My brother, John, has turned out to be one of the most intelligent, likable, complicated people I have ever met. He says I am the only one who will laugh at all his crazy jokes. I find that very hard to believe. He has the most natural, sarcastic - verging on the sardonic - sense of humor I have ever run across, and with just his incredible mind, he could have been a comical contender, the real "Marlon Brando On the Waterfront" kind of contender. His timing is perfect, sweet and flawless, with little glints of double entendre salted in to make you think, "Does he really know what he just said?" Heck yeah, he knows what he just said, but he leaves it where it falls.
John, with all his talents and strengths is a prism hider. You can only see what he allows to be reflected in the bright white of the glass. That's okay. I love prisms. I think they're beautiful.
I, on the other hand, am an old fashioned Black '62 Chevy Impala with button controls for the local AM radio stations. If I think of a memory or a moment that I just can't bear to focus on, I pretend I am in that Chevy and I imagine pressing a radio button, any radio button to make what is on my mind forget and quickly switch to a new "station." It works for me.
My little brother and I have learned to function in dysfunctional ways. One day when John's prism chandelier breaks and my car radio won't run anymore, we'll have to come to grips with what's left. And we will too. I'll bet I can find all kinds of ways to slip in and out of a memory, and John is smart enough to grind up glass and make a new prism.
Monday, November 1, 2010
The Horizontal Hostess
I realized, as I typed this title, that it sounds way more provocative than it was originally intended to be. My girl friend was trying to encourage me to continue inviting people over to my home, even if I wasn't able to get up and be the hostess I would prefer to be. I could be the "Horizontal Hostess." I like it! Heck, Franklin Roosevelt didn't get up much for folks at his gatherings, and I'm not better than FDR. You work with what you've got.
My gorgeous niece, Jill, (I always think of her as my gorgeous niece) said one day they would all get down here, and I could cook my heart out for them. Oh, what bliss! By then, though, I may be buying all the goodies from Salem Kitchen, and lying that I cooked it myself, but who would care. I could direct the buffet from my couch like the Grand Dame that I am.
I am not good with change, and there are so many changes in my life right now that I can't imagine what is in the future. I am the girl who hasn't moved her furniture in five years, and that was only because we bought a new home. If I liked something in the first place, why would I move it? Some changes will happen to me and some changes I will effect for myself. For instance, I needed a new picture of me in my head, so I recently colored my mousy gray hair to "happy strawberry blond." Still wondering about this change. I can't decide if it's warm and welcoming, or if it reminds people of an "I LOVE LUCY" spin off. (A warning to all previous red-heads that are now gray, I have personally learned that if you mix red with white, you often get pink.) I am the cool GDAWG, but pink hair is still in a galaxy far, far away for me.
Today was a very rough day for me, but I learned, as it went on, that I have family and friends who really love me, encourage me and stand up for me. No changes there! I am blessed beyond all measure. Tonight I hear the song, "Joy Unspeakable and Full of Glory" racing through my music hall of a brain. Horizontal or semi-vertical, I have a life ahead and many doors to go through. The best part of this journey is that I won't go through it alone.
My gorgeous niece, Jill, (I always think of her as my gorgeous niece) said one day they would all get down here, and I could cook my heart out for them. Oh, what bliss! By then, though, I may be buying all the goodies from Salem Kitchen, and lying that I cooked it myself, but who would care. I could direct the buffet from my couch like the Grand Dame that I am.
I am not good with change, and there are so many changes in my life right now that I can't imagine what is in the future. I am the girl who hasn't moved her furniture in five years, and that was only because we bought a new home. If I liked something in the first place, why would I move it? Some changes will happen to me and some changes I will effect for myself. For instance, I needed a new picture of me in my head, so I recently colored my mousy gray hair to "happy strawberry blond." Still wondering about this change. I can't decide if it's warm and welcoming, or if it reminds people of an "I LOVE LUCY" spin off. (A warning to all previous red-heads that are now gray, I have personally learned that if you mix red with white, you often get pink.) I am the cool GDAWG, but pink hair is still in a galaxy far, far away for me.
