Posts Tagged memoirs

A Letter

May 12

Posted by Laura in Baking, Food of Love | 5 Comments

Dear Mom,

It’s my third Mother’s Day without you, and I can’t say that it’s gotten any easier. If anything, it’s more difficult.

I’m starting to realize that I will never “get over” you. That I’ll never not miss you.

At one point during your funeral, I found myself surrounded by several women, all ten to twenty years older than me. They said just the right, most comforting things, Mom – and then I understood: they were all daughters who had lost their mothers. I was being inducted into a sad sorority that I didn’t know existed, but I was grateful to have.

They told me that unexpected things would trigger my grief (like the time I burst into tears while reading an article about the national debt). They told me how much growing up I would do in the months right after you were gone. They told me that a day wouldn’t go by that I wouldn’t think of you, and it would be that way for the rest of my life.

At the time, I doubted that was possible; now I know it’s true. You’ve left a hole in my heart, and it will be there when I die.

I know how odd this sounds, but I’m getting comfortable with the pain. It’s become like an old friend — it doesn’t hurt any less, but I’m no longer surprised when it shows up at my door. It’s strangely consistent, and as such, it’s strangely comforting.

Like everyone else, I continue to grow and change. Each day, I’m older and wiser than the day before, and the longer it’s been since I’ve seen you, the more I have to tell you about what I’ve learned, the more we need to “catch up.” But not only are we never going to catch up, I have a lifetime left to live without you, and we are never going to share any of it. It’s a peculiar brand of loneliness.

Motherhood still doesn’t come easily to me, Mom. I’m not half bad at it, but I’m certainly not a natural. I work at it every day.

The Boy, for his part, is a marvel. He’s curious and bright and outgoing, but headstrong and impish. He’s a heckuva negotiator. He constantly seeks laughter; it doesn’t take much to induce peals of giggling. Occasionally he’ll say, “I love you, Mom,” unbidden — trying to sound like a big boy — and it melts my heart. I know for a fact that you two would be close friends and natural allies, and that melts my heart, too.

Like me, he’s fiercely independent, and for all I put you through, I deserve the challenge of raising such a child. I wish I could ask you how to survive raising a strong-willed little person: how to not only keep from snuffing out his independent streak, but parlay it into leadership and character. And perhaps most importantly, how to not wind up on blood pressure medication in the process.

His eyes are exact replicas of mine, which I’m still not quite used to. When I bend down to explain why it’s important to tell the truth, or why he’s not allowed to play with knives, I find myself getting lost, forgetting my message, because it’s just so surreal to see my own eyes staring back at me. Moments like these shake me out of my daily haze and realize that wait: I have son, we are a family, I have passed my genes along to another generation. He is a whole person, the hero of his own story. I find this stunning.

If I really believe that I what I believe is really real, then you are with me in spirit. If it’s all true, then you and Daddy are together. Maybe you were even there with him that day, when he realized what was coming, but before he fell – those few minutes or seconds probably felt like an eternity, when he was alone and probably afraid.

If what I believe is really real, then I have a chance at seeing you again someday — if I fight the good fight, if I finish the race. If we meet in heaven, will we embrace and finally “catch up”? Or will we be so awestruck by God’s presence, so overwhelmed by the beauty of the place, that we won’t have the inclination to do anything but worship? I like to think that if heaven is really paradise, then we can do both – a kind of cosmic multi-tasking, like when I sing 80s hair metal songs at the top of my lungs while safely operating a motor vehicle.

The truth is, Mom, that I have my doubts some days. Most of us do, I suppose. You were my spiritual mentor, the one I would talk to about all this, and I miss that, too. If you were here, you would tell me that I have been given all the answers, and I only need to pray and search my heart to make the fear and doubt fade quietly away. And you’d be right.

I realize now, through writing this, that you haven’t actually left a hole in my heart – I was born with it. We’re all born with holes in our hearts, designed to receive a mother’s love. And I see now how lucky I am to have had my particular heart filled by you, specifically. The hole in my heart is still full, still bursting with your love, because as my friend Joy once wrote to me, true love is truly good, and what is truly good never dies.

You are always with me; I just wish that I knew how to always feel it.

I will keep trying. I will keep learning.

Pray for me.

I love you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If Mom were here today, I would have made this Chocolate Caramel Slice recipe to celebrate Mother’s Day.

I think she would have liked this particular combination of sweet and salty. She would certainly have appreciated the recipe itself — how it’s easier than it looks, how pretty the final result is, how it can be made far in advance of an event.

I would have wanted to gab with her about the British-ness of it all: the Lyle’s golden syrup, the Maldon salt, the fact that it’s called a “slice.” This would have led to reminiscing about our trip to London, before she was sick. Maybe we would have vowed to return there, after she’d beaten the cancer, to sample more British desserts in the name of “research.”

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

Chocolate Caramel Slice
Adapted Slightly from Bon Appetit Desserts, copyright 2010

Crust
1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
1/4 cup (packed) light brown sugar
2 teaspoons cornstarch
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1 tablespoon ice water
1 large egg yolk

Caramel Topping
14 ounces sweetened condensed milk
1/2 cup (packed) light brown sugar
6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
2 tablespoons golden syrup (such as Lyle’s), or dark corn syrup
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Chocolate Glaze
6 ounces bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, chopped
3 tablespoons heavy whipping cream
Flaked sea salt (such as Maldon)

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Generously butter a tart pan with a removable bottom (either a 12 x 8 1/4 x 1, or an 11-inch round).

Crust:
In a food processor, pulse the flour, sugar, cornstarch, and salt to combine. Add the butter and pulse until the mixture resembles coarse meal. Add the ice water and the egg yolk, then blend until moist clumps form. Pat the dough into the bottom of the pan (not the sides), forming an even layer. Prick the dough all over with a fork, then bake until golden, about 22 minutes. Let cool completely on a rack.

Caramel:
Whisk milk, sugar, butter, syrup, and vanilla in a heavy medium saucepan over medium heat until the sugar dissolves and the butter melts. Boil gently, whisking constantly, until the caramel is thick, golden, and a candy thermometer registers 225°F. This took me about 15 minutes. Pour the caramel over the cooled crust, spreading in an even layer. Let cool for 15 minutes to set.

