied the grade and the note, studied her daughter's face, and sighed. "I'm not doing much better myself this week, " her mother said and she grabbed the test, scribbled her name at the top, and then put it on top of her own papers. She did not look at it again. "Put them away please. Out of sight. All of them." Helen reached for them but then her mother grabbed her arm and pulled her close. "Ice cream cake for dinner. How does that sound, my little wonk?"

She smelled faintly like vanilla and sulphur. And comfort, Helen thought. Pure comfort.

Dear Kristin, I truly hope you're having ice cream cake for dinner one of these nights. I hope you have a slice, offer up no apologies for it and enjoy every bite, amidst all the chaos of life and moving and work and such. Thank you for letting us play in your space this week while you sort through it all.

This past weekend, I surveyed my counters. With the start of September, it's time to start rearranging things (some people hit closets, I hit the kitchen). I have an odd kitchen set-up, a giant room for my stove and a galley kitchen for my sink and counters and I cherish every inch of work space (as I'm sure you do too, you out there, hi). I paused over my line-up of appliances and wondered if it was time, seasonally speaking, to replace the ice cream maker with the food processor (in between the stalwarts- the coffee maker and the stand mixer, not going anywhere, thank you, let's move on).

I hesitated for a moment longer because, well, yes, soups and stews and chopping is coming (hooray) but what about ice cream? Is it really over? Really? Fall brings its own flavors, I reasoned out loud to the dog; what about maple and peanut butter and dark chocolate with sea salt and… I think we know how this debate ended- the ice cream maker's not going anywhere and the processor was squeezed in beside it. After all, why do we have to choose? It's the best part of being an adult; you can have your cake and ice cream too. When you can make it yourself? Even better.

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Nordic Pancake Cake From Josephine of A Tasty Love Story

I'm not sure how or when I stumbled across Josephine's blog, A Tasty Love Story, but I am ever grateful to have done so. Living in Denmark, Josephine takes a sincere approach to whole foods, giving a Nordic twist to the recipes that grace her table. Josephine understands ingredients in such an honest manner and uses her camera to tell their story. I know you'll love her stories, too.

This is my very first guest post – and wow I never imagined that it would be at one of my absolute favorite blogs. The Pastry Affair is an eternal source of inspiration, with dashing pictures and original recipe. So proud to be a part of it today…

I grew up in a house where food played a big role. We have always been involved in deciding what to eat, grocery shopping and talking about the food we ate together. I remember summers spent in a strawberry field and cozy autumn evening spent with peeling apples and baking pies. My mom has played the leading role when it came to health, whole grain and vegetables. She has always stuffed us with colorful veggie juices, porridge, fish and all good things from the garden. I guess I was the one child out of three who enjoyed this the most, and still does!

But we had those special nights where my dad was home alone with us, and he always asked us what we wanted… and we always wanted pancakes! My dad’s famous and fabulous pancakes. He made a thick batter filled with eggs, flour and foamy beer. He fried up a huge stack of thin and crispy pancakes – and we all had eyes as big as baseballs, just ready to dig in.

On pancake nights there was one important rule. You needed to eat at least two pancakes with a savory filling – and then you could have all the dessert-y and sweet ones you wanted, every kid's dream! My brother always went for the sugar and jam ones, but I have always been my dad’s dairy girl, so I followed him and made one of the special creamy ones he created. My dad’s special trick was to add a big dollop of sour cream and a spoonful of blueberry or blackberry jam, roll it together and nicely enjoy every bit with fork and knife. I loved this. Loved how the soft cream dripped down the sides and made a beautiful swirl with the jam. Food filled with love, color and flavor.

My love of food and indulgence definitely has its roots way back and I can’t thank anyone enough for this. Because I feel so privileged to get so much satisfaction out of something as natural and important as eating.

That is why this cake is not only a celebration of seasonal berries, Nordic cooking, pancakes (the fact that they exist) but, just as importantly, a celebration of the love of food – and the love food brings us!

The pancake cake is a classic Nordic, and especially Swedish, thing. It is a wonderful concept really, where you just layer pancakes with your favorite filling in between and enjoy all of it as one big cake. It is perfect for birthdays, dinner parties and to impress kids and adults – because, let’s face it, who does not love a huge stack of pancakes.

As you might have guessed I have filled my cake with soft cream and jam, just as when I was a kid. The cream is half sour cream and half whipped cream, just to have some of that lovely cultured flavor combined with the fluffy and soft texture from whipped cream. The jam has been upgraded a bit and we now have a homemade berry compote, where the sugar content is moderate and we get some texture from the healthy and famous chia seeds.

Remember that this cake can be made in all different ways and adapted to all seasons. For autumn and winter you can spice your pancake batter with warm spices as cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg and spread the layers with apples and cream cheese frosting. And spring provides you with rhubarb – to make a tangy compote and combine it with sweet vanilla cream! Furthermore the pancakes and compotes can easily be made a day ahead and then it is quick and easy to assemble just before serving… Enjoy!

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