Family | every girl needs a greek chorus

December 21, 2015
by maggiex4 5 Comments

Our Christmas Story

Once upon a time, there was an unbelievably brave little girl living way out West, where the plains roll up to meet the mountains. She was in need of a family with a cat, and we were in need of a girl. We packed her stuff into eight duffle bags, boarded a plane, and hauled her and seven Barbie dolls to our house and our cat in Maryland.

“Seven Barbie dolls?” The Veterinarian asked me. “I thought she was an orphan.”

“Remember all those years we bought Toys for Tots? Well, she was a Tot.”

The first Christmas that he and I were dating, in 1969, he gave me a bottle of Robitussin cough syrup, because I was recovering from what would become my annual bout of bronchitis. His mother made him give me a box of stationery with a Gemini zodiac sign, because his birthday was June 3, and mine is June 4. I gave him a tie. Three years later, I married him anyway. We were married 30 years before he ever figured out appropriate gifts. 30. Long. Years. He’s gone, but I still have the tie…and maybe the box of stationery.

The Daughter was our first (and only) child, arriving as an 8-year old, when we were 47. We always thought we were missing the joys of Christmas with children, hence the toy donations. Oh, we put up a tree and stockings and our nativity display for ourselves, but a little bit of sparkle and wonder was missing.

Having been raised in a dysfunctional household before she entered child protective services, The Daughter had experienced holidays in a haphazard way. She didn’t understand birthdays, experiencing her first at age 7, when she entered foster care. That first Christmas with her, we went absolutely crazy decorating and buying gifts. My Sister embroidered her a stocking with silvery threads. My Mother made her a fleecy robe decorated with teddy bears and a pillow to match.

I broke my rule about cookie-baking and made —ugh— gingerbread men with her, but I refused to make a gingerbread house. I hung her construction paper ornaments on the tree and wracked my brain for “Secret Santa” gifts for her classmates, who thought she was crazy for believing in Santa.

Chatting up Santa

At eight years of age, The Daughter had never been to see Santa. A friend invited us to a breakfast with Santa at her church, so that we could explain to Santa in advance why an eight-year old child wanted to sit on his lap along with the tiny tots.

“What do I say to Santa?” she asked.

“Well,” I told her what my parents always told me. “You can ask for one or two things, but you have to finish with ‘Please bring me whatever you think I should have.’”

Instead, she patted his beard and engaged him in a long chat about the reindeer, where they were staying while he was inside, what they were eating, how long it took him to go around the world (“Well, just 24 hours, of course!”), all those things that a four-year old wouldn’t think to ask.

“Don’t you want Santa to bring you something?” he asked her.

“Oh…” she thought for a minute, “…a scooter. I’d really like to have a scooter.”

“Anything else?”

“No,” she shook her head, “a scooter would be good.”

At church on Christmas Eve, she participated in the pageant and sang with the Children’s Choir in her sweet little velvet dress and patent leather shoes.

So, what did Santa bring besides a scooter? The seven Barbies needed a deluxe mansion and a red Porsche Boxster like Mommy’s “Barbie” car. Stuart Little showed up in a radio-controlled roadster. An American Girl with The Daughter’s identical haircut, eye color, and wire-rimmed glasses came to stay. There were books and a science kit with microscope and Legos. It all went under the tree or in a stocking after she went to bed on Christmas Eve. I dressed her in winter pajamas, red with white polar bears, her favorite, so she’d be camera-ready in the morning.

Can you tell that we were excited?

The Veterinarian ate the cookies and milk she’d left for Santa and set the alarm for 5am, so he could set up the video camera at just the right angle. I wanted to make sure the hot cocoa was ready. My Mother and Sister were on speed-dial to run over at just the right moment. We just knew she’d be up before dawn, and none of us wanted to miss our first Christmas with a child in the house.

When the alarm sounded at 5, we jumped out of bed. It was dark and really cold. He lit the fire, and I started the cocoa. We’d beat her. Perfect! We sat down and listened for her little footsteps to hit the floor. And we waited. And waited. For two hours, we waited. We called her name upstairs, but she didn’t stir. I tiptoed up and saw her snoring away under her cozy quilts with her beloved cat on her pillow. I tiptoed back down.

“What do we do now?” he whispered. “I need to get into the clinic to do treatments.”

Finally, at 8, he woke her.

“Santa’s been here!” He told her. She crankily told him to go away.

“Don’t you want to see what Santa brought for you?”

“What?” She squinted at him, uncomprehending.

“It’s Christmas! Santa’s been here and left you something.”

“What do you mean?”

“Gifts.” He was getting exasperated. “Santa brought you gifts.”

She groaned and flopped back on the pillows. We were frantic in our own excitement.

“Get up,” he ordered and threw off the covers. “Let’s go see what’s under the tree.” She was not happy, but she slid out of bed. He brought her downstairs and stood her behind the closed door into the living room.

“Wait here. I’ll tell you when to open the door.” This was no holly-jolly start to Christmas. “And don’t go back upstairs.” We heard her sigh in the way that meant she was about to turn into Linda Blair in “The Exorcist.” He fumbled with the video camera.

“Hurry up!” I hissed. “We’re losing her.” I stood beside the tree with my digital camera.

“Ok, you can open the door.”

Her little face appeared, and she said, “What?”

“Look at the Christmas tree.” She took two steps in and stopped. The room, which is 18’ x 12’, had a 10’ tree in front of the window, so the mounds of presents radiated 4’ out from the base in all directions. [And that’s all the math I can do today.] She looked puzzled.

“Santa brought you presents!” I exclaimed.

“What?” She repeated.

“These are for you.”

“For me?” She approached the tree and knelt in front of the American Girl.

And then it hit us. She didn’t need the Barbie Deluxe Dream House
because she had a real house. Her dreams had already come true when she was adopted by a family with a cat. That’s all she ever wanted.

“These are mine?” A smile started to spread across her face.

“Yes,” I started to cry.

“Really? For me?” She reached out tentatively and picked up the doll that, unintentionally, had her face.

And that was our last peaceful Christmas. A year later, she still wanted to

All she wanted was a scooter.

visit Santa, so, at age 9, we took her to the mall at 8:30 at night, when few people were around. Surprisingly, lots of tween and teenaged girls were having their photos made with Santa, so it wasn’t nearly as strange as we thought. Who wants to give up the wonder of Christmas at any age?

Like many American children, a Christmas of plenty became the norm for several years but not for long enough. Inevitably, instead of singing in the Christmas pageant at 5 pm on Christmas Eve, she served in other ways, on the altar at the 11 pm service as a teenager, and this year, she is concerned about buying just the right gifts for us. A critical care nurse, she will work on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day from 3 pm to 11 pm. From being cared for, she cares for others.

So, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

November 26, 2015
by maggiex4 2 Comments

Thanksgiving Fantasy

Thanksgiving past, table for 10, with the works, including place cards

Oh, God, I dread Thanksgiving.

And here it is, staring me in the face. I guess I have to clean the house this morning, after I get the stuffing made, the bird stuffed, and the dough for the rolls rising.

And find the skinny little candles that go in all the amber glass turkeys that march around the center of the table. I’ll drag out the Lenox and my grandmother’s turkey platter and my silver and my Italian jacquard tablecloth with matching napkins that only see the light of day once a year. That goes for the Lenox, too. The Waterford stays in its storage box these days, while the equally fragile Riedel on the ridiculously long stems appears.

I see that I still haven’t dragged out the thousands of dollars worth of autumn candles and wreaths and other decorations that are stored upstairs. Where’s the cornucopia that the Daughter painted in the third grade? Good thing that I observe Advent, which starts Sunday, so I won’t be decorating for Christmas any time soon.

