My social circle in grad school was composed of wonderfully brilliant but also wonderfully crazy people. Mr Cheerio, our resident bearded Georgian known for his wildly inappropriate sense of humor. Captain Cheekbones, who was the poster child for “typical well-to-do Oxford lad” yet made the most casual references to a past filled with women, booze, and various illegal substances. That Guy, the only native Chicagoan among us, who loved his cheap beer and his Wittgenstein and became a vegetarian for over a year just to see what it was like. Lutheran Frat Boy, the youngest out of all of us yet the only one with a spouse, who still cracked stupid frat boy jokes yet was the only devoutly religious person out of all of us. New England Gentleman, a blond Bostonian whose gentlemanly veneer concealed an obsession with feet and love for cross-dressing. Mr Inappropriate, a former middle-school English teacher who could turn the most innocuous comment into a sexual innuendo. And Scottish Darling, my best friend, and the only other girl besides myself who was a regular member of this circle.
Scottish Darling and I didn’t hit it off right away. My initial impression of her was that she was much too chatty and cheerful and even a bit insipid. Later she told me that she thought I was somewhat aloof and subdued and secretly judging everyone behind my inscrutable Asian face. It just turns out we deal with our shyness in different ways: she overcompensates, while I retreat into myself. (And her intellect was frightening; she spouted Latin translations like some kind of walking Wheelock textbook - if the textbook had a Scottish accent.)
Once we got past our mistaken first impressions we became ridiculously good friends. Inseparably good friends. Most free nights one of us were over at the other’s apartment, drinking tea or baking cookies, watching Heroes or Rome, chatting about everything from our thesis topics to Johnny Depp. Most afternoons found us killing time in the department lounge, sometimes working on papers, but more often than not poking each other and laughing hysterically over absolutely nothing. (Captain Cheekbones, who also liked to work in the lounge, soon mastered the art of ignoring our constant chatter and giggles and would only occasionally look up from his books to make a dry observation or fix us with a long-suffering look of saintly patience.)
One particular evening, a bunch of us had made plans to hang out at Capt. Cheekbones’s apartment. Scottish Darling came over to my place beforehand, and the two of us decided we had a sudden craving for something chocolate-y. My favorite website at the time was The Domestic Goddess, and after drooling over her recipes we settled on the chocolate gingerbread. We took the warm, sticky, delightful results over to meet our friends.
“What is that chocolate monstrosity?” Capt. Cheekbones demanded as I unwrapped the cake from its foil. The delectable scent of dark chocolate, accented with the sharp spiciness of ginger, filled the small kitchen with its seductiveness.
“It’s chocolate gingerbread!” I announced. “Scottish Darling and I slaved away for hours in the kitchen, like the wenches we are, and now you white patriarchs get to enjoy the fruits of our labor.”
“Barefoot and in the kitchen. Just the way I like 'em,” Mr Inappropriate leered. “Don’t tell me all you were doing in there was baking.”
Scottish Darling and I were always being teased by our guyfriends for spending way too much time together to be “just friends”. Somehow the joke had turned into a rumor that made its way around the department until even the staff thought we were actually a couple. I’d never taken the rumors seriously until I was approached by New England Gentleman, who apparently had a huge crush on Scottish Darling, and asked in all seriousness if she and I were dating. I almost laughed in the poor guy’s face.
“That’s what we do when we get together, you know,” Scottish Darling retorted. “We bake gingerbread.” The way she said those two innocent words made baking gingerbread sound like something deeply depraved, a debauchery of the highest order. I had to laugh.
“Giggety-giggety!” Mr Cheerio crowed. “Lesbian gingerbread for dessert! You guys could make a fortune off of this. ‘Lesbian gingerbread. Baked by real lesbians. Accept no substitutes.’” He took a big bite. “Mmm. Oh my God,” he said through a mouthful of rich goodness. “It’s so moist! And still warm, too.”
“That’s what she said,” I deadpanned.
The phrase quickly become our favorite inside joke. Half the time our friends used it they didn’t even mean the actual gingerbread. “Dinner at my place tonight. Could you bring some lesbian gingerbread?” “So, you and Scottish Darling bake some lesbian gingerbread this weekend?” “Bake your lesbian gingerbread some other time and pick up some booze on your way over.” And it’s a funny thing, but after graduation, and after Scottish Darling went back to Scotland, I haven’t baked lesb- er, chocolate gingerbread since. It is an awesomely delicious recipe, but without my lesbian lover by my side to hand me the sugar, somehow I feel like it wouldn’t quite be the same.
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Recipe for lesbian gingerbread. Courtesy of the Domestic Goddess, with a few changes.
1 lesbian lover
12 tbps unsalted butter
3/4 cup dark brown sugar
2 tablespoons white sugar
1/2 cup golden syrup
1/2 cup molasses
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
4 teaspoons ground ginger
1 ¼ teaspoons baking soda
2 tablespoons warm water
2 eggs
1 cup milk
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup cocoa
12 oz chocolate chips (I prefer Ghirardelli semi-sweet)
Preheat oven to 340 F. Line the bottom and sides of an 11" x 9" x 3" (or thereabouts) pan with foil or parchment paper. Gossip about latest escapades of New England Gentleman and the latest floozy he’s managed to seduce.
In a large saucepan melt the butter along with the sugars, syrup, molasses and spices. Get your lover to dissolve the baking soda in the water, in a separate bowl. Pinch her butt when she’s not expecting it.
Remove the pan from the heat and beat in the eggs, milk and baking soda in its water. Sing a Joni Mitchell song while your lover harmonizes along. Stir in the flour and cocoa and beat with a wooden spoon to mix. Fold in the chocolate chips. Slap your lover’s hand with the spoon when she attempts to dip her finger in.
Pour into the prepared pan and bake for about 35-45 minutes - until risen and firm to touch. Make very sure not to overbake - moisture is key. Remove to a wire rack and cool in the pan. Let your lover pick off some bits and handfeed them to you with a kiss. Wrap up the rest and take it over to enjoy with your barbaric patriarchal friends.
(I would).
Although I have to say I’m glad the assumptions were wrong. 
