Less talked about

The storm started with a flawless sky.

– It will pour soon, take the raincoat, pronounced Anthony, eyes closed. The weather service on the phone showed it would storm, he continued, his head part of the pillow.

– Really? I open the balcony door to check. But it looks alright, clear and quiet, I say incredulously.

– They even graded it code yellow, a warning.

– A good storm starts with a warning, I say, half-jokingly, and look through the layers of winter jackets and trench coats. But I have to go, can't see the raincoat here, and it doesn't look like any storm out there, I add, grab my bicycle keys from the kitchen table. pull a ripe peach from the fruit bowl for breakfast later (wonder if it's actually going to be enough for breakfast; no, not really), and walk out. I shut the door closed behind me on my tiptoes, always holding back a little before the lock latch clicks. I'm stealth like that; no one hears when I come and when I go.

I leave home when the only light available is the flickering yellow of traffic signals. (I've always wondered why the red and green go after midnight; life on the road never ceases.) Away from the traffic lights and a crossroad, I move past a lengthy stretch of rose bushes, the soft sweet smell. I inhale noisily and it really gets into my head. I feel a subtle tickle along my spine and up my neck and down into my legs, like a buzz you get from a cigarette.

Stifled air keeps grating against my bare arms as I pedal. I look up; the eastern part of the sky starts to loose its stars, becomes mellowed, starts to lighten, comes down from a dark high.

The storm continues with a loud pop, no, two. One from a window pried ajar by the wind, the other from an overturned trash bin outside. I wash my hands clean from the chocolate batter, rub them dry against my apron and rush out to collect the scattered garbage bags on the pavement. In the thin dawn light I can see the storm now. I mean, I can see the low thunderclouds, they look like sand dunes. It's mesmerizing to see a white and blue jet flying into one, a man-made mirage. By the time I'm done gathering the egg shells that spilt from a loosely tied trash bag, the back of my chef's jacket is soaked. The temperatures have been in the upper twenties lately, no difference between the inside and out- on the skin, so the wet cotton feels good, cooling.

Back inside, I check the weather on my phone: heavy wind and showers for the next hour, code yellow. I'm about to go and fix the open window, but then I get a better idea. I'm going to have the peach now and watch the rainwater form ellipses on the window sill. Half-way into my breakfast, I realize, with a pang in my stomach, I don't have much else for seconds. I was right, a peach wasn't going to be enough. I try to distract myself from feeling the disappointment and think about how many of the commuters will pour onto the streets any moment now, see drenched roads and sidewalks and wonder if it's rained in the night. I'm still hungry but I have seen the dune fields in the sky, so.

In a week there will be another code yellow. It will knock off the trees, disrupt the traffic, make the news. It will hold on for over a day and everyone will know of it – the first summer storm of the year. To me it will smell like damp cow shit in the pre-dawn air – I prefer storms less talked about. But whatever, I'll pack a bigger breakfast at least.

Olive Oil and White Wine Cake

Makes one 24-cm (9-icnh) loaf cake

I wrote about this cake before. In November of two thousand and nine, to be exact. Lately I've found myself making it with a renewed zeal, and in doing so there have appeared a few tricks that make this cake even better, which is a long-ish sentence to simply say I'd like to talk about it again here. (Hi, Maud!)

First, in place of neutral vegetable oil I now use extra-virgin olive oil. It lends a level of sophistication to the cake, adds to it a pleasant savouriness. It shouldn't be anything too crazy, the olive oil. Something fruity would be best.

Second, regarding white wine, it should be dry and fragrant (and not too expensive). A Chardonnay or Pinot Grigio will blend in well with olive oil and you'd still be able to taste the wine after baking. For a little more wine flavour, because why not, I pour a few tablespoon of white wine over the cake top when it's out of the oven.

I don't remember if I emphasized before how good and unusual this cake is, so let me do it again now. It's a simple recipe, but it yields a way more complex outcome, with the most moist crumb out there. I'm pretty sure of that. You probably wouldn't know what to expect after the first contact. There is a possibility you'd be wondering if this is a savoury business or sweet. I'd say it's both as far as a cake could allow, a mix of olive oil and white wine in a sweet batter. A delectable happy thing that won't easily bore you out.

3 large eggs, at room temperature

¼ teaspoon table salt

300 g light brown sugar

180 ml extra-virgin olive oil

180 ml white wine, plus more for after baking (see above)

300 g unbleached all-purpose flour

1 Tablespoon baking powder

Preheat the oven to 180 degrees Celsius. Grease a 24-cm loaf pan.

Separate the eggs. Add the salt to the egg white.

In the bowl of a stand mixer (or using a hand-held mxer), beat the egg yolks together with the sugar at high speed until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Lower the speed and mix in the olive oil until incorporated; then add the white wine and mix until fully blended.

Combine the flour and baking powder together, add to the white wine mixture. Mix well.