At some point, I need to change these yoga pants into something chic-but-grease-resistant and wash my hair.

Place cards. Do I go with place cards, since we’ll have a guest, The Daughter’s beau? Or is that over-kill? There are only five of us this year, and most of us remember our names and pecking order at the table. It’s over-kill, and we don’t want to frighten off this nice young man who bought me flowers at the ballroom dance debacle.

Oh, no! I should have cleaned the ovens!

Does anyone really have that warm-hearted, sit-around-the-antique-pine-table-in-ladder-backed-chairs-with-a-smiling-lavender-haired- Grandma-in-a-lacy-apron-presenting-a-platter-of-bronzed-turkey-surrounded-by-fancy-cut-oranges-topped-with-maraschino-cherries-kind of Thanksgiving? Did they ever?

Does anyone actually eat squash?

I don’t like turkey. I don’t like cranberries. I don’t like Jello. And, most of all, I hate that slimy green bean casserole. We don’t eat it any other day of the year, but, sadly, my family expects it on Thanksgiving because it was The Veterinarian’s favorite. Years ago, another family always came for Thanksgiving dinner, and my friend recently told me that her now-married daughter doesn’t consider it Thanksgiving without the green bean casserole. My own Daughter is now in charge of making it, because who can’t dump mushroom soup in green beans and top with canned French-fried onions?

I’d rather be remembered for my unique pumpkin pie which has ground black pepper as a key spice and candied ginger in the whipped cream topping. The Daughter is going to make little pumpkin tarts. Her date is going to make lemon bars for the family members who don’t eat pumpkin pie. My Mother will make her candied sweet potatoes and charge me with toasting the marshmallows without burning them. My Sister will make the cranberry mold, which is spectacular and which I can’t pull off.

I’ll get to flip the bird, not because I love to say that, but because The Veterinarian discovered that it gives a juicier breast to cook it upside down and then flip it. I always held my breath, watching him flip a 24-pounder, but, without him and our friends, it’s just a 15-pounder this year.

Thanksgiving 2014, with unironed tablecloth, table for 4

It will all be perfect, because there will be alcohol. Trapped in my house for six hours, no one will be driving. I charged the Daughter’s Beau with bringing a bottle of Prosecco under $20 to go with the brie and crouton appetizers (thank you, Wegman’s) and my Chipotle Butternut Squash Soup. (See? I answered my own question about squash.) There will be a pinot noir with the turkey and an ice wine with dessert.

Then, I’ll box up the leftovers in every spare plastic container, unless they remember to bring their own. I’ll throw the turkey carcass in my huge stock pot, cover with water and a lid and bring to a boil for 20 minutes. Then, I’ll turn off the heat (without uncovering) and let it sit on the stove overnight, when I’ll finish the stock.

I’ll hand wash the Lenox, silver, and crystal, throw the linens in the washer, start the dishwasher, and hit the sheets.

Finally, I’ll give thanks that I survived another Thanksgiving, another chance to be together with loved ones. If I’m lucky, there will be another chance next year. Same time. Same place. Same menu. Same love.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!

Cozy Crock Pot Cider

In years past, I always made this hot cider. You have to omit the rum, if you have kids running around unattended, or, maybe not, if you want them to fall asleep. (Just kidding!)

½ gallon apple cider

1 quart orange-pineapple juice

2 sticks of cinnamon

12 cloves, tied in cheesecloth

1 cup dark rum (or to taste – optional)

Combine all ingredients in crock pot and heat until warm, about 1 hour.

August 31, 2015
by maggiex4 2 Comments

Walking in My Shoes

As a woman who highly values her feet, I am delighted to hear that “ugly” shoes returned to fashion this summer.

I’m an equal opportunity shoe lover. Expensive. Cheap. Practical. Foolish. My shoe fetish has nothing to do with sex. It’s genetic. Like my high blood pressure and high cholesterol, I inherited a proclivity for splurging on shoes from My Mother. I am short, but My Mother is Tiny. At 4’ 10”, she wears a size 4-1/2 shoe. Actually, she wears a size 5-1/2 shoe, because she can’t find her real size. In the 1950s, size 4-1/2 was used as the “sample” size. She bought her shoes at a “sample shoe” store in an office building in downtown Detroit.

In early spring and early fall, she received postcards announcing that the sample shoes for the coming season were ready for sale. We took the bus downtown and walked to the building, got into one of those funky old-fashioned elevators with a gate and a lever to drive the car up and down the shaft. We would walk into an office crammed, floor to ceiling, with boxes of shoes and boots; pumps, flats, sandals, slingbacks, and mules, in spectacular colors and buttery soft Italian leather.

Mom didn’t skimp on our shoes, either. Although she made our clothes, she insisted that shoes of quality were a good health investment. We got new patent leather shoes at Christmas and white shoes for summer, along with a pair of sandals, and, eventually, a pair of sneakers. When we started school, we got school shoes. Being the 1950s, I wore saddle shoes in the primary grades with my fluffy dresses or shoes with a perforated design in the toes and an ankle strap. I always envied the girls who had shoes whose ankle straps could be swiveled behind the heel so that the strap didn’t cross the top of their foot, the same reason that I hated t-strap shoes. My Mother didn’t like that, so I used to trade shoes with my girlfriends for a few hours each day.

More than anything, I think that good shoes were a good mental health investment.

When I remember holidays and special events, I think of shoes. For Christmas 1966, I had a pair of gold suede flats with a little gold buckle that I wore with a long-sleeved Kelly green cotton velveteen dress with ecru lace trim. So mod. My junior year in high school, I wore “baby doll” shoes, black leather Mary Janes, to go with my “baby doll” dresses. In college, where tramping between classes in 0° temperatures required long underwear, I started collecting boots. I remember having a pair of brown lace-up boots that I wore with a camel-colored maxi coat. Even my wedding shoes weren’t just plain white; they were peau de soie (silk) with embroidered flowers on the toes.

If you keep shoes long enough, they come back in style. Square toes and chunky heels from 1968 have returned at least twice in my lifetime. I saw that flare-legged pants are making a comeback. They, of course, require a chunkier shoe. How do I know this? Remember, I’m 63 years old and have seen this trend like a revolving door. The designers get you to buy their wide-legged pants and longer skirts and chunky shoes and sweaters for a few years, and, just when you get to feeling good about yourself, hiding beneath layers of bulk, they bring back capri pants and leggings and crop tops and stilettos and send you running to the gym — or running for dessert in despair.

See these two vastly different shoes? Comfortable classics, yet a decade apart in age, they are still my favorites. The black suede Stuart Weitzman with the square toe and chunky heel was purchased c. 1992 and was worn in two different plays, masquerading as shoes from the 1930s and 1950s. The pointy-toed Ferragamo was purchased c. 2002. It’s been busy the past few years with pencil skirts and peg-legged pants.

I read that Queen Elizabeth II expressed her displeasure at the navy wedge-heeled shoes (also Stuart Weitzman) favored by her granddaughter-in-law, Catherine, the Duchess of Cambridge. Kate, of course, also popularized the ridiculous trend of nude platform stilettos a few years ago, an easy trend for a woman surrounded by bodyguards and her own prince to keep her on her feet. Someone should send a memo to Lady Gaga’s bodyguards, because her platforms are unbelievable and trip her up all the time when dodging the papa-paparazzi.

The Daughter had a pair of the nude patent leather platforms, which she wobbled in, like Bambi on the frozen pond, all the way across a stage for her college honors convocation. I was torn between admiring her fashion sense and trembling in fear that she would fall. Of course, every other coed was wobbling in a similar pair, so I was not the only parent having palpitations.

