I was raised on applesauce (along with a few other things). We ate applesauce as a side dish at suppertime. We ate applesauce smeared atop butter bread for our lunch. We ladled applesauce into popsicle molds and ate it frozen on hot summer afternoons.

Nowadays, there’s still an awful lot of apples getting turned into sauce around here. My children adore the stuff so we put up about a hundred quarts of sauce every summer. Despite our zealous, saucy ways, I must admit that I’m not all that much in love with the stuff. I prefer my apples fresh, or else baked up in a pie, cake, or crisp rather than in ordinary schmordinary sauce form.

It has come to my attention that some people believe applesauce has only two functions: as baby food and as a baking ingredient. I agree that it’s a great baby food, but I have never, ever fallen prey to the notion that applesauce belongs in baked goods.

There are two reasons that applesauce in baked goods grieves me most mightily. First, some people use applesauce as a substitute for oil. This is wrong. For me, of course. I wouldn’t presume to tell you what you can or can’t do. That would be rude.

But folks! If you’re going to eat a cake, then eat a cake, for crying out loud! A cake complete with all the vital components—sugar! butter! white flour! And if you’re not up for indulging, then just don’t indulge! In any case, do not—I repeat, do not—desecrate the real deal with applesauce!

Unless desecrated cake is the real deal for you. In that case, desecrate with abandon. See if I care.

The second reason that applesauce in baked goods grieves me is that applesauce is a heck of a lot of work. After all that cutting, cooking, mashing, drilling, and canning, I’m not inclined to hide applesauce in other baked goods. It’s a food in its own right and I want everyone to see it and appreciate it for what it is: applesauce. No applesauce gets hidden under a bushel basket in this house, no sir! Here, we let our little applesauce light shine brightly.

For both of the above reasons, I’ve been averse to cozy-ing up the words “cake” and “applesauce.” (Though, I must point out, applesauce in cake is very different from applesauce on cake. The former is taboo—or was taboo, as you’ve probably already figured out from this long-winded preamble—while the latter is perfectly acceptable, though slightly Pennsylvania Dutchy-esque.)

Anyhow. What I’m trying to get at is that—big bite of crow here—I put applesauce in a cake and loved it.

It’s all Deb’s fault. Deb posted a recipe for applesauce spice cake and she did not try to mask it with any health nut terminology. No indeed. Hers was a full-blown cake complete with icing and butter and brown sugar. It tempted mightily.

And then I recalled the adult applesauce that I had made the other night. See, in an effort to get myself excited about apples in sauce form, I had simmered chunks of cored, unpeeled apples in some apple cider, with a couple sprigs of rosemary and a cinnamon stick thrown in for umph and some browned butter stirred in for richness. The sauce was classy and sophisticated, but no one liked it except for me. (There was the little problem with the apple peels, I must admit. I hadn’t cut the apples into small enough pieces which meant that large flaps of apple skin were a predominant feature. But hey, what are our chompers for anyway?)

In any case, I had a bunch of leftover sauce in the fridge and when Deb’s recipe popped up and I recalled my rosemary-infused chunky applesauce, I was a goner. I had no option but to make the cake.

So I did. I immersion blendered up a bit of the sauce till it was creamy smooth and tossed it in with the brown sugar and eggs and spices and baked myself up a lovely applesauce cake.

If it’s at all healthy, it’s a total coincidence and completely inconsequential.

It’s cake, is what it is, and a darn fine one at that. Simple, homey, comfortable, and absolutely autumnal, it begs to be eaten in front of a crackling fire, thick wool socks on your feet and a fleece blanket draped over your shoulders.

One more thing before I give you the recipe: the cake’s name. I have to do something about the name. I’ve been calling this cake Applesauce Cake because that’s what it is, but the name does not own up to the cake. This is not a cake with some applesauce in it. This is an applesauce cake. But the name “Applesauce Cake” does not convey that fact.

So I can not in good consciousness call it an applesauce cake. It must have a new name. Apple Spice Cake? Apple Infused Cake? Apple and Spice Cake? Sauced Apple Cake? Saucy Apple Cake? Saucy, Spicy Apple Cake? Applesauce Spiked Cake? Rosemary and Cinnamon Applesauce Cake?

Good grief! This is going nowhere. I’ll have to bite the bullet, back down, and call it what it is. If you have any better ideas, please let me know.

Applesauce Cake
Adapted from Deb of Smitten Kitchen

The apple-ness permeates the moist cake in a most beguiling fashion, and the spices are mild. The first time around I was a little disappointed that I couldn’t taste the rosemary outright (and you all know how I love rosemary and apples together) so the second time I allowed a few rosemary needles to get blended up with the apples. Also, the second time around I doubled the cinnamon and increased the ginger, two changes which I wrote into the recipe. If you want less spice, cut them back to 3/4 teaspoon and ½ teaspoon, respectively.