Today was a very rough day for me, but I learned, as it went on, that I have family and friends who really love me, encourage me and stand up for me. No changes there! I am blessed beyond all measure. Tonight I hear the song, "Joy Unspeakable and Full of Glory" racing through my music hall of a brain. Horizontal or semi-vertical, I have a life ahead and many doors to go through. The best part of this journey is that I won't go through it alone.
"I Hear Music and There's No One There"
If it isn't Bach's "Brandenburg Concerto #4," it's "Blame It On the BosaNova," or it's "Down At The Boardwalk," or it's "How Great Thou Art". There is never a time in my head that I don't hear a tune or a beat. I just assumed everyone was like this until I mentioned it to a girlfriend and then my daughter. Shannan asked, "You mean you never a time of just quiet?" No, I never do, unless I'm asleep or listening to the radio or a CD of music. I think that's why I want to dance a lot.
One of the most annoying parts of this audio phenomenon is when I am trying to think through a problem or concentrate on a project. Out of nowhere, comes the theme to "Driving Miss Daisy," - doodee, doodee doo doo! Hindrance, to say the least. The worst of it is when I really want to pray about something silently. My heart is deep with praise and interest, and then my foot starts tapping. I hate this! It's not always convenient or appropriate to pray out loud.
There are upsides to this quirk. I memorize a lot of tunes, and I know most of the words to songs older than my parents could remember and they were born 100 years ago. It's hard not to when you hear songs all day long. I'll bet there's a psychological diagnosis to this peculiarity, but having a label for this problem wouldn't change it, and it wouldn't be the worst thing that could be said about me. I always mean to ask my brother, John, if he has the same eccentricity, but every time we talk on the phone, he makes me laugh so much I never remember what I was thinking about.
I only hope, as I get older and closer to my second childhood, I don't become one of those crazy old ladies who forgets everyone and every thing but they sing old hymns at the top of their lungs. I could see this happening. No fun for my kids. Maybe I'll learn some contemporary songs by then and it won't be so bad.
One of the most annoying parts of this audio phenomenon is when I am trying to think through a problem or concentrate on a project. Out of nowhere, comes the theme to "Driving Miss Daisy," - doodee, doodee doo doo! Hindrance, to say the least. The worst of it is when I really want to pray about something silently. My heart is deep with praise and interest, and then my foot starts tapping. I hate this! It's not always convenient or appropriate to pray out loud.
There are upsides to this quirk. I memorize a lot of tunes, and I know most of the words to songs older than my parents could remember and they were born 100 years ago. It's hard not to when you hear songs all day long. I'll bet there's a psychological diagnosis to this peculiarity, but having a label for this problem wouldn't change it, and it wouldn't be the worst thing that could be said about me. I always mean to ask my brother, John, if he has the same eccentricity, but every time we talk on the phone, he makes me laugh so much I never remember what I was thinking about.
I only hope, as I get older and closer to my second childhood, I don't become one of those crazy old ladies who forgets everyone and every thing but they sing old hymns at the top of their lungs. I could see this happening. No fun for my kids. Maybe I'll learn some contemporary songs by then and it won't be so bad.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Weight, Weight! Don't tell me.
I have constantly been a little on the plump side of a size 10, but I could always carry it off. A woman just knows when she's cute, even at an older stage of life, but the past three years have been a little rough on my ego as well as my body. The only thing that keeps my lungs a-pumping is a heavy and constant dose of prednisone. Life saver it may be, but it has caused me to have cataracts in both my eyes, erosion of my teeth, skin that bleeds if I just touch it and sleep deprivation. The all time worst of these side effects, as far as I am concerned, is a thirty pound weight gain and a face that always reminds me of a big moon pie.