I, myself, have more beige shoes and sandals than any other color for two reasons; supposedly, nude pumps make your legs look longer (eg., ballet shoes usually match tights) and neutrals go with everything in every season. My short legs need all the lengthening they can get, but I’ve already fallen off shoes once in my life and don’t want to ever again spend two months in a leg brace. And, yes, I own my own share of restaurant shoes. You know. Those shoes that make your legs look fabulous but that you can only stand to wear from the house to the car to the restaurant to the car to your house with, maybe, a nerve-wracking side-trip to the ladies’ room?

Today, I’m more likely to wear a plain dress and an interesting shoe to set it off, like jewelry; an Eileen Fisher sweater and skirt with a suede boot with wedge heel. “Don’t look at me; look at my shoes.” Of course, one man I dated found my boring, tent-shaped Eileen Fisher dress alluring, so I’d probably better go easy on the combination. Too much excitement could probably kill a guy so old that he finds sedate clothing and ugly shoes a turn-on. I need a guy who appreciates me so much that he’ll take me to a restaurant worthy of restaurant shoes. Now, THAT’S a turn-on to me!

Keeping in the spirit of “ugly” shoes, described as Birkenstocks (which never went out of style in some Baltimore neighborhoods, which tells you everything you need to know about Charm City), I bought these Dansko sandals. You may recall that I fell off a ridiculous pair of platform sandals and fractured my right patella, three years ago. These are designed by the folks who know how to make shoes that doctors and nurses wear on their long, grueling shifts, so I hope they know what they’re doing with shoes for aging and fragile fashionistas who can’t afford another fall. They cost about as much as some of the chic designer styles.

While my deteriorating knees and pocketbook have slowed my shoe “investing,” thanks to a now-defunct local outlet store, I’ve stocked up on enough diverse designer rejects from Saks and Neiman Marcus to keep me rotating styles at the whim of designers until one of my pretty little feet is in the grave, so, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

July 21, 2015
by maggiex4 10 Comments

The Condensed Version of Me

Me – c. 1956

[This is my first-ever blog post, published July 22, 2014. I like to think of it as a measuring stick of the past year. My surgery sites were still raw; my abs were a flabby mess; I hadn’t started exploring online dating; and I had no idea why I was telling my story. People tell me that I’m brave for being honest and that they share many of my frustrations with modern life, which has lost so much graciousness, despite technology and political correctness. If nothing else, I make most of you laugh, so, who am I to complain? Thanks for joining me on my spiritual journey!]

Last night, I did something with my daughter that I never would have done with my mother. We stood in front of my bathroom mirror comparing our naked breasts. Stay with me.

Did you ever do that with your mother? Neither did I. I’m 62, raised in the 1950’s & ’60’s by a mom of the 1930’s and ’40’s. Her most damning phrase was “That’s tacky.” Until I was nearly 40, I worried about being dirty, wrinkled, mismatched, frizzy, and tacky. My two earliest childhood memories are learning to tie the laces of my white high-topped, leather shoes into tidy bows and being fitted for white cotton gloves. I couldn’t have been older than four, but I was mesmerized by the little drawers of gloves in the girls’ department at the J.L. Hudson, Company in downtown Detroit. Plain or bows? Are you kidding me? I wanted the ones with the shiny pearl buttons!

Maybe your parents were “progressive.” Mine came from that pragmatic, Depression-Era generation of hardworking blue collar-to-middle-class families with what are currently called “traditional values.” My father, a first-generation Italian-American and proud Marine Corps veteran, leaned toward the conservative. My mother’s family was from the fearless stock of English-Scots-Irish who settled Kentucky in the 18^th century. No whining allowed. Have a problem? Figure out how to solve it or climb over it and move on. My sister and I were expected to go to college and graduate. I learned to sew, cook, manage money, mow the lawn, change a tire, check the oil, mix concrete, and lay bricks. Before feminism took hold in the 1960’s, we were learning to survive.

Mom was a minor progressive on matters of feminine independence. When I begged for one of the newly-marketed “training” bras that my girlfriends proudly wore, my mother scoffed, “What are they training? You don’t want to wear a bra. They’re uncomfortable, and besides, you don’t have anything to put in one.” [Be careful what you wish for.]

In the 5^th grade, the girls in my class, accompanied by their mothers or a female guardian, were treated to the Disney-produced and Kotex-sponsored The Story of Menstruation. (Sex education in the mid-20th century.) On the walk home after the screening, armed with pamphlets, Mom’s only comment was, “When your ‘time’ comes, they’re in the linen closet.” Well, yes, I saw a small box of Kotex pads, but what were those mysterious paper-wrapped sticks in the Tampax box that was replaced much more frequently than the Kotex box?

Two years later, my ‘time’ arrived. Mom showed me how to loop the gauzy ends of the bulky Kotex pad through the metal teeth in the “Sanitary Belt” yet encouraged me to use tampons. At the age of 12, I was squeamish, more by the idea of having such a conversation with my mother than the actual process. Well, I lie. Probably more by the process.

She rolled her eyes and said, “You don’t know what you’re missing.” Huh? I’m going to put that hulking dry, cardboard thing where? [Listen to your mother.]

By the time I was 17 and desperate to wear a bathing suit for my waterskiing boyfriend, she had the last laugh. “I can’t help you with this. You have to go into the bathroom and do it yourself. Here’s the hand mirror.”

She was right, of course. They were waaay better than the monthly bulkiness, the shifting, and the inevitable leakage. She-who-claims-to-know-everything suddenly turned into a font of wisdom.

Seven years later, at age 24, I was recovering from a complete hysterectomy. (No, it wasn’t due to the tampons.) I had a raging case of endometriosis. Cysts as large as volleyballs and baseballs, according to my doctors, pulsated in my ovaries, and others were exploding like tiny time-bombs, gumming up my insides. In her droll and always honest way, my mother asked, “What are you going to do with all the money you save on tampons?”

Now, my own daughter is 22 and has little knowledge of and no use for white cotton gloves, but, I am proud to say, she recognizes “tacky” when she sees it. I’m not going to embarrass her by discussing her introduction to tampons, but let’s just say that it involved a mirror, a wet suit, and sharks. Well, no, there were no actual sharks in the bathroom with us, just a discussion about their olfactory sensitivity. There was also no dry, hulking cardboard in sight, just marvelous, smooth, modern plastic.

The Daughter and I, pre-op, May, 2012.

Two-and-a-half months ago, I had reduction mammoplasty (google it—I’m still my mother’s somewhat-squeamish daughter). You see, my five foot-tall frame appeared to be on the verge of toppling over at any moment, as I could no longer straighten my shoulders. I stuffed myself into minimizer bras and swathed myself in baggy sweaters. What seems like a glamorous blessing really is a pain in the neck—and the spine and the shoulders and the self-esteem. Turns out, I was carrying over two pounds of extra weight on my chest, like strapping a Yellow Pages directory between my armpits.

My daughter, the critical care nurse, was a great caregiver. You know. What we hope our children will be for us in our old age? During the three-and-a-half hour outpatient (!) surgery, she returned to her nearby apartment to play with her cats and to catch something on Xfinity On Demand (which, to me, means it can be watched at any time other than when your dearly beloved is in surgery).

In fairness, I easily survived the surgery; she drove me home, stayed overnight, changed my massive ice packs, expertly stripped, emptied, and measured my bloody drain tubes every four hours, and force fed me oxycodone. OK, OK. She didn’t shove it down my throat, but she gave me the Nurse Ratched routine and insisted I swallow it. [Note to self: Revisit that mirror/wet suit incident and a caregiver who is my sole heir.]

