My daughter and I just returned from a week of camping in the San Juan Islands. I know, I know, it sounds so luxurious. If only the weather had cooperated!!! We drove up in the driving rain (no pun intended) on Thursday, it rained Friday and most of Saturday. It cleared for a little while on Saturday evening. On Sunday, it poured again. The nice weather appeared after noon on Monday, stuck around on Tuesday. By Wednesday it couldn't really stay nice, and it poured Wednesday night. We drove home on Thursday through pounding rain. Did you count the nice days? Two!!! I have been cold for 7 nights in a row!
Sofie came right home and announced that she wanted to get in to her pajamas at the same time that I was rushing around to each heater, turning all up full blast. She agreed to get in a hot bath first, and soaked in there until the dirt came out from under her toenails and fingernails. I made a cup of hot coffee and tried to scald my tongue.
We delightedly watched out the window as the wind blew the trees in the backyard, our first look at weather from inside in a week.
I have sworn this summer to not complain about the weather. While the rest of the country has been red on the Weather Channel's map, we in the Pacific Northwest have been green. While everyone else has been lying on the floor naked under their ceiling fans, we have been rifling our fleece drawers to find that medium-weight cozy sweater. While there have been tornadoes and floods in the Midwest, we have had the company of our old friend, Rain. Rain is nothing new to us, we know how to drive in it, how to live in it, how to deal with it. Stop moping about the lack of heat and be glad that we aren't going to stores with air conditioning just to stay cool, playing in public fountains along with everyone else to wash that stickiness away, or lying awake all night with no covers on, hoping for the faintest breeze to come through that open window. In the Northwest, we are still able to go on hikes and bike rides during the day without passing out after the first half mile from heat stroke, we can walk our dogs, send our kids out to play in the yard, and leave the windows and doors open to get some fresh air into the house. What is there to complain about???
I Think I Can, I Think I Can!
At the end of last summer, my aunt passed the canning torch to me: she gave me my Nana's pressure cooker and an over sized box of assorted sized glass jars, along with various and sundry lids and rings. I have been looking forward to canning all year; it makes me feel kind of like a squirrel gathering nuts for the winter. It's the same feeling I have about logging for firewood (surely a blog entry for another day), making batch after batch of freezer jam, experimenting with pestos, and making and freezing zucchini muffins. It's the pioneer part of me coming out, and I think about how my ancestors used to do the activity; usually it's how DID they ever do this without modern conveniences?
Today my mom and I picked up her farm box that she gets every week from Helsing Junction Farm, and we bought additional beets at their farm stand. They were beautiful, purple beets, of a uniform size - perfect for our day's project. All together, I think we bought 17 pounds of beets. We had read all sorts of directions and how-to guides on line, as well as the original cookbook that came with the canner (very good recipes for squirrel, if you are interested) about how to can beets. We had all the jars we needed and we bought an extra box of lids and rings just to be on the safe side.
After reading every instruction under the sun, we put a pot of water to boil on every burner, and felt that we were prepared to deliver a baby as well. A pot to sterilize the jars, a pot to boil the lids, and two pots to cook the beets - already we were out of burners! How did people used to do this? We were wishing for our old wood cook stove at this point. Once one pot of beets was cooked then we could swap that out for a pot to boil the water to pour over the beets in the jar.
Mom's job was to peel and slice the beets after they were cooked. My job was to remove the jar from boiling water (with special jar tongs, I felt pretty important), fill it with freshly sliced beets, pour hot water over the top of the beets, leaving an inch of head space, of course. We felt very intellectual using our new vocabulary. I wiped the rim of the jar, used a magnetic lid grabber (another fancy tool!) to retrieve a lid from boiling water, put it on the jar and screwed on a ring. I'm sure for people who have canned before that this is not a big deal, but I was sure I was splitting atoms or decoding the human genome.
After I filled 7 pint-sized jars, we were ready to put them in the old pressure cooker (which we had gotten professionally tested earlier in the summer - a post for another day). We followed the directions to a T, loading the canner properly on to the rack, putting the lid on tightly, and leaving the petcock (more fascinating vocabulary) open until steam escaped for 10 minutes. Then the petcock was closed and we started watching the pressure gauge rise.
