Why do I wait until the midnight hour to blog? How many chores must be checked off the list before I allow myself to do the one thing I've wanted to do the entire day? The one thing I thought of as my audio CD pulsed in my right ear during the two hour highway cruise from Pueblo to Lamar. Well, one of two things, the other being the Sweet Chili rice chips to satisfy my salt craving. Thank you, open 24-hour Super Wal-Mart just down Olive Street!
The reason for this little 9-day sojourn in the land of sun, snow, and southern wind, has arrived. While the rest of you handle your 9 to 5, or whatever else it is that fills your day, I'll sit through an all-day court session meant to absorb the testimony of doctors on both sides of the fence in the pursuit of a legal and just decision regarding the future of my sister. As I forgot to grab a new purse notebook, the Holiday Inn Express phone notepad will perform the duty of recording my musings during the proceedings. My sister will arrive under police escort and enter the courtroom with a sheriff's deputy. We're hopeful that we can spend the breaks and lunch hour together; my short chat with the most excellent sheriff of this town, Jim Faull, didn't yield certainty of this though he promised to try. Remodeling has left available spaces up in the air.
While I find Lamar's eateries leave much to be desired, there is a Thai place near the railroad tracks which actually merits both mention and mastication of said cuisine. After cruising the Main Street strip of this 'burg -- checked the hours for the 'Perk' coffee shop and looked in on the old house on the 700 block -- I stopped in at the Thai restaurant to quickly study the menu in case I had to place an order with a runner. Crystal spring rolls and moo goo gai pan is what I'll request.
I'm too tired to think clearly. Such a shame. But 6 o'clock will trigger the alarm into action much before I'm ready and fully rested. Court starts at 9AM. Gotta squeeze in a modicum of exercise, eat my flax with brown rice and almond milk, and spiffy myself! Oh, and leave time for what I hope is an invigorating cup of coffee in some manifestation pleasing to my palate and brain cells.
I'm safe. It's quiet. It's windy. My gut is putting up a mild protest. Perhaps it's the reduced-fat Pringles and microwave popcorn I also consumed during my salty phase of the day. I'm off. This content does not reflect what I hoped to write earlier in my thoughts. But I'm nodding off mid-sentences. Words are not flowing. Sorry. Good night.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
The Sins of the Flesh
A conversation between two thighs:
"I heard you had Jerry's homemade tortillas for breakfast today! You know he uses lard, don't you?"
"Well, yeah, everyone knows they're just not the same without lard. The texture. The flavor. I'm made of animal fat. Lard IS animal fat. Where's the conflict? Don't tell me you expected me to go the 'canola oil and whole wheat' route! Besides, I heard you had a late night snack of red wine, corn chips and salsa, AND dark chocolate. What kind of combination is THAT?!"
"A better combo than elk sausage, a fried egg, THREE -- yes I know you went there -- tortillas with butter and honey, TWO CUPS of coffee, one of Aunt Marie's pumpkin cookies . . . AND that sinfully lusciously tart lemon bar that Laurie bought!"
"Did you even bother to TASTE the depth of citrus in that bar? That's vitamin C, baby. There's vitamin A in the cookies, courtesy of the pumpkin. And, and, and . . . you would have hated me later if I hadn't eaten Jerry's homemade tortillas. That offer doesn't come a'knockin' very often. Be honest. You know I'm tellin' the truth!"
"We-e-ll, you might be right with that one. But surely you didn't need the to consume all of those starches at one sitting? Why not save the baked goods for later? I mean, must you be such a piggy-wiggy?! At least I used the knowledge gleaned from countless TV shows and health magazines -- my splurge was anti-oxidant rich."
"I KNOW you did not just slander my good name. If you want to nitpick, I'll take you on a little walk down memory lane to visit a few highly memorable binges. You can conveniently blame it on 'PMS' or 'cravings' during THAT TIME OF THE MONTH but let's just call an excuse an excuse. Shall we?"
"Why are you being mean to me? I only brought up the tortillas for your own good. You know how you get when you overeat. We'll all pay for it later. No one more than you. I'm simply reminding you to take it easy. Why must I always be the voice of reason?!"
"Why? You wonder WHY? I'd say it's the wine, you imbibing imbecile. Reason, my hind end, er, OUR hind end! You're perhaps better read and better with words but we're the same, dearie, two sides of the same lower torso. What's mine is yours and vice-versa. If . . . "
"Don't you . . . "
"This is . . . "
"Hey! Down there. You two thunder thighs! Get a grip and stop crying, for the the love of all that's sweet and creamy! I want you to shut up and pay attention. Own what you ate. Quit your bickering and help me . . . sque-e-e-ze . . . into . . . these jeans. And I'm telling you RIGHT now that if this zipper doesn't go all the way up, you'll be squatting and lunging until you're speechless! And you'll forget you ever consumed a single solitary morsel of chevre cheese, pasta al dente, or well-seasoned New Zealand lamb chop!"
"I heard you had Jerry's homemade tortillas for breakfast today! You know he uses lard, don't you?"
"Well, yeah, everyone knows they're just not the same without lard. The texture. The flavor. I'm made of animal fat. Lard IS animal fat. Where's the conflict? Don't tell me you expected me to go the 'canola oil and whole wheat' route! Besides, I heard you had a late night snack of red wine, corn chips and salsa, AND dark chocolate. What kind of combination is THAT?!"
"A better combo than elk sausage, a fried egg, THREE -- yes I know you went there -- tortillas with butter and honey, TWO CUPS of coffee, one of Aunt Marie's pumpkin cookies . . . AND that sinfully lusciously tart lemon bar that Laurie bought!"
"Did you even bother to TASTE the depth of citrus in that bar? That's vitamin C, baby. There's vitamin A in the cookies, courtesy of the pumpkin. And, and, and . . . you would have hated me later if I hadn't eaten Jerry's homemade tortillas. That offer doesn't come a'knockin' very often. Be honest. You know I'm tellin' the truth!"
"We-e-ll, you might be right with that one. But surely you didn't need the to consume all of those starches at one sitting? Why not save the baked goods for later? I mean, must you be such a piggy-wiggy?! At least I used the knowledge gleaned from countless TV shows and health magazines -- my splurge was anti-oxidant rich."
"I KNOW you did not just slander my good name. If you want to nitpick, I'll take you on a little walk down memory lane to visit a few highly memorable binges. You can conveniently blame it on 'PMS' or 'cravings' during THAT TIME OF THE MONTH but let's just call an excuse an excuse. Shall we?"
"Why are you being mean to me? I only brought up the tortillas for your own good. You know how you get when you overeat. We'll all pay for it later. No one more than you. I'm simply reminding you to take it easy. Why must I always be the voice of reason?!"
"Why? You wonder WHY? I'd say it's the wine, you imbibing imbecile. Reason, my hind end, er, OUR hind end! You're perhaps better read and better with words but we're the same, dearie, two sides of the same lower torso. What's mine is yours and vice-versa. If . . . "
"Don't you . . . "
"This is . . . "
"Hey! Down there. You two thunder thighs! Get a grip and stop crying, for the the love of all that's sweet and creamy! I want you to shut up and pay attention. Own what you ate. Quit your bickering and help me . . . sque-e-e-ze . . . into . . . these jeans. And I'm telling you RIGHT now that if this zipper doesn't go all the way up, you'll be squatting and lunging until you're speechless! And you'll forget you ever consumed a single solitary morsel of chevre cheese, pasta al dente, or well-seasoned New Zealand lamb chop!"