Chocolate:
Combine chopped chocolate and cream in a microwave-safe bowl, then microwave on high for 30 seconds. Stir, then microwave on high in 15-second intervals, stirring between each, until chocolate is smooth. Do not overheat or the mixture will separate. This took me 1 minute and 15 seconds total microwave time, but your results will vary depending on your microwave. Spread the chocolate over the caramel, spreading in an even layer. Sprinkle with sea salt. Refrigerate until the chocolate is set, at least 1 hour. (Can be made up to three days ahead. Cover and keep refrigerated.)

To serve, cut dessert lengthwise into strips, and then across into bars.

Tags: baking recipes, cookie recipes, dessert recipes, memoirs

Name That Oyster

Apr 5

Posted by Laura in Foodways Texas | 2 Comments

It was Unk who fed me my first oyster.

We were at Captain Benny’s, the old-school location on Kirby, and I remember regarding both the place and its inhabitants with trepidation. We were in the big city — at a restaurant shaped like a boat, no less — and I was surrounded by strangers who were entirely too friendly.

We sat at the bar, and Unk ordered a dozen oysters on the half-shell.

Wanna try one, sugar?, he asked, smiling.

I leaned over his arm and peered at the platter filled with ice and oysters, wet and quivering in their shells. It wasn’t standard fare for a ten year old, but I didn’t want to seem chicken.

“How do I do it?”

Use a fork for your first one. And don’t try to chew it, just swaller it whole.

I eventually reached over and plucked one out of its shell. I sat there balancing the gray opaque blob in front of my face, desperately hoping it wouldn’t slip off my fork and onto the floor.

When I realized that everyone at the bar was watching, I turned beet red. Thinking about it now, I realize that they were all probably thinking back to their own first oyster.

I took a last look over at Unk, waiting to see if – hoping he was — just joshin’ me. His face was gleeful – eyebrows up, jaw slightly open with expectation, that familiar glint in his eye. Unk was taking joy in this moment in a way that I didn’t understand at all.

Too late to back out now.

I slowly put the fork in my mouth, deposited the oyster, then withdrew it.

I looked at Unk. She did it, his eyes said, beaming. He was carefully measuring my reaction.

I flitted my eyes around the bar. All still staring.

I swallowed dutifully, and the slimy plumpness slid down my throat. I immediately reached for my Coke.

Well?, Unk said, whatcha think?

“Tastes like river water,” I replied.

That’s what oysters are all about, baby girl. You done good!

He laughed and squeezed my shoulder. He was “tickled to death,” as he’s fond of saying, even to this day.

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My second oyster experience wouldn’t happen for more than ten years, on my twenty-first birthday. I was with a group of girlfriends at a restaurant in the French Quarter; ordering oysters seemed like something a well-heeled twenty-one-year-old might do.

Better prepared this time, I plopped a fat oyster onto a saltine cracker, squeezed some lemon juice over it, added a healthy dose of horseradish and a few shakes of Tabasco, and chewed.

Whoa, I thought. Is it me, or was that really freaking good?

I assembled another, this time with less of each accoutrement. And another. And another, until I was slurping them out of their shells untouched.

I suddenly knew what the fuss was all about.

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Appellation Reef Map, courtesy of Jim Gossen of Louisiana Seafoods. (Click to enlarge.)

Most of the food world inaccurately assumes that Gulf oysters are subpar, a far cry from the highly regaled offerings on the East and West coasts. Part of the problem is that those fancy Yankee oysters are referred to by varied and distinct place-names, or appellations, which lend a certain personality and panache to their offerings. Oysters from Texas to Florida, on the other hand, are all lumped together as generic “Gulf oysters.”

But appellation names aren’t just a slick marketing tool. Oysters are a delicacy, in every sense of the word, with flavors that directly reflect their habitat. Naming them helps identify those subtle differences.

Oysters from reefs near the mouth of a river, for example, taste “fresher” than their briny cousins that grow tucked back in a cove, where the water is saltier, protected from runoff.

In cold water, oysters plump up and store glycogen, which is sweet to the palate; warmer water stimulates oysters into reproductive mode, which uses up that stored glycogen and gives them a fishier taste.

Water temperature also dictates how long it takes an oyster to reach maturity. An oyster that takes longer to grow has more opportunity take on the mineral or vegetal flavors of the water it inhabits; quicker growing oysters are milder in flavor.

Here’s the cool part: relatively small changes to an oyster habitat can perceptibly alter their appearance and flavor. Eating oysters harvested after a heavy rainfall can be an altogether different experience than eating oysters from the exact same reef a week before.

People get excited about local foods because they reflect the sense of a particular place. Oysters are hyper-local: they reflect a specific place and time. Appellation names help capture that magic.

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Naming our oysters is actually a pretty old idea. In the 1800s, oysters from Galveston Bay were known by the names of the reefs they were harvested from. So what happened? Commercialism. Railroads enabled the export of oysters to other parts of the country as a commodity product, where they are passed off or substituted for local oysters. In the process, the reef names were forgotten or lost.

Fellow Texans, it’s time to take back our oysters.

The members of Foodways Texas are leading the charge by sponsoring events to raise awareness about the food heritage we have lost. Most recently, Levi Goode (of Goode Company Restaurants) and Robb Walsh teamed up to host Oysters, Brews, and Blues, a celebration which included a tasting bar featuring six distinct appellations from Galveston Bay. It was reminiscent of the landmark oyster tasting Foodways Texas hosted a year ago, at their first annual symposium.

The message seems to be resonating, at least within the Houston food community. Several area restaurants like Goode Company Seafood are offering reef-specific oysters on their menus, and customers are proving that they’re willing to pay for top-notch oysters.

The majority of oyster lovers in Texas will probably stick with the cheaper commodity oysters that they’ve grown up with, and that’s perfectly fine. But creating a market for larger, hand-selected premium oysters will let us keep the finest of what’s available in our local waters to ourselves. Hopefully we’ll regain an important aspect of our food culture in the process.

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To learn more about Foodways Texas, please visit their website and consider becoming a member.

Robb Walsh’s latest book, Texas Eats, includes an informative chapter on oysters. For further reading, I highly recommend his earlier work, Sex, Death, and Oysters.

And keep an eye out for future Goode Company events – Levi and his crew are celebrating 35 years in business by touring the state and celebrating everything they love about Texas. For more information, visit their Facebook page.

Tags: events, Foodways Texas, memoirs

Friendship (Through the Narrow Aisles of Pain)

Jan 7

Posted by Laura in Baking, Food of Love | 4 Comments

A friend is a second self. –Aristotle

Planning a funeral is a lot like planning a wedding, only on three days’ notice. For Dad’s funeral, I needed a church, a priest, lectors, altar boys. Instead of groomsmen, I needed pallbearers.

