There are some pretty typical signs of getting older, of maturing. On the loose end, it’s easy stuff like paying bills on time. On the tighter end is the suffocating, knotting stuff – you are running out of time !, wear sunblock! , learn something! , and dear lord, write to you grandmother.
Which, I am proud, and snotty enough to say is something I do. I write letters to my grandmother.
For a while I looked into getting prison pen pals instead. But the commitment is intense! They are imprisoned! What if I forgot to write one week…the thought of slapping a poor lonely murderer’s face with the excuse of like, my life-y errands, and Netflix- y passing of time, forgetfulness and utter freedom, is too much. I couldn’t handle it.
So in the meantime it’s grandma.
I like to think she prefers debauchery. Mostly I report on scandals like a few weeks ago when my boob popped out of my dress, courtesy of a flagon of vino on a Friday night. But as I said to her, “What’s a boob, eh grandma?” Riveting, riveting stuff.
This blog post is not about my boobs, or the variety of criminals I could disappoint if I were their pen pal. It’s really just about this. Listen up guys, here’s the MORAL of the blog post:
I’ve been meaning, for a long time to try and cook every recipe from my grandma Lucia’s cookbook. You see, she’s old. I’m scared I’ve already missed the chance to learn something from her by moving so far away. There’s also death on my mind, with every ping of my phone, and her fragile body. There’s Parkinson’s. It makes me want to handle her with cotton balls like a tiny, precious living fairy. But she’s not, really. She’s still a badass bitch like we all are, and I’m gonna take the only thing I have and run with it – a photocopy of her cookbook.
This is grandma Lucia’s Walnut cake. It’s got a sponge-style batter (quick in the oven, absorbent, made by folding stiff-peaked egg whites and sugary yolks) and custard filling. In fact, it’s not supposed to be a filling, I’ve just layered it as such. But if you want the real deal, bake the cake and top it with custard separately, like a sauce.
This cake is my Dad’s favourite. It’s a special occasion kind of cake – having people over, maybe a birthday, afterall the recipe in totality requires 15 eggs! But it’s worth it. I promise.
And the filling really is called “Young Lady’s Drool”, some twisted Portuguese way of saying it’s frothy, silky, coconutty and sweet. So there you have it.