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Thank-fully DONE!
In 2 1/2 hours, we have Turkey Day lift off. The official start to Thanksgiving 2010. Travelers from faraway lands -- well, most likely neighboring states -- will unload their coolers bearing favorite pies and savory side dishes, and disgorge their mini-vans of children and suitcases, all in the name of gathering together for family, festivity, food, and fun . . . not to mention varying degrees of friendly friction. Cooks will collaborate on buttery mashed potatoes and disagree on the proper way to chop green onions for dressing. As my own history can attest, there will be copious amounts of laughter with tears of punctuation. Legends will take shape to passed down in years yet to come, from table to table, in fine oral tradition. "Pumpkin pie is so-o-o-o romantic!" will live long in my heart, courtesy of oldest brother, Kevin.
For me, tomorrow will start with a 3AM alarm, followed by a 4AM car ride to Nashville's airport for a 6AM flight on Southwest that which whisk me away to DIA in Denver, Colorado. The Starbuck's on the other side of security -- can you say 'full-body scan' without a serving of 'pat down?' -- had better be open for business because there's a tall extra-shot soy latte with my name on it! Brother Mark is hosting the meal at his family home; Sister Laurel will also be there. I can't recall when last I shared a holiday with my older siblings, or Side A of the record as I like to call them. Good stuff!
I opted out of a few extra-curricular activities which always seem to trip me up and add time to the equation, including balancing the checkbook with the latest statement and receipts. It'll still be there, waiting for my calculations by pink pen, upon my return. I did water two non-flowering African violets, but I did NOT repot or rearrange any plants: I can conjure up two pre-trip scenarios where I was up to my elbows in potting soil out on the back patio AFTER the stroke of 12AM whilst all the normal people in the house were heavily sawing logs. Oh, and I ditched the genius idea of yesterday concerning a dog brush, scissors, and our double-layered heavily-furred Husky-mix. However, in the spirit of admission, I will cop to drying a batch of the sourdough bread cubes for Ashley as she does not realize how long it takes to deplete moisture from several different loaves.
Beginning the process upon waking this morning takes partial credit for this remarkable feat -- the filling of mini toiletry bottles, the gathering of socks and undies, the counting of lysine and calcium caplets, the crucial commandeering of my husband's Neti pot. It's liberating to realize there's nothing left to be accomplished other than this blog entry. Usually, I'm rolling the last t-shirt or tucking the final cotton ball at 2 or 3AM. Tonight, my final act was to quickly chew through two cups of raw spinach while chatting with my kids. That was 10PM. Hey, my day was such a blur that I forgot to eat any vegetables. It didn't feel right. Yes, I realize it's all a bit OCD, but I consider myself to have come a lo-ong way, baby!My brain is fried. My body is fatigued. But I'm excited. I'm counting on adrenaline to get me good piece down the way on the morrow. Until then, let's see if it's possible to achieve 3 hours of sleep.
What rituals does everyone else practice in preparation for a trip? I'm interested to know.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Who, me?!
While breaking up a fight in the dryer between my daughter's oxford-blue work shirt and a pair of stubborn skinny jeans, I tried to latch onto a statement my older levied at me with all due affection in an earlier phone conversation. What, exactly, had he said? What was the wording? I'm forever losing thoughts and dropping words in that porous gray stone of a brain in my head.
The Italian parsley I earlier purchased at ye local Super Wal-Mart needed my attention -- a snipping of the stems; a cup of water in which to set the drooping bunch of fragrant herbage in order to perk it up for Ashley's Thanksgiving attempt at my favored homemade stuffing recipe. You see, the entire family will be without me for the first time, ever, during this delicious holiday of gratitude and belly delights, and they're dining elsewhere without any of mom's traditional dishes to grace the table. Hence, my eldest child's desire to cube and dry the sourdough, rye, and whole wheat breads for mixing with a slow-sauteed blend of grated carrots, minced mushroom, green onions, sliced celery, garlic cloves, and a sprinkling of chopped walnuts -- in butter and extra-virgin olive oil, of course -- before adding the secret blend of dried herbs, a touch of spice, and the chicken stock. But this is all a stimulating culinary digression as I again attempt to raise from the depths of my pitiful short-term memory that handful of winsome words my '5th fave' bro tossed my way . Oh-h-h . . . it had something to do with what I do . . .
Pots and pans from last night's adventure with beef stew call for scrubbing. I contemplate this chore before the distraction of a text on my iPhone engages me in a short discussion with aforementioned daughter. The subject matter? What, pray tell, is the exact potato-to-broth ratio of the previously concocted stew which is scheduled to make a second appearance on the Valdez table tonight? This results in a quick interaction between my ergonomically designed peeler, four small Yukon golds, and boiling water. As I direct dried dishes to their proper resting places, I again ponder. Did my elder sibling-scribe -- he's two years into penning his own book -- compliment some talent of mine?
Let's see . . . we were talking . . . the airport . . . marriage . . . writing inspiration . . . I parked the GMC Yukon in the driveway of our suburban home with its 2-car garage, 3 1/2 baths, naturally lit spacious kitchen, with a fireplace and bonus room. I emptied the compost bucket. Fed our wayward cat his late lunch. Let our senior dog outside. Organized the recycling bins. Realized the bird feeder was empty. Carried in the groceries from Trader Joe's. Wondered when I would find the time to finally pull the withered heirloom tomato plants left over from this summer, not to mention the expired morning glories and hummingbird vine. Reminded myself that our two highschoolers would need rides soon from practice. Hoped the husband would arrive home from work early enough to help deliver Thanksgiving food baskets to families in need. And, rediscovered my misplaced coupon holder for the third time in as many days.
Somewhere between the groceries and the coupons, my observant and admiring second-from-the-oldest brother said to me, "Gloria, you have become quite the domestic goddess." Everything in me wanted to say he was wrong, it wasn't so, that's not me . . .
Then, I remembered that batch of pumpkin biscotti I planned to bake for my Colorado trip. And that aggressive oxford-blue shirt I wanted to iron for my daughter. And how my toenails needed painting before Thursday. And my neighbor stopped by to drop off the waffle iron and plate he borrowed earlier in the week.
Wow! Is that my PICTURE in the dictionary right next to the definition?
The Italian parsley I earlier purchased at ye local Super Wal-Mart needed my attention -- a snipping of the stems; a cup of water in which to set the drooping bunch of fragrant herbage in order to perk it up for Ashley's Thanksgiving attempt at my favored homemade stuffing recipe. You see, the entire family will be without me for the first time, ever, during this delicious holiday of gratitude and belly delights, and they're dining elsewhere without any of mom's traditional dishes to grace the table. Hence, my eldest child's desire to cube and dry the sourdough, rye, and whole wheat breads for mixing with a slow-sauteed blend of grated carrots, minced mushroom, green onions, sliced celery, garlic cloves, and a sprinkling of chopped walnuts -- in butter and extra-virgin olive oil, of course -- before adding the secret blend of dried herbs, a touch of spice, and the chicken stock. But this is all a stimulating culinary digression as I again attempt to raise from the depths of my pitiful short-term memory that handful of winsome words my '5th fave' bro tossed my way . Oh-h-h . . . it had something to do with what I do . . .
