clouds in my coffee

Adamo Photography

It's coming up on the end of my weekend, and I am sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of cold coffee, pleasantly drained. As I write, the sky darkens, more clouds blanket the sky, and the cute girl-next-door to the Sears Tower puts on her brilliant party hat for the night.

Yesterday, the inspiring Kate (whose blog Steadfast and Yearning is a daily celebration of life), my friend and supervisor, helped me pick up this beautiful, special cat from Evanston:

Her Tree House name is "Nimbus," which originally I dismissed as too masculine and also, kind of expected for a big white cat. Nimbus is a fluffy cloud about to erupt in rain, hail, snow, or sleet (but still won't deter your friendly United States Postal Service). 

When we were headed north into the gorgeous Evanston, Kate and I were headed right into the enormous gray clouds about to break into a torrent. We were caught in the storm as we ran for cover. How appropriate, we agreed, for it to be raining on the day we pick up a cat called Nimbus. 

Last week, Howard picked Coffee Cloud Cake for us to bake today. He is a coffee fiend, so it's not a big surprise he chose a cake that called for a cup of cold coffee. It didn't hit me until Kate and I were driving down Lake Shore Drive yesterday that I was making a cake with the word "cloud" in it. Elise says coincidences tell you that you are on the right path. Apart from being as fluffy as a big ol cottony cloud, the cat's growl is like the ominous roll of thunder, and her strike is a fast as lightning. 

 Howard, Elise, and I made the cake together this afternoon. Elise said it was nice, because I just told them what to do. It was so fast, with me reading the recipe, Elise whipping the ingredients, and Howard measuring them into the bowls. 

I went to Target to buy a tube pan, and I picked up measuring spoons as well. When Howard came over, they were the first thing he saw, and he deflated a little. He had hunted around until he found measuring spoons that matched our measuring cups. I am so touched! 

I believe the coffee cake is called a cloud cake because of the whipped egg whites which make it very light. It has chopped walnuts in it, which give it a nice raw crunch. It bakes for an hour, and when the top springs back when touched, you turn the pan over on a bottle, like so:

a rice vinegar bottle in full bloom

Howard at all times was sure it was going to fall and break every single thing in the kitchen, so to break the horrible anticipation we all went out for tacos and margaritas. When we got back and slid a knife between the cake and the tin, we shared it at the kitchen table. It came out of the tin a little rough looking, but I wasn't concerned. 

Elise left tonight for Poland, where she is giving a talk at a conference on puppets. They say she pulled some strings to get there, and is going to have a ton of fun, no strings attached (har har har).

The cats were really curious about this cake. Noreen lifted her face and sniffed delicately, while Twinkle Toes just went for it. 

Elise kept an eye on him, but he was seriously interested in her slice. 

naughty twink!

It was good, and I look forward to having it tomorrow with my morning coffee. I think it's a little sweet, and would probably cut down on the sugar if I made it again. 

maybe if i reach for it with my lucky paw she won't notice

It was a beautiful weekend. I spent time with people I really care about, in a city I love the more I spend time in it. 

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. 

Country Boys Baking

Mitch and Twinkle Toes, the Little Prince

Yesterday, on the gorgeous, 75 degree day, my southern belle cohort, Mitch, came over to bake a cake. He arrived bearing pot roast and mac-n-cheese. One thing I absolutely love about hanging out with Mitch is that there is always a home-cooked meal in enormous proportions. We eat, usually at least two large helpings, and watch TV mysteries solved by tough, sometimes charming lady detectives. We talk okra, cast iron, and Miss Marple.

Measuring out ingredients while quoting Steel Magnolias, we make a mess at the table. The recipe I picked for today, a self-frosting German chocolate cake, is easy, and we laugh at my lack of supplies. This week, I purposefully picked a recipe that didn't call for high-speed beating.

Our cats enter conversation, about as often as Noreen tries to get on the table. She's as imperturbable as Miss Marple, as difficult to say "no" to.

