Happy Birthday Cake/The Move

Moving isn't too fun, but it was made better yesterday by cake. While packing and waiting for Elise and Josh to arrive with the truck, I made a cake. I spoke with my sister on the phone, and she picked the cake for the week. She turned twenty-five yesterday, and chose a devil's food cake with mocha buttercream frosting for her birthday cake from afar. We both liked the irony, since she is studying to be a priest.

I wished I could have been with her in New Haven for her birthday--she went bowling with friends. On many of my birthdays she has surprised me with visits. She's a wonderful sister, and I miss her so much. But I had to be here, moving apartments. Here is the state of the kitchen before I started baking:

The picture is a little blurry, and I guess it doesn't look all that different from usual. There is no table, so I used the white bowl you see on the stove to mix all the ingredients together. I sat down on one chair and put the bowl on the other and mixed it with a fork as best I could. The butter was cold and never really blended all the way. Good Housekeeping's devil's food cake calls for chocolate and buttermilk, and is supposed to be light and airy. I imagine it would be if it were better blended. Mine turned out a bit spongy; it was eggy and dense. I'm not sure what makes devil's food different from chocolate cake.

Once the cakes were in the oven, I rinsed out the bowl and made the frosting. Christopher was in and out moving. We didn't speak much. Howard played with Twinkle Toes and kept him from trying to wrestle with Dudley. Moving is tricky with cats. When we loaded the truck, I kept them in my room so they wouldn't run out. Funny thing, our downstairs neighbor's cats are the ones that did the most escaping. Part of last night was spent corralling Marco (who is very hissy and swatty) and Autumn back inside. Our cats are all reacting to the empty space differently. Noreen sits hunched in a corner, Dudley's been spraying all over Christopher's stuff, and Twinkle Toes plays as usual. I've been trying to keep their schedule as normal as possible, and trying to play and give them attention, too. Last night I slept on the floor on two folded over blankets, and so the two cats had to huddle really close to me. Twink settled in to sleep quickly by my feet, while Noreen paced around me until I gave her one of my pillows by my head.

Noreen folded in half, just woken up from a nap

TT and his prey

When the cakes were completely cooled, I set them on the cake platter on the stove and iced them quickly. Howard and I put the harness and leash on Twink and sat on the front porch. The house, stuffed with boxes and wiped pretty much clean of personality, was claustrophobic. Josh and Elise, brightly waving, pulled up in the truck and we immediately started loading. It was a perfect day to move--cool and dry. It didn't take long, and everyone was relaxed and so helpful. When we finished, Elise made everyone coffee and I brought down the cake. 

We lit the candles in the foyer

and then we sang "Happy Birthday" to Jessie's voicemail

After singing, we collectively blew out the candles. I don't know if anyone made a wish. I didn't think to, but retrospectively I wish for an easy transition into the new place. 

"It's okay," says my expression

We ate the cake on the front porch, and our neighbor's daughter Frances joined us. She showed me a story she had written from the perspective of one of my foster kittens. 

It was a sweet sort of goodbye to Carmen

The next thing I bake will be in Pilsen. 

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie

Before I write about this week's pie, I want to write about last week's cake. That cake saw more of Chicago than most baked goods, and left a little bit of itself in every neighborhood. It's maiden voyage was a short one, in the walk from Aaron's to mine. Soon after it journeyed up to exotic Rogers Park on a very crowded bus,  finally sitting pretty and untouched on the counter while I cat sat for a friend. It's next trip was the longest, on the red line down to the expensive Gold Coast. This was its highlight of the evening. It sat quietly in the fridge while friends talked and laughed and read their writing to each other, and then came out, bedecked in birthday candles aglow, to be enjoyed even by the lactose-intolerant. After the festivities, a portion was sliced away to be eaten later by the hosts. The next leg of the journey, a third of it missing, the cake traveled on a late night train to Palmer Square. The next morning, another section parceled off for the host, the cake traveled first by bus, where it attracted the attention of a talkative woman who was taking a course in cake-decorating, and then by train again to treeless Uptown. There it was admired by employees of a cat shelter, and small slices shaved off here and there, until it was just a fraction of what it had been the night before. After all its traveling, the cake returned to his home, not its birthplace, but where its platter originated, the one with the black flowers and birds painted in an eternal circle. Finally, the remains of the cake were separated from the plate and wrapped in plastic, to be saved for a lady and her gentleman caller.

The cake was enjoyed by ten people in total, in four neighborhoods of Chicago. Needless to say, it was delicious.

I'm finally settling down to type up this blog at a quarter to eleven, after a long, hot day. I threw on my kimono, poured myself a glass of rose, and turned on my music.

Rhubarb, which is currently in fashion, according to my coworker Robin, who was my baking buddy today, is surprisingly difficult to track down. On my Hunt for Red Fresh Rhubarb, I went to four grocery stores before finding it at Whole Foods. According to my cookbook, the season for rhubarb (an honorary fruit) is January to June, so it's almost over. But this is 2014 in 'merica, so I figured rhubarb could be found all year long.