Pots and pans from last night's adventure with beef stew call for scrubbing. I contemplate this chore before the distraction of a text on my iPhone engages me in a short discussion with aforementioned daughter. The subject matter? What, pray tell, is the exact potato-to-broth ratio of the previously concocted stew which is scheduled to make a second appearance on the Valdez table tonight? This results in a quick interaction between my ergonomically designed peeler, four small Yukon golds, and boiling water. As I direct dried dishes to their proper resting places, I again ponder. Did my elder sibling-scribe -- he's two years into penning his own book -- compliment some talent of mine?
Let's see . . . we were talking . . . the airport . . . marriage . . . writing inspiration . . . I parked the GMC Yukon in the driveway of our suburban home with its 2-car garage, 3 1/2 baths, naturally lit spacious kitchen, with a fireplace and bonus room. I emptied the compost bucket. Fed our wayward cat his late lunch. Let our senior dog outside. Organized the recycling bins. Realized the bird feeder was empty. Carried in the groceries from Trader Joe's. Wondered when I would find the time to finally pull the withered heirloom tomato plants left over from this summer, not to mention the expired morning glories and hummingbird vine. Reminded myself that our two highschoolers would need rides soon from practice. Hoped the husband would arrive home from work early enough to help deliver Thanksgiving food baskets to families in need. And, rediscovered my misplaced coupon holder for the third time in as many days.
Somewhere between the groceries and the coupons, my observant and admiring second-from-the-oldest brother said to me, "Gloria, you have become quite the domestic goddess." Everything in me wanted to say he was wrong, it wasn't so, that's not me . . .
Then, I remembered that batch of pumpkin biscotti I planned to bake for my Colorado trip. And that aggressive oxford-blue shirt I wanted to iron for my daughter. And how my toenails needed painting before Thursday. And my neighbor stopped by to drop off the waffle iron and plate he borrowed earlier in the week.
Wow! Is that my PICTURE in the dictionary right next to the definition?
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Happy Birthday Eve To Me-e!
When I woke up this morning, my age had already advanced to 41 in Japan. At least calendar-wise. But here in the 'Boro of Middle Tennessee, today is my last full day as a 40 year-old. Otherwise known as my birthday eve . . . part and parcel of my new found practice -- begun last year -- of celebrating birthday month. A neighbor friend kind of eased me into it, having exercised the option within her own family for years. It's a spiffy idea. Feel free to adopt it and pass it on.
Besides a few posts on Facebook and a humorous message on my iPhone voicemail service, much of the actual celebration has been internal. Some measure in the form of a retrospective life review; a larger measure manifested in a simple gratitude which has managed to overtake both my brain and my heart. As much as it scares me to believe, as much as it pains me to say, I've got it so very good! And even in the midst of the painful curveballs which seem to endlessly hurl from the unseen hand of a relentless power pitcher, I've had it pretty darned good for quite some time.
When I suffer, I suffer within the safe confines of this American democracy, which, regardless of its flaws, is still one of the best governments in the world. When I hurt, I hurt with the support of numerous fellow burden-bearers who willingly ask to share the load. When I suffer a crisis of faith, the Christ at the center of my faith does not desert me. While my children vex me to no end at times, they yet love me through calls, hugs, and declarations of earnest affection. While my baby brother still struggles in his life, he is able to share each and every day with me. While my finger joints now assert their slow age-related breakdown, our insurance continues to assert its coverage of Vanderbilt-worthy rheumatologists.
Though I slept poorly last night, I can laugh when my husband recounts how I tossed, turned, moaned, groaned, twitched, kicked, covered, uncovered, and otherwise made peaceful slumber in our bed an impossibility for him. My hardworking husband who went in to work on Friday late morning and did not return home from a team work project until 4am wishing, hoping, and praying for nothing more than sweet oblivion beneath his comforter. Though the elephant residing in my sinus cavities (thanks for the turn of a phrase, Melba!) has evidently signed up for an extended stay, I could still taste and revel in the extraordinary flavor of the best, BEST, hot chocolate ever to pass over my palate -- Starbuck's salted caramel hot chocolate. Thanks, Ashley, for the treat. Mmmm mmm. And, though another of Gary's birthdays will pass without benefit of my company in the flesh, he will soon enjoy the Nike Free Run black running shoes AND Nike socks we ordered together, him thumbing through his catalog, me cruising the web on the Mac, headed his way courtesy of Zappos.com. And, I DO have the privilege of sharing Rebekah's 40th birthday with her on the 28th . . . ALL DAY!
I about tripped a breaker switch in my head, ticking off the list of lovely people I've collected along life's merry way. How much love is one person allowed to receive from others? Because I'm quite certain my mailbox is full -- and it ain't junkmail! And I return the affection a hundredfold. It may sound maudlin, but remember something . . . this is me. I feel things. Constantly. Deeply. Truly. No drama. No exaggeration. Simply unadulterated emotion for the beautiful things in this human existence which so effectively ease the ugliness of plight and pathos.
The evening wanes under the light of an almost full moon. It's gorgeous. Earlier, I walked along the stone garden path my family (and Ashley's boyfriend) helped create, admiring the yellowed fallen leaves from the Kwanzaan cherry tree I planted last year. To my left, the Forest Pansy redbud spread its poetic bare branches across the entire corner of the yard, hovering above the active hub of fauna activity I call a bird feeder. Our cat considers it a snack bar. Fortunately, cardinals and sparrows appear to have short memories. From my hand, the purple line of Panda's leash trailed away from me into the darkness ahead. Her distinctive furry bulk gently swayed as she pulled me beneath the weathered cedar arbor I painstakingly chose almost 7 years ago while designing our landscape. I marvelled at the pleasure which has been mine each time I raised the blinds and took in these natural sights. Winter, spring, summer, and fall. Flowers and vines have climbed, flourished, withered, died; only to regenerate in that endless cycle of growth. Neighborhood children have run through the grass, searching out the wonderful fireflies at twilight or the evasive butterflies in the noon breezes or the fascinating caterpillars which breed on the heavy heads of the dillweed plants. Neighbors have enjoyed heirloom tomato salsa spiced with jalapeno and cilantro from the beds along the fence. My son earned many a dollar one weekend selling all manner of produce to passers-by. My yard is a haven. A true blessing.
I could go on. But I run the risk of redundancy. Or overkill. My point is clear. Whether in birthday month, or out, whether I'm comfortable with it, or not, things in my life are pretty good. And I'm not taking any of it, or anyone, for granted. Now I must be gone. There's a distracting pile of presents on the dining room table. It's 54 minutes to midnight. It'll be my birthday then. What is the etiquette on a problem such as this?