I had no idea it would be so nerve wracking. We waited for the pressure to get to 11 psi, then set the timer for 30 minutes. The pressure continued to rise past 11 pounds. Trying to hold down our panic, as well as the climbing pressure, Mom turned the temperature down. The pressure paid no attention to our efforts and continued to increase. We moved the canner to the side of the burner. The pressure advanced steadily toward the 15 psi mark. We yelled at Sofie to not come through the kitchen until we got the situation under control. By the time we arrested the ascending temperature, I felt like I had just saved the space shuttle. It was difficult to hold at bay the visions of the canner lid shooting off the top, blowing a hole in the ceiling and knocking me to ground in the process. Mom called out to me that there were only 13 minutes left and we remarked about the relief we both felt that it was over half-way through, wiping the sweat from our respective brows.
Meanwhile, we still had a truck-load of beets. The directions that we had been following had been a little lax in accurately detailing how many beets we would need to make a load in the canner. Mom put another pot of beets on to cook. She washed up some quart jars and I continued to fill them. We marveled at the difference in speed that the quart jars made in our process. I could easily keep up with her; I felt like a professional.
By the time we started the second batch, we were able to juggle the lids, the jars, the beets, the canner, and the hot water like pros. We were still not managing our nerves very well, but the important part was that we hadn't blown up the house. When the last timer beeped, and it was time to remove the jars from the canner, we lovingly extracted each one with the jar tongs and placed it on the marble slab. Each one was cooed over, as we exclaimed how beautiful it was.
As we ate dinner, we smiled proudly each time we heard the tinny POP coming from the beet jars. We knew the feeling of satisfaction that the squirrel feels when he sneaks the hard-earned acorn into the cache, knowing it will be there when he needs it in the winter. As we ate the beets on our dinner plates, I was already planning what we would can next.
Today my mom and I picked up her farm box that she gets every week from Helsing Junction Farm, and we bought additional beets at their farm stand. They were beautiful, purple beets, of a uniform size - perfect for our day's project. All together, I think we bought 17 pounds of beets. We had read all sorts of directions and how-to guides on line, as well as the original cookbook that came with the canner (very good recipes for squirrel, if you are interested) about how to can beets. We had all the jars we needed and we bought an extra box of lids and rings just to be on the safe side.
After reading every instruction under the sun, we put a pot of water to boil on every burner, and felt that we were prepared to deliver a baby as well. A pot to sterilize the jars, a pot to boil the lids, and two pots to cook the beets - already we were out of burners! How did people used to do this? We were wishing for our old wood cook stove at this point. Once one pot of beets was cooked then we could swap that out for a pot to boil the water to pour over the beets in the jar.
Mom's job was to peel and slice the beets after they were cooked. My job was to remove the jar from boiling water (with special jar tongs, I felt pretty important), fill it with freshly sliced beets, pour hot water over the top of the beets, leaving an inch of head space, of course. We felt very intellectual using our new vocabulary. I wiped the rim of the jar, used a magnetic lid grabber (another fancy tool!) to retrieve a lid from boiling water, put it on the jar and screwed on a ring. I'm sure for people who have canned before that this is not a big deal, but I was sure I was splitting atoms or decoding the human genome.
After I filled 7 pint-sized jars, we were ready to put them in the old pressure cooker (which we had gotten professionally tested earlier in the summer - a post for another day). We followed the directions to a T, loading the canner properly on to the rack, putting the lid on tightly, and leaving the petcock (more fascinating vocabulary) open until steam escaped for 10 minutes. Then the petcock was closed and we started watching the pressure gauge rise.
I had no idea it would be so nerve wracking. We waited for the pressure to get to 11 psi, then set the timer for 30 minutes. The pressure continued to rise past 11 pounds. Trying to hold down our panic, as well as the climbing pressure, Mom turned the temperature down. The pressure paid no attention to our efforts and continued to increase. We moved the canner to the side of the burner. The pressure advanced steadily toward the 15 psi mark. We yelled at Sofie to not come through the kitchen until we got the situation under control. By the time we arrested the ascending temperature, I felt like I had just saved the space shuttle. It was difficult to hold at bay the visions of the canner lid shooting off the top, blowing a hole in the ceiling and knocking me to ground in the process. Mom called out to me that there were only 13 minutes left and we remarked about the relief we both felt that it was over half-way through, wiping the sweat from our respective brows.
Meanwhile, we still had a truck-load of beets. The directions that we had been following had been a little lax in accurately detailing how many beets we would need to make a load in the canner. Mom put another pot of beets on to cook. She washed up some quart jars and I continued to fill them. We marveled at the difference in speed that the quart jars made in our process. I could easily keep up with her; I felt like a professional.
