We're moving forward but holding ourselves back

Image courtesy of http://www.littlegooselakehaus.com

It was less than a year ago that I wrote about Zebra Cakes and my Grandma's strange fixation. Tonight as I prepare for Easter at my Aunt's, I am focusing my energies on a different kind of cake, the lamb cake.

Origins of this tasty treat are unclear, but I feel like I've been eating it forever. Grandma's best friend since forever had a really fancy, really heavy, cast iron lamb-shaped mold that was loaned to us every so often until Helen passed away several years ago. More recently, a cheaper, aluminum mold has had to make do, and it produced, at least last year, delicious results.

My personal experience with the cake has spanned three years. Two years ago I made it myself at my old abode, Chez Magnolia. As awesome as Magnolia was, we lacked quite a few major appliances including a hand mixer. No matter! thought I, ever intrepid baker. I will use a whisk. So I whisked and whisked and poured it in the mold. (Please note, mold is 3D). After baking it the allotted time, I removed it from the oven to find that the cake had not risen a whit. No matter! thought I again, and plopped it on a plate. It seemed a bit... heavy, but I didn't dwell on it. I took it safely to my Uncle's house and anxiously awaited dinner to be over so everyone could eat the deliciousness.

After dinner the cake was brought out. Everyone was a bit puzzled why it was flat instead of standing. I tried to assure them it was still quite delicious. We all took a slice and began to chew. A moment of silence passed... then another... then another. I looked up from my plate and around the table and everyone burst out laughing. It was the worst. cake. ever. Instead of a pound cake I had made a 5 pound cake. I kept a good game face on but I was crushed. Grandma took the mold back and assured me things would be better next year...

Last year I went to Grandma's a few days early. Being (mostly) unemployed had it's perks, after all. She showed me the essential trick: Crisco-ing the inside of the pan, both sides. I was super grossed out but watched her fill each nook and cranny with the nasty old pastry brush. We put the greased up little lamb in the oven, crossed our fingers, and waited.

The cake came out beautifully. It helped that we had a real live mixer, none of this silly whisking business. I think Grandma would be pleased to know that J replaced my frantic, only speed being freaky fast mixer with a more respectable Hamilton Beach model for Valentine's Day. (Boy knows the key to my heart!)

I don't really miss her as hard as I used to but Easter brings with it a slew of memories: Easter Vigil mass on Saturday night, lamb caking it up, watching the Golden Girls all weekend, showing off my Easter dress and sweater combo that I got for less than 12 bucks at the Salvation Army. It was only a few short days after Easter last year that she got sick for the first time, and things were downhill from there. This year I'll be remembering her laughing at me for being so squeamish about the Crisco, telling me stories about her past lamb cakes, and sending up to her all the love my heart can handle... hoping to make her proud with my solo attempt lamb cake.

Comfort Food

This past week my Grandma died. It wasn't too sudden but it still took me by surprise, like death usually does. One of the last things I bought for her was a box of Zebra Cakes because apparently she ate them like a fiend. My uncle had bought her a few boxes (yes, boxes, not individual cakes) a few months ago and apparently she polished them off in a matter of days. Anywho, Grandma ended up being on a restricted diet lately and being the good granddaughter that I am I decided to eat the Zebra Cakes myself. I don't like to make a habit of eating before bed but after a long day I would crawl into bed with a book, a crossword and a pack of those little dudes and munch a little before bed. Make no mistake--these are not a fine pastry or delicacy. In fact, they have a cloyingly sweet aftertaste of something not quite natural. But I ate them anyway, thinking of Grandma as I munched and laughing to myself, thinking of her munching away as well, perhaps while watching the Golden Girls.

It's been a pretty crappy week all in all but one thing that has remained constant is the food: the massive amounts of food that have been showing up at Grandma's house, my family's house, the luncheon after the funeral, etc. M mentioned in an earlier post how hard it is to cook for one and how much better the food tastes when you have people to share it with. Food and comfort seem to just go together, it's the most natural response I can think of when I want to show someone how much I care about them. Sure, it takes more time than is necessary to whip up a batch of cookies (measuring, baking, cleaning, the whole nine yards) but that's the point. It takes a long time and generally (if you're doing it right) you're thinking about the recipient most of the time. And even though I've been really sad lately, not eating is the last thing Grandma would have wanted, as evidenced by the bulldozed boxes of Zebra Cakes :)

Thanks to all for the food, prayers and love.

Dinner for One*

I hate cooking for myself. It feels like such a chore. I spend so much time preparing and chopping and stirring and cooking, and then I inhale the entire meal in about three minutes in front of the TV. Then it's time to return to the kitchen to a sink full of pots and pans and dishes and spoons and forks (how a meal for one can produce seven dirty forks, I will never figure out), not to mention the pasta sauce splattered across the cabinets and crusted onto the stovetop. The rest of my night turns into OCD dishwashing and scrubbing away at cooked-on leftovers and turning my hands into toxic prunes. I suppose this is what frozen dinners and the like are for, but eating neon orange macaroni or flakey mashed potatoes from the microwave is even more depressing than spending $20 and one hour preparing a single meal for one.

The problem here is not a hatred for cooking, and it most definitely is not a hatred of food. In fact, I love both cooking and food, but there's one missing ingredient: people. I feel a need to center all of my human interactions around food. I love going to dinner, hosting potlucks, attending family dinners, and cooking with my boyfriend. I love cooking for a meal, a meal that lasts an hour or two and involves conversation, laughter, and stories. Oh, I love the stories. No matter how many times I’ve heard them, I love hearing old family stories (especially those involving me).

I was on a family vacation this spring with my parents and aunts and uncles and my boyfriend. During our last dinner before the end of the trip, we had a huge meal that took what seemed like hours to prepare, but it wasn't a chore. We shared the responsibilities and cooked while telling and listening to stories. I barely remember what we even ate. I know someone made steak, and I think there were some veggies and pasta. I do know there was white wine. There was definitely wine. It was Aunt Ellen's job to pour the wine (this helps get the stories rolling). It was during this preparation that I heard all kinds of stories, like the time Uncle Bill had too much to drink and my cousin and I painted his toenails red and he thought his feet were bleeding when he woke up. Or how when my parents met at the newspaper, another employee was in love with my mom and stalked her at the gym. Or Aunt Ellen's stories of being a hospice nurse and the crazy things that old people say to her. It's hard to replicate the hilarity or nostalgia of any of these stories, but I think we all understand what I mean here. These are the meals that I truly enjoy preparing, because the emphasis isn't on making something half-way nutritious just to keep my tummy from rumbling all night; it's about togetherness, a communal effort to create a delicious and savory meal that accompanies friends, family, and conversation.

*I'm taking a [free!] 5-week writing workshop (actually called a wordshop) at Open Books. At our first meeting last Tuesday, the prompt was "Write about your most memorable meal." After surveying all the delicious, exotic, expensive, etc. meals in my head, I came to the realization that people, not taste, make my meals most memorable, and that is how this post came along.