"You're a Baker . . . Bake Something!"

I am a baker at heart.  From earliest memory, my grandma would prop me up on a step-stool, with a flour cloth towel tied around my little self, wooden spoon in hand, "helping".  We made more dozens of cookies than I could ever count.  Lemon-nut refrigerator cookies, date pinwheels, oatmeal raisin, peanut butter, shape cookies, chocolate chip, chocolate pixies, ranger cookies, and those funny face cookies from the Betty Crocker kids cookbook that tasted yucky but were fun to make, so I didn't complain.  She also had me pull taffy, bake pies and cakes, make popcorn balls, and muffins. 

My mom was very happy that I had the baking bug.  She was more than happy to turn the kitchen over to me to experiment and bake anything I wanted, provided I cleaned up after myself.  In jr. high, she pulled me out of school to do her Christmas baking.  I was stoked.  I pulled my little tv into the kitchen and watched reruns of Tarzan and The Love Boat as I made her famous Thimble Cookies, which have an indent created by a thimble dipped in sugar.  I tell you, that metal thimble gets hot when you re-press the cookies halfway through the baking time. 

I made my first wedding cake for my brother-in-law and his wife back in 1995, or so.  They were married in Vegas and I decorated the cake in the hotel room, using squat-shaped champagne glasses with roses underneath to hold the layers up.  There were blue and pink hearts piped onto the sides.  Looking back, it was pretty hokey, but it was my first wedding cake!!!  I am the type of person who fully embraces the bride and groom getting real messy while feeding each other the first bite.  I think we left an extra tip for the housekeeping staff who had to clean the carpet after they were finished with each other. 

In college, I studied Communication, which finally came in handy for this librarian gig I have currently.  During Junior year, however, as I color coded the index of my newest Bon Appetit in the library instead of studying, I wished I had gone to culinary school instead.  For Christmas and Birthdays, I got down and jiggy in the kitchen.  People with sweet tooths (?) love me.  We were staying at a friend's house in anticipation of Ozzfest the next day.  Some of his friends were there, and when they found out what I did for a living, they said, "You're a baker.  Bake something!" like I could just pull the butter and sugar out of nowhere.  Grrrrr.  My husband loves that line and uses it on me anytime he has a craving for something sweet and there's nothing to be found. 

I was a baker at Coco's in Rancho Cucamonga for a few years.  There I learned the fine art of inventory, clipboards and checklists, and baking all night long with Metallica as loud as it could get.  I would be a drooling mess by the time family Thanksgiving dinner hit, but it was a great learning experience. 

We worked as servers at a local restaurant in the mountains called the "Antler's Inn".  At times I would give away my tables to bake up sweets in the kitchen.  My hubby wasn't so happy about my tips going down, but I was happier behind the scenes than running the floor.  One year the owner bought a whole bunch of supplies for me to bake anything that I wanted.  I was still inexperienced and was like a deer in the headlights.  I needed structure.  I disappointed her, and myself, by not utilizing all her purchases adequately.  Give me that stuff now.  I would rock it!!!  For a few meals, she had a special menu and I was in charge of desserts.  This was more my style.  I would plan and implement the desserts, spending hours in the kitchen.  Score for her!

After we moved to San Diego, I worked for a short time in a hellhole of a restaurant I refer to as "Perfect Puke".  It's real name was "Perfect Palate" and was run by an ex-baked goods delivery driver who wanted to make a profit by cutting out the middle man.  The plus side of the job was more creative freedom and a storefront to sell out of.  The downside was that he was a disgusting person who used his mother's name to open credit accounts, hoping she would die and he wouldn't have to pay.  We used to have to serve lunch at the local strip clubs.  I tell you, there are few things more uncomfortable than having to tell the strippers that they couldn't have any of the patron food.  We catered a luau and there were 2 dead pigs in the walk-in refrigerator for a couple of days.  What a nightmare.  I was not sad to leave that place!

