I will never understand Red Velvet Cake. Maybe you have to be from the South to get it, or maybe you just have to like cake more than I do. I was out with my friend Alessandra tonight at Fred 62, a hipster enclave on the edge of Silverbake. We worked together at the magazine; though I have an excellent palate, she has a highly developed sweet tooth and isn't afraid to use it. I had to ask her if the cake was quality, all it did was annoy me. She said it was a good one; I defer to her wisdom.
For those of you who haven't encountered it before, this is a Southern treat the Devil could call his own. I was 23 the first time I witnessed its electric cherry-bomb interior, and was terrified my Yankee eyes might burn out of my head. It scared the bejeezus out of me. Nothing should be that color-- there's a reason they recalled those red M&M's in the 70's. Sweet Lord.
And all it tastes like is sugar. It is tooth-achingly sweet, without much else going on. Tonight's version was very moist, but I swear I could taste the chemical edge of that red dye. Yikes!
Also, it turned my lips red. As I blotted the napkin, I left bright juicy lip marks. If I pay $11 for a tube of gloss to do that, it's ok. But in my cake? Somehow that ain't natural.
Though I did like the cream cheese frosting. To be fair.
