The Dirty Penny

Raccoon Ridge Ramblings is proud to introduce its first Guest Blogger.  Susie read about my bad luck at the corner store in Evaporation 101 and was reminded of this morning in her past.

After working all night long, I went to the PX on base. The cashier had rung up my transaction and wasn't going to give me my change due (which was a penny).  I've noticed now that many cashiers opt not to provide change back if it is less than 2-3 cents.  I stood there earnestly waiting for my 1 cent change.

With a look of utter disgust, the teller finally reached into her till and handed me the most filthy, corroded penny, with green/blue discoloration, so much that you could not make out which president was gracing the coin. It was a horrible penny.  In my totally sleep deprived state, I stood there looking at this penny, shocked into immobility.

The teller had already given a nod to the next customer behind me, and pretended to ignore my disappointed reaction.

Before the next person moved into my space, I mumbled to the cashier, "Umm excuse me, but could I please get another penny?  This one seems to be very corroded".

The teller, who, by now, was feeling very put-out and annoyed by my petty concerns and time-consuming antics, opened her till with a big sigh, and pulled out a better, more shiny piece of alloy in the form of a 1 cent coin.

Knowing that I had crossed the line between sanity and insanity (which, to those who work night shifts and try to do errands the next morning, can fully understand), I quickly offered up what I thought would be a logical reasoning for my petty concern. I said, "I am sorry to bother your about this, but my children put these in their mouths!"

 The lady gave me a look to kill, and I quickly headed to the exit, straight home and into bed !

If you have a story about your misfortune at the convenience store, or if you would like to be a Guest Blogger, leave a comment below.

Evaporation 101

Hungry reader, I love to bake almost as much as I love to eat.  It is so gratifying to create something FROM SCRATCH (don't ever think for a minute that I am grabbing a box from the pantry and dumping it into the mixer and then touting myself as a baker, because that would be a sin punishable by burning in the toaster oven) and then present it to others who gratefully devour it.  It is so satisfying to make something from all these little bits and bobs that actually tastes delightful.  I would say that I can't describe what a nice feeling it is, but I think I just have.

There is one thing that I don't like to make, and that is frosting.  I know that it is hard to understand how I could make all of these delicacies and not be frosting them up one side and down the other.  I pride myself on making treats that don't require frosting:  Banana Snack Cake, Blackies, Triple Chocolate Brownie Cupcakes, Anytime Oatmeal Cake, Dream Bars, Walnut Crunch Brownies; I'm sure you have been drooling over all of their names under the title "What's In My Oven?" down there on the right.

You know that once in a while I bake requests, and every blue moon it happens that the solicited cake requires frosting.  There are only a few that I would consider making, and two of my short list of three were ordered for the weekend.  The one consolation for me was that both frostings are the kind that you cook, and that eased my dread just a bit.

I was on a tight schedule - you know my penchant for German planning and timing.  I got up at 6:15 and performed all sorts of important duties like making coffee and checking Facebook.  Bathing was not a top priority as I don't like to smell like dessert all day.  I threw on some real clothes to make it feel like I was really working and not just putzing around in my pajamas. I decided to bake both cakes first and worry about frosting later.

Everything was going great gumdrops.  The cakes were baking, I had sheets in the washing machine, I was correcting tests, I was rocking out on Internet radio to a U2 station that I was convinced I had invented.  It was pure bliss.  My timetable was impeccable.  Then it came to make the frosting.  The first order of business was the Coconut Pecan frosting for the German Chocolate Cake.

I studied the recipe.  "Mix the butter and the evaporated milk in a pan", it said.  I went to the cupboard for the evaporated milk.  Reaching back to the far corner of the pantry, I hauled the can out and squinted at it.  No matter how hard I tried, I could not make those words say "evaporated milk".  I was confused.  It looked like the can said "condensed milk".  Consciousness hit me like 5 pounds of brown sugar.  I searched the cupboard again, like Old Mother Hubbard.  Just like hers, my cupboard was bare.  There was no evaporated milk.  This was a crisis of great proportion.