I was eventually hired by a husband and wife team who had opened up a little cafe in La Jolla called "The Come On In! Cafe".  I had to work my way up to baker's assistant, by working the front and making sandwiches, but it paid off.  Working for this perfectionistic, exacting, high-level couple introduced me a whole new world.  Previous to me getting that fabulous job, I had applied to be a pastry cook for the San Diego school district.  When they offered me a position, I couldn't turn down the hours and benefits, but held my place at the Cafe by coming in some afternoons and working the summertime.  As a pastry cook, I learned to bake for hundreds.  We fed about 7 schools.  They got homemade breads, brownies, cookies and pies.  I would (illegally) take the leftovers to the Ocean Beach pier to feed the homeless.  I hated throwing food away, which led me to eventually quit that job.  I worked for the Cafe for about 14 years total, for different bosses.  I opened a new store in Sorrento Valley, leaving my house at 3:30 a.m. to get the muffins and scones ready for delivery by 6.  Again, lots of loud metal got me through those surreal mornings. 

After awhile, I had developed a serious allergy to the flour dust and cinnamon.  I would bake with a dust mask on, but I was still sneezing my head off all the time.  I also got sick of the commute and of being a zombie by 7 p.m. so I gave notice.  I started stalking a local restaurant/bakery that was simply not living up to its potential.  By the time I had the courage to ask the owner if he was willing to sell, he had already sold it and informed me that the new owner needed a baker.  Sigh.  I was bored with baking, but figured it was a step in the right direction.  And I could walk to work.  Score.  I worked at "The Lace Apron" for a few years, but unfortunately, the local business just wasn't enough to keep it afloat and my dear boss had to let her staff go.  I was ready for a new career and started subbing at the local library and schools.  I was thoroughly sick of baking.  I didn't volunteer to make birthday cakes or Christmas goodies anymore.  I was perfectly content to be the one bringing the salad to the potlucks.  For a few years, I would break down and make cakes for my hubby or son, but that was it.  I would buy the pre-made chocolate chip dough and tell myself that it was almost as good as making it myself.  My husband just raised his eyebrows and ate the cookies. 

Well the years went by and the love for baking came back.  This year I have been in the kitchen since the holiday started for me on the 18th.  I made fruitcake (for my mom), cranberry-orange nut bread (also a request) and Bishop's bread, a family recipe that contains dates, pecans, chocolate and candied cherries.  Yum.  I also made cookies for an exchange and an apple/berry tart.  I've got 3 pumpkin pies in the oven, then I'm calling it quits for the season.  I also spent time in the kitchen melting down some candles that my grandmother had left behind and reforming them to burn at our family dinner tomorrow night.  I'm glad I'm a kitchen goddess once again.  I missed that part of me.  Thanks for listening. 

Holidays 2010

The finely tuned and edited version

Christmas hit me early this year.  Sometimes, when the holidays come our way, I want to call the whole thing off.  The thought of all the planning and baking and shopping and cooking and traveling and spending just because "they" say so, just seems overwhelming.  This year, however, we pulled up all our decorations from the basement around Thanksgiving . (Yes, we have a basement!  One of the few houses in S. Calif that does!!!)  I like to have at least our revolving, pre-lit tree up in the window and the inflatable Santa (thanks, Auntie the great!) up to greet the Fallbrookians who travel down our street to see the Christmas Parade which is held in early December.  We had the whole house dialed in earlier than ever this year.  Don't know why the bug bit me to celebrate full-bore, but it did. 

As usual, I have great and huge plans for the Christmas card that always gets put off until I practically panic.  Well, guess what?!?  It is December 18th and I haven't even ordered them yet!!!  Ha ha.  This isn't too unusual.  I usually focus on the "Have a great New Year" to make it seem more appropriate when it gets to people's mailboxes in mid-January.  If you notice the cute pic above of our son and his dog, it seems wholesome and celebratory.  Let me tell you a little story about it.  Last weekend, we enticed Kodi to sit for numerous pictures by having the bag of doggie snacks close by.  He didn't even try to shake the reindeer headband off.  Good doggie.  Jake was still wearing his pj's, but I didn't really think that would matter, even though his green camo sweats clashed horribly with his Chargers shirt.  I figured it wouldn't show too much.  After downloading the pictures and deciding that this one had the best looks on their faces, I realized that my dog was sporting a boner.  Yup.  I said it.  I laughed, I cried, I kissed my  . . . never mind.  I just decided that I would either throw the whole card idea out the window or break down and retake the pic.  I had to share it with E, however, because it was just too funny.  When our dog gets excited or nervous, he shows it.  And boy did it show. 

