Seasonal Apple Cake — French Apple Cake Recipe for Fall

The steady patter of rain against the blinds woke me. For a moment I imagined a storm, the kind my friend N. and I used to endure when we lived in New Zealand in that small, drafty wooden house at the end of Breaker Bay Road. I stretched, yawned, and noticed it was still dark outside. My watch read 7:15 a.m.; autumn was coming and soon mornings would be darker. I felt sluggish and turned onto my left side, propping my head on a second pillow, hoping for a few more hours of sleep. Then my plans for the day crept back in, and I decided to get up.

“It won’t be fun if it rains, will it?” I told my sister-in-law G. on the phone after a generous breakfast of fresh baguette, cheese, fruit and yogurt. We had planned to drive to Metz for shopping and a visit to pâtisserie Fresson, where I’d been hoping to taste their tartines made with Poilâne bread.

“I guess you are right,” she replied without arguing. “Let’s go tomorrow instead.”

The city could wait.

Nature and my baking project could not.

My brother has lovely apple trees in his garden. His neighbor does too, and so do many households in the village — apples are everywhere here.

“Ah des pommes, il y en aura cette année!” my mother told me when I asked about the fruit trees — there would be plenty of apples this year. “Unlike quetsches and mirabelles. Producers say it’s a poor year for those.”

“I take it you’ll make apple juice again, won’t you?” I asked my brother B later.

“Oui.”

With my parents out for the day, I cooked a simple lunch using vegetables from their garden: young carrots and zucchini stewed with thyme and the organic virgin olive oil my family brought from Crete, served with sautéed rice and freshly chopped parsley. I was glad I’d picked the vegetables the day before because the garden soil was wet, but I still craved a green salad alongside the meal.

My dad’s Wellington boots were oversized on my still-long feet, but perfect for the muddy garden. I didn’t mind leaving deep footprints in the wet soil — I’d come back dirty and happy. I picked the youngest, freshest leaves I could find, enough for two, and within five minutes a freshly tossed green salad was on the dining table.

Then I thought about the apples. And about baking a tart.

“What about making a cake with apples?” G. suggested. “Ça se gardera mieux, non?” She had a point — a cake would keep better than a tart.

So instead of a tart, I baked an upside-down apple cake.

I walked over to B. and G.’s garden to pick a few apples. Even though B. had cleaned beneath the trees the day before, fallen fruit dotted the grass — they planned to use many for compote.

“Il y en a plus tous les jours,” he laughed (there are more fallen ones every day). “We have too many!”

Lucky him.

I planned to use the leftover quinoa and brown rice flours I had, plus the fragrant olive oil from Crete. I added vanilla seeds and a pinch of cinnamon for aroma, and roasted nuts for a crunch.

The cake was a success. After dinner we sat down with a pot of white tea and a few slices while watching Un Gars et Une Fille on TV. The cake’s airy texture and the light yellow hue from the olive oil were delightful. The apples were sweet and melting, making it hard to stop at one slice.

I found myself already looking forward to breakfast the next morning for another slice — or two.

Despite the cake, the next day I made apple tartlets anyway. I kept them simple to let the fruit shine.