When I was a little girl we would spend most of the summer camping.
We would park the camper up at The Lake which was across The Way from my grandmother's farm.
Down a path lined with blueberry bushes and blackberry brambles was a patch of grass.
Beyond that patch of grass was the lake.
On the other end of that patch of grass was the outhouse.
Mind you, it was a beautiful location. But to to my very young self, it was a love-hate relationship.
I loved being up at the lake.
I loved being able to roam, play on the rock wall and explore the lengths of the shore to my heart's content.
I loved the chance to be able to sit and read the eight to ten books that I had checked out of the library. (Which would be finished in few short days - which would mean another trip back into town to check out more books.)
I hated the lack of certain creature comforts. Translation: I totally hated using the outhouse in the middle of the night - a) it smelled and b) that was one heck of a creepy walk in the dark - I was absolutely convinced that a wild animal was going to get me or that a snake was hiding down in the pit of the outhouse. Terrifying, I tell you. Terrifying.
I hated, hated, hated sleeping in the bunk bed of the camper (I am not a fan of heights - especially while sleeping).
I hated the solitariness of it all.
Young Cher did not always appreciate the time away from the rest of the world. Or the beauty that surrounded her.
This was pre-cell phone. Pre-lap tops. No cable TV.
My dad would trek off to work and it would just be me and my mom. In the camper. Just the two of us.
I love my mom; but those summers could be very, very long - I am sure they were as long for her as they were for me... They probably felt twice as long for her during my teen years. She was a saint for putting up with me then.
One thing that I did love about summer and camping was the food.
Fresh fish cooked over the camp fire.
Marshmallows propped on the end of a stick and toasted over the fire until they were crackly, oozy.
Hot dogs slightly blackened.
And the cinnamon swirl cake with the white glaze and the pecans picked up from the local store.
Oh, how I loved that swirl cake.
I can remember sneaking the icing and nuts from the center of the pan.
And tearing into wedges of the soft yeasted dough.
Nothing said summer & camping like that cinnamon cake.
It has been many years since I have been camping.
And the bakery no longer makes that cake I hold so dear in my memories.
Which means that if I want that warm, tender goodness, I have to create it myself.
Tender brioche dough comes close to the texture of the cake of my memories. It's buttery goodness transports me back to days gone by.
The nuts were left behind to please the palate of a picky eater. The white glaze of the cake of yesteryear was traded out for a caramelly, brown sugar glaze. A treat for today - no camping required...
This post participates in Tuesdays with Dorie. To find the recipe, please check out the link to this week's hosts Lynn of Eat Drink Man Woman Dog Cat and Nicole of Cookies on Friday