By the time we started the second batch, we were able to juggle the lids, the jars, the beets, the canner, and the hot water like pros. We were still not managing our nerves very well, but the important part was that we hadn't blown up the house. When the last timer beeped, and it was time to remove the jars from the canner, we lovingly extracted each one with the jar tongs and placed it on the marble slab. Each one was cooed over, as we exclaimed how beautiful it was.
As we ate dinner, we smiled proudly each time we heard the tinny POP coming from the beet jars. We knew the feeling of satisfaction that the squirrel feels when he sneaks the hard-earned acorn into the cache, knowing it will be there when he needs it in the winter. As we ate the beets on our dinner plates, I was already planning what we would can next.
Cilantro Pesto
Let me just tell you, I am hooked on making pesto, as well as eating it. I made that basil batch that I told you about in July, and then I made another batch and froze those jars. I have already gone through almost a whole jar. I read somewhere that you can use it wherever and whenever you would use butter. I have tried it on toast (yum!) and sandwiches. Most of it has been used up with pasta. Princess of one-pot meals (I can't take the title of Queen), I cooked up some noodles, drained them and then added pesto, a can of chicken, and some frozen peas. I moistened it up with some (fat-free) sour cream. Cottage cheese works, as does cream cheese. I did a similar thing another night, only instead of adding chicken, I added some smoked salmon and also some smoked cheese.
Yesterday I bought some bunches of cilantro at the store and came home and whipped those into pesto. I rinsed a bunch, stuffed it in the processor, added 1/2 cup toasted almonds (no use chopping them) and a bunch of spoonfuls of minced garlic. No point in measuring garlic with teaspoons or tablespoons. I mixed that up, then added 3 TBSP olive oil. In the first batch I added some Parmesan cheese, but I thought that added a salty flavor, so when I worked on the second bunch, I didn't add any cheese. I had read somewhere that if you add salt to it now, it will just turn a very dark color. What's wrong with that? I don't know, but I left it out. Two bunches of cilantro made three jam jars (4 oz.?) of pesto.
What will I do with cilantro pesto? Spread it on fish, chicken, pizza, pasta, and sandwiches; add it to soups, dips and sauces; put it on nachos; add it to a salad. Wherever you use cilantro, you can put in some of this pesto. Think of it in some beans on a winter night, or in some hot stew in the crock pot. It will be that reminder of summer when you are feeling bad about dark winter nights.
Yesterday I bought some bunches of cilantro at the store and came home and whipped those into pesto. I rinsed a bunch, stuffed it in the processor, added 1/2 cup toasted almonds (no use chopping them) and a bunch of spoonfuls of minced garlic. No point in measuring garlic with teaspoons or tablespoons. I mixed that up, then added 3 TBSP olive oil. In the first batch I added some Parmesan cheese, but I thought that added a salty flavor, so when I worked on the second bunch, I didn't add any cheese. I had read somewhere that if you add salt to it now, it will just turn a very dark color. What's wrong with that? I don't know, but I left it out. Two bunches of cilantro made three jam jars (4 oz.?) of pesto.
What will I do with cilantro pesto? Spread it on fish, chicken, pizza, pasta, and sandwiches; add it to soups, dips and sauces; put it on nachos; add it to a salad. Wherever you use cilantro, you can put in some of this pesto. Think of it in some beans on a winter night, or in some hot stew in the crock pot. It will be that reminder of summer when you are feeling bad about dark winter nights.
Blessed Event
Mowing the lawn seems to have become an exciting, anticipated event at my house. I am not sure how that happened. As the idea of mowing is dawning in my head, Sofie is simultaneously hopping around, shouting, "Yay! Mama's going to mow the lawn! Woo hoo!" I am not nearly as thrilled. I see it as sweating on a hard, plastic seat for at least an hour, leaning uphill (we do live on a ridge) as necessary, avoiding sticker bush tendrils, and breathing dust from mole hills over which I have grumpily sped. Sofie's follow-up to the jumping and squealing is, "You're going to be outside with me!" It's not like we are communing in any way while I am on the mower. She generally plays out of the way on the swing set, happy to twist and swing, climb and slide, while I am not happy to lurch over the bumps and holes in the yard. She shouts, "Look, Mama! Look at me!", and I wave, bellowing, "I can't hear you!!!" I don't consider it a bonding experience. It's more of a time of reflection.
