paint and cake

I grew up in a succession of rented apartments and houses and mobile homes with dreary white walls; never scope to redecorate beyond hanging my great-grandmother's crazy quilt above the bed and plastering the walls with a mosaic of postcards and prints. I started taking my revenge for all the white-walled years in college, since the landlords of the various group/rooming houses in the U-District didn't care much what color you painted--if you were painting at all, it was probably an improvement to the general decrepitude of the worn-but-lovely Craftsman house that you shared with three or five or (once) eight other people. So I left a series of green-walled rooms behind me all round that part of Seattle, until my departure for Oxford (more white walls, alas, if in nicer-quality college buildings) in 2002.

The flat I shared in Istanbul last fall was a Kahlo-esque riot: Casa Azul walls in one room, butter-yellow in another, magenta pink in a third; a vivid antidote to the layered, smoky greys and silvers of the city in autumn. But it didn't get the lust for color out of my system (I doubt anything ever will. No stark white Modernist interiors for me.) When I found the place I'm living now, the first thing I asked was whether I could paint the walls--the room was tormented by an insipid combination of pale blue and pale yellow, neither satisfying and both uncooperative with the colors of my own things. My longing for red was impossible--not enough direct light to pull it off--so I reverted to older predilections and started toying with little cardboard swatches of green, from sage to celadon to granny smith apple.

Yesterday, several lovely friends tumbled into my room in their painting clothes, and in the space of a few short hours (alone it would have taken me days) we transformed it. I plied them with this:

I never remember to take pictures of the cake before we eat it, when it's still intact and pretty. This is what was left this morning, and now only crumbs remain.

The original recipe (slightly modified since) for this bittersweet chocolate-almond torte comes from Niall, a Newfoundlander conservation biologist I knew in my Oxford days. When not studying rare birds in the Amazon or working for the Canadian government, he cooks many marvelous things, and this is one. Like many flourless chocolate cakes, it's a dense, rich, velvety wonder--and so easy to make that it's practically foolproof. It doesn't taste strongly of almond at all, so don't worry if you're not a marzipan fan. Also great for people with wheat allergies, since it's gluten-free.

Bittersweet Chocolate Almond Torte, adapted from Niall O.

1 and 1/4 cups ground almonds (I usually get almond flour from South Asian grocers since that's cheapest, but Trader Joe's or a health food store will probably have it too)
150 g quality dark chocolate (Lindt 70% works well, or Green & Black's)
1/2 cup unsalted butter
2/3 cup white sugar
3 eggs
1 tsp vanilla
optional: booze or flavor extract of choice

for the glaze: 60 g more of the chocolate, 30 g unsalted butter, 1 tsp honey

Preheat oven to 375 F/190 C

Batter: Melt chocolate in a bain-marie/double-boiler or by any non-scorching means. In a mixing bowl, soften butter and beat together with sugar. Add vanilla. Add eggs one by one and mix in. Add almond flour and melted chocolate, and mix together. Add a dash or two of any flavouring (on various occasions I've used brandy, cognac, whiskey, turkish coffee, or mint extract; I bet that raspberry or orange liqueur, almond extract, or ginger would be lovely as well).

Pour batter into 9-inch round cake pan. Bake for 25-30 min, until a pale crust forms on top.

Let the cake cool and remove it from the pan. For the glaze, melt butter, chocolate, and honey together in the bain-marie and spread the mixture over the cake. Top with fresh raspberries (my favorite when in season, and the prettiest option), or strawberries, huckleberries, mint leaves, almonds--or nothing at all.

I also fed my generous painters a generous dinner, opting for South Indian since they were a mostly vegetarian and vegan crew. We had a wonderful channa dish involving onions, tamarind, green chilies, and whole garam masala (recipe acquired via thariel from his mum this summer); tomato kura; aubergine/eggplant/brinjal/patlican fried with black mustard seed, cumin, and coriander; and rice, yogurt, and lime pickle. The vegan couldn't eat the cake, of course, but she got sliced strawberries with an improvised chocolate-and-soy-yogurt mousse. Then there followed many hours of beer and goodly conversation (ranging from hilarious tales of embarrassing drunken escapades to serious debates about race, class, and education policy) while the paint dried upstairs.

And my room is just stunning: the main section is a vivid lily-stem green (a blessing color, like that of something alive and growing) constrasted with a warm creamy neutral shade on two sides of the sleeping nook. Perhaps it's just the lingering paint fumes talking, but simply being in the vivid presence of all this green skyrockets my mood. Thank you so much, K, R, and P.