I just received news from my doctor that the diagnosis I thought would be the end of my lung problems and, ultimately, my weight problems was not to be. I have a condition that can only be helped by heavy and constant doses of prednisone. Okay, I won't look like Susan Sarandon when I'm 65, but do I have to look like Orson Wells? I still feel like Susan Sarandon.
I know people will believe that because I love to cook, I eat everything I make. I certainly look like a two fisted eater. I am not. My joy in cooking is to make food other people love to eat, and then keep asking them if they would like a second helping. The more they want - the happier I am. My wonderful son-in-law never says much about my cooking. He doesn't have to. He takes serving after serving. No wonder I love this boy so much.
As I've searched my soul recently, I think what I really love is people. Cooking is the excuse to have them near. When we lived in Maine, we set aside one Sunday a month not to have people over in our home for lunch or dinner. We needed some time to our selves. But, since we have moved to the south, it is harder to get together with folks than you would ever believe. Most everyone down here has family or life-long buddies, and, if they do eat with outsiders, it's usually at an Appleby's or someplace like that. Apparently, a man's home really is his castle here, and he surrounds it with a mote and hungry alligators. I am sure it's just because everyone is so busy today, but I am a pretty good cook.
A few days ago a girl friend of mine offered to come to my house. I was so surprised I said, "What? Do you mean it? She did. We shared nothing to eat or drink. She didn't want it. She wanted to spend time with me. We laughed and talked and acted silly - just the way I like it. If I could have, I would have offered her my larder, my purse, my home to show her how much I appreciated her time. I hated to let her leave without at least a cup of tea, but she said no.
I may grow bigger and bigger no matter how little I eat or how much I walk. There may be no list or line of folks waiting to taste my cooking, but it seems strange to me that God would give us gifts that no one wants. Maybe there's more to me than my Dutch oven. Maybe I have gifts that people do want and I just need to stop looking at the scale long enough to find them.
I just received news from my doctor that the diagnosis I thought would be the end of my lung problems and, ultimately, my weight problems was not to be. I have a condition that can only be helped by heavy and constant doses of prednisone. Okay, I won't look like Susan Sarandon when I'm 65, but do I have to look like Orson Wells? I still feel like Susan Sarandon.
I know people will believe that because I love to cook, I eat everything I make. I certainly look like a two fisted eater. I am not. My joy in cooking is to make food other people love to eat, and then keep asking them if they would like a second helping. The more they want - the happier I am. My wonderful son-in-law never says much about my cooking. He doesn't have to. He takes serving after serving. No wonder I love this boy so much.
As I've searched my soul recently, I think what I really love is people. Cooking is the excuse to have them near. When we lived in Maine, we set aside one Sunday a month not to have people over in our home for lunch or dinner. We needed some time to our selves. But, since we have moved to the south, it is harder to get together with folks than you would ever believe. Most everyone down here has family or life-long buddies, and, if they do eat with outsiders, it's usually at an Appleby's or someplace like that. Apparently, a man's home really is his castle here, and he surrounds it with a mote and hungry alligators. I am sure it's just because everyone is so busy today, but I am a pretty good cook.
A few days ago a girl friend of mine offered to come to my house. I was so surprised I said, "What? Do you mean it? She did. We shared nothing to eat or drink. She didn't want it. She wanted to spend time with me. We laughed and talked and acted silly - just the way I like it. If I could have, I would have offered her my larder, my purse, my home to show her how much I appreciated her time. I hated to let her leave without at least a cup of tea, but she said no.
I may grow bigger and bigger no matter how little I eat or how much I walk. There may be no list or line of folks waiting to taste my cooking, but it seems strange to me that God would give us gifts that no one wants. Maybe there's more to me than my Dutch oven. Maybe I have gifts that people do want and I just need to stop looking at the scale long enough to find them.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Driving Miss Crazy
My New England parents never owned a car until I was nineteen-years old. We walked or rode a city bus anywhere we had to go, and my dream, from the time I was a preteen until I passed my third attempt at a driving test, was to drive. From that day on, I learned to be an assertive (okay, aggressive) driver, and I learned from the best. Boston drivers (all time worst), Washington D.C drivers (contenders but chumps compared to Bostonians,) New England Turnpike drivers (ah! Route 95 - the dead zone) and New York City drivers (not much to add there) all did their worst to train rookies like me to "straighten up and fly right."
