Being less humble

OK, then.
Here's me, being less humble.
The dessert room was phenomenal this year.

Hmm.  It does feel kind of good to prance about it.  Maybe these reindeer and my son are onto something...

All the recipes are in the recipe box, in case you want to create a dessert room, or even a simple dessert countertop or shelf, of your own this holiday season.  Ho ho ho!

Be less humble

We were driving somewhere the other night, and somehow the conversation turned to our always-conflicted family schedule.  In the course of discussing who needed to be where, when, I said something along the lines of "Well, I can skip my thing and take him to his thing and run back and get her from her thing because my thing isn't that important anyway."

My son turned to me and said:

"Mom, you need to be less humble.  You need to be more like me."

My kind of birthday cake

When you are little (or really old), you don't have a choice.  It's a sheet cake with buttercream frosting, swirly decorations, and writing on it.

If you are a fortunate child, the cake comes from somewhere yummy, like The Baker or Hansen's, or even Costco, or if you are especially fortunate, your aunt makes you a Yo Baby Cake* by hand.

If you are an unfortunate child, you might get something like this:

Did I mention that CakeWrecks is potentially the funniest site on the web?

Anyway.

As you get older (like 5), you start to have an opinion about your birthday cake:

"Can it be an ice cream cake?"

"Or cupcakes?"

"Or a coffee cake?"

"How about if we don't have cake at all?"

Well...sure. It is your birthday**!

Then, as you get even older (like 40-something***), you not only have an opinion, you have A Birthday Cake.  The cake that you have every year.  The one that that someone makes for you or buys for you or orders especially for you. Because that's the cake you like, and it wouldn't be your birthday without it.  The "Don't even think about messing around and trying any of that fancy stuff you saw in Bon Appetit magazine, Missy. Not on my birthday you don't!" cake.

For my husband, it's carrot cake.
For my dad, it's lemon cake.
For me, it'd be this cake.

Unfortunately, I'm rarely in charge of my own birthday cake.
Fortunately, there are 364 other days in the year.
Happy Not-Birthday to me!****

What's your Birthday Cake?

Why there's not a good support group for my problem

Me:  Hi. I'm Sharon, and I'm a bake-aholic.
Crowd: Hi, Sharon. Ooh! Did you make the challah*?

Me:  I've started buying flour and sugar in the 10 lb. bags.  The 5 lb size just doesn't do it for me any more, you know? I go through it too fast. There are three bottles of vanilla paste in the pantry.  I'm buying it online now**, and intercepting the packages before my husband gets home.  Don't you see? I'm out of control.  Something is very wrong here!
My Sponsor:  I brought my tupperware.  Is it OK if I take a few of those little pecan things home?

My husband: All she does is make cookies and pies. She doesn't even need, like, a reason.  It's just insane. The other day, she made a tart out of leftover cranberry sauce, for God's sake.  That can't be normal.  Plus, she's dealing now.  To her friends.  I'm not kidding.  They took a holiday baking class*** from her, and then went home with sugar cookie dough.  These women have kids, man!  This is some crazy s*&!#!!  I love her. But I can't stop her. I'm afraid my wife is becoming a menace to herself and others.
The Police:  Can we be adopted and come to your house?

Finish Strong

The message of the week in my class was a simple one:
Finish strong.

Six years ago, my daughter started taking tae kwon do.

A few days ago, she earned her black belt.

I think she got the message.
Osu*!

* Loosely translated, that's martial arts-speak for "you go girl!"

Tropical Turkey Day, Upside Down Cake

We had a different kind of Thanksgiving this year. We ran away from home to a tropical island for a few days.  Instead of cooking up a storm, I was walking on the beach. Slicing pineapple instead of pureeing pumpkin.  Applying sunscreen instead of whipped cream.   Reading novels instead of consulting cookbooks.  Stuffing my face instead of stuffing the turkey...

You get the idea.

And yes, I do know exactly how lucky I am, thank you very much.  Licking my emotional wounds with mai tais is definitely not a bad way to go.   But as pleasant and nice as this is, it's also strange and  unsettling.  It feels quite odd to be here.

That being said, the vacation was going beautifully until it came time to have Thanksgiving dinner.  I'd booked a reservation days in advance at a posh restaurant overlooking the ocean that was known for its cuisine and impeccable service.  The website promised "a traditional Thanksgiving option" as well as selections from their regular menu. I was excited. After all, if I was going to betray an entire lifetime of days-in-the-making, completely from scratch, gather-everyone-around-the-family-table Thanksgiving tradition, I figured I might as well do it in style.

I made my husband put on long pants. I made my daughter put on her plainest black T-Shirt.  I made my son clean his shoes.  I tried my best to comb out my hair so the imprint of the baseball cap wasn't so visible.   I hustled them into the car and we headed out.

We pull up to the valet.  The people in the car ahead of us got out and walked into the restaurant.  In shorts, baseball caps and tennis shoes.

My husband:  I knew I could have kept my shorts on.
My daughter:  Are you sure this is a nice place?  I mean, they have a valet and all, but that lady looks just like you did a few minutes ago, and she's coming here.