Whisk the egg whites until stiff. Using a rubber spatula, carefully fold them into the batter. Pour the batter into the prepared loaf pan and bake until golden brown, about 30-40 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean. Remove from the oven and pour a few more tablespoon of the white wine over the top. Let cool completely before taking out of the pan.

Wrapped in cling film, it will keep wondrously moist and fragrant for up to a week.

Goes great, like it should, with Earl Grey tea or black coffee, or plain, storms or no storms.

Familiar but different

It smells of black tea leaves, steeped and left since dinner in the pot on the kitchen counter. The night air.

I'm at knifepoint, and yet I'm mostly concerned that my feet are cold. I cringe.

– It really feels it should be a different time of year, don't you think? I say to a man who is about to, what, rob me? I'm really cold, I add. I draw out 'really' and shuffle from one foot to the other. It's close to freezing. My eyes are watering from a flu.

– Where have you been? The man asks me.

I'm looking at his sharp jawline first, then at the knife blade at my throat. It's beautiful, engraved with a female silhouette. I feel more relief when I notice the birthmark on his neck, right above where the collar of his shirt grips it tightly. It's dark out, but I can make out its color – merlot. A wine stain on the pristine white tablecloth. I saw it before.

– I know you, I say slowly and pause after 'you'.

Suddenly there is a shriek, and another, they are coming from around the corner. It's loud and unexpected and makes me jump. Take it easy, must be a sea gull, he says and pulls away the knife. It sounds human to me, like someone is laughing, I say and look around. There is no one in sight.

– I know you do. Is there something you wanted to tell me last time?

I know the man, I'm sure now. Before, I sat next to him on the train. He was asleep and his phone kept ringing. I remember he had on a nice perfume – citrus fruit and incense smoke. I was studying his exposed neck. It felt intruding but exciting to be so near to someone's live artery and stare at it uninterruptedly and with impunity. The birthmark was close to it.

– You smelled of knives, I wanted to tell you then.

– Why knives?

– My metaphor for danger, I guess.

– I would have liked to hear that. What stopped you?

– I woke up.

Another shriek, strong enough to shatter glass. Someone is patting me on the shoulder, asks me if I'm O.K.

– Wake up, Anya, wake up. Are you O.K.?

I open my eyes; my forehead is covered in sweat. Anthony is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking concerned. It's getting light out, close to a sunrise.

– I had a strange dream, really strange, I say to him, drawing out 'really' again.

– I'm making coffee. I think you'd like some?

Bitter Orange and Walnut Bars (Mabroosha)
 

Adapted from The Gaza Kitchen, by Laila El-Haddad and Maggie Schmitt

Makes about 24 pieces

This one here is a very interesting recipe, no need to draw out 'interesting' – only, maybe, 'very'. Interesting because in essence it's a crumble kind of thing, except that all crumbles I know of are butter-based, and for mabroosha a combination of butter and olive oil is used, with a bigger emphasis on olive oil than butter. I like recipes like this: familiar but different.

Also, try to say mabroosha and not feel comforted by the sound at the same time, a bunch of consonants and vowels that conspire to sound, to me, like babushka.

Actually, mabroosha means 'grated' in Arabic, and that's because the recipe will have you grate half of the dough over the jam and nuts. It's good if you have a medium-sized cheese grater for it. Bitter orange marmalade is a tradition choice, but any kind of jam can be used for mabroosha.
 

Of course it goes very well with coffee. It crunches pleasantly under the teeth, and has soft pockets of jam, is sweet but olive oil pulls it a little towards savoury, plus cinnamon, orange zest and rosewater, it's got a lot of good stuff, this great little mabroosha.

380 g (3 cups) all-purpose flour

1 ½ teaspoon baking powder

220 g (1 cup) sugar
Pinch of salt
60 g (4 Tablespoons) butter, softened to room temperature

180 ml (¾ cup) olive oil

2 medium eggs
1 Tablespoon rosewater

2 teaspoons orange zest

160 g (1 ½ cup) bitter orange marmalade
100 g (1 cup) finely chopped walnuts

½ teaspoon cinnamon

Preheat the oven to 180 C (350 F). Thoroughly grease a 33 x 23 cm (13 x 9 inch) rectangular pan.

Mix together the flour, baking powder, sugar and salt. To this, add the butter, olive oil, eggs, rosewater and orange zest. Knead together until they are well combined. The resulting dough should not be sticky. If the dough appears too crumbly, add a little more rosewater. If it appears to be too wet, add a little more flour. Divide the dough into two equal parts.

Using the palm of your hand, spread out one part of the dough in the prepared pan. Spread the jam or marmalade evenly over the dough. Mix the walnuts with the cinnamon and top the dough with this nut mixture. Using a medium-sized cheese grate, shred the remaining dough evenly over the jam and nuts.

Bake for 30 to 40 minutes or until the crumbs are slightly golden and the jam is bubbling out. Let it cool, then divide it into bars.