Now & Then | every girl needs a greek chorus

February 3, 2016
by maggiex4 2 Comments

Thanks, Sadie Hawkins!

Sadie_Hawkins_Day Lookit that story o’ po’ liddle brown-headed, freckle-face Sadie Hawkins and her pappy who had t’ use a gun and a foot-race t’ git her a man ‘cuz ever’body knows a gal cain’t git her a man with brown hair and sunspots! [sound of head shaking]

Evidentally, ah’ve been-a goin’ ‘bout findin’ me a man all wrong, but it turns out now’s mah big chance t’ ketch me one, on account o’ tis Leap Year. Yessiree, Bob. Once in ev’ry foh years, on th’ twenny-nine o’ Febooary, th’ womens gits to chase after th’ mens. Yo’ see, if-n ah grabs one o’ ’em, ah gets t’ keep ‘im, and he’ll be mah husband. Uh-huh. [sound of rocks rattling in empty head]

Ah’m-a scratchin’ mah noggin’ cuz ah cain’t figger out how ahm-a gonna grab sumbuddy on th’ innernet. How do that work? Or do ah jes’ sit atta traffic light and jump outta mah car and grab the fuhst cutie pie ah sees? Ah needs me a strata-gee. Mebbe ah could sit at a fancy coffee joint and snare one. [sound of wheels squeaking in head]

Spinster?!!!! How times change!

Ah done tried this here idear when ah was in skool, and unlike that purdy big ole yeller-headed Daisy Mae who kept a-chasin’ after that lummox Li’l Abner, ah done caught Th’ Vet’narian. (Well, he wern’t no vet’narian then, jes’ a kid in mah soshiology class.) ‘Cuz ah ain’t had no fellers aksin’ me out, ah took a chance and aksed him to th’ “Spinster Dance.” [sound of gagging]

17-year old spinster looking for a date

Now ah finds mahself in a simian pradickyment, only ah’s a widder. Ah done tried that new-fangled innernet datin’ where mens mah age wastes mos’ o’ th’ time a-lookin’ fer skinny yunguns, and mens ol’ enuff t’ be mah pappy is a-lookin’ fer a nursemaid. Hmph! Go figger, on account o’ I shorely cain’t. What’s a gal t’ do? [sound of head scratching]

Ah’m a-thinkin’ that if-n it worked once, it mebbe could work twice, ‘specially now what it’s Leap Year and all. Ah’s goin’ t’ a shindig on Sadie Hawkins Day, Febooary twenny-nine, at an Eye-talian rest’raunt where unattached fellers laze about wit’ moonshine, so mebbe mah luck’ll change fer th’ bedder. [sound of cackling]

Boys, better start a-runnin’!

December 24, 2015
by maggiex4 2 Comments

Tastes like Christmas Spirit(s)

It’s Christmas Eve! And, for my family, that means three of the major fattening holiday food groups; a 1950s version of Beef Stroganoff served over canned chow mein noodles, 1960s Layered Green Salad, and My Grandma’s Boiled Custard. In my immediate family, I am the only one who knows how to make it, and, at least two weeks ago, My Mother, My Sister, and The Daughter started asking me, “You’re making the custard, aren’t you?” Yes, not to worry.

Never heard of Boiled Custard? It isn’t actually boiled, and, well, if you aren’t from Kentucky or Tennessee, let me explain.

My maternal grandmother was a tee-totaler, a hard-working woman who was uprooted from her hometown in (very dry, alcohol-wise) eastern Kentucky and moved to Detroit in the 1920s, where jobs were plentiful and generally safer than working in a coal mine. She brought with her a love of quilting and family and cooking. Having corroborated her stories of our heritage at Ancestry.com, I wonder which of her recipes trace back to our ancestors who came through the Cumberland Gap from Virginia and North Carolina into Kentucky in the late 18^th century. Most people have heard of chicken and rolled dumplings and cornbread (sugarless and made with white cornmeal, of course), hams cured with salt and vegetables cooked to death with every imaginable cured pork product, but outside of the area, few have heard of “boiled” custard.

