The rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used

The first time Michael held my hand, it was under the table at the Howard Johnson's in Times Square, a place that now only exists in memory. We were sitting across the table from a friend and one of her various hangers-on, and everyone was sharing ice cream. I couldn't eat; it was early September and sweltering, and the ice cream was so welcome, but this strange man sitting a little closer to me each minute was distracting. I'd invited him out with us, wondering if the drinks and dinners we'd shared over the summer were just friendly or more than that, and what was he up to, anyway, being so teasingly sweet and attentive?

I remember when I called him and asked, he cut me off. "Absolutely," he said. "Right now."

That night, we all wanted ice cream, and so after work we ended up at the Ho-Jo's. I ordered a dish of something and pushed it around as it melted. I kept casting glances at this guy next to me, this generous, funny man in a navy t-shirt with a ratty neck, the kind that has been washed so many times that hope is the only thing holding it together. His summer haircut was growing out on his neck, and his glasses kept slipping down his dignified slope of a nose. (I love his nose.) I didn't know what to think. 

And then, as Jenny was rattling on about something, his hand slowly migrated to mine. It was tentative, and then rushed, as if he had to grab it before it disappeared. And then I felt us float away from the Ho-Jo's and into a midnight space of our own, where the only noise was the rushing of water and a steady thump-thump of hearts, and we plummeted down, down into a fizzy, sparkly pool, where our fingers entwined like roots growing toward each other. 

We wandered out into the warm fall rain and made our way to the steps of the New York Public Library, where, to the amusement of several homeless people and late-night passersby, he kissed me until the sun peeped over the midtown skyscrapers. The lions kept watch over us, and a white limousine sped past us down Fifth Avenue, screaming toward the dawn. 

That was almost five years ago, and we are still growing toward each other. And last Tuesday, on a cold, windy cliff in Ireland, we reaffirmed what we'd known before: that it was still just the two of us, floating together, holding each other in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other, welcoming what may come. He asked me to marry him, and I buried my face in his raincoat, holding onto him so tightly as if he would float away if I didn't, and my legs went all jelly beneath me, threatening to tumble me into the verdant moss. And then I started to laugh, great giant gasping laughs that shook both of us, and I squeaked out, "Yeah. YES."

Yes to it all: laughing and melted ice cream, and a shredded navy blue t-shirt, and arguing and sleeping in and sharing the last glass of wine, and passport stamps and quiet mornings and runs in the park, and bank accounts and dogs and old milk and new babies and the newspaper. All with him. Just us.

So. We're getting married. And wouldn't you know, I already have a recipe for a groom's cake.

Red Velvet Cake

adapted from The Lee Bros. Southern Cookbook

I made this cake a couple of weeks ago, when I had absolutely no inkling of what was coming. It's the insect-like thing here, and it was supposed to be an armadillo. Those of you versed in magnolias will know what I'm talking about.

This cake has a hint of citrus thanks to a generous dollop of orange peel, but I think you can leave it out if you want a pure chocolate-y cake. The gray icing, of course, is up to you.

2 and a 1/2 cups sifted, bleached all-purpose flour

1 tsp. salt

2 tsp. baking powder

1/4 tsp. baking soda

1/4 cup cocoa powder (not Dutch process)

1 ounce red food coloring (that's a whole bottle. Embrace it.)

1 1/2 tbsp. water

1 cup unsalted butter, softened

2 cups sugar

3 eggs

1 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract

1 cup buttermilk (whole or lowfat, it's up to you; I used buttermilk powder mixed according to the directions, and it turned out fine)

1 tbsp. grated orange zest, about one whole orange

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Grease and flour two cake pans (round or square, up to you), or line the bottoms with greased wax or parchment paper.

Sift the flour, salt, baking powder and soda together at least twice. You don't want any white lumps in this cake -- it will ruin the aesthetic. Then in a small bowl, whisk the food coloring, cocoa and water until it makes a smooth paste. It will look vile. Don't worry.

Beat the butter with an electric mixer until fluffy, and add the sugar, 1/4 cup at a time, until completely mixed in, and it has a light texture. Add the eggs, vanilla and orange zest, making sure to scrape down the sides of the bowl. Add the red paste and mix thoroughly. 

Add the dry ingredient mixture to the butter/sugar mixture about 1/2 a cup at a time, alternating it with a dollop of buttermilk. You'll want to mix this together with a wooden spoon or spatula, so as to avoid overbeating the cake. Give it about 12 strokes with the spoon until everything is evenly mixed up, and divide the batter into the two cake pans. Bake until a toothpick comes out clean, about 30 minutes. Watch it carefully; you'll want to avoid any tough edges or hint of overbaking. Cool the cakes on a rack.

For the icing:

1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, softened but NOT melted

2 packages of cream cheese, softened (Neufchatel cheese works fine if, for some reason, you're counting calories)

1 lb. sifted 10-x sugar

a little milk or half and half

Beat the butter, cream cheese and sugar together until fully blended and smooth. If you think the icing is too stiff, add a little milk or half and half. Here's where you'll also want to add the food coloring, if you're looking for a gray icing. I don't have a formula for it; all I did was add one drop of each color in the pack until the icing started looking like a stormy sky.

Ice the layers as generously as you see fit. Feeds a bunch -- I'd say a good 12 slices, with a little left over.