Last night, there we were, looking at our naked breasts, noticing how different they are. My rehabbed pair appear to have been transplanted from a stranger and are oddly and happily perky for a 62-year old woman. They are also subtly scarred, bruised, and lumpy and will be for at least another year. Just like my hysterectomy scar, traces of this recent surgery will always remain. But, I figure, the boy for whom I was willing to experiment with tampons has been gone for three years, and I don’t expect anyone other than a medical professional will ever get close enough to notice.

Oh, come on! Put your tiny violins away! Insurance paid for most of the surgery. I feel fabulous and can see my feet for the first time in years. My girlfriends say I look 20 years younger. My new, youthful bustline (as Jane Russell would say in the old Playtex commercials) has inspired me to work on my abs, now that I can see how flabby they are.

My mother, at 86, still knows everything and feels free to dole out advice. These days, she rarely tells me

Playing with a selfie stick, July, 2015.

that I look tacky, but I still wouldn’t dream of sharing my breasts with her in a mirror. My daughter isn’t embarrassed to discuss anything with me, although I have learned to text “TMI” to her when she makes me squeamish. I am easily old enough to be her grandmother, so the generational chasm between us is often profound. And, yes, both she and my mother approved this post, so, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo gloria!

July 4, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Colors

Courtesy of The Daughter

July 1, 2015
by maggiex4 4 Comments

When She was Bad…

There once was a girl

Who had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

And when she was good,

She was very, very good,

And when she was bad,

She was horrid.

This morning, I was horrid. My day started off as it usually does. After a restless night interrupted by thunderstorms, I staggered into my kitchen to assist the dog with her morning ablutions (although neither water nor cleanliness was involved). If she could use her paws to open the door, I wouldn’t ever have to get out of bed before 6 am, because she could probably also open the dog food bin. She drinks out of the toilet already, so, as long as the lid is up, I’m good there.

Having opened the door for her, filled her food dish, and mashed her anti-histamine into a marshmallow, I opened the freezer to pull out my two daily frozen waffles, and…nothing. No waffles. I was suddenly wide awake and hurried to the storage freezer in my pantry…again…nothing. No waffles. I had consumed an entire 60-count package of frozen “homestyle” waffles from the Big Box Store without realizing it. Waffles and pizza are the only carbs that I eat regularly, so I had no bread, no cereal, no pre-packaged cookies or crackers in my house. No potatoes. Just bars of dark chocolate, raw veggies, half of a leftover crab cake, and several bottles of wine in my refrigerator.

You may recall that I take a beta-blocker for reasons related to genetics and the lunacy that has been life in recent years. Said blocker is to be taken in the morning with food, and toasted waffles are my vehicle of choice, just as marshmallows are the vehicle for the dog’s meds. I thought of using one of her marshmallows, but my mouth isn’t big enough to swallow a marshmallow whole, even with water. The BFF’s mouth can handle things the size of corn cobs and socks, so a marshmallow is nothing to her. (She ate 11 foam ear plugs last week, which have started to reappear in my yard, sort of like little Nerf bullets.)

As usual, I digress.

I returned to the freezer, moving aside frozen meat and frozen leftover pizza and frozen fresh pasta (an oxymoron, I know), certain that I had overlooked some stray waffles. That’s when I spied the package of frozen chocolate chip cookie dough. Bells went off in my head, while stars streaked from the package. Breakfast! Sure, they contain all that fat and sugar and chocolate, but with pecans added, they’re actually as nutritious as most granola bars!

I closed the freezer door when I heard The Shrew who lives in my head say, “Get a grip, Suzanne.”

“But — but — but I have to take my meds.”

“With cookies?”

“My heart will start racing.”

“Make oatmeal.”

“I only eat oatmeal in the winter when it’s cold.”

“You couldn’t eat the frozen pizza?” The Shrew sighed.

“Too greasy at 6 am.”

“Get dressed. Get in the car. Go to the store.”

“But I could faint from lack of food, run off the road, and kill someone.” There was a pause in my thought process.

“Well, just this once,” The Shrew relented. “And here’s the deal: you don’t bake the entire package of cookies, just two cookies and add the pecans.”

“Ok, ok,” I started pulling the package out of the drawer. I can’t eat cookies without pecans, so that was easy.

“And you do two Zumba sessions and 5 minutes of planking.” My penance.

“Ok, ok,” I panted. Cookies for breakfast!

Breakfast!

In the end, I made four cookies because they come in a neat block of four squares, so, if I cut off just two, the other two would probably get freezer burn. Fortunately, The Shrew had rolled over and gone back to sleep.

While I waited for the cookies to bake, I switched on the morning news, which, as usual had a sameness to it. A terrorist act was perpetrated while another terrorist threat has been perceived. The economy is going to hell in a handbasket, while a superstar athlete turned down a 21 million dollar contract. There is weather that no one likes. Celebrities are doing outrageous things. This morning, it was Ben and Jen Affleck. She seems so cute and ordinary that I felt sorry for her and their children until I read their joint public statement to People magazine:

“After much thought and careful consideration, we have made the difficult decision to divorce. We go forward with love and friendship for one another and a commitment to co-parenting our children…”

Stop right there! That’s what marriage is. Marriage is “love and friendship for one another.” And that’s all it is, folks. It’s a long, boring slog through life, picking up the pieces of your “joint” life (not limited to socks, underwear, or the toilet seat), made joyful by agreeing on where to go for dinner, what color to paint the living room, and nudging each other awake through your kid’s recitals. It’s not running toward each other through an Alpine meadow, falling down, and making mad passionate love in the flowers every day, followed by adorable, curly-haired children gurgling sweet songs until they leave home as adults. (Sorry, the sugar and chocolate from the cookies is kicking in.)

Marriage was the hardest thing I ever did in my entire life, resisting the urge to up and leave when The Veterinarian looked at me cross-eyed. I will never forget wanting to bolt one month after our wedding. Full-time college students, we had been arguing in the car on the way home. I couldn’t tell you what it was about, but, when we got into the privacy of our apartment, I burst into tears.

“I can’t do this,” I cried. “I just can’t do this. I can’t stand you. I can’t stand this tiny apartment. You don’t listen to a thing I say to you. You just do whatever you want, as if my opinion doesn’t matter. You brought a dog into the house without asking me, and you know I’m afraid of dogs. I can’t stand the thought of doing this for the rest of my life.” He stood in front of me, completely befuddled. He thought everything was great.

“I’m sorry,” he began, “I didn’t know.” He put his arms around me, sat us down on the sofa, and cradled me in his arms. I sobbed uncontrollably into the collar of his shirt. I couldn’t tell you what he said or what I said to smooth things over. I remember that we both felt the enormity of the commitment that we had made. I remember that my mascara didn’t wash out of his shirt, that a perfect set of my eyelashes was imprinted on the collar. When the shirt went out of style, I hung it in the back of my closet and moved it across the country to remind me of my commitment, a more meaningful reminder than the gold band on my finger.

I’d love to tell you that our marriage got easier, but it didn’t. The arguments were always the same, for the 39 years we were married. At the 10-year mark, like Ben and Jen, we were building our own veterinary hospital. It was a strenuous nightmare, and I did think I was going to leave him. Then, it got worse, and we talked about divorce. The meadow looked like it might exist somewhere else, but we kept coming back to that promise of commitment. We knew the Alpine meadow was a fantasy. We knew that being present over the long haul far outweighed mad passionate love among the flowers. Besides, my bare skin can’t handle direct contact with vegetation.