Every Christmas Eve after my grandfather died, she came to our house to spend the night and to make boiled custard. This is not the custard that you might think of, baked in little cups in a bath of hot water. This custard was drinkable. And it was spiked. Spiked by a woman who did not drink alcohol. Ever. Except on Christmas Eve.

I suspect that it was originally made with good Kentucky bourbon, but, in the mid- 20^th century, in Detroit, it was made with my dad’s blended Canadian whiskey. Grandma would stand at the stove, beating sugar into eggs and milk in the top of a makeshift double boiler. As the mixture thickened, she would gesture for My Dad to add a little of the whiskey. She would stir it for a minute, then taste it, and, invariably, gesture for Daddy to pour in a little more. The process took several minutes, during which my tiny little tee-totaling Grandma consumed enough uncooked whiskey to bring a little extra Christmas cheer into her life.

When Grandma died in 1981, I decided that I needed to make it. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a recipe. I took some eggs, beat in some sugar, milk, and vanilla and used her double boiler. As the mixture cooked, I tasted it and added sugar. As it cooked, I stirred in the whiskey, as she did. When it was as thick as I remembered, I removed it from the heat. Alas, the eggs had over-cooked and curdled.

I tried it again and didn’t overcook it, but it still had a weird, lumpy texture. Over time, I learned to strain it after cooking. I measured the ingredients so that I could reproduce it accurately every year. Instead of whiskey, I tried Southern Comfort and dark rum. Eventually, I went to bourbon, a Kentucky bourbon, of course. Oh! And in my version, the bourbon goes in just before I remove the custard from the heat. It’s still hot, but most of the alcohol is retained. Unlike Grandma, I like a lot of Christmas cheer at the holidays.

Yes, we drank this as children, because, ostensibly, the alcohol had “burned off.” Tee-hee-hee! Naughty children, we never let on that it was potent. Of course, we were also children whose mothers rubbed our gums with whiskey when we were teething, so we were already ruined by the Demon Spirits. I don’t recommend my version for children because it isn’t nearly as benign as Grandma’s. Ladle some into a heat-proof measuring cup for the kiddies. Keep the good stuff for yourself.

Kentucky Boiled Custard makes a little over ½ gallon

Why did they cook it? Perhaps it was to ensure safety on the frontier. Salmonella can be killed at 145° F. Perhaps just to thicken it. Why didn’t they use cream? Who knows? Let me know, if you do.

Don’t get chintzy on the quality of the vanilla, because it adds to the flavor, significantly. I keep three different vanilla brands (plus vanilla beans and paste) in my over-stocked larder. One of the three is clear, artificial, and used in decorator’s icing, where the color is more crucial than the flavor.

You can speed up the cooking process by warming all but two cups of the milk. If you add hot milk to eggs, they will cook. Use a clean candy thermometer (I have a separate deep frying thermometer to avoid grease contamination). Technically, you can cook the mixture until it just coats the back of a spoon (you can see a trail when you run your finger through it), but I find that an imprecise way to cook and too “frontiersy”. It may have worked for Grandma, but it doesn’t always work for me.

This looks like a LOT of bourbon, but, consider that the recipe makes about 70-ounces. This translates into one ounce of bourbon for every 8-ounce cup of custard. Surely, you wouldn’t put less than a shot (1½ ounces) in a drink, would you? Why do you think Santa is so jolly when he leaves my house?

Note: If your double boiler is smaller than mine (which holds the entire ½ gallon), make it in two batches.

6 eggs, beaten until foamy

¾ cup granulated sugar

½ gallon whole milk (lower fat won’t do)

2 teaspoons real vanilla extract

1 cup bourbon

Freshly grated nutmeg

Whisk the sugar thoroughly into the eggs. Whisk in 2 cups of cold milk and pour into the top of a double boiler, sitting over simmering water. Whisk in remaining cold or warm milk. Stir constantly, until the mixture reaches 160°. Pour in the bourbon and stir until the mixture reaches 170°. Immediately remove from heat and pour into a heat-proof container (I use three, to speed up the cooling process) through a very fine sieve (I use a Chinois) or a strainer lined with cheesecloth, to remove any coagulated egg whites or yolk. Cover and refrigerate until cold. (It thickens as it cools, so don’t overcook it.) Uncover and whisk the mixture. Re-strain into serving container. (I save the plastic milk container so that I can shake it up.) Top each serving with a fresh grating of nutmeg.