E cracked up, then got to work, downloading a free photo-shop-type program and erasing the X-rated part.  For some reason, this grossed me out to the max.  Seriously, I was shrieking with laughter and peering through my fingers as he very carefully "cut" it off.  I couldn't get a grip.  Then he fixed Kodi's eyes, which had captured the flash and looked a bit supernatural.  Did he stop there?  Oh no, not my man!  He then colored the green in our son's offending mis-matched pants blue to match his shirt.  Man oh man, is this man good!!!

Christmas time is also a time to remember times past.  I have a jar of ancient maraschino cherries which remind me of one of my grandfathers.  Every year my son asks if we are going to eat them.  Heck no!  First of all, they are very sentimental to me, and secondly, they would probably kill us. 

I unwrap other remembrances from grandparents who are no longer living.  Ornaments, a Mr and Mrs Santa kissing candle, some creches given to me by a grandmother, all fill my heart with a bittersweet longing for the "good ole days".  Well, I know perfectly that today is tomorrow's good ole day and I move on.  I let myself feel what I feel and when I get tired of decorating and packing up my usual decorations to make space, I remind myself that I am creating those memories for our son. 

I have been overcome by my emotions a bit more than usual this year.  Today when driving home, I saw the Christmas lights on the street and it hit me afresh that this would be the first year without my beloved father-in-law.  He died on this past Labor Day.  I got my mother-in-law a carved angel ornament to commemorate this year.  My Aunt K has asked for family recipes to put in a personalized recipe book.  I typed in my Grandmother B's Gingerbread Cake with tears pouring down.  She used to make it every year for my mom's birthday in November.  I miss her so much.  I was reminded of her just a few minutes ago when I pulled out some white tissue paper that had tiny colored sparkles in it.  She used to lay out a similar cotton blanket under her tree.  It looked like sparkly snow to my child eyes. 

Starting in November, the season just hits the ground running.  Our son's birthday is in November, my husband's is 5 days before Christmas, my niece on Christmas Eve.  Our Anniversary is on New Year's Eve.  This year marks our 20th.  We will be on a cruise in the harbor celebrating this year.  We travel a lot, celebrating Christmas at least 5 times in as many days.  We spend too much and tend to pull the belts tighter in the coming months.  We get burned out and cranky.  We wonder if it is all worth it.  My answer?  Yup.  Thanks for listening and have a great holiday yourself.

Bloody with a Touch of Angst

Since becoming a Middle/High School Library Media Technician three years ago, I have dived whole-heartedly into fiction geared toward these younger readers.  Beside an occasional Stephen King or Alice Hoffman novel, I find my fiction selections based entirely on what's right in front of me.  The Hunger Games Series, all 12 of the Cirque du Freak stories, The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod, Skellig, to name just a few of the books I have enjoyed while chomping down my lunch, sitting at my desk, happy to eat and read in relative peace. 

When I hit the public library, I find myself in the Young Adult section, seeing what they've got and occasionally grabbing from there as well, especially the audio books.  Blessed audio books.  Nothing makes a commute more enjoyable than a good story. 

True, sometimes the younger fiction can bog down in emotions or simplicity.  I have to admit the same can be true for a lot of adult books as well.  What I am continually encountering is, however, Darkness.  Sadness.  Loneliness.  Alienation.  Being misunderstood by family and friends.  Love.  Passion.  Need and Want.  Having to choose between what the heart craves and what seems to be the more acceptable choice. 

