A Birthday Cake

Remember last year and the spectacle that I made of myself in order to prepare Scott's birthday cake?  Remember how it started.  Scott was watching Bobby Flay and one of his throwdowns. This show had to do with German Chocolate cake, one of Scott's particular favorites.  He watched and salivated and cried at the beauty of the cake that Bobby Flay was whipping up. Before my one active brain cell kicked in, my mouth had opened and out came "I'll make that cake for your birthday". Scott's face lit up, his smile dazzled, he gurgled with happiness, and stars gleamed in his eyes. He looked at me with pure adoration.

 

A short while later I printed the recipe.  What was I thinking? The recipe was three pages long and contained ingredients unknown to the mortal working woman, such as muscavado brown sugar, and Dutch process cocoa powder. (Hum along to the tune: "the things we do for love".) I met with the assistant manager of a rather tony grocery store that I frequented only on high holy days. She was very gracious when I explained the situation and admired my fortitude. In reviewing the list of ingredients, there were a few that we had to look up while others had to be specially ordered and she did do that for me.

 

I took the Friday off to collect the special orders and shop for goat's milk, vanilla bean ($12 each), buttermilk, cocoanut rum, cocoanut milk, bittersweet chocolate, fine sea salt, extra fine sugar and other exotic ingredients.

 

Saturday arrived. I began at 9:30 am to collect and measure the ingredients. There was a lot of chopping, slicing, dicing, grating and there were room temperature ingredients, chilled ingredients, and chilled blended into room temperature ingredients. Finally all the wet stuff was poured onto the dry stuff and the ingredients were blended, then halved into two pans. Of course, the oven broke down and the cake came out of the oven too soon, then went back into the oven, and the first batch of goat's milk boiled over while the ghost of Lucy Ricardo hovered and cackled overhead. Undaunted, this cake would be completed and edible or I would die trying. I was unstoppable. I finished the cake at 6:30 pm. I was covered in flour, cocoa powder, and liquids of unknown origin but the cake was a work of art (she says modestly).

  

Round about 7:30 pm the candles were lit, speeches were made, and the cake was cut. It was a triumph, a never to be repeated success, but a masterpiece nonetheless. That was last year; this year my pal Duncan Hines may be sharing my kitchen, but we'll keep that between us. 

Kiss of Autumn

It was the last summer day, only I didn’t know it at the time. The humidity had  dissipated during the last few weeks, which made the outdoors much more inviting, certainly more than had been the case all July, a month that proved to be the hottest in recorded history. August and September, though, were only unreasonably hot. Ah, I thought, this is what summer’s supposed to feel like, dry and warm, with just enough of a breeze to rustle the leaves in the trees. I savored the moment. But then I felt it, that first trembling kiss of autumn; a tiny nip at the tail of each soft gust. Perhaps I had only imagined it, but I thought I was right. A tiny part of me was impressed with myself. In one year this city slicker had converted to a country squire who could feel the nature of the land. Then again, if I was wrong, I was just another loud mouth who didn’t know what she was talking about and the locals would have a good laugh behind my back. But the next morning I knew I was right; the chorus of geese started up at the crack of dawn. The cove was once again polluted with Canadians. Although the morning sun was shining, it was a more wan light. Summer had become an Indian summer. Cool days, long evening shadows, mists in the dusk and a chill in the night air heralded the coming of fall, as did the occasional hint of color on a few trees; all in a matter of days. 

Another harbringer of fall is sleeping, not that light summer sleep, tossing and turning and getting up for a glass of water, or the call of nature, but the deep hibernating sleep of the dead that happens only when the weather turns cool and requires an air horn to wake up. All summer long I woke with the morning's rays and while I tried to keep my eyes closed, it was never any good. By 8:30 am I was wide awake and ready to spend my day doing absolutely nothing constructive. However, these past few days ‘mama bear’ has taken over my psyche. I open my eyes to see that it’s 10 am. ‘Papa bear’ is sleeping soundly beside me. We’re both covered in blankets. Hibernation season has arrived, which brings up two pertinent questions: (1) How will anything get accomplished if we sleep until 10, and (2) what can be accomplished today that can’t be accomplished tomorrow.

Well, unlike last year, this year, I’m ready for fall. Crikey, this must be how the past generations did it; flipping through the Sears-Roebuck catalogue and ordering plants and equipment by mail. I too pored over all the garden catalogues that arrived during the past month, reviewed the online how-to articles and (fast forward to the 21st century) purchased a massive number of daffodil, tulip and lily bulbs using the 24/7 800 number and a handy dandy credit card. Lest anyone think I’ve turned into Horticulture Harriet, you know that I’m not about to spend hours bending over the dirt on my knees and actually digging holes into the ground, not to mention the havoc that would wreak on my fresh manicure. My current favorite piece of gardening equipment is the garden bulb auger that attaches to my drill. I just stand at the planting site (the auger is three feet long) and drill a hole into the ground. The auger prepares a hole that is 3” wide, which is enough to plop a bulb into the ground and have space left over for some good potting soil to surround the bulb. I drilled a few dozen holes for the daffodils, planted them and covered them with mulch in 30 minutes. Mick, I got satisfaction. The remaining bulbs are planted in November, which is a good thing. This break neck pace is almost too much for me.