Gingerbread Bundt Cake with Pear Caramel Glaze

It was the end of summer. I sat on top of a suitcase, using my weight to close it an extra inch so I could draw the zipper closed. Brushing myself off, I stood back and surveyed my handiwork. Three suitcases lay side-by-side, holding all of my material possessions within their zippered walls. I was moving the next morning, fifteen hundred miles and a country away, going to Montreal for graduate school. This wasn't my first time leaving home, but it was my first time leaving everyone and everything I knew behind. As excited as I was, it was difficult to say goodbye.

For the first few weeks, I fumbled around as a non-French speaker in a French city, learning to read foreign signs and labels and trying to collect enough language to make it through a cash register exchange. As much as I was falling in love with the city and culture, there was still a part of me that ached for the familiarity of my old life. Growing up, the kitchen was where family and friends converged, exchanging stories over warm cookies and cold milk. I especially missed this gathering place.

Before the move, I had begun learning how to bake. It felt natural to continue that quest as I adjusted to my new life, so I began spending more time in the kitchen, finding a little of the familiarity I had been longing for.

When I first learned the basics of cooking, my mother would get phone calls from me daily, asking questions about everything from cooking chicken to beating egg whites for meringue. Living so far from her now meant that my mother was no longer a simple call away. When I ran into kitchen trouble, I was on my own. Despite this, our past conversations hovered in the air, her wealth of knowledge in my memory and her voice echoing in my mind. As I cooked dinner, she reminded me of the ratios for cooking rice and how to make toast without a toaster. Though she didn’t know it, my mother continued to guide me through the kitchen, stubbornly refusing to let me forget everything she had taught me over the years.

Lessons from my grandmother soon followed in my tiny kitchen. Her voice revealed that coffee brought out the flavor of chocolate and reminded me that butter made everything better. Her gnarled hands showed me how to knead bread as I struggled with my first ventures into yeast. I remembered watching her cook, sprinkling salt into her palm to finish off a dish and throwing the rest over her shoulder. Though I felt awkward about it, I followed her practiced motions, feeling as though there must be a greater reason for it. I couldn’t quite see the purpose, though; I envisioned my feet tracking salt over the rest of the apartment and me having to clean it up later. Perhaps there were some kitchen tricks I could do without after all.

Re-runs of Julia Child’s cooking shows found their way into my apartment and I watched as she whisked up omelets and stewed Boeuf Bourguignon. Though she didn’t teach me how to cook, she did teach me that a little clumsiness and awkwardness in the kitchen was perfectly acceptable. After dropping two frosted cakes and a pitcher of blended margaritas onto the floor (the latter of which I’m still not ready to talk about), the solidarity I had with Julia made scraping the frosting off the floor more bearable. I imagined Julia whispering that if I quickly picked up the cake and placed it back on the stand no one would notice. Even though Julia was quite wrong—my crime was painfully obvious—putting it back on the stand did make it easier to eat with a fork.

Several months after I moved, during a quiet autumn afternoon, my mother came to visit. The morning before she arrived I set out to make her a welcoming cake. I had just finished paging through a food memoir and a recipe for gingerbread with caramelized pears caught my eye. Though I had never worked with fresh ginger or caramel, Julia’s fearless attitude and my grandmother’s voice guided me in using fresh spices and creating the perfect caramel without a candy thermometer.

When my travel-weary mother stepped into my kitchen for the first time, I dusted off my apron and welcomed her into my new home. I made tea and sliced the cake. We spent the next few hours catching up over warm pastries and caramel—the perfect therapy for a mother and daughter who had missed each other.

The experience of my grandmother, the guidance from my mother and the wit of Julia Child taught me how to bake (and reminded me never to take food too seriously). Even though there was only one set of hands working in my small kitchen, a chorus of voices filled the air, directing me along my course. The wisdom from these women in my life was a simple reminder that even in an unfamiliar place, I was never truly alone in the kitchen.

Gingerbread Bundt Cake with Pear Caramel Sauce is a cozy treat to enjoy on frosted nights. The flavors of fresh ginger and molasses harmonize together in this dark, spiced cake. The addition of sour cream and a handful of spices lend a rich moistness to the cake while rounding out the flavor. Just before serving, the cake is glazed with a pear caramel sauce to add the right touch of sweetness. The caramel is made from a pear juice reduction—eliminating the need for a candy thermometer—making this cake as easy to prepare as it is to devour.

