I was grateful for a gorgeous day today, and for the help of Good Tim in the garden. Here he’s cutting suckers from the wild plum with Wren’s help. She adores him and follows him around when he’s here like a—well, like a puppy dog.
I learned a new technique for bread scoring, where you do the decorative scoring only (wheatstalks, here) and bake for seven minutes, then you take the lid off and do the expansion score (straight lines) so the loaf can rise to its full potential, replace the lid and bake the rest of the covered time, then remove the lid as usual until done. Pretty pleased with my first attempt.
The shades are coming along, I spent hours this weekend on several panels in varying stages, and I’m happily absorbed in completing the appliqués. (I’ll iron out the wrinkles before assembly.) I’m grateful I’ve rediscovered the joy of sewing. I heard just this evening on Forrest Hanson’s ‘Being Well’ podcast that when you don’t find joy in things you used to it indicates depression.
While I was designing a trumpet flower on the lower section, little miss Topaz did her cat thing. These are impressionistic shades, not ecologically or geographically accurate, so I anchored this panel with a bunch of cypress knees, checking my memory of them against photos from an Ecosia search online. Yes, they really do look that strange and otherworldly.
I had a couple of errands to run, including swinging by the lumber yard to buy the 1×2 strips for mounting the shades, so I saved them for Farmers Market day. Paonia is an interesting town, with the strongest Blue streak in a Red county. As US politics gets ever more bizarre and divisive, I found this interesting piece on the right’s attacks on Jon Ossoff somewhat enlightening.
Wren came to town with me, and her day got very interesting. She met Huckleberry at the lumber yard. Then she heard fire engine sirens up close and personal at our next stop. Then she met Huckle at the Farmers Market, and she was so excited to see him that I think she must have spent some time with him before, at the Bad Dog Ranch where he’s a neighbor.
Today was an extra bright day for me after the rough week the world just finished. Losing Dolly Parton was the first blow. I know there are a lot of ‘good millionaires’ out there just living their lives and not being greedy; but it does seem that the wealthiest people on the planet are the hungriest ghosts. There are some notable exceptions, among them Dolly, who spent her wealth freely for humanitarian causes.
Thankfully many of the worst fires in the US West are under control or out, though fires in Washington State continue to create unhealthy air, new fires burn in California, and some fires remain in Oregon, Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico. Colorado, which kicked off the season well ahead of other states, now, blessedly, remains almost fire-free. The Guardian published this article last week about Josephine County, Oregon, which has the highest rate of deaths from wildfire smoke of any place in the country. It’s a sad testament to the obvious effects of climate chaos, and at the same time it validates my experience of our smoky days here and their effect on my breathing.
I’m thankful that the COPD that afflicts me does so only moderately, not severely, but I understand that it’s an irreversible illness that, without adequate precautions, will worsen and could eventually kill me. Oh well! This is how it is. I’m taking the precautions I know of, and always open to more helpful measures. In so many ways, I’m more fortunate than most people on the planet.
Certainly my good fortune far exceeds that of those poor people living along the Trishuli River on the border of Tibet and Nepal. A dear friend has lived in Nepal, has friends there, and has been watching developments in this climate-fueled mega-disaster closely. She shared this link to a fascinating in-depth analysis of the geological and climatological conditions that factored into the seismic ‘debris flow’ or, as some are calling it, ‘inland tsunami’, the effects of which will be felt for a long time to come. A lot of survivors I’ve seen interviewed said there’s no reason left to live: they’ve lost so much that life has no meaning anymore. Many expressed survivors’ guilt. The grief and trauma the entire remaining population of those demolished communities are suffering is almost as unfathomable as the mind-boggling catastrophe itself.
Holding tragedy and grief in my heart, holding the world and all beings in compassion, how else can I live but by appreciating all the small joys as they arise? And every day they arise one after another after another, though some days I notice only a few, and for awhile there I couldn’t see any. Today overflowed with lovely moments.
I spent more money than I should have at the market, including $20 on a pizza to support The Learning Council, a community advocacy group who offers wood-fired pizza and an organic full meal each week for any donation. I enjoyed a couple of slices at a picnic table, listening to the lovely music, before heading home.
I also bought a couple of tomatoes, some pickling cucumbers, and three skeins of yarn. I only intended to buy two. I was entranced by the colors of these hand-dyed wools last time, but I can’t wear wool, it itches. So I pondered what I could do with some, and realized that Wren can wear wool! And I call her Wrenbow, so I planned to get some rainbow wool to knit her a new sweater.