After a short wait, we are shown to our table, with a full view of the starlit sky and the glow of the lit tiki torches below.  There are many well dressed people around us.  I feel vindicated and content.  Two musicians are playing Hawaiian-ized pop music on native instruments near the bar, which is crowded with patrons waiting for tables. The sounds mingle and drift our way, creating a relaxing background to the conversation. The restaurant has no walls, so the ocean breeze is wafting over us as the hostess hands out menus.  As I'm reading, I'm filled with a growing sense of dread.

My son:  What is WRONG with these people?  This is the most unhelpful menu I have ever seen.  Who writes this way in real life?

He reads aloud in a highly sarcastic voice:

Grilled Maui Cattle Grass Fed Filet. Kula Creamed Corn. House Whipped Potatoes.  Local Beet-Tomato-Onion Chutney.

Me:  If you don't like something, just have it on the side.
Him:  It's not the things I don't like, it's the menu! I have NO idea from what they wrote there if I like the things or not. What's up with this!  Can't they just say steak and mashed potatoes like normal people?

My daughter pipes up.

Her:  Whoever heard of a Caesar Salad with croutons made out of fried green tomatoes?  Croutons means bread. Tomatoes are red. This place is messed up.
My husband:  Guys, Mom really wants to have a nice evening.  Let's all try to find something we can eat here.
My son:  OK, Dad.  I'll do that.  If you can tell me what cavatelli pasta is and why the asparagus has a first name, I will totally shut up.
Me:  How about the fish and chips?
My daughter:  Mom!  It says "fish and chips" in [making the marks in the air for emphasis] quotation marks.   It's actually fish and eggplant.  Eggplant!  And who puts corn in tartar sauce?  The same people who think tomatoes are croutons, that's who.

The waiter arrives.  My husband asks if he can recommend anything for not-so-adventurous eaters.  He mentions the Harvest Plate* and gets nothing, then points out a mild fresh ono with macadamia nut crust.  The stares are withering.  He starts to look a little nervous.

My son (through gritted teeth):  I''ll have the filet, please.
My daughter (falsely cheerful):  I'll have the same.  Well done.  Like burnt.
Me:  (still trying to salvage something here):  I'll have the scallops.

My husband lets out a huge "hrrumph" and dramatically opens up his menu again.

Me:  Oh gosh!  Did you want the scallops?  I thought you would be getting the rib eye! I'm so sorry!
Him: (sighing pointedly)  Well, yes I did want the scallops, but I guess I'll be having the rib eye.
Me:  (clapping a little with delight)  Oh good!  I wanted to try that.

The kids roll their eyes. My husband glares at me, then looks meaningfully at my daughter.

Him:  And a Caesar salad to start.
The waiter:  And how did you want that rib-eye cooked, sir?
Me: (without looking up from the menu)  Medium.

There's a hush around the table, then everyone, including the waiter, bursts out laughing.  I'm blinking in confusion for a minute, then I start giggling, too.

The tension we all felt at being far from home, in a place that feels not just odd but downright alien, particularly on this night, is gone.  We talk and we bicker and we eat and we laugh some more.  We tease each other and do trivia questions and split the scallops and the rib eye.  We toast the occasion and plan our outing for tomorrow.

No one eats the beet stuff.

And we agree I will make a real Thanksgiving dinner when we get home. This whole thing is just a little too upside down for our taste.

Perishable

A few days before Thanksgiving last year, my phone rang.  It was Mom.  In a scared voice, she told me she'd just fallen down in her apartment and was too weak to move.  She called the paramedics, I got in my car.  

Everything changed.  

Death, for her, became a nice option to consider.  

Life, for me, became a blur. 

Family descended.

Friends took me in. 

It was all wrong.

I found ways to be grateful.

But Thanksgiving was bad.   

And after was worse.

With small moments of OK in between.

A few days before Thanksgiving this year. this arrived in the mail.

It was addressed to Mom.  In the last few years, she'd taken to doing much of her Christmas shopping from this catalog. Petit Fours for Auntie Agnes. Chocolate turtles for Chris.  Cashews for Clarence. All ordered sometime in October, because she was worried about the mail taking a while during the the holidays.  My box of toffee arrived just days after she went into hospice, cheerfully wrapped with a tasteful note:

Happy Holidays
Love, Mom

The irony was so bitter it hurt, just like everything else.
Weeks later, she wrote the check in a shaky hand:

Pay to the order of Swiss Colony - $28.11

She crossed it off her list of "December bills" with satisfaction.
I remember getting really irritated by that check.
I remember saying that nobody wanted chocolates from her.  That we wanted her to get well instead.
She ignored me.
I mailed the envelope.

When the catalog came, I went to the fridge in the garage, and looked at the box of toffee still sitting there on the shelf.

I left the box where it was. I kept the catalog, too. 

Thanksgiving will never be what it was before.

But in the midst of the emotional chaos this day now generates, I have a new and profound connection to idea of giving thanks.

Things I hold dear are perishable.

I'm beyond fortunate to have them in my life.

And I'll be holding onto them for as long as I can.