Today I reflected on my good job of spraying Round Up around the house and yard (mental high five for that one), the state of the siding on the house (better make some calls), the incredible number and precise placement of new mole hills (is that really coincidence?), and the fact that my mowing may have something to do with the earth's frogs becoming extinct (use your own imagination). I wondered why my neighbors think they are doing me a favor by mowing the grass at the end of my driveway - the part with the wildflowers that (used to) greet me at the entrance. I hoped another neighbor noticed how careful I was not to blow the grass clippings on to his side of the fence. I also questioned how many more years my lawnmower can limp along, getting taped and held together with Velcro and bubblegum each spring.
This year I waited too long to call the lawnmower shop, so I had to wait until the end of July to get it back. Meanwhile, visitors thought I had converted to Quakerism and was raising hay. I had to get control of my lawn before the rains came, so I called a local lawn maintenance company to come and spruce up the yard. A few days later, three guys arrived and got right to work. Two wielded weed eaters while the third rode the mower. Although I was ecstatic to have my view back, I have to admit to being a tad bit disappointed that the professionals waving the weed eaters failed to recognize several plants in my landscape scheme. A butterfly bush and a couple of hardy fuchsias took it for the team that day, as did at least one soaker hose which was lurking under some tall grass. I can look back on that day without bitterness and say that it all turned out OK. The bushes are coming back with gusto and the soaker hose never wound coiled in the right direction for me, so it's all good.
I guess it probably was a blessed event the day that the lawnmower came home from the hospital. I joyfully greeted it, caressing the hood and gently tipping up the seat so it wouldn't get too hot. I suppose I was the one who was jumping around, singing, "I get to mow the lawn! I can't wait to mow the lawn!" I happily filled up every available gas can and rushed home to fill up the lawnmower's tank with fresh fuel. Putting around the yard in a swirl of grass and dirt, I was gleefully shouting, "Look at me! I'm mowing the lawn!! Woo hoo!"
Today I reflected on my good job of spraying Round Up around the house and yard (mental high five for that one), the state of the siding on the house (better make some calls), the incredible number and precise placement of new mole hills (is that really coincidence?), and the fact that my mowing may have something to do with the earth's frogs becoming extinct (use your own imagination). I wondered why my neighbors think they are doing me a favor by mowing the grass at the end of my driveway - the part with the wildflowers that (used to) greet me at the entrance. I hoped another neighbor noticed how careful I was not to blow the grass clippings on to his side of the fence. I also questioned how many more years my lawnmower can limp along, getting taped and held together with Velcro and bubblegum each spring.
This year I waited too long to call the lawnmower shop, so I had to wait until the end of July to get it back. Meanwhile, visitors thought I had converted to Quakerism and was raising hay. I had to get control of my lawn before the rains came, so I called a local lawn maintenance company to come and spruce up the yard. A few days later, three guys arrived and got right to work. Two wielded weed eaters while the third rode the mower. Although I was ecstatic to have my view back, I have to admit to being a tad bit disappointed that the professionals waving the weed eaters failed to recognize several plants in my landscape scheme. A butterfly bush and a couple of hardy fuchsias took it for the team that day, as did at least one soaker hose which was lurking under some tall grass. I can look back on that day without bitterness and say that it all turned out OK. The bushes are coming back with gusto and the soaker hose never wound coiled in the right direction for me, so it's all good.
I guess it probably was a blessed event the day that the lawnmower came home from the hospital. I joyfully greeted it, caressing the hood and gently tipping up the seat so it wouldn't get too hot. I suppose I was the one who was jumping around, singing, "I get to mow the lawn! I can't wait to mow the lawn!" I happily filled up every available gas can and rushed home to fill up the lawnmower's tank with fresh fuel. Putting around the yard in a swirl of grass and dirt, I was gleefully shouting, "Look at me! I'm mowing the lawn!! Woo hoo!"
Sleep Becomes Me. When I Get It.
We had an interesting night the other night. By "we", I mean my daughter and I. She went to bed at her regular time, maybe 8:00 or a little later, as it is summer. I had a huge To Do list going on in my head: I was going to bake brownies in the morning to deliver to a party by noon, I wanted to make some cupcakes for my mom's birthday the next day, I had just agreed to make 4 cakes' worth of cupcakes for a big party that was three days away, and I also had to finish scrapping a memory book for the same birthday party. So, I did what anyone else would do: I watched TV until about 11:00, and then I decided to work on the memory book.