Most Northerners learned how to drive similarly, with attitudes varying from determined, to forceful, to hostile - ranging there from coercive, to a state of down right serious road-rage. But all of us learned one main rule that helped us survive the chaos. We knew every driver in front of us, in back of us, or to the left or right of us would do everything in his power to get ahead of the next guy. There was a stabilizing order to this disorder. Nothing tricky to figure out - just basic racing instinct, and it always worked. It was a high-speed dance on wheels that the majority of us learn to handle, and some of us even enjoy.
But, since I moved to the south almost twenty years ago, I have learned that the only thing you can expect down here is the unexplained unexpected, and I list, from the least annoying traffic practice, to the most mind-bending habits of the average Southern driver below:
1. No one knows how to drive in the snow, or back out of his driveway in bad weather, or so they say. A quarter of an inch of flurries will shut down an entire city work force and county school system, but somehow most everyone can make it to the mall.
2. A driver waiting at a stop sign will not pull out in front of an oncoming vehicle obviously planning on taking a right turn. You may have clearly turned on your right-hand signal only twenty-five feet ahead of the turn, and visibly slowed up to make that right-hand turn, but don't even offer the courtesy. The waiting vehicle will not trust a blinking turn signal. You are there to trick him, and purposely crash your nice new car into his 1989 pick-up truck, and don't think he doesn't know it.
3. No driver pulling up to a four-way stop sign, at the same time another vehicle pulls up, will make any first move to pull out. "The driver on the right always has the right of way" statute apparently is an unheard of rule here. Please refer to the assumption above that they know you are there to hit and harm their vehicle.
4. The first driver, at a green light waiting for oncoming traffic to clear in order to take a left turn, will not move up for any reason under the light - either to allow the next vehicle in back to get close enough to also take a left turn, or perhaps, to maneuver around the first car to continue straight ahead. Instead he will remain at the prescribed line he was originally compelled to stop at before the light turned green. You can plan on sitting through as many green lights as it takes, to allow the first car in line to feel completely safe that no car could possibly be visible from the oncoming direction.
5. Those drivers coming down the interstate highways in the slow lane, will not move over to the second, third or fourth lanes to allow you to move in from the entrance ramp. You are on your own to find a happy spot in the break-down lane, or stop dead in your tracks, while other drivers in back of you, who may not have noticed that you are stopped, are also trying to get onto the highway. Dicey, to put it mildly, but don't bother to get upset. They really don't know you exist.
6. Possibly the most annoying habit the Southern driver displays is to put his brakes on while approaching a green light. Is the driver hoping for a red light? Is he afraid of a yellow light likelihood? Down here, green means slow down. Okay, but then what the heck does yellow mean?
I've tried to adapt. I've really tried, but none of this makes any sense to me. How do I cope? I don't do drugs, and I can't drink and drive. So, what's left to sooth my "assertive" driving psyche - carb addiction. Carbs! - gotta have carbs, or maybe a southern chauffeur.
Recipe
Potato-Bacon Hash
Ingredients:
6 slices bacon
1 1/2 pounds Yukon gold potatoes, washed and cut into small chunks
1 bunch scallions, white and green parts
2 garlic cloves, minced
salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
Directions:
In a heavy skillet, cook the bacon until crisp. Remove to paper towel-lined plate.
Remove all but 1 tablespoon of the fat and return the pan to high heat.
Add the potatoes, white scallions, garlic, salt, pepper, and 1/4 cup water. Bring to a boil.
