Trifle with Fortunes

On M’s birthday In November, I got a recipe from the lovely yogini, and then gathered with another lovely yogini, whom I sometimes call Cake Boss, and we made what is quite possibly the yummiest cake ever. It weighed 11 pounds, and each of those pounds contained chocolate, sugar, cream, and other richness worthy of a 21st birthday.

So when a fund raising dessert event came along recently, I thought I should make that very cake.   I didn’t have Cake Boss to help, and probably due to this, the cake, all three layers of it, got stuck to all three pans.  With the first layer, I thought, meh, it doesn’t really matter -- I can fill in the gaps with frosting.  So I frosted it with rich chocolate creamy buttery goo and used raspberries to fill in the deeper canyons.  

When I got to the second layer, also stuck to the pan, I again solved it with frosting and berries.  By the third layer, this was just the way I did business.  I was accustomed to solving problems in this manner. In fact, I was feeling cocky, like, bring it on, world.  There isn’t a problem that can’t be solved right here, right now, with frosting and rasperries.  I squished the crumbs out of the bottom of the pan and pressed them onto the place where I had hoped the cake would be, and began to frost this loosely smushed together collection of crumbs.  I wanted it to look festive.  Not to stray from the topic, but this reminds just the tiniest bit of my life. I won’t go into that here, though. 

Note how I've carefully used parchment paper around the base
of the cake to keep the plate free of crumbs.   

Anyway, you know how it goes when you do that smoosh thing on unconsolidated cake bits.  I’m not a real physicist, but there’s something about the way most objects are strongly attracted to the butter and cream in frosting that makes this procedure fail.  The crumbs follow the frosting everywhere, leaving air in the space where there was formerly cake.  For some reason, this triggered a major laughing fit where I couldn’t breathe.  That’s pretty rare for me, the laugh-until-you-can’t-breathe-when-home-alone thing.  (I say that just so you know.  I’m not like that.  I’m not that person you see outside the bus window, standing alone on the corner, laughing.)  I was laughing because I had a flashback to another time when I used the same unsuccessful strategy.

My kids were little, young enough so that R. still took naps.  M. and I decided to make Christmas cookies for our new neighbors during his nap one day.  The nap is only mentioned because it helps you understand the urgent conditions we were working under.  At any moment, a cry from R. would mean we'd be done cooking.  I still had hope for friendship and shared bowls of soup with these neighbors, because it was before they cut down the tree that I planted on the day we moved into this house, and before they got that half cat/half cougar pet that strikes fear in all of us, and causes the UPS man to deliver their packages to my house because he’s too chicken to get out of the truck. Yes, it was before all that.

I wanted to have a really special plate of treats, the kind that marks the beginning of a long neighborly thing.  We made brownies, and then tried to create the round buttery white balls that you only see at Christmas time.  We mixed the ingredients, rolled them into eyeball-sized globes, and put them in the oven to bake, and they did what any scientist could have predicted.  Butter melts at high temperatures, so they flattened onto the pan, and devolved into a thin crispy mid-western landscape of butter, nuts, and sugar.

Some people would have tossed them, but M. and I decided, hey, it still contains all the proper ingredients.  Is it a problem if we form them into the balls again after they’ve been cooked?  No, of course not.   So we scrunched the melted, semi-burned buttery mash into sweet orbs of goodness, rolled them in powdered sugar, made our cheerful little plate, and delivered them next door.  It wasn’t until later that evening that I thought back on it and realized that it was the wrong thing to do.  The cookies didn’t look at all like something shouldn’t be given as a gift to a near stranger.  M. and I seemed to realize it at the same time, which is a little pathetic because she was about four and I was about 34, and I'm guessing that the epiphany should have come to me way before it came to her, which was part of the reason for my own hysterical laughter.  At any rate, it became one of those things where just the mention of it could make us laugh uncontrollably.  A week or so later, I got a note from the neighbor saying, “The brownies were delicious,” confirming my concerns.  And then the rest happened – the tree, the angry cat, etc.,  So maybe I started it.

But back to this cake.  I hunted down Cake Boss, because I know where she can be found on Saturday mornings.  “Trifle,” she said. And she’s the Cake Boss, so that's what I did.  I chopped the cake into chunks, layered it with whipped cream and more frosting, dressed it up with raspberries, and our lowly little cake fetched a goodly sum.  Cake Boss is like that.  She sees the potential goodness in everything, and teaches me that it's all about reframing things, or in this case, refrosting them.  