I stayed up until about 2:00 AM, printing and researching things that happened in 1931. Al Capone was sentenced to eleven years in jail for tax evasion, New Delhi replaced Delhi as the capital of India, Thomas Edison filed for his last patent, the first Dracula movie came out, and China had horrible summertime floods that were deemed the deadliest natural disaster in history. I cut, arranged, glued, re-arranged, sorted - all the things you do when you make a scrapbook. I was pretty happy to finish the last page, one about how much things cost in 1931. I went to bed but I didn't feel tired, so I thought I would read a little of this book on my nightstand, Straight Man. I had been slogging through it, a little a time, trying to get to the good part. If there is one.
Anyway, I was on my left side (this is important!), holding the book in my left hand, on the left side of the bed. At some point my hand got cold and I turned over to the right side, held the book in my right hand, and scooted toward the right side of the bed to be closer to the light. I snuggled under the covers to warm my left hand. Now comes the tricky part. I would swear to you that I was reading away, maybe once or twice I was reading with my eyes closed, but finally I decided to close the book, turn off the light, turn back to the left side, put in the book mark, store the book on the night stand, and turn off the light. As I was about to turn off the light, I noticed the living room light was on. It was about 3:45 AM.
"That's odd," I thought to myself. I was sure that I had turned all of the lights in the house off before retiring to bed. I got up to turn off the light and I realized that my daughter's light was on. Even stranger. Imagine my surprise when I entered her room and found her on the phone!!! "MAMA!", she cried out in relief. "Where were you?"
I was befuddled. It was the middle of the night, my house was lit up like a church, and my daughter, who refuses to talk on the phone, was doing just that. "I was in my room", I replied confusedly.
Here is the other side of the story. My daughter woke up in the night. She came looking for me. She may or may not have been fully awake. She saw that both bedside lamps were on, but when she looked at "MY" side of the bed, I wasn't there. She went to the TV room, which was dark. She thought maybe I was watering the garden, but she saw that the sliding door was locked. She examined the lock to the front door and ascertained that it was also locked. She was calling my name and I didn't answer. She asked herself if she should call 911. [OK, pause for a moment and think about my side of the story. Can you imagine how horrified I would be to be awakened by policemen banging on my door in the middle of the night?] Instead, she called my mom. As it was 3:45 in the morning, that phone was not answered right away, and, being a little kid, she didn't realize the logistics of having a phone downstairs when you are sleeping upstairs. So she hung up and dialed her dad, who was two hours away. She told him she couldn't find her mama.
He had her look all over the house, check the garage for the car, make sure the garage door was closed, double check the doors and the bathroom. He had put on his shoes and was ready to drive down when I appeared, bleary-eyed, in her room. He told me that he had also contemplated calling 911 (horrors!), as well as the neighbors (still - horrors!).
The thoughts of the neighbors banging on the door, inquiring as to my whereabouts in the middle of the night, were enough to keep me awake until 5 AM, as my little daughter snuggled next to me, happy that I was found. I was pretty happy to be found, too.
I stayed up until about 2:00 AM, printing and researching things that happened in 1931. Al Capone was sentenced to eleven years in jail for tax evasion, New Delhi replaced Delhi as the capital of India, Thomas Edison filed for his last patent, the first Dracula movie came out, and China had horrible summertime floods that were deemed the deadliest natural disaster in history. I cut, arranged, glued, re-arranged, sorted - all the things you do when you make a scrapbook. I was pretty happy to finish the last page, one about how much things cost in 1931. I went to bed but I didn't feel tired, so I thought I would read a little of this book on my nightstand, Straight Man. I had been slogging through it, a little a time, trying to get to the good part. If there is one.
Anyway, I was on my left side (this is important!), holding the book in my left hand, on the left side of the bed. At some point my hand got cold and I turned over to the right side, held the book in my right hand, and scooted toward the right side of the bed to be closer to the light. I snuggled under the covers to warm my left hand. Now comes the tricky part. I would swear to you that I was reading away, maybe once or twice I was reading with my eyes closed, but finally I decided to close the book, turn off the light, turn back to the left side, put in the book mark, store the book on the night stand, and turn off the light. As I was about to turn off the light, I noticed the living room light was on. It was about 3:45 AM.
"That's odd," I thought to myself. I was sure that I had turned all of the lights in the house off before retiring to bed. I got up to turn off the light and I realized that my daughter's light was on. Even stranger. Imagine my surprise when I entered her room and found her on the phone!!! "MAMA!", she cried out in relief. "Where were you?"
I was befuddled. It was the middle of the night, my house was lit up like a church, and my daughter, who refuses to talk on the phone, was doing just that. "I was in my room", I replied confusedly.
