Toxicodendron diversilobum

      In the world of Odyssey of the Mind, the most prized achievement a team can earn is called the Ranatra fusca, named after the scientific term for the common water skater.  This honor is not always awarded.  It is reserved for an outstanding performance demonstrating unparalleled use of imagination and/or perseverance in the face of insurmountable odds.  As an OM judge, years ago, I was gratified when the team I nominated for the Ranatra fusca received a standing ovation at the tournament’s awards celebration.

     Toxicodendron diversilobum, commonly known as western poison oak, is the only other scientific name I know.  Neither the term nor the plant earns any such accolades.  Especially not from Ken and me.  Between us, we have spent the past three-plus weeks battling the dread rash and itch after an ill-fated decision to take our Lab hiking at Lower Scott’s Flat Lake.  What can I say?  The weather between Christmas and New Year’s was so mild and we’d been wanting to visit the area….

 

     I’ve always been susceptible to poison oak.  My family moved next to an open space area teeming with the weed-like bushes during my sophomore year of  high school.  Our cat chose to spend his days doing whatever it is outdoor cats do, in and under those dusty plants.  Petting the cat transferred oils to my skin.  My yearbook picture attests to a year of endless rash.  Eventually, I developed some temporary level of immunity.

 

     Temporary.  That would be the operative word here.

 

     In the fall, I have a fighting chance of recognizing (and avoiding) the crimson, three-leaved clusters of poison oak.  Even the green foliage common in summer sometimes raises subconscious red flags within my dense skull.  But, how was I supposed to know the deciduous, barren twigs of winter – which are indistinguishable from every other dead-looking twig - are at least as toxic, if not more so, than their dear-departed leaves?

 

 

      Somehow, maladies always worsen as weekends approach.  Apparently, fevers (or in this case, rashes) are capable of tracking time.  By late afternoon on a Friday, I was frantic.  The incessant itch actually made coherent thought difficult.  Standing still was a challenge, breaths came in gasps.  My doc rewarded me with a cortisone shot in the butt, promising relief by Saturday morning.

She lied.

 

     Saturday night I was a certifiable.  Unable to lie still in bed, I decided to read until my eyes grew too heavy for any rash to pry them open.  The Saint of Florenville, A Love Story, by Alfred Garrotto, rescued me.  My friend Al’s remarkable prose and unique plot distracted both mind and body until, at 5:00 a.m., I finally fell into a deep, if short-lived, sleep.

     Frequent doses of Benadryl, repeated applications of various lotions and ointments, oatmeal bathes and every home-remedy suggested by friends kept me nearly sane until Monday morning.  The internist’s receptionist referred me to a dermatologist’s office.  The well-meaning but useless staff there was unwilling to fit me into the physician or his assistant’s schedule until Tuesday afternoon.

 

      “You don’t understand,” I pleaded.  “My heart is racing.  I can’t think.  I haven’t slept for two nights.”

 

     “Do you need to go to Emergency?” the unsympathetic voice at the far end of the line intoned.

 

     “How about I bring a book and camp out in your waiting room?” I suggested.  “That way, if anyone cancels an appointment you can slip me in.”

 

     Silence, then, “We don’t do that.”

Large, swollen patches of my back resembled angry splotches of burning tomato soup.  Ken had to drive me to my appointment the next day because I would’ve been a hazard behind the wheel.  The skeptical PA looked at my rash from a distance.  She informed me it is impossible to get poison oak without coming into direct contact with the plant or the oil.  Either I had been rolling around naked in the woods, or my dog had surreptitiously rolled in my sheets.

 

     Naked outside in December?  Me?  I wear long johns every waking hour of every day from early November through April.  And, as spoiled, er, loved as our canine is, Shadow isn’t allowed on our bed.  I took my prescription for a cortisone-laced topical solution to the pharmacy, and muttered socially unacceptable thoughts as I paced the aisles waiting for the salve of salvation.

 

     Two days later, the mutilated tube writhed, squeezed beyond recognition and empty, on my bathroom counter.  An agent for my insurance carrier explained she couldn’t possibly authorize a refill until ten days from the original purchase date.  My Benadryl-crazed mind considered mailing her a gift wrapped box of poison oak twigs.

 

     Ken decided bathing the dog, just in case her fur still bore residual oil, would be a wise move.  As always, our bashful girl buried her face in his armpit and leaned against his reassuring chest as he lathered her.  His shirt was sodden by the time he lifted Shadow from the tub.

 

     A week had passed.  Friday afternoon found me seated at the computer searching the internet for ways to avoid future adventures in The Land of Poison Oak.  Ken read the screen over my shoulder, then reached a bared arm around for me to see.

 

     “Does this look,” he asked, “like poison oak to you?”

 

      I plied him with Benadryl and drove him to his doctor’s office for a posterior injection and his own prescription which could be filled without delay.  The dog is clean.  The house is filled with empathy.  The Saint of Florenville was once again required reading.

 

     Toxicodendron diversilobum.  English translation:  Toxic diversion resulting in sore bum.

 

 

 

Welcome, 2012

The new year has finally arrived, and not a moment too soon for the new me.    This year, my cup will be at least half-full if not runneth-ing over at all times.  This year, I’m expecting great things, good times, and lots of chocolate.  This year, I’m going to be one of those people Dad referred to when he’d say, “She’s so happy, she wouldn’t say ‘sh*t’ if she stepped in it.”

Why?  Why not!  The year’s already off to a good start.

