Special sister edition!
Thanks to out-of-town teammates (my super cute sister and her super cute friend Kirsten) and the always amazing Katy and Chrissy, I gave out more cake than I ever have on Saturday night of what could be the worst cake I’ve ever made. Banana Cake had sounded like a good idea– we had all the ingredients and who doesn’t want banana bread with frosting?– but this one turned out bad bad bad. I had tried adding yogurt to the batter to make it more moist and putting chocolate chips into the frosting to make it more appealing (much like what I’m trying to do with my hair right now by embellishing with bobby pins), but it was still flavorless and dry and gloppy and my worst nightmare. It’s weird to value your self worth by how good your cake is in an experiment like this, where you’re hoping boys think the cake is amazing so they associate you with amazing. Most pieces came with an apology, which I’m sure made me look extra desirable. “Would you like some cake? Great… I have to tell you, it’s not the best one I’ve ever made… I tried adding yogurt, but you know… So sorry about that…”
But they all ate it anyway.
We just made it into Bar Lubitsch by 10:30, our cake cut-off time as per the bouncers’ instructions from a couple weeks ago. The glowing red and big booths are kind of Moulin Rougeish, and there’s a magical second bar in a back room that’s more for dancing. We wandered through both rooms, serving cake to people in booths from basically the dance floor. There was a big international population around us– we met boys from Spain and Greece and Italy, and Richie from Zambia, who wants to be the next Robert de Niro. A woman who I may or may not have given the first piece of cake to got very handsy with me on my way to the bathroom, asking if I was from Peru while she tried to dance with me.
“What’s our ruse again?” my sister asked an hour or so in to make sure we were all still on the same page. Chrissy looked at me. “I just told everyone you were a prostitute.”
My sister (and all the girls) were the greatest sports, making weird small talk with whoever they found themselves standing or sitting next to. Chrissy spent half an hour by the bathroom when we ran out of chairs, insisting she enjoyed it as an exercise in observation. My sister would coach me, “Open yourself up. Your body language is bad.” She came back from talking with Italian Sebastiano about her upcoming trip to Italy. “I really talked you up to those guys,” she said. “‘I said, ‘My sister’s pretty cute, right?'”
By the end of the night we were sharing a table with a bunch of boys having a little high school reunion (precious). The friendliest boy in the group happily took some cake and started chatting with me about our jobs. He told me he steals people’s information for a living (“Don’t worry– in a legal way”) and asked for my phone number when we left. He’s very forgiven for some questionable grammar mistakes in his subsequent text message because he wrote he was still enjoying the cake…
Proving that the right boys might just eat bad cake to talk to the girl.
It’s not even worth posting this week’s recipe because it was so, so awful. Sorry again to everyone who took me up on the cake offer and might have found themselves utterly disappointed. It’s actually a good thing we didn’t make it to Silver Lake to help celebrate my friend Robin’s birthday– she deserves a far superior cake (that will probably pop up later this year).