Grandma’s 1930s double boiler fits snugly into my 1980s stock pot. In the photo at bottom right, you can see the coagulated egg remains strained through the Chinois.

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 28, 2015
by maggiex4 3 Comments

APHS Class of 1970

June 16, 1970

Dear APHS Classmates of 1970,

As you gather tonight to commemorate the 45 years since we graduated from high school, for a variety of reasons, I will be at my current home, 500 miles away. However, my heart will be with you! Part of it misses the trials and tribulations of learning about life in our middle class community outside of Detroit, and the other part has moved on. I have reached that time we used to talk about, “when I grow up.”

Our parents survived the Great Depression (“We didn’t know we were poor,” my mother still says) and atrocities during World War II that we, their children, are only now learning about. They didn’t complain or whine. They took advantage of the GI Bill and got on with life, and they taught us to do the same.

Our homes were modest, with entire families sharing one bathroom and two and three kids to a bedroom. We rode our bikes all over town without parental supervision (or helmets), entertained ourselves with chalk on the sidewalks, played Four Square in the street, walked to the nearest playground to throw a ball or swing or play tag, and even danced in the street at block parties.

When we wanted to talk to a friend, we stood outside their doors and called their names through the screen, which is what your mother did when she wanted you to come home. Of course, when the street lights came on, you knew you’d better get home or be in trouble.

We sat on the porch and read books from the library or played board games or cards. I had a girlfriend whose mother didn’t want her to play cards, so my mother would look the other way when we sat for hours on my porch, playing Old Maid, Go Fish, Rummy, Hearts, Pinochle, Euchre (google it), and even Poker.

Most of us attended church regularly, primarily at St. Francis Cabrini or AP United Presbyterian. Some of us straddled both religious communities. I, for one, will never forget standing up to the bullying Sister Rose of Lima in CCD class. [Irony of ironies, we were taught the “Baltimore Catechism,” and I now live in Baltimore, where they look at me like I have two heads when I tell them that Bob Seger played at our high school dances.] I was married by the Rev. Dr. Wanzer Brunelle of APUPC, as were several of you.

Everything in Detroit revolved around the auto industry. Some of our dads worked for one of the Big Three automakers. Some worked at one of the steel plants. My dad worked as a civilian for the Department of the Army, negotiating contracts for parts and then vehicles for the military; cars, jeeps, trucks, tanks, and, eventually, even the Humvee. The Veterinarian’s family ran a freight airline that shipped automotive parts around the world.

Some moms worked in the offices at the nearby Ford Motor Company or as bookkeepers for small tool-and-die makers. Some were nurses; some were teachers. Some of them were the original Rosie-the-Riveters, building airplanes during the war. Most of them were room mothers or worked with the PTA.

When I sing “June is Bustin’ Out all Over” from “Carousel” with the Deer Creek Chorale, I remember 1969, when the Concert Choir presented it during our junior year. I wasn’t in it, because, in those days, I chose to work backstage, building sets and doing makeup, aspiring to be a thespian (and I still have the certificate from Mr. Helms to prove it). I couldn’t have gotten cast as myself in any high school production, although I did get cast one time as a Munchkin in “The Wizard of Oz,” because I was short and had that crazy short haircut. But who knew I’d grow up to sing multiple times at Carnegie Hall, act, dance, direct, and work in performing arts management for 35 years and now write this wacky blog, relating how my no-nonsense upbringing serves me well, 63 years later?

When the Class of 1970 last gathered in August, 2010, The Veterinarian had committed to give a lecture at a veterinary conference in San Diego before the reunion date was set. Ever annoyingly conscientious (to me, anyway), he fulfilled his commitment, and we missed the 40-year reunion. One year later, he died. If I could tell you how he spent the years 1970-2011, you wouldn’t be surprised. The nice boy with the snakes and lizards and mice became a veterinarian known internationally for his expertise in avian medicine. He was greatly respected by his colleagues and loved by his clients.