I considered my options:  #1) change my clothes (I said they were "real" clothes, I didn't say they were fit for public consumption) and go in "to town", #2) try to google a substitute for evaporated milk and hope that I could whip something together, or #3) run down to the corner store that really is on a corner.  Option #1 was not very attractive to me, not only because of the clothing conundrum, but it would throw my German time table out the window.  Option #3 was a good Last Resort.  Option #2 seemed very sensible and thrifty to me, so that's the route I attempted first.

You maybe never have googled "substitute for evaporated milk".  If you do, you will find out that it is milk from which 60% of the water has been evaporated.  Simply use twice as much milk as you need, and boil it down without scalding or burning or getting that nasty skin on the top.  This seemed daunting to me.  Not scalding milk has never been one of my stronger talents.  Option #3 was looking decidedly better, although it did require that I wear a disguise.

Pointy Boiled Wool Slippers

You are scoffing at me, Reader, and I don't like it.  I simply could not go down there in exercise pants, a slept-in t-shirt, a well-used homemade apron with my name and floury hand prints on it, pointy boiled wool slippers from Amsterdam, and worst of all - Bed Head.  I rummaged around the closet several times, at one time cursing the housekeeper for having the nerve to put things away, and finally found a baseball cap.  It said "Lazy 5 Ranch", named for the five children that lived there.  That sort of tamed my wild locks, which were basically sticking straight out from my head in all directions.  There was probably a flat spot on the back of my head, which I hate.  I put on my glasses, which was nearly a mistake.  I hadn't worn them for a very long time, so it felt like I was on a boat.  The floor looked terribly far away and seemed to tilt every so slightly to one side and then the other.  I slipped my feet into some bejeweled flip-flops and threw on a down jacket for good measure.  It was probably 60 degrees out.

Driving the 1/4 mile to the store was a trick, as I was still living in an optical illusion with those glasses. I strolled into the store with all of the dignity I could muster, desperately trying to walk a straight line.  The girl, who was young enough to be my daughter, addressed me as "Hon" and asked me what I was looking for. Lack of time dictated that I tell her so that I could get some help.  We searched the shelves, I, crouching on the floor, and she, standing on her tip toes. (We really should have traded positions, as I am tall and she is short.)  I couldn't decide whether to look for my ingredient with or without my glasses, neither choice seemed a good one.  I alternated between squinting with and then without them, all the while making nervous clucking sounds.  The clerk called me "Hon" some more times.  We found the condensed milk, but no evaporated milk.  I wilted down to the floor.

I groaned, "oh no!  I can't go anywhere else like this!"  Obviously I must not have looked like I was wearing a disguise (which is in hindsight disconcerting), because the girl said, "Oh Hon, why not?"  My mind raced.  I didn't want to call attention to the fact that it was past noon and I was unshowered, unkempt and wearing a disguise mostly because of my atrocious Bed Head.  I mumbled the least vain thing that I could think of, "I can't go anywhere else WITHOUT SOCKS!" and then realized that it was like opposite day and actually sounded the most vain.  I slumped out of the store and putted home, my mind wildly racing.  Option #3 hadn't panned out.  Option #1 wasn't really an option due to that whole schedule thing.

In the end, I decided to try my hand at evaporating my own milk.  Heck, pioneers did it, and they did not have modern technology at their fingertips like I do.  I read a couple of websites and got busy.  While I was simmering the milk in my makeshift saucier (the new word I learned), I made the Caramel Frosting for the Dixie Spice Cake.  Evaporation, which couldn't be that difficult as it is a natural phenomenon with an important role in the life cycle of water, was incredibly slow.  In the end, I turned up the heat and desperately stirred the milk with a whisk.  After more than 20 minutes I was bored silly, not to mention I had a cramp in my whisking hand.  But guess what?  It worked!  Who would have thought that a person can successfully and safely evaporate milk in the privacy of her own home?

I concede that after three hours and a disguise, "successfully" may be up for debate.

I'm off now to include that on my resume.  Yes, I am using "successfully".

Mastering the Situation

I am not a friend to all animals, like someone else in my family.  His nickname really is "Friend to All Animals".  If you're in the family, you'll know who I mean.  He is quite modest, so he won't want to be mentioned by his real name.  I am not sure how he would have handled the unwanted hitch-hiker, but I will tell you how I Mastered the Situation.

