Red Velvet Cake

our pandemic obsession

Rooted Magazine, a free online zine “dedicated to telling stories of Place from the people who call Mississippi Home” is one I enjoy reading, being I grew up there and all. “Mississippi Sideboard” is a monthly feature written by food, culture, and history writer Jesse Yancy. His most recent essay was all about Red Velvet Cake, including a family recipe. Yum! It reminded me of my husband and my pandemic binge of this most wonderful of cakes. I wrote a short essay-ish that was published in 2022 in LOVE IN THE TIME OF COVID: A Chronicle of a Pandemic, edited by Witi Ihimaera and Michelle Elvy. I thought I’d share it here.

My mixer & one of many boxes of cake mix

How Red Velvet Cake & Potatoes Took Me to the 70s & Back

During the pandemic we became obsessed with red velvet cake. It all started when a neighbor gave us one for Christmas, which we sprayed with hydrogen peroxide (the box), waited ten minutes, then stowed in the deep freezer. We declared to each other that we had forgotten how delicious red velvet cake was and how our mammas baked them when we were kids. I went online and bought a bundt pan from Amazon, ten cake mixes from Walmart, cream cheese and powdered sugar via Instacart, and a Kitchenaid mixer. I made cakes and cakes and cakes. For about four or five months we ate cake every day, the creamy icing melting in our mouths like the memories of pre-COVID life. The binge ended, finally, when we couldn’t stand the thought of another cake and I couldn’t zip my jeans.

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I miss jeans from the 70s. They were all cotton denim (no stretch!), flared, and I wore a thick belt with a peace sign for a buckle. I only had one pair of jeans that fit like I wanted so at night after undressing I would rub a warm washcloth over the legs, front and back, to clean off dust and grime. I’d wear them again the next day and so on until I decided they needed a good washing in the machine. I’d sewn patches on the knees and butt because that’s what we did. My favorite patch was a red dachshund dog on the knee. I have a picture in those jeans, the red dachshund on my knee smiling a bigger smile than me.

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I was 12 the first time I shaved my legs. My cousin from New Mexico was visiting that summer. She was older, maybe 16, and she giggled at my bare hairy legs, said I needed to shave them, that they were gross. I was mortified because she was beautiful and worldly so, of course, I shaved them while she directed me in technique. When my mom finally noticed she said I was too young to shave my legs and that the hair would grow back thick and black. I spent the rest of the summer watching for hair on my legs, obsessively shaving so that wouldn’t happen.

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My family always had a vegetable garden in the summer. Daddy tilled and planted, I picked and shelled, and mamma put up the cleaned vegetables after working all day at her outside job. New baby potatoes were “stored” under the old black walnut tree. One day I was sent out to get some for supper and when I reached down there was a nest of baby snakes wiggling around all over each other amongst the potatoes. I wasn’t afraid, I was fascinated. They reminded me of my brain wriggling when I had to keep my mouth shut which was often. Confession: I did grab those potatoes fast and run back in the house, though.

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When the pandemic began we started ordering our food online. We bought canned vegetables and boxed food from Sam’s and Walmart because they shipped. We ordered all kinds of boxed potatoes: mashed, hash browns, scalloped. At first, they tasted fine but soon I began dreaming about real crunchy french fries, fluffy clouds of mashed laced with garlic, cheese-laden au gratin. I missed the earthy taste of fresh potatoes. I watched Monty Don plant and harvest them in grow bags on TV and wondered if I could do it. About a year later we started using Instacart and bought fresh potatoes. They were better than sex which is always available, even during a pandemic.

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Talking about sweet things, enjoy this musical interlude by the one and only Chaka Khan. 🍰