It’s none of our business what other people do in their marriages unless we see abuse that needs intervention. When they say, “We still love each other” they may be covering up bigger issues that are none of our business. It just makes me sad that marriage gets a bad rap, that it’s taken so lightly. The Wedding is the all-important moment in most of the marriages that I see. Parents mortgaging their homes for their daughter’s “Dream Wedding.” The bachelor parties in Vegas, the Bridezillas, the Destination Weddings, the expensive favors and liquor and entertainment. I wish they’d focus on what marriage really means. I wish they’d spend more time asking God to guide them, instead of a complete stranger in a meadow or a beach or a bowling alley or a hotel ballroom who isn’t going to be there when you don’t think you can spend one more day with the person to whom you’ve committed your life. I promise them that it is all worth the love and friendship and aggravation and commitment.

As usual, I digress, again.

Well, those cookies were good, but, now, I sit here contemplating the two sessions of Zumba. Exercise is a lot like marriage. You have to do it even when you don’t want to, so you have to make it work for you. Maybe I could only do one Zumba session and walk the trail with the BFF. It’s a nice day. The sun is shining, and there’s a breeze, so who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

June 16, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Fathers and Daughters

Happy Father’s Day to all you dads, whether you parent your own child, someone else’s child, or a child with more than two legs! You teach your children more than you can possibly imagine, more than you ever intend them to know. I know this, because I had a great dad. He was not a frivolous guy, didn’t gamble or golf or bowl or boat or party hearty. He was a hard-working man who had well-defined expectations of himself and of me. I was to be a person of faith, hard-working, honest, kind, generous, try my hardest, do my best, and graduate from college. I don’t recall him asking any more of me than that.

It seemed to me that my dad could do anything. He could take a car apart and put it back together and made sure that I could change a tire and check the oil in the car before he ever let me drive it. He was patient. The second time that I backed the car out of the garage, I caught the outside mirror on the garage door hinge and ripped it off the car. I burst into tears, of course. But you know what? He was more upset because I was terrified that he would be upset about the mirror than he was about the damage.

He could build anything. He built that garage and added a family room to our house. He also helped the Veterinarian and me build our veterinary hospital, from the cinder block walls in. But I learned as much from observing how he lived his life as from what he taught me to do.

One sunny spring Saturday, as I sat at the big maple desk in our living room, writing a book report, I heard my dad stop the lawn mower and chat with someone. Our house was on the corner of a moderately busy street, whose sidewalk saw lots of pedestrians and strollers and bicycles. In our neighborhood, everyone knew everyone else by sight or by their kids or by their cars, if not by their name. I pulled aside the sheer drapery to see who was passing our way and saw him with a white-haired lady in a lilac-flowered house dress, rolled-down stockings, and wool felt slippers.

My Mother came up behind me. “Who’s Daddy talking to?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Some lady.”

“I’ve never seen her before,” she said. We watched my dad shake the lady’s hand.

“Well, why don’t you rest here under the tree in the shade?” he said to her and looked up at the window where we were standing. My Mother raised her eyebrows and hurried out the side door.

“Lenore, this is my wife,” my father gestured to My Mother. “Lenore lives at the nursing home down on Allen Road.” Lenore had walked about two miles.

“Oh!” I heard My Mother’s surprised reply.

“She’s walking to her son’s house in Toledo,” about 50 miles away.

“Well,” My Mother replied, without skipping a beat, “that’s a pretty long walk. Let me get you a drink of water.” She looked pointedly at My Father, who nodded, and quickly came into the house and headed for the telephone. She notified the police and drew a glass of water.

“The home already called the police,” she whispered to me. “They’re on their way.” She hurried back outside, where Lenore was attempting to leave.

“Why don’t you have the water, first, before you set out again?” He encouraged her. “It’s pretty warm today.”

“Yes,” Lenore accepted the glass. “You have such a nice yard.” She sipped deeply at the water. “You remind me a lot of my son. I don’t get to see him very much anymore, you know.”

I stepped into the side yard, and Lenore looked up.

“This is my daughter,” my father introduced me.

“Hello, dear, you have a very nice father.” I smiled shyly and thought she was exactly correct. Within minutes, a police car pulled slowly to the curb.

“Well, Mrs. Ratkowski,” the driver called to her, as he took his hat off and approached her, “out for a walk again today?” He smiled at my parents.

“Oh, yes, officer,” Lenore replied. [That’s how we spoke to police officers in those days. We called them “officer” or “sir.”] “Yes, I’m on my way to see my son.” She looked warily from the policeman to my dad.

“I see,” the policeman placed his hand lightly on Lenore’s elbow. “Your friends at the home didn’t get a chance to say good-bye and are worried about you.”

“Tell them that I’m fine. I’m just chatting with this nice man and his family.”

“Well, ma’am, we need to get you back there.” He started to steer her towards the patrol car.

Lenore stopped, her face confused, and she looked at my dad.

“I think you should go with him and let them sort it out,” he reassured her. “They’ll make sure you get in touch with your son.”

“But he’s expecting me,” she didn’t cry, but there was such sadness in her voice.

“He’ll be very worried, if he doesn’t know where you are,” my dad took her arm and started walking to the car. “And I’ll feel better, if I know you’re safe.” Lenore allowed him to settle her in the back seat of the car.

“Well, thank you!” She smiled and gave a little wave as the car pulled away. We waved back. My dad, who had lunch with his own mother every Wednesday, shook his head and returned to cutting the grass.

It seems like such an insignificant incident in anyone’s daily life, but it has stayed with me for 50 years. I learned from my dad that we are all dependent on the kindness of strangers, especially when we are confused and lost and not ourselves.

About 10 years later, when I was confused, he gave me an excellent piece of advice. Raised a Catholic, I was contemplating being married by a Presbyterian minister of whom The Veterinarian was quite fond. I asked my dad if he would be upset, that I didn’t want to cause the trouble in our family that was raised when he married My Mother, who was not a Catholic. He said, “You have to do what is right for you. I appreciate that you’re concerned about it, but you have to live this life yourself and do what works for you.”

Always there

Here is a photo of me at that very confusing moment in my life, when I was about to be married by that Presbyterian minister. I am 20 and terrified that I’m making a mistake. You can see the tears in my eyes, but the show must go on, so I smile. My Dad is not smiling. He, too, thinks I am making a mistake. We both know that I am too young to be married but that I had made a commitment. We both know that God will watch out for me. My dad knows that he couldn’t have picked a better man to be my husband, so, here he is, supporting me, whatever comes, waiting to pick up the pieces, to make things right.

What a great dad!

DATE UPDATE:

A recent date told me that some men just wink or write to women to see if they can get an answer, not because they’re really interested in them. Oh, great! This bit of information confirmed what I have suspected. I couldn’t figure out why I wouldn’t get any response when I emailed men who claimed to be interested in me. Well, I’ve tried playing nice, and I’ve been honest about who I am and who I’m looking for. Where are all the honest men like my dear old dad? Herewith my new, totally honest profile:

“I didn’t know how to do this when I was 17, so I latched onto one guy and stuck with him until he up and died on me when I was 59 — yep, I was faithful to one, and only one, guy, so that kinda makes me a 63-year old virgin, if you think about it. Betcha don’t know many of those, do ya?

I have two more months left on this subscription, and my daughter says I am wasting my $$$ if I hide my profile. My friends say, “Surely, Mr. Right is on his way.” (I have the funniest friends.) So, instead of selling myself as the ideal woman, let’s see if I can entertain you. I am always entertained by reading some of your profiles, especially those of 60-something hipsters looking for women 25-45. Someone who is still engaged in life is a must, but I’m not into delusion. If you’re over the age of 12 and believe in love at first sight, don’t contact me.