Cover, reduce heat to medium-low, and simmer until the potatoes are just tender, 8 to 10 minutes.
Add the bacon, broken into pieces. Cook, stirring occasionally, for about 10 minutes more.
Remove from heat, garnish with the green scallions, and serve.
Thought
The pace here is slower and nicer, but for those of us Type-A Northerners, born in the fast lane, it is a lesson in patience and humility. You might never change your driving methods in this strange and wonderful land, but neither will they.
Most Northerners learned how to drive similarly, with attitudes varying from determined, to forceful, to hostile - ranging there from coercive, to a state of down right serious road-rage. But all of us learned one main rule that helped us survive the chaos. We knew every driver in front of us, in back of us, or to the left or right of us would do everything in his power to get ahead of the next guy. There was a stabilizing order to this disorder. Nothing tricky to figure out - just basic racing instinct, and it always worked. It was a high-speed dance on wheels that the majority of us learn to handle, and some of us even enjoy.
But, since I moved to the south almost twenty years ago, I have learned that the only thing you can expect down here is the unexplained unexpected, and I list, from the least annoying traffic practice, to the most mind-bending habits of the average Southern driver below:
1. No one knows how to drive in the snow, or back out of his driveway in bad weather, or so they say. A quarter of an inch of flurries will shut down an entire city work force and county school system, but somehow most everyone can make it to the mall.
2. A driver waiting at a stop sign will not pull out in front of an oncoming vehicle obviously planning on taking a right turn. You may have clearly turned on your right-hand signal only twenty-five feet ahead of the turn, and visibly slowed up to make that right-hand turn, but don't even offer the courtesy. The waiting vehicle will not trust a blinking turn signal. You are there to trick him, and purposely crash your nice new car into his 1989 pick-up truck, and don't think he doesn't know it.
3. No driver pulling up to a four-way stop sign, at the same time another vehicle pulls up, will make any first move to pull out. "The driver on the right always has the right of way" statute apparently is an unheard of rule here. Please refer to the assumption above that they know you are there to hit and harm their vehicle.
4. The first driver, at a green light waiting for oncoming traffic to clear in order to take a left turn, will not move up for any reason under the light - either to allow the next vehicle in back to get close enough to also take a left turn, or perhaps, to maneuver around the first car to continue straight ahead. Instead he will remain at the prescribed line he was originally compelled to stop at before the light turned green. You can plan on sitting through as many green lights as it takes, to allow the first car in line to feel completely safe that no car could possibly be visible from the oncoming direction.
5. Those drivers coming down the interstate highways in the slow lane, will not move over to the second, third or fourth lanes to allow you to move in from the entrance ramp. You are on your own to find a happy spot in the break-down lane, or stop dead in your tracks, while other drivers in back of you, who may not have noticed that you are stopped, are also trying to get onto the highway. Dicey, to put it mildly, but don't bother to get upset. They really don't know you exist.
6. Possibly the most annoying habit the Southern driver displays is to put his brakes on while approaching a green light. Is the driver hoping for a red light? Is he afraid of a yellow light likelihood? Down here, green means slow down. Okay, but then what the heck does yellow mean?
I've tried to adapt. I've really tried, but none of this makes any sense to me. How do I cope? I don't do drugs, and I can't drink and drive. So, what's left to sooth my "assertive" driving psyche - carb addiction. Carbs! - gotta have carbs, or maybe a southern chauffeur.
Recipe
Potato-Bacon Hash
Ingredients:
6 slices bacon
1 1/2 pounds Yukon gold potatoes, washed and cut into small chunks
1 bunch scallions, white and green parts
2 garlic cloves, minced
salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
Directions:
In a heavy skillet, cook the bacon until crisp. Remove to paper towel-lined plate.
Remove all but 1 tablespoon of the fat and return the pan to high heat.
Add the potatoes, white scallions, garlic, salt, pepper, and 1/4 cup water. Bring to a boil.