I was grateful to snag the last two skeins of the most rainbow yarn. Then I had a lovely chat with Tonya of Wooly Colorado as I perused the rest of her wares, and she pointed out “Those two are cotton, I spun them. Dyed with indigo.” Something happened. I picked one up and teared up. Emotion overcame common sense, rationalization reared its lovely head, I can wear cotton, and I bought one. Just holding it, carrying it to the car, telling someone about it on the phone later, tears and tingles kept coming. My heart is open again.
I’ve been delighted and horrified and everything in between as I read through my journals from the first one I started writing when I was fifteen. So far I’m up to age twenty-two, and reacquainting myself with me during those seven years a key finding is how unreliable my memory is. It’s comforting to know from memory science that it’s not just mine. Studies indicate that each time we recall a memory we overlay it with something of our current conditions, gradually shaping and shifting it into something that can be very different from the actual situation we think we remember. The journals are a gift as I unpack this phenomenon. I have written proof that I did not, in fact, do something that I years later memory-guilted myself over doing.
I was raised by republicans in the suburbs of DC and didn’t know any better. That’s my excuse for what my friend Wayne and I planned when candidate Jimmy Carter came to town. I was editor of the school newspaper, he was photo editor. We pinned Gerald Ford buttons inside our blazer lapels, and intended to flash them at Carter from our place in the front row as he came along greeting people.
I think of his smile now, which must have dazzled us back then but I don’t remember that. Some years after his legacy of compassionate integrity was cemented, I recalled with shame that youthful prank. It haunted me from time to time, popping up out of the blue when I heard his name as he built Habitat houses, unobtrusively and tirelessly worked for world peace, modeled a healthy marriage, and so much more. Imagine my delight to read that though we had intended to do it, we had restrained ourselves! I misremembered, colored my recollection of the event over time with the dark brush of the inner critic, the habit of creeping negativity bias.
It was a good week in the sandwich department. This one included farmstand tomato, smoked Gouda, refrigerator pickles, and pickled red onions. Dinners were also nourishing, which doesn’t happen every day. I got another three meals from the Aphid Kale, cutting the heat by serving with fried leftover parmesan-polenta, with or without cheese.
I notice ‘negativity bias’ more clearly in reviewing my life than I do in the present moment. It’s become habitual. Negativity bias is an evolutionary adaptation for survival which seems to make danger and aversion create stronger memories than pleasure. But we rarely need the protection from predators now as when we emerged from the forests onto the open plains, and most foods at our disposal we already know aren’t going to poison us. (Most, depending on where you get them.) I look forward to trying this malabar spinach when it grows a bit bigger, and thanks to Garden Buddy for the seeds of this edible leafy vine.
If this shift toward memory loss with aging is built in by evolution (and I’m not saying it is but these new studies may suggest it), then maybe it’s not all bad. Maybe it’s only our Type A-Grasping-Doing culture that sees forgetting with age as a flaw. Personally I’m thankful for some memory loss. Life gets easier with just a little bit of a blur. I’ve forgotten a lot of good things and people from my life, but as I age I am forgetting more and faster the unhappy, prickly, afflictive things that happen, and have happened. I used to be the queen of grudges, and I’m softer now. It could be that forgetting some things with age allows us to open in other ways, to become more compassionate and wise.
The week’s good sandwiches have also included tuna fish. ‘Tuna fish’, thinking about that redundant name, short for tuna fish salad, but why not just ‘tuna sandwich’? Because it could be confused with tuna prepared some other way than the standard mayo mush? I love it with celery, red onion, mayo, mustard, Worcestershire sauce, Penzeys Wauwatosa Village seasoning, and some pickle relish. It’s an infinitely versatile staple, and now that I’ve found Thrive Market sustainably caught skipjack tuna, I indulge in a couple of cans a month and get three servings per can. Next week I plan to branch out from the humble tuna fish sandwich to try a Gourmet tuna-noodle casserole. I used to love tuna fish casserole growing up (no, haven’t found it referred to yet in the journals) but it always seemed to suffer from an unjust stigma as ‘cheap’ food. I don’t remember the last time I had a good tuna fish casserole.
It’s been a joy to be able to eat outside again now that the smoke has dissipated, the nearby fires are largely under control, and it’s cooler than 98 degrees in the shade. We’re getting to enjoy sitting by the pond at either end of the day again, and sometimes even catch the lilies as they open. The summer chugs on by with its highs and lows, its holdings and releasings, and I’m grateful for awareness of Impermanence: When we’re in the midst of scalding, desiccating heat and my lungs burn with every breath, it can be hard to remember that this too shall pass. Whatever comes next, it won’t be like this someday. At least for awhile.