     On New Year’s Eve, my generous friend surprised me with extra-large IKEA chocolate bars and an Amaryllis bulb kit.  I’d neglected to make any resolutions — not for a lack of areas in need of improvement, mind you – so right then and there I promised myself I’d make sure those king-sized treats didn’t get stale and the hard-to-spell, easy-to-grow, soon-to-be-flowers would be potted asap.

Done and done!  My resolutions have been made, and kept, and it’s only the second day of the year.  Woo-hoo.  I get to be myold, unimproved self for the next 363 mornings, afternoons and evenings.  Guilt-free.  Way to go.

Yesterday, neighbors invited Ken and me to join them on a road trip to Disneyland later this month.  I’m such a huge D-land fan, I still have the mouse ears from my first ever visit to the magic kingdom in the 1950s.  My last stroll over the drawbridge to Sleeping Beauty’s Castle was in November, 1997.   I need a m-i-c-k-e-y- m-o-u-s-e fix.

1997.  That was the year Mom and I drove to SoCal to see my youngest son and his high school marching band perform in the daily Main Street parade.  The kids’ chaperones told us the parade would start by Small World and proceed to the park’s main gate.  Twenty minutes ahead of time, we ladies found the perfect vantage point and settled in.  Ten minutes ahead of time, efficient park employees blocked off the parade route.  Expectations and excitement bubbled up within me.  Five minutes ahead of time, other parade watchers lined the sidewalks behind us, eyeing our position with envy.  The clock ticked, the loudspeakers buzzed, and a booming voice announced, “Please join me in welcoming the Monte Vista High School marching band from Danville, California, stepping off now at the main gate.”

Wait, what?  No, not main gate.  Small World!

I grabbed Mom’s hand.  We hurdled over the blockades and sprinted along the empty street toward main gate, ignoring official commands to move to the now-packed sidewalk.  By the time we met up with my son and his peers, the band had finished playing THEIR ONE PIECE, and were double-time marching to the drummers’ cadence.  I barely had a chance to wave as the familiar uniforms blurred past us.  Taking a picture was out of the question.  Not exactly the Disney-esque moment I’d envisioned.

But, now I’m heading south again.  And I hear there’s a whole new amusement park to see where the parking lot used to be.  I can’t wait.  My black plastic ears and felt cap are at the ready, my walking shoes are broken in, and I’m planning on balmy January weather.   Yesterday I asked myself, ”What could possibly top this?”

     Today a catalog of spring course offerings for the local community college toppled out of my folded newspaper.  And there, right on the cover, DANCE was featured.  Now, that might not seem like a big deal.  But it is!  Year’s ago, Ken and I radiated tension every time we found ourselves where people were dancing.  I wanted to dance, he preferred to watch.  Feel the tension?  Finally, we made a deal:  I would cease pouting and prodding because we weren’t dancing; he promised to take dancing lessons if/when one of our sons was on the cusp of getting married with dancing planned during the reception.  Voila!  The wedding is set for June.  The search for a DJ has begun.  And the completed class registration form is in the mail.

I love 2012.

Swedish Cardamom Bread

I’ve never seen the job description for “Grandmother,” but I imagine it reads something like:  The Grandmother (henceforth referred to as Granny, Grandma, Nana, Nona, Gigi, and/or Moo) will, preferably, love, but at the bare minimum like all children born to her children, step-children, foster children and assorted waifs.  Of course, there are exceptions to everything.  Swedish cardamom bread is both the reason I believe my Grandma Larson liked me and the reason I’m not so sure.

Every year, my grandmother came to spend Christmas day with her son (my father) and his family (Mom, my brother, and me).  And every year she arrived carrying a loaf of homemade cardamom bread.  The offering only appeared on December 25th, and there was always only the one loaf.  My  brain formed a Pavlovian response to the pungent smell of cardamom on Christmas.  To this day, I salivate at the sound of Christmas bells.

I really liked cardamom bread.  So much so, one summer when I was about thirteen and knew absolutely nothing about baking bread, I asked Grandma Larson for the recipe.  She seemed pleased at my interest and wrote down the amounts of each ingredient on a scrap of paper.  A note on the back told me how long to cook the dough, and at what temperature.  So, she must have liked me, right?

I’d mastered Snickerdoodles and Toll House cookies.  Knowing no better, I assumed the same basic process worked for baking bread, too.  Wrong!

And that’s why there’s this tiny, itsy-bitsy suspicion lurking in the back of my mind.  If my grandmother really liked me, wouldn’t she have at least alluded to the need to knead and the requisite rising time?  I’d like to give her the benefit of the doubt.  Maybe baking bread was akin to breathing for her and she simply couldn’t imagine anyone not knowing how.  Maybe.  All I know is the first time I tried making cardamom bread I ended up with petrified cardamom logs.  No, really.  Jaw-breaker hard.  Dull the knife blade hard.  My second attempt was no better.

Luckily, I filed the recipe away until, years later, I had learned how to make bread from a cook book.  Novel concept, eh?  At any rate, when the time was right I succeeded in making mouth-watering, dentally-sound cardamom bread for my husband and sons.  With growing confidence, I even supplied my father who had not, by then, had a loaf for many years.

Anyhow, I’m going to share the family recipe with you.   And, I’m also going to explain how to make bread.  There it is.  My 2011 Christmas gift to the world — or at least to the three of you who read my blog.  Enjoy!