Cover, reduce heat to medium-low, and simmer until the potatoes are just tender, 8 to 10 minutes.
Add the bacon, broken into pieces. Cook, stirring occasionally, for about 10 minutes more.
Remove from heat, garnish with the green scallions, and serve.
Thought
The pace here is slower and nicer, but for those of us Type-A Northerners, born in the fast lane, it is a lesson in patience and humility. You might never change your driving methods in this strange and wonderful land, but neither will they.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Trust His Heart
"God is too wise to be mistaken; God is too good to be unkind.
So when you don't understand, When you don't see His plan,
When you can't trace His hand, Trust His heart."
I heard this song for the first time in 1985.
Michael and I were in the process of adopting a baby boy we named Daniel, when he was only three weeks old. His mother, a young woman, who already had a baby ten-months older than Daniel, gladly allowed us to proceed with a private adoption. Daniel was a difficult, suffering cocaine addict from the day he was born, but this beautiful caramel colored little boy, with cocoa brown eyes, owned us, including my mother and our Shannan, completely.
Michael worked night shifts so he and my mom could take care of Daniel days, and I worked days teaching so Shannan and I could be there nights. It truly did take a village to look after our Daniel. This baby endured withdrawal agonies for weeks, and we endured it with him. After a few months, all of his symptoms dissipated, and we began to see the wonderful child under all that pain.
One afternoon, I returned home from my job, and came through the kitchen door to see Michael and my mom ashen faced and hopeless . I asked what had happened, and only Michael could speak. He took me in his arms, and told me Daniel's birth mother had come with a social worker that morning to take her unwanted son back. It turned out that she realized she could be making double the welfare money with two babies.
"Why didn't you call me?" I screamed at him. He just said there was no point. Nothing could be changed. She had all the right papers, and we had nothing. He saw no point in destroying me any sooner than he had to. I went into the deepest depression of my life. I moved through each day like a dead woman. Church was a joke. No God I wanted to know would have allowed our baby to be taken, and He sure wouldn't have allow that woman to take back a child we knew would be neglected.
I hated Daniel's birth mother, and I hated God. No one at church even asked me how I was doing. I assumed they cared, but I guess I've never been able to hide my feelings. I am sure I didn't appear very approachable. Months again went by. I lost weight, and pictured walking off into one of our Maine "glacier like" snow banks, until one night, some of our friends from church and some of my teacher buddies came to our house all dressed as clowns and filled our home with balloons, cookies and laughter. How do you keep from laughing at grown men and women you see every Sunday in their best, now dressed as Bozos wearing make-up on their faces and wig hats on their heads? The healing started whether I liked it or not.
The following Sunday night service, a group of college students from Boston came to our neck of the Maine woods, and sang songs I had heard over and over again for years. I listened halfheartedly until they sang, "Trust His Heart." It all became pretty clear. I wasn't supposed to understand or even agree. I was supposed to trust.
Thought
I have had losses nearly as bad in the years that have passed since losing our Daniel, but never to the point of not trusting the one who made Daniel.
So when you don't understand, When you don't see His plan,
When you can't trace His hand, Trust His heart."
I heard this song for the first time in 1985.
Michael and I were in the process of adopting a baby boy we named Daniel, when he was only three weeks old. His mother, a young woman, who already had a baby ten-months older than Daniel, gladly allowed us to proceed with a private adoption. Daniel was a difficult, suffering cocaine addict from the day he was born, but this beautiful caramel colored little boy, with cocoa brown eyes, owned us, including my mother and our Shannan, completely.
Michael worked night shifts so he and my mom could take care of Daniel days, and I worked days teaching so Shannan and I could be there nights. It truly did take a village to look after our Daniel. This baby endured withdrawal agonies for weeks, and we endured it with him. After a few months, all of his symptoms dissipated, and we began to see the wonderful child under all that pain.