I needed something to wear. I needed something for Dad to wear. I needed four thousand tissues and a metric ton of makeup.

When I took Dad’s best suit to the funeral home, I forgot to include a rosary to be placed in his hand. I intended to bring one to the wake service, but in the sad chaos of it all, it slipped my mind then, too. It was a small detail — nothing more than a symbol, really — but praying the rosary was an important part of both my parents’ lives. Burying each of them with one was meaningful.

Thankfully, I remembered to bring it to the church on the day of the funeral. Among the unending details, I somehow managed to find five minutes that would allow me this indulgence, this one moment of closure. The funeral director wasn’t anywhere nearby; he was busy handling bigger pieces of our somber ritual. I could try tracking him down (and surely be diverted in the process), or I could figure it out myself and know with certainty that it was done.

In our thirty five years together, Dad and I shared a lot of moments in that little church. During Mass, he would always offer me his hand, and I would always take it – a silent gesture of affection that we’d share during the Bible readings and through the homily.

Looking down at our clasped hands in those moments, it was almost comical how different they were. Mine are pale with a highway system of bluish green veins just beneath the skin. Dad’s hands matched his dark complexion and were rough from a life spent working on tractors and cars. My fingers are long and slender; his, thick and compact – like the jaws of a vise. A gentle vise. A gentle vise that liked to be held and examined.

I don’t know how many Masses we attended together, holding hands, but that was our routine. Our little routine in this little church.

I was in robot mode when I walked over to place the rosary with Dad, more focused on all the remaining things to be done than on what I was actually doing. I was looking at his hands, trying to decide how to place the rosary, and then… I saw his hands. I snapped to the moment, and I really saw them. They were handsome, bordered by the cuffs of his suit jacket, those calloused hands I had held so many Sundays.

His hands. Tears stung my eyelids; I thought my knees might buckle.

I tucked the rosary in as best I could, threading the beads through his palm and letting the crucifix lay gently across his knuckles. I hovered, staring, overanalyzing. My fierce intent on it looking natural was ironic, given how entirely unnatural it all was.

Suddenly, Aunt Denise was standing next to me, saying that it looked perfect, just perfect. I felt reassured.

My work was done, but I wasn’t ready to leave him. I reached out and touched his hand again. It was ice cold — much colder than I had expected — but I didn’t care. It was still his. I examined it for the last time. His calluses were still there, his skin still weathered and tough. His hands.

I felt feminine, nurturing: a woman looking after her father. I was holding his hand, as though comforting him, while acutely aware that he wasn’t actually there. I was nurturing the shell of a man that I had known well and loved deeply.

I could have stood there for hours, but it was nearly time for the funeral to begin. The priest and the family were waiting. I took a deep breath, turned — and literally walked into my friend Meredith. She’d been with me when I thought I was all alone.

I looked up to explain, but her soft eyes told me she understood. She wrapped her arms around me and I lost my composure for a brief moment. She held me close.

We both knew it would be the last time I would see my father.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the ceremony was over, our family shuffled out of the church behind the priest, ahead of everyone else. We were suddenly standing in the sunshine; a beautiful day.

I felt a little lost, unsure of what to do next.

I turned and saw my friend Lisa standing in the church yard, holding her infant son. She must have stepped outside to change him, or shoosh him, not realizing that she was planting herself exactly where I would need her a few moments later.

Her eyes were big, brimming with tears. I can’t imagine, her eyes told me, silently. But when I try, my heart aches and the tears come and I just really hurt for you.

I went to her and she pulled me in tight, her strong embrace having plenty of room for both me and her sweet boy. She touched my hair.

It was invigorating to be loved like that, in that moment. The rest of the day, including the burial, stretched out before me, and I was more than willing to borrow her strength.

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I can recount a dozen more stories of how my friends rallied around me when Dad died.

How Leah instantly grasped the grief I was too shocked to yet feel.

How Andy held my hand that day.

How Jamie inspired me to somehow find paradise in the midst of my sorrow.

How Shana talked with me about things that only daughters who have lost their fathers too soon can really understand.

In the opening lines of her poem Solitude, Ella Wheeler Wilcox wrote, “laugh and the world laughs with you; weep and you weep alone.” I love that piece for its harrowing insights about grief, but bless her heart, Ella must not have had friends like mine.

I weep, but I do not weep alone.

My second selves weep with me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Solitude
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow it’s mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I learned from my mother about the importance of having deep, meaningful friendships. All her life, she maintained a wide and varied circle of people that she loved, and they loved her right back.

There’s a story about Mom and a lemon cake she encountered while on an outing with a group of girlfriends. She and her friends raved over that cake, and she vowed to replicate it when she got home, which she did.

Linda, one of the friends that was there that day, contributed the recipe for the lemon cake to our church’s 100th anniversary cookbook, in Mom’s honor. She called it “Girlfriend’s Lemon Icebox Cake,” which makes me smile every time I see it.

I was inspired by this story of friendship to make mom’s icebox cake, but it calls for lemon cake mix and lemon instant pudding, which I didn’t have on hand. What I did have on hand was a raft of Meyer lemons from my neighbors Joe and Janet — so I made these cupcakes instead.

Triple Lemon Cupcakes

(Adapted from Peace Meals, a gorgeous cookbook published in 2008 by the Junior League of Houston, a copy of which was given to me by my good friend, Jamie)

Cupcakes:
3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened
1 1/2 cups sugar
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
3 eggs, room temperature
16 ounces sour cream, room temperature
2 teaspoons finely shredded lemon zest

Lemon Curd:
5 egg yolks
1 cup sugar (if you’re using Meyers, taste them — if they’re sweet, you may want to cut the sugar back to 3/4 cup)
4 lemons, zested and juiced
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, cut into pats and chilled

Frosting:
1 cup (2 sticks) butter, room temperature
3 cups powdered sugar
2 tablespoons Coffee Mate powdered creamer (it cuts the sweetness!)
3 teaspoons milk
1/4 cup Lemon Curd

For the cupcakes:
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line 24 standard muffin cups with paper baking liners (I prefer Reynolds brand double layered liners, foil with paper inside). In a medium bowl, whisk or sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. In the large bowl of an electric mixer, beat the butter on medium high speed until creamy, about 30 seconds. Gradually add the sugar; beat on high speed until lightened in color and texture, at least 2 minutes and up to 5 minutes. Add the vanilla and then the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the flour mixture in three parts, alternating with the sour cream in two parts, beating on low speed after each addition just until combined, creating a thick batter. Stir in the lemon zest. Spoon about 1/4 cup of the batter into each prepared cup. Bake about 20 to 25 minutes or until a wooden toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool completely.