Swedish Cardamom Bread – makes 2 loaves

7-1/2 C Unbleached all-purpose flour                              1/2 tsp Salt

2-1/2 C Milk, divided                                                          1/2 C Butter

2 Packages yeast (1-1/2 T)                                                 15 Cardamom seeds, shelled and pounded

1 C Sugar

Cardamom can be purchased in powder form but don’t waste your money.  The powder has almost no aroma and even less flavor.  Instead, invest in a jar of whole cardamom seeds.  Cut into the side of the hard hull with a paring knife.  The shell will split allowing you to remove the tiny kernels within.  Discard the shells.  Pile the kernels near the center of a clean piece of fabric.  Fold the fabric over the kernels and beat the heck out of them with a kitchen mallet — or if you don’t have one, a hammer swiped from the garage works nicely.

This photo shows the whole seeds, the empty hulls, the tiny kernels, and the powdered cardamom.  15 seeds will produce about 3/4 of a teaspoon of powder.  I’ve used the same bit of white fabric for years, storing it in a baggie attached to the recipe.

Heat 1/2 C of the milk 20-30 seconds on high in your microwave (until warm but not hot).  Pour the milk into a food processor equipped with a bread hook.  Sprinkle yeast over the milk.  The yeast will soften somewhat as you heat the remaining milk and chunked cube of butter for about 90 seconds on high in the microwave (again, until warm but not hot).  The butter does not need to melt completely.

While the milk is being nuked, add the sugar, salt, cardamom and 3 C of flour to the yeast mixture.  Slowly add the warm milk/butter combination through the food processor’s feed tube.  Process until well blended, scraping the sides of the bowl as needed.  Add the remaining flour and process until the machine stalls.  (Seven-and-one-half cups is a huge amount of flour.  Unless you have a commercial size processor, your machine will stall.)  Pour the dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead until smooth and elastic ( 1-2 minutes). Use the heels of your hands to push the dough firmly down and away from you.  Then use your fingertips to pull the dough back toward you.  Continue this motion, turning the dough every few strokes.  The point of kneading is to fully mix the dough until the consistency is the same throughout.  The kneading is done when the dough comes together in a ball.

Place the dough ball in a large, oiled bowl.  Turn the dough to coat the entire surface with a thin layer of oil.  Cover the bowl with a dish towel to hold in the warmth and moisture and leave it in a warm place to rise.  (I use the oven, preheated for about 15 seconds and then turned off.)  Allow the dough to double in bulk, which takes about 45 minutes.

When the dough has doubled, if you gently push two fingers into the dough, it will hold the impression.

Gently roll the dough out of the bowl onto a floured surface.  Cut the ball in half.  Each half will then be cut into five pieces — three of equal size and two slightly smaller.  Using the palms of your hands, start at the center of one of the larger pieces and gently roll your hands back-and-forth, working toward the ends of the dough piece.  Repeat until the dough forms a rope about 18″ long.  Lay the rope lengthwise on a greased baking sheet.  Repeat with the other two large pieces.  Braid the three ropes together, tucking the ends under so the braid won’t come undone.  Make ropes out of the two smaller dough pieces and twist them together.  Lay this twist on top of the braid, again tucking the ends under the loaf.  Repeat with the second half of the dough to form a second loaf.

Cover the loaves with a dish towel and leave in a warm place to rise for 30 minutes.

Mix an egg with one teaspoon of water.  Brush this egg wash over the loaves, then place the baking sheet in the lower third of an oven preheated to 375 degrees.  Bake 30 minutes.  Remove the beautiful golden-brown loaves to a rack to cool.

Grandma’s recipe makes a sweet bread — remember that cup of sugar?  It’s terrific toasted, spread with butter, dipped in coffee or tea.  I doubt you’re going to enjoy ham sandwiches made with cardamom bread.  It’s probably not a good accompaniment for dinner, either.  But I can tell you with the assurance that only comes from experience, cardamom bread isn’t just for Christmas anymore.

Herry Birgivingmas

    

The Brown Brothers

     Concerns about how often I’d get to enjoy my sons all in one place at the same time was a major issue when Ken and I moved 120-ish miles from Alamo to Nevada City.  My fears have proven to be well founded.  The guys seem to believe I now live in the equivalent of a foreign country — somewhere so far away, travel must involve time zones and jet lag. 

     Rather than getting together for every occasion that comes along, our family now compacts the festivities into rare, way-too-short visits that involve an overnight stay.  Hence our Herry Birgvingmas celebration this past December third and fourth. 

     What you need to know:

     1) Happy + Merry = Herry

     2) Birthday + Thanksgiving + Christmas = Birgivingmas 

     Birgivingmas was so successful, and is such fun to say, I expect we’ll repeat the event in coming years.  Many favorite holiday traditions were incorporated (like the fragrant Swedish Cardamom Bread recipe my grandmother prepared when I was a child, and our sons’ recent contribution to Christmas revelry, Jaegermeister).  Traditions we never liked anyway were ignored (like singing the Happy Birthday song off-key as melting candles make a mess of whipped frosting).  Gifts changed hands, dogs played, laughter filled the house, and I cried when the gang left.  What a great Birgivingmas!

     On December fifth, I began to wonder how to spend the rest of the month.  I mean, usually I’m maneuvering through a 5G tailspin — scouring catalogs for that unique, one-last something; scribbling, scratching out, and double-checking lists; and decking the halls —  right up to Christmas Eve.  This year the tree twinkled, the completed baking tempted, and used curling ribbon adorned the trash bin weeks before my normal deadline.  What to do with myself?

Father Christmas and friends

  Turns out December is a great month to have fun.  Who knew?  Nevada City’s annual Victorian Christmas celebration brings carolers, costumed street vendors and Santa to the historic heart of town.  On December 11th, brisk weather made creamy, hot chocolate all the tastier.  Crowds delivered a sense of community.  Walking from home to downtown took us through neighborhoods we’d never fully appreciated from the hurried confines of “Barnum,” my trusty PT Cruiser.  The event provided a good day for all.     

