The other day I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in ages. Our chat pinballed all over from mooncake dates in Chinatown (it’s almost time) to the Brooklyn book festival to running to Aikido, his graphic novel, vegan poutine (humina humina) and then gotta go bye. Same thing happens when too much time passes between blogging. Editing is required or you’ll say gotta go before seeing this possible-alien-laser-moonbeam from the other night.
A few weeks ago we went to Coney to catch one of the last Cyclones games of the season. This has become an end of summer tradition. We split a can of Angry Orchard cider and enjoy the spectacle befitting a team named after a wooden roller coaster. There was a tricycle race between army and navy men. A trio singing like the Andrews Sisters. A metal cover band providing their own score from the outdoor bar next door and foul balls flying everywhere.
The Cyclones played a team from New Jersey so I cheered for both sides, which annoyed the lady sitting next to me, inexplicably decked out in head to toe lime green. She hooted like we were watching a death match, a death match with the ocean and a pretty tower in the background.
The best part of catching a Cyclones game is walking along the boardwalk after. Most of the crowds have cleared so you can get a spot on the new pier, rebuilt since Sandy. Now they have these wavy raised platforms that are pretty comfortable to lie back on and pretend you can see stars and not think about how many people laid in the same spot before you.
Then out over the ocean we had a beamless moon.
A few days later I solved the problem of my sister’s birthday cake. All she wanted to do was blow off work and spend the whole day reading and playing on the beach. She’s the baker in the family, a gal who spends hours making elaborate birthday cakes for people she hardly knows. Every year I try to make her something spectacular. I try so hard it winds up inedible – a rock hard brownie cake, a sludge that was supposed to magically transform into cake on top and a sort of pudding on the bottom. This year the bar was pretty low, but it had to be portable. I turned to drunken Pinterest.
My plan was to bake the cake in some mason jars because countless magazines and food blogs showed these perfect pictures of cakes and pies baked right in the jars. Then I read that the manufacturers of mason jars say its unsafe because the glass isn’t made for the dry heat of an oven so it can shatter or crack inside. I considering baking them in a water bath but our oven is a fire shooter. Decided against living on the edge this time and made mini chocolate cakes in a real pan instead. I layered minis in the jars with ganache, sprinkles, nuts, strawberries and icing. Not the prettiest of cakes, but they wound up tasting like a sundae so success.
It stormed in Brooklyn that morning and left behind a giant rainbow. We both knew the rain was New Jersey bound.
The sky opened as soon as we dug into our cakes. Chased by lightening once again. Our beach day turned into a horror movie day. We paid a visit to her psychic then went to see Sinister 2 and had an entire theater of red recliners to ourselves. Easy enough to sneak in the cakes though dry clothes would’ve been nice. Another disappointing sequel, but heavy weeding goes with the territory of loving good horror.