Vegan Caramel Cake (Looking Back . . . )

Nearly 2012. I am completely through with 2011. Through. I had decided I'd wanted to take a break from all that is and live "off grid" for a bit. And so I have. It's been pure and utter delight. I won't say that I didn't peek into the world of the internet here and there, but when I did stop by, it was brief and I quickly set about doing whatever it was my mind was consumed with two minutes before.

(Mostly knitting that HUGE man-sweater I promised husband for Christmas! And no, it is not "yet" in the wear stage, but almost so.) This is called the Raglan-Sleeved Henley from the book, Knits Men Want by Bruce Weinstein. I am knitting this in Lionsbrand Fisherman's wool. I really love the color and it will look smashing on DH. . . once it's finished! Close. So close.

Meantime, my kitchen was in full swing. One thing I made sure we had plenty of was pastry! Lots and lots of pastry. Last night as we were nearly ready for making way for dinner, I had a craving for a caramel cake. One of the many cakes on my Bucket List. I'd tried my hand at this cake a while back and it failed miserably almost setting husband into a diabetic fit. I quickly scrapped the remnants of the coma-inducer and thought I might give it a shot "later". And later became last night. If you've read The Help--you've heard of the cake. The Caramel Cake makes several appearances throughout the book. As it should. It is a truly glorious and decadent southern cake. This cake's not gonna win any beauty contests, okay? But one taste and you'll forgive it its very un-cake-like-ness and will want to devour the whole thing in one sitting. When I gave Dr. Thyme the taste-test piece last night, he shrugged at me asking, Where's the chocolate? I told him that not every cake on the planet that's worth eating contains chocolate, 'kay?! Try it! And he reached his hand up for the tiniest bite I'd ever seen a grown man take and nibbled. I said, Well? He said he LOVED the cake part. And that was all he'd give me. Fine. I added, More for me! *Vacation time with loved ones during lo-o-ng holiday breaks can test the nerves. We're in the home stretch now.

See what I mean, pretty ugly cake. But oh-so-good!

Aside from lots of sugar consumption, I've been away for part of this month. Went back "home". And lived to tell. I don't want to spend too much time on the visit I had up North, but will say that the person who coined "You can't go home" might have been on to something. Though you certainly CAN go home, it may not ever feel the way you remembered it feeling. Or looking. Or being. The cold, hard background of the steel mills along the Lake Michigan coast just east of Chicago still look like the industrial age pits of doom I remembered. The giant concrete buidings circa 1950s--institutions whose time and place were now ending--but for some strange reason had a neon scroll sign out front stating: "We Love You Michael Jackson". I kid you not. It was, after all, Gary, Indiana--the pop king's home. . . and mine. Then we rode along further. . . the wide open area of Lake Michigan to our left. I spent nearly every day of my childhood there--on that beach--and it still takes my breath away. The vast flat landscape of acre upon acre of pure pancake-like (sometimes farmed) geography is all the same, too. My first snow of this season took place one morning when I awoke before my sister. I thought that quite fitting. I sat with the biggest cup of hot coffee I could and just stared out the window of her apartment, reminiscing about my past. About the things that will forever link me to that place: my entire childhood and all that made me into what I am today sitting right outside the window. There were pieces of me everywhere. 

Of course my sister and I enjoyed our time together tremendously. And I've made a vow to her to return more often. Her life is back. She's worked so very hard to get that life back, too. We celebrated her sobriety. We celebrated her independence. We cried. We looked at old photos. We shopped. (Therapy.) We then went over to the "step father's" house for dinner and I cooked. And then, more memories. After all, this was the man for whom much of my adult life has been spent trying to heal. I told myself: I am a grown woman. I am over all that. And yet. Here I was nearly fifty years old and there he was: The figure at the head of the table. . . housed and clothed us ALL. Thirty-five years in the mill. Member of the Teamsters. Hard-working. Middle class. Loves the Cubs, the Bears and. . . his TV. And boy you do NOT want to piss him off.