     The foothills abound with volunteer opportunities.  Since I’d already finished wrapping our  presents, I spent two mornings helping prepare Secret Santa packages for some of the less fortunate children living among us.  The week  leading up to December 16th evaporated as I joined the Lunch at the Crossroads kitchen crew (www.lunch-at-the-crossroads.com) preparing a free holiday feast for 145 hungry neighbors.  My feet and back ached as the last diner left, but my heart purred.

     Good friends joined Ken and me for supper one night.  We served Ken’s favorite meal: his grandmother Nona’s polenta and spicy beef stew.  Our elevation here in Nevada City doesn’t begin to compare with that of her native village in the Italian Alps, but the winter menu still warmed us all to the quick.

Polenta brings friends together

     Just as 2011 appeared to be ending with an air of grace, the fickle finger of fate made a less-than-polite gesture.  A friend of Ken’s “went missing.”  When the sheriff located him, everyone’s worst fears materialized.  The “young” man (isn’t age always relative?) had died suddenly, alone, of natural but unexpected causes.  His funeral brought together a standing room only assemblage of friends to mourn and offer what little comfort we could to the family.   His father addressed the crowd, calling on every ounce of the man’s legendary strength.  “Russ should be standing here,” his quivering voice intoned, “talking about me.  Not the other way around.” 

     I sat on the time-worn bench, in the chilly chapel, thinking of my own sons.  Berating myself for wishing I could be with ”the boys” more often.  Vowing to cherish the Birgivingmas hours we share rather than selfishly craving more. 

    Herry Birgivingmas, everyone!

Shoes

     Last Saturday, my family attended the wedding of Noah and Christina — a joyous affair spiced with details reflecting the style and interests of the new Mr. and Mrs.  An example?  The newlyweds took off early Sunday morning to honeymoon in Hawaii, so when their bridal party entered the church, it was to the accompaniment of a ukulele solo.  Quirky, but appropriate and memorable.

     What to wear to such a special occasion used to be a worry.  Not anymore.  Now I figure, if I don’t remember whether I’ve already worn an outfit around a certain group of people, they’re not going to remember either.  So these days I think more about what shoes I can wear with relative comfort, than overall  appearance.  Within reason, of course.    

     I mean, I’m not going to wear flip-flops to a wedding.  Right?  Especially not when my big toe and “pointer toe” are so inseparable they blister with the first rub when anything comes between them. 

     Bottom line, if the feet ain’t happy, Mama ain’t happy.

     My father had what I lovingly refer to as “The Larson Foot.”  Short.  Wide.  High arch.  Toes of equal length.  Turns out this flawed foot was the result of a dominant gene.  I have it.  My brother has it.  His son has it.  One-and-a-half of my sons have it.  (The youngest inherited his father’s length but got all the other Larson features.)  And we have all suffered for it.  Basically, shoe boxes fit The Larson Foot better than shoes do.

     My body would be perfect if it were not for The Larson Foot.  (Okay, that’s a lie.  But all of my other physical failings combined have not caused even one-tenth the misery my feet have.)  I am convinced Birkenstocks were designed with The Larson Foot in mind.  All other footwear is either incredibly expensive,  impossible to fit, or painful.

     Ski boots?  Imagine trying to shoosh when you’re numb from the ankle down.  Today’s pointy-toed shoes intended to accentuate the feminine foundation?  Not so alluring when bulging with squished toes the color of grape jelly.  Anything casual with an elastic or velcro fastener?  Those straps burst open like Otis Reddenbacher’s prized kernels in hot oil.

     Years ago, Ken and I rented a condo at Lake Tahoe with another couple.  As we gathered our belongings, preparing to vacate the premises, my very dear friend spotted my shabby shoes hiding in a corner.  She held them up, laughing. 

     “Can you believe how hideous these are?” she asked.  “I can’t believe the woman who owns this place would wear anything so disgusting.”

     Well, those might not have been the exact words spoken, but it is the echo that has reverberated in my head ever since.  My friend was right.  When I find shoes that actually fit, I wear them until they look less presentable than road kill and smell almost as good. 

     So, as I stood in my closet, wondering what to wear to the wedding, I surveyed the shelved collection of shoes.  November and a forecast of rain ruled out sandals.  Tempting as it was, slippers, athletic shoes (we used to call them tennies), and knee-high Sorrels with warm fleece lining couldn’t be seriously considered either.  Loafers seemed a bit too casual, even to me.  Sigh.  That left the sparse assortment of heels.

     I chose an old, black suede pair with sensible heels.  (Who am I kidding?  My newest pair of “dress shoes” has seen more Christmases than every child currently attending first grade.)  Trying the demons on, I rated their comfort level:  preferable to rusty bear traps and blazing hot beach sand, but nowhere near as nice as being bare foot.  I reasoned I could hide my almost-comfortable dinosaurs under the pew during the wedding and hoped for a long tablecloth at the reception.  At least I would be able to walk wince-less from our car to the various venues.  And, if in the dark after the festivities I stepped in a deep puddle?   Who cared? 

     My view of aligned bridesmaids processing into the church was obscured.  I caught a glimpse of their coifs just inside the door, then nothing more until they passed my row.  Pair after pair of glittering, bedazzled stilettos reflected the light, drawing my gaze to the carpeted center aisle like metal filings to a magnet.  

