Jane Eyre, Feminism, the Gothic, and Cardamom Scones

I was eleven.  My aunt and uncle, in a moment of uncharacteristic attentiveness to my interests, had bought me a copy of Jane Eyre for my birthday; the 500-and-some-page Illustrated Junior Library edition, it boasted a full color hard cover and plastic dust jacket.  Though I remember my mother saying something about the fact that I was probably a bit too young for Jane Eyre, there was something special about that book from the beginning, about the thickness of the pages, the tantalizing illustration on the cover, its sheer weightiness.  My first real literature, perhaps.  And though I struggled a bit with the tangled language and the length of the sentences, I soon fell in love with its heroine, just as I'd fallen in love with Louisa May Alcott, Girl of Old Boston, even before I read Little Women, and Anne of Green Gables after that.  Jane Eyre is one of the few non-children's books I've read multiple times in my life, some assigned, and some not.

A few weeks ago, on the anniversary of the book's 1847 publication, the Huffington Post featured what amounted to "lessons we can learn from Jane Eyre."  I found the piece a little Pollyannish : one of the author's takeaways is "Be Positive!" as if Victorian heroines had any choice but contentment with their lot, or at least the forced moral fortitude to embrace it as a "lesson."  After all, Helen Burns tells Jane that "it is weak and silly to say you cannot bear what it is your fate to be required to bear."  Still, it brought back fond memories of reading the book and identifying with Jane, as I identified with Alcott's Jo March: a plain, outspoken young woman who lived both completely in the world and completely apart from it.   To this day, there's something about the name I find powerful; it was on my short list of names for our daughter.

There's the proto-feminism, of course; as she leaves Thornfield, knowing that a relationship with Rochester would mean the loss of her self-respect, Jane (and, by extension, Brontë) offers some thoughts about independence which I think are relevant even now: “I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself.”  While I think that oversimplifies things (do we respect ourselves for being "unsustained"? or is there something respectable about knowing how to lean on others, too? what lessons do we teach our children about finding balance between independence and interdependence?), I confess, it's a principle by which I've lived most of my life. 

And then there's the fact that Brontë gets Romanticism right for me: though I wouldn't consider myself a sucker for Romantic novels of the Victorian period, I wept through the death of Jane's friend Helen from consumption, wondering whether one got consumption now, and whether I should be wary of catching it. I remember, too, wishing for a champion like Miss Temple, and resolving to have tea in my chambers for students, should I ever end up teaching in a boarding school--a resolve which was later re-kindled by my crush on Professor Keating of Dead Poet's Society.

I was also drawn to the Gothic aspects of the novel, especially the powerful shadow-figure of Bertha Mason, and feeling sorry for her, even long before I read Wide Sargasso Sea, which attributes Rochester's rejection and her subsequent descent into madness to her (literal) "dark" Creole heritage.  Jane defends her without knowing, in her first weeks at Thornfield, musing that women "suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation"; they are, quite literally, trapped.  Bram Stoker was born the month after Jane Eyre was published, and dressing my son as Dracula this year for Halloween, I found myself thinking about the madwomen in the attic, about how Halloween enables us to plumb our own darker sides, to play with the shadows within us.  As he moved from house to house, I watched my son begin to walk differently, cape billowing behind him, fangs brilliant against the ghostly face I'd painted; he was absolutely getting into the character, in a way he hadn't done in Halloweens past.

What are the books you've read again and again?  Which literary characters have spoken to you over the years?  Did you channel your inner madwoman for Halloween?  What are your thoughts on the balance between independence and interdependence?

Cardamom Scones with Cranberries
