When the mood strikes and I want to bake I have no choice but to apron up and turn on the oven. There’s something about gray days and time spent in my tiny Queens apartment that warrants baking and a vibrancy that can only come from making a cake from scratch. Gone are the days where I wouldn’t bake because I feared eating the whole damn thing. And hello to quiet, meaningful afternoon’s spent enjoying time in the kitchen. Most times, there’s no place I’d rather be, especially when the air is thick - almost edible - with butter and sugar. Yum.

A few years ago I went to Savannah and solo dined at a restaurant - Local 11ten. That evening I debated not getting dessert, which is crazy, I know. Traveling alone is something I love to do as my motto has always been “Tina Corrado waits for no man.” But that night I was sad - anxious - lust on the brain and I couldn’t shake it. As I refocused and got into my right mind I ordered orange infused olive oil cake. That cake stayed with me for years. It stayed with me for many reasons and I never attempted re-making it. Honestly, I never thought about the cake much again except within the context of the trip - which was amazing, memorable and simultaneously heartbreaking.

I can still see myself dressed up - wrapped in a soft cream colored sweater, matching cream wool skirt woven with gold details, black boots, legs crossed, hair down, red lip in place. I sat as one, at a table for two, taking perfectly proper bites of olive oil cake. I cried. What a mess. I cried because I didn’t feel wanted. I cried because I was proud of myself for ordering the cake. I cried in celebration of going on multiple adventures alone even though I’d always secretly wanted a travel companion; a love to call my own. The cake was sweet and muddled with sadness. My heart hurt. Tinder torment, go figure. Post olive oil cake induced tears I’d never been happier to hug my mother, father and brother the following morning.

It’s been 5 years since that night.

I’ve always found, at least for me, the beauty of cooking reveals itself in the ability it gives me to transform, retell, translate and recreate an old memory into a new one all together. I cook because it allows me to rewrite my past and make a difficult memory into something beautiful. Cake haunted me for most of my life; beyond the aforementioned memory. I sneaked it. I overate it. I feared it. I loathed it. I’d learned to live with looking at it and not eating it. I’d bake one. I’d eat nearly the whole thing. My relationship with food was forever fucked, or so I thought. Now we coexist. We’ve come a long way - from baking at home to eating a slice alone in public. It’s been mind work and has required my active participation when it comes to noticing my real needs. On Sunday I stood in my kitchen, alone, conquering memories of olive oil cake and a Tinder heartbreak. I remade the cake in the name of progress. A lot of overall progress. I sat on my couch, oversized sweatshirt, legs crossed, blanket across my lap, red lip in place - and I ate cake. Each bite tasted of hope.

The recipe for this Olive Oil cake was adapted from Food & Wine’s, Ligurian Olive Oil Cake

Notes

I added 1 Tablespoon of pure Almond Extract to the batter which set this cake over the top with flavor. The pairing of orange zest and almond made the cake ever so slightly more delicate and balanced than a classic pound cake.

The final touch came once the cake cooled. I poked toothpick holes over the top of the cake; then brushed the entire top and sides of the cake with olive oil, wrapping in plastic wrap and then foil. By breakfast time, the olive oil and flavors truly set into the cake