Besides a few posts on Facebook and a humorous message on my iPhone voicemail service, much of the actual celebration has been internal. Some measure in the form of a retrospective life review; a larger measure manifested in a simple gratitude which has managed to overtake both my brain and my heart. As much as it scares me to believe, as much as it pains me to say, I've got it so very good! And even in the midst of the painful curveballs which seem to endlessly hurl from the unseen hand of a relentless power pitcher, I've had it pretty darned good for quite some time.
When I suffer, I suffer within the safe confines of this American democracy, which, regardless of its flaws, is still one of the best governments in the world. When I hurt, I hurt with the support of numerous fellow burden-bearers who willingly ask to share the load. When I suffer a crisis of faith, the Christ at the center of my faith does not desert me. While my children vex me to no end at times, they yet love me through calls, hugs, and declarations of earnest affection. While my baby brother still struggles in his life, he is able to share each and every day with me. While my finger joints now assert their slow age-related breakdown, our insurance continues to assert its coverage of Vanderbilt-worthy rheumatologists.
Though I slept poorly last night, I can laugh when my husband recounts how I tossed, turned, moaned, groaned, twitched, kicked, covered, uncovered, and otherwise made peaceful slumber in our bed an impossibility for him. My hardworking husband who went in to work on Friday late morning and did not return home from a team work project until 4am wishing, hoping, and praying for nothing more than sweet oblivion beneath his comforter. Though the elephant residing in my sinus cavities (thanks for the turn of a phrase, Melba!) has evidently signed up for an extended stay, I could still taste and revel in the extraordinary flavor of the best, BEST, hot chocolate ever to pass over my palate -- Starbuck's salted caramel hot chocolate. Thanks, Ashley, for the treat. Mmmm mmm. And, though another of Gary's birthdays will pass without benefit of my company in the flesh, he will soon enjoy the Nike Free Run black running shoes AND Nike socks we ordered together, him thumbing through his catalog, me cruising the web on the Mac, headed his way courtesy of Zappos.com. And, I DO have the privilege of sharing Rebekah's 40th birthday with her on the 28th . . . ALL DAY!
I about tripped a breaker switch in my head, ticking off the list of lovely people I've collected along life's merry way. How much love is one person allowed to receive from others? Because I'm quite certain my mailbox is full -- and it ain't junkmail! And I return the affection a hundredfold. It may sound maudlin, but remember something . . . this is me. I feel things. Constantly. Deeply. Truly. No drama. No exaggeration. Simply unadulterated emotion for the beautiful things in this human existence which so effectively ease the ugliness of plight and pathos.
The evening wanes under the light of an almost full moon. It's gorgeous. Earlier, I walked along the stone garden path my family (and Ashley's boyfriend) helped create, admiring the yellowed fallen leaves from the Kwanzaan cherry tree I planted last year. To my left, the Forest Pansy redbud spread its poetic bare branches across the entire corner of the yard, hovering above the active hub of fauna activity I call a bird feeder. Our cat considers it a snack bar. Fortunately, cardinals and sparrows appear to have short memories. From my hand, the purple line of Panda's leash trailed away from me into the darkness ahead. Her distinctive furry bulk gently swayed as she pulled me beneath the weathered cedar arbor I painstakingly chose almost 7 years ago while designing our landscape. I marvelled at the pleasure which has been mine each time I raised the blinds and took in these natural sights. Winter, spring, summer, and fall. Flowers and vines have climbed, flourished, withered, died; only to regenerate in that endless cycle of growth. Neighborhood children have run through the grass, searching out the wonderful fireflies at twilight or the evasive butterflies in the noon breezes or the fascinating caterpillars which breed on the heavy heads of the dillweed plants. Neighbors have enjoyed heirloom tomato salsa spiced with jalapeno and cilantro from the beds along the fence. My son earned many a dollar one weekend selling all manner of produce to passers-by. My yard is a haven. A true blessing.
I could go on. But I run the risk of redundancy. Or overkill. My point is clear. Whether in birthday month, or out, whether I'm comfortable with it, or not, things in my life are pretty good. And I'm not taking any of it, or anyone, for granted. Now I must be gone. There's a distracting pile of presents on the dining room table. It's 54 minutes to midnight. It'll be my birthday then. What is the etiquette on a problem such as this?
Friday, November 19, 2010
These Are A Few Of Her Favorite Things
Oprah’s favorite things aired today. Regardless of your feelings about Oprah – and there are plenty of those to go around – you’d be hard pressed to find fault with her annual 'Favorite Things' show. Her always- surprised-into-tears-and-laughter crowd is an amalgam of fans who’ve landed on her radar by virtue of their character, merit, and giving ways. Oprah’s theory is to give to those who have given so unselfishly of themselves as a way of life.
It’s cathartic. I’m genuinely pleased for, and a tad envious in the most non-harmful of ways of, these audiences of elated men and women. Some who may be on the verge of a possible coronary infarction. To me, there’s absolutely nothing better than showering people with unexpected giving. They ask for NADA and quite literally get everything! Women turn to hug one another in wide-mouthed astonishment with each gift announced by their generous hostess. Some appear to be in shock and most likely are. In today’s show, there was one handsome gentleman, a tall slender black man of a certain age, who repeatedly raised his hands heavenward in supplication, mouthing “thank you, thank you” over and over. He was so sweet to behold every time the camera panned him. I think I love him.
And these people are most likely taking home a good many gifts they’d never think of or ask for or even need: say, the brownie pan called 'The Baker’s Edge' whereby every brownie has that chewy yummy edge that everyone tries for when they grab out of the display plate. Or the pricey $55 each perfectly scented candles for every room in the house in a set of eighteen. Or even the specially designed 25th Oprah show Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater with matching lap blanket. Books, cameras, diamond watches, and we’re not even halfway through the show.
But what’s so wonderful is that every one of these people are truly grateful for every little thing. Their tears are real. Their hearts are full . . . as will their arms when they leave the studio. It’s a perfect way to start off the holiday season in the right vein for the viewer. Because what it ultimately reveals is the joy experienced by the giver as they hand out to the unsuspecting around them. As thrilled as every audience member surely is – hard not to be – Oprah is just as tickled in her role. She revels in exposing the episode's surprise identity at the beginning at the onset as she pulls off her cover gown to reveal her Santa-sequined dress beneath. She’s breathless with anticipation as she uncovers each new thing to their childlike eyes. She painstakingly categorizes every good and lovely thing ever bequeathed to her as something most excellent for her next 'Favorite Things' show.
Personally, I think I’m most excited about the Container Store gift: a new closet system for enhanced organization. The closet of my dreams! Wowser, as my mom says. And they’re dishing out the Nike Free Run shoes to their entire families! That’s what Gary wants this year for his birthday. Oh, Oprah?!
Obviously, most of us folks can’t offer 5 years of free Netflix service with the accompanying 3D World Sony televisions and Blue-Ray players to the ones we love. But we can express our appreciation in ways just as significant if we tap into what we know about those in our sphere of influence. Step outside of ourselves and what we want -- that seven-day cruise which roused more screams than anything else in the entire lineup qualifies for me . . . Alaska! -- and take note of the hobbies, needs, dreams, likes, and dislikes of our own people. Or the those at a local shelter. Or a family in your church. Or a child tagged on a Christmas tree.
