"I think this is the best one you've made," he said, gently scraping his fork against the white dessert plate. He gathers the crumbs in a pile and presses the fork against them—the cake is so moist that the last bits stick together and he scoops up the last bite. "The best cake?" "The best apple cake."
Truth be told, I do make a lot of apple cakes, so this judgement carries a lot of weight. A few years ago, we spent a crisp, sunny Sunday in October picking apples north of Manhattan in a little town in the Hudson Valley. Our kitchen was overflowing with apples: they filled up both crisper drawers, and spilled from a bulging canvas bag on the counter.Read More