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Caramel Apple Granola

The leaves are beginning to change colors on the trees. I noticed this today in the thirty second dash from my apartment building to the car. The air felt cooler than usual and the light from the sun was golden. I wondered where the time has gone. While my life continues to be in a state of imbalance, these thirty second intervals from the door of my car to the door of another building have become my only real experience with the world outside of my immediate reality. In the last few weeks, consumed with an unusual amount of work and responsibilities, I feel lucky to get an hour to myself to eat a late dinner and catch up with an episode of Modern Family.

I wish I could stop and enjoy the weather, breathe it in and savor it for the long hours of work ahead of me, but the second hand on the clock keeps ticking, reminding me that I'm already late.

Caramel Apples continue to be a one of my favorite fall desserts. Every year I make it a point to make a batch. I'll usually leave a few apples with a simple caramel coating, but the rest end up rolled in crushed candy bars and pretzels until the apples seem to disappear under the chocolate pieces. Each year the caramel refuses to cooperate as I struggle to keep it on the apple, but in the end it doesn't matter. The caramel apples are for myself. They don't need to be pretty or dolled up; they don't need to impress anyone else.

The apples just need to be enjoyed beneath a tree under the autumn sky by someone who isn't afraid to get a little chocolate and caramel on her face.

It may be awhile before I can sit down and make myself a batch of caramel apples this year. The routine of the thirty second dash is a bittersweet reminder that the days keep passing by, even if I don't have the time to appreciate them. When the responsibilities of my life lessen and I have an afternoon to myself, you'll be able to spot me in the aisles of the local market, with a red basket full of candy bars and Honeycrisp apples in hand.

Until that day arrives, this Caramel Apple Granola fills the void beautifully.

Caramel Apple Granola is sweet treat transformed into a hearty breakfast. The granola consists of almonds and dried apples spiced with the flavors of fall. Most granola recipes hold the oats together with oil, but this granola is held together with a light layer of caramel. The caramel, combined with the dried apples, creates a granola with a fantastic texture and taste you won't find in a cereal box.

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Chocolate Caramel Crispy Bars

As the car barrels down the highway at a steady pace, I find myself sitting in the backseat, writing to you. The sun is shining through the window, sending a brilliant glare onto my computer screen; so bright I find myself needing a pair of sunglasses. Between reading books and staring out at the brown, snowless landscape through the window, I've successfully passed seven hours strapped in one place. I'm headed to the mountains for a weekend getaway filled with warm fireplaces, fresh snow, and a pair of skis strapped to my feet.

Everyone needs a vacation now and then.

As anyone who has ever taken a road trip knows, they require a different class of food altogether. There are traditions and rituals that must be followed, either passed down from parent to child or evolved from assorted friendships. For instance, I have a friend who insists on buying a bag of Fig Newtons before we take on the road. A healthy snack, she claims (but they are not quite so healthy after you've eaten your way through nine or ten).

Another friend and I always stock up on beef jerky and soda at the nearest gas station. We eat until parched from the salty meat and sick from the carbonation. Why we insist on doing this, I'll never know, but it is a sin to break a tradition once it has been set. Beef jerky and soda it will always be, whether I like it or not.

Growing up and traveling with my own family, road trips were one of the rare occasions my mother would fill the car with candy, cookies, soda, and other forbidden delights. With so many prohibited treats within reach, it made the fact that we were stuck in a car for countless hours bearable (and, thinking back, perhaps that is where my mother's tradition started in the first place). Even as I sit here now, surrounded by bags of candy and pretzels, I've found myself contributing to this madness. In preparation for the trip, I made a batch of these chocolate caramel crispy bars. After testing them out on the road, I can attest that they were a very good idea.

Nevertheless, the mountains have started appearing over the horizon. Living on the flat, golden plains, I often forget how tall they really stand. So, if you'll excuse me, it seems I have a bit more window watching to do.

What are your road trip food traditions?

These Chocolate Caramel Crispy Bars are crispy rice cereal bars with attitude. Made in the same method as the traditional, a healthy portion of chocolate and rich caramel sauce are added to the melted marshmallows to create the only variant. When taking a bite, the chocolate and marshmallow hit the tongue first, followed by a smooth caramel finish. These are simple to make and you may find them disappearing before you were ready to see them go.

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