Mitch wants to write, but struggles to put his words on paper. He has such stories about growing up poor in the south. "Poor or dirt-poor?" I asked him. "Depends on what part of the house you were in," he replied. His memories are peppered with the most wonderful details, for example, how his mother held her newest pet (a baby possum) in a red Solo cup.

Belle Brezing as a child

 Mitch recently returned from my hometown, Lexington, Kentucky, which he visited after the Derby. He brought me back two elegant cake platters and the name for my next cat: Madam Belle Brezing. Belle was a colorful local character from Lexington, a shrewd business woman, generous community member, and she ran the best brothel in the state, out of what is now better known as the Mary Todd Lincoln house. My mom, sister, and I visited the historical landmark on a homeschooling trip, and the tour guide told us it was once a brothel. "What's a brothel?" my younger sister asked. Without a pause, I answered: "A whorehouse." Belle Brezing made a success out of a tough situation, and didn't wait for anyone to tell her what to do.

beetles

We poured melted butter and brown sugar into the cake tin, and then Mitch sprinkled the pecan halves, shells like beetles, into the sweet brown mixture. Then, taking coconut flakes between his fingers, he sprinkled them atop the pecans. We halved the amount of coconut, since I'm not usually a fan. I'm glad we did. It's a great taste, but can be a bit much. With a fork, we beat together the rest of the ingredients, first the dry, and then the wet. I poured it into the pan and baked at just 350 degrees for forty-five minutes. When it came out, we cooled for five minutes, then turned it onto the cake platter. It's top is candied and delicious, the interior soft and moist. 

I fussed about the y-shaped crevice down the center, but Mitch waved it off. "Baking for your own consumption is not about perfection, it's about fun. Celebrate the successes! We made the damn thing with just a fork and a spatula!"

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. 

Diary of a Dairy Queen

I have a cold this weekend, so I cancelled my plans yesterday and stayed in watching The Office, which wasn't a bad way to spend a sick day. Today I went to get the ingredients for my baking project, which is a dairy extravaganza. For example, it calls for FIVE 8oz packages of cream cheese. Even for someone who struggled with his multiplication tables, that's a big number. I don't want to think for too long about the fact that what I'm making takes forty ounces of cream cheese, plus heavy cream, butter, and sour cream. I stood there in the grocery store looking at the rectangles of cream cheese and thought: "My goodness. Eight is quite a large amount of cream cheese to buy all at once," and put eight packages into my cart. Again, it wasn't until I was on my way home that I thought over my list in my head and remembered that it called for FIVE 8oz packages. I have more cream cheese in my fridge than I've had in several years.

Should have bought bagels.

Today I'm going to make a cheesecake. What does that make you think of? Whenever I think of cheesecake, I think of The Golden Girls, where any problem, no matter how big or small, could be tackled with your housecoat-wearing friends and a cheesecake. When I was in high school and getting interested in writing, my parents told me that if I end up writing for television, I should make sure it was like The Golden Girls. I didn't watch an episode until my junior year of college, when I was studying abroad in Norwich, England.  I became hooked, and watched all eight seasons (thanks YouTube!) through the course of my year. I watched the last episode just days before leaving England.

Cheesecake makes me think of takeout lasagna and Tangueray in my sock drawer.

Making a cheesecake is pretty involved. You mix part of the crust but then refrigerate for an hour before you continue. You have to bake part of it, then put part of the mixture in, then a separate mixture goes on top. There are lots of fluctuating temperatures and in-and-out of the oven action. It gives me plenty of time to write between baking. Or play with Twinkle Toes, which is what I end up doing. He never gets bored playing, and it's fun to see him get better. He jumps a lot more, but sometimes does a funny twist and ends up landing on his side, heavily.