Dozens of you, from whom I hadn’t heard since high school and even some since elementary school, contacted me on Facebook. Many of you maintained that electronic friendship and unknowingly gave me the courage to keep going through some really challenging times. I am grateful for your support.

As I told The Daughter, when she lamented her wallflower status in high school, if you peak in high school, you’re screwed. The information you learn, the people you meet, and the experiences you have stay with you for the rest of your life and propel you to greater things. I am who I am today because of Allen Park, Michigan. I like to think that I still haven’t peaked.

Have a wonderful time tonight! Give out hugs from me, and remember, peace is still what you make it!

Affectionately,

Suzanne (aka “Sue” — that’s another story)

P.S.: For my non-Spartan friends, this is the only day of the year that I’ll say “Go, Blue!”

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 29, 2015
by maggiex4 3 Comments

A Life’s Work

1979

Thirty-six years ago today, the Veterinarian and I took a big leap of faith and bought the Fallston Veterinary Clinic. We owned a car and a motorcycle, a sofa, a bed, wedding china and crystal, and a lot of books. We didn’t know anything about Baltimore and even less about Harford County, where the practice was located. The purchase price of $110,000, for the practice alone, was surreal.

At the time, it was an established practice in a ranch-style house that had been converted to a veterinary hospital. We moved into the former house’s finished basement. (That’s right. We lived in a basement for two years. Some of you can vouch for that.) People knocked on the front door at all hours of the day and night, but we were committed to making it a success.

I realized that we were not living in the neighborhood of my dreams within a few days. The nearest mall was anchored by Montgomery Wards at one end and E.J. Korvette’s at the other. Strong young woman that I was, I cried to him, “How long do we have to live here?”

“At least 20 years,” he replied, “or we’re going to be out a lot of money.”

Quickly, we realized that we were going to be a success. He brought new skills, charm, and compassion to a practice that had been struggling. I re-organized the business plan and the facility, because, in those days, the spouses of veterinarians, out of economic necessity, took an active role in making their spouse’s practices successful. We all had our own interests, but it was something that you did together for your family. In those days, veterinary medicine was no 9-5 job. It was considered an all-day, every day responsibility for conscientious owners.

1985

Within months, it was apparent that the building wasn’t suitable. When we couldn’t negotiate a deal to buy and extensively remodel it, we leased a smaller building down the road. With the help of my parents and friends, we gutted the interior, down to the cinder block walls, which was the easy part. During the day, the Veterinarian continued to work in the old building, where we were still paying rent. At night and on weekends, we worked on the interior of the new building, where we were also paying rent. We reframed the interior, hung and finished drywall, painted and wallpapered, hung a suspended ceiling upstairs and downstairs, and built two cinder block runs in the kennel. It took over six months of non-stop work. Only the wiring, plumbing, flooring, and phones were installed by professionals.

As the county grew, our caseload expanded, and we hired a second doctor and installed computerized records. As the Veterinarian established himself as an Avian specialist, it grew even more, and the little building couldn’t handle the third doctor that we hired.

Sure enough, in 1999, on the twentieth anniversary of our big leap, I asked him again, “Can we go now?” Instead, in 2000, we really went for broke and built a 6,000 square foot hospital on the same property. When the little building was torn down, we saved a piece of lumber from its framing that had been signed and dated by us and by my parents. It was re-dated and incorporated into the current structure. The new building was the fulfillment of our life’s dream and work.

2001

In 2011, with the Veterinarian’s unexpected death and a series of unfortunate events, the dream died for me. I have new dreams and new projects. As always, I am moving forward and take great memories and stories with me. In about two months, it will no longer be “ours” (the Daughter’s and mine). The practice will be in the good hands of people who share some of those memories, so I am content.

Many wonderful people and a lot of delightful pets have passed through the doors of all three buildings, and some of our current clients were on the books when we arrived in 1979. We’ve had employees who went on to veterinary school or to start their own practices. We’ve had employees who’ve worked for us for 30 years. I am grateful to everyone who put their trust in us and helped to fulfill our family’s dream of caring for your family members and for animals in need, so who am I to complain? Life is still 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!

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 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.

