. The weather app says rain. I dig out the raincoat and wellies and skip the sunscreen.
. This day was made for ginger cake. As soon as I get to work I check the location of the spring-form pan. Everything is on track and only 8 hours to go. I’m positively giddy.
. There’s tension around the office today because nobody likes change. So I close my door and weigh the pros and cons of creme fraiche vs dulce de leche, both of which I am sure I have never had. I am also sure I don’t want to go another day without them so onto the grocery list they go.
. After spending an embarrassing amount of time looking for molasses (it’s where the syrup is kept, kids), I ring up my few ingredients. This cake is costing me no less than $16. Sixteen dollars for just a few things that I don’t already have. Admittedly, the ground cloves are $5 (robbery!) and the creme fraiche is $5 (explains why I’ve never bought it before).
. Home. Wine, poured. Bra, off. Sweatpants, on.
. 4oz of freshly grated ginger is called for. At 1 oz, I grate off a piece of my thumb. At 2 oz, a friend grates off a piece of his. I get the bandaids and throw the remaining ginger into the food processor. I don’t like veering off the instructions when baking, but this carnage has to stop.
. I’m left alone to proceed with this madness and madness it is! Flour is flung! Molasses is spilled! Egg shells are in the batter! Mwah ha ha!
. Mom calls just as the cake goes in the oven (good riddance!) and we have matching cuts on our fingers. Happy birthday, mom! I have to go, something’s burning...
. I wait the instructed thirty minutes to let the cake cool and then I make my move. I pop open the spring-form pan, flip the cake onto a plate (such deft skill), and I peel off the parchment. Ohhhhh....
. It’s gingery, peppery, molasses-y, moist, tender, witty, and independent. Not the kind of cake that wears crew socks. I’m into it.
. Now, I’ve never had creme fraiche, so I don’t know a good one from a bad one, and the store only had one option to select. Ingredients: cream, culture. But, I have to admit, this tastes like sour cream cheese. Is that the point here? I don’t hate it, but I was expecting something a little more... scandalous. Nevertheless, I dollop a spoonful on the cake and then lick my plate. The creme expires in 3 days. Challenge accepted.
. I’m sad that I won’t be able to share this delectable masterpiece with friends, on account of the grated knuckles and all.
. . .