Pumpkin Pecan Loaves

Portland fall. The Japanese maple turning the color of sunset. Sunday farmers market. Tomatoes, shiso, kabocha when in season, mushrooms in fall. The shopping list is short and exact.

Miya, 9, can shape onigiri without falling apart. She uses wet hands. She knows the order without being told. I drank miso from Fumiko's chipped bowl. The chip fits my lip. The lip fits the chip. The bowl is the small daily ritual.

Mushroom rice Saturday. Shiitake and maitake folded into the rice during cooking. Dashi, soy, mirin. The earthy autumn dish.

Barbara called Sunday. We talked for twenty minutes. She told me about the play she is directing. I told her about the kitchen.

The week held. The work continues.

Therapy Tuesday. We talked about the wedding. We talked about Barbara. We talked about Fumiko. The hour passed. The work continues.

I drove to Uwajimaya Wednesday. Kombu, bonito flakes, white miso, a small bag of mochiko for tomorrow's project. The store smells like home.

I read for an hour Sunday night. A book of essays by a Korean-American writer about food and grief. I underlined a paragraph that said exactly what I had been trying to say in the newsletter for months.

I wrote at the kitchen table from six to eight. The newsletter was forming. The opening sentence was the hard sentence — they always are. I rewrote it five times. The fifth time was the right time.

Miya is in elementary school. The Saturday Japanese school continues. She still complains. She is still going.

Yoga Tuesday morning. The studio in Sellwood. Eight students. The class was the class.

I texted Miya a photo of the shiso. She texted back a heart and a single word: home.

Tomi watered the garden Saturday morning. The shiso was head-high. The shishito peppers were producing. The kabocha was running on the fence.

I cleaned the kitchen Sunday afternoon. Wiped the counters. Reorganized the drawer where the chopsticks live. Sharpened the knife. The reset was the reset.

Made dashi at five-thirty AM. Ten minutes in the kitchen alone with the kombu and the bonito flakes. The day's first prayer.

The cat was the cat. Mochi at fifteen sleeps most of the day. She still eats with enthusiasm. She still sits at the kitchen window watching the back garden.

A reader sent me a handwritten card this week. Her grandmother had cooked Japanese food in 1970s Boise. She had felt alone in it. The newsletter, she wrote, made her feel less alone. I taped the card to the wall above my desk.

Miya's old room is now my office. The desk is by the window. The shiso outside. The newsletter in progress. The afternoons are quiet.

A panic flicker Tuesday evening, brief, manageable. I breathed. I drank water. I went outside and walked around the block. The flicker passed. The body did its work.

The neighbor's dog barked at nothing for twenty minutes Sunday afternoon. The neighbor apologized. I told him I had been writing through it and the white noise was helpful. He laughed.

Coffee with a friend Saturday morning. We talked about books, about kids, about the way our forties became our fifties. The talking is the thing.

The rain in long sheets Tuesday afternoon. I made tea. I watched it from the porch. The cottonwoods on the next block were silver in the wet.

I made onigiri for tomorrow's lunch. Three triangles. Salted plum in the center. Wrapped in nori. The cling wrap. The drawer where I keep them. The system.

Sunday farmers market in the rain. The vendors knew me. The Hood River apple stand had honeycrisps. I bought four pounds.

The kabocha on the fence, the honeycrisps from Hood River, the shiso going head-high in the back garden — fall in Portland arrives with its arms full, and the kitchen responds in kind. After a week of early dashi, newsletter rewrites, and the particular quiet of a Saturday market in the rain, I wanted something I could pull from the oven and leave on the counter for Miya, for Tomi, for whoever walked through the door. These pumpkin pecan loaves are that thing: unhurried, deeply spiced, the smell of them filling the house the way the farmers market fills the whole block on a wet October morning.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 55 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour 10 minutes | Servings: 16 (two 9x5 loaves)

Ingredients

3 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon fine sea salt
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1 can (15 oz) pure pumpkin puree
1 cup vegetable oil
2 cups granulated sugar
4 large eggs, room temperature
1/3 cup water
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 cup chopped pecans, divided

Instructions

Preheat and prepare. Heat oven to 350°F. Grease two 9x5-inch loaf pans and line with parchment, leaving an overhang on the long sides for easy removal.
Whisk dry ingredients. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and cloves until evenly combined. Set aside.
Mix wet ingredients. In a separate large bowl, whisk together the pumpkin puree, oil, sugar, eggs, water, and vanilla extract until smooth and fully incorporated.
Combine. Add the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients and stir gently with a rubber spatula until just combined — do not overmix. Fold in 3/4 cup of the chopped pecans.
Fill the pans. Divide the batter evenly between the two prepared loaf pans. Scatter the remaining 1/4 cup pecans over the tops of both loaves.
Bake. Bake for 50–60 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of each loaf comes out clean and the tops are set and deep golden brown. If the tops begin to brown too quickly, tent loosely with foil after 40 minutes.
Cool. Let the loaves cool in the pans for 15 minutes, then lift out using the parchment overhang and transfer to a wire rack to cool completely before slicing.

Nutrition (per serving)

Pumpkin Pecan Loaves — The Farmers Market Find That Carried the Week