If desired, you can make some rosemary applesauce for the cake (or to eat with your syruped-up Sunday waffles): wash and core a couple pounds of apples. Do not peel them. Chop them up into bite-sized chunks (or leave them bigger if you plan to blend them up) and put them in a kettle with about a half inch of apple cider on the bottom. Toss in a stick of cinnamon and a couple sprigs of rosemary. While the apples are cooking, brown a couple tablespoons of butter in a separate saucepan. When the apples are tender, remove the cinnamon and rosemary and stir in the browned butter. Serve the chunky sauce as is, or blend it up.

One more note: the cinnamon in the frosting is a very fine idea indeed.

½ cup butter, softened
1 cup brown sugar (I used dark)
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
1 ½ teaspoons cinnamon
3/4 teaspoon ginger
1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
½ teaspoon salt
1 1/3 cups applesauce
Cinnamon cream cheese frosting (recipe follows)

Cream together the butter and brown sugar. Add the eggs and vanilla and beat some more. Mix together the dry ingredients in a separate bowl and then add them to the creamed butter mixture. Blend gently to combine. Stir in the applesauce.

Pour the batter into a greased 9-inch springform pan (or a square 9×9 glass pan). Bake at 350 degrees for 30-40 minutes. Cool and frost.

If you’re not going to eat up the cake within a couple days, store it in the refrigerator. Otherwise, show it off on your most fetching cake plate.

Cinnamon Cream Cheese Frosting

This frosting is gorgeous, pale brown with darker brown speckles.

3 tablespoons butter, softened
5 tablespoons cream cheese
1 cup confectioner’s sugar, sifted
1/4 teaspoon vanilla
½ teaspoon cinnamon

Cream together the butter and cream cheese. Beat in the vanilla and cinnamon and then add the confectioner’s sugar.

This same time, years previous: garden inventory 2009, pizza with curried pumpkin sauce, sausage, apples, caramelized onions, and sharp cheddar (it wins the award for longest food title)

These mornings it’s still dark when I wake up. I slip into our bathroom to dress and brush my teeth before walking oh-so-stealthily by the kids’ rooms and then, as quickly and smoothly as possible, skittering down the stairs, though almost never without hitting a bunch of creaky squeaky spots. Creaky spots can’t be missed in an old house like ours—it’s full of them.

Once in the kitchen I turn on a couple small lamps, light some votives, start up the computer, and set a pot of water on to boil for my morning coffee. It’s quiet and chilly. I shiver.

This morning I had to run down cellar for a quart of frozen strawberries to put atop our baked oatmeal. As I crossed the deck on my return trip, I glanced in the kitchen windows and my breath caught. For what I saw through the fogged-up glass was my life as a memory, fuzzy and warm.

Tale #1: my lampshades

This one has been stricken with permanent marker by an errant and heavy-handed child. Other lampshades have holes poked in them. Some are bent.

I like lamps but my children seem to have a vendetta against them. Perhaps they are jealous? Perhaps they want to be the only Lights of My Life?

Tale #2: fruit fly genocide

Fruit flies, disgusting and gross little thangs that they are, have been swarming my kitchen. I thought there was nothing to do for them besides occasionally waving a vacuum cleaner hose over their party, but I was wrong.

Really Sweet Fruit Fly Death Trap

*Put a couple drops of dish soap in a jar.
*Glug in some cider vinegar.
*Cover the top of the jar with a piece of plastic wrap.
*Poke some holes in the plastic wrap with a sharp pencil.
*Over the course of the next twenty-four hours, gleefully watch as the bottom of the jar gets covered with dead fruit flies.

(Other partners in crime: Margo—who taught me how to become a mass slaughterer—and Lynn.)

Tale #3: I tried to poison my children and failed

My children have sticky fingers. They steal candy from my cupboards. I have tried everything: talking, heaping on mountains of old-fashioned guilt, withholding their treat at treat time, having them pay for replacement candy and then withholding it from them, etc. All this to no avail. The sticky fingers continued to reign supreme. (I have not completely eliminated candy because a couple kids are oblivious of these crimes and adore their little treats. Plus, and more to the point, I like my little treats.)

One night after opening my cupboards and finding the twist tied-shut bag of marshmallows untwist tied for the second time that week, I decided I’d had enough. Desperate times called for desperate measures. It was time to break out the poison.

I scanned my spice shelves. Cayenne powder? Too visible. Baking soda? Not intense enough. Salt? Too bland. Then my eyes lighted on the little bottle of Tabasco sauce. Yes!