If you need help getting that party started, I am uniquely qualified to assist. Let me see. Sushi, reading, audio books, gardening, walking, laptop accessories, writing, product for colored hair, coconut and lemon anything, watching movies in the theater, opera performances, MAC laptop, Peking duck in New York, a new bicycle, world peace, iTunes card, college tuition for three kids, a professional organic yard man, a Japanese maple tree, the chance to meet Julia Roberts, a family farm with property and houses enough for my mothers and Gary, my own study, a publisher/editor. That's MY 'take note' list, in case you didn't catch on.
Oh, and there's the iPod, followed by the iPhone, Dell laptop, brown leather riding boots, bangle bracelet from Africa, Maya Angelou 'Phenomenal Woman' poetry book, Starbucks mug with the word COFFEE written in several languages, wooden little Angels, Heirloom tomato plants, declarative letters, Marjolein Bastin calendars, Better Homes & Garden cookbook, power tools, built-to-order shoe rack, sparkling Rose wine, rocks from various regions, Manchego cheese, handmade pottery, Scrabble Deluxe board game, and my mom's high school senior ring, little hand imprint in plaster: my short list of favorite things I wouldn't mind sharing with the world.
Now, go forth and spread your joy.
It’s cathartic. I’m genuinely pleased for, and a tad envious in the most non-harmful of ways of, these audiences of elated men and women. Some who may be on the verge of a possible coronary infarction. To me, there’s absolutely nothing better than showering people with unexpected giving. They ask for NADA and quite literally get everything! Women turn to hug one another in wide-mouthed astonishment with each gift announced by their generous hostess. Some appear to be in shock and most likely are. In today’s show, there was one handsome gentleman, a tall slender black man of a certain age, who repeatedly raised his hands heavenward in supplication, mouthing “thank you, thank you” over and over. He was so sweet to behold every time the camera panned him. I think I love him.
And these people are most likely taking home a good many gifts they’d never think of or ask for or even need: say, the brownie pan called 'The Baker’s Edge' whereby every brownie has that chewy yummy edge that everyone tries for when they grab out of the display plate. Or the pricey $55 each perfectly scented candles for every room in the house in a set of eighteen. Or even the specially designed 25th Oprah show Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater with matching lap blanket. Books, cameras, diamond watches, and we’re not even halfway through the show.
But what’s so wonderful is that every one of these people are truly grateful for every little thing. Their tears are real. Their hearts are full . . . as will their arms when they leave the studio. It’s a perfect way to start off the holiday season in the right vein for the viewer. Because what it ultimately reveals is the joy experienced by the giver as they hand out to the unsuspecting around them. As thrilled as every audience member surely is – hard not to be – Oprah is just as tickled in her role. She revels in exposing the episode's surprise identity at the beginning at the onset as she pulls off her cover gown to reveal her Santa-sequined dress beneath. She’s breathless with anticipation as she uncovers each new thing to their childlike eyes. She painstakingly categorizes every good and lovely thing ever bequeathed to her as something most excellent for her next 'Favorite Things' show.
Obviously, most of us folks can’t offer 5 years of free Netflix service with the accompanying 3D World Sony televisions and Blue-Ray players to the ones we love. But we can express our appreciation in ways just as significant if we tap into what we know about those in our sphere of influence. Step outside of ourselves and what we want -- that seven-day cruise which roused more screams than anything else in the entire lineup qualifies for me . . . Alaska! -- and take note of the hobbies, needs, dreams, likes, and dislikes of our own people. Or the those at a local shelter. Or a family in your church. Or a child tagged on a Christmas tree.
If you need help getting that party started, I am uniquely qualified to assist. Let me see. Sushi, reading, audio books, gardening, walking, laptop accessories, writing, product for colored hair, coconut and lemon anything, watching movies in the theater, opera performances, MAC laptop, Peking duck in New York, a new bicycle, world peace, iTunes card, college tuition for three kids, a professional organic yard man, a Japanese maple tree, the chance to meet Julia Roberts, a family farm with property and houses enough for my mothers and Gary, my own study, a publisher/editor. That's MY 'take note' list, in case you didn't catch on.
Oh, and there's the iPod, followed by the iPhone, Dell laptop, brown leather riding boots, bangle bracelet from Africa, Maya Angelou 'Phenomenal Woman' poetry book, Starbucks mug with the word COFFEE written in several languages, wooden little Angels, Heirloom tomato plants, declarative letters, Marjolein Bastin calendars, Better Homes & Garden cookbook, power tools, built-to-order shoe rack, sparkling Rose wine, rocks from various regions, Manchego cheese, handmade pottery, Scrabble Deluxe board game, and my mom's high school senior ring, little hand imprint in plaster: my short list of favorite things I wouldn't mind sharing with the world.
Now, go forth and spread your joy.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Sports Cornered
A cup of hot Tulsi tea has made its way down the gullet in an effort to relax and fight off this developing head cold that I evidently inherited from my son. Sigh. Bummer. My mission is to heal myself -- shake it off before heading out to Colorado on Thanksgiving Day. Our old home state where I'll spend nine days bouncing between two families, my side and the hubby's side, with two intense court days regarding my younger sister sandwiched in between. I'm still searching for a partner to help absorb the particular burden of that experience. But that's another story. So is the fact that on "Dancing With The Stars" (am I really subjecting myself to this?) Sarah Palin's daughter, who has improved but is NOT an entertaining dancer to watch at all, remains as a finalist for next week's showdown, but Brandy, who is graceful, elegant, and a pleasure to view in motion, was voted off. Popularity is a fickle fancy which requires something less than talent.
Let's talk sports coaches for a moment. My opinion of sports has always been a bit unfairly colored by the glut of attention which historically seems to be focused on professional athletes and their games to the exclusion of other worthy pursuits which have the potential to actually build a stronger foundation for our presently wobbly nation. Teaching comes to mind.
But in the past two years, I've come to realize what my husband has tried to tell me for awhile: time spent participating in organized athletics during childhood can have a positive effect on the future of the child. The lessons of teamwork and pushing oneself, not to mention learning to balance studies with extracurricular activities, all while keeping fit and taking instruction from a superior, are useful later in life. And it isn't necessary to continue an active role in sports to reap those benefits.
It's been the coaches who have swayed my opinion on the matter. And not just the coaches who are willing to work with the parents to do what is best for the student. Though I definitely prefer their ilk to the more contrary and sullen instructors who feel the best place for a parent is not the inbox or the telephone, especially if that parent happens to be a woman. Both types have managed to push my son to challenge himself and decide where sensitivity ends and responsibility begins. Both types have caused me to question what I held to be true and nudged me to accept other possibilities besides those of my own contrivance.