These two are not kissing. It’s a rare moment of domestic bliss when I can get them both in the same frame so I take it when I can get it. Wren is in her thunder shirt, which she half thinks brings the thunder but she actually does freak out a bit less if I can get it on her before a storm. This article on ‘The Death of the Kiss‘ makes me grateful I got so much kissing in as a youth. So much kissing! I don’t remember half the boys I kissed in high school but I’m glad I mentioned them in those journals. And oh, the giddiness of kissing. No wonder my mother called me “boy crazy” more than once. I’m surprised, too, by how little supervision I must have actually had, even though it felt oppressive at the time and created a crippling adult aversion to being scrutinized. I kissed a lot of men after high school, too, but it’s been a long time since I’ve experienced that particularly blissful physical surrender, since well before Covid. I wonder if the Covid Shift away from proximity and contact led to this tragic reported youthful self-consciousness, aversion to, and denial of the pleasures of kissing.
Everyone I know is grateful this week for cooler temperatures and more humidity. From Wednesday morning humidity in the single digits it was up to 42 by midday and 80 by evening. It never quite rained until after dark, but brought soothing clouds and a strong breeze. The house cooled down enough to finally bake granola, one of my favorite all-purpose anytime foods to keep on hand. So simple, so delicious!
I used a cup of raw pecans which I toasted with the oats and dressing to bake, then added a half cup each of roasted-salted pepitas and mini-chocolate chips, and even more craisins on top after the grain cooled. It was so satisfying to break up the sheet of toasted oats and crumble everything together before scooping it all into a half-gallon mason jar. In the morning, with a big dollop of Greek yogurt and a splash of organic milk I started the day right.
But before breakfast, the morning too cool and dewy to resist, Wren and I walked to the rim for the first time in more than a month. Piñon needles and juniper leaves sparkled with raindrops and the sagebrush smelled crisp and medicinal.
I practiced a lot of deep breathing at stops along the trail, and also while walking. I’ve been practicing several techniques to open my lungs, along with using the new COPD inhaler twice a day. But yesterday I may have ended up with too much of a good thing.
Lots of exercise, lots of deep breathing, lots of energy. I was also halfway through a ten day course of prednisone to finally knock out once and for all this ear condition that’s plagued me since March. I was warned that the prednisone might give me jitters like too much caffeine, and I was feeling some of that, but was more than compensated by feeling so much better than I have in over a year in so many other ways. No more mouth-face-ear-jaw pain, plenty of motivation and stamina, and a sense of awakening. That movie came to mind, a miracle drug drawing me out of a deep haze. I enjoyed a mindful supper on the patio, not a book in sight, just dinner with the hummingbirds, and a half-glass of wine mixed with cold sparkling water.
Another cool evening, another oven bake, this time a recipe off a King Arthur flour bag for Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookie Bars. I blame Philip for everything that happened afterward. Not saying any of it was his fault, just that I blame him. I wanted a special trade for him when he brought me groceries today and he loves this brownie-blondie kind of treat. Timing was perfect, baked to perfection early enough to let the house cool again before bedtime, and the bars cool overnight before cutting. “You might initially think these bars are underbaked, but once you let them cool completely (overnight is best), they’re wonderfully chewy and moist.” So concludes the recipe. About ten o’clock I took the last activated charcoal capsule in my dental-mercury-cleanse protocol. They’re big and hard to swallow, so I cut off a little corner of the cookie bars to help wash it down.
Within minutes, as I watched TV and knitted, my heart started racing. I wasn’t worried, considering all the aforementioned conditions. But it went on. So I made a cup of chamomile-mint tea, and sipping that over the next hour failed to settle it. I checked in with my pulse oximeter to see just how fast my heart was racing, and was not surprised to see it peaking around 142 bpm. What shocked me was that it skittered rapidly up and down, bottoming out occasionally at 48. Then I got a little worried. I checked it a couple more times over the next half hour, before deciding I should just go to bed. But I thought of Philip saying how he always checks out medical stuff with AI, and thought, Why not? Maybe it’s something serious since it’s not stopping. AI advised me to immediately go to the hospital. I was grateful for the equanimity that comes of practice. I didn’t panic, I calmly called 911 and told the calm, kind dispatcher “the nature of” my emergency. He sent an ambulance to check me out.
It took about half an hour. Waiting, I calmly put on more clothes than I’d been wearing, and settled Wren in her little nest in the laundry nook since dispatch had asked me to shut any pets in another room. But they didn’t even come in. I met them outside and they kindly took me into their tiny space, hooked me up, spoke calmly, did the things. A few minutes in another EMT arrived, a few questions later, they let me go. My heart was fine, BP a little high, pulse a little high but regular. I had already felt much better by the time they arrived than I had for the two hours before they came. Wren was a mess when I got in. She’d shredded the lower rubber door jamb and was bouncing off the door when I opened it. I cuddled and consoled her, swept up the mess, and calmly we wandered up to bed. I lay still, spent but not sleepy, meditated for half an hour, and eventually drifted off, floating on awareness of gratitude for Christopher, Caden, and the third EMT whose name I didn’t catch, compassionate volunteers who showed up to reassure me at midnight. Christopher explained the form I signed this way: “You’re saying you’ve refused transport to the hospital, but you’re also promising that if anything happens after we leave you’ll call again, any time. We’re here for you, and there’s no charge for us to come out, it doesn’t cost you a thing.”