     Later, at the reception, I complimented one young woman on her exquisite footwear.

     “Thanks,” she said.  Then, leaning in closer, she added, “My feet are killing me!”

What’s it Worth?

     There’s a nifty website where you can figure out what something bought in the past would cost in today’s dollars.  The site’s title is “Inflation Calculator: Money’s Real Worth Over Time,” and the URL is www.coinnews.net/tools/cpi-inflation-calculator/.  Plug in the year of purchase, the amount paid, and the current year.  Click “Calculate” and your computer will invoke the Consumer Price Index to work monetary magic. 

     You can determine what salary you would be paid today if you were working at that first, entry-level job.  Shocked by the sad state of today’s housing market?  Learn what your first cookie-cutter tract house might sell for.

The First Year Teacher

FYI, my annual salary as a first-year kindergarten teacher in 1970-71 was $9,000.  The school district would have to pay $52,629 for me to achieve the same purchasing power today, a 485% increase due to inflation.  However, in reality, the teaching newbies hired to educate in that same aging facility this year receive a paltry $22,100.  Raise your hand if you agree teachers are underpaid.

     The brand-spanking-new, 1750 square foot home, built on 1/5 of an acre — for which Ken and I felt like we’d mortgaged our lives away — cost us $43,500 in 1973.  In today’s dollars, the house would sell for $222,290 (plus a sizable bribe for the county inspector so the shoddy construction could pass current building codes), a mere 411% increase.  Of course, that assumes some potential buyer could be found, and he would qualify for a loan ….

Chiffon and Lace

Anyhow, I got to thinking about prices then and now because I have a  blouse with a past.

     My great-grandfather, his wife, and their three children (one girl and two much younger boys) immigrated to San Francisco from Melbourne, Australia, around the turn of the 20th century.   I know two things about this man.  (1) He had a drinking problem.  (2) He disappeared.  Family lore suggests he was “slipped a Mickey” and shanghaied.  Whatever the truth be, his abrupt departure left my great-grandmother to raise three children on her own.   The foursome survived the 1906 earthquake, and God knows what other challenges.  A strong bond formed between Grandma and her mother.

Louisa Lamprell 1929

 In 1929, before the crash, my grandmother and her mother had a falling-out.  The subject of their feud has been lost over the years, but my mother (who was 12 at the time) had a vivid recollection of the two not talking for three straight weeks.  The older woman’s birthday approached.  Her daughter, my grandmother, bought an exquisite blouse to be presented as a birthday gift/peace offering.  Three days before the special occasion, a spider bite led to my great-grandmother’s sudden death.   She was 52.

     Mom told me her mother was inconsolable.  The anticipated reconciliation had been snatched away from her.   She couldn’t find it in her heart to return the birthday blouse, and instead packed the precious gift away.  Mom related this story when we found the lovely garment, price tag still attached, as we sorted through Grandma’s things after her death in 1970.   Last year, the fabled top became mine after Mom passed away.

     So, here I am.  Owner of a never-worn blouse for which my grandmother parted with $5.95 in 1929.  The delicate garment fits me – I had to try it on just once – but I wouldn’t dare wear it.  In today’s dollars, my priceless heirloom would cost $78.95.  (That number reflects 1226% inflation over the past 82 years.)  But it isn’t the monetary value that  holds me back.  It’s the history. 

     Pat Boone has been credited with saying, “Life’s uncertain.  Eat dessert first.” 

     The lesson of the blouse plays against Boone’s flippant philosophy.  Pride may not be easy to swallow, but it beats choking on tears of remorse.

People Watching

     My second born lives outside Seattle.  If you bump into this magnificent man, no maternal pride here, don’t tell him I had lunch at IN-N-OUT.  California’s legendary fast food chain is the only thing he misses about The Golden State.  Well, you know, besides me.

     Ken and I dropped our loving lab off at her best buddy’s house, descended the hills of home, and set a zig-zagging course to I-5 south on our way to meet long-time (notice I did not say “old”) friends in the central coast town of Cambria.  Ten minutes into the six-hour trek I asked, “Are we there yet?”  Poor Ken.

     Our growling guts, bulging bladders, grumbling gas gauge, and MapQuest all agreed we should exit the interstate at oasis-like Kettleman.  We rolled to a stop for the first time in 275 miles, and, what to our wondering eyes should appear?  IN-N-OUT’s familiar yellow, bent-arrow logo!  I glanced at the car’s clock as Ken pulled into the parking space furthest from every other vehicle in the lot.  12:40.  Peak lunch hour mob scene.

     The line to order ended, mercifully, just inside the Pushme-Pullyou doors.  Temperature outside:  92.  Inside:  Who cared?  Cooler air and clean rest rooms meant I was a happy camper.

     A young couple preceded us in line.  Both of them together required less floor space than a wadded tissue, so tightly were they entwined.  Several inches of his dingy grey boxers jeered at me over the waistband of baggy, baggy shorts.  The chartreuse Mohawk warned me not to even think about bestowing a wedgy on the unsuspecting Lothario.  A calligraphy tattoo at the nape of his sweetheart’s neck proclaimed, “Let it be.”  I suspect her nose ring may have been new bling. A black enameled fingernail toyed with the silver circle as if it were a novelty to which she had not yet grown accustomed.

     We snaked our way to the counter where a white-uniformed girl handed Ken our change and a receipt.

     “Your order is number 42,” she announced with the brightest of smiles.  I squinted at Ken, wondering if she had recognized the retired dentist residing in my husband. 

     “Order number 13 is ready,” her scrub-faced co-worker bellowed over the din of hungry humanity.