I don’t lie. I don’t fake my photos, age, height, or weight. Yes, I’m short and old (as are most of you guys — old, I mean), but I consider myself a 30-ish trans-Brazilian supermodel, if that counts for anything, so you are not allowed to discriminate on my lack of stature. (Stop reading if you have to google “stature”).

I don’t have stretch marks. [See? I figured how to work that into my profile.] All my body parts are original equipment, except one of my teeth (BMI-21). I own my own home and car. I dress nicely. I’m smart. My manners are impeccable. I am a lady, except when I’m swearing (in case that’s a turn-off). I think I’m kind and generous, but, who am I to say?

I’ve only visited four of the seven continents. I like the French, especially their wine. Of course, I’ll drink almost any country’s wine, but I won’t drink anyone’s beer. I don’t get seasick. I don’t faint at the sight of mice, spiders, or snakes. I don’t panic in emergencies, unless you find that exciting, in which case, I can shriek with the best of them. Sorry, I’m just not completely helpless, but I can pretend to be, if that helps. I try to leave the drama on the stage, where it belongs.

On the other hand, if you want a mountain-biking, rock-climbing, hog-riding, golfing/skiing/backpacking buddy with breasts, check out reality tv.

If you really do want someone beautiful inside and out, funny, intelligent, honest, confident, and financially independent (which most of you do want, apparently), and YOU are handsome inside and out, witty, honest, dependable, intelligent, financially independent, and know your way around a chainsaw, give me a call. (I live in the woods and am afraid of chain saws — hard to believe, I know) If not, my dog is a great snuggler, although also quite a snorer.

I used to answer every person who contacted me, but I think it was some kind of trick, because I rarely got a response to my response, so I don’t answer winks or interests or favorites. If you have something to say, say it in clear, grammatical English. (I speak two other languages, but let’s stick with English.) I dislike snobs, bigots, bad manners, and narrow-mindedness, this includes men who think they are hipsters (see above).

Don’t contact me if you’re married or still angry at your ex-wife. Don’t contact me if you don’t like to travel outside of a 25-mile radius of Baltimore. If you can’t recognize the state of Michigan by its silhouette, pass me by.

That’s it. I have nothing left to say. I’ll start googling convents now. Maybe I can find one that will let me bring my dog and my Champagne. Thanks for letting me entertain you!”

So far, it’s working great, because out of 136 people lured by my sweet photo in the past week, only one has winked at me! Think of all the bullets I’ve dodged, so, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

June 12, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

A Sweet Little Fishy Story

Caramelized Salmon

When we adopted The Daughter, we were old. I’m not kidding. We were 47, which is pretty old to adopt your first child, an 8-year old. As My Mother said, “At least she’s housebroken and has all her shots.” We learned that there’s a perfectly good reason that young people have children; you need a lot of stamina and patience, which certainly diminishes over time.

We all had a lot of adjusting to do. Some of it was easy. The Veterinarian covered fixing breakfast for her every morning at the ungodly hour of 6 am, an hour when I’m not sure who I am, much less where the kitchen is located. Our long-awaited princess would wake up to his special omelets or French toast or garnished oatmeal. None of that oatmeal out of an envelope. This stuff was cooked and sweetened and spiced and bathed in warm milk. I don’t think he ever prepared himself for one of our “date nights” as well as he prepared breakfast for her. My responsibilities included lunch, dinner, laundry, and chauffeur, the same things I’d been doing for him for 27 years.

In the beginning, the kid never grumbled about the food she was served, once we weaned her from chicken nuggets, which we did immediately. She loved to try new foods. A week after her arrival, we traveled with her to New Orleans on a business trip, where she told the waiter at Commander’s Palace that the Parmesan cheese being grated, tableside, onto her salad smelled like “throw up.” Being N’Awlins, the waiter laughed and said, “It sure does, honey.” She scarfed it down. A month later, we knew we were in BIG trouble when we took her to the Cheesecake Factory, and she told the waiter, “I’ll have the grilled chicken Caesar with freshly grated Parmesan, please.”

We persevered in introducing her to new foods.

“Do you eat fish?”

“Uh-huh,” she shook her blond head up and down, blue eyes peering out of her little wire-rimmed glasses. She bore an uncanny resemblance to Felicity, the American Girl doll, with her dimpled arms and cheeks.

“Do you like fresh salmon? It’s not like that stuff in a can. I’m going to coat it with sugar and sauté it in a hot skillet. You’ll like it.”

Her head bobbed.

She was more than willing to eat caramelized salmon, asparagus in nutmeg butter, and herbed rice with toasted pine nuts. I thought I was a genius. Surely, there were few households with an 8-year old eating gourmet cuisine.

At Christmas that year, our family was invited to a “casual-chic” Christmas party at the swanky home of some benevolent friends. She was introduced to the host’s little nephew, and the two trotted off into the big house, while we headed to greet the roast pig that was lounging on the dining room table. About 20 minutes later, one of the guests came up to us.

“Are you with the little blond girl with the glasses?”

“Uh, yes,” The Veterinarian and I looked at each other in panic.

“I’ve never seen a child that young eat so many raw oysters. How’d you get her to eat them?”

“She’s eating raw oysters?”

“She and a little boy are on the deck slurping them down as fast as they’re shucked. It’s pretty funny, actually.”

We hurried outside to find her surrounded by a crowd of amused adults, poking at shellfish on a gas grill. In 20 minutes without us, our host had taught her to eat raw oysters and steam mussels on the grill.

“These are really good,” she giggled.

“How many have you eaten?” Pictures of partially digested shellfish reappearing on the backseat of our car swam before my eyes. She shrugged. “Ok, kiddo, let’s go have some potatoes or bread. How about some bread? Lots and lots of bread.”

As the months passed, she started to exhibit food preferences. Food she was willing to eat when she came to live with us was suddenly unacceptable. In the spring of her first year with us, her school’s PTA solicited favorite family recipes. Thinking I was the Best Mother Ever, I dutifully contributed our family’s favorite meal, caramelized salmon, asparagus with nutmeg butter, and herbed rice with toasted pine nuts.

“Ha! No pasta salad recipe from this family,” I smugly typed up my contributions. No boring cereal-based snack mix. No crescent roll-wrapped wienie chunks. No sirree. We might be older than any of the other parents, but with age comes knowledge and sophistication, the kind of sophistication that can be useful to a child. I’ll show you how to parent, you snarky people. You won’t make room for my kid in your scout troop? (“Your daughter should have started in first grade,” I was told, “because our troops don’t have any room for newcomers. Maybe you should start your own troop.”) Ha! We don’t need your stupid scouts and your stupid cookies and dorky crafts. Our kid plays the cello and eats fish that isn’t chopped up into “stix.”

In September, the family cookbooks were distributed and came home in The Daughter’s backpack.

“Oh, look,” I squealed like a — like a — well, like a little pig, “here’s our recipe!” The Daughter looked over my shoulder and screwed up her face.

“Caramelized salmon?” she asked.

“What?”

“I hate that stuff,” she shuddered.

“What do you mean you hate that stuff? It’s our family’s favorite meal,” I protested.

“No, it isn’t. Steak is my favorite meal. Steak with Béarnaise and garlic mashed potatoes and broccoli. Or spinach soufflé.”

“You don’t like asparagus with nutmeg butter?”

“Blech,” she spit out her tongue.

“What about the rice?” I asked timidly.

“I hate those nut things.”

“You mean the toasted pine nuts?”

“Whatever. They’re like bugs.”

“You eat smoked salmon.”

“That’s different. I love smoked salmon.”

“But — but — you always clean your plate.”

“Yeah, well, I know it means a lot to you, so I ate it, but I’m never eating it again.”