I'm headed pretty full-fledged into single cat man territory. When I go to a dinner party with other single gay men, I actually have the thought that I would rather be home with my cats, reading Jane Eyre. The guys at the dinner party spent the night talking about being home owners, eye creams, who's hot in chorus, and finding boyfriends on dating sites. I spend my weekends thinking about what I'm going to bake next, and would rather spend my nights curled up with my old cat than at a bar making small talk. Still, one must make some sort of effort, I suppose. I have almost decided not to go and adopt a third cat because...well, I guess it's obvious. You don't want to be the single, otherwise normal guy with three cats. Not until you really give up, at least.

Damnit. I left out the whipping cream and egg yolks. I actually opened the oven after ten minutes cooking, wondering if I could still mix them in.

Here is the finished creation:

and even without those two ingredients it's delicious. Off to watch Mad Men with Elise.

Bittersweet Chocolate Cake

There are many ways to describe what makes a cookbook. For one, statistics--number of pages, number of color photographs, number of recipes. And so on.

But there is still another element involved in this newest Good Housekeeping Cookbook--the same element that has been involved in every edition, beginning with the first one in 1903. That element is the people element.

Yesterday I slept in with the cats and woke up to voices in the living room. Elise's friend is photographing her for a journalism course she's taking. Elise is so photogenic, I bet the pictures will be beautiful. I had a headache and felt groggy. On my days off, I have to come up with reasons to get up in the morning. Clean the bathroom. Grocery shop. Feeding the cats is reason enough, and helps to order my days.

I went to the grocery shop and bought the ingredients for a bittersweet chocolate cake. I wanted a change from pies, and I'd used the first two recipes in the cake section. Bittersweet felt appropriate.

I didn't plan to bake. I thought I'd save it for today. But after scrubbing the shower curtain, cleaning the mirror, playing with the cats, and scooping litter, I was so bored. I read the section on cake-making tips and decided to go ahead and do it.

Here is the Good Housekeeping bittersweet chocolate cake with a marshmallow frosting and chocolate swirls:

love that seventies dishware!

Wow. Well, that is ambitious. Those photos are so optimistic. I wonder if anyone ever looks at them and thinks: Yep, mine'll look just like that. How does that even happen? I feel like you need more than your ex-boyfriend's two square cake tins and vegan butter substitute. I am just setting out to make a chocolate cake that isn't uneven, and maybe, just maybe, there won't be crumbs speckling the frosting.

Letters from readers tell us of their love affair with the Cookbook. With old editions that have been handed down from mother to daughter to daughter. For example, a recent letter speaks of a 1927 edition. "It has been in constant use all these years. The poor thing has finally given up. What can I do to hold it together for a few more years?

The first piece of advice Good Housekeeping offers, nay, demands of their good readers, is: DON'T SUBSTITUTE. But I don't even know what shortening really is (lard?) so I used Earth Balance again. I just don't know what the effect is with the change. The cakes are really flat. Look:

wut?

"Measurements must be exact, fool," says Good Housekeeping. Well, the teaspoon is in the bag with the cat supplement and I don't feel like rinsing it out so...eh, that's about a teaspoon. And about three squares of unsweetened chocolate? About that amount of the semi-sweet chocolate should work. Right? Wait, why is the cake still white and why is it so flat? Must be the oven...

Then there are the younger women, just beginning their lives as wives and homemakers. One of these wrote us to say, "I will be married soon and I need to learn to cook something more complicated than frozen pizza, which is the extent of my present skill. I need a cookbook that tells me why and how--not just a collection of recipes."

On my way to Kopi Cafe to write this entry aaaaand take advantage of their half-priced bottles of wine (btw, the place doesn't have wifi, which is insane), I ran into Stevie. He's a young artist I met through Elise.  It serendipitous, since I had just been thinking of him. My phone doesn't keep phone numbers, so if someone hasn't text recently, I don't have the number. The other day I was wishing I had his number. Like a scene from a sitcom, there he was, just standing on a corner when I crossed the street. We hugged and he said he'd just been to Tulip, hoping to see me there. I invited him to join me for wine, but he couldn't. We kissed goodbye. It was lingering, and I immediately thought: I don't want to be this way. He then told me he had a boyfriend, but "he's in New Orleans, so they're open while he's away."