April 7, 2015
by maggiex4 2 Comments

Feelin’ Crabby

Chesapeake Swimmer

How ‘bout dem O’s, hon? Baseball season started this week, and here, in Baltimore, it’s also the start of crab season, the crustacean, not the grass, although that is starting up, too, after a ghastly frigid winter.

Growing up in Michigan, my knowledge of fresh seafood was limited to fried lake perch and steelhead trout, the latter of which, by the way, is better than any salmon you’ll find in Alaska or Scotland. Occasionally, you’d get frozen shrimp or scallops or, in the very best restaurants, you’d find a tank of cold water lobsters. In the 70s, King crab and snow crab legs started showing up on seafood buffets, but the Veterinarian, a Virginia native, used to wax poetic about blue crabs, of which I’d never heard.

“Were they sweet?” I asked. Yes. “Did you swish them around in butter?” No. He told me they were steamed with a salty, spicy coating, unless they were soft, when they were gently sautéed in butter. I couldn’t grasp what he was talking about.

One summer, when we were still in college, we made a car trip to Williamsburg, Virginia to visit his family. We ate all the local specialties, Smithfield ham and ham biscuits and peanut soup and, heaven forbid, cornbread loaded with sugar (the great debate of our marriage — sugar or no sugar in the cornbread). Still, he was on a quest for crabs, which took us down the Colonial Parkway toward Yorktown, that flat bit of marshland where the British general, Charles, 1^st Marquess of Cornwallis, surrendered King George III’s army to General George Washington, ending the war for independence.

The Veterinarian had childhood memories of a seafood restaurant called Nick’s Seafood Pavilion. It was a quirkily elegant place of larger-than-life copies of Classical art and a vast menu of everything briny. Not recognizing most of what I saw, I safely ordered the fried scallops. My husband was beyond excited to have his fondest dreams come true; soft shell crabs were on the menu. I knew he liked all manner of unusual food (he was the first person that I ever saw eat a whole lobster, and he ate really stinky cheese before stinky cheese was fashionable), but I had no idea what to expect.

Our waitress brought me a beautiful platter of plump, delicately breaded and fried scallops. I was oohing and aahing over them, when I was abruptly distracted by the platter she set in front of the Veterinarian. It contained what I thought were two enormous insects that had been breaded and sautéed, a plate full of spindly legs.

“Oh, man!” he beamed.

“What happens now?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Where’s the shell? How do you get the meat out?”

“The shells are soft, so you just cut them up and eat them.” He picked up his knife and fork and started slicing through the delicate little body. “As they grow, they shed their shells periodically, which makes them soft and vulnerable but really tasty.”

“Oh, dear God,” I mumbled and stared at my plate. I couldn’t even watch the carnage. “If those were crawling on land, people would be swatting them.”

“You want to try one?” I looked up to see a spindly, battered leg hanging from his lower lip like a cigarette.

“Of course, not! That’s disgusting!”

But a more disgusting consumption of soft shell crabs was yet to come. Not long after we moved to Maryland, we went to lunch at a little restaurant on the Chesapeake Bay, where he ordered a soft shell crab sandwich, which is nothing more than a sautéed crab on lettuce and tomato, between two slices of white bread slathered with mayo. And, yes, the legs hang out of the crusts of the bread, and you eat the whole thing. Well, I didn’t, but he did, and he even taught the Daughter, who hails from Colorado (long story), to enjoy them.

In Maryland, eating steamed crabs has its own etiquette. Newspaper or brown butcher paper is spread on a table, usually outdoors. The crabs are steamed by the bushel-full in a crust of Old Bay spice (a blend primarily of salt, red pepper, celery salt, black pepper, garlic salt, white pepper, onion salt, paprika, and more salt) and dumped on the table, with their bright red bodies and legs and shriveled up black eyes staring at you. Then, diners take sharp knives and wooden mallets to pry open the shell, crack open the legs and claws. They scrape off faces (of the crabs, not the people) and the lungs and all that other slimy-looking gunk that only an experienced Marylander recognizes. The process takes hours. No kidding. Hours. You can sit down at 1 in the afternoon and still be sitting there at 8 in the evening.