I biked home with the aforementioned bottle of rose in my water bottle holder and two and a half pounds of rhubarb clutched in my hand. Robin was cat-sitting, so I prepared by slicing rhubarb and strawberries. She's the one who suggested the pie, which made me happy because rhubarb is something I associate with my mom (and mother's day is Sunday!). I have such a good memory of eating rhubarb cake on the screened-in porch with a glass of sweet iced tea and an episcopal bishop.

Today I put on my summer mix from last year while I mixed the fruit with flour, sugar, and salt. It is eighty degrees today. Chicago bypassed spring altogether and flung us, sweaty but mostly non-complaining, into a fitful summer. Tomorrow it will be fifty again.

Robin brandishes a rolling pin

The pie was easy to make,

though it took us awhile because we chatted and drank.

Robin is goofy and full of stories. She's only three years older than me, but she's been married for four years.

Four years. I drank much faster than Robin.

When the pie was in the oven, we walked to the corner market for ice cream. The pie is so delicious--one of my favorites that I've made. The rhubarb has such a great, tart taste--almost like citrus, and the strawberry is clearly present with its sweetness. I wish my mom were in town to enjoy it with us!

Nesselrode Pie

I had a late start to my baking today, and I forgot to take the pie dough out of the freezer last night, so I had to scramble to see what I could do today. I have no proper cake tins (and I still feel burned by my last attempt), so that narrowed it down to pie, but it had to be one with an unbaked crumb crust. There were only a few of those, and many of them you had to do at least a day ahead of time.

Which is how I ended up making a Nesselrode pie. I think it is an awesome name. It calls to mind Nessarose, the evangelistic witch of the east in Gregory Maguire's Wicked. Apparently, it is a pie that is named after a Russian count (pictured above), and has been out of fashion for decades (unlike his hairstyle, unfortunately). But for those who know of it, it is thought of fondly as a delicious, quintessential New York dessert.

Here are just three of the ingredients: unflavored gelatin, four eggs, and dried fruit. Make a pie out of that in your mind. Sounds kinda gross, right? I figured I could buy all of those things at the corner convenience store, but no. You can't get it at the health food store, either, but I guessed that.

I didn't mind walking to the grocery store because it's a beautiful day. There were lots of flowers blooming in the Andersonville yards today. The gheys had their deep vees on, showing off their tacky chest tattoos ("Born this Way!"). Monday it snowed, and the sadistic band at Kopi played Christmas music. "Jingle Bells" in spring is just depressing.

Once at the grocery store, I was lost. I had no idea where to find anything I was looking for. Mixed candied fruit = fruit cocktail??? Thank goodness my mom picked up when I called! Saved the pie from a watery fate. I had to ask an associate to help me find something, and he was gone for almost ten minutes (or maybe five, standing still in a grocery store stretches out time) while I stood in place, peering down aisles, wondering where they kept the unflavored gelatin. When he came back, he told me what I wanted was seasonal. Was Nesselrode pie a holiday dessert? I wondered.

It isn't.

The real pleasure to this pie is that it calls for rum. I splurged and bought two beautiful glass bottles of Coca-Cola.

my pussy tastes his pepsi-cola

I poured myself a cool, tall rum-'n'-Coca-Cola and made my pie.

Songs for the day:

"You Are My Sunshine" - Johnny Cash

"Cola" - Lana Del Rey

"Rum 'n' Coca Cola" - Tim Tim mix

Each song led me onto others of the same, so I ended up listening to a lot of religious Johnny Cash. I was getting into it, thinking of my Grandma Ginny, and then Noreen (Strega Nona) decided she'd had enough and walked across the keyboard, shutting the music off.

One night Elise and I were sitting in the living room. Chris was asleep, or so she said, but then there was music playing. "Shouldn't you turn your music down?" Elise asked. "I don't have music on," I said. When I walked by my room, however, the Puppini Sisters were blaring from behind my door. I walked in to see Strega Nona-Noreen crouched on the keyboard.

She's becoming a real bad-ass cat. Today I saw her chase Twinkle Toes out the room. He is considerably larger and younger than she is. When she gets on the kitchen table, I try to sweep her off like I do with the other cats, but she sits like a gargoyle.

what are you gonna do about it, son?

The pie is now chilling in the fridge (just chillin'). I had to add the rum and lemon after the fact, because I forgot it. I think it will be fine.

The next step, right before serving, is spreading whipped cream and adding candied pineapple. I will take a picture of it and post it later. Now I have to get ready to go to a birthday party.

4/27/2014:
Here is the picture of the pie:

It was lovely, and really not too bad. But I only ate two pieces and ended up throwing most of it away at the end of the week. I just couldn't get my stomach excited about custard dry-fruit pie.