The Peace in Recipes and Cake Gore

Today I made a walnut fudge cake, and it took hours. I needed to pick up some things from the store, and that helped me realize how expensive this weekly baking project is. Along with the weight I (imagine?) I'm putting on (I went clothes shopping on Wednesday and realized I'm definitely a 30-inch waist now), this goal has an impact on my finances as well. I do a good job not thinking too much about either.

Because once I start measuring the ingredients and setting out my mixing bowls, I become calm and happy. The recipes give an order to the next hour or two of my day, and it sets out attainable goals, the finished product of which will be there, visible to me and the world, and ready to be enjoyed.

The cake is three layers, two crunchy fillings, and a thick glaze of chocolatey-nutty sweetness.

Howard and I enjoyed our slices with mugs of fresh-made coffee and our three (out of four) familiars around us. Twinkle Toes rolling around on the table beside me, prompting me to say I don't think I should ever have children because they'd never compare to his perfect adorability, Suki dozing next to Howard, and the dog grunting and snuffling around the room, leaving his vapors and trails of farts and mucus in his wake. Georgella dwells like a banished queen in the bedroom, where she occasionally yowls at the door, wanting us to come to bed so she can sleep on us and groom my beard. 

Last night, once Howard got home from school around one in the morning, he introduced me to, and consequently slept through, the Italian film The Beyond, of the Giallo genre. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, Giallo films are known for their extreme violence and gore. The Beyond was set in a broken-down hotel in Louisiana which happened to be built on one of the seven doorways to Hell. It was not a very coherent movie, but what it lacked in plot and continuity it made up with multiple face-meltings and a man eaten by tarantulas. The above picture is a cake-version of Giallo: a close-up shot of gooey insides. Yum. 

Cranberry-Nut Pie

I have retreated to the other end of the apartment to hide from the workmen whose head-splitting drill sporadically screeches. The only surface I have to roll out dough is our dining room table, which is where they are working, doing something mysterious having to do with pipes and our water pressure (which is currently rather lackluster). So I rolled out my crust, from dough I made according to my coworker's recipe (which is a gorgeous gold and so easy to work with!), and threw together the most pathetic-looking lattice (it took two attempts, the second not noticeably better than the first), and then high-tailed it out of there.

I made a cranberry-nut pie today, which seemed like another great fall flavor. I'm also looking forward to pumpkin and pecan pies! It was impossible to find the fresh cranberries the recipe called for, so instead I used two jars of whole cranberry sauce, which cut out half of the preparation time. Hope that works out. I then forgot to mix in the nuts and raisins, so I ended up mixing them in after the cranberry sauce was in the pie crust.

No matter the mistakes made in the process, it smells delicious baking, and bubbles enticingly out of the oven. I will take it to Mitch's house to share!

Midnight Autumn Pie

On this night I made an apple custard pie, thus completing the first page of pies in my Good Housekeeping Cookbook, also marking my return to pies, which I had given up during the heat of the summer, and while making this pie Howard started putting together our dresser. It was a picture of domestic bliss. As Wendy Cope says in her poem "The Orange:" "This is peace and contentment. It's new."

For a period there I felt like I was churning out the apple pies, and needed a break. It's been long enough that an apple pie started sounding appetizing again.

It is headed full-tilt into autumn in Chicago, which makes Howard gleeful. I enjoy the chill and the change in dress. Fall is my favorite season, and my mind is itching to quote one of my favorite poets, Rachel Wetzsteon, who shares my feeling, but of course when I look through my books I can't find the particular poem that tickles the back of my mind.

Fall is also, of course, the season of the salted caramel mocha, which is cause for celebration enough. I'd like to make a salted caramel pie of some kind. Any suggestions?

The pie crust went well tonight, after the first attempt, at least. I rolled it out between sheets of plastic wrap, but forgot to dust them with flour, so the dough stuck and I had to start over. The second time was much easier. I had chilled the dough and liberally sprinkled flour, so I was able to transfer it to the pie plate easily enough. I dented the crust with a fork and used a fluted pastry wheel to trim the edges.

I placed the thin slices of apples--which had been coated in flour, sugar, cinnamon, and a touch of salt--in concentric circles in the pie crust and poured the custard (with a dash of nutmeg!) over it. It baked for 45 minutes covered with foil, and is in the oven now for another thirty, then it has to be cooled and finally, refrigerated. We were hoping to have some tonight with vanilla ice cream, but that is looking unlikely. Or at least, it will be around midnight before we get to it. Midnight pie!

Freezer Lemon Pie

Today started as one of those I-don't-know-why-I-feel-so-bad days. Listless and irritated, nothing was satisfying. The one thing I hoped Howard and I would do today--hang shelves--didn't happen, and he didn't seem to mind.

"You could hang pictures, instead," he suggested, not paying mind to my irritability, and the result of his comment is that I became more irritated. I could hang pictures, he suggests, as if he didn't care if pictures go on the walls or not, as if he didn't have a say where they go, as if he wouldn't mind if I put cat pictures on every single wall of this apartment.

And then an ugly part of myself wondered: "What's the point?" Certainly, I have given up the fantasy of painting--the bedroom a rich plum, dining room colonial blue, and the kitchen blood red. But if we are here for just a year, what's the point? I do want to make this place a home, I feel driven to do that, to make it mine, ours, really, but then this listlessness drifts in and mutters: "So what?"; it yawns and asks: "Why bother?"

But I don't want to give into the lethargy, which is a kind of death. So I will make a pie and I will hang a goddamn picture and a calendar. I will hang them like twentieth century criminals.

So I went into the kitchen and pounded two nails into the wall. Up went a Grumpy Cat calendar and up went artwork over the sink. Then I took the rolling pin and pounded a package of graham crackers. Bam Bam Bam! until they were crumbs. Considerably less tense, I poured in organic sugar, a gift from Kate, who when I thought of her seemed to lend me some of her gentleness. "What Would Kate Do?" my supervisor at work asked. "Remember that. Remember her generosity and the way she gave people the benefit of the doubt." Kate is gone now, on a road trip, and then Florida, and she has become the Patron Saint of work.

From then on, the day got considerably better. Just making something pulled me out of my funk. I did some writing for the Tumbleweed Diaries, and later on Elise came to visit, bringing me my mixer. I finished up the pie and put it in the freezer. It was a hot day--supposed to be 90, but didn't feel quite that, so Howard and I picked a cold-sounding pie that required a minimum of baking: lemon freezer pie. Instead of a traditional pie crust, I opted for a graham cracker crumb crust, which just spends 8 minutes in the oven. Lemon pie is just evaporated milk, frozen lemonade, and sugar. I'm almost embarrassed to write that. But it's delicious. Howard, Elise, and I had slices and then we played cards. It was a lovely evening, such a difference from the start of the day. I do think creating has a healing power.

And making oneself at home in a new space is important. Having a friend over to share pie is a good start. This week we will work on hanging pictures and shelves.