Let Them Eat Cake

Every family, I think, has recipes that only one or two members make. I'm not sure why, and I don't know how the people get picked to be the annointed cookers...I imagine there are secret handshakes and strange passwords involved. Then again, maybe not.

In Jason's family, the recipe is for a cake. It's really a simple cake...yellow cake with vanilla buttercream icing with melted chocolate poured on top. Jason's Grandmother called it a drip-dry cake. I'm not really sure if it was her invention or not, but we'll just give her the credit.

I've been around Jason's family for 22 years, and let me tell you, in those early years, having a drip-dry cake at a family dinner was an event. It didn't matter how many desserts were on the table, just about everyone asked for a piece of that cake first.

As Gram got older, she stopped baking. The cake wasn't made often after that. Then, one of Jason's Aunts moved back into town, and she made the cakes for every occasion. We were drowning in drip-drys (say that five times fast). And then, like Gram, she stopped baking. Alzheimer's stole her from us, bit by bit.

Last week, I was asked (for the first time ever) to make a drip-dry cake by Jason's mother. I was freaking out. Fah-REAKING. OUT. Not because I didn't think I could do it; it is a simple cake, after all. No, I was competing against ghosts and memories, and that's never fun.

So, I turned to my old friend with alllllll the answers. Google. There was no way I was taking a shortcut and using a boxed mix. So I searched...and searched...and searched for a recipe for plain yellow cake and kick-ass buttercream icing. (Did I ever mention how competitive I am? Yeah.. I am. If I was being thrown under the bus by making this cake, I wasn't going down without a fight.)

Recipes and ingredients in hand, I broke the cardinal rule of cooking: NEVER, EVER make a new recipe for the first time for an event. I mixed up the batter, and it was awesome. (Yes, I eat raw cake batter...and raw cookie dough. It hasn't killed me yet.) I poured my perfect batter into my cake pans, and I popped them in the oven.

After about 10 minutes, the house was filled with the smell of cake, which I thought was odd, since the cake had to cook 30 minutes. At about 15 minutes in, I smelled BURNT cake. ACK! So, I open the oven, and my perfect cake batter is spilling out of my cake pans. So, I do what any normal person would do. I closed the oven door and hoped for the best. After 30 minutes, the timer goes off. I open the oven door, and I see two perfectly cooked cakes...and an oven full of black smoke.

I let the cakes cool, thinking that just maybe they would taste ok. I opened all the windows and turned on the fans to clear out the kitchen of smoke (I was also more than a bit alarmed that all that smoke did NOT set off my smoke detectors). I broke off a piece of the cake to taste it, and it seemed ok. I wrapped up the cakes, and let them sit over night.

The next morning, the cakes still looked perfect under the wrappers. I peeled back the Saran wrap, and I was hit by the smell of smoke. DAMN! OK, maybe I was over-reacting. I asked one of my boy children (mistake #1) if he smelled smoke. Nope. Mistake #2: I believed him. I frosted the cake, and the more I pressed down on the cake applying icing, the more smoke I smelled. DOUBLE DAMN!

I kept frosting hoping I was just being hyper-sensitive (it's been known to happen). Nope...even frosted, I could smell smoke. Alrighty then. There was no way I could serve that. So, I made another one (after I scraped out the oven, of course).

I used bigger pans...SQUARE pans, not the normally used round pan. Again, the batter was perfect. I pulled the cooked cake out of the oven and smelled it. It smelled like....cake. Oh, thank gawd. First hurdle cleared.

At this point, I was absolutely convinced that something would happen, and my frosting would not be as good as the previous day's version. I measured, mixed and tasted. It was totally kick-ass. In fact, it was better than the previous batch. (How, I have no clue. I took it as a gift from the baking gods after my disasters the day before.)

It turned out great. I rocked it. Yup, I did. All the stress, all the smoke, all the butter...it was all worth it.

Oh, and if you tackle a family recipe, I highly, highly, HIGHLY recommend reading your recipe 4 or 5 times before you start cooking. Otherwise, you may read "8 inch square pan OR 9 inch round pan" as "8 inch round pan."

Just sayin'.

All the world's a stage

Dirty secret #243: I am a chicken. I mean, I am a big ol' Foghorn Leghorn (I know, he's a rooster, but I can't think of any huge girl chickens) sized chicken. I loathe public speaking. Even in school, doing speeches or reports in front of the class made me break out in hives.

Acting, therefore, is not in my repertoire. I think I'd pass out cold if I had to remember lines and spew them out on command in front of a packed house. In high school, I had to memorize the gravedigger's scene in Shakespeare's play, Hamlet. Even though I had one of my dearest friends as the other gravedigger, and my English class had maybe 12 kids in it, you would have thought I was standing on stage at the Globe Theater in front of old Bill himself. I was freaking out. I don't know how I made it through to the end, but I did.

Luckily, this is another one of my neuroses that I have managed NOT to pass along to my children. As everyone within earshot of me knows, I have a musical brood. They get up on stage and sing and play various instruments....in front of people. Lots and lots of people. Strangers! it's mind boggling to me.