The honeymoon was over. I had been hoodwinked by an 8-year old, but I took heart; one of her favorite foods was broccoli, and she knew the word Béarnaise. I flipped through the cookbook. Actually, I didn’t know if I could explain to the other mothers that my kid ate raw oysters and escargots and real sushi (not California roll) and all kinds of mushrooms, when I wasn’t sure it was acceptable in our community to have mothered an under-age foodie.

Now that The Daughter lives on her own, she has rediscovered cooked salmon (she’ll eat it pan-roasted with an aged balsamic garnish, but still not caramelized) and asparagus and rice (without nuts), so, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

CARAMELIZED SALMON

Sugar coat

This may seem a little tricky, but it’s deceptively easy to make. The sugar doesn’t really sweeten the fish but adds a glossy coating. If you aren’t familiar with cooking sugar at high temperatures, here are some very simple points to remember.

When heated, sugar changes property significantly. It melts, browns, and, as it cools, will harden on your utensils and in the pan and affix to anything it touches, like hot glue, and about as dangerous. Excess sugar will burn in the pan, so turn on your exhaust fan before starting. Because the caramel hardens to anything it touches, you will need to put each fillet on its individual serving plate. Not to worry! Because it’s completely soluble in water, clean up is a breeze.

Ingredients:

Two cups of white, granulated sugar, measured into a pie plate

Salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste

2 four-ounce skinless salmon fillets, about ½ – ¾ “ thick (Note: fillet means boneless)

2 Tablespoons olive oil

Directions:

Season salmon with salt and pepper to taste, and press one side into the sugar until it is lightly coated. Carefully turn over and press into sugar. Leave the fish in the sugar while you prepare the pan.

Heat the oil in a heavy skillet over medium heat for 30 seconds. You don’t want the heat to be so high that the sugar caramelizes before the fish cooks.

Caramelizing salmon – don’t worry, all that burnt sugar dissolves in water.

Carefully place each salmon fillet into the oil. Cook 1½ minutes without moving, jiggling, swishing, etc. Then lift one corner of the fillet to peek at the color of the coating. It should have started to brown but not burn. (If the fillet browns too quickly, remove the pan from the heat and reduce temperature to medium-low.) Cook another minute, then carefully lift the fillet. The sugar coating should have all caramelized; if not, cook another 30 seconds. Again, you don’t want the sugar to blacken, but a little blackened edge is ok, if you need to get the fish cooked.

When lightly caramelized, turn the fillet over to the other side and cook another 1½ to 2 minutes. Remove to each individual serving plate.

June 5, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

The Myth of Red Velvet Cake

Red Velvet Cake with Buttercream Frosting

There are red velvet cakes, and then there are Red Velvet Cakes. In the past five years, that staple of Southern cooks has been co-opted by trendy websites, blogs, magazines, chain restaurants, and cooking shows. Somewhere along the way, the original recipe has permutated. I, myself, have adapted the recipe that was passed on to me by My Mother, who got it in the 1950s from her sister who lives in Atlanta. Turns out, it may not have originated in the South at all.

As in religion, mythology explains the creation of something. It doesn’t mean it isn’t true, it only posits a basis for everything that came after. A search on Google shows as much speculation about Red Velvet’s origins as it does about its ingredients. Some say it is based on so-called “velvet” cakes of the 19^th century, which incorporated a little cocoa or almond flour to soften a cake’s texture. Some say that the characteristic “red” color began with the redness of the cocoa or that of the brown sugar that was used. Some say it originated at the Waldorf-Astoria. Some say it originated at Eaton’s Department store in Toronto. Some say its current incarnation was promoted by the Adams Extract company in Texas.

As with religion, no one can agree, so I’ll stick with my own lore of what a Red Velvet Cake should be, how it should look, and how it should taste. I simply NEVER buy one in a bakery or restaurant, because they never correspond with the mythological essence stored in my brain. I am a Red Velvet connoisseur. I’ve been eating them for over 50 years. It is my birthday cake of choice, and a birthday cake should always be exactly what I expect it to be when the fork hits my mouth.

The red color has always been controversial. Before anyone was talking about carcinogens in food, one of my fourth grade classmates objected to the Red Velvet cupcakes that my mother sent to my class in honor of my 10^th birthday, in 1962.

“EWWW!!!” Teddy Rollo (name changed to protect the innocent) shrieked, after biting into one. “It’s OX BLOOD!!!” He dropped it on the floor.

“No, it isn’t!” I shouted at him, as kids all over the classroom spit out my favorite cake.

“Then, why is it red?” He stuck his buck-toothed, freckled face in mine.

“It’s food coloring!” I snapped.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” our teacher yelled over the clamor. “It’s cake! There’s no blood involved, Teddy. Settle down, class!”

“It’s just too weird,” one girl said to me apologetically and shrugged.

I was horrified to see half-eaten and uneaten cupcakes dumped in the trash. What was the matter with these kids? My mother had slaved over three dozen cupcakes for nothing. I felt bad for her. I felt bad for myself, and then I saw several untouched cupcakes left in the box for me, me, me!

Ten years later, the Soviets released a study that concluded that Red Dye No. 2, whose common name is amaranth, was a carcinogen. Responding to public outcry, the FDA began its own study, which concluded that, in high dosages fed to female rats, there was a significant increase in the number of malignant tumors in the rats. It was banned in 1976.

Uh-oh. Would this be the end of Red Velvet Cake? Nope. Even though Red Dye No. 4 was eventually also prohibited as a food dye, Red Dye No. 40 continues to be acceptable in the US, despite the fact that it is banned in Europe, which, along with Canada, approves of Red Dye No. 2. Did you follow that? I had to google them all several times to make any sense of it. Long story short, I buy my Red Dye No. 40 in bulk, so you can’t take Red Velvet Cake away from me. I use two full ounces of it in mine, so that I get that authentic oxblood color. I see those wimpy pink imposters that only use one ounce. Tsk-tsk. smh

Perfection!

I prefer a good French buttercream or my faux French buttercream frosting made with hot milk and granulated sugar, because I’m not a cream cheese frosting fan. I find that the tang of the cream cheese clashes with the almond flavoring in the cake, and, if the cake is made traditionally with buttermilk and the vinegar-baking soda mixture, it doesn’t need any more tangy-ness. In my so-called research, I found Red Velvet cupcakes frosted with almond-flavored cream cheese that might be tolerable, but I’d still rather have the frosting that my brain and stomach tell me belongs on Red Velvet cake. Why mess with perfection?

My Sister made me a Red Velvet Cake for my birthday yesterday because she is The Best Sister Ever. The cake was soft and tender; the frosting did not have a single crunch of undissolved granulated sugar (my biggest challenge in making that frosting). And I had a big giant slice of perfection for breakfast this morning, also a family tradition. After all, there are no calories on your birthday or the morning after, so, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

RED VELVET CAKE

Ingredients:

2 oz red color

3 Tablespoons cocoa powder (do not used Dutch-processed)

½ cup vegetable shortening, softened (I use ¼ cup unsalted butter and ¼ cup shortening)

1½ cups sugar

2 eggs

2¼ cups all-purpose flour

¼ teaspoon salt

1 cup buttermilk

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

2 teaspoons almond extract

1 Tablespoon vinegar

1 teaspoon baking soda

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350°.

Grease three 8” or two 9” cake pans with butter and line the bottoms with buttered parchment paper. Set aside.

In a separate bowl, sift together the flour and salt. Set aside.

In a large mixing bowl, blend food coloring and cocoa to form a paste. Add the shortening and sugar, and cream thoroughly. With mixer running, add eggs one at a time until blended.