In one particular instance, 7th grade baseball, I thought that both me and my boy might not make it to the end of the aggravating season. I'd met Brillo pads less abrasive than the guy in charge! But we endured sometimes quite major rough patches. And we adapted without compromising character. By the beginning of the following season, the two of us felt like old pros, and the words and attitude which once vexed us so, slid right off our backs. Unfortunately, we didn't see the end, much less the official beginning, of that season, but the blame was all on the attention-seeking head-butting 8th grade STUDENT as opposed to the gifted and hard-working ATHLETE. The only role the coach played was the appropriate rule-following role.
Now in 9th grade, the high school arena, organized sports exist in an entirely new plane. I attended the football meeting in May with trepidation, only to experience immediate relief the moment the coaches opened their mouth! Shocker. Especially where football was concerned . . . brutish game that it is. They expected big things of these boys, and not just on the field but in the classroom. And they also expected more than just fundraising from the parents. They wanted our INPUT. The freshman boys went on to win every single game in their season and clinched their championship game: a first ever. Under the tutelage of the same coach, my son has decided to try his hand, both hands and legs, arms, feet, etc., at wrestling. He comes home quoting practical advice from the coach. Plus, he's working harder than I've ever seen him work on his fitness.
I recently had to e-mail over a grade issue, finding myself in a pickle because I'd rashly promised my son he'd not continue in sports if he went below a 'C' on his report card. Without a hiccup of judgment, this man, who is a teacher first, winner of championships second, worked out a system whereby my son sat and studied during practice and ran afterward for not attending practice. In this way, Zachary could see what he was missing by slacking off in the classroom. The coach realizes that most of these boys will need to pursue money for college via grades as opposed to sports talent, especially in wresting. This move endeared the coach to both me and my husband; it also ticked my son off, but he's found a way to put the entire episode in my shopping cart at the checkout stand, if you know what I mean! Coach is blameless and yet is giving a major assist in character building for a kid who will surely one day become an outstanding young man; mom shoulders the well-aimed angst, patiently awaiting the faraway day when that selfsame outstanding young man will thank her effusively and earnestly for being so impossible back in high school.
And where will I place my gratitude on that well-deserved day? Right up there with thanking the Lord for the endurance, grace, and restraint required in the waiting, I'll be thanking not only my son's teachers, adult relatives, and youth leaders, but his coaches, too. It really does take a village, folks . . . and a shiny metal whistle to boot!
Let's talk sports coaches for a moment. My opinion of sports has always been a bit unfairly colored by the glut of attention which historically seems to be focused on professional athletes and their games to the exclusion of other worthy pursuits which have the potential to actually build a stronger foundation for our presently wobbly nation. Teaching comes to mind.
But in the past two years, I've come to realize what my husband has tried to tell me for awhile: time spent participating in organized athletics during childhood can have a positive effect on the future of the child. The lessons of teamwork and pushing oneself, not to mention learning to balance studies with extracurricular activities, all while keeping fit and taking instruction from a superior, are useful later in life. And it isn't necessary to continue an active role in sports to reap those benefits.
It's been the coaches who have swayed my opinion on the matter. And not just the coaches who are willing to work with the parents to do what is best for the student. Though I definitely prefer their ilk to the more contrary and sullen instructors who feel the best place for a parent is not the inbox or the telephone, especially if that parent happens to be a woman. Both types have managed to push my son to challenge himself and decide where sensitivity ends and responsibility begins. Both types have caused me to question what I held to be true and nudged me to accept other possibilities besides those of my own contrivance.
In one particular instance, 7th grade baseball, I thought that both me and my boy might not make it to the end of the aggravating season. I'd met Brillo pads less abrasive than the guy in charge! But we endured sometimes quite major rough patches. And we adapted without compromising character. By the beginning of the following season, the two of us felt like old pros, and the words and attitude which once vexed us so, slid right off our backs. Unfortunately, we didn't see the end, much less the official beginning, of that season, but the blame was all on the attention-seeking head-butting 8th grade STUDENT as opposed to the gifted and hard-working ATHLETE. The only role the coach played was the appropriate rule-following role.
Now in 9th grade, the high school arena, organized sports exist in an entirely new plane. I attended the football meeting in May with trepidation, only to experience immediate relief the moment the coaches opened their mouth! Shocker. Especially where football was concerned . . . brutish game that it is. They expected big things of these boys, and not just on the field but in the classroom. And they also expected more than just fundraising from the parents. They wanted our INPUT. The freshman boys went on to win every single game in their season and clinched their championship game: a first ever. Under the tutelage of the same coach, my son has decided to try his hand, both hands and legs, arms, feet, etc., at wrestling. He comes home quoting practical advice from the coach. Plus, he's working harder than I've ever seen him work on his fitness.
I recently had to e-mail over a grade issue, finding myself in a pickle because I'd rashly promised my son he'd not continue in sports if he went below a 'C' on his report card. Without a hiccup of judgment, this man, who is a teacher first, winner of championships second, worked out a system whereby my son sat and studied during practice and ran afterward for not attending practice. In this way, Zachary could see what he was missing by slacking off in the classroom. The coach realizes that most of these boys will need to pursue money for college via grades as opposed to sports talent, especially in wresting. This move endeared the coach to both me and my husband; it also ticked my son off, but he's found a way to put the entire episode in my shopping cart at the checkout stand, if you know what I mean! Coach is blameless and yet is giving a major assist in character building for a kid who will surely one day become an outstanding young man; mom shoulders the well-aimed angst, patiently awaiting the faraway day when that selfsame outstanding young man will thank her effusively and earnestly for being so impossible back in high school.
And where will I place my gratitude on that well-deserved day? Right up there with thanking the Lord for the endurance, grace, and restraint required in the waiting, I'll be thanking not only my son's teachers, adult relatives, and youth leaders, but his coaches, too. It really does take a village, folks . . . and a shiny metal whistle to boot!
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Lost and Found . . . and Found
When I was a little girl, I was sure of one thing I clearly needed to be a complete kid: a dog. THE dog. One of those companions-of-a-lifetime dogs whose memory would be burned in my psyche long after the myriad adventures and lessons we would swap, one with the other. A dog to which long declarative odes and essays would be penned in effort to capture our forever bond.
Long after the nights I would spend sleeping at her side under the winking stars -- I also was quite clear the dog should be a female. Long beyond the glorious afternoons we'd share racing through grassy fields dotted with wildflowers and splashing in creeks full of darting fish. Long past the point of her death and burial near the red ferns -- having owned the beloved friend for the duration of her life from puppy hood to senior mutt. I yearned for my own scruffy Old Yeller, my own courageous Little Ann and Old Dan, my own heroic Lassie. The animals of those stories were real to me. With these depictions of emotional highs and lows, and their classic descriptions of coming of age under the tutelage of a wise four-legged teacher, came a certainty that this was how a child's life should be experienced.And, as I've written before in this blog, I did, in fact, live out my own versions of this youthful dream turned reality. My Bonnet with her babies, my Cassie the Turkey killer, my Rosie the mop . . . and presently, my arthritic gentlelady, Panda. Two parted from me too soon to other homes; one was put down before her time due to disease; and the last will hopefully fade away as she naps in the sunshine spot of her choice in our Tennessee backyard. The book lore and my deep-seated needs were matched by the actuality of ownership. My dogs most definitely filled to brimming the room in my girlish heart reserved for them.