Girl8 (you may know her as the Band Aid Nazi) and I were headed up to Seattle for some school-is-out kind of fun, as well as pre-birthday sort of fun.  You know the kind I mean:  The Space Needle, the Science Center, the Monorail, the food, the Space Needle.  It is 80 miles of singing, talking, playing I Spy, and more singing.  Our song of choice right now is I'll Be Loving You Always, which has been done by George Michael and also Stevie Wonder, but we like an acapella group called the Euphorics.

We were driving around the Science Center, looking for a parking spot when It Happened.  A mouse popped up from under the hood of my car!  It came out right under the windshield wiper and looked at me.  I suppose I squealed something cliche, like, "eek!  A MOUSE!" and then I turned on the windshield wiper, trying to prevent it from running back under the hood.  I was hoping that I would flick it right into the street, but it ran up the windshield on to the roof.  I pulled in to a NO PARKING ANY TIME spot.  Girl8 and I looked around, our heads spinning like tops.  I was afraid the mouse had snuck back into a hiding spot, but Girl8 spotted him through the moon roof.  I jumped out of the car.  Running around the car in circles, chasing that mouse reminded me of the defensive drills we used to do in basketball.  I shuffled to the right, then back to the left.  I clapped my hands and shouted when the mouse got near the opening under the hood.  There was a string of cars stopped in the street, the passengers had their faces pressed to the windows.

"Find me a stick!", I shouted at Girl8.  I was hoping for that ice scraper that had been sitting on the floor for the past eight months.  Ironically we had cleaned out the car that morning.  There was no stick to be found, so she picked up a floppy pencil.  From my vantage point it looked like she was waving a green piece of licorice.  No weapon with which to flick the mouse off the car, I took off my shoe.

Pause for a moment, Dear Reader.  Mentally transport yourself to that city street.  The day is overcast, not particularly warm, but not raining.  You are driving along, minding your own business when you come upon a car on the side of the street.  A woman is running around and around the car, darting hither and thither, waving her shoe in one hand.  A mouse is racing back and forth across the top of her car.  A child is inside the car, screeching.  Imagine what that would look like and enjoy that thought for a moment.

Back to me and my predicament.  The window of opportunity presented itself and I whisked the mouse into the gutter.  The woman in the first car in the line of stopped cars applauded heartily.  I think I heard her shouting, "OLE!"  I took one more look toward the curb to make sure that the mouse was indeed on the ground and not back on the car, hopped into my shoe and skipped around to the door.  Jumping in, I put the car in gear and roared away.  That is what I call Mastering the Situation.

The Band Aid Nazi

The Band Aid Nazi lives at my house.  Let me give you an example.  The other morning I nicked myself shaving, a common-enough result of performing a rare addition to my morning ablutions.  The Band Aid Nazi controls the keep and distribution of Band Aids (thus the moniker), so I had to shout, "Can I please have a Band Aid?"  The muffled response I heard through the wall was, "What for?" 

Really?  How often do you use Band Aids?  Are there other uses of Band Aids of which I am unaware?  I assure you that I, unlike others in my abode, am not in the habit of using Band Aids solely because an appendage hurts.  My rule of thumb is to only employ the aforementioned dressing if there is evidence of blood, and even then it must be flowing.  Balancing on one leg and applying pressure to the tiny gash, my response to the query was an insistent, "I need a Band Aid!"

Anticipating the arrival of the Band Aid, I made use of several tufts of Kleenex in quick succession.  It seemed like I waited an eternity, during which I heard a series of clanks, thumps and squeaks emanating from the Band Aid vault, AKA the other bathroom.  I hope to never need a Band Aid when I am home alone, for I will probably bleed to death before I find one. 

I was getting impatient.  Looking at my half-dressed reflection, my mental clock ticked toward our departure time.  Committed Readers are cognizant of our tight schedule in the mornings, and my insistence that it run with German precision (I refer you to More Than A Mom Moment).  This slip of my fingers was resulting in a huge monkey wrench in my clockwork.