One afternoon, I returned home from my job, and came through the kitchen door to see Michael and my mom ashen faced and hopeless . I asked what had happened, and only Michael could speak. He took me in his arms, and told me Daniel's birth mother had come with a social worker that morning to take her unwanted son back. It turned out that she realized she could be making double the welfare money with two babies.
"Why didn't you call me?" I screamed at him. He just said there was no point. Nothing could be changed. She had all the right papers, and we had nothing. He saw no point in destroying me any sooner than he had to. I went into the deepest depression of my life. I moved through each day like a dead woman. Church was a joke. No God I wanted to know would have allowed our baby to be taken, and He sure wouldn't have allow that woman to take back a child we knew would be neglected.
I hated Daniel's birth mother, and I hated God. No one at church even asked me how I was doing. I assumed they cared, but I guess I've never been able to hide my feelings. I am sure I didn't appear very approachable. Months again went by. I lost weight, and pictured walking off into one of our Maine "glacier like" snow banks, until one night, some of our friends from church and some of my teacher buddies came to our house all dressed as clowns and filled our home with balloons, cookies and laughter. How do you keep from laughing at grown men and women you see every Sunday in their best, now dressed as Bozos wearing make-up on their faces and wig hats on their heads? The healing started whether I liked it or not.
The following Sunday night service, a group of college students from Boston came to our neck of the Maine woods, and sang songs I had heard over and over again for years. I listened halfheartedly until they sang, "Trust His Heart." It all became pretty clear. I wasn't supposed to understand or even agree. I was supposed to trust.
Thought
I have had losses nearly as bad in the years that have passed since losing our Daniel, but never to the point of not trusting the one who made Daniel.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
A Purposful Life
History, the study and drama of it, has always been my love. American history is my passion. I always picture my heroes standing on a cliff hearing from on high what they would do with their lives. I can see the Father of our Country hearing, "George Washington, your purpose in life is to be a living example for a country yet to be born." The Great Emancipator" would hear, "Abraham Lincoln, your purpose in life is to set free those held by tyranny and bondage." I have always wanted my life to be great - not important or famous, but purposeful. I am still waiting for that voice of destiny to say, "Noreen Birney, your purpose in live is..."
There always seemed to be so much time to do something heroic, but time slips by now in decades, not years. I am not looking for a reason to live. Heck, just getting up in the morning works well as reason enough, but I have always felt a destiny or purpose inside me waiting to happen. Does that destiny go away after menopause? Is it killing time until I hit 70 or 80? Is it staring me in the face, and I am too myopic to see it? I don't know, but here I am, on call like I am for my bosses - 24/7.
I love being a wife, a mother, grandmother, a daughter, a sister, an aunt and a friend, and I know the value of these positions - wouldn't trade them for anything. But don't all of us want to be more than the sum of who we are related to? Perhaps just living through the everyday trip from home, to work, to church, to home again is heroic enough. It's certainly not an easy tour of duty, but I feel like a combat pilot confined to desk duty in Nebraska, when I want to be in the air. Give me my "wings" Lord, give me my "wings." In the meantime, I will make a chocolate butter cream cake.
Chocolate Cake
Ingredients:
2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 cups good cocoa powder
2 1/4 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup light brown sugar, packed
3 extra-large eggs, at room temperature
3 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups buttermilk, at room temperature
3/4 cup sour cream, at room temperature
3 tablespoons brewed coffee
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter and flour a 12 by 18 by 1 1/2-inch sheet pan.
In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, cocoa, baking soda, and salt.
In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugars on high speed until light, approximately 5 minutes. Add the eggs and vanilla and mix well. Combine the buttermilk, sour cream, and coffee. On low speed, add the flour mixture and the buttermilk mixture alternately in thirds, beginning with the buttermilk mixture and ending with the flour mixture. Mix the batter only until blended.
Pour the batter into the prepared sheet pan, smooth the top with a spatula, and bake in the center of the oven for 25 to 30 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool to room temperature before frosting.
