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!

Elise "Monet" Cowin

She's wearing a gramophone horn

 I met Elise my senior year of college at Goucher. We were in a composition theory course and a Virginia Woolf seminar. She was a thoughtful, intelligent classmate, and I respected her. We slowly became friends. Her figure, grace, and color scheme had me calling her "Elise Monet:" she looked like she had just stepped out of a painting.

Elise walking down Van Meter

Our friendship cemented when she said she'd like to visit me in Cleveland and actually did. Christopher and I returned the visit, staying with her in Chicago, leading to the move here. She's a woman of her word. Reserved with her emotions, but strong in her friendships.

She has given me a lot in terms of fun, creativity, and inspiration. Her ideas for projects are like a cool wind blowing my mind open. Her sense of humor catches me off-guard, and I love the weird things she gets excited about, like Elizabethan collars.

Rocking that post-op style

She works tirelessly, obsessively on her art, with many late nights, aided by glasses of red wine, and early mornings, with the necessary tiny cup of espresso. Her big black notebook is a staple of her days, with its pages full of notes comprehensible only to her: snatches from Woolf, Bauhaus performers, eccentric Italian costume designers, and scribbled drawings of her own perpetual motion machine.

Performing "The Weight of My Right Leg" in 2013 at the Sullivan Galleries

Her work method sometimes takes a circuitous route, as she works from feeling and intuition rather than a methodical plan laid out with measurements and little details. But no matter the route, it arrives, and lands. What I like about her art is that it has an enormous respect for the audience, those people that come to shows to be inspired, or moved, or even "just" entertained. She won't reward your patience and time with repetitive motions that don't develop, or a piece where nothing happens, and there's never some masturbatory confessional element. She creates something out of disparate pieces, choreographs them, and entertains and enlightens her audience. Her work always gives people something to discuss, and it's rarely what I expect to see. Check out her website for more of an idea: www.elisecowin.com

Her parents are so clearly responsible for how their daughter turned out. Her father is passionate, intelligent, and his sense of humor is sometimes opaque and for that reason, a little intimidating. Her mother is equally matched, with the addition of loveliness and grace. She will calmly dish out quips, which can be sharp, but never cutting. Elise and I were walking around Bucktown one day, and she was telling me she had been emailing a certain gentleman she'd liked for awhile. "And he's writing back?" I asked. She laughed and said I was just like her mother, which I took as a very high compliment.

Saturday will be Elise's birthday, and since I will be at a chorus retreat, we are celebrating today. I made her the pie of her choosing, and bought her a little succulent.

Elise Playlist
The Lady is a Tramp - Frank Sinatra
I Could Have Danced All Night - Chet Baker
Here You Come Again - Dolly Parton
You're The Top - Patricia Barber
Tea for Two - Pink Martini
A Fine Romance - Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong
Mack the Knife - Peggy Lee
Blue Velvet - Lana Del Rey
Fur Elise - Beethoven
Sister (Miss Celie's Blues) - Suede
Royals - Lorde
Sweet Home Chicago - Eric Clapton
Bend it! - Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich

Elise's Birthday Pie
Chocolate Mousse with graham cracker crust: reminds you of childhood.

Starting the mess

Someone I respect a lot recently started a daily blog about the things she loves. It's a great, life-affirming idea, and I enjoy reading it. It made me miss blogging. I enjoyed my summer project writing about Jane Austen, and I wanted a new goal. But what? What is something I wanted to focus on and develop an understanding for?

And then the answer came, in the form of a sorely belated birthday cake. A dear friend, who gets caught up in his work, finally agreed to make time in his busy schedule to come by and celebrate his birthday (which was in November). He wanted a spice cake with cream cheese frosting. I told him I'd make his cake from scratch (because that's the only way cakes should be made).

We agreed he'd come over Thursday at noon. I decided to bake the cake on Wednesday, since I would be going out that night (Eataly, woot woot!) and knew I wouldn't wake up in time to bake, cool, and ice a cake before noon. I love baking cakes. While I'm mixing the ingredients and preheating the oven I feel like I love my life, I love who I am, and everything's lovely. I have the best "Baking a Cake" playlist, as well.

And then the cake comes out. Small, hard around the edges, and lopsided. There isn't time to do fix it, since I have to dash out the door, but I figure icing it tomorrow will hide any flaws.

If baking a cake makes me feel in love with my life, icing it arouses all the self-loathing and frustration that keeps itself hidden under normal circumstances. I mean, what the f? How does the icing manage to go all the way up the mixers and refuse to blend? And then when I'm spreading it across the cake, it seems to take all the crumbs with it, which then stare at me like, "What you gonna do bout it?" And I don't know! I also didn't fix its lopsided problem, so it just ended up looking dejected and crumby. It was at that moment that the doorbell rang.

Why I Like to Bake Cakes
1. It's a nice thing to do for other people.
2. It always seems surprisingly easy (and then really frustrating, of course)
3. I like having sweet things around!
4. It feels domestic, comforting, and safe.

It wasn't my guest, it was the mailman, but in finding that out I managed to lock myself out of my apartment in a t-shirt, house slippers, and holding a cat. It was a stressful moment. I ran next door to our landlord's, who was thankfully home and able to let me back into my apartment.

While telling my friend about my baking experience, I decided I wanted to bake my way though the pies and cakes in my 1975 Good Housekeeping Cookbook. There's a goal! From fruitcakes to apple pie to orange-juice cake (?), I'm a-gonna do it. And hopefully one of those will be beautiful. Cause look at this one:

Sad, sad, sad.

Then I cleaned the kitchen and ate frosting.

...which is to say this all ended in me dancing around the kitchen to Strauss with an insane sugar high.