I like to claim that the cake fetched $195, but really, it was on a team of cakes that earned about $1,200.  If you’re not a very accomplished baker, it’s good to do the cake auction as a team sport, and try to get on a team with delicious chocolate mousse and lemon meringue pie and other yummy things.

"This delicious trifle is for people who either are joyful, or wish they were.  It’s a cake about making the best of the large and small disasters that come into your life, and not just making them into lesser disasters, but into something magnificent.  This is the cake that represents how life is really much better after the problem than you ever knew it could be beforehand.  It’s full of fine quality chocolate from a far away land, and butter, and raspberries, and cream.  Not only that, but this cake comes with a story, and 10 table fortunes, one for each of your dining companions.  So if you ever were a child, have an inner child, or have heard the word child, you should probably contribute generously to claim this cake.  Although the name says trifle, think not about sad English sponge cake soaked in sherry, but rather, about a highly-evolved, multi-stage culinary event.  Something you wouldn’t, or let’s say, couldn’t even begin to duplicate at home."

Boobs and broccoli

Yesterday, I listened to rantings from protesters outside of the Supreme Court building on the radio, and they sounded crazy.  “If we let Obama make us buy health insurance, where’s it going to end?  Next thing you know, he’ll make everyone buy a Chevy Volt.”  

 “Heh, crazy talk from the whacko fringe,” I thought. 

Today, I heard a similar thing on NPR, but sadly, it was Antonin Scalia making the argument. (Substitute broccoli for Chevy Volt, and it’s the same frothing, three-cornered hat, 'don't tread on me' stuff.)  Yes, that Scalia, the one who sits on the highest court in the land.  Not that I’ve ever been a fan of his, but still…  (I just spent a while on the internet trying to learn the name of that gesture that he used on the press, the one with curled fingers under the chin that suddenly become unfurled.  Since the gesture had no name, I decided not to write about it, but that’s the classy justice we’re dealing with.)  

I like it better when the lawyers dress the ridiculousness up in intelligent-sounding, confusing arguments, like “jurisprudence blah blah blah the courts recognize blah blah blah doctrine blah blah blah judicial extension of doctrine blah blah blah based on so and so v. so and so. It would be easier to stomach,  because our attention wanders with the mention of the word, “jurisprudence.” Broccoli, on the other hand, we understand.  We pay attention when Nina Totenberg’s report involves a common vegetable.

Because here's the deal: if you need broccoli and you don’t have it, you either go buy some, or do without.  Either way, it won’t lead to financial ruin for you, and it won’t create a strain on the other broccoli eaters.  People don’t show up in the emergency room because that was the only way they could obtain broccoli.

Health care, on the other hand, isn’t like that.  You get a terrible disease while uninsured, and ome combination of four things happen:  you receive sub-standard care, you suffer financial ruin, care providers lose money, and cost goes up for insured.  Why does trying to fix this problem promote such a vitriolic response?  

Not to mention preventative care.  Today, I went to the mammogram trailer, which by the way, was parked in front of a movie theater in Redmond.  The kindly woman flattened my boobs into a vast, single-cell-thick pancake through an excruciating maneuver that involves large pieces of Plexiglas, a vice, and a “gown” (nothing you’d wear to a ball).  Anyway, this procedure isn’t something one could access in the emergency room. “Emergency! I haven’t had a mammogram in 2 years!” 

Anyway, I’m not going to go into a long rant about the whole health care thing, because you guys already know all of that, but really, comparing the requirement to carry health insurance to buying broccoli?   It seems awkward.  

In which Joey drives a car

A few weird things that have happened this week:

I saw Joey driving while I was walking.  He seemed excited about the change-up, and waved gladly at me.  I, on the other hand wasn't as thrilled.  I got a whiff of how it might go down after my job ends.  I envisioned myself hitchhiking to town for a drink or 17 first thing in the morning, and Joey giving me a ride.  That, and Joey driving at all is a scary thought.

Speaking of drinking in the morning, here's the second thing:  I took R. out to breakfast at the Buzz Inn, where we seemed to be the only people drinking coffee.  Everyone else had beer or other tawny liquids adorned with swizzle sticks.  At about 9 am on a weekday.  R. and I watched Nascar on t.v., because it was there.   I guess  any behavior can seem normal if you surround yourself with people doing that same thing.  I'm alternately alarmed and comforted by this.

With any luck, I'll complete a cake and a story today, and maybe share that.

