Cake No. 3

You make this cake when it’s been overcast for four days and you’ve pulled another sweater out of storage for the week ahead. When it’s unseasonably gray, and you’re unseasonably gray, and if the weather calls for it, why not summon a bit of sweetness?

You’ll whisk in the eggs as a 7-year-old asks you what will happen if his class doesn’t have school again next week. It will, you tell him.

But what if it doesn’t? he’ll ask. Could I bake another cake?

Not a chance of either, you tell him, handing him a whisk for licking.

You wait not-long-enough for the cake to cool, then dice the double batch into tiny cubes for sharing and, oh, familial corner portion justification.

You top with melted sugar, scoops of jelly and currants, then gust yourselves out into the chill to deliver some neighborly cheer. To anyone on your favorites list, you knock, containers in hand. Just in case you need some for later?

You become a traveling team of salesmen, minus the one-time-only offer, nor the fee, you and your particularly jovial captain. He fusses with his helmet; you breathe in a cold spring day. But you both know the truth: of the many available offerings on a day like today, shoving cake upon the innocent is perhaps the very best. You bike and cycle, and still, there is half a cake to carry home.

There might be enough to save some cake after all! you prepare to say, as you reach your front door. But he stops you mid-sentence to read his first draft of his newly published paper, and there’s pride in his eyes and joy in his voice, and you decide there isn’t a worthy substitute for such beauty.  

On Saturday, he earns $20 worth of bonus points.

You both celebrate with cake.

 

12 Pizzas: A Series

Baking Our Way Through The Year Ahead

This is the story of a girl who was hungry. 

For what, I am oft unsure. But after decades of turning down carbs, of declaring a war against cheese, of craving veggies over salty at first glance, well? It appears I’ve changed my mind, and very much so.

Just this week, I have pulled the following from my oven: a lovely Margherita, lightly browned and rising inches beyond its’ stone girdle. A smooth, decadent tomato-less, a pint of macerated onions nearby for glazing. An egg and bacon honey pizza with hand-cut mozzarella, packed lovingly into a convection oven with a baking stone.

In truth, I can’t tell you what’s come over me. I can only tell you that my mixing bowl once reserved for an occasional hand-kneading of bread now has deep scratches from dripping whisks, metal mixers, golden tasting spoons.

I can only tell you, too, that I plan to never stop.

12 cakes, pizzas. One per month, although I’ve admittedly been “testing” roughly three a week. I’ll save my favorites for you, my leftovers for (very pleased) neighbors.

The first crowdpleaser is up next week, and in preparation, here are a few supplies I’ve been ever-reliant on since this phase (obsession?) sparked last month:

And so, in the spirit of delicious simplicity, these made the cut (click image to peruse the recipe):

S U P P L I E S

Four months ago, I didn’t own a pizza stone. (Fun fact: it is not an unlikely experience to see Martin mixing pizza dough by hand.) And yet: is this newfound hobby just a phase? He doesn't want to use a pricy stand mixer in the name of a 4-minute time savings?

Short answer: nope.

For the novice bakers out there, here’s all I’ve needed to dip my oven mitts into the world of pizza, pizza, glorious pizza:

Don’t ever let anyone tell you baking requires schmancy supplies. Just add parchment paper, deal?

Up next week: triple-layer jam and frosting cake, or more aptly named – The Thank-Your-Weary-Home-School-Teacher-Cake. Best served with a side of hugs and plastic forks.

But first, a reminder for us all — May we be ever-surprised by our own capacity for change.

Here’s to rolling out the dough, every last bit of it.

 

Great Trek

With today off, the boys and I set off for the Alta road with a packed lunch of rye bread, pepperoni, a wedge of cheese. Divy got buried somewhere between the road and the forest, though we didn’t notice until a mile or so later.

I start to turn around, to commence another Great Trek up the mountain, but Martin stops me. He will make it down after such a good struggle, he says.

We decide he’s right, and we keep on watching.

 

Unspeakably Beautiful

 

Found in my journal, by G. Saunders:
“Only then did I realize how unspeakably beautiful all of this was, how precisely engineered for our pleasure, and saw that I was on the brink of squandering a wondrous gift, the gift of being allowed, every day, to wander this vast sensual paradise, this grand marketplace lovingly stocked with every sublime thing.”

Blooming

All through the long winter, I dream of my garden. On the first day of spring, I dig my fingers deep into the soft earth. I can feel it's energy, and my spirit soars. 

Cake No. 2

As it stands, I’m not much for cookies.

But you know what I am one for? Cake homemade, in a cold metal bowl fresh for the whisking. Taking turns getting elbow cramps with a son, both faux-complaining, knowing all the well we’re better for the wait.

The cake itself was lovely and light, a perfect bounce, an ideal spring dessert. But after taste-testing the precise ingredients the recipe called for, Martin and I decided we were in the mood for something… sweeter.

