I’m a sucker for cake, the more straightforward and simple the recipe the better. So when I was paging through the latest Bon Appetit, their berry ricotta cake—with the tagline, “This super-simple recipe is panic-free”—leaped right off the page and into my brain.

Actually, there is nothing unusual about that. Recipes are forever jumping into my brain. Most of them, however, get buried in the mental muck of ordinary life, never to be heard of again. This one, though, was different. It was loud and obnoxious, chanting “make me, make me, make me” and only laying off (just a little) when I finally wrote “ricotta” on my grocery list. In other words, this cake wasn’t a fleeting bit of inspiration. This cake was hellbent on becoming a reality. And fast.

So one night before bed, I mixed up the wet and dry ingredients and greased the pan. The next morning, still blurry-eyed and shuffly-footed, I stirred the two together, folded in the berries, and shoved the cake in the oven.

The cake was as good as I hoped it would be. Maybe even better. It was buttery and sweet with a glossy, high dome. Even though the cake was tender and light—the crumb couldn’t be more perfect—there was an underlying density (from the ricotta, I think) that hinted at a seriousness most cakes lack. This cake was more than fluff and nonsense. This cake was for real. In fact, it was so good that I’m inclined to say this recipe should be the go-to base for every yellow cake and any sort of muffin. 

When my husband tasted it, he said, “It needs more lemon.” 

“It doesn’t have any lemon in it.”

“Right. Like I said, it needs more lemon.”

Lemon would be a delightful addition, I agree. As would be more berries. One cup felt paltry, I thought. And what about swapping out some of the flour for cornmeal and adding in some blueberries? Or rhubarb? Anything goes, really. Just whatever you do, keep the ricotta. It’s what makes the cake sing.

Raspberry Ricotta Cake 
Adapted from the March 2015 issue of Bon Appetit

1½ cups flour
1 cup sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
¾ teaspoon salt
½ cup butter, melted
1½ cups ricotta
3 eggs, beaten
½ teaspoon vanilla
1-2 cups frozen raspberries (reserve a few to sprinkle on top)

Stir together the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. In a separate bowl, mix together the butter, ricotta, eggs, and vanilla. Combine the wet and dry ingredients and fold in the berries.

Pour the batter into a greased, 9-inch, springform pan, and sprinkle with the reserved berries.

Bake the cake at 350 degrees for 50-60 minutes. The cake is delicious warm, and it also keeps well at room temperature for a couple days.

Updated March 27, 2015: I made the cake with the zest of one lemon and two cups of blueberries in place of the raspberries. I baked it in a 7 x 11 rectangular pan. We devoured it.

This same time, years previous: chocolate babka, a love affair, sugar loaf, golden chicken curry, relief and pride, plus memories, and a child’s blessing.  

For the last week or so, I get nervous every day around 4 pm. Not nervous, exactly. Just…tightly wound. Or tense. Like all my cells are standing on their tippytoes. My stomach aches, then relaxes, then aches again. I can’t concentrate on much. It’s not bad, really. Just mildly inconvenient.

Tuesday night we worked the scene changes. There are no musical interludes so we have mere seconds to change and get back on stage. It’s crazy fast. And dark. After I ran face first into another actor’s shoulder, we ordered/numbered our exits. And I put glow tape on the back of my black shoes to protect my poor ankles from getting run over by the other wheelchairs. We practiced the transitions over and over and over again. According to the director, we’re never fast enough. (Pant-pant-pant.)

My older daughter has joined the backstage crew. Of all my children, she is the least theatrically-inclined. She’d rather observe and listen than draw attention to herself. But then it occurred to me that those very traits are perfect for behind-the-scenes stuff! It took a little persuading to get her on board. I explained all the reasons she might enjoy stage handing and finished off my wheedling speech with, “I won’t make you, but I think you should try it. If you don’t like it, you’ll never have to do it again. And you’ll learn so much from the experience! Why not try something new?”

She’s loving it. We might argue all day, but come evening, she’s a silent Angel of Organization. Between taking phone calls from the stage manager/sound tech operator, ordering actors into places, opening the curtain, pulling the scrim, making beds, and setting out the pill bottles and hats, she finds time to check up on me and rub my shoulders.

Starting tonight—deep breath—the show runs for two weekends: March 12-14 and March 19-21 at 8 pm, and Sundays March 15 and 22 at 3 pm. You can call the box office to purchase tickets, or just show up and buy them at the door.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (3.12.12), for all we know, and breakfast pizza.

On Monday, Luna disappeared. When she was still gone the next morning, I got a bad feeling. The cats are always underfoot.

“Go look along the road in the ditches,” I told my younger daughter. Periodically, she’d walk outside to call Luna. She asked the neighbors to be on the lookout. The kids checked the basement and searched the barn.

Right before supper, the younger children set off on yet another road search. Just as I was setting the bowl of pasta on the table, I heard loud crying and ran outside. There was Luna, very dead, in my (also very dead) flower garden.

“She’s frozen,” my son sobbed. ‘She was in the neighbor’s driveway and she’s frozen!”

How traumatic to find your pet dead by the side of the road and then to carry her home in your bare hands. The poor boy. (Mercifully, there were no bloody injuries, and no one witnessed the accident.)

Supper grew cold on the table while I went from room to room cuddling with each tearful child and my husband put Luna in a box. The children didn’t want supper and only picked at their food. My younger son popped up from his chair to make a sign for Luna. Sobbing punctuated everything.

After the meal, I whispered to my husband, “I am so glad I don’t have to be here tonight. Good luck.” And then I added, “You better not watch any Dr. Pol episodes tonight. Animals are always dying in that show. It will set them off.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I think we’ll start off the evening by reading Old Yeller, followed up by Sounder, and then we’ll finish off with Where The Red Fern Grows.”

When I returned home, my husband reported that they had buried Luna and then watched a mindless, funny little video. It hadn’t been too bad.

But then at four o’clock this morning, both of the younger children relocated to our bedroom floor—with “I miss Luna” sniffles—where they tossed about and whispered to each other for a couple of hours, at which point I lost my compassion and ordered them back to their room.

This same time, years previous: what will I wish I had done differently?, all by himself, dunging out, and let’s talk.