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The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake

Book by Rachel Linden · 17 quotes · Adult Romance, Cake, Orange Blossom

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The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake Quotes

“I sniff the batter, savoring the sweet, delicate aroma of the orange blossom extract and the unctuous aroma of good olive oil. "You sure this is all there is to it?" I ask Nonna. "It just seems too simple." "Simple can be just as good as complex," Nonna says serenely as she whips up a simple sugar and orange zest icing to pour over the cake when it's done. "Often is better. It doesn't need to twist you into knots. Often the best choice is the simple one. Simple is beautiful.”

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“It's just past eight a.m. in Seattle, but in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, Aurora's six kids are already hours into their daily chores around the historic manor house and hobby farm Aurora and her husband Will run together. Today she's in the henhouse, and she's propped me up in an empty nesting box while she gathers fresh eggs with two of my nieces. All around them I can hear the soft clucking of the brood as she and the girls gather eggs and gently tuck them into a basket she wove by hand. She's dressed in a flowing muslin peasant dress that looks vaguely like a Jane Austen-era nightgown. On her it looks strangely amazing, though. Everything does. She even somehow manages to rock the elaborate ruffle around the neck. Her flaxen hair is in two braids wrapped around her head like a crown, Heidi-style. The girls are wearing matching ruffled pinafores and pigtails. They look darling.”

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“Every recipe in this book has the potential to help someone in need. The recipes work in many different ways, depending on the individual's circumstances," she explains, "but the recipe for Orange Blossom Cake is special. The person who takes the first bite of the cake will see a vision of the sweetest moment of happiness that awaits them in life.”

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“My dad and I sitting just a few yards away on the lakefront, sharing a snack of ripe figs stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in a local salted, cured meat, a sort of prosciutto. I was probably twelve or thirteen. Dad was using his pocket knife to slit the figs and stuff them with gobs of the creamy goat cheese, his big fingers surprisingly dexterous. I open my eyes and glance to the right, seeing us sitting there side by side, dangling our legs in the cool water. I can almost taste again the gritty sweetness of the figs, the rich creamy funk of the goat cheese, the salty umami of the dried meat. It was a simple, perfect snack on a simple, perfect day.”

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“Go home and stay away from my grandson." "No." I surprise myself with my refusal. She stares at me for a long moment. "What did you say?" She looks genuinely shocked. I'm not sure anyone ever says no to Violetta Fiore. I cross my arms, darting a quick look at Nicolo. He is watching me with a raised eyebrow and a look of respect. Even the dog is staring at me, tail wagging uncertainly. "I won't go. Not without the recipe. I know you have it. It belongs to my family. Give it back." She rears back as though I've struck her. "Do you even know what you are asking for?" she hisses. For a moment I waver. She's right. I don't really know what I'm asking for, not entirely. I know it's half of a torn recipe, but I don't understand the history of the recipe between Violetta and Nonna Bruna. "I know enough to know that it has value to my Nonna Bruna and that you took it," I say, lifting my chin. "It's valuable enough that she says losing it ruined her life." I'm surprising myself with my own tenacity. I can't back down now.”

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“I'm standing so close I can smell him, something familiar in the warmth of his skin--- the faintest whiff of his cologne with traces of warm amber and woody, resinous cedar and an underlying herbaceous, peppery note of olive oil that seems to be a part of his essence. I lean closer, my nose brushing his skin, and he pulls back enough to look at me incredulously. "Are you sniffing me?" I giggle, half-embarrassed at being caught out. "Sorry, you smell delicious," I tell him a little flirtatiously. "Oh, do I?" He watches me, intrigued. "What do I smell like?" "Like warm honey and the sticky sap of a cedar tree.”

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“I can see blue sky over the lake and a pale beam of sunlight on the water. The rain has stopped. I take a bite of the cake, closing my eyes and savoring the delicate flavor and the sudden calm with a sense of relief. I'll worry about how I'm going to save the farm later. Right now I want to enjoy my cake and the satisfaction of having made my decision, having chosen my right hard thing. I take another bite of cake, and another. Every one tastes like olive oil and orange blossoms, earthy and honest and a little bittersweet.”

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“I choose a long, flat stone from the pile and wedge it carefully between two larger stones in the wall. It's a good fit, I note with satisfaction. "You've always been good at that, making something out of very little," Nicolo responds, and there's a fondness and admiration in his gaze that surprises me. He sees something in me I forgot was even there.”

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“Our trees are the Casaliva olive variety, a special type of olive unique to our northern region. The Casaliva olives produce a beautifully clear, pale green olive oil with the aroma of almonds and a light, fruity taste with hints of herbs and grass. The oil is rare and highly prized for its delicate flavor and gorgeous hue. In Italy, olive oil is used for everything--- cooking, illnesses, beauty treatments. Most nonnas, Nonna Bruna included, firmly believe that there is almost nothing that cannot be solved or at least improved with the application of a little good-quality olive oil. We all grow up with philosophy. Our veins all run with the precious, pale gold.”

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“Alberto was a good for nothing pisellino." Nonna puts her hand to her chest, looking shocked and delighted. "Violetta," she says, "no, is it true?" Nicolo makes a little choking sound. He looks mortified. I'm confused. "Did Violetta just call your grandfather a little pea?" I whisper, struggling to translate the words in my head. Nicolo is flushing a dull red beneath his golden olive tan. "It um... doesn't mean little pea," he murmurs, leaning close to my chair. "In Italian it is an insult for a man's private parts, calling them very small, like little peas." My eyes widen in astonishment. At this point in the evening I'm not sure anything else could surprise me. "It's true." Violetta sniffs and holds up her fingers several inches apart. "And his manhood, like a baby zucchina." Nonna looks immensely satisfied by this information. "Well," she says. "Well, God bless Carlo. He was a good man and there were no baby zucchine in our house, I can tell you. Only grandi zucchine." Nicolo clears his throat. "Your grandchildren are standing right here!" he reminds them.”

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“There is magic in this kitchen, Juliana, whether you know it or not, and the magic never lies. It is always right, and it is trying to tell you something now. We just have to hear what it is saying. It will lead us to the answer." "Listen to what?" I'm confused. Italian nonnas are a naturally superstitious bunch, armed with a staunch Catholic faith supplemented by old wives' tales and folk remedies. Is that what Nonna is talking about when she speaks about kitchen magic? Some folktale from the past? "The kitchen magic," Nonna says mysteriously. "It will show us how to make these recipes you need.”

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