(In all manners of life: when are we not?)

Friends: this is the cake to bake the day the earthquake shakes you out of bed, when you first catch a shaking and rumbling after you get out of bed to pee. It’s the cake to bake when your boyfriend sends you the message “Mammogram turn out OK?” and you respond with a thumb’s down, find the almonds from the back of the pantry, preheat the oven. It’s a cake he can balance on the floor mats of your electric vehicle, quietly jostling at every left turn, en route to hard-working nurse in need of some sunshine.

We called all the boys and pulled out a slew of emergency supplies, cartons, tinctures. Unsure of what we were looking for, to be fair, but we’d know it when we saw it.

We shopped and chopped and mopped, and in no time flat, a happy tower of TP sat proudly atop our own second glances. Where? We’ll never tell.

But also: it’s the cake you bake when you’ve lost a sliver of hope through a long, dark winter.

And it’s the cake you bake when you’ve found it again, right here in the throes of the daily.

Liner notes:

-Recipe is from his mom, a fast fave.
-For the curious, any variation of a breast biopsy will do. Martin came with me for the Ultrasound, but I’m betting he would be there with me for any kind and I’ve got my eye on testing results the whole rest of this week for what comes next (ice-packs for a sick day, yes?).
-Would you believe this was my first time having to go back in for a second mammogram? Call me Nervous Nelly, and stat.

 

p.s. Up next: the sweetest  cake you ever did see. Also: what are you baking? I want to hear everything.

Here Comes The Sun

Warm bathrobes from the sauna, vitamin D on the tongue. Last night, thunder shook the whole house and this morning I noticed a single daffodil sprout on my way out to the car. Spring is coming, we keep saying to each other, though none of us quite believe it.

Districts Cancelled

 

Well, this one simply didn’t turn out is what I’ll say first.

It could have been a number of things: the slapdash huddle of frozen boys upon realization that the team had won the ECHL tournament. Distracted dumping of pucks, later questioning: Did I mistake a power play for icing? Did I measure the shot? Did I forget the celly?

My head was all in, my heart close behind.

You’ve heard, no doubt, countless hockey metaphors in your life – the proverbial patience. The importance of precision, perhaps. The surprising beauty of a creative solution rising from mishap.

But today, after a particularly dry clump of failed, flight-less district cancellations, I can offer only this:

Things sometimes don’t turn out. In COVID, in lives. A child’s dream, a flopped tournament, a botched championship, a broken vow. The kicker, of course, is that even in retrospect, we’re not always privy to the why. Could’ve been the Chinese Covid Containment, but really – who knows?

Next year, we try again.

Ordinary Us

 

Martin, working late. In the evenings, I survey the sink and realize every dish accounted for is my own, or one prepared by me. No coffee thermos' on the drying rack, no spatulas dyed turmeric neon from late-night curry. I spend the night taking Max & Preslee out to dinner for babysitting Divy, Red Robin for dinner, an endless bowl of fries. With fry sauce of course. Look at me, ruling the roost, I think every time he comes to see me, near drunk on his independence. Just Max and his love. Basking in the odd satisfaction of things positioned just how I left them. A happy dominion, opening the kitchen door to see the tea pot waiting for me and me alone.

But then I tiptoe to the skating rink to take them all skating afterwards like old times, also waiting for me and me alone. I send him a good night text, an extra emoji for sentiment.

Ballroom Dance

 

Junior Prom

2020.
for the love of hair.

My son's junior year of high school, he fell in love. It was a short-lived romance that quickly evolved into a long-distance. Which was perfect for me, because it meant I didn’t have to worry as often.

Which meant that while my anxiety was growing, Natalye's hair was also. I had always dreamt of having long hair, flowy and fabulous. Natalye's was quite flowy & fabulous, it grew quite long and Markus was quite proud.

I had Martin take these photos, which explains why they are so good, since I had never done anything remotely similar in the photography region. I learned later in the evening that my lack of prom etiquette was a dreadful mistake and that the equivalent of two love-birds were moving about the capitol in all of my son's pictures.

Still, I was a bit excited by the prom. What if one in the group leaves earlier than the other? What if I cry while dancing with my youngest son like I did with Max?

I commissioned all my courage to take a stab at it first. I wanted the perfect corsage. One that would match her elegant gown and be feminine. One that Markus could understand how to put on.

That florist was Every Blooming Thing. She prepped quickly and had a steadfast hand. I remember the detail. Dear Lord, the price.

I remember the cold breeze and the scent of perfume upon my hands, shortly after the photos were complete.

I remember the loving look on my face when Natalye said she may have been the luckiest girl alive.

And I remember the face staring back at me when I looked into the mirror. The face of my own, happier than usual, with two prom dances with my sons, to remember.