     A colony of cooks buzzed in the kitchen within full view of us patient patrons.  Their red aprons, held in place by lethal six-inch long safety pins, blurred from the frantic pace of their labors.  The lengthy wait for sustenance was not due to any lack of diligence on the staff’s part.

     Flip-flops flipped and flopped everywhere, leading my gaze around the room.  One customer accessorized his Disneyland t-shirt with oversized, purple, plastic glasses.  Mickey Mouse ears bobbled from the sides of the lenses.  Hours away from the Magic Kingdom, this guy still thought he was in The Happiest Place on Earth.  I returned his goofy grin. 

     A mother, looking so trim I couldn’t believe the trio of little boys gathered close were hers, led the pint-sized three pack to the soft drink dispensers.  The youngest son wasted no time spreading a layer of ice cubes across the floor, then splashed his brother with Coke for an encore.  Mops materialized from nowhere.  Mom ushered her brood to a booth relinquished by a nearby bemused pair who must’ve been somebody’s grandparents.

     Two men entered the premises sporting waist-length dread locks.  Years ago, someone told me the coif requires working straw and mud (or was it manure?) into one’s hair.  True or false, the memory wrinkles my nose whenever a Bob Marley look-alike appears.

     Ken and I spotted a vacant table for two.  We elbowed our way through the throng and slid in next to four twenty-something-year-olds.  The guys’ laughter was as contagious as the swine flu on a trans-oceanic flight and the volume rivaled twin turboprops on take-off.  I tried not to stare when one young man kissed another on the lips.

     Amost too soon, we heard, “Number 42!”

     Ken retrieved our double order of Double-Doubles while I warded off would-be table nappers.  We concentrated on our meal, blocking out all non-edible distractions.  Greasy napkins and bio-degradable wrappers hit the trash bin minutes later as we headed for the door, fully sated and ready to complete our journey.

     That’s when I saw the one person in the establishment who stood out.  This woman was so out-of-place, I sensed heads turning as she passed.  I’d like to say a hush fell over the crowd, but anyone who’s ever visited an IN-N-OUT knows that pushes the envelope of credibility.  Still, I may have heard a little girl being admonished not to point.

     I gave wide berth to what could only be described as (drum roll, please) a business woman, adorned in a black suit, silk blouse, and designer bag.  Her polished, four-inch stilettos clicked across the spotless white tile floor.  Where did she think she was?  Some posh place like Denny’s?  Or IHOP?  Man.  Just when you think you’ve seen it all.

     Our weekend on the coast was perfect: wonderful weather, exceptional accommodations, fabulous food, formidable friends, and a tour of Hearst Castle just to sweeten the pot.  All too soon, we repacked and retraced our steps home to the hills.  But, not before pausing for seconds at IN-N-OUT.

 

World’s Best Chocolate Cake

     There are a few things you need to know about me.  First, I am an unrepentant chocolaholic.  Second, chocolate calls to me.  At random times throughout the day I hear, “Jo-annnnne.”  Cup your hands around your mouth and read that again, this time using a hollow, deep voice that sounds like it’s coming from your pantry.  “Jo-annnnne.”  That’s the sound of chocolate beckoning me.  Third, I like to cook but I especially enjoy baking. 

     Put all that information together and you’ll understand why I emailed Sara Perry, author of Deep Dark Chocolate: Decadent Recipes for the serious Chocolate Lover, asking  permission to share her “State Fair Chocolate Layer Cake” recipe with you.  Sara granted my request, suggesting I might want to offer my own amendments to her directions, but it’s hard to improve upon perfection! 

     My amazing, soon-to-be daughter-in-law shares my weakness for all things chocolate.  She gifted me this fabulous book, no doubt with absolute certainty I would cherish my new source of dietary pitfalls.  If you’d like your own copy, the volume was published by Chronicle Books in 2008 and the ISBN is 978-0-8118-6089-5. 

     Deep Dark Chocolate offers recipes for pies, tarts, cheesecake, puddings, custards, souffle, ice cream, sauces, fondues, candies, drinks, AND breakfast delights.  (We chocolate people KNOW the most important meal of the day should include chocolate!)  Photography by France Ruffenach accompanies every recipe and is enough to send you into a diabetic stupor.  Sara Perry’s directions are clear and concise, leaving nothing to chance.  And, the beginning of the book offers a wealth of chocolate-ology explaining the differences in various types of chocolate (unsweetened, dark, bittersweet, semisweet …), defining related terminology (cacao nibs, chocolate liquor, cocoa butter …), and presenting the correct way to store, chop, measure and melt chocolate.

     I wouldn’t mind if every cookbook were as detailed as Deep Dark Chocolate.  I’d even like them to go so far as to tell me things like:  where to stand in my kitchen while preparing the recipe, what time of the day/day of the week to prepare the recipe, and whether to stand on my left of right foot while cooking.  Don’t laugh.  I’m so literal, I would actually follow those types of instructions.  In fact, I feel guilty if I’m not following a recipe regardless of what I’m preparing.  A pot of tea?  I read the directions on the box.  Cold cereal?  I check the nutrition label for proper serving size.   A glass of water?  Okay, even I don’t need a recipe for water.  But, I do read the annual water quality report from the Nevada Irrigation District.  Does that count?

     Enough nonsense.  Let’s get to the State Fair Chocolate Layer Cake recipe.  Now, I don’t usually get all the ingredients out before I start cooking — much less measure them ahead – but in this instance, it really is a good idea.  And remember, everything should be at room temperature EXCEPT the coffee which should be hot.  Lightly butter the bottom and sides of two 9″ round cake pans.  Line the bottom of each pan with a round of parchment or waxed paper.  Preheat the oven to 350 F.