Old wounds must close. He is aging. I am aging. Our lives are running out of time. I stayed positive. I maintained my composure. I looked at my sister for support. She gave me reassuring glances, helping me in the kitchen. Me the big sis. Her the little sis. But this time, the roles sort of reversed, because it was me who needed the strength. And she was there for me the entire way through. By the time we left, I was shaking--nerves, fear? I said I'd probably wait another fifteen years before I did that again--had a "reunion". She said she appreciated it and it meant a lot to him, too. As I was leaving and standing toe-to-toe with him in the doorway, he began laughing. At me? Or about me? It was hard to tell. Even with heels on, he stands over me. (And I wore my black cowboy boots because they make me feel strong.) So I stared right back at him. An awkward moment to be sure. And then he said, You were the skinniest thing I'd ever seen. . . all bones, all legs and arms. . . Skinniest. I'd. Ever. Seen. Look. At. You. Now. And that was that--a bit of a hug, and we left. Life moves on. You can go home. But you better have your armor. Or cowboy boots. Whichever.

Husband gave me the most wonderful gift for Christmas. An acoustic guitar! My first lesson was tonight! I love music. I've been musical my whole life--much of it having to do with time I spend singing: In the car. . . windows rolled up. But I do adore the guitar. My class went swimmingly. I was taken aback by the way reading the music seemed to just "come back" for me. (Several years in choir.) Before I knew it, I had finished a line of notes and it was as if someone else had jumped in and played for me. Was that me? Did I just do that?! Dr. Thyme thinks this memory has to do with the way our brains are wired. (His scientist self says so.) Like riding a bike, if you will, he said. Then, lesson one over, I grabbed my instrument, headed out the door and in walks a kid no more than six years old wielding a guitar taller than he was, ready to resume lessons in the spot I had just left. (Electric guitar, of course.) I turned around to my instructor and said, IS that your next student? Yep. Sheesh. I was sweating and all tense, had serious finger cramps, but still proud. Step one. Lesson one. However, I may make a suggestion next time that a doorway leading OUT of the music classes be in the opposite direction from those awaiting their music lessons. (Like they do when you see your therapist: No two crazy people paths shall cross. In one way, out another.)

The other gift (that will take me into the 21st century) was the e-reader I received from hubby. Oh. God. I have fought this tooth and nail for years. I will still continue to fight the whole books-not-made-of-paper fight until the cows come home. I am a Gutenberg gal. What can I say? My current reading pleasure is Stephen King's 11/22/63. Husband gave it high marks and said he thought it one of King's best. I am a King fan to a point--I cannot read him unless pre-approved scare-o-meter has been given a once-over by DH. Because in all honesty, he's the one that will be stuck staying up all hours trying to convince me that there are no monsters in our house, on the roof, or in the bushes. He said scary factor is not an issue here. So far, I really love the book.

This caramel cake came by way of a long time baker and cookbook author: Marcy Goldman and her wonderful book, A Passion for Baking. I LOVE this book. If you are any kind of baker at all, this cookbook should be on your shelf. I've had this for several years and was flipping through it for cake inspiration when the title of this sweet old cake stopped me cold: Vintage Southern Tea Room Caramel Cake. I was a bit afraid to dive into the caramel cake again, but my gut said to go for it. So glad I did! A link to her recipe can be found here.

And as far as the vegan-izing, this went quite well, if I don't say so myself. In place of the 3 large eggs, I used 4 1/2 teaspoons of Ener-G Egg Replacer mixed with 6 tablespoons of water. In place of the 1 egg yolk, I used 1 teaspoon of canola oil. And of course the butter is replaced with unsalted vegetable margerine. The tricky part for me was knowing when to let the brown sugar icing just be. This is, after all, the hallmark of the caramel cake--it's the icing. I mean just Let. It. Be. Don't over cook it, don't over think it. (Because I'd already made that mistake once.) First time out, I had to re-heat my mixture and apply it promptly--like spackle. So I made up another batch and promtply poured the mixture over the spackle layer while it was still warm. Then: Step away from the cake! Cover and store at room temperature overnight. Don't worry about long term storage issues--it won't be around that long, trust me. But if you should HAVE to store some, place it in a container with a lid!