Butter Cream Frosting
Ingredients:
2 cups sugar
2/3 cup water
6 extra-large egg whites, at room temperature
1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
1 1/4 pounds (5 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
Combine the sugar with 2/3 cup water in a medium heavy-bottomed saucepan and, without stirring, bring to a boil. Cover the saucepan and allow the mixture to boil until the sugar dissolves. Uncover and continue boiling until the mixture reaches 240 degrees F on a candy thermometer. Pour the syrup into a heat-proof measuring cup.
Place the egg whites and cream of tartar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment and beat on high speed until the eggs form stiff peaks. With the mixer on high speed, slowly pour the syrup into the egg whites. Continue beating on high speed until the mixture is absolutely at room temperature, about 10 to 15 minutes.
With the mixer on medium speed, add the butter, 1 tablespoon at a time, and then add the vanilla and liqueur. (If the mixture becomes runny, the meringue was too warm and the butter melted. Chill slightly and beat again.) Add the food coloring and combine.
Thought
Private Birney, reporting for duty. Sir
There always seemed to be so much time to do something heroic, but time slips by now in decades, not years. I am not looking for a reason to live. Heck, just getting up in the morning works well as reason enough, but I have always felt a destiny or purpose inside me waiting to happen. Does that destiny go away after menopause? Is it killing time until I hit 70 or 80? Is it staring me in the face, and I am too myopic to see it? I don't know, but here I am, on call like I am for my bosses - 24/7.
I love being a wife, a mother, grandmother, a daughter, a sister, an aunt and a friend, and I know the value of these positions - wouldn't trade them for anything. But don't all of us want to be more than the sum of who we are related to? Perhaps just living through the everyday trip from home, to work, to church, to home again is heroic enough. It's certainly not an easy tour of duty, but I feel like a combat pilot confined to desk duty in Nebraska, when I want to be in the air. Give me my "wings" Lord, give me my "wings." In the meantime, I will make a chocolate butter cream cake.
Chocolate Cake
Ingredients:
2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 cups good cocoa powder
2 1/4 teaspoons baking soda
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup light brown sugar, packed
3 extra-large eggs, at room temperature
3 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups buttermilk, at room temperature
3/4 cup sour cream, at room temperature
3 tablespoons brewed coffee
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter and flour a 12 by 18 by 1 1/2-inch sheet pan.
In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, cocoa, baking soda, and salt.
In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugars on high speed until light, approximately 5 minutes. Add the eggs and vanilla and mix well. Combine the buttermilk, sour cream, and coffee. On low speed, add the flour mixture and the buttermilk mixture alternately in thirds, beginning with the buttermilk mixture and ending with the flour mixture. Mix the batter only until blended.
Pour the batter into the prepared sheet pan, smooth the top with a spatula, and bake in the center of the oven for 25 to 30 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool to room temperature before frosting.
Butter Cream Frosting
Ingredients:
2 cups sugar
2/3 cup water
6 extra-large egg whites, at room temperature
1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
1 1/4 pounds (5 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
Combine the sugar with 2/3 cup water in a medium heavy-bottomed saucepan and, without stirring, bring to a boil. Cover the saucepan and allow the mixture to boil until the sugar dissolves. Uncover and continue boiling until the mixture reaches 240 degrees F on a candy thermometer. Pour the syrup into a heat-proof measuring cup.
Place the egg whites and cream of tartar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment and beat on high speed until the eggs form stiff peaks. With the mixer on high speed, slowly pour the syrup into the egg whites. Continue beating on high speed until the mixture is absolutely at room temperature, about 10 to 15 minutes.
With the mixer on medium speed, add the butter, 1 tablespoon at a time, and then add the vanilla and liqueur. (If the mixture becomes runny, the meringue was too warm and the butter melted. Chill slightly and beat again.) Add the food coloring and combine.
Thought
Private Birney, reporting for duty. Sir
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