At school right now, I am reading Crescendo, the sequel to Hush, Hush by Becca Fitzpatrick.  Book one had all the "good girl drawn to the hot bad boy" that was found in the Twilight novels, but the sexual tension was turned up a notch, if that's possible.  High schooler Nora Gray is still reeling from the murder of her father when she is partnered with Patch, (the aforementioned hot bad boy) in Science class.  By the end of the book, she is in love with this fallen angel.  Literally.  He has the scars on his back to prove it.  In Crescendo, the drama continues and Nora thinks she sees her dead father all over town.  I haven't finished it yet, so I can't ruin the plot for you.  It's pretty good stuff, though.  Tasty over a bowl of soup during period 5 which is my blessed prep period and I am only interrupted about 3 times on average from my book and meal.

In my car today I just finished The Forest of Hands and Teeth by Carrie Ryan.  Seriously, how could I resist a title and cover like that?!?  I hadn't even heard of it before I found it on the library audio book shelf.  Mary lives in a small village surrounded by chain-link fence.  She has never been beyond its boundaries because they are surrounded by a forest which is filled by "the Unconsecrated", (read Zombies) and one bite will turn you into one of them.  Her father has disappeared and her mother gets bit in chapter one.  Mary has not been "spoken for" by a male and must go live with the Sisters (who rule the village with religion and rules).  While learning their ways, Mary uncovers some very ugly secrets.  A childhood friend, Harry, steps forward and asks for her.  Even though Mary is in love with Harry's brother, Travis, she makes the choice to become betrothed, despite her broken heart (on so many levels) and her craving to leave the village to find the fabled ocean her mother used to tell her stories about.  Eventually, Mary, Harry, Travis and some others must escape their village as it has been breached by the Unconsecrated.  This has to be one of the saddest books I have ever read.  There is about 4 % happiness and 99 % blood, horror, gore and gristle.  (I know that math doesn't add up, but it's true.) The end is a bit of a cliffhanger.  I am hoping for a part two from this first time author.  I will put it on my wishlist for the school.  The teens will eat it up.  I do have to say, however, that I hope they get a different narrator.  The girl who read it used the same voice inflection for commas as for periods and I was constantly re-speaking it in my head.  Very distracting. 

Today when I went to the library to return my latest story, I perused the children's section of audios.  I picked up some slightly more wholesome stories, both for me and my boy, who loves to listen to sleep at night.  I picked up Peter Pan (unabridged, thank you very much) in memory of the recently seen movie about it's author, J.M. Barrie.  "Finding Neverland" was a great movie;  one I will watch more than once.  Starring Johnny Depp (purrrrrr), it is heartbreakingly beautiful.  I also got The Wind in the Willows.  It's been on my son's bookshelf since he was an infant and we never really got into it.  I will start disk one tomorrow.  Maybe I'll let you know how it is.  Thanks for listening.       

Iris Murdoch

I had not heard of author, Iris Murdoch, before watching the movie about her life. It came in them mail a few days ago.  I had been prompted to put it on my Netflix list because of the description, "Iris Murdoch was l'enfant terrible of the literary world in early 1950's Britain, a live wire who tumbed her nose at conformity via a voracious and scandalous sexual appetite. "  Well, the movie wasn't all that scandalous, I must say, but it was amazing.  Author of 26 novels, philosopher, playwright and free-thinker, Iris lived a fascinating life. The movie, "Iris" was based on a book written about her by her husband, John Bayley, entitled, Elegy for Iris.  What a love story.  What heartbreak.  Iris Murdoch died in 1999, after suffering from Alzheimer's disease for five years.  The woman who's entire life revolved around words, lost all of them in the end. 

"You love words, don't you?" , asked John. "Well, if one doesn't have words, how does one think?", she replied.

The movie stars Judi Dench and Kate Winslet as the older/younger versions of Iris.  The movie is rated "R", because of some nudity and profanity, but I would recommend it to any of my adult friends.  Grab a box of tissues, however, especially if you have been touched by Alzheimer's in your own life.  (My darling Grandpa suffered from it in his latter years.  To this day, my memories are tainted by the horror of seeing someone who used to be so vibrant, reduced to confused silence.)