Here is the other side of the story. My daughter woke up in the night. She came looking for me. She may or may not have been fully awake. She saw that both bedside lamps were on, but when she looked at "MY" side of the bed, I wasn't there. She went to the TV room, which was dark. She thought maybe I was watering the garden, but she saw that the sliding door was locked. She examined the lock to the front door and ascertained that it was also locked. She was calling my name and I didn't answer. She asked herself if she should call 911. [OK, pause for a moment and think about my side of the story. Can you imagine how horrified I would be to be awakened by policemen banging on my door in the middle of the night?] Instead, she called my mom. As it was 3:45 in the morning, that phone was not answered right away, and, being a little kid, she didn't realize the logistics of having a phone downstairs when you are sleeping upstairs. So she hung up and dialed her dad, who was two hours away. She told him she couldn't find her mama.
He had her look all over the house, check the garage for the car, make sure the garage door was closed, double check the doors and the bathroom. He had put on his shoes and was ready to drive down when I appeared, bleary-eyed, in her room. He told me that he had also contemplated calling 911 (horrors!), as well as the neighbors (still - horrors!).
The thoughts of the neighbors banging on the door, inquiring as to my whereabouts in the middle of the night, were enough to keep me awake until 5 AM, as my little daughter snuggled next to me, happy that I was found. I was pretty happy to be found, too.
Baking. It's What I Do.
If you have read my profile in depth, you know that I like to bake. Specifically, I like to bake for people who like to eat. I consider my specialty to be cakes, although I do dip my measuring spoons for bars and cookies at times. I don't even say cupcakes, because I consider them to be the same as cakes. My "signature cake" is Banana Snack Cake. You are probably wondering what makes the BSC my signature cake.
In another life, when I lived at home, we had a milk cow. The drawbacks of having a cow included 6 A.M. milking, poopy tail swishes in the face, and getting stepped on. Advantages included all the fresh milk a family could drink, plenty of cream, and the opportunity to make butter, among other things. When our cow dried up, we couldn't bear to drink store milk, it tasted like water. To solve our problem, I made a deal with a neighboring dairy man: I traded him homemade cookies for milk. This was a sweet deal all around. Every couple of days I would go down to the dairy with a couple dozen cookies and our milk can, drop off the cookies in his office, and go home with a gallon of milk. This lasted until his wife learned of our deal - she had been wondering why he had been gaining weight! After that, I gave the cookies to her and she froze them. That was probably the beginning of my baking career.
Things really started cooking after I bought one of those cookbooks at the cash register - you know, the impulse buy. It was a cake recipe book by Pillsbury, with a picture of a whole wheat Bundt cake (quick flash to My Big Fat Greek Wedding) on the cover. It was loaded with good recipes. Not knowing how to make anything else, I often opted to bring a dessert to dinners and potlucks, and soon I had developed quite a repertoire.
My repertoire has grown a lot since those beginning days. Now I frantically write down recipes as I watch Martha Stewart (Triple Chocolate Brownie Cupcakes are a hit with the younger crowd!), scan the Internet for unusual recipes (Green Tomato Cake is delicious, no matter how it sounds), and beg for recipes of desserts of which I have heard rumors (Pink Lemonade Pie). Every once in a while I go back to that original Pillsbury book and find something new and outstanding (Coconut Macaroon Cupcakes) or go out on a limb and try a recipe included on a box label (German Chocolate Cake). For a while I was on a tear making cheesecakes, and last summer I made Chocolate Truffle Bombs, to the delight of my daughter.
There are some people who really love my cakes, and I do something special for their birthdays. I give them "cake credits". I make a card and write in there something like, "This Card is Worth X number of Cakes". I keep track on a chart at home of how many cakes each person has. Whenever they want, they call me up and order a cake. I have given them a list of my ever-expanding repertoire, and I make notes on my own list, to remember who likes which one, and if they like it with or without the frosting, nuts, etc. To get back to my original point (can you remember what it is?), the cake that gets requested the most is Banana Snack Cake. Certain individuals like this recipe made into cupcakes, because that means automatic portion control. Others like the recipe as it is, in a glorious 9 X 13-inch cake pan, so the pieces can be custom cut.
