Angel Food Cake -- Light as the Space They Leave Behind

The Damiano Center on Thursday: wild rice soup, fifty gallons, the same recipe I have been making for twenty-some years now. The constancy is the point. People come into the basement of that building hungry and uncertain and what they find is a fifty-gallon pot of wild rice soup that has been there every Thursday of every year, and they find Linda Johansson, who has been there too, and the constancy is the message: you can come back. You can come back. You can come back. Lena (Anna's youngest, college freshman) is in college now. She calls me sometimes. The calls are about boys, mostly. I listen. I do not give advice. I am eighteen-year-old's grandmother. My credibility on boys is suspect at best. I tell her the kinds of things a grandmother is supposed to tell her: be careful, be brave, trust your gut, do not date the one who reminds you of someone you do not like. She thinks I am wise. I am, in fact, just old. The two get confused sometimes in the right direction. Jakob (Anna's middle, recently graduated) has a job. He hates the job. He is figuring it out. He called me Tuesday for advice. I told him: that is what your twenties are for. The first job is supposed to be unsatisfying. The first job teaches you what you do not want. He said, "Grandma, that is not super helpful." I said, "It is the truth. Helpful is not always the same as comforting." He laughed. He hung up. He kept the job for now. He will figure it out. Thanksgiving is approaching. The brining starts on Tuesday. The pies start on Wednesday. The kitchen begins its annual reorganization for the bird — turkey out of the freezer to the cooler in the garage, fridge cleared for the brine cooler, the big roasting pan brought up from the basement, the carving knife sharpened, the gravy boat located (last seen on the top shelf of the pantry, where it lives all year except this one week). The kids are all coming. The house is going to be full. I am ready. I cooked Pumpkin pie this week. From the Halloween pumpkin or the can (no judgment). Custard, spices, butter crust. Whipped cream on top. Damiano Thursday: a young father came in with two small children. He had not eaten in a day. The children had crackers from a bus station. I gave them three bowls each. They ate without speaking. The father wept silently while he ate. I pretended not to notice. Scandinavian decorum, applied with care. After he left, Gerald and I stood at the pot for a long minute. We did not speak. We knew what we had seen. The pot stayed warm. I miss Erik. I have been missing Erik more than I anticipated. I knew I would miss him, but I had not realized how often the missing would surface — in small specific moments, like noticing the wood pile is low and remembering that he used to chop it for me, or looking at the calendar and seeing the Sunday and knowing he is not coming for dinner. Erik was the closest person to me in space and time. The space and time are now not closed by anyone in particular. The kids fill the gap as they can. The gap is still a gap. It is enough. Paul is not here. Mamma is not here. Pappa is not here. Erik is not here. They are all here in the kitchen, in the smell, in the taste, in the wooden spoon and the bread pans and the marble slab. The dead are not where the body went. The dead are in the kitchen. It is enough.

The pumpkin pie is for the family coming through the door. The angel food cake is for everyone else — for Erik, for Mamma, for Pappa, for Paul — because it is light in a way that feels honest about what absence is: not heavy, not crushing, just an open space where something warm used to be. I made it this week alongside the pie, on the same Wednesday the kitchen reorganized itself for Thanksgiving, and I thought: this is the right cake for a kitchen full of people who are not entirely here and not entirely gone. It asks almost nothing of you, and it gives you something clean and white and good.

Angel Food Cake

Prep Time: 20 minutes | Cook Time: 40 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour | Servings: 12

Ingredients

• 1 1/2 cups egg whites (about 10–12 large eggs), at room temperature
• 1 1/2 teaspoons cream of tartar
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1 1/4 cups granulated sugar, divided
• 1 cup cake flour, sifted
• 1 1/2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
• 1/2 teaspoon almond extract (optional)

Instructions

1. Preheat the oven. Heat your oven to 325°F (165°C). Do not grease the tube pan — the batter needs to cling to the sides to rise properly.
2. Sift the dry ingredients. Sift the cake flour together with 3/4 cup of the sugar three times. Set aside.
3. Beat the egg whites. In a large, very clean bowl, beat egg whites with cream of tartar and salt on medium speed until foamy. Increase to high and beat until soft peaks form.
4. Add remaining sugar. Gradually add the remaining 1/2 cup sugar, two tablespoons at a time, beating until stiff, glossy peaks form. Beat in vanilla and almond extract.
5. Fold in the flour mixture. Sift the flour-sugar mixture over the egg whites in three additions, folding gently after each with a wide rubber spatula. Work slowly — you are keeping the air in.
6. Fill the pan. Spoon the batter into an ungreased 10-inch tube pan. Smooth the top gently. Run a thin knife through the batter to release any large air pockets.
7. Bake. Bake for 38–42 minutes, until the top is golden and springs back when lightly touched, and a skewer inserted in the center comes out clean.
8. Cool upside down. Immediately invert the pan onto its legs or over the neck of a bottle. Let cool completely, at least 1 hour — this is not optional. The cake must hang to hold its structure.
9. Release and serve. Run a thin knife around the edges and center tube to release the cake. Serve as-is, with fresh berries, or with a light dusting of powdered sugar.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 145 | Protein: 5g | Fat: 0g | Carbs: 31g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 95mg