Perhaps I should back-track a little bit and explain my history with red velvet. The first time I can remember trying it wasn't that long ago. I spent much of my early college years baking treats as a form of social currency, a way of ingratiating myself with the older boys I tended to have class with, and thus half-formed crushes on. My first three newspaper editors were all of the older and male variety, though the first was a schizophrenic and the second a compulsive liar. So when the third one was just mildly depressed and had good taste in music, he got a birthday cake. In what was possibly the only instance of reciprocal baking I've ever experienced, the week of my birthday he presented me with a 9x9 casserole pan, inside of which appeared to be some sort of cake-like food. A thick schmear of canned frosting topped the creation, obscuring any hint as to the innards. When I cut into the concoction little bubbles of a viscous red fluid oozed out onto the frosting, creating pink arterial trees. This was, of course, a red velvet cake. I worked my way through a piece, as did some of my more adventurous friends. Then it got put into the dorm fridge. And was never pulled out, because no one was ever that hungry. A week later and it migrated to the bathroom sink to receive last rights. Except the priest never showed up. There wasn't much about it that seemed likely to degrade, but still when time rolled around to go home for Thanksgiving I deemed it should go back into the fridge during my absence. I didn't want it attacking a hand towel.
