It's President's Day, and I'm sitting in my reading chair, post-oatmeal, blissfully enjoying the silence of the morning. Except for the neighbor's loud Rage Against the Machine (really, red-eyed, greasy-haired neighbor? Must your musical choices be so predictable?), the corner's presumably gay gentleman screaming in a high-pitched voice at his presumably unfaithful partner, and the usual distant whine of cop cars, ambulances, and hipsters.
You'd think we lived in downtown New York or San Francisco (though I believe there are REAL hipsters frequenting those locations) with all the racket, but it's just Richmond. Speaking of racket - how was your Valentine's Day? That has to be one of the worst transitions written in history, but I'm having trouble concentrating this morning.
I feel pretty ambivalent about Valentine's Day, though, like most women, enjoy the opportunity to dress up and eat chocolate. I spent yesterday afternoon baking so at least one of the two could happen, and I chose a cake that would yield some tasty, gooey, salmonella-laden batter: as good for licking off the spatula as it would be for eating in cake form later.
However, unlike 90% of the couples in the city having awkward Valentine's Day conversations over overpriced, oddly themed dinners, J and I celebrated in ratty jeans and rattier sweatshirts. It was GLORIOUS. Except for the part where I made an 11th hour grocery trip to buy heavy whipping cream to top the cake. After lovingly adding grated lemon zest, lemon juice, sugar, and vanilla to the cream, I went to work with my hand-mixer for, like, twenty minutes. Only to end up with really pretty pictures of cake covered with light cream that has been whipped into foam that looks like spit.
At least it tasted good. The best part: we glutted ourselves not just on the cake, but on so many episodes of Arrested Development that we're still talking like some of the characters this morning.
Hope you, B, and E. Bean had a great weekend...I look forward to reading your next letter!
Love,
TF
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