Perhaps China is not the best place for me to have finally begun my adventures in homemaking (I’m leaving in three months, it’s not really my home, i can’t do anything about the ugly regal sofas I have, etc.), but a gradual process has overtaken me, birthed this new being within me. Maybe it didn’t matter I was in China, the beast was ready to rear it’s head where ever I ended up. I want to bake, cook, clean, decorate, sew, milk, churn, press, jam, pickle. I want to allow this paradoxical feminine side of me to come out. But why does society make me feel like this is wrong, or more feminazi’s make me feel like a traitor (thank you Ann Coulter for that wonderfully inclusive term). I just say fuck it. I’m not giving up on anything, but am becoming more of who I am, whether I refer to my gender or not.
So yesterday was a friends birthday, and I decided to make a cake for her. This carrot cake and since I don’t have cream cheese I made this frosting. I had about an hour to make all of this so I whipped up the cake easily enough and stuck it in the oven. Then I got ready for the frosting. Four ingredients. Easy enough. not. Ask Hermione Granger if watching Harry use the Half Blood Prince’s potions book was easy (shaking my fist at pioneer woman). I hate when the universe winks at people (whining). I just get the random nod, I don’t share secrets with the universe. Am I sounding like Buckminster? I became lazy making this frosting. I didn’t whip the flour into the milk. I didn’t have enough sugar so I used brown sugar. I melted the butter in the microwave because it’s difficult to whip butter without an electric mixer. And the result was a really good tasting clumpy thing. It wasn’t bad. Not visually appealing, but certainly not inedible. The cake was done and cooling on the counter. I had five minutes to spread the frosting, and sk’daddle. I knew the heat from the cake would melt the frosting, but I am not a perfectionist, and didn’t really give a hoot. So I slathered that carrot cake, and headed out the door in my cowboy boots. I gave the cake to my friend and we walked to the restaurant to eat. It was about a ten minute walk, and as we got close to the entrance my friend stopped and looked down making a small noise. She had been holding the cake at an angle and the melted frosting had slipped through the cover and landed all over her new clothes and fake Prada bag. I felt horrible. She reassured me that it wasn’t my fault, but still. You know? I kept trying to scoop up the drippings, and sticking my fingers in my mouth to savor the tasty delight, people kept staring because it probably looked like bird shit. Carol Burnett, you and me don’t have things going on for us. Including grace.
So Sally and I came home and ate chocolate, smoked hookah, watched Across the Universe (yum), and I talked to Heather. Wonderful. Conclusive. Me.
I’m not a fermivore (that sounds like a compost), or a liberal, or a domestic, or a protestant, or an american, or a flag, or a cat, or a rabbit in a hat. I am just me, sans labels thank you.
(but I do eat pedestrians? and not my own cake)