The Band Aid Nazi arrived with several size and design options for me, including Elmo and mustaches, but was wary enough to stand just out of my reach.  "What do you need it for?" she demanded.  I made a swipe for it, but instead lost my balance and lurched forward.  She stepped back.  "I'm bleeding!" I snapped, and grabbed one out of her hand, afraid that if she were to see the size of my injury she might change her mind.  It happened to be one with a mustache on it.  I secured it firmly to my Achilles tendon. 

"That doesn't look very good with those capris," I was told. 

"Don't worry," I informed her, "I'm going to take it off before I get to work!  I just need it to stop the bleeding." 

I could feel the disapproval emanating from her, objecting to my "wasting" a Band Aid.

Acute Reader, you already know what happened next.  My morning staggered along its sad path to destruction and when I got to work, I had forgotten all about the Band Aid.  It wasn't until I was in line at the copy machine that someone said to me, "I like your mustache!"

Wedding Dress Woes

Loyal Reader, you know the fashion maven that I am, or at least try to be.  You looked on while I was in the throes of my Sparkly Butt Challenge.  You have encouraged me to the outlets in search of the elusive trouser jean and you know of my new pursuit of boots.  In the midst of the intensity of the Boot Quest, I have found myself in another, more frantic shopping obsession.

I need a wedding dress.  No, no, don't get excited, Dear Lector, not a bride's dress, but a bride's sister's dress.  I went along for the ride when the bride was trying on dresses.

I learned all about bustles and what types there are (French and not French), and fabrics and designers - who knew that my favorite perfumer, Alfred Sung, also designs dresses?  I learned a new way to pronounce the word "corset" when referring to a style in wedding dresses:  stress the second syllable, as in "Cor-SETT".  I began to rate dresses by the number of bustles they could potentially have, much like the star system in the hospitality industry.  A six-bustle dress was exceptionally fancy, while a one-bustle dress became quite hum-drum in the scope of things.

Crisis Averted

Caught in the Act!

One of the more unpleasant things that I learned was that you should never take anyone to a wedding dress shop who has the proclivity to pick scabs.  In retrospect, this seems extremely obvious.  The first dress shop that we patronized was one which sold designer overstocks.  Your stomach is probably jumping at the thought of me and my shock when I was tapped on the leg and I heard a whisper, "Mama!  I'm bleeding!"  Surrounded by the white landscape of hundreds of beaded and bustled wedding gowns, the bloody finger stood out alarmingly.  A Kleenex tourniquet temporarily solved the problem, but from then on, I was a nervous wreck.  I did not want to face the bridal consultant and have to confess the need for a Band Aid.  By the time we hit the second dress shop, I assumed that the situation was under control.  Photographic evidence contradicts my belief. Once again I heard the ominous, "Uh-oh!"  When I looked over, I was confronted with a bloody leg.  Later examination of pictures taken in the bridal shop confirm that there was indeed intense scab picking in progress in the background.  Once again we were saved by a Kleenex.  Thankfully, by the time we hit the last dress shop, the picker in question had been warned and threatened enough that we did not suffer any more unpleasant surprises.

Next, I was the wing man on the shopping expeditions for the mother of the bride.  I learned about texture and beading, and the importance of the right length.  I was also present when the dress was procured for the flower girl, helping her dive into dress after dress, tying sashes and fluffing skirts.  Now it is my turn.

Suddenly I know the names of designers whose dresses make me swoon (Tadashi Shoji and Adrianna Papell for starters).  I am becoming familiar with shutter pleats and flutter sleeves, tucks and rouches, and the difference between maxi and long.  I stay up late and peer through old contact lenses and smudged reading glasses at page after page of search results on the Internet.  I am unexpectedly and unusually particular about colors such as French Blue, Dew and Smoke.  As I try on dresses and parade out for approval, I have been known to shout grumpily, "I am not wearing a dirndl to the wedding!", as well as, "I look like an old lady on a cruise ship!"  I have become quite discriminating for someone who owns fewer than five dresses.

