Sometimes a recipe is about more than just food; it is about the idea of belonging and the reassurance found through a mother’s love. Nowadays, living far from my childhood home, I find myself making my mother’s coffee-and-walnut cake more often than I probably should. In fact, my whole bakery is inspired by the relationship between mother and daughter found through baking.
My mother left New Zealand because she fell in love with my French father. She renovated our home and turned it into a bed-and-breakfast, sewing everything herself. We grew up dining with guests from all over the world, with cakes and baked goods always at the center of the table—from Victoria sponges with overflowing crème fraîche and raspberry jam to decadent dark chocolate cakes and 4 p.m. scones. Everything was baked freshly and with seasonal ingredients. Baking is my mother’s love language and her connection to her roots.
But perhaps more than any other item, it was her coffee-and-walnut cake that was special to me because it instilled a knowledge of how to belong in a country that is not initially yours. She inherited the recipe from her own mother back in New Zealand. Using strong coffee and fresh walnuts, it’s a classic cake New Zealanders make at home. I don’t know if it’s the type of walnuts, the care she puts into it, or just nostalgia, but I never feel that mine quite matches hers.
The region I am from in southwestern France is known for its walnuts. Growing up, my mother and I would go to our neighbors’ to pick them straight from their trees. She always placed them in the same straw basket, and I would then spend hours in the kitchen breaking the shells with a decades-old nutcracker, cutting my hands in the process. While I was shelling the nuts, she prepped the batter and stirred in the cooled coffee. The batter was then poured into two different pans and spread evenly. We would then poke in the chopped walnuts (my favorite part) and bake them. The scent of coffee and walnut enveloped the kitchen as we waited patiently for the cakes to cool before topping them with coffee buttercream.
In those moments, baking became a kind of therapy session. I would sit in the kitchen and witness the respect and love she brought to the process. It was a time to pause and focus only on that one task, to enjoy the process and the time with her. The cake still reminds me of how strong she was to move to a foreign country, with a different language, yet keep her roots through her baking.
I followed a similar path, moving to New York from France. I not only fell in love with the city but also with my husband; a trip that was supposed to last one year has now turned into eight—just like my mother. Missing home and my mom’s baking every day led me to open my bakery, From Lucie, in the East Village, with her recipes right there on the menu.
I remember standing in the kitchen, asking her if she ever regretted leaving New Zealand. I was having my own doubts at the time. She said something that still sticks with me to this day. She explained that while she loved her mother and the life she had left behind, she was driven to write her own story. Being far from home didn’t mean losing yourself, she said. You could create a completely new place to belong, while keeping the place you came from at the very center of it all.