With the onset of full-fledged adulthood, however, no such certain hopes manifested to match my canine-for-life-era-completion scenario. I felt unable or unwilling to specify a replacement. Not beast. Not man. While I engaged in romance, I did not linger in the wings awaiting my prince charming and the royal brood we would raise together . . . though he did arrive, albeit in a black Toyota truck as opposed to on a midnight stallion. And our union has produced a self-proclaimed queen and a self-soothing princess; the young prince remains in training.
If anything, the adult years resulted in a decided lack of certainty that anything could capture, much less encapsulate, the grown-up experience.
However, on Thanksgiving of 2007, a stray scrapper of an orange kitty wandered onto our property and marched right into the collective family heart. Without my consent, he inserted himself in the mascot role of my life. His often immature indoor antics, counterpointed by the confident independence he exuded out-of-doors, mirrored the duality of my existence above and beyond adolescence. Only, I didn't realize any of this until he went missing earlier this week.
In an effort to be pragmatic where this feline -- who my son and one of his pals named Fabio -- was concerned, I pounded it home to my kids that his lifestyle clearly left him open to danger and a resulting shorter lifespan. We should be prepared if ever we lost him. As he came to us an outdoor fellow, we allowed him to continue in that vein: his personality was already so deeply rooted in wayfaring, hunting, and the love of excursion. Not to mention that his dander was more manageable on a part-time basis for us allergy-challenged individuals.
For almost three years, this cat has never missed a meal of his own accord. He might show up at lunch and find no one home to fill his bowl, but he always showed up. If we failed to secure him inside for the night hours, we could be assured his eager meowing on our covered back porch would greet us in the AM. Though others in our neighborhood feed him snacks, shower him with attention, and sometimes allow him entrance into their homes, our Fabio the Kitty knows wherein his home base lies.
Until this past Monday evening when he downed his kibble and squeezed past arriving Bunco ladies to return to his meandering nighttime ministrations. Come Tuesday morning, his face was absent from the lower left pane of glass in our back door that is hopelessly smudged with his nose prints. For the next fourteen meal times, I reassured my eldest daughter and myself that he would return. Even without benefit of the ID which was attached to his second lost collar. Even though I walked my dog through the hay field across the street, skirting the treeline and searching the ground for that familiar creamsicle-colored carcass while watching the sky for circling carrion feeders. The experienced-with-loss realist in me grappled with the hopeful dreamer on a daily basis. Every morning, I awoke too early with thoughts of him immediately tripping through my mind. One very late night while praying, I began to cry as I recalled every trifling and amusing aspect of this animal who so often annoyed me as much as charmed me. It bothered me, somewhat, that one so acquainted with loss could be bothered by the disappearance of a cat. Hadn't I prepared myself for that eventuality?
Online, I posted status updates of his continued no-show on Facebook, created a 'missing' ad on Craig's List, and disseminated e-mail alerts. My sister-in-law who lives across town texted or e-mailed each day, along with my mother-in-law in Colorado, to express concern and query after him. I trolled the local animal shelter; I called out for him during my morning constitutionals. And in a typical gesture of last hope, my daughter and I created a flyer to inundate local mailboxes. If I could have secured a spot on a milk carton, he'd have been there, too!
So yesterday morning, with the help of my son and my very loyal friend and neighbor, Betsy, we dispersed every last one of 150 flyers in the vicinity of Fabio's territory. We even had a possible sighting which proved fruitless but rather entertaining courtesy of the small boy who tried to aid in our search. We ran out before a full canvass could be completed. The very last paper in my possession was deposited in the newspaper niche of a house where I knew the owner had five or six cats of her own roaming her yard; I passed up six other houses on her block, guessing that a fellow owner would probably pay more attention to the MISSING ORANGE CAT heading shouting up at her. For the purposes of knowing the back story -- because I'm a beginning, MIDDLE, and end sort of gal -- this would prove a smartly tactical move on my part.
In the late afternoon hours, while I snapped pictures of my husband's fellow EmDeon employees playing a beanbag game called Cornhole (oh, how I detest that name) on our back lawn, with their wives and children milling about in the fading light, my iPhone rang with an unfamiliar number. I missed the call. But I sure did get the message! In a detailed recording, the fellow feline owner on the aforementioned corner lot that I pass on my dog's mile walk almost every day, proceeded to regale me with the joyous tail, er, TALE, of finding Fabio in a roundabout way.
The long and short of it is this: it appears our highly curious cat (curiosity did WHAT, exactly, to the cat?) followed a TV cable guy under the house of this woman's neighbor. Unbeknownst to the repairman, our sneaky fellow was left behind when the access door was shut and locked. For five days, the underbelly of a stranger's home was Fabio's sensory deprivation pit. As I've not yet spoken with the people, I'm not sure if they were out of town last week or his plaintive cries were simply muffled by excellent insulation. But for whatever reason, the homeowners happened upon him yesterday and walked over to ask if he belonged to the woman with multiple cats of her own. Having checked her mail earlier that day, the story of Fabio's dilemma, not to mention the image of his countenance, was fresh in her mind. She quickly called me to alleviate my concern. Knowing cats as she does, and having seen him at her place many times over the years, she knew he would now return home. They fed and watered him and sent him on his way.
Twenty long minutes after that phone call, an orange and white blur streaked through my kitchen and straight to the pantry. A series of pitiful yowls broke through the noise of the potluck party. I scooped that slightly slenderized version of the Valdez mouser into my arms and nuzzled him whilst crooning my own series of pitiful words. Because he was the topic of ongoing conversation with various cat-loving guests throughout the day, his arrival was a triumph for the entire cast of computer engineers and their families. Fabio's return was the post-dessert entertainment. And the bestest early 41st birthday present a girl could ever ask for!
I couldn't be any happier in this stolen moment of unspoken adulthood need. That wee space reserved for an ornery orange tomcat with a propensity for trouble and charisma in equal measures? TAKEN! Thank you very much.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The Baked Goods
Cakes, arthritis, co-dependency. My top 3 areas of research as of late. I wonder how often they turn up in the same sentence in the entire history of writing. Any statisticians in the readership? Could prove a mildly interesting Vegas alternative for the betting crowd. Or, maybe not.
In pursuit of building a bigger, better, tastier birthday cake, I broke out my updated version of "Joy of Cooking" and perused the section devoted to the anatomy of a cake. Learned more about the differences between whipping and mixing, and time differentials with handheld electric mixers versus their countertop behemoth cousins, than I ever truly needed to know. And, evidently, those were NOT the facts I should have committed to my ever-failing memory before making this year's mouth-watering coconut-lemon curd confection for Sarah. The paragraph on not adding too much batter to one pan, and inadvertantly leaving out half of the leavening, would have saved my entire day efforts AND costly ingredients. Sigh.