Causes and conditions. Everything is causes and conditions that arise, come together, and change. Nothing ever remains the same, whether we want it to or not. I woke well rested and sublimely grateful for a new day in which to start living all over again. I confess that I took it easier today, practicing moderation in all things. I’ll finish off the prednisone but hold off on the inhaler which also contains a steroid until I’m not double dosing. I trained my energy on some light housecleaning instead of a brisk hike. Lunch was a simple plate with pickles, tomatoes, and a piece of toast lightly spread with a quick fromage fort I whipped up with four different cheese ends, garlic, salt&pepper, and a splash of dry vermouth. I had to get back on the horse, so for dessert I ate a small cookie bar just so I wouldn’t be afraid of them. Hours later and I’m feeling fine, kind of like a fever broke: calm, steady, good O2 saturation, a steady pulse, and a distinct pleasure in simply being alive.
A rare morning rainbow in the western sky last week.
With its apparent resilience, the monarch butterfly provides another apt metaphor. After a precipitous decline in population and a decades-long international collaboration to save the species, monarch numbers have increased in the past few years. They’ve followed more or less the same migratory pathways for 20 millennia, the science of tracking and protecting them has been going on for .0025% of that time by my calculation, and they could go extinct in the next fifty years.
I’m grateful that I got to visit Rosario in the late 80s as a guest of a research team under the direction of Dr. Lincoln Brower. The sanctuary had just been designated. During my week at the field camp, the weather was unseasonably cold and the last few days were blanketed in a rare snow. We drove down from the mountaintop to El Rosario and walked the dusty paths, but even there the monarchs were largely dormant. Nevertheless, I remember the miracle of being among their stunning multitude. I’m grateful they seem to be adapting to habitat loss.
But if we as a species don’t slam the brakes on climate chaos, those amazing butterflies don’t stand a chance. The world has “junked 45 climate pledges.” Under the current US regime, public lands including irreplaceable wilderness and cultural sites are being torn open to fossil fuel extraction. This is unconscionable. Killing two birds with one stone and the planet in the mix, destroying our public lands protected by our tax dollars for their value to our American lives, AND accelerating the climate catastrophe. We stand to lose not only the butterflies, but so many other natural wonders and cultural treasures. Call your representatives now.
As a society, we’re going to need all the resilience we can cultivate, given the insidious influences trying to shape the way we think, feel, and interact with our world. The Patriarchy may be in its death throes but it’s pulled out all the stops, as this insightful piece from The Atlantic illustrates. Can we support the men in our lives, young or old, in resisting this toxic masculinity scam? Can we help each other see reality clearly? Your wellbeing and happiness depend upon my wellbeing and happiness, as mine depend upon yours. We are interdependent. Can we hold on to this certainty in some way as nefarious forces continue trying to fracture us, both individually and collectively? Daily mindfulness practice helps me feel more resilient.
Doing my best most days to eat in a way that supports my health, I made a delicious golden mushroom soup last week, with portobellos, orzo, turmeric, and turkey stock. And a pat of butter, per the recipe.
And it’s not just the natural world this Republican regime is assaulting. Our health as individuals, communities, and a nation is at risk from the boneheads in charge of public health. This 23 minute talk Joyce Vance had with Dr. Vin Gupta lays out the threats pretty clearly, and offers us some resources since we can no longer count on the government websites to provide science.
The once bountiful garden is struggling with the heat, though it’s still providing about as many leafy greens as I can stomach. The ‘Mickey Maters’ started from Dog World seeds are not thriving. I don’t think they’re meant to be quite this small. I’m grateful for the few strawberries that have survived the chipmunks.
A friend brought me a nice organic zucchini a couple weeks ago, and the only thing I wanted to do with it was try again to make zucchini fries. This time I used a batter recipe Amy had sent, since the last time it was too thick and took so long to fry to golden that the zukes were just utter mush.
With this tempura-like batter they fried quickly and remained beautifully firm, almost crunchy. Maybe next time, with the oil a little hotter, they’ll do even better. It’s a great way to get a fried fix. For sauce this time, nothing fancy, just mayo, mustard, a squeeze of tomato paste because I had no ketchup, and a spoonful of sweet pickle relish.
Morning at the Bombay Wall. I did NOT empty all these bottles by myself, it was a community effort over two decades. They were just too pretty to throw away.
