Huswifery

As I related to a few friends over a mammoth slice of post-exam pizza at Artichoke Basilles, earlier today I caught myself wearing a cute dress and an apron and no shoes, in the kitchen baking a cake for the chief XY-endowed individual in my life. Thank god I'm in medical school, because otherwise Betty Friedan would have to stage an intervention. Prompted by the sheepish admission of one of my co-lunchers that he enjoyed his summer as a house-husband, I reflected that this past summer's life of cooking, cleaning, and occasional teaching (okay, and quizbowl question-writing and med school paperwork-completing) was scarily fulfilling. It seems that not so deep inside some of us aspiring Scientists with a Humanist Bent lies this gal.

On that note, here's the cake I baked!







The dots of whipped cream on the top are not exactly concentric, because a. I was working with an off-brand plastic baggie with one corner snipped off and b. I have not an artistic bone in my body.

The devil's food cake (slightly overbaked, I fear) and stabilized whipped cream recipes are from my faithful ten-year-old copy of Good Housekeeping's baking cookbook, and the cherry gelatin layer in the middle was adapted from a pâte de fruit recipe found on the Internet. The actual gelling/baking/whipping process did not take too long; shopping was much more time-consuming and difficult.

But you know me. Anything for my man.