For the lemon curd:
Combine the egg yolks, sugar, and lemon zest in a medium stainless steel or enamel saucepan. Whisk until smooth lightened in color, about 1 minute. Measure the lemon juice and, if needed, add enough cold water to reach 1/3 cup. Add the juice to the egg mixture and whisk again until smooth. Add the pats of butter, then cook over medium heat, whisking, until the butter is melted. Continue to whisk constantly until the mixture is thickened, allowing it to simmer gently for a few seconds. Scrape the curd into a clean bowl. Let cool, then cover with layer of plastic wrap directly on the surface of the curd. Refrigerate for up to 2 weeks. (It will continue to thicken when refrigerated.)

For the frosting:
Cream the butter on medium speed until light and fluffy. Gradually add the powdered sugar and powdered creamer, then add the milk and blend until smooth. Add the Lemon Curd and mix until well blended.

To assemble:
Scoop out the center of each cupcake using a melon baller, spoon, 1-inch biscuit cutter, or whatever tool you have on hand that will do the trick. Fill each cupcake center with the Lemon Curd. Top each cupcake with frosting, either piping through a bag (you can use a regular old zip-top bag with one of the corners snipped off) or with a butter knife.

Note: You might be wondering what to do with 24 little scraps of cake. I had plans to make a parfait from mine, but my husband and my kiddo swiped them before I had a chance. I imagine you won’t have a problem disposing of yours, either…

Tags: baking recipes, cake recipes, dessert recipes, memoirs, party food

Inferiority

Nov 19

Posted by Laura in Baking, Food of Love | 7 Comments

Life is easier now that we can bake cookies together.

Motherhood doesn’t come easily to me.

Don’t get me wrong, The Boy is thriving and I love him more than I ever dreamed possible, but parenting just isn’t a natural talent of mine.

Remember when you learned to play basketball for the first time, in gym class, and you slowly realized that some people just don’t have any hand-eye coordination? It’s sort of like that. When my friends hear my questions and concerns and frustrations about being a mom, they’re thinking, Why can’t she just put the ball in the basket?

An example: When The Boy was but a wee thing — a month old, perhaps — my friends encouraged me to venture out. Start small, they said. Run a quick errand, or get a cup of coffee. You’ll be surprised at how easy it is.

So I did. I made sure he had a full belly, then put him in a fresh outfit. Perhaps more noteworthy, I put me in a fresh outfit. I packed an extra set of everything and set out for our two mile journey to the nearest coffee shop.

The drive was pleasant enough. It was a sunny day, and when I looked back every five seconds, The Boy was oblivious, content.

My friends were right, I thought, it’s nice to be out. We arrived uneventfully at the coffee shop. I unclicked his bucket seat and carried him in.

It was about two o’clock on a weekday afternoon. Aside from the baristas banging around behind the bar, it was quiet. On a momentary break from life, the patrons were all quietly reading or pecking on a gadget or sipping coffee. It was an oasis. We had all escaped, including me. I was out.

I walked to the counter, gently set the bucket on the floor, and dug around for my wallet. That’s when the dream started to unravel.

Just as the barista asked what she could get for me, The Boy started to whimper. Oh crap. I reached out with my foot and tipped the round-bottomed bucket ever so slightly, to make it rock, and then quickly ordered a medium coffee to go. Maybe if I acted like I knew what I was doing, it would all be okay.

For his part, The Boy was not amused. The whimper quickly turned into a fuss. My shoulders crept skyward, toward my earlobes. Please tell me this isn’t happening.

The fuss turned into a cry, which quickly escalated into a howl. I tossed some money on the counter, grabbed the coffee, and then turned and froze, staring down at my son. How was I going to carry this heaping bucket-o-Boy and a cup of hot coffee at the same time? And even if I could manage that, how was I going carry all that AND get my keys out AND unlock my door AND heave him back into the car? I needed another arm. (Octopus mamas must have it soooo easy.)

"Coffee shops aren't my thing. I'd rather hang in the kitchen."

The Boy kept howling, red now. The bubble of our communal oasis had been burst — pillaged, sacked, plundered. I could feel the intensely hot laser beams from everyone’s eyeballs, staring. Now that I think about it, this explains why I broke out into a sweat. Will someone please remind me why hot coffee was a good idea?

I had to get out of there. I tucked the handle of the bucket into the crook of my strong arm and grabbed the coffee with the other hand. I lurched like a zombie towards the door — bucket-toting arm lifted for leverage, coffee arm almost fully extended in anticipation of the now-certain spill, which would surely land directly on my infant son’s face and scald him beyond recognition. Really?, I chided myself. Hot coffee?

Outside, scorching tears of frustration, embarrassment and ineptitude sprang from my eyes as I ditched the cup in the garbage can and continued toward the car. Once there, I looked him over. His diaper was dry, his belly still full. Nothing was poking or pulling or pinching him. Why was he screaming? Had I somehow dislocated his arm? Were we being pursued by machete-wielding guerrillas, unbeknownst to me? I looked around, just to be sure.

I eventually gave up, clicked his bucket back into the car, and drove home. He screamed the whole way. In fact, he screamed so loud and for so long, that he started to lose his voice. (I challenge you to find that in a parenting book.)

Against my better judgment, I’m going to be perfectly honest with you and admit to something unflattering and quite uncourageous. The thought that was going through my head as I pulled into the driveway was this:

I went and had a BABY and now I’m stuck in this HOUSE for the rest of my LIFE.

I’m about as extroverted as they come. The thought of having to choose between staying home and breaking out in hives from the stress of “being out” was unbearable. I felt as though I’d just heard my own death knell.

Things got better, of course. The Boy grew and changed. I grew and changed. I went back to work, which helped. He learned to crawl, then walk, then talk. He’s no less demanding now, actually, but at least we understand each other.

Here’s another unflattering admission: When I’m in quiet public places, like coffee shops and churches and movie theaters, and I hear a baby screaming, I secretly like it. Even more so when it’s a mother, and she looks flustered, mopping her brow. Isn’t that terrible?!