Speaking of blue beauty, the lazuli bunting has been a regular at the feeder and I was happy to get some good shots. I thought at first glance that he was wet from a rare rain, but on closer inspection recognized the tips of new feathers all over his head. He didn’t show up while he was molting—it might have alarmed me to see a bald-headed bunting, but I’d have remembered what I learned when Cousin Mel had a bald cardinal at her feeder. It’s not unusual to see bald songbirds occasionally during molting season.
This is my first ever journal, covering the last six weeks of freshman high school through the summer and the first few months of sophomore year. As part of my preparing-to-die work (no rush, don’t worry, just want to leave a little less stuff for others to deal with whenever it does happen) I’ve gathered all my old journals and am reading them in order, with several goals. One is to review my life with compassion for a change. Oh! The Drama! Also some good insights: I was more resilient then than I remember. And some perspective: Doodles and I pooled our money after a bike ride to town, and had to choose between buying a coke or a slurpee with our 16 cents!
Back then, I was only dimly aware of worldly concerns, but I do remember thinking that the grownups would save the ozone layer and solve global warming and tighten the growing income gap, so I ignored all those things for a few decades. Turns out, they all just kept getting worse.
Thanks to an infusion of new sourdough starter from the Bad Dogs, I got a proper rise to my boule last week.
Also in baking news, it was time for another birthday cake. I chose for Rosie a 7-Up cake, a retro Southern recipe which uses the lemon-lime pop as both liquid and leavening. The flavor is enhanced with lime zest and juice, but my limes were not organic and I won’t zest sprayed fruit. So I used lemons instead. It calls for a lemon glaze, but I knew she likes frosting so I made a lemon cream cheese buttercream—yum! I also tried to candy lemon slices for decoration, but I lost track of the process (twice!) resulting in a burnt mess. Oh well. I’ll try again some day.
Coffee at the pond this morning with a gentle doe.
Wren (like all my dogs) has always gotten last bite of everything I eat. I’ve found only a few things she won’t eat: raw celery, zucchini, and mushrooms. The other day I thought to offer her a spoonful of cinnamon foam after I finished my latté. She was so excited to try it! And she loved it, so now it’s another regular last bite treat.
Today in the garden. I was unable to tear myself away from my safe place this morning to brunch with friends. I hope they can understand and forgive me some need that I don’t fully understand myself. But I made the most of a quiet day at home — I almost wrote ‘alone’ except that I’m not alone here. Just look. Surrounded by Life.
Same tree above and below, different times of day, different angles. We spent a good hour yesterday morning wandering the woods with our infrared phone camera. I’m grateful for technology and terrified of it at the same time. I heard today from a reliable source that bots sicced on Reddit users were six times more persuasive in changing humans’ minds as other humans. This is how it is right now. So I turn back to what’s real. The forest. The garden.
Meet the Trees, the second in a series of Meditations with Nature, will be a half-day retreat here on Saturday, June 13 from 9 am through noon. Some meditation experience is helpful but not necessary. If you’re in the vicinity and the weather holds, come enjoy the garden and the forest with me. Registration closes June 9.
After that thought-provoking soul-nourishing walk communing with ancient junipers in the morning, I baked margarita cupcakes in the afternoon. In the latest installment of the Birthday Cake Challenge, I took these treats to some margarita-loving friends, an amazing couple who share the same birthday. We sat on their deck enjoying gin-and-tonics looking out across the West Elk Mountains. I didn’t tell them what flavor the cupcakes were, intending for them to guess. I was tickled pink when I saw him take the tiny lime slice and squeeze it over the frosting as though it were a cocktail, before he even knew it was one!
There was tequila in the buttercream frosting as well as lime juice, and a lot of lime zest and juice in the cakes, which I brushed with tequila as soon as they came out of the oven. Highly recommend. And lots of leftover frosting! What to put it on next?
In further bird news, an American Robin is nesting above my back porch light. She flies fast each time I come out the door so I’m learning to open it more mindfully. After I sat awhile at the patio table I was able to catch her on the nest. I love the new life incubating amid the reminder of impermanence.
I’m grateful for fresh rhubarb from Neighbor Fred, and organic grocery strawberries, and Cousin Mel’s suggestion that I make strawberry-rhubarb jam, her favorite. I set to work this morning on another Birthday Cake Challenge, a Victoria Sandwich Cake. First, I made the jam…
Then I baked the sponges, which couldn’t have been easier. It took longer to find a recipe online for this classic British tea cake that didn’t use self-rising flour, which all sources say is impossible to correct for altitude. But I finally found one essentially the same as Paul Hollywood’s but with all-purpose flour instead, and I adjusted the baking powder for altitude. The sponge wasn’t perfect, but next time I’ll adjust flour and liquid to lighten the crumb.
