I've lived in Salalah for quite awhile now, and I see the last time I posted, it was nearly Ramadan, 2015. Now Ramadan 2017 will arrive on wings of a dove in about 6 weeks. Does time freaking fly or what?
If you followed my blog before, rest assured I still bake cakes. Making a cake a day didn't last long, nor did writing a blog post daily. What kind of nutter sticks with THAT? I no longer bake cakes to order either. Do you know how stressful it is to bake a rainbow cake (six f*****g layers, each a different color) only to have the customer in question (name withheld--you know who you are biatch) tell you it sucked because it wasn't perfectly smooth like a bakery cake? My response was NOT in the "customer is always right" vein, dear reader. I told her she couldn't have the cake. Not even after wails of protest. She moaned on about what she'd do for a cake for her beloved Krishna's birthday (or some such name), and I suggested she go to a bakery. Especially as she likes their smooth glossy finishes so much. Spank that muntifunti! Thus endeth my career as a baker for hire.
I'm a little angrier than I was in 2015, when the dew was still on the rose, if you will. I'm often a raging, festering pond of squishy green neurosis, mostly a result of dieting and the kind of constant self consciousness that goes with being fat and judged for having this particular meatsuit. Only recently have I started really thinking about what effect that has on a person, on my essential self. I've been on so many diets I rarely had time to ponder how weird that obsession us. When you are terrorized by a teaspoon of sugar, some strange psychological shit is gonna happen. Hence, the inside of my head is a far scarier place than most people assume as they gaze upon my placid features.
All of this rambling is simply an inept way of explaining why I'm starting this blog again. I'm fascinated by something called the fatosphere, and the books written by body acceptance activists. They give a big middle finger to a world that's found us deficient in our excessive size. I want in. I want to talk about my life, diets, and yes, baking and eating some dang cake now and then. I think I have something to say. Fat is still a feminist issue, the personal is still political, and a hashtag ain't gonna change shit.
So yeah. By all means, come here for a good cake recipe. Also, come here to find permission to eat the damn thing. All of it, if you wanna.
The Cake:
My grandmother made something called a mayonnaise cake. I'm serious. This chocolate cake was in the pantry whenever the grands came to visit. Gramma Dot always had sweets kicking around the farmhouse. Now, you may find yourself thinking, "No frigging wonder her ass is the size of three axe handles...she had access to too much cake as a kid." Or some such. My sisters had access to the same damn cakes, and were skinny. I often felt I lost some kind of cosmic lottery, where my sisters got the slender bodies and I got the one trending to chunkamunka. When my sisters ate this cake, nobody said a word. Me? Furrowed brows and hushed discussions about lil Felicia getting a bit chubby took place on the porch or in the living room. Jaysus.
I recently made this cake for a food festival where we cooked something "traditional" for our "culture." Since I partly define my cultural heritage as "cheap ass Mainer," I think this was a good contribution.
Mayonnaise cake made its debut during the depression, when people were trying not to use too many eggs or oil. I don't really get it, as mayo is MADE from oil and eggs, but whatever. Nobody was impressed, and though the Pettengill grandkids loved this cake when we were wee uns, it isn't top notch. Are my memories of Gramma's cake gilded with gold, or was she just a dab hand at mayonnaise cake and I can't be arsed to do better? Dunno. It's an easy cake to make, so give it a whirl.
If you followed my blog before, rest assured I still bake cakes. Making a cake a day didn't last long, nor did writing a blog post daily. What kind of nutter sticks with THAT? I no longer bake cakes to order either. Do you know how stressful it is to bake a rainbow cake (six f*****g layers, each a different color) only to have the customer in question (name withheld--you know who you are biatch) tell you it sucked because it wasn't perfectly smooth like a bakery cake? My response was NOT in the "customer is always right" vein, dear reader. I told her she couldn't have the cake. Not even after wails of protest. She moaned on about what she'd do for a cake for her beloved Krishna's birthday (or some such name), and I suggested she go to a bakery. Especially as she likes their smooth glossy finishes so much. Spank that muntifunti! Thus endeth my career as a baker for hire.
I'm a little angrier than I was in 2015, when the dew was still on the rose, if you will. I'm often a raging, festering pond of squishy green neurosis, mostly a result of dieting and the kind of constant self consciousness that goes with being fat and judged for having this particular meatsuit. Only recently have I started really thinking about what effect that has on a person, on my essential self. I've been on so many diets I rarely had time to ponder how weird that obsession us. When you are terrorized by a teaspoon of sugar, some strange psychological shit is gonna happen. Hence, the inside of my head is a far scarier place than most people assume as they gaze upon my placid features.
All of this rambling is simply an inept way of explaining why I'm starting this blog again. I'm fascinated by something called the fatosphere, and the books written by body acceptance activists. They give a big middle finger to a world that's found us deficient in our excessive size. I want in. I want to talk about my life, diets, and yes, baking and eating some dang cake now and then. I think I have something to say. Fat is still a feminist issue, the personal is still political, and a hashtag ain't gonna change shit.
So yeah. By all means, come here for a good cake recipe. Also, come here to find permission to eat the damn thing. All of it, if you wanna.
The Cake:
My grandmother made something called a mayonnaise cake. I'm serious. This chocolate cake was in the pantry whenever the grands came to visit. Gramma Dot always had sweets kicking around the farmhouse. Now, you may find yourself thinking, "No frigging wonder her ass is the size of three axe handles...she had access to too much cake as a kid." Or some such. My sisters had access to the same damn cakes, and were skinny. I often felt I lost some kind of cosmic lottery, where my sisters got the slender bodies and I got the one trending to chunkamunka. When my sisters ate this cake, nobody said a word. Me? Furrowed brows and hushed discussions about lil Felicia getting a bit chubby took place on the porch or in the living room. Jaysus.
I recently made this cake for a food festival where we cooked something "traditional" for our "culture." Since I partly define my cultural heritage as "cheap ass Mainer," I think this was a good contribution.
Mayonnaise cake made its debut during the depression, when people were trying not to use too many eggs or oil. I don't really get it, as mayo is MADE from oil and eggs, but whatever. Nobody was impressed, and though the Pettengill grandkids loved this cake when we were wee uns, it isn't top notch. Are my memories of Gramma's cake gilded with gold, or was she just a dab hand at mayonnaise cake and I can't be arsed to do better? Dunno. It's an easy cake to make, so give it a whirl.
Dear Mrs. White...no clue who you were
This recipe is typical of the times, and found in just about every "churchy" cookbook sold as a fundraiser.
The result, topped with a simple vanilla frosting. Wrong flag though. Meh.
I hope you stick with me as I ramble on about trying to empower myself before it's too little, too late. Maybe you will find you can too, if you have gone through life being harassed for big-bum-itis. Maybe you just want to read about a lunatic baking a cake. Welcome.
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