Sunday’s Cake, Friday’s Cocktail . . . and What I’d Rather Not Post

I’m so tempted to make the foodie portion of this long and drawn-out, but that won’t change what I’m going to post.  So if you’d rather skip over the pics and jump to the end, be my guest.  I’ll catch up with you there.

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Friday’s Cocktail was a Scofflaw, a fascinating mix of rye, vermouth, grenadine, and lemon juice.

I made it because I feel as if I’ve been on a run of gin drinks lately–not that I mind; I’m finding them all a revelation, particularly since I just didn’t understand that gin IS vodka with flavorings.  (In fact, I’m toying with the idea of making my own.  Unfiltered gin is actually not clear but usually somewhat golden in color, and I had an interesting variety of gins in England, including one flavored with ginger and lime, and another with lavender and thyme.  So…I might do this. I’ve had success making limoncello, brandy, cherry bounce, so perhaps this is my next hurdle.  For the record, I’ve toyed with the idea of brewing beer, but that’s just so involved and you need a good space with a separate stove.  Not my cuppa.)

Anyhoo–the Scofflaw belongs to the Prohibition-era category of cocktails (along with the equally scrumptious White Lady and some other, really interesting drinks you’ll find scattered in books and all over the web as, for example, here).  Why “Scofflaw?”  That is, why name a drink that’s all about breaking the law?  Fascinating history behind that, too, which you can read here.  In a nutshell, though, the drink got its name from a contest.  The recipe on this site includes orange bitters, something that the recipe I followed (from Ted Haigh’s book) didn’t.  I liked this, though, and will make it again, though I might try the bitters because this drink is a little sweet, probably due to the combination of grenadine and Carpano Bianco, which isn’t truly a dry vermouth.  I used it because I like the taste, but in this drink I think it’s a bit much.  The rye–and Richardson’s is no lightweight like Templeton–got lost.

Still, well worth the time spent sipping 😉

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Sunday’s Cake was a Buttermilk Blueberry with Lemon Glaze, though here it’s sans glaze (I forgot to take a picture and the cake’s since disappeared into the husband’s car, bound for work and those lucky lab people).

So what’s a good Jewish girl doing making a cake like this on Passover? Well, first off, I don’t get bent about that kind of thing.  I used to, but either I’ve gotten more tolerant or more tired of the whole Passover mishugas.  Yeah, yeah, seders are nice, but this whole bread of affliction thing I can do without.  (Thank heavens, I’m half-Sephardic, so beans and rice are allowed in our house. Otherwise, I’d go bonkers.)  In truth, most Passover cakes are wretched, no matter how fine a baker you might be.

Second, this just feels like a nice springtime cake (even though it’s about 40 degrees here).  Then, too, I came on several packages of blueberries I’d frozen last year and thought that I’d better do something with them before too much more time passes.  So…the cake (and the recipe here). This is a new recipe for me and a definite keeper.  This made the most lusciously rich batter I’ve ever seen.  As you can tell, the cake came out a uniform golden brown.  The smell made me salivate.  While the recipe called for a milk-based glaze, I opted to do a simple lemon glaze (2/3 cup confectioner’s, 2 tbsp. lemon juice, 1 tbsp. lemon zest) because I thought that would complement the cake’s buttery richness.  I’m sure the husband’s lab people will let me know if that’s true ;-).

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And now for the part I’d rather not have to write.  I wish this were big news–like, I’ve sold a book or something–because this is huge for me and has completely dominated my every waking moment for the last several months, ever since I got wind that change was in the air.

So here it is: the husband’s accepted a new job.  I understand why, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it because it also means that we’re moving to . . . Huntsville, Alabama.

I have trouble even typing that.

I will be frank.  I do not want to go.  I love it here.  I wasn’t thrilled  with Wisconsin in the very beginning, but I quickly grew to love just about everything connected to being here.  I’ve effectively raised two kids here; over the nearly fourteen years we’ve been here, we’ve buried cats and hamsters and salamanders in the backyard.  I’ve learned to really love this quiet, semi-rural life, and I don’t want to leave.  I figured . . . you know, this is home and I’ll live here the rest of my life.

But I have to leave, at least for now.  Oh, I’ve cried  lot, pitched a fuss, done my share of yelling.  What has pissed me off no end is when the husband or anyone who knows says that I can do my work anywhere.  Yes, sure . . . but that is also so much bullshit.  Surround’s really important to me; the weather’s important.  I’ve lived in the South, and I know what the weather’s like.  Huntsville has seasons, but I’ve already put off buying that new pair of snowshoes for the time being and given away my cross-country skis.  No point, for now.

So I haven’t gotten much writing done.  Instead, I’ve madly been going through the house, putting it to rights, purging it of junk.  I’ve made more trips to Goodwill than you can imagine, and all manner of handymen, painters, etc., have traipsed through on a daily basis and will continue to do so for the next couple of weeks.  The house will go on the market at the end of April, beginning of May.  We’ll see what happens with that, but I’ve also started looking at houses in Huntsville, which is pretty much urban sprawl.  Well, I’ve been there, done that, bought the t-shirt.  I’m looking for as much land as we can afford while still keeping the husband’s commute reasonable (and my own daily trips to the gym from becoming an ordeal).  I’ve located the Starbucks and the library.  Huntsville has a symphony chorus, and maybe I’ll audition because I have enjoyed that here.  I’ve even looked up whether it’s possible to grow garlic in the South (it is, but you have to work at it).  Potatoes should grow, too, but not asparagus.  Just doesn’t get cold enough.  This all presupposes I’ll find a house that isn’t on a postage stamp of a yard and close enough to the neighbors to hear them fight.

The husband says I should look at this as an adventure.  My parents say that change is hard “at your age.”  (They mean well, but the reality is that change is tough at any age.  Why do you think so many patients have trouble changing their behaviors?)

Whatever.  Whether I like it or not–and I most assuredly don’t–we’re moving.  Which sucks.  But I’m not dying; no one has cancer; we’re not losing our shirts or anything–and, yes, I still can write.

Maybe that’s what I should try and do now before the painter shows.