The classic cake is filled with raspberry jam, but why do it the easy way? Strawberry-rhubarb was delicious between the golden sponges made with duck eggs and caster sugar. More caster sugar is sprinkled on top for a delicate crunch.
The birthday girl and friend showed up right on time as one rain squall departed and a wan sun peeked through the clouds. We enjoyed tea and cake at the pond, and a long overdue visit for the three of us.
I’m grateful to have shared this sweet, long-overdue visit with two vibrant women. We’ve talked about it for a couple of years and it finally came together at the perfect time. While they strolled the garden as I made tea inside, they spotted a Lazuli Bunting. I’ve only seen a couple in the yard in all my years, but I saw one a few days ago and it was also caught by Bird Buddy’s camera, which I was grateful to discover since the distant image on my phone was dismal.
Okay, this image isn’t great either, but I blame that on Apple Photos’ inability to retrieve a still shot from a video. At least it conveys the gorgeous colors of this delicate migratory songbird.
It’s unfortunate that major media expends so much energy rehashing bad news, when there is actually a lot of good news happening every day. I’m grateful that Jess Craven publishes Extra! Extra! every Sunday to elucidate the good news that shows an undercurrent of positive, hopeful change in this country.
I made an interesting chicken and cauliflower soup over the weekend. It wasn’t simple or exactly delicious, but did introduce me to a tasty trick. The chicken thighs were seared in the pot first, then the crisp skin pulled off and roasted until it was “shatteringly crisp,” and crumbled on top of the finished soup.
I was grateful for a splendid success in the Birthday Cake Challenge. Not only did the cake turn out beautifully, but I acquired some new skills. Unintentionally, I learned how to make sweetened coconut shreds out of unsweetened flakes. There was no sweetened coconut in the store so my dear resourceful personal shopper purchased unsweetened flakes, above.
Locating instructions was the hard part; once I found them it was easy. I pulsed the flakes a half cup at a time for just a few seconds in my coffee grinder—it was a great excuse to give it a thorough cleaning. Then for each cup of shreds I dissolved a quarter cup of water and a teaspoon of sugar in a saucepan, took it off the heat, and stirred in the coconut. But first, I experimented with one cup replacing white sugar with maple syrup. Confident in the technique, I spread that out to dry and use later, mixed the remainder with white sugar, and set it aside for morning.
Then I baked the ‘Upgraded German Chocolate Cake’ from Sally’s Baking Addiction. I usually just fudge the high altitude adjustments, but due to my recent baking record I followed them all precisely, using the table on King Arthur’s website, tweaking flour, sugar, liquid and leaveners as well as baking temperature and time. The sponges were perfect.
After they cooled completely and before heading to bed, I stacked them with their parchment papers between layers so I could store them safely under the cakestand lid to prevent drying out or interference. I didn’t think Wren or Topaz would get to them, but better safe than sorry.
Sunday morning I enjoyed the cherry blossoms again, and a quiet read with Wren during coffee.
And then I started on the frosting. I toasted the pecans, beat the eggs, measured the coconut and brown sugar, and cooked everything to perfection in plenty of time to let it cool completely and chill for an hour in the fridge. Then I commenced construction.
But I couldn’t let it go at that. The day before I pulled out a bag of frozen apricots from the last bountiful year and cooked a quick compote with a bit of sugar and a squeeze of lemon juice. The consistency was perfect, and I hid it inside the frosting between the first and second layers. After all, the cake was to celebrate the apricot king!
I finished assembling the cake in time to check in at Cousins’ Zoom, and then delivered the cake next door right on time. It was precarious. Frosted, the cake was just too tall to fit under the lid so I grabbed a spare cardboard box and braced the stand with more cardboard, leveled the box on the back seat, and Wren and I drove around the block slowly.
Neighbor Fred has been pruning and consulting on the apricot tree for however long it’s lived here, neither of us can recall, but at least twenty years. I’m forever grateful for him. He seemed happy with his cake.
And after we each enjoyed a piece of it, Mary sent me home with a generous tithe that will see me through the next few mornings’ coffees. Now, who’s birthday is next, I wonder?
The wild plum has rained the last of its petals in the winds, and now following the apricot erupts with tender green leaves. But last week, I caught a few lovely pollinators in its fulsome flowers, including many painted ladies…
I remember asking Marion one time, decades ago, with a distinct whine, “Isn’t anything ever not a lesson?” She was older by thirty years and wiser by far, but I don’t recall her response. All I know is that I’ve learned in the interval that every living moment is always a lesson, or can be.
