moonsault

I went two out of three with a red velvet cake this weekend. 

A few years ago, the New York Times had a spread on red velvet cake, and at the time, I cut the recipe out and pasted it in a book, hoping to make it someday. The first time I tried it, I didn't have enough red food coloring. The second time, I lost my nerve. So, this time, I was bound and determined not to let it get the best of me.

Friday night, we planned our attack. But we found more pressing concerns (i.e. we chickened out). So, when Saturday morning came, we had no choice but to dig in. After all, the party for Ella was Saturday night, and we were headed to a tour of the National Portrait Gallery that afternoon. That left only the morning for baking. 

Red velvet cake is not easy, especially if you're not a baker. Which I'm not. Mr. Beeton is the more precise one, given his background as a scientist. But, I thought it turned out well. It certainly was pretty. 

The guests, however, did not appreciate all our hard work (though Ella did... we have an adorable picture of her with red crumbs all over her snout). In fact, one guest commented, "I love the icing." Um, that was store bought.

We did have two successful items at the party, however. One was white sangria, and the other was chili lime tequila popcorn.  Both were delicious. And neither required practicing any sleeper holds prior to prepartion. 

Keep sweeping, Martha

you know you love me

We're having a white party. Gossip Girl style. For Ella. Our dog.

Now, if you don't have a dog or if you have a dog that you treat like a pet, you might think this post is a little strange. My sister probably will. She doesn't understand the deep love that I have for Ella. Or that Ella has for me. That's why she gets grossed out when we share ice cream. Or lollipops.

But, I love my dog - in a kind of crazy way. I admit.

You see, I wanted a dog my whole entire life. More than anything. Each Christmas, I would ask Santa for a puppy, and I would never get one. Well, one Christmas I did. It was a stuffed dog with a note - Santa couldn't bring a real one, but he thought you might like this one instead. I did love Spunky. I wasn't coldhearted.  But what I really wanted was a real dog.

When I was little, I remember my parents taking me to a birthday party for the dog of one of their friends.  The dog's name was Mudslide Slim, and he hid under the table the whole party. But, the party was fabulous. And, I remember thinking, "I want a dog to love like that." Now, I have one. And, she's the best.

I didn't get Ella, though, until I was 28 years old. I had a bad break-up, and I thought, "What the heck am I waiting for?" And, I went to the nearest breeder to pick out a puppy. I would have gone to the pound, but my roommate at the time claimed she was allergic (she claimed a lot of things... that she was monogamous... that she was religious... that she wasn't a liar... but that's another story). So, I had to find a hypo-allergenic dog, and the best of the bunch, I thought, was a Westie. As luck would have it, there was a breeder in Bear, Delaware by Lums Pond. In retrospect, he was a little slow and probably had in his garage what Oprah would classify as a puppy mill, but it all worked out, so I try not to dwell.

I reserved Ella, who was trapped in a pen with a very aggressive Cairn terrier. When I came in, she looked at me with eyes that said, "Please, please save me. Look at him," gesturing to the Cairn, "he's out of control." A few days later and several hundred dollars poorer (thank goodness for Stafford Loans), Ella came home with me.

She has such personality. Of her own. And that I've created. For her first birthday, we had a blowout at our little house in George Read Village that used to belong to W.D. Snodgrass. It felt like the entire city of Newark was there. There was a cake, some singing, and a lot of drinking.

Last year, we started the tradition again. Mr. Beeton and I had gotten married in the fall, and we wanted to have our mish-mosh of friends that we'd acquired to our apartment. We threw a Super Sweet Six party, MTV style - chocolate cupcakes with lime icing and super delicious beer and tequila punch. 

So, this year, to celebrate Ella's seventh birthday, we're having a white party. She's white; we'll be wearing white; and we'll be serving white sangria. Right now, I should be planning the menu, but instead, I'm blogging about the craziest little dog in the world who's sleeping, right now, at my feet.

Keep sweeping, Martha

g. peterson

Last night, Mr. Beeton and I headed up the street to the best pizza joint in D.C. - 2Amys. Mr. Beeton was on edge because I was taking my sweet time getting ready. You see, 2 Amy's gets really, really crowded on the weekend, and he was hungry and didn't want to wait in line. But, I was using the power of positive thinking... and I didn't want to be rushed. I was trying to find the perfect outfit to wear. 

We arrived a little after 7 pm, and the wait was an hour. Mr. Beeton was not pleased, but I love 2Amys. I knew the wait would be worth it. Plus, there was no way we were waiting an hour. I bet 30 minutes at most. Sure enough. I was right. We hung out right by the door while others in front of us went to hang out at the bar. When a prime table opened right in front of the window, I knew that for speed's sake the hostess was going to seat us there. We were easy to find, in close proximity. I was right.

Our dinner was delicious and so was the bottle of wine that we split (Librandi, yum). We had appetizers - eggplant and ricotta and salmon and goat cheese crostini. We followed it up with a delicious salad, which we split, and two pizzas - the Norcia and the Puttanesca. Mr. Beeton wanted to order caramel ice cream for dessert, but they had run out. Our waiter recommended the pineapple ice cream instead; I didn't believe it would be good, but he assured me I'd like it. It was delicious. And, he didn't even charge us for our dessert. What a night!

