Ello Joe

I’ve emptied the contents of my suitcase which appears to be 78% pants into the washing machine. As if I packed thinking an abundance of clean pants was all I needed to be content in Berlin for a month. I arrived back two nights ago and I have some things to say, a cake to share and some people I’d like you to meet. 30 minutes ago, this letter began with a much, much longer pants anecdote, so clearly I’m a bit rusty, but I’m getting back on the horse and gladly stumbling my way through it. It’s early June, 2 pm on a Tuesday and I’m thinking of strawberries.

I’ve been making versions of this cake consistently since I moved back to Oxford from Glasgow at the end of January. For the last week in Glasgow, as time nudged closer to my exit, I began craving specific tastes, people, sounds, and places. It was the sharpening that happens when you are about to exit. A sudden acquisition of a magpie-like sensibility towards the world. And the whole blooming world is just so shiny. Still kicking about my immediate memory are the days and nights of that last week and the sensation of a swinging momentum as my attention moved from one craving to another. There were lots of things I wanted to do in that week, such as eat a Greggs Cheese Ploughman’s in the middle of Prince’s Street in Edinburgh (I made a day trip of it).

There was a nagging feeling of fullness when I arrived in Oxford, at Mum’s, a slight digestive sluggishness. After a week or so of sitting quite still, I started to think about cake again. Not so much about cake but more about texture; something with thickness and body and with a slight dampness. I wanted it to have a cool creaminess, the kind that gets you at the back of the pallet. Those notes became the idea of a cake that I made over and over and over again, to varying levels of success. I’m looking back at my camera roll, and the last time I made this cake was two days before I left for Berlin. I think making that cake before I left set the tone for my month away. I lived in Berlin like I was going to exit, like it was temporary and with that came a beautiful sense of freedom. It didn’t matter, I was in Berlin, I was going to make friends with this city and then leave. In there somewhere is a mantra to live by, but I won’t spell it out.

Berlin is like a well-used frying pan. It has a beautiful shiny handle and a satisfying weight. It’s a flat plain of space that has accumulated layers of residue: flavour, fat, spice, and stain. Berlin knows the meaning of history better than anyone does. Berlin knows exactly how to put it in its place.

I’m thinking of one frying pan in particular; Rita’s frying pan. Rita, who I lived with in Berlin and who will stay in my mind for a long time to come. On my first night, she told me how to clean the pan properly; how to get the grease off it with a bit of hot water, how to wipe it first with a paper towel and then with a soft cloth. This frying pan belonged to her husband and I understood the care she gave it.

In the last few weeks, she spoke to me more and more in German. I would respond through new words that I liked the sound of. The kitchen was a language training ground outside the classroom. I could ask questions and respond to simple instructions in German, subbing in the occasional English word. Evenings when we were both in, we would eat together on the balcony. She would ask for three sentences about my day, which I would slowly build and then we would switch to English. There was only one evening where I noticed she exclusively spoke to me in English; the evening after I had that job interview. I sat eating dinner as she spoke to me about the elections in Turkey and her worries about them. I was glad to just listen, tired from the hour-and-a-half-long interview. As I finished, without saying a thing, she swapped my empty plate with a plate of ripe strawberries.

I came to know this act as characteristically Rita-like. It was in this same spirit that she thrust her glass of wine for me to down as I ran to meet her at a theatre bar just as the show was starting. Or when mid-way through the 8 pm news, she turned to me quite concerned, put her hand on my arm, and asked if I was cold, to which I told her I wasn’t, to which she accepted as immediately and decisively as she had asked me the question. Rita cares fiercely and manages somehow to effortlessly flit between her pragmatic and affected self. It’s a beautiful thing to be around.  

There are a couple others I want you to meet. First, Scott. A dad of three from Australia who taught me how to play Volleyball. He possesses the impressive ability to create a sense of community amongst any group of people he finds himself in. Honestly, a rock and a stick would feel part of something in his presence. Then there is Felipe, the salsa dancer and lover of red wine, who aged 7 wanted to be a space traveller. He has a smile that fills his face and a precious kind of positive energy. Ryan is my Mancunian mucker; he shows his affection with all the freedom in the world and will take any opportunity to lovingly take the piss. He was also always the one to edge his textbook in my line of sight when he’d notice I’d gotten distracted by something shiny out the window. Last, there’s Emmanuel, who I cycled about Berlin at all hours with, spent afternoons scooping Nutella out the jar and finding every possible opportunity to say the word Schlussel (key, in German) because it’s a great word. He taught me how to feel like I was doing everything, everywhere, all at once and I’m glad I got to meet him. That I know these people are existing somewhere in the world as I write, makes me really happy.

Ingredients

Inspired by Letitia Clark’s Cherry, Ricotta, Olive Oil and Almond Cake.

• 200g Strawberries – medium ones left whole and big ones halved
• 250g Ricotta
• 3 Large eggs
• 190g / 200ml Olive Oil
• 1 – 2 tsp vanilla – depending on taste
• Pinch of salt
• 190g sugar
• 210g plain flour
• 80g ground almonds
• 30g polenta
• 2 tsp baking powder
• lemon zest/orange zest/almond extract – optional extras to embrace an italian breakfast cake vibe

Method

Pre heat the oven to 180 / 160 fan. Grease and line an 8 inch springform or loose bottom tin. A 9 inch also works perfectly, with a slightly reduced bake time.

Prepare the fruit and set aside.

In a large bowl whisk together the ricotta, eggs, oil, vanilla and salt until smooth. Add the rest of the ingredients to the bowl, apart from the fruit, and mix thoughraly to make sure the baking powder is evenly distributed. Now is the time to mix in any extras if you choose (citrus zest, almond extract). Pour the batter into the prepeared tin.

Arrange the fruit on top (I normally just tumble it in), pressing some of the fruit down in places so it’s part submerged in the batter. If using any fruit that isn’t strawberries, scatter over a couple tablespoons of sugar.

Bake for about 70 mins until a skewer inserted into the cake comes out with a few moist crumbs. Depending on your oven this cake can take up to 1 hour 40 mins, don’t worry about this, it’s a weighty cake. Leave the cake to cool in the tin for 20 mins.

Caitlin x