You are probably wondering, "why all the fuss?"  A dress is a dress is a dress, right?  In most cases, you would be correct, Faithful Friend.  In this case, there are other things to consider.  It has been hinted that siblings of the bride and groom may be expected to take part in said nuptials.  One such person has talents as an orator, another person is a gifted singer.  Dear, Devoted Reader, I am not blessed with such gifts and talents. 

It would be unseemly to use my knack for writing and read an original essay at the ceremony.  Thoughts on sparkly butts or unpleasant microbes spewing from automatically flushing toilets would not be welcome, nor appropriate, on that special day.  Wedding guests will not appreciate being reminded that, while double dipping is practically a sin in our family, it is frowned upon in the continental United States as well.  Nor will they want to hear me waxing poetically about hand sanitizer, raging about invisible forehead bugs, or denouncing freeway exit panhandlers.

My dress problem, then, is this:  I must find a dress so stunning that it will divert attention from the task to which I am assigned, as well as the level of perfection at which I am performing it.  There are standard tasks, such as candle lighter, guest book attendant and usher.  There are tasks which require a few more brains and additional skills, such as dancing with the best man, signing the marriage license, accompanying the bride to the restroom during the reception (this is the one job for which I am well qualified), and bustling the bride's train.  There are many other jobs for which I am not trained, yet I will perform with gusto and without complaint.  Now you understand the necessity of a stunning dress.

Do not think I am shirking my duty, Critical Reader, by not offering my services to the happy couple.  I have put my dignity aside and offered to perform a dramatic puppet show as an interlude in the wedding ceremony.  To date, my proposal has been neither accepted nor rejected.  Stay tuned to find out if I find the perfect dress, if I make the puppets myself, and if the performance will be set to music.

FAUX PAS QUATRE

A few years ago I was working in my classroom after school.  It was nearly time to pack up and hit the road when a student came in with his parents.  Poor Percy looked very grim.  His mother, Kerry, introduced herself to me and then to her partner, Sherry, who firmly shook my hand while saying, "I'm the other mom".  Kerry had long hair and makeup and was wearing shorts, while Sherry had very short, close cut hair, a cap and long, baggy cargo shorts. 

Percy had not been turning in his homework and his parents were there to find out what to do about it.  We looked through the list of assignments that he could make up and I went about sorting through it all, giving him the necessary papers.  Normally, Percy was smiley and outgoing, cheerful and quick to make a joke.  That afternoon, he was a solemn, serious wreck.  I didn't know if it was because of the hot water in which he found himself, or because his two moms were there.  He wasn't the first student to have two moms, nor would he be the last, but he didn't know that.  Kerry and Sherry were very grateful, thanking me profusely for allowing Percy to make up the work and for giving him all of the papers again.  When they left, I headed off to talk to Percy's guidance counselor before I quit for the day.

I entered the office and said, "Hey, you know Percy Smith - his parents were just here!"  The counselor, Suzy Q,  responded with, "yes, I just got done talking to them!"  I asked about the details of their visit.  Percy and his parents had recently moved to our state from far away, and his parents were concerned about the dive that his grades had taken, as well as his behavior at home.  They spoke about many things, including the fact that he was following one of the parents around, getting underfoot a lot.  Suzy Q pointed out, "Obviously he wants to hang out with his dad!" 

I interrupted the tale and asked, "what dad?" 
"His dad!", the counselor responded, annoyed by my interruption. 
"What dad?", I persisted. 
"The dad that was here!", she replied. 
"There was no dad!", I insisted.  "That was two moms!" 
"No," Suzy Q said slowly.  The realization was flickering in her eyes.
 "Yes!"  I nodded eagerly.  "Two moms, Kerry and Sherry!  Weren't you listening when they introduced themselves?" 
She thought for a moment.  "They didn't introduce themselves to me!" 
"Aha!", I cried, "that's why they were so sure to introduce themselves to ME!" 

I thought back over Kerry and Sherry's entrance, how they both clearly identified themselves to me, and Percy's obvious discomfort.  Poor Percy.  For a teenager, I am sure it was bad enough to be in trouble, worse to be dragged back to school by his parents, doubly worse that his parents were two moms in our conservative little hamlet, and worst of all, one of them was mistaken for a man.  His grades didn't drop for the rest of the semester.