Iris believed very strongly in what was good; what love was.  I tend to be drawn to movies in which the main characters' houses are overflowing with books.  This one might take the cake in that respect.  John Bailey, her husband, wrote numerous books as well. 

Iris was a free spirit, who believed in being herself.  In the movie at a dinner party she says:

"Yes, of course there's something fishy about describing one's feelings.  You try hard to be accurate, but as soon as you start to define such and such a feeling, language lets you down.  It's really a machine for making falsehoods.  When we really speak the truth, words are insufficient.  Almost everything except things like, 'pass the gravy' is a lie of some sort and that being the case, I shall shut up . . . Oh, and pass the gravy.'"

And in an interview:

"People, of course, are very secretive.  And, for many reasons, want to appear what we call ordinary.  Everybody has thoughs they want to conceal.  Perhaps even quite simple aspects of their lives.  People have obsessions and fears and passions which they don't admit to.  I think any character is interesting and has extremes.  It's the novelists' privilege to see how odd everyone is."

The movie is beautifully done.  It flows back and forth in time.  There are many subtle cues and undertones.  Iris sitting at her desk, surrounded by crumpled papers as she struggles to write her last novel, John watching her concernedly from the bedroom intermingles with a younger John, who sees her with a lover, as he peeks through the doorway at their lovemaking.  Iris stating that she will write and write as long as she can still find words, and John turning on the light as he states that he shall keep her at it. 

I watched it two times in as many days and was extremely touched by the love shared between Iris and John.  Iris was like a star and John orbited around her.  Even after being married for ages, he doted on her and admired her.  "I feel as if I am sailing into darkness", says Iris as she noticed that the words were becoming harder to come by.  Her brain scan shows the holes where the disease has eaten away the cells.  The image reminded me of a death head moth.  Words meant everything to her and she eventually lost them.  "It frightens me, and then sometimes it doesn't frighten me, and that's just as bad, because that's it winning, isn't it?"  says Iris about Alzheimer's. 

"Education does not make you happy, and nor does freedom.  We don't become happy just because we are free, if we are, or because we have been educated, if we have, but because education may be the means by which we realize we are happy.  It opens our eyes, our ears, tells us where delights are lurking . . . convinces us that there is only one freedom of any importance whatsoever--that of the mind--and gives us the assurance, the confidence, to walk the path of our mind--our educated mind--offers.'

"Her novels embraced freedom and what it meant to be good", stated an interviewer.  I would like to check them out for myself.  I perused the online catalogues of the three local library systems I own cards to, but they didn't have anything on audio, my preference these days.  That's ok.  I'm still into grabbing a book and falling into it.  She's written quite a few.  I'll give them a go and see what I think.  In the meantime, I highly recommend watching, "Iris".  Just don't forget the tissues.

John Bayley and Iris Murdoch

1408

I have a serious case of the creeps right now. I would blame Stephen King, but I know better. It's my fault. I KNEW that story was horrifying, and yet, I decided to reread it. Well guess what. In the vein of The Shining, I have to put the book down and get my normal equilibrium back. This story, called "1408" is damn scary.

As a child, I was plagued by fright until I was almost 30 years old. Scared of the dark, scared of being alone in the house, scared of malevolent spirits living in trees (especially Oak) or in certain houses. When I was younger, pre-teen or so, one of my tasks was to close and lock the garage door every night. The garage was seperate from the house. I would have to cross the back yard, pass the slightly creepy "playhouse" that used to be a homemade camper shell of some type. (It was dark wood and although we played in it, it never felt quite right.)  Past the little playhouse was the garage. The door slid to the left to close. It locked with a padlock. I would have to reach in, turn off the light, slam the door, lock it and get back into the house before something evil got me. My heart is beating hard just thinking about it. On the bad days, I would forget about closing it until after dusk. I would rush over, hit that light if it was on,  try not to look into the dark space within, get that door shut and locked as quick as I could.  I would then race back into the safety of the house. I don't think my feet hit most of the four steps on the way up into the house. They were flying.