… one gorgeous sphinx moth…
I’m grateful that the Colonel gave me a solid foundation in using tools and the gene to enjoy solving engineering type problems, and the confidence to tackle all kinds of household situations. I’d suspected a propane leak at the tank for a few weeks when I noticed a faint odor as I walked past one day in late fall but I promptly forgot about it. A few weeks later I was home when the tanker driver arrived with the next monthly fill, and asked him to please check for a leak. I watched his bubble solution, and I didn’t see anything either, so we left it at that. But by the end of January I wasn’t convinced, and when a different driver came I mentioned it to him. He did a bubble spray test and confirmed that there was a tiny leak at the very old regulator, and said “I’ll send M to replace that.”
… a single Great Purple Hairstreak, which is almost impossible to catch with open wings…
Last week I started wondering if M had ever come by and meant to call the company to inquire, but once again I forgot. I did not inherit the genes for executive functioning. So yesterday when T returned, I was outside reading in the freakishly mild weather, and went over to greet him. “I see M hasn’t been here yet,” he began, and we chatted for a long time, only partly about the leak. He mentioned that the price per gallon went up, and I said, “That’s what we get with war… and a government in chaos,” which I think I get political action points for saying, and he didn’t respond. He still didn’t think the leak was bad enough to be affecting my bill, “only if you’re baking a lot of cookies every day,” he said… Little does he know.
… and many magnificent Red Admirals.
“Funny you should mention that,” I said, then asked if he’d like a cookie, and he kept chatting, about how he seen a coyote over there one time and too bad he didn’t have his gun then, and from there it devolved into how many coyotes he’s shot through the years, “seven in one day!” he proudly proclaimed; he spoke about cattle camp and losing calves to coyotes, then moved on to speak about a lion no one ever saw who was hunting deer on a particular ridge. All the while, my heart was sinking further, and my lungs were choking on exhaust from the truck, and I was starting to wish I hadn’t offered him one of my last cookies.
“That’s interesting,” I said, “but I can’t breathe the exhaust any longer, so I’m going in to get you a couple cookies, and I’ll be back in a minute.” When I took him the cookies he said he thought he might have enough dope in the truck to replace the regulator right now, and he’d just have to turn off the gas to the house for a little while, and did I have an on-demand hot water heater? No, but I figured if I didn’t use the hot water it should be ok, but really that was a lesson right there, which I keep learning over and over again, which is to ask more questions, don’t assume I know anything about something I know nothing about.
I had just been coming in to make lunch when he arrived, so I went back in to start that. The last of the curried cauliflower cold with mayo, plus an egg and some bacon, yum, I was looking forward to it. The bacon was cooking perfectly until it wasn’t, almost done, but then no flame. Duh. Again with the executive function issue. I knew not to use the hot water and was very careful as I washed my hands after putting the bacon in the pan to use only cold, but I failed to make the obvious connection that I couldn’t use the burner either. I went back out to see how things were going, and to ask if I’d need to do anything with the stove once the propane was back on, and we had another incomplete conversation which reassured me.
This week’s Birthday Cake Challenge started off well!
After he left, the burner lit effortlessly and there seemed to be hot water. Although it did seem a little less hot, but I let myself ignore that symptom, because every time I turned it on to wash my hands or a dish or two it was still hot enough. Surely the boiler couldn’t keep it that hot overnight if it wasn’t fueled. But after a couple hours of yard work this morning, I had to face the truth as I stood under a warm shower gradually cooling. I’ve never had to light that particular pilot, and thankfully it didn’t require getting down on the dirty utility room floor and contorting myself to stick a match inside a small opening whilst pressing and holding the red button. Grateful it was also a piezo starter. It lit right away, and flared up when I turned the dial, and it’s been happy hot water all afternoon.
The batter looked perfect in the pan.
But the other water heater, the one that provides the radiant floor heat, that of course was also out, and that’s the pilot I didn’t want to face, so I just turned it off til fall, grateful that there’s plenty of firewood since it’s going to get cold again for the next week, and grateful in a perverse way for the freakishly mild spring that’s likely to resume after that, and grateful either way for the forecast moisture. I never thought I’d be grateful for Mud Season, but here I am eagerly awaiting it.
Sadly, more lessons were learned after baking…
So many lessons in the last two days! Excellent practice listening to his murderous pride with as little judgment as possible and much more open-heart than I could have before mindfulness, understanding his perspective, feeling kindly toward him, feeling grateful that he fixed the leak. And then letting it all go once it was over, rather than perseverating. But wait, oh, it was after that that I walked in grief the rest of the day. Okay, so but at least I didn’t feel blame or anger or hatred, and I did cultivate compassion and loving kindness, so that’s progress.
… including perseverance!