I suppose it's rather ironic that I, the Queen of never trying anything new, encourage my children to try all sorts of new things. It's definitely not my trying to relive my misspent youth through them (see paragraph one above). I never had any desire to be in the spotlight....especially knowing if the spotlight did shine on me, I'd probably hurl...in epic proportions.

I am always anxious when my kids try something new. I try not to let them see it, but trust me, it's bubbling beneath the surface. There have been tons of musical auditions...more than a handful of rejections...and they keep going. It's their passion.

When Russell told me he was trying out for the school play, I was shocked...and worried...and so, so, so excited for him. I couldn't believe he wanted to subject himself to that sort of scrutiny. He auditioned...and made it past the first round of cuts...and then had to wait to find out if he made the final cut. His text to me this morning was only three small words, "I MADE IT!," but I could picture the look on his face, and I knew the unadulterated sense of joy he was feeling.

So, I'll be there, in the audience watching him try something new...and hoping I don't embarrass him by fainting...or barfing...or both.

Come Sail Away

I love being on my boat. It's not big, it's not fancy, but it's ours, and we don't have a boat payment. We can house it in the garage (in fact, when we were having the garage built, Jason had it oversized for the very intention of storing the boat). Another plus? It has no sails.

While I love to wtach sailboats, you put me on one, and I become Regan from "The Exorcist." My head spins around, and I spew split pea soup vomit. Seriously. It's not pretty. I haven't been on a sailboat since I was a teenager...and I have no plans on changing that any time soon.

Plus, I like to go FAST. It pains me enough that a trip that would take 15 minutes in the car takes 45 minutes by boat. Good lord, I'd be on a sailboat all flippin' day and not even reach my destination. I realize that for some people, that is part of the charm of sailing. I don't have the patience for that nonsense.

OK, and there's another reason...with a motor boat, you gas up and go. There's no hoisting sails,
lowering sails, tacking this way or that. You just drive. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. I am allll about taking the easy way out when it comes to my leisure activities. If it's not fun, why do it?

Jason keeps making noises about wanting a sailboat and learning how to sail. I told him to go for it. I'll wave to him as I zoom by in my motor boat.

Besides, if we had a sailboat, the kids couldn't tube behind it...and if they couldn't tube, they couldn't wipeout...and if they couldn't wipeout, I'd have no pictures of said wipeouts to amuse me. Where's the fun in that?

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'....

Today marks another shared milestone with my sister...she sent her oldest child off to his first day of preschool, and I sent my oldest child off to his first day of college.

Where has the time gone? I am not one to get melancholy about the start of a new school year like some of my friends. On the flip side, I am also not doing cartwheels like other friends of mine (note: I could never, EVER do a cartwheel...which is one of the reasons I never realized my dream of being a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader...so sad...).

People always say spring is a season of rebirth. I think it's fall. The new school year brings so many new opportunities and adventures. As I send one off to college, I have Cameron (son #3) getting ready to embark on his first year of High School. How did THAT happen? I am supposed to have toddlers and elementary school aged children. I am soooooo not old enough to have these almost men as children. This only goes to prove my theory that aliens have abducted my children. I never said it was a GOOD theory...but come on, have y'all ever smelled teenaged boys
shoes? There is no way that funk is NOT alien. Anyway...

In two years, Russell will graduate from High School, and Paige will graduate from Middle School. That means in two years, I will have two children old enough for College. TWO. Years.

In four years, Cameron will graduate from High School, and JP will graduate from College. In. FOUR. Years. In four years, both of my sister's boys will be in school. The little roly poly boy who hasn't walked yet will walk into a classroom and start his school adventure.

When I was little, I used to think, "when I am 13, 16, 18, 21....things will be so different and so much better." I wished the years away. Now I look at my children's milestones, and I see how fast time really does fly. In fact, I think for every milestone, I get a new wrinkle. By the time Paige graduates, I will look like a flipping Shar Pei!

In eight years, I will be (gasp) 50 years old. By then, all four of my children (God willin' and the creek don't rise) should be out of school. Hopefully I will have a shred of my sanity left.

But for now, I will enjoy this last week of summer, and I won't even think about how many days it is until Christmas Vacation (121, by the way).

You've Got Mail

All this talk about birthdays got me to thinking about one of my favorite parts of my birthday (besides the cake -- which was conspicuously absent this year). I love going to the mail box and spying a brightly colored envelope addressed to me.

There is just something about a card, whether it is store bought or handmade, that warms my heart. With the prevalence of email and e-cards, the number of cards I get during the year is minuscule. But the cards that do come...whether it's birthday, Christmas, Mother's Day, Arbor Day make me so happy.

I admit I'm not the best at sending cards for every occasion (just ask my BFF), but when I actually do remember to that I need to buy a card, I'm the annoying twit standing in the card aisle reading card after card after card trying to find just the right one. Card buying between my father & I has reached epic proportions. He has been known to hold onto a card for almost a year if he stumbles upon a particularly funny/obscene/offensive one. I will go to several different stores to find the most funny/obscene/offensive card I can find. What can I say...the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. And yes, I am also one of those "crafty people," so on occasion, I may even break into my craft vault and MAKE a card with my own two hands. Quit laughing...it's been known to happen.