When I stayed at my Grandma's house, I was creeped out about what was lurking under the bed, ready to grab my foot and pull me under. (During the day, that bed and space underneath was relatively safe. I hid under there regularly when playing with friends or hide-and-go-seek with my brother. But at night it was a different story altogether. The house had nightlights, but sometimes they make matters worse. The shadows can be unholy and grotesque. I would pause on the threshold, then make a wild leap onto the bed. My grandmother called me out on it a few times. She did not approve of my wild crashing onto the bed, but I doubt I shared with her the reason I did it. Something was possibly under that bed; something hungry.

Sleeping at my mom's house, I would line my stuffed animals and dolls all around me like a sacred ring. Head to toe they would surround me and keep me safe. I still remember lying there, breathing shallowly, waiting to finally go to sleep. 

In my late-20's, I realized that some of that paralyzing fear had diminished. I could stay alone in the house and be ok. It helped that I had Tobi to keep me company, of course. Tobi was our dog, the runt of the litter, about 1/4 pitbull. Small but with a wide evil streak. She was very protective of me and I felt better when she was around and E was off somewhere else.

I am a huge Stephen King fan. I've read pretty much everything. I don't know why I can handle his books but not watch scary movies or read other creepy authors. A couple of times, however, I have had to put a book down and come back to my safe self. I had to stop reading The Shining two times. It just colored my whole day wrong. The movie gets scarier for me every time I see it. I was listening to a podcast a few weeks ago where a man spoke about how when he was about 7, he watched the movie with his uncle. It scarred him. They played some clips from the movie.  "Play with us, Danny", spoken by the ghostly murdered girls. gave me the chills then and just did again. Lunacy freaks me out. Haunted spaces that can make one lose one's mind are high on my list of horrible things in this world. The story, "1408", is one of those.

At my recent yardsale, I picked up King's Everything's Eventual from my girlfriend for a buck. It is a collection of short stories published in 2002. I listened to it on audio a few years ago, but had forgotten some of it. Besides, I didn't have THIS book in my collection. The whole time I was reading it, I was fine. The stories are twisted and weird and disturbing, but I was ok. In the back of my mind, however, a quiet but cautious voice didn't let me forget what was coming. "1408". Earlier tonite, I finished "That Feeling, You can Only Say What It Is In French", and turned the page. There it was. My heart sped up, I put the bookmark in the book and walked away. A few hours later, my chores were done. Time to crawl into bed and face the fear.

I got about halfway through. My spidey senses were prickling and I had to get out of the bedroom. I turned on all the lights. Checked on J and his friend, E who was sleeping over. I thought about finished the story in their company, but the light was already off. Ok. Next plan. Open the fridge. (Hmmmm. Comfort eating?) I heated up some leftover soup and decided to share my fear with my blog readers. I sat down at the computer desk. To my left was the open closet door. Heck no. I pushed it closed. It opened again. (This shouldn't have been creepy, the house is old and there is no latch to keep the door closed. Still. Decidedly creepy.) I continued typing, horribly aware of the door cracked open and, worse, the small hole where a doorknob used to live. Something was watching me. I pushed the laundry basket against the door. That solved the problem of keeping it closed, but I was still aware of the hole.

Yes, I will finish the story. E is home now. Maybe I'll read it tonite, but since the fear has been reduced to a low hum in my spine, I'll probably wait for the safety of the light of day tomorrow when we are driving to Legoland to celebrate our son's 10th birthday.

I realize that I haven't even really explained what the story is about. Just a haunted hotel room, who's numbers add up to 13. People die in that room. Suicide. "Natural" causes. Digital devices don't work in there either. The room is alive and it is really, really evil. They made a movie a few years ago. When I first saw the preview I decided that under no circumstances would I watch it, despite the fact that it stars John Cusack who is a cupcake. I'm sure they changed the plot to suit themselves and it probably doesn't come close to being as scary as the story, but still. I have stayed far away from it.

King's  are something else, however. I can handle them, even if it is in small doses. I'll get back to it tomorrow. Perhaps you'd like to check it out. If you do, let me know if it scared you as much as it scares me. For now, goodnight. Sweet dreams. I hope I have them myself. Thanks for listening.