Carrot cake two ways.
One of the benefits of writing a blog that no one reads (yet!) is that you can post pretty much whatever you want and no one will be the wiser. Don’t have a great, chatty story behind a recipe? Make one up. I haven’t done that yet, FYI, but I was tempted with this carrot cake recipe. I’ve made it twice, once in a Bundt pan and once as a layer cake. The latter, being destined for a birthday party, looked like a white lump on the table. It’s hard to photograph a cake when you can’t take a slice out of it. Luckily for me, I’d made the same recipe in a Bundt pan a few months ago, and had never got around to posting it.
The other lucky thing? That cute anecdote I was worried I wouldn’t have – pshaw. No problem. The layer cake was made for my friend Ellen’s 81st birthday. She’s someone about whom you can say “81 years young” without rolling your eyes. In fact, we stuck the numbers on the cake backwards and celebrated her sixty-third 18th birthday instead. I’m pretty sure her schedule is about twice as crazy as mine. I love her entire family – they’ve basically adopted me – and I inflict my baking experiments on her daughter every week when we get together to mine for gems at the local St. Vinnie’s. (For the record, she’s much better at it than I am. I find broken plates; she finds Ming vases.)
Gigi – Ellen’s daughter – bought her a new CD player and wrapped up a CD of relaxing meditation music, which pretty much sums up Ellen’s life. We’re all tugging at her to slow down and take a break, but she has paintings to finish and art lessons to give to kids. She drives a cerulean-blue hatchback with “Department of Peace” stickers on the back and wears “Ban the Bag” and “End Discrimination” pins on her purple jacket. She’s the kind of person the Red Hat Society – the group of older ladies that takes its cue from the Jenny Joseph poem that vows, in part, that “When I am an old woman I shall wear purple / With a red hat that doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me” – would love to get its paws on. Trouble is, she doesn’t stand still for long enough for anyone to grab ahold.
I’m fully convinced that, in ten years, I’ll be making a cake – maybe chocolate, this time – for Ellen’s 91st birthday. I’ll be pushing 40, and I’m quite sure that I’m the only one who will feel old.