Of course, Mr. Beeton thought we got comp'd because I was declaring I was Gordon Peterson's daughter.  Gordon is a local news anchor who we saw the last time we were at 2Amys, so I had suggested that I pretend to be his daughter so that we get seated quicker. Once that happened and we got free dessert, Mr. Beeton was certain that someone overheard me. Sometimes, I guess, it pays to pretend.

Keep sweeping, Martha

homemade lives

Life has been busy in Washington lately. Last week, I was working my way through a stack of student papers. For my colleagues, this is an unpleasant task; for me, it almost seems insurmountable - in part because I just take too darn long to read and comment. I need to sit with the egg timer and be more disciplined. That way, I can clear out some time for activities that are much more enjoyable like cooking or reading.

On Friday, when I finally handed the papers back amidst groans and a few tears, I arrived home to find a copy of Molly Wizenberg's A Homemade Life. For those of you who don't know (shame on you), Molly is the author of Orangette, a premier food blog. Like many bloggers, she's written a book. I had pre-ordered it, and it was waiting for me when I arrived home after that extremely long week. It's been sustaining me ever since, and I'm anxious to try some of the recipes which range from ginger cake to bread stuffed with chocolate. It's a great read, and I'm sure, when I'm finished, I'll be hungry for more.

Keep sweeping, Martha

confessions

I didn't get quoted in The New York Times. 

About a week ago, my editor called me to say that David Colman, of The New York Times, was writing an article about the new Confessions of a Shopaholic movie, and he needed someone "scholarly" to comment.  Since I published a book on chick lit with a chapter specifically on that novel, he thought I might have something to say. I was ecstatic. This was big time. I had daydreams of sending the article to a snide, Guggenheim winning, former professor from graduate school who boldly declared, "You'll never get anywhere writing about chick lit." (Um, how 'bout The New York Times?) Plus, I'd be able to put it on my annual report, finally finding a way to answer the rather puzzling question: "Briefly describe the impact of your recent research/scholarship/creative activity on significant new knowledge, infrastructure for scholarship, society, students, underrepresented groups, policy, and community." (What?!)

The first time David called I was in class.  Because I'm always in class. But, in between classes, I eagerly checked my email, hoping he'd give me a sense of what his timetable was. I certainly didn't want to miss my one chance at fame because I was helping a student catch up on work she had missed while absent with the 24-day flu. He had emailed. In his article, he said, he wanted to discuss the history of consumerism in the novel. You know, Vanity Fair, Anna Karenina, etc. He named about 18 19th-century novels that I had never read. Things were not looking good.

We talked, though, for a rather long time about books, shopping, chick lit. It was clear to me from our discussion that the article was already written, at least in his head, and he was looking for someone to corroborate the views that he had already established. I got the feeling that my work didn't exactly mesh with what he had already been thinking about, so I wasn't feeling very hopeful. Then, when I heard he'd interviewed Plum Sykes, I got even less hopeful.

The article came out on Thursday, and needless to say, I didn't make it in.  David quoted a professor from Hunter instead (damn, New Yorkers). But Plum didn't make it in either, so I felt a little better.

The only thing I could see to do in response was a little retail therapy.  I bought a pair of boots. I almost bought an $890 Louis Vuitton bag. Fitting, right?

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

Keep sweeping, Martha

april fool

It's really warm out today. Unseasonably so. I'm not going to be tricked. But I will head out and enjoy the day with Mr. Beeton and Ella. I think we'll walk through Georgetown, looking at all the gorgeous houses we can't afford to buy. Then, it's back to grading papers. At least some are on Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver.

Keep sweeping, Martha

haters

Seems like Mrs. Beeton has found herself surrounded by haters lately. To start, she's in the library for two hours on Super Bowl Sunday because her students have a paper due on Friday. Extended office hours are the only way to appease them. Then, she opens her email. A student reporter inquires about her policy of BANNING laptops from her classroom. Does she care to comment? Then, a text message from a friend. Will she and Mr. Beeton be coming to a Super Bowl party being hosted by a mutual friend? Mr. Beeton swears he already RSVP'ed no to that soiree. And, finally, Mrs. Beeton just found out that an old colleague will be interviewing for an open position in her program - a position with considerable power. This former colleague looks like the Joker. Scary. When she confides in a friend, he dooms her to an increased course load if the Joker gets hired. Sigh. Stop bringing me down, people.

And, this, Mrs. Beeton reminds herself, is why she started The Happy Homekeeper. After several other failed blog attemps (one where she served as the ghost writer for Ella, one about wine, one that was a bit too truthful to not cause issues), she settled on this one because the only way to pull herself out of a funk is to cook some chilli or do some laudry. 

Tomorrow is a research day. Laurie Colwin, Diana Abu-Jaber await.

Keep sweeping, Martha