 CAKE

2 cups cake flour

2 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 cup (1 stick) butter + more for the pans

1-1/4 cup granulated sugar

1 cup firmly packed light brown sugar

3 large eggs                                            

4 oz premium dark chocolate, melted and cooled

2 tsp pure vanilla extract                 

1 cup sour cream                  

1 cup hot, strong coffee

In a medium bowl, whisk the flour, baking soda, and salt until well blended.  Set aside.

With a stand or hand mixer set on medium speed, beat the 1/2 cup butter until creamy.  Add the granulated and brown sugars and beat until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes.  Beat in the eggs, one at a time, until fully blended, scraping down the sides and bottom of the bowl.  On low speed, beat in the melted chocolate and vanilla.*  Alternately blend the dry ingredients and the sour cream in increments until all is combined, again scraping down the bowl as necessary.  With the mixer still on low speed, slowly pour in the coffee and beat until blended.

Divide the batter between the prepared pans, and spread evenly.  Gently rotate the pans to settle and level the batter.  Bake until the cakes are springy to the touch and a tester inserted in the center comes out with a few moist crumbs clinging to it, 30 – 35 minutes.  Let the layers cool on a wire rack in their pans for at least 15 minutes.  Gently loosen the edges with a thin knife before inverting the layers onto the racks.  Let the cakes cool thoroughly, about 2 hours, before carefully peeling off the parchment to frost them.

*Note from Joanne:  Do not think you’ll be clever and mix the vanilla into the melted chocolate.  The chocolate immediately hardens!  Trust me, I learned this the hard way.  Beat in the melted chocolate.  Then beat in the vanilla.

FROSTING

3-2/3 cup powdered sugar

2 T premium unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa powder

Pinch of salt

1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into pieces

5 oz unsweetened chocolate, melted and cooled

2 tsp pure vanilla extract

About 6 T milk or heavy (whipping) cream at room temperature or slightly warm

Sift the powdered sugar, cocoa, and salt into the bowl of a stand mixer.  Add the butter.  WIth the mixer set on low speed, slowly add the melted chocolate and vanilla. *  Slowly add the milk and continue beating until the frosting reaches spreading consistency, 1 to 2 minutes.  Finish by increasing the speed to medium-high for 30 seconds.

TO ASSEMBLE THE CAKE:  Place a dollop of frosting in the middle of a cake stand.  Place 1 layer on the stand, top side up, and, using an offset spatula, spread 1 cup of frosting evenly over the top.  Place the remaining layer on top, bottom side up, and brush off any large, loose crumbs.  [Eat the crumbs, they're too good to waste - Joanne]  Spread a thin layer of frosting over the top and sides of the cake to seal in the remaining crumbs.  Refrigerate the cake for 1 hour, leaving the remaining frosting at room temperature.  Spread the remaining frosting evenly over the top and sides of the cake.  The cake can be frosted 1 day ahead and kept in a cake keeper at cool room temperature until ready to serve.

 

      This is not a cake to waste on the Cub Scouts fund-raiser or the neighborhood potluck picnic in the park.  No.  Save this moist, dense cake for indulging your dearest friends or your cherished family members.  Or, don’t tell anyone you baked it, hide in the closet, and eat until you can eat no more. 

     Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go, um, organize my closet.

Signs of the Times

     Thistles crowning waist-deep dried weeds strike a pose, ready to release their seeds with the first gust of wind.  Squirrels chew prickly pinecones down to course nubs.  Wild blackberries plump, glistening with sweet juice.  School is in session.  Bags of Halloween candy grow stale on grocery shelves.  Hallmark Christmas ornaments  gather dust in the drug store.

     These signs of the times all point to the same unavoidable conclusion:  summer is, once again, about to throw in the white flag.

     The fat lady (wearing a tank top and short shorts) may be clearing her throat, but she won’t be allowed to sing just yet.  On the second Sunday of each September, we in Nevada City entertain one last celebration before winter cascades off the Sierra Nevada peaks and crash lands on our door step.  Tomorrow, U.S. presidents will head down Broad Street accompanied by the Ophir Prison Marching Kazoo Band, the Merry Widows, floats, classic cars, and miscellaneous oddities.  The occasion?  The city’s 45th annual Constitution Day Parade.

     That’s right.  Nevada City is a proud bicentennial town.  We take our history seriously and our fore-fathers even more so.  The foreplay leading up to the day’s main event will include a re-enactment of the signing of the United States Constitution.  Then a bevy of costumed revelers portraying President and Mrs. Washington as well as all of their successors will strut down the main thoroughfare of historic old town.  Our local paper has admonished us onlookers to arrive early or risk losing out on the best viewing places.  Sizable crowds are expected.

     But, wait!  There’s more.  A civil war re-enactment is scheduled for later in the afternoon.  And the 49er Rotarians are sponsoring a duck race in Deer Creek.  (I’m at a loss to explain how rubber duckies fit into Constitution Day, but maybe I’ll understand better after attending the activities tomorrow.)

     All this excitement may keep me awake tonight.  Or, my restlessness may be attributed to something else altogether. 

     Tomorrow will be September 11, 2011, the tenth anniversary of the infamous 9/11 attacks.  I confess to a certain uneasiness attributable to news accounts of “credible” reports of possible new terrorist plots.  My memories, like yours, of the day the twin towers crumbled are still raw.  Vivid.  Haunting. 