Mix in ¼ of the sifted flour mixture, alternating with ¼ cup buttermilk. Stop mixer and scrape bowl and beaters. Continue adding the remaining flour, alternating with the remaining buttermilk, beating thoroughly and scraping the bowl and beaters after each addition of buttermilk. It’s important that the flour doesn’t clump into ugly white blobs in your pretty red batter.

Stir in the vanilla and almond extracts.

In a small bowl, stir together the vinegar and baking soda and then stir the mixture into the batter.

Pour batter equally into the prepared cake pans. To decrease the number of large air bubbles trapped in the batter, run a sharp knife in an “s” shape through the batter in each pan. Lift each pan about 1” off the counter and let drop onto the counter. The larger bubbles will rise to the top and either break or can be broken with a toothpick.

Place pans in preheated oven and bake 30 minutes. Insert a tester (toothpicks work just fine) into the center of each layer. If it does not come out clean, bake another 5 minutes and retest with a clean tester. In my oven, an 8” layer is usually done in 30 minutes. The thicker 9” layers may take an extra 5-10 minutes. But be careful that the edges of the cake don’t become brown.

When tester comes out clean, remove pans from the oven and place on a wire rack. Let cake layers cool in the pans for 10 minutes. You should see the cake’s edges pull away from the pan as it cools. If not, gently run a plastic knife around the edge and wait 5 more minutes.

Place another cooling rack on top of the pans and flip. Remove pans from the layers and the parchment from the cake and cool completely. Frost with your favorite white frosting.

CAUTION: I always lick the bowl and beaters, because I’ve been doing it for over 50 years, but it makes my mouth really red. It also might give me salmonella, if the raw eggs in the batter are bad. I don’t worry too much about it. The red dye probably will kill me first.

June 2, 2015
by maggiex4 Leave a comment

Twins

Angelina Jolie and I have more in common than you might think. We are both Gemini and share the same birth date, June 4. I’m not bragging or anything, but she and I have been incredibly lucky in life. We’re both fabulous actors. We both were married to incredibly handsome and accomplished men and adopted beautiful children from exotic locales. Well, in my case, Denver isn’t that exotic — exciting but not that distant.

Ms. Jolie and I are also missing our uteri. When she wrote in the NY Times about her hysterectomy at the age of 39, I almost wrote to her to say, “Don’t worry. It’s a piece of cake.” I was 24 when I had my hysterectomy, and my life clearly didn’t end. I didn’t shrivel up. I didn’t grow a beard or start singing bass. I didn’t gain 50 pounds. My husband didn’t leave me. In fact, men still hit on me when he wasn’t around, because they just can’t tell. You think no one’s going to hit on the beautiful Angelina Jolie because she’s missing a few body parts?

I’ve been without my uterus for almost 40 years and can’t say that I’ve missed it. So what if I have a little untimely sweating? It’s a small price to pay to stop menstruating, and pregnancy has never looked like a day at the beach to me. When I was a little pudgy around the middle a few years ago, a stranger ask me if I was pregnant. Was I embarrassed? Heck no! I was pretty excited that they thought I was young enough to be pregnant. Woohoo!

Twins

Strangers frequently comment on how much The Daughter and I look alike. Coincidentally, we are both short, and the corners of our mouths turn down naturally. Our hair is the same color, thanks to my hairdresser. (I have no idea what color mine really is any more, but I suspect it’s mostly white.) I blame the “Stockholm Syndrome,” where the captive begins to identify with the captor. There’s a lot more to parenting than passing along your DNA. If you’re good at it, you pass along your values and instill your child with courage, perseverance, kindness, and hope, the character stuff that hasn’t yet been isolated on a chromosome.

I’ve had a lot of practice making lemonade out of lemons in my almost-63 years, and I’m always amazed at how a miracle pops up to lift me when things seem especially dark. Why, just last week, it dawned on me that, because I’ve never been pregnant, I don’t have any stretch marks. It made me laugh out loud, it was such an absurd thought. On the other hand, find another 63-year old woman who can say that. Now, I just need to figure out how to work that into my online dating profile.

Happy Birthday, Angelina!

DATE UPDATE:

I decided to give the dating site Zoosk a look-see because it claimed to be free. Actually, it’s so confusing that I can’t tell what’s free and what isn’t, because now they tell me there’s stuff I can’t see, people I can’t contact, whatever. Anyway, they have a feature called “Carrousel” where faces flash up, and you’re supposed to click “No” “Maybe” or “Yes”. You get a gold coin for each “Maybe” or “Yes.” I have no idea what the coins are for, and I really don’t care. This isn’t my kind of game. I’m not a gambler, although online dating is a crap-shoot.

I’m shallow. I’m a visual person. I always judge books by their covers, which is probably why I haven’t found a serious date yet. There seems to be something wrong with every photo that I see. Again, I can’t stress enough that the fault lies with me, not with what are probably perfectly ideal men for normal, God-fearing, kind, decent, gracious, loving women. No, I’m persnickety. For instance, I am not attracted to profile photos of a man who

wears a Crocodile Dundee hat,

a cowboy hat,

a cowboy hat with a string tie and leather vest,

or a straw cowboy hat with a picture of a spitting cobra;

a bad toupee or a woman’s wig, even if it’s part of a Halloween costume;

a sombrero, beret, balaclava, or any kind of headscarf, including bandanas;

a captain’s hat, unless he’s in the Navy or Capt. Stubing;

a baseball cap with a suggestive slogan and especially not a backwards cap;

or a “Steelers” cap.

I don’t want to know anyone whose profile name includes the words “Snake bit” or “Luv,” “Hung,” “Kiss,” “Baby,” “4 U,” “Skin,” “Brst” (regardless of your choice of vowels), or “Steeler.”

I always skip photos of men whose eyes are closed, have partially hidden faces, look dazed and confused or Tased or are frowning;

or out of focus;

who are missing all or most of their front teeth (please, no hate mail);

who wear more jewelry than I do and/or forget to remove their wedding bands (I told you I was persnickety);

who are covered in sweat or standing in a cemetery or using fingers to “shoot” at the camera (yep, I’ve seen ’em all).

I am wary of men whose style-icon is Donald Trump;

who look like they still follow the Dead, with locks longer than mine and carrying AARP cards;

who were stuck all winter in Donner Pass without a razor.

Men, don’t choose photos if your cellphone is visible as you take your selfie;

your computer monitor is reflected in your glasses so your eyes look like they’re glowing;

you’re being hugged/kissed by a woman who clearly isn’t your mother (especially on the mouth—ew!);

your photo shows five men, and you’re……..which?

your photo is date-stamped 2005;

your photo is an actual photo of Jack Lord from the original “Hawaii Five-0” (true);

you have photo-shopped stars and/or hearts on it;

you appear to be choking your dog/cat while restraining it;

you are up to your elbow in the mouth of a catfish;

your motorcycle is bigger than you are;

your car is the most prominent feature in your photo;

your dress shirt is unbuttoned to your belt buckle, exposing things that are best hidden until we know each other better—if ever;

you’re wearing a sleeveless sweatshirt, tank top, or wife beater, even if you have guns of steel.

And, for the love of all that is good and holy, NO SHIRTLESS PHOTOS!!!!

Especially if you’re on a beach in swim trunks with a Crocodile Dundee hat and a Duck Dynasty beard, because nobody, but NOBODY wants to see that. (Having seen that, I may never be the same again.)

I couldn’t make this stuff up, folks. It writes itself, so who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

every girl needs a greek chorus

a blog about hope

Category Archives: Family

Our Christmas Story

Thanksgiving Fantasy

Walking in My Shoes

The Condensed Version of Me

Colors

When She was Bad…

Fathers and Daughters

A Sweet Little Fishy Story

The Myth of Red Velvet Cake

Twins