In early December, I start cataloguing all the gorgeous things I will bake—our annual Yule Log and epic gingerbread projects, three-tiered Christmas cakes with wrinkly chocolate bark up the sides—bookmarking recipes and instagram posts in files labeled CHRISTMAS BAKES that dates back a decade deep.

My sister and I send these things back and forth to each other with notes like “this one?” or “sooo pretty—let’s try this!” And then, as the days get closer simply “if we had to choose just one thing, would this one be it?”

By the time we actually all arrive home, just days before Christmas, the agenda is big and the days short, not to mention that there are presents to wrap, plus 18 mouths to feed three times a day. In short, sometimes ambitious baking projects don’t make the cut. But this cake? This always makes the cut.

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When it comes to making dinner, there’s a fundamental difference between the way I meal plan, and how my mother did. I make whatever I’m craving right now (and what doesn’t require a trip to the store), my mom made what she knew everyone would eat--without complaining, and zero cajoling. 1980’s moms didn’t have time for cajoling, which meant our family meals were a fluid rotation of Cashew Chicken, Baked Meatloaf, or Thick-Cut Pork Chops with Corn and Mashed Potatoes. There were also kebabs—-all kinds of kebabs: Pork kebabs, chicken kebabs, veggie kebabs--anything that could go on a stick, mom put on a stick, because mom knew that kebabs were the Holy Grail of family food.

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The seasons are blending and it’s my favorite time of year—almost. Except this year there is anxiety. Worry about how it will all work, about children at home for months on end, about keeping all of the balls in the air.

But this much I know—there is corn and zucchini and tomatoes still in the market. In the orchards, branches sag, laden with blushy apples and almost-ripe-pears. Nature reminds us: where we see lack or even fear (what if, what if…)—look a layer deeper and we see that there is plenty. Abundance. Simple gifts.

As we grasp for summer sunshine and our favorite tattered sweater— in equal measure—it is time to make soup. More specifically, this soup.

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Last summer, on my quick spin around the West Coast touring my then-new book, Every Day is Saturday, I had dinner with my old friends Sue Vu and Ben Mims in LA, during Ben’s first month as the new Food Editor at the Los Angeles Times. It was one of those late-night, multi-course meals that’s an extreme rarity for me these days--ever since we moved to the stix and had a second kiddo. We had a beautiful table facing a sea of youthful faces and the energy in the room was electric. It felt like magic, as did almost everything we ate that night.

Midway through the meal the waiter brought out a small plate layered with whipped feta, and piled high with crispy, blistered wild mushrooms. It blew our mind. Whipped Feta—we all said in unison. Why didn’t we think of that?

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We didn’t eat a lot of pasta growing up. We were a straight up meat and potatoes family, but come summer, my mom would make cold pasta salad—usually corkscrew pasta with halved cherry tomatoes, cubed mozzarella, and basil— that accompanied us to the pool for evening swims, to neighborhood potlucks and to our best friend’s annual Fourth of July party, where it would mingle with grilled burgers, magic bars and root beer.

I loved this salad, and yet, I have never had it since. I have also never made it for my kids, even though my kids LOVE pasta. So this week I gave it a go, with a quick toss up with slightly elevated ingredients from the garden, plus creamy California Avocados, a cheekier noodle (ditalini) and some Parmesan on top.

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We have been big on dip meals the last few weeks, mostly because we need easy right now, and within the confines of the few people we can actually share food with, the sense of community and revelry feels extra good.

This is a new favorite—avocado hummus, creamier and more forgiving than standard hummus (which we try to love, but my kids are actually so-so on). It starts with a perfectly ripe California avocado (just in time for California avocado month!) and the secret ingredient—a tablespoon or two of sour cream. Put it on a platter and garnish with all the toppings —cherry tomatoes, feta, fancy radishes, herbs if you have them--plus homemade or store bought pita chips for scooping.