I'm not interested in that type of thing anymore. Honestly, I'm not sure I'm interested in much of anything anymore.

Baking offers a fantasy of an old-fashioned lifestyle. A home, a family, and routine. I like all those things, and when I'm not with my family I'm good at making family groupings where I am. For over a year Chris, Elise, Dudley, and I were my imagined family in Chicago. Now it's Elise, me, and the cats. It's a cozy little family. Maybe I should have stopped the above sentence at "Baking offers a fantasy."

And so this newest edition of our cookbook contains a great measure of inspiration from our readers. It is for them and for all those women across the country whose busy lives vary in many ways bu who have one great common interest--a dedication to keeping their families well and happily fed and to making food preparation a creative and satisfying experience.

The cake is small, but pretty.

And like my cat, Noreen, who has stared Death down with her big green eyes and said "Not yet," it's really tough. Great qualities in a cat, less so in a cake.

"I'll go when I'm good and ready."

I woke up this morning resolved to throw the cake away. When I came into the kitchen, Elise was there. "I'm going to have a great day," she said, "Because I started my day off with cake and coffee!"

Alright, cake, you win.

We put our new book into your hands with the firm conviction that it is the best cookbook ever.

Willie Mae Rogers
Director, Good Housekeeping Institute 1973

The right soundtrack

Music is an integral part to baking and cleaning. Put the right mix on, and you can forgot about the fact you don't have health insurance yet, or the possibility that the next rent check might overdraw your account. Listening to a hopeful, yearning song like "Skylark" makes you almost forget the nauseating pain of your recent break up.

Music takes you to another realm, where you can safely pretend that your life is always this: baking pies, washing up after yourself, taking a break to play with the cats. Rolling the dough. The hot, soapy water. The snow melting down the window. The fragments of conversations, poetry, and dreams that jumble through your mind as you wait for the timer to ring. And then you'll have a friend or two over and talk about whatever, while the music sets the mood. Playing Hildegard Knef, you can pretend your hair is always washed, your bathroom clean, and your dishes matching. You can pretend that you are happy, content with life, and proud of what you've accomplished. But in the midst of this make-believe, you realize this isn't all fake; this is who you are and this is what you wanted. This is your life. These moments. You are connected.

Is this what Virginia Woolf meant when she talked about the party mindset in Mrs. Dalloway? Things aren't real in some ways, much more real in others. Reality and unreality merging over a slice of pie, a cup of tea. Our pretend selves/our actual selves.

All that being said (nice and good and sweet as it is), my actual self drank himself to sleep last night and woke up at noon, despite his cat's best efforts to start the day at nine. I then promptly went down the Lana Del Rey rabbit hole, which led me to discover you can make a pie in the time it takes to listen to one of her albums! I had woken up with two and a half hours to make a pie, get ready, take care of the cats, and get out the door in time for afternoon tea at the Langham, which meant that today's baking was matter-of-fact, unpoetic. I was making a pie because I said I would do one a week.

Looking through my Good Housekeeping cookbook this week, I stopped on blackberry pie. It sounded perfect. The cherry pie was delicious and gone the day after it was made (split between three people), and we were all craving it. I decided to stick with fruit pie, and work on the crust. I'm not sure what happened between choosing the pie and grocery shopping, because I ended up with more than twice the amount of blueberries than blackberries I should have bought. It took me until today on my way downtown to realize my mistake.

I rushed out of the house and to the red line, conscious that I couldn't remember where we were meeting, but fairly confident I'd just figure it out when I got there. I was almost off the train before I looked at the time and realized I was an hour ahead of schedule. It took me another hour to realize there hadn't been a time change, I was just confused.

But the sky! My goodness, the buildings were cloaked in fog, nearly invisible. And then the release of the rain.

When I got home I took a picture of the pie. Every time I set it down bits of charcoal-like crust fell off. I need to remember to knock off fifteen to twenty degrees next time, and cover the pie with foil partway through baking.

It's a mess, but hopefully a delicious, unexpected mess.