Spring-o-scopes

Aries (3/21 – 4/19):  Okay, every time I see a picture of Anne Romney, I think yeesh, she looks like the mean back-stabber on an overly-dramatic soap opera.  Then I saw this picture of her in 1964, and all I can say, Aries, is what happened?  I wish I had the stomach to really study photos of her over time and overlay them on a timeline of her life, because yikes.  there must have been a particular food consumed or something.  Luckily, Aries, you remain young and lovely, so don't worry your pretty head about the fact that this isn't a real horoscope.  Just don't let a genuine smile turn into something horrible.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20): In the freaky news department, Nokia has patented a tattoo that acts as a receiver for text messages.  Okay, not that I'm cheap, but how many different cell phones have you had in the past few years?  Wait, I know, you're thinking, huh?  Nokia wants to turn me into a cyborg, and she's worried about replacing the tattoo?  Anyway, Taurus, nothing lasts forever, and thankfully, that holds for this week, which is long.  The first day will seem like three days, and then the second day will seem like one long day. . . I think my favorite quote from The Jerk is this:

I know we've only known each other four weeks and three days, but to me it seems like nine weeks and five days. The first day seemed like a week and the second day seemed like five days. And the third day seemed like a week again and the fourth day seemed like eight days. And the fifth day you went to see your mother and that seemed just like a day, and then you came back and later on the sixth day, in the evening, when we saw each other, that started seeming like two days, so in the evening it seemed like two days spilling over into the next day and that started seeming like four days, so at the end of the sixth day on into the seventh day, it seemed like a total of five days. 

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21):  Does it feel like everything is happening at once?  Or at least, two things are happening at the very same time, and there's one thing you think you should do, and one thing you want to do, and the one you want to do should make you feel so much better that it might be worth feeling bad about not doing the one you should do, but then again, it's hard to say?  This can be expressed in an equation:

W - G > S + B

where W = what you want to do
          G = guilt
          S = what you should do
          B = Bonus points,  (usually equal to zero, except to the person who accrues them.)

Yay!!


Cancer 6/22 – 7/21:  Last week I got a beautiful envelope in the mail, and inside it was a beautiful poem, and it all came from Madame Librarian, and pretty much made all of last week, and on into part of this week.  It makes me wish I were the sort who would send lovely poems in hand-decorated envelopes to my friends and relations, but alas.  This is as close as it comes.


Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  I've been trying a little harder to open my heart center to Pinterest, because I know some of you lovely people are fans so I don't want to get all Arizona about it.  I asked N. the other day, "Hey, what do you think of Pinterest?"

"Is that on the Internet," was his predictable reply.

So I started explaining from scratch -- actually, before scratch.  "So, N., you could have a Pinterest page, and tag a fishing pole that you like."  (N. is a lot happier if fishing is in the conversation.)  "Then, other people who like that same fishing pole might also tag it, and I guess you'd see that they liked that pole too.  Maybe you'd make new fishing buddies."

"Or maybe I'd just make some new 'like the same fishing pole as me' random people on the internet."

This is possible, yes.  But is there a downside to that, Leo?

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):   One time I tried opening my heart center to Gogol Bordello, and for a while it worked.  I was completely joyful listening to gypsy punk.  Then I started to feel like it was too much punk and not enough gypsy.  Virgo, rejoice.  Your week will be so full of gypsy that it will feel begin like you're sleeping in a tent and reading palms for a living.  Enjoy it while it lasts.  


Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  Oh Libra.  That was some yummy looking food you made. This week, amidst all the swirling, be thankful you aren't Mitt Romney's dog, Beau, who was lashed to the top of the station wagon for that 12-hour drive.  Or that monkey who went to space.  (Does it seem like I know way too much about the Romneys?  Please forgive me.)


Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  My dear Scorpio, it's been a long, dark winter, and you should get out of here  and go to Hawaii.  I'm serious.  Send me a post card! Or at least a text message.


Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21): Rick Santorum is praying for Dan Savage.  Dan Savage says, "Rick can pray for me. I'll gay for him. And we can call it even."  Sag, your week will be a little like that.  A little pray, a little gay.  Don't get bogged down in the details. Focus on the happy bits, gather them like confetti, and toss them back out there for someone who needs them.


Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  Today, I went to talk to my boss about who is going to take over a particular thing I'm working on, and somehow the word "posthumously" came up.  But it came out of my mouth in a way that was wrong, like post-humously, with a long "o".  Neither of us could really remember if it was a word, or what it was about.  He got all squinty, and said something like, "Now, is that the stuff you put on pita bread, or in the garden?"  Which was kind of funny because he had the wrong mix-up.  The actual mixup was about how it should have been "pahsthymously" but he was reverting back to that old standard, the hummous/humus confusion, which is what we do in the government, refocus on the mixup we know.  Oh, I just remembered what it was we were talking about.  Capricorn, this will happen to you all week long.  Remembering way too late to be interesting.  Just go with it. 


Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  Yeah, what it was that I remembered was why we were talking about post-humously.  Yes, we got on a little tangent about the mormon religion and the posthumous baptism of Anne Frank and Elvis, because it turns out that some big information will be revealed at work today.  Big.  Like the oracles!  I know!  I probably won't be able to write about it, but new religions will potentially be formed.  Anyway, back to the story.  Did other mothers pack up their children and a bucket of chicken to go to the Hill Cumorah pageant?  Is it wrong to go watch another person's religious ceremony as theater?  It was before the days of real special effects, so the thunder was pretty amazing and always woke me up, which reminds me of your week, Aquarius.  Your week will first put you to sleep, and then wake you directly up.  


Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  I've been writing suck-up-y e-mails lately, writing to people saying things like, "Hi!  You don't know me, but I have briefly met someone that you supervise three steps down the ladder, and seriously, you would totally like me!  You have a pancreas, and so do I.  You have molars in your mouth, and I find them in my sink.  So much in common, you and I.  You probably should hire me, because I think of myself as the sort of person who, plunked down into a work place, any workplace, would find something useful to do.  If someone needs a shot administered (or consumed!), sure, I could figure it out.  A report written or read?  Bring it on!  Need me to stand there wearing a 4G apparatus?  I'm on it.  I know!  You really shouldn't let this opportunity pass.  Let's do lunch, shall we?!!"


Pisces, it's all making me feel tired and a little shrill, so you really don't get too much of a horoscope.  I'm sorry.  

Does this 4G device look okay with my chicken costume?

Okay, it doesn't look like the bottle cap thing is going to work out, so I'm considering being a wireless hotspot.  I believe I have the requisite skill set.  If possible, I could combine that with wearing the chicken suit and dancing in front of a KFC, although I guess KFC isn't really the hot spot demographic.

Still thinking. . .

The first response

Hey Betsy,

Thanks for your feedback about our sayings and pictures on our bottle caps.  We currently have 40+ different caps out there – and are looking into some new sayings, so we’ll be sure to take yours into consideration.  As for the trash can, I’ve never thought of that until now, and it’s a pretty funny take on the Washington silhouette.  Keep ejoying the ESB!

Cheers, 

Marketing Communications Manager 


I guess I need to keep looking. . . 

First job effort

Dear Redhook,

I’ve been meaning to contact you about your bottle cap messages.  Thanks for doing that.  I know, the word, “but” doesn’t belong in a thank you or an apology, so without diminishing that genuine appreciation, could you make them a little more interesting?  

If you open an Inversion IPA, it says, “Bravely done.”  Now that’s a good message! The first time I got it, I was all, “Wow, I know!  That was brave, wasn’t it?” But then, I became disillusioned, getting the same message every single time. The bottle cap seemed to think that everyone else in the room was brave too.  It started to feel like the cap didn’t think I was special.  Redhook, it seemed disingenuous.  And no one wants to be sucked up to by a freakin’ bottle cap.

You guys, on the other hand, offer variety in your bottle cap messages, which is good.  But as a reader, and I say that because I’m a person who read other things besides your bottle caps – like tea bags, speed limit signs, and the New York Times, for example.  Oh, and this really long book called The Meaning of Night. Seriously, it is one long book. (This is the part of the letter, in case it’s escaped your notice, where I establish my credentials.) Anyway, I feel compelled to let you know that it’s very disappointing to just get that forecaster guy.  Or, for that matter, any silhouette.  We want words, Redhook.

I was at a party recently, opened an ESB, and got the silhouette of Washington State.  Here’s the thing: a few of us thought it was a trash can.  I know.  I’m not proud of that.  Other people knew instinctively that it was a state, but they just weren’t sure which one.  After way too long, we identified it as the state we all live in.  Make fun of us all you like, but hey, we’re your customers.  Write for your audience, they always say.

Which brings me to my point.  I think you may want to hire me to write bottle cap sayings. Here’s a free one, just so you can get as excited as I am about this project: 

"Let the magic begin"

Even if you don’t want to hire me in this capacity, please just put that on some ESB’s.  It would truly make the world a better place.  

Sincerely,

Betsy