Recently I agreed to make cakes for a birthday celebration to which over 100 people attended. I have never made four cakes in one day before, and I developed an assembly line attitude to get the job done. The initial step is to whip egg whites into stiff peaks. Stiff peaks used to scare me until I started making the Coconut Macaroon Cupcakes, and now they are a piece of cake. Pun intended. So instead of whipping up the egg whites in the mixer, then adding the rest of the ingredients and messing up the bowl, I whipped up four sets of egg whites and had them sitting around the kitchen in various bowls. Then I dirtied the bowl four times in a row. It surprised me that it was an all day enterprise, but frosting is not something I make very often (see Dixie Spice Cake). All that baking and cooking and then everything has to cool before the two mediums come together. People were horrified that I would make four cakes in a day, especially after (I didn't tell you this part) I made a batch of Ultimate Brownies and a batch of German Chocolate Cupcakes the day before. I don't see it that way. I like to bake.
In another life, when I lived at home, we had a milk cow. The drawbacks of having a cow included 6 A.M. milking, poopy tail swishes in the face, and getting stepped on. Advantages included all the fresh milk a family could drink, plenty of cream, and the opportunity to make butter, among other things. When our cow dried up, we couldn't bear to drink store milk, it tasted like water. To solve our problem, I made a deal with a neighboring dairy man: I traded him homemade cookies for milk. This was a sweet deal all around. Every couple of days I would go down to the dairy with a couple dozen cookies and our milk can, drop off the cookies in his office, and go home with a gallon of milk. This lasted until his wife learned of our deal - she had been wondering why he had been gaining weight! After that, I gave the cookies to her and she froze them. That was probably the beginning of my baking career.
Things really started cooking after I bought one of those cookbooks at the cash register - you know, the impulse buy. It was a cake recipe book by Pillsbury, with a picture of a whole wheat Bundt cake (quick flash to My Big Fat Greek Wedding) on the cover. It was loaded with good recipes. Not knowing how to make anything else, I often opted to bring a dessert to dinners and potlucks, and soon I had developed quite a repertoire.
My repertoire has grown a lot since those beginning days. Now I frantically write down recipes as I watch Martha Stewart (Triple Chocolate Brownie Cupcakes are a hit with the younger crowd!), scan the Internet for unusual recipes (Green Tomato Cake is delicious, no matter how it sounds), and beg for recipes of desserts of which I have heard rumors (Pink Lemonade Pie). Every once in a while I go back to that original Pillsbury book and find something new and outstanding (Coconut Macaroon Cupcakes) or go out on a limb and try a recipe included on a box label (German Chocolate Cake). For a while I was on a tear making cheesecakes, and last summer I made Chocolate Truffle Bombs, to the delight of my daughter.
There are some people who really love my cakes, and I do something special for their birthdays. I give them "cake credits". I make a card and write in there something like, "This Card is Worth X number of Cakes". I keep track on a chart at home of how many cakes each person has. Whenever they want, they call me up and order a cake. I have given them a list of my ever-expanding repertoire, and I make notes on my own list, to remember who likes which one, and if they like it with or without the frosting, nuts, etc. To get back to my original point (can you remember what it is?), the cake that gets requested the most is Banana Snack Cake. Certain individuals like this recipe made into cupcakes, because that means automatic portion control. Others like the recipe as it is, in a glorious 9 X 13-inch cake pan, so the pieces can be custom cut.
Recently I agreed to make cakes for a birthday celebration to which over 100 people attended. I have never made four cakes in one day before, and I developed an assembly line attitude to get the job done. The initial step is to whip egg whites into stiff peaks. Stiff peaks used to scare me until I started making the Coconut Macaroon Cupcakes, and now they are a piece of cake. Pun intended. So instead of whipping up the egg whites in the mixer, then adding the rest of the ingredients and messing up the bowl, I whipped up four sets of egg whites and had them sitting around the kitchen in various bowls. Then I dirtied the bowl four times in a row. It surprised me that it was an all day enterprise, but frosting is not something I make very often (see Dixie Spice Cake). All that baking and cooking and then everything has to cool before the two mediums come together. People were horrified that I would make four cakes in a day, especially after (I didn't tell you this part) I made a batch of Ultimate Brownies and a batch of German Chocolate Cupcakes the day before. I don't see it that way. I like to bake.
Raccoons Are Supposed To Be Nocturnal!
You are aware that I have a raccoon family living in my neighborhood, and that my acreage has its name because of our acquaintance. This year Mama Raccoon has four babies. She began bringing them to the back door earlier in the summer, training them in the fine art of picking cat food from between the boards of the deck. You are wondering how I know that it's the same raccoon that has visited me for several years. Well, it's because she is blind in her right eye; it is cloudy white. I have just a slight feeling of pity for her. Poor Mama Raccoon, a single parent, she is blind in one eye and has a family to feed.
