All Posts By Reda

I don’t remember the exact year when I first saw people raving about Beatty’s Chocolate Cake online—it was sometime between my kids being old enough to pour their own cereal but still young enough to leave socks under the couch like confetti. I must have brushed right past it, too, because chocolate cake wasn’t really “my thing” back then. Strange, right? I was always the one who gravitated toward lemon bars or a cherry pie (my mother made the sourest cherry pies that puckered your whole face, and I miss that). But lately, maybe it’s age or just the way …

The first time I tried to make real baklava, I cried. Not dramatic, sobbing tears—just the sort of frustrated, silent tears that come when you realize you’ve buttered yourself into a corner. Phyllo sheets tearing, sticky counters, butter pooling in places it shouldn’t. My youngest, bless him, wandered through the kitchen and asked if I was “making paper crafts or food.” That was enough to make me laugh through it, but the pan of baklava never did set right. We ate it anyway—too sweet, soggy bottom, like eating nuts wrapped in damp tissue paper. Try our Lady Baltimore Cake next. …

It’s funny, the way certain foods just attach themselves to particular moods or seasons in your memory. For me, Apple Pan Dowdy doesn’t belong to Thanksgiving or Christmas, or even to the kinds of gatherings where people are bustling around with clipboards of what they’re bringing. It belongs to the in-between days—the gray, misty Tuesdays, the slightly lonely Fridays where you’re restless but not sure why. The first time I made it, it was one of those bone-chill damp days in late October, years back when the kids were still in high school. I had apples sitting too long on …

There’s something about September that always knocks me a little off balance. The mornings suddenly carry that faint bite in the air, even when the afternoons are still sweltering. The cicadas sound different, like they’re starting to fade out, and then, of course, there’s the business of school schedules again. I don’t have school-aged kids anymore—my youngest is nearly thirty, which I can hardly believe—but even now I can feel that familiar gear shift, the clatter of lunchboxes on the counter, backpacks dropped in the hallway, and me standing at the stove with something sweet baking away, trying to make …