     Ten years ago, I learned first hand how my parents and grandparents must have felt the day Pearl Harbor was attacked.  Just as they worried Japanese zeroes might be heading for the mainland’s west coast, so I worried yet more terrorist flown planes might be targeting California landmarks.  Just as my elders knew with certainty our country would be sucked into the second world war, so I dreaded the inevitability of our young soldiers doing battle in the Middle East. 

     My innocence was destroyed.  I felt unsafe for the first time in my life.  Five months passed before I had the nerve to cross the Bay Bridge.

     So, tomorrow I hope to attend a parade.  I hope to laugh at silly antics and marvel at the craziness of it all.  But, tonight I may not sleep well as I send  thoughts of gratitude, vigilance, and courage to all who do their best to keep the rest of us safe. 

     In the morning, I will raise the Stars and Stripes.  And I will remember.

     9-13-11  Happily, the tenth anniversary of 9/11 was a non-event.  Here are some photos of the Constitution Day parade for your viewing pleasure:

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The Help

     A new friend-in-the-making invited me to see the movie, “The Help,” with her.  Neither of us had been to the movies in years (thank you, Netflix), and each of us reassured the other it is indeed legal for women of a certain age to attend the mid-week matinée.  Ladies of leisure, that’s us.

     We sat through several movie trailers prior to the afternoon’s main event.  An official notice preceded each, informing/warning the audience of the next preview’s rating:  G, PG13, or R.  Then, one ad began with the disclaimer, “This film has been approved for appropriate audiences.”

     “How do I know,” I leaned over the arm rest that separated us so as to whisper into my companion’s ear, “if I’m appropriate?”

     “You’re not,” she shot back, without missing a beat.

     How great is that?  This woman and I have spent precious little time together, and yet she already gets me!  And that’s especially gratifying because, so far, I’ve been on my good behavior in her presence.  No, really.  I haven’t spit even once and only cussed when provoked.  I predict great, mischievous shared experiences in our future.  However, I digress. 

     “The Help” features a flock of actors of whom I’ve never heard, salted with a couple of veterans like Sissy Spacek and Emma Stone.  The story is so well told, and is so strong, the film doesn’t need an ensemble cast.  The plot addresses the issue of race relations circa 1963 in Mississippi, but there is so much more to it.  Even if, like me, you grew up far from the blatant discrimination prevalent at that time in the deep south, odds are you will relate to the cruelty heaped upon society’s outcasts, or the lack of compassion and empathy with which we sometimes treat our elders.  “The Help” will make you laugh, AND it will make you think.

     I believe children learn vocabulary, behaviors, and attitudes, by listening and observing.  We parents, for better or worse, teach the next generation when we are least on guard.   A toddler does not question why the fleshy blob in the middle of her face is called “nose.”   Children come to accept the importance of removing shoes before climbing into bed.  Young people trust and respect – or not – authority figures for reasons they might find difficult to explain.   

      Just so, generations pass on racial slurs, bigotry, and prejudice – sometimes without considering the implications and injustices.   Words, behaviors, and attitudes are piled one on top of another.  Balanced, like a stack of rocks, daring the world to add to them, rearrange them, or knock them down.

     My mother was born in 1917.  She grew up referring to dark-skinned people as, “colored.”  This was normal in the culture in which she lived.  I know she didn’t mean to be derogatory when she used the word, but I encouraged her to adopt a different term by gently teasing her whenever the subject arose.

     “The colored man,” Mom might comment, “who runs the kitchen [at her retirement community] has the happiest laugh.”

     “Does he?”  I might respond.  “Tell me, what color is he, Mom?  Purple?  Green?”         

     She would roll her eyes and ignore the barb.

     I was born in 1949 and enjoyed reciting a common rhyme whenever we kids wanted to choose sides for a game.  The rhyme was just that.  Mostly gibberish.  

     “Ee-nie, mee-nie, my-nie, moe . . . .”

     I can’t even remember when I learned the rhyme contained a racial slur.  Nor can I remember anyone telling me not to use that hurtful word.  The term simply dropped from my working vocabulary when I became too old to worry about picking sides for neighborhood street games. 

     My oldest son was born in 1974.  The first time I observed him in a group of playmates picking sides, I held my breath.

     “Ee-nie, mee-nie, my-nie moe.  Catch a tiger by the toe.  If he hollers, let him go.  Ee-nie, mee-nie, my-nie, moe.”

     Exhale.  Sigh.  Move on.

     Mom spent the last three days of her life at the Bruns House, a Hospice care facility in Alamo, California.  The doctor in charge of patient care was exactly the right man for the difficult job.  He was soft-spoken and caring.  He knew the value of human touch.  And, his skin just happened to be the darkest shade of brown I have ever seen on a human being.  

     “Is there anything I can do for you, Jean?” he asked, at the end of his second daily visit with Mom.

     “Kiss?” she breathed more than spoke.

     “Do you want to kiss me?”  The gentle doctor smiled.  “Or, do you want me to kiss you?”

     “You.  Kiss me?”  Mom’s eyes held his.

     The handsome man bent low to kiss my mother’s cheek.  He brushed his fingers through the hair splayed across her forehead, nodded at me, and left her room.

     “Never been kissed.  By a black man.  Before,” Mom confided in me.

     “How was it?” I asked, taking in her carefully chosen words.

     “No different,” she assured me.

     I figure if a 93 year-old woman on her death-bed can change her ways, there’s hope for all of us.  Go see “The Help,” or read the book.  It will be time well spent, even if you’re not a lady of leisure.