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I love a top-it-your-way bowl, it could be rice or noodles, dal or curry--anything that invites you to bring it in the topping department. There’s been a lot of that going on here this spring, since it’s always up in the air what we can get our hands on, and a blooming bunch of broccolini or a handful of fresh radishes can be a visual game changer.

There’s one thing I almost always want on my bowl meal--any time of year: a ripe avocado. The rest is open for interpretation, but for me, it’s this satisfying creamy finish that makes me feel full.

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My sister, Jenny, lives on an avocado grove outside of San Diego, and when we visit her, breakfasts look something like this: a just-picked ripe avocado with a dash of lime juice, a soft tortilla and a few slices of her oranges from the trees around back. I’m not going to lie, quarantine in Upstate New York isn’t terrible, but I’m pretty sure Californians have it best right now…

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am not someone who makes pasta—or even craves it— very often. But every time I go to our favorite local grocer, I’m lured in by the pretty packages of over-the-top pasta shapes: Long, leggy noodles, big, chunky Tufoli, and lace-edged riginette or tripoline. Usually, I buy a package of some dreamy, only in Italy feeling shape, and then store it in little bit of empty space above the fridge (there’s never room in my pantry) dreaming and scheming for weeks about what it will become before I ever crack into it.

Such is the case for these extra fat Rigatoni, which yes, would make an excellent homemade mac-and-cheese, but for me, were calling: SOUP! A minestrone was in order. Chunky, warming, nutritious.

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I have a lot of favorite recipes in my most recent book, Every Day is Saturday, too many to name in a little intro like this, but if I had to give you one—just one—to start with, I might suggest starting here: an easy, please-all cake that can be fancied up with the help of a sturdy bundt pan

Bundt cakes are like modern miracles. They can transform the simplest cake into a pastry-shop-centerpiece, as long as you butter and flour them well. I love a bundt so much that when my friend Josh recently took a vintage kitchen haul off the street in his brooklyn neighborhood, I had to volley his wife, Doris (and my dear friend) for who would get to bake in her new //old beat up bundt pan, first.

But back to our bundt. The idea for this spot-on cake came from Sarah Kieffer’s (wonderful) Vanilla Bean Baking Book. I made it a half dozen times within the month the book arrived—a few years ago now—making my own tweaks for our mostly gluten-free, low-sugar household: adding almond flour, dropping the total sugar and using bitters instead of Grand Marnier. The result is still so crazy delicious, and leans just left of decadent—enough that you don’t feel so bad serving your kids leftover slices for breakfast the day after friends have come to call. You know the kind…

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I made soup: it’s NOT squash. This not-squash soup is my new cold weather favorite: creamy cauliflower soup topped with crispy chickpeas and radishes and per my usual, all the herbs and oil.

I absolutely love squash soup. I make it at least once a week, and it’s still something I’m likely to order from a restaurant menu on any given fall night. But sometimes we need to branch out, and when we do, this soup is here for you.

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Right now, my husband and children are sound asleep in a tent 50 feet from our kitchen door, where the air is cool and crisp. I wrapped myself around them, whispered (harmless) ghost stories and watched the fire crackle against the peaked, nylon ceiling before their eyes shuttered, releasing me to slink away... to put life back in order, to wash dishes, and set some dough to proof for the morning. Sometimes I envy the freedom of childhood, the sweetness of slumber not wrought with a list of to-dos, but more so I love my role as the magic maker—the one burning the midnight oil for tomorrow’s gain. Because it’s all moving fast: their childhood, this fall—already. I think that’s why I love cooking so much, it’s the only thing I can grasp to slow things down—to put a meal in front of them, to sit across the table from a girl who’s lost all signs of “early childhood”, from a boy who’s legs spring out from his pant legs again and again, inching us from babyhood to boyhood, ever quicker.

What has any of this to do with this soup? My dough is proofing and the bonfire is still flickering so here I sit, writing this recipe up for you as I promised I would, because all I know from where I stand is that maybe, just maybe, the right pot of soup can stop time for all of us—if only for a moment. 

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