Some other lessons revolved around the Year of Birthday Cakes Challenge, among them that I really need to practice bake ahead of time for each new cake I try. Today’s epic fail was technically a Technical Challenge rather than a Signature or a Showstopper, as the birthday girl asked for a specific kind of cake. It seemed easy enough: a lemon bundt cake with raspberry filling. And in Bake Off Technicals there’s no tossing a failure into the bin, you have to present something to the judges. So when (after following instructions to the second) I turned the cake out after ten minutes leaving the bottom fifth attached to the bundt pan, it turned into a salvage operation. One lesson was “ten minutes exactly” isn’t enough time to cool a cake in that pan. Maybe it would have held together after another five or ten minutes cooling in the pan. Or, maybe not. Other lessons I’m learning are non-attachment to outcome, and humility.
The final offering, of which I kept half and made her promise not to share it with anyone else. I gave a verbal IOU for a good cake some other time.
Among today’s successes, I count maintaining equanimity, compassion, and good humor; recognizing repeatedly that I am not my thoughts; and creating an absolutely perfect loaf of sourdough.
Lemon curd just before it bubbles and is ready to come off the stove.
I made up the Redemption Cake from a lot of recipes. I’m grateful for the convenience of online recipes and search engines and all the creative cooks and bakers out there sharing their mad skills. Though technology is a trade off, it’s here to stay (at least until it destroys us all), and I use it for good instead of evil.
I started the cake on Saturday afternoon, making the lemon curd filling so it could chill overnight, then making the orange sponge. I set out six eggs earlier to come to room temperature, then separated them. The yolks got whipped til thick, then mixed with orange zest, orange juice, and sugar, then cake flour, which I made by switching out two tablespoons regular flour for two tablespoons corn starch per cup of flour. This creates a lighter flour, necessary since the only leavening is the airy eggs.
Then the whites got whipped with cream of tartar and more sugar til stiff peaks, and then folded into the yolk mixture.
I could have whipped the whites even more, but was overcautious to avoid breaking the meringue, which can happen if you over beat the mixture. But I never used to be afraid of that before watching GBBO and seeing it happen.
The batter is poured into an ungreased pan so it can climb the sides as it rises.
The sponge turned out pretty well, but if I make it again I’ll start the oven when I put the pan in rather than preheating. I’ve read that some cakes do better starting in a cold oven but I had forgotten, and that instruction wasn’t in the recipe. Nor did it say to preheat the oven, it was just habit.
As the cake cooled I made the shortbread and shaped the logs so the cookies would be like tiles the height of the sponge. Those chilled for awhile and I baked them right before bed. Then I tackled the white chocolate mascarpone frosting. It actually whipped up beautifully this time, but it was late and I didn’t want to assemble the cake until Sunday morning so the fillings and frosting didn’t soak into the sponge and make it soggy. I also felt they should be refrigerated overnight, with eggs in the curd and cheese in the frosting.
In the morning I cut the cake into thirds and layered in the fillings, lemon curd in the lower and calamondin jam in the top layer.
I’d taken the frosting out of the fridge a couple of hours earlier. It had set pretty hard and I thought it would soften up and I could spread it. But it didn’t soften enough, so I beat it for just a few seconds and it immediately started to break up just as it had with the caketastrophe. I stopped, and used it as is, grateful that I was already planning to hide it with ganache. At least it didn’t completely fall apart as before, and I was able to cover the cake. I may give up on this frosting. But I do believe that it would have been perfect if I’d spread it as soon as I made it. So maybe I’ll try one more time, when I’ve got the cake ready to frost.
One big culinary success with this particular cake is confident ganache. It couldn’t be easier, just heating heavy cream and pouring it over chocolate, but you do have to be careful not to get the cream too hot, and not to overmix. Timing is everything. But I know now that I can make chocolate ganache, and that opens up a lot of creative possibilities.
Sadly, the ganache had to go on while it was still a little warm, which further melted the white chocolate frosting. I was sure glad I had the shortbreads ready to cover the slippy sides, and they perfectly wedged the cake into the stand. The cover fit perfectly as well, and I was grateful to get a ride to the party so I could hold it carefully the whole way.
It was a beautiful thing to see Philip dancing to his special birthday song, along with a dozen friends, some going back half his eighty year lifetime, some recent, and some like me who’ve known and loved him for twenty years. I explained that he had to cut the first piece for himself, because that’s what I learned: you don’t get your birthday wish if you don’t get the first piece of your cake.
So, it doesn’t look perfect inside, but it looks just fine. And it tasted delicious. I have even more admiration and respect now for those amateur British bakers. No matter whether they create amazing showstoppers or tragic technicals, they do it in an hour or two or four, clock ticking, people talking at them the whole time, under tremendous pressure. I’m glad I set myself this challenge, and glad that Wren’s my only kitchen companion. I look forward to the next birthday cake next week!
Wren stole Biko’s strawberry but she wasn’t sure she liked it.