Of course, once I BUY the card, getting it stamped and mailed is a whole 'nother hullabaloo. I really have the best of intentions, but sometimes I get distracted, and the card I so carefully selected, or worse, lovingly made never makes it off my desk. (If you saw my desk, you would understand - Jimmy Hoffa may be be buried in here.) But, by some small miracle, it does get a stamp, and it does get mailed and not lost in my van, rest assured it was no small feat.

Gotta run...the mail truck just stopped off at the mailbox, and I think I caught a glimpse of some colored envelopes.

Worst Birthday Present Evah!

Birthdays have always been special to me. I love birthdays. My most memorable birthday is, ironically enough, one I can remember only one thing about. My mother wasn't there. I was turning 7, which to my six year old self was a VERY. BIG. DEAL.

I don't remember the theme I picked out or the flavor of my cake. I don't remember which of my friends attended. All I remember is thinking my party was ruined because my dad had to run it.

Where was my mother? In the hospital in labor with my baby sister who would wind up being born on MY birthday. The "ruined" birthday party set the tone for my feelings toward my sister for years.

Good grief...it was bad enough she stole my birthday thunder, but then I had to have joint birthday parties with her (I am pretty sure that in reality it was only a couple times, but in my mind, they were all lumped together).

As the oldest child, I was constantly being told to be nice to her because she was "the baby," "the youngest," "my sister." She was my shadow...and an obnoxious one, at that. She cut the hair off my Chrissy doll, ripped heads off my Barbies, and wreaked havoc wherever she went. Whenever she did something wrong, *I* would get into trouble because I should know better.

And then, something happened....

She started growing up. Oh, she could still be a major pain in my backside, but when she was acting like a semi-civilized human, I noticed some things. She was witty. She liked the same music as me. She was fiercely loyal. She was fun to be around. Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit! The brat who ruined my birthday was actually now my friend.

Oh, don't get me wrong...there are times when I still want to throttle her. She has a memory like an elephant, and she pops off with all sorts of things I'd rather not remember...like the time I convinced her our dog's AKC papers were actually her adoption papers (man, did I get in trouble for that).

She's married now (to a Saint of a guy), and she has two beautiful boys that I get to watch while she's at work. They are too young to hear the stories about their mother now, but there will come a day when I get to fill their heads with all of my memories. Be afraid, be very, very afraid.

Happy Birthday to the only present I still have after 35 years. :-D

The Name Game

A rose by any other name would not be a rose.

Naming a child is like navigating shark infested waters. You could get out unscathed, or you could wind up as chum. In Jason's Family, all of the children in his generation are named "J" names...as were all of their parents. Thankfully, Jason's cousin and older brother broke the "J" streak with their children.

When I got pregnant with baby #1, there was a teeny, tiny part of me that wanted to name him Barnum Nicholas Bailey. We'd call him Nick, of course, but on paper, he'd be Barnum N. Bailey (say it out loud; you'll get it...and if you don't, I can't help you LOL). I was thisclose to doing it, but ultimately decided against it. Wanting to avoid "J" names, I thought Patrick Joseph would be perfect, and we could call him PJ.

Jason's younger brother's name is Joseph, so I thought we would dodge drama by throwing that in the name. Jason didn't want there to be any hurt feelings from his older brother, so we added John to the mix. John Patrick Joseph Bailey was born. He was never, ever, EVER called John by the family. When he got to school and someone called him John, he wouldn't answer. John was not his name, and he had no problem telling people, even teachers, that.

John Patrick morphed into JP, and family and friends used them fairly interchangeably. (There is nothing more satisfying than yelling, "JohnPatrickJosephBailey, get your butt downstairs." Seriously, try it.) To us, JP was a perfectly acceptable nickname. It was not babyish, odd, or embarrassing. winner, winner, chicken dinner.

Sidebar: My brother was named after my grandfather, who went his whole life by a nickname. When my brother was born, he got not only my grandfather's given name, but his nickname as well. My cousin was the fourth with his his given name, so he, like his Father, had a nickname. When the guys hit high school, they decided to go by their given names instead of their nicknames. I still have trouble to this day calling them by anything other than their nicknames. Old dog, new tricks and all that nonsense....

When JP graduated this Spring, he announced that he wanted to go by the name John. I laughed. Probably directly in his face,if truth be told. That sort of fizzled out...he has one Uncle, one great Uncle, and one older cousin named John.

So, this week, he decides that he wants to be called Jack. Jack? His rationale was that John Patrick is too long, and he is over JP. Hmmph. He was upstairs with his brother, and I called them downstairs to do some menial grunt chore for me yesterday, and calling, "Cameron & Jack" just didn't have the same oomph for me.

I can see him introducing himself as Jack when he starts college. It may even catch on. Jack Bailey is kind of a cool rocker name, but John Patrick Joseph Bailey is an excellent New York Philharmonic Name. Just sayin'.

Then again, I could always start calling him Barnum....