Doubling the recipe and finding myself one pan short, I filled the three pans at my disposal with the divided contents of the missing fourth pan. A gamble, I knew. I sensed the baked results were a bit on the heavy side. But I pressed on. The completed construction was visually perfect. Unfortunately, the sawing action required to cut down and through the layers was our clue that all was not as it seemed. Though I completed a slice on principle, Sarah and her boyfriend were entirely unable to do much more than lick the lemon curd layers and nibble on the buttercream frosting. The cake itself was almost entirely void of the lovely air pockets which create lightness of being: it was as if several hundred cakes decided to compress themselves into one dense thunk! of cooked chewy batter. THREE TIMES OVER! A fossil could have been hiding in the depths!
In pursuit of building a bigger, better, tastier birthday cake, I broke out my updated version of "Joy of Cooking" and perused the section devoted to the anatomy of a cake. Learned more about the differences between whipping and mixing, and time differentials with handheld electric mixers versus their countertop behemoth cousins, than I ever truly needed to know. And, evidently, those were NOT the facts I should have committed to my ever-failing memory before making this year's mouth-watering coconut-lemon curd confection for Sarah. The paragraph on not adding too much batter to one pan, and inadvertantly leaving out half of the leavening, would have saved my entire day efforts AND costly ingredients. Sigh.
Doubling the recipe and finding myself one pan short, I filled the three pans at my disposal with the divided contents of the missing fourth pan. A gamble, I knew. I sensed the baked results were a bit on the heavy side. But I pressed on. The completed construction was visually perfect. Unfortunately, the sawing action required to cut down and through the layers was our clue that all was not as it seemed. Though I completed a slice on principle, Sarah and her boyfriend were entirely unable to do much more than lick the lemon curd layers and nibble on the buttercream frosting. The cake itself was almost entirely void of the lovely air pockets which create lightness of being: it was as if several hundred cakes decided to compress themselves into one dense thunk! of cooked chewy batter. THREE TIMES OVER! A fossil could have been hiding in the depths! We played our own little bet-free guessing game as to its weight, taking into consideration the covered glass serving dish: I emerged victorious with 13 pounds! At least I could own that one small triumph. It took me a week to screw up the courage to throw it out. There were several episodes of hefting it from the GE Profile fridge so that I could simply gaze in disgust at the failed attempt and wallow in self-pity. In between those moments, I dug out lemon curd with a pickaxe; chipped away at the coconut-flavored covering; and, sent a few substantial slices over to my sugar-craving neighbor who insisted it couldn't be THAT bad. Wonder what he thought when he had to lift it out of the front loader with his bad back?!
Because I've never erred in such a manner as this since my newlywed flub nearly 22 years ago with the backward recipe of buttermilk GRAVY and biscuits -- envision if you will a sweet young wife, eager to pleasingly fill her new husband's stomach with a hearty breakfast, both of them sitting at the table, forks having endured several increasingly hesitant trips from plate to mouth, before the despairing man finally breaks, "Babe, I love you, but I can't eat another bite of this!" and pushes the offending muddled melange away, with the cook quickly following suit in embarrassed relief -- I demanded a replay from myself over the weekend. I'm pleased to announce that I got it right. (Only one snafu marred an otherwise out-of-the-park second attempt: it appears a weighty feline, coincidentally himself weighing 13 pounds, trod on the towel-covered corner of one layer. Thus, a perfectly flavorful cake with gorgeous texture but of flawed physical presence!) This morning, my son crowed that it was, and is, simply "the best cake ever made!" As far as marriages go, coconut and lemon are a perfect culinary match in the dessert world.
Well, where have all my words gone? Surprise, surprise -- to the food. So much for bemoaning the sudden onset of seeming osteo-arthritis in my fingers over the past two months -- we'll save that for the post-visit-to-the-rheumatologist -- or discussing my emerging understanding of where I end and my much beloved drug-addicted younger brother begins. Perhaps if they floated in a sea of tart lemon curd or rolled about in creamy coconut yumminess, they would have earned a few more lines.
There's always next time. Did I mention our cat has been missing for a day and never in three years has this been the case? My eldest child is beside herself. I sure hope and pray he's locked in someone's garage or car and the owners have simply been napping away the sunshine hours!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Partly Cloudy
Somewhere in my box of pictures -- you know? the real physical pictures, 3 1/2 X 5's and 4 X 6's, doubles often for free, jammed into those envelopes that have a separate pocket for the negatives -- is a terrific shot of a cloud formation that my Uncle Zan spotted and snapped quite a few years ago. It is untouched. Totally truthful. Perfectly captured . . . as are a great many of his photos. He's got a natural eye. This particular collision of suspended water molecules formed the shape of a fluffy stereotypical teddy bear. Right down to the button nose and rounded belly with stubby arms and legs protruding from their proper places.
Though I didn't see the nebulous cuddle toy myself, the picture, and what I know of my uncle, set me on a permanent course of cloud watching. And not just for the sheer beauty and contrast inherent within their manifestations of brightest white and steel gray and all variations in between. I'm drawn to their whimsy as I press forward in my hopeful search to discover just one, ONE, instantly recognizable consummately shaped-for-viewing cloud.
It's not that almost every cloud which flits, floats, and flees across the sky lacks just enough shape within their amorphous form to stimulate my imagination. Just today I admired a giant bug larva with its mouth agape, first appearing to spew smoke, than seeming to consume the other smaller larvae in its path. A dinosaur, perhaps a brontosaurus or diplodocus, grazed just below and to the left of the aggressive infantile insect. And off to the right, a curvy woman bedecked in a manner of dress best reproduced by Impressionists like Manet and Renoir, drawn waists and rump-enhancing bustles, leaned her full-hat- adorned head back in the afternoon wind. Every time I fly the friendly skies, cities within the clouds unfold beneath my gaze, thrilling me to no end.
But as clear as those images were to me, I guarantee that the moment I sought to reveal their perceived identity to those around me, confused stares and shaking heads would be my reward. Some folks need to see the obvious: a rare and elusive element in cloud gazing where shapeshifting occurs on the half-second of every second!
The Impressionistic young lady is now absent from the ozone; perhaps she ate the larva or was herself ingested by a prehistoric grazer gone carnivorous. So much for the friendly skies! It seems that even in nature, my mind leans toward eating. Huh? Imagine that. I wonder if these leanings have been lately enhanced by my temporary denial-to-self of all things dairy, sugar, wheat, and coffee? Oh, what I wouldn't give for a lovely crunchy dark chocolate-dipped homemade biscotti accompanied by a steaming Starbucks mug of cafe Americano! Perhaps tomorrow that very image, so clear in my head right this very instant, will choose to manifest for a hot second in the scudding puffs of marshmallow creme overhead . . .
Until then.
Though I didn't see the nebulous cuddle toy myself, the picture, and what I know of my uncle, set me on a permanent course of cloud watching. And not just for the sheer beauty and contrast inherent within their manifestations of brightest white and steel gray and all variations in between. I'm drawn to their whimsy as I press forward in my hopeful search to discover just one, ONE, instantly recognizable consummately shaped-for-viewing cloud.
But as clear as those images were to me, I guarantee that the moment I sought to reveal their perceived identity to those around me, confused stares and shaking heads would be my reward. Some folks need to see the obvious: a rare and elusive element in cloud gazing where shapeshifting occurs on the half-second of every second!
Until then.
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