I’m not taking joy in their frustration, mind you; I’m just relishing the fact that I’m not alone.

Actually, I like to think of it this way: I’m curing myself of a quite-serious inferiority complex, one fussy baby at a time.

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In hindsight, a tiny coffee shop was not the greatest venue for a first adventure – I didn’t realize just how loud a baby could be in small quiet space.

My second mistake was actually ordering coffee. What I should have done is ask for a cookie – a highly portable, room temperature, easily-scarfed-if-I-suddenly-have-to-carry-my-kid cookie.

The problem is, food at coffee shops is generally miserable. So The Boy and I made cookies ourselves, which I adapted from the November issue of Food & Wine magazine.

Cranberry Chocolate Chip Cookies

Adapted from Dried Cranberry and Chocolate Cookies, Food & Wine, November 2011

1 1/2 cups dried cranberries

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 cup quick-cooking oats (or regular rolled oats)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon kosher salt
2 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup light brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg, room temperature
1 large egg yolk, room temperature
1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups semisweet chocolate chips

Preheat the oven to 325°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper. Cover the cranberries in hot water and let soak for at least 5 minutes, but not more than 10 minutes. Drain the cranberries; set aside.

Meanwhile, in a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, oats, baking powder, baking soda and salt. In a standing mixer fitted with the paddle, beat the butter and both sugars at medium speed until creamy, about 3-4 minutes. Add the egg followed by the egg yolk and vanilla, beating well between additions and scraping down the side of the bowl as necessary. Add the flour mixture, chocolate chips and cranberries all at once and stir just until combined.

Spoon heaping teaspoons of the dough onto the baking sheets, 2 inches apart. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until the cookies begin to brown at the edges. Let the cookies cool on the baking sheets, then transfer them to a rack to cool completely.

Store in an airtight container.

Tags: baking recipes, cookie recipes, dessert recipes, holiday recipes, memoirs, vegetarian recipes

Three Phone Calls

Oct 29

Posted by Laura in Baking, Food of Love | 16 Comments

I was in Galveston when I learned that Dad died.

I was having lunch at a restaurant with a big group of people, including my gracious hosts, when the phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize, and not wanting to be rude, I let it go to voice mail.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again as we were walking out. This time, it was Matt. I picked up.

“Are you in a place where you can talk?”

He had his serious, listen-to-me-carefully tone, which told me immediately that something was wrong. It wasn’t The Boy, though — he was too composed for that.

“Yes,” I said. Terse. I know something’s up – out with it.

“I’m going to tell you exactly what I know, because the information I have isn’t very clear,” he said.

“Okay. What’s wrong?” Frustrated now, not with Matt, but with the situation. Trying to control my voice. Whatever this is, it isn’t his fault.

“I just talked to your brother. I think your dad passed away.”

I’m walking as I hear this, trailing my hosts at a safe distance. I stop.

“What?”

My eyes dart from left to right as my brain sifts this information. I feel adrenaline wash over the lining of my gut like ice water. The coastal sunshine is suddenly intensely bright, the roar of the Gulf suddenly deafening. Fight or flight.

“I can’t be sure. Your uncle A.B. called Kirk, and Kirk called me. All I know for certain is that there was an ambulance at your dad’s house.”

Left-right-left-right-left-right-left-right.

Andy is there, in the crowd with me. He notices I’ve fallen behind. I’m looking down, hiding from the blinding sun, but he sees my wild dilated eyes anyway. Without looking, I reach for his hand.

“Hole up… ho-hole-hole up, guys,” he tells the others. He stands there quietly, holding my hand. Watching my face.

“That was Matt,” I say, dazed. “I think my dad died.”

Collectively, the group stands up taller, then steps in close.

“I’m okay to walk. Let’s walk,” I say, meaning it. Thankfully, they believe me.

“Andy, can you…?”

“Yes. I’ll drive.”

**********************

A couple of weeks later, I scraped together all the emotional fortitude I had and made a phone call of my own. I called Bob, who, to my knowledge, was the last person to see my dad alive.

Dad had been renovating his childhood home, which is a 100+ year old frame house that began its life as a one-room school. It needed a lot of work, and being retired, Dad needed something to do. It seemed right.

Bob was one of the contractors Dad had hired to help. The day he died, Bob had come by the old house to discuss the project. Bob pulled up in his truck, and Dad came out to say hello, and pretty soon they were standing around with their forearms dangling into the bed of the pickup, as men in these parts are wont to do.

Bob grew up nearby and knew the area well. However, Bob was several years older than Dad, and despite the tiny size of the community, they’d never met until they started working together. Standing around the truck that morning, they talked about old times, the history of the place, how much things had changed over the years. Bob would tell me later that it was like they were reminiscing about a common history they didn’t have, as though they’d skipped the same rocks and picked the same cotton and swam in that old rice canal together as kids.

Bob had already completed the first phase of the project, which was to remove all the old existing insulation. They discussed the next phase, whatever that was to be, and then Dad asked Bob how much he owed him for the work he’d already completed. Bob told him the amount, Dad paid him, they exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then Bob left.

Some time later, maybe an hour, Dad called a second contractor named Luke. Bob had recommended him to help Dad work on the windows in the old house.

While they were talking, Dad interrupted and told Luke that he would have to let him go, that he didn’t feel well. Then Luke heard the phone fall, and the call dropped.

Luke could have done a lot of things at this point. He could have shrugged and proceeded with his day. Instead, he called Bob and told him what happened.

Bob was at another job site many miles away by this point, too far away to do anything. Luckily, he remembered Dad telling him that he had a bad heart.

He called 911.

Dad was gone by the time they arrived.

**********************

Calling Bob wasn’t easy, but I wanted to thank him for all he’d done. I told him about my long-standing fear of something happening to Dad while alone, that he wouldn’t be able to call for help, and that he would suffer. Thanks to Bob, I have the peace of knowing that his last day was a good one, and that it had happened quickly.

What I didn’t expect was for him to thank me.

He was like an angel, Bob said. When we met, I saw his peaceful, happy face and I knew he was a man of God.

I must say, this isn’t what one expects when one phones an insulation contractor.

The first time I ever came out to the house, I climbed a ladder to have a look around in the attic. When I looked down, he was bracing the ladder for me. I didn’t ask him to, and he didn’t say anything — he just did it. That thought doesn’t occur to most people, but he honestly cared about making sure I didn’t fall.

He went on.