Maryland Heaven

Since I prefer not to dismember my food before eating, I am always the wet blanket at a crab feast for hours, a social problem that many transplants to Maryland never get over. If I’m lucky, there will be Silver Queen corn dripping in butter, maybe saltines, and, if the stars are aligned, there might be Maryland crab soup, or, if I’ve been living right, a crab cake or two. If I can manage to look really pathetic, someone will pass me a lump of crabmeat, the prized nugget on the back of a crab. There are only two per crab, so I must wait patiently for hours. No one likes to give up their lumps. Basically, I sit there for hours watching people play Whack-a-Crab for hours. Did I mention how long it takes?

Traditionally, the Baltimoreans (not to be confused with the Baltimorons) crack open a Natty Boh (or something from my friends at Heavy Seas) to kill all that salt in the Old Bay and follow it all up with Berger cookies for dessert. Any crabs that aren’t eaten are picked over for soup or crab cakes the next day.

You see, I love blue crab meat. There is nothing better, but I simply cannot pick crabs by pulling off their spindly legs and ripping open their shells with my bare hands. All through the long, cold winter, I dream about Crab Cakes (broiled, not fried, for me), Crab Imperial, Hot Crab Dip, Crab and Smithfield Ham, Crab Balls (no, crabs don’t have them, but you can make them), Crab Claws, Crab-Stuffed Rockfish, Cream of Crab Soup, Maryland Crab Soup, and Crab Quiche. Now, if I can only understand the local fascination with lacrosse, I might become a true Baltimoron. I already make the best crab cake in Bawlmer, hon, so, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!

Maryland, My Maryland Crab Cakes

Crab cakes are controversial around here. Fried or broiled? Binding or not? Old Bay or not Old Bay? That’s the question. Well, if they’re Maryland crab cakes, I think they need just a tiny bit of Old Bay, but not so much that it overwhelms the sweet crabmeat. I broil mine, because it seems a shame to turn any crabmeat into dry crusty flakes. And, if you’re a genius cook, skip the binding. I am an experienced cook but no genius. I like a little soft bread crumbs to hold the thing together as it cooks, so it doesn’t ooze into a mess on the baking sheet or fall apart when you’re trying to plate them.

For a special treat, make a sauce by boiling down heavy cream to thicken it, and stir in a little prepared stone-ground mustard to taste. I like mine just slightly tangy, a perfect complement to the sweet little cakes. And fresh Silver Queen corn sweetens the deal as an accompaniment in the summer.

I’m sorry to say, if you can’t get fresh, blue crabmeat, the other stuff just doesn’t work. Also, gently pick through the crabmeat to remove all remnants of shell, cartilage, seaweed, or other unsavory looking items. Nothing worse than a mouthful of shell.

1 large egg

½ cup mayonnaise

1 tsp Old Bay seasoning

½ tsp ground pepper

1 tsp fresh lemon juice or dry vermouth

1 tsp Worcestershire sauce

1 tsp garlic powder

1 pound jumbo lump blue crabmeat, well-picked over

1 slice soft white bread, finely crumbed

Preheat regular oven to 400° or convection oven to 350°. Prepare a baking sheet with butter, cooking spray, parchment, or a silicone liner, and set aside.

In a large bowl, whisk egg until yolk and white are combined. Whisk in mayonnaise, Old Bay, pepper, lemon juice, Worcestershire, and garlic powder until smooth. Gently fold in crabmeat, taking care not to break up lumps. Sprinkle bread crumbs over the surface of the mixture and very gently fold in.

For dinner-sized servings, scoop crab mixture into six mounds on the baking sheet. Bake in preheated oven for 15 minutes or until lightly browned. If using a regular oven, you may need to run them under a broiler until lightly browned.

For cocktail-sized servings, scoop crab mixture into 12 mounds on the baking sheet. Reduce baking time to 10 minutes or until lightly browned.

Optional Sauce:

1 pint of heavy cream

2 teaspoons of coarsely-ground mustard (or to taste)

Heat heavy cream in medium-sized skillet until boiling and thickened. Stir in mustard and remove from heat. Spoon onto serving plates and top with crab cake and optional cooked, Silver Queen corn kernels and sugar snap peas.

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