I emptied the bag of marshmallows of all but four (no, I did not eat them—I ziplocked them away in a higher, secreter spot). Those four marshmallows I set on the table, cackled wickedly, and commenced to pierce the marshmallows with a knife and glug in my evil potion. To help obscure the rather tell-tale rust-colored smudge on the bottom of each marshmallow, I rolled them in powdered sugar. Then I stuck the bag back in the cupboard like it was, still untwist tied, readily available for some sticky wandering fingers.

That was several weeks ago. Since then, no marshmallows have gone missing.

I am crushed. I so wanted to catch the sweet-toothed thieves red-handed and hot-lipped, tears of remorse streaming down their faces.

Darn.

Tale #4: Cell phone panic

I went to a church meeting the other evening, and on my way out the door, I stuffed Mr. Handsome’s cell phone in my purse. I didn’t think of it again until one of our church elders was intoning the closing prayer and the phone started brrringing.

My chair was wedged in a corner. I couldn’t flee. I snatched up my purse and started digging.

Brrrrring! Brrrrring! Altoids, receipts, keys… Brrrring! Brrrrrring! … grace to walk through the… Brrrrring! Brrrrring! Checkbook, wallet, lip gloss… Brrring! Brrrring! … the leadership wisdom as they …. Brrrrring! Brrrring! Pens, cough drops, calendar, CELL PHONE! Brrr— Cheeks aflame, I opened it and snapped it shut … Amen.

Tale #5: Party pooper parents

Elder son’s birthday presents did not arrive in time. This means that the poor child got clothes, deodorant, and Legos.

I fail my children in so many ways but birthdays do not need to be one of them. I have control over birthdays. I like birthdays.

And yet the most basic thing, the presents, I bombed.

He soldiered on most magnificently, despite his parents’ shortcomings. He knew I felt bad. He acted tough.

I knew he knew I felt bad and was acting tough for my sake. I felt worse.

This afternoon the UPS truck is scheduled to deliver me from my pile of wretchedness. It’ll be nice to finally lift my head and stare at something besides my toes.

Tale #6: Fondue

This is not a story of terror and woe (unless you are lactose intolerant or have horrible memories of the 70s or once ate the whole pot of fondue and now just the mention of the word makes your insides seize up), but I wanted to tell you about it and since I was making a list, I decided that consistency would win out over logic this once. (Not that logic hasn’t ever lost out before..)

In this house, fondue equals Classy Kid Meal. It involves all the elements of excitement and yum: fire, sharp poke-y things, plus weinies and cheese, all in the comfort of your home, arranged atop a red-checked tablecloth.

Many fondues call for white wine and fancy cheeses. I love them all, but not everyone in my family does, so for our family parties I stick to a simple, alcohol-free cheddar cheese sauce.

When it comes to fondue, I’m all about pleasing the masses.

We only have one fondue pot. This makes for a complicated mealtime dance, what with all the lunging and plunging. Therefore, some people get to dip out of the pot and others get little ramekins of sauce to sit on their plates. This way no one gets stabbed. (If that happened, then this would be a tale of terror and woe.)

Cheddar Cheese Fondue

1 pound cheddar cheese, grated
2 tablespoons flour
1 cup milk
1 teaspoon grated onion
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
pinch of cayenne pepper
pinch of salt
dip-able munchies (see below)

Put the milk and onion in a saucepan and scald. Toss the grated cheese with the flour. Add the cheese and heat through, whisking steadily, till smooth (do not boil). Add the Worcestershire sauce, cayenne pepper, and salt, and taste to correct seasonings. Pour into a fondue pot or little ramekins and serve with dip-able munchies.

Dip-able munchies:
*cubes of bread—cut thick slabs of hearty bread into cubes, lay on a baking sheet, and bake in a 350 degree oven for 10-15 minutes till lightly toasted, stirring every few minutes
*steamed broccoli and carrots—steam the carrots till slightly tender; add the broccoli and continue steaming till both are tender
*apple slices
*sausages, little smokies, hot dogs—heat through and chop into bite-sized pieces
*other ideas—mushrooms, boiled potatoes, shrimp, asparagus, etc.
*to accompany—olives, grapes, other acidic munchies to cut the heavy cheese

Fondue leftovers are wonderful. Chop up the veggies and meat and add them to a thinned down cheese sauce. Toast the bread cubes the rest of the way to crouton-dom, and bingo—you’ve created fondue soup!

P.S. I thought up the theme for this post while at a funeral. The grave diggers looked like they were straight out of Mel Gibson’s Hamlet.

Updated on October 31, 2010: That fondue soup is a little tricky. Sometimes the cheese doesn’t want to be thinned down and goes all stringy. So it might be best give up on the idea of thinning and simply chop up the chilled fondue into little bits before adding it to the soup.

This same time, years previous: brown sugar syrup, buttermilk pancakes, apple tart with cider-rosemary glaze, Yo-Yo’s birth story