When he asked how much he owed me, I expected him to say that he’d pay me later, or to give me the old check’s-in-the-mail routine. But he wanted me to have what I’d earned. I told him not to worry about it, that we’d settle up when the project was over, but he insisted on paying me on the spot.

Then he told me about their visit that morning, and how he’d never felt such an instant connection to someone he’d only just met. It was a strange feeling, he said, to develop such a close friendship so fast.

I decided to tell him a few things about Dad, about what it was like to be his kid. How reassuring and laid back he was, how he never liked to be in a hurry.

That’s when he thanked me.

Honey, I know I’m giving you the last pieces to the puzzle for that day, but you’re giving me puzzle pieces, too. You’re confirming that he was an angel to me. Meeting him and then losing him so quickly changed my life. I think about him every single day.

What can you say when you hear that from a stranger about your dead father? I stopped trying not to cry.

“He was a great man,” I squeaked out. “And I loved him very much.”

I know you did, honey. I’m sure you miss him. I know I do.

**********************

About a week later,I was starting to get concerned about not doing my “grief work” — that I was squirreling away all my anguish and sadness to deal with later, and that later might never come. I didn’t want to be stuck in the fog forever.

That’s when the dream came.

In my dream, I’m in my car, waiting at a red light. The phone rings.

It’s Dad.

Hi, Daddy, I answer.

“It’s me again, Margaret,” he says, chuckling. A reference to the old Ray Stevens song.

I smile.

How are you?, I ask.

“I’m doin’ okay. How are you?”

I’m alright. I’ve just been really busy. (I’m probating your estate, I think to myself – a reality I haven’t yet accepted.)

“How’s The Boy?”

Up to his old tricks, I say. Still getting in trouble at school for sassing his teacher.

He laughs, hard, then trails off.

The Boy and I stopped by your house yesterday, I say. This is my way of bringing it up, the fact that he’s gone. He was never good about broaching subjects.

Another pause.

“You’ll be fine, sweetie.”

I know, Daddy. But I miss you.

“I miss you, too.”

What do we do with all of your things? Like Grandpa’s old tractor?

“Kirk knows. Matt can help you.”

I’m crying silently, hoping he can’t hear.

What about the land, Daddy?

“I thought maybe you’d want to put a nursery or an orchard out there.”

And just like that, I’m lying in my bed, awake. Then the real tears come, to match the ones in my dream. I don’t sob, I don’t sniff, I don’t even blink much. I stare at the ceiling while my eyes leak. My pillow is wet.

An orchard.

In my mind’s eye, I see neat rows of trees. As I walk among them, the rows snap together, longitudinally and diagonally, like the crosses at Arlington National Cemetery.

An orchard?

I see the four of us: Mom, Dad, Kirk, and me, walking with buckets, picking fruit from trees at a farm. A memory from childhood. I suddenly remember how much both of them loved trees.

An orchard?

Another flashback: I see two of my uncles, walking with my parents among the acreage that we called the backyard. They are carrying branches and putty knives and little pots of goo.

I ask Daddy what they’re doing. He tells me they are grafting branches from other trees onto ours.

What’s grafting? I ask.

“It’s kind of like gluing,” he says.

But why?

“Uncle David’s branches have better pecans than ours. Now our trees will grow his pecans.”

Tree surgery. My seven year old brain found this odd.

An orchard.

**********************

I doubt that I’ll become a farmer anytime soon, but if I were to plant an orchard, I would probably choose pecan trees. And what better way to showcase pecans than classic pecan pie?

This is my grandmother’s recipe. I like it because it’s not too sweet, like many pecan pies can be — you don’t have to fight your way through all the sugar to taste the fruit. A dollop of lightly sweetened whipped cream sets it off perfectly.

Grandma Peltier’s Pecan Pie

3 eggs, room temperature, slightly beaten
2/3 cup light Karo corn syrup
2/3 cup dark Karo corn syrup
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons sugar
4 tablespoons butter, melted and cooled to room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 1/2 cups coarsely chopped pecans
About 1 cup pecan halves
Unbaked pie shell
Whipped cream or vanilla ice cream, for serving

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Combine eggs, syrups, flour, sugar, butter, and vanilla. Whisk until well combined, or beat on low speed of an electric mixer for about two minutes. Stir in chopped pecans.

Pour the mixture into the unbaked pie shell. Place the pecan halves atop the filling decoratively. Bake at 375°F for 15 minutes, then reduce the oven temperature to 350°F and bake another 15 minutes. Reduce the oven temperature again to 325°F and bake until center looks done (not shaky), about another 25 minutes, for a total baking time of about 55 minutes.

Remove from oven and let cool before slicing, to allow the filling to set. Serve with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream — or if you’re feeling frisky, rum-brandy ice cream.

Tags: baking recipes, dessert recipes, holiday recipes, memoirs, pie recipes, Texas recipes

Paradise

Oct 22

Posted by Laura in Baking, Food of Love | 11 Comments

Don’t let that last post fool you. I wrote most of it weeks ago, before my life changed. Before Dad died.

In real time, I’m much more melancholy, as you might expect. I vacillate between emotional devastation and numbing denial. In fact, since the funeral, I’ve mostly been an automaton. A zombie. A shell of my usual self.

Apparently my mind wants no part of this whole grieving process, because I can’t string together a coherent thought for all the tea in China. Call me, my brain said, when it’s over. I can’t handle anymore. I’ll be in Bora Bora.

The other day, I went into our guest bathroom without having any business there and randomly washed my hands. Holding the towel, I asked my mirrored reflection why I had done so. She didn’t have an answer.

Another time, while getting dressed, I packed a dopp kit for no reason. Every item I used, I packed. Shampoo, conditioner, comb, razor, toothbrush. All that. When I was done, I zipped it up and carried it across the house.

The next morning, I couldn’t find anything. I didn’t remember that I’d packed it all. Matt saw my confusion and asked what was the matter. I can’t find anything, I said, distressed.

“What anythings?”

My deodorant. My face lotion. My stuff.

His face softened. He knew.

“I saw you packing it all yesterday. I didn’t want to question you.”

I walked out to the garage, where the dopp kit was sitting, alone, in my car. No suitcase. No clothes. No real memory of putting it there.

Maybe my brain convinced the rest of me to make a run for Bora Bora. Who knows.

Automaton.

Zombie.

That dopp kit thing happened two weeks ago. Now…. now I don’t quite know what to do with myself. I’m back at work, and everything is pretty much the same. Except that nothing is the same, and it never will be again.

