I LOVE autumn, especially May.
It’s the gentle tail end of the season—still colourful, still crisp, the anticipation of winter, with its crackling fires, snow days and mugs of hot chocolate.
Though this season it's been warmer than most, by now, evening fires are usually well-established routine, woodpiles are steadily shrinking, and maybe even a snow day or two hinted at in the hills.
But not here – yet.
While the woodstove simmers along and the kettle hums quietly, the log burner sits quietly more often than not.
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Outside, the garden lingers in a kind of autumnal pause, not quite ready to give in to winter.
For me, May always feels full of quiet celebration—Mother’s Day, my birthday, and that soft anticipation of the cold to come.
It's a time for baking, for slowing, and for indulging in little rituals that make this season feel so cosy.
Most years, I bake a cake for my birthday—it’s a personal tradition I never quite plan, but almost always follow through on.
For me there’s something deeply satisfying about baking in the cooler months.
The entire house feels warmer and cosier, the kettle is never far from boiling, and the scent of butter and vanilla fills the air and seems to belong here—settling into corners like familiar company.
In May, for my birthday, I don’t want layers or lavishness—I want a cake with structure, presence and a little theatre.
I want a Bundt.
Not just any Bundt, either.
I use my treasured Holiday Fir Bundt tin: owned now for many decades, a ring of evergreen trees and alpine charm, part bakeware, part sculpture.
It’s the sort of tin that insists on respect and sets the tone before the batter’s even mixed.
You don’t eyeball measurements with a pan like this—you level flour, soften butter properly, and grease every crevice with careful attention.
I tend to bake the same recipe each year.
It’s simple, but rich—and depending on my mood, I’ll sometimes stir in ground cinnamon, ginger, and a whisper of ground cloves.
No fillings, nothing elaborate.
Just a golden, eggy, finely-crumbed vanilla Bundt with a delicate crust.
It’s a cake that doesn’t shout, but it certainly speaks.
And when it comes out of the tin cleanly, (because, of course it does!!) each tree is softly defined, and I allow myself a moment or three.
You know the one.
A small internal bow, the ceremonial “oh thank goodness,” and the very human urge to photograph it from twelve different angles, just in case the light shifts or the cat sneezes.
Once it’s cooled, I give it the lightest dusting of icing sugar.
And it looks like winter has passed quietly through the kitchen.
For now it presides grandly on the dining table—quietly festive, proud, and perfectly at home in May’s gentle descent toward winter.
And a very fine way to mark another turn around the sun.