The problem is that she is getting way too familiar with my surroundings and my schedule. She knows that the cats eat first thing in the morning, so she shows up shortly thereafter to clean up what they are still trying to eat. She washes her hands in their green, depression-glass water bowl, turning their cool drink to a light mud color. Then she goes out to inspect under the bird feeder. The grosbeaks are such pigs that they spill black oil sunflower seeds all over the ground. After the squirrels have had their way with the bird feeder, it's a wonder that there is anything left in it! A perfect all-you-can-eat buffet for Mama. She will stay up there a long time in the morning sun, scrabbling at the seeds and making a terrible bare spot in my already ugly lawn. If I try to sneak food to starving Simone and trembling Teeny, she makes a bee line back to the deck. She also stops by in the evenings, when I'm watching TV, to say hello and to scarf down any leftovers that Simone and Teeny may have neglected. I'm told that the hole she is making in my siding means that my siding is rotten; it has nothing to do with her "extremely dexterous front paws" or her "non-retractable claws". This is the least of my problems.
She is now training her four kits to scavenge under the bird feeder, pick through the cat food, and perk up their ears at the sound of the sliding door. Since their ears can hear the sound of an earthworm underground, I'm sure the sliding door sounds like a locomotive sounding the call to dinner. While they aren't so interested in leftover bird seeds, the kits are terribly excited to climb the trees in the back yard. While Mama is gorging herself on seeds, they are scampering up and down the tall fir trees. Did you know that they can climb upward, as well as climb down FACING DOWNWARD?
Mama is no longer afraid of me opening the door and yelling, so I have resorted to kicking shoes at her. Even when the first one flies past her, she won't budge until the second one makes contact. She only runs under the deck, and as soon as I close the door, she is up in an instant, defying me in the broad daylight.
So far, she and her bandit babes have left my junior vegetable garden alone. The day they touch a zucchini or taste a tomato, I am afraid the real war will start. Mostly I am afraid because I have read about the raccoon's amazing intelligence, incredible memory, ability to swim and stay in the water for a couple of hours, excellent tactile ability, and outstanding sense of smell. The only thing I have up on Mama Raccoon is that I have opposable thumbs.
The problem is that she is getting way too familiar with my surroundings and my schedule. She knows that the cats eat first thing in the morning, so she shows up shortly thereafter to clean up what they are still trying to eat. She washes her hands in their green, depression-glass water bowl, turning their cool drink to a light mud color. Then she goes out to inspect under the bird feeder. The grosbeaks are such pigs that they spill black oil sunflower seeds all over the ground. After the squirrels have had their way with the bird feeder, it's a wonder that there is anything left in it! A perfect all-you-can-eat buffet for Mama. She will stay up there a long time in the morning sun, scrabbling at the seeds and making a terrible bare spot in my already ugly lawn. If I try to sneak food to starving Simone and trembling Teeny, she makes a bee line back to the deck. She also stops by in the evenings, when I'm watching TV, to say hello and to scarf down any leftovers that Simone and Teeny may have neglected. I'm told that the hole she is making in my siding means that my siding is rotten; it has nothing to do with her "extremely dexterous front paws" or her "non-retractable claws". This is the least of my problems.
She is now training her four kits to scavenge under the bird feeder, pick through the cat food, and perk up their ears at the sound of the sliding door. Since their ears can hear the sound of an earthworm underground, I'm sure the sliding door sounds like a locomotive sounding the call to dinner. While they aren't so interested in leftover bird seeds, the kits are terribly excited to climb the trees in the back yard. While Mama is gorging herself on seeds, they are scampering up and down the tall fir trees. Did you know that they can climb upward, as well as climb down FACING DOWNWARD?
Mama is no longer afraid of me opening the door and yelling, so I have resorted to kicking shoes at her. Even when the first one flies past her, she won't budge until the second one makes contact. She only runs under the deck, and as soon as I close the door, she is up in an instant, defying me in the broad daylight.
So far, she and her bandit babes have left my junior vegetable garden alone. The day they touch a zucchini or taste a tomato, I am afraid the real war will start. Mostly I am afraid because I have read about the raccoon's amazing intelligence, incredible memory, ability to swim and stay in the water for a couple of hours, excellent tactile ability, and outstanding sense of smell. The only thing I have up on Mama Raccoon is that I have opposable thumbs.
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