My good friend Jamie sent me a text. It read: Paradise in the everyday. You know that.

I knew, but I hadn’t been seeing it. I didn’t have to look far.

“Mommy?”

Yes?

“I love you.”

Aw, I love you too, Sugar.

“I love you moah.”

Well, I love you all the way to the moon.

“And back.”

Paradise. Every day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I liked how the combination looked on Eileen's pretty blue plate.

I’ve never been less interested in eating and more interested in cooking than I have been lately. I wouldn’t have guessed that. Honestly, it’s a little weird.

When Mom died, my primary concern was Dad. What did he need? How would we manage? How could I help? Cooking was not on my radar at all.

I didn’t think anything of it then, but that seems like a luxury now, to have him to be concerned about.

This time, it’s different. Maybe cooking is a predictable, known thing for me in this strange post-parental world I now dwell in. Maybe cooking connects me to the memories. Maybe I don’t know what else to do with myself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mom adored homemade ice cream. Dad loved apple pie.

Me, I can’t seem to leave well enough alone. My favorite dish is the one I haven’t tried to make yet.

So it seemed natural to make a an apple galette instead of a perfectly good pie, and add booze to some perfectly wonderful ice cream. What resulted seemed to me to represent the three of us on a plate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A galette is essentially a free-form pie, without the pesky dish. The flavor profile is very simple — just butter, sugar, and cinnamon — and the proportions of crust to filling much closer to 1:1 than with pie. In my world, that’s a good thing.

Apple Galette

Adapted from Joy of Cooking

Pastry dough for 1 pie crust
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
4 tablespoons sugar, divided
2 large firm apples (I prefer Granny Smith), peeled, cored, and sliced very thinly
1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Position a rack in the lower third of the oven. Preheat the oven to 425 F.

On a sheet of parchment paper, roll the crust out into a 12-inch round. Brush the crust with a thin layer of melted butter, and reserve the rest. Sprinkle the crust with one tablespoon of the sugar.

Transfer the paper with the dough to a baking sheet. Layer the apples on the crust, leaving at least a 1-inch border around the edges. If you’re feeling fancy, arrange the apples in a pretty overlapping designs; if you’re not, just kind of toss them in there. Fold the dough border up over the apples, again making it as pretty as you please.

Combine the remaining three tablespoons of sugar with the cinnamon. Drizzle all but about 2 teaspoons of the remaining butter over the apples, then sprinkle with the cinnamon-sugar mixture.

Bake at 425 F until the pastry begins to brown, about 20 minutes. Reduce the oven temperature to 350 F and bake until the pastry is crisped and golden brown, about another 20-30 minutes.

Remove from the oven to a rack. Brush the apples with the remaining butter, and let cool. Serve warm or at room temperature.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The alcohol in this boozy ice cream keeps the texture very soft — it’s a perfect accompaniment to the slew of upcoming holiday desserts. The addition of nutmeg gives it the flavor of egg nog; dial the amount up or down (or leave it out) to suit your tastes. You could also vary the spirits to mix things up a bit.

Rum-Brandy Ice Cream

I stashed some in my in-law's freezer.

Adapted from Williams-Sonoma’s Thanksgiving

2 1/2 cups half-and-half
1 1/2 cups heavy cream
4 egg yolks
2/3 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 tablespoons dark rum
2 tablespoons brandy

In a heavy-bottom saucepan, combine the half-and-half and cream. Cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until tiny bubbles start to form around the edges and the mixture reaches a temperature of 170 F.

Meanwhile, whisk the egg yolks until smooth. Add the sugar and nutmeg and whisk vigorously until the mixture is thick and pale yellow. When the cream mixture reaches 170 F, slowly pour it into the egg yolk mixture while whisking continuously.

Return the combined mixture to the pan over low heat. Continue to cook, stirring constantly, until the mixture is thick enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon and reaches a temperature of 185 F. Do not bring the mixture to a boil.

Pour the mixture into a clean bowl and cool to room temperature. Stir in the vanilla. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap, pressing it directly onto the surface of the custard to prevent a skin from forming. Refrigerate overnight, or for a minimum of 2 hours.

Freeze in an ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions until softly frozen. Add the rum and brandy and continue to churn until the ice cream freezes further. (Again, it will probably not freeze solid and remain very soft.) Transfer to an airtight storage container, cover, and freeze overnight before serving.

Tags: baking recipes, dessert recipes, holiday recipes, memoirs, pie recipes

The @#$%! Cake

Oct 15

Posted by Laura in Baking, Cover Recipe Results, Food of Love | 11 Comments

Friends, have I got a story for you.

It’s a story of tenacity. Perseverance. Winning.

It’s a story of a street-wise Chicago teen who moves to a small repressed town where dancing and rock music are illegal. Against all odds, he… oh, sorry. Wrong story.

It’s a story about me and a @#$%! chocolate cake.

You know the one. The one on the December cover of Bon Appetit magazine. The one I tried to make last December and failed miserably. Yeah, that one.

The truth is that I was doomed before I began, and it was all Matt’s fault. He happened to be piddling in the kitchen while I prepared my mise en place. I distinctly remember buttering and flouring the cake pans and telling him, “You know, I’m amazed that I haven’t had to make any of these Bon Appétit cover recipes twice.”

I actually said that. Out loud. To another human being.

I thought I had it in the bag. How many cakes have I baked in my life? After my inaugural turkey, surely this would be a no brainer, right? I mean, can I get an amen?!

Now, Matt’s a stoic guy. He doesn’t always have something to say. In fact, about half the time he replies to me with a “Humph.”

Literally, “Humph.”

In MattSpeak, that translates to, “I have understood and acknowledged your statement; however, I have nothing further to contribute to this topic.”

On occasion, though, he comes up with a perfect little quip, chock full of simple wisdom. This was one of those occasions.

Let’s rewind a bit and get the full effect:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Laura [buttering and flouring a cake pan, quite satisfied with herself]: “You know, I’m amazed that I haven’t had to make any of these Bon Appétit cover recipes twice.”

Matt [piddling, aloof]: “Seems like you’d wanna wait until you’ve actually finished all twelve of them to make a statement like that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Do you have ANY idea what it’s like to live with someone who’s nearly always right?

Or, for if you’re the superstitious type: Can you BELIEVE he jinxed me like that? Gah.

And so it began. The batter came together easily enough, went into the pan easily enough, slid into the oven easily enough. So far, so good.

But when the cake layers were done, I thought it might be fun to drop one of them on the floor. You know, just to remind myself what startled and horrified feel like when experienced simultaneously.

Buttercream: spackling of champions.

The good news was that I dropped the pan right side up, where it landed completely flat on its bottom, like a brick. The poor cake, piping hot from the oven, scrambled like eggs inside the pan. After the requisite muttering under my breath, I told myself that it was nothing that an advanced cooling technique and some buttercream spackling couldn’t hide.

No problem. I got this.

Speaking of buttercream, it had its share of issues too — it separated while beating in the butter. It was looking a little iffy there for a minute, but I warmed and whisked it a little and managed to recover.

No problem. I got this.

Then came the glaze. Ohhhhh, the glaze. I made it twice, and failed twice, which is kind of amazing considering that it requires all of one step: melt stuff. The first time, I melted the stuff, and then waited for it to thicken, which the recipe said would take about 5 minutes. After 30 minutes, I tried chilling it, to no avail. It was the roughly the consistency of water.

After checking, I realized that the recipe states “1 ½ sticks,” but I read it to be 1 ½ cups, which is 3 sticks. Twice as much. No wonder.

So I made it again. The second take thickened enough to go on the cake, but something was still off. It was thick, but kind of gloppy and didn’t spread well.

I decided to move on. The chocolate ribbons would distract the eye and cover all my sins.

No problem. I got this.

Well, the @#$%! ribbons didn’t turn out to be the @#$%! panacea I’d been counting on. They were floppy and flimsy and structurally unsound. I added powdered sugar. I froze them. I tried everything I could think of, but there was no three-dimensional bow in this cake’s future.

Uhhhh, problem. I don’t got this.

I had a bona fide cake wreck on my hands. (Before you ask, all photographic evidence has been destroyed.)

So, what happened? At first, I wasn’t sure. I checked the recipe’s comments on the Bon Appetit site, to see if there had been a misprint or some such. I grumbled as I read how easy and fabulous it was for everyone else.

I mulled it over. I re-read the recipe. I couldn’t figure it out.

Then, two nights later, I sat bolt upright in bed out of a deep sleep. I knew the answer.

I had incorrectly measured the chocolate.

Mise en place, Take Two.

I had used a different brand of chocolate than I normally do. My usual brand comes in 1-ounce squares, but the brand I used came in ½-ounce squares. So, while I counted out what I thought was the correct number of ounces, in reality I had only used half the necessary amount of chocolate – in both the @#$%! glaze and the @#$%! ribbons.

It was a total rookie mistake.

That’s the thing I like about baking – it’s a personal barometer. If my head isn’t clear, I make mistakes. I drop things. I mis-read recipes. I lose stuff.

Once I realized the chocolate problem, and stopped to think about all the other things I’d done wrong, I realized how cluttered my mind was, how stressed I’d been.

You may have noticed that I started posting fewer entries about that time – I needed to regroup, relax, get my head on straight. It took a while, but it worked – and then my world kind of blew up.

Once again, I needed to regroup, relax, get my head on straight. And once again, life settled down.

By then it was September. Yikes. Not sure how that happened, but I never lost sight of the @#$%! chocolate cake I wanted to remake. My birthday of my lovely mother-in-law, Eileen, is in September, and I saw my opportunity.

I made the cake. Again. This time, with my head on straight.

It was a bit of work, but each step was pretty easy, especially when you measure correctly and aren’t burdened with having to recover from, say, dropping the @#$%! thing.

And I have to say, it was quite lovely. Dense and highly spiced, it was a sneak preview of the flavors of Christmas. I felt vindicated. Victorious. Redeemed.

Two weeks later, my world blew up again when my dad died suddenly. (That might be the understatement of the century, actually – but you get the idea.)

I’m learning a hard lesson: this is life. Up, down, sideways. Sometimes backwards. But the important thing is to keep putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how strong the headwind.

Why? Because I’ve seen the alternatives. They aren’t pretty.

And they don’t get you any cake.

Tags: baking recipes, bon appetit cover recipes, cake recipes, dessert recipes, memoirs

Miles To Go Before I Sleep

Oct 10

Posted by Laura in Lagniappe | 3 Comments

I like poetry. I’m not going to wear a beret and take up smoking or anything, but there’s something about poetry that distills life down to its very essence.

Someone once described poetry as the exact right words at the exact right time. I like that.

I woke up yesterday morning, the day after Dad’s funeral, with a Robert Frost poem on my lips. I don’t know how it got there, but when I recited it to myself (thank you, Mr. Bell, American Lit, 11th grade), I realized just how closely it hits the mark for me.

They are, in fact, the exact right words, at the exact right time — on many levels.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house in is the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Tags: memoirs

A Good Sign

Oct 9

Posted by Laura in Lagniappe | 5 Comments

This crappy picture from my phone doesn't begin to do it justice.

After Dad’s funeral yesterday, a group of family members wound up at my cousin Glen’s house, who lives next door to Dad’s place. We were sitting outside, telling stories and laughing when it started to sprinkle. And then we looked, and a huge rainbow had appeared.

Right after that, I got a call that The Boy was sick, so I left to go pick him up. And as I drove, the rainbow got brighter and more intense. I’ve never seen colors that vivid in the sky before. A mile later, I saw the other side of it, and I when I stopped to get a better look, I saw the full arch of an entire rainbow filling the sky. It was magnificent.

Better yet, there was a second one, a shadow rainbow next to the first. It took my breath away.

Dad was a farmer until I was about eight years old. The weather was important to us. I remember praying for rain. Dad told stories about the tremendous flood we had in 1979, and the unbelievably hot summer the next year, in 1980.

Dad was one of those people who seemed to be directly impacted by the weather. When the weather was nice, there was a lightness to his step, a spark in his outlook. When the weather was gloomy, he was gloomy.

We’ve been in a terrible drought this summer — probably the worst of my lifetime. There are cracks in the ground at Dad’s place that I swear are four inches wide. The ground is desperate, begging. Dad didn’t like it a bit.

So to look up on the day we buried him and see such a glorious image in the sky… it was unbelievable. Not long after, it started to rain. Not a quick shower, where the rainwater is barely enough to knock down the dust. I’m talking about an honest to goodness, sky-darkening, puddle-forming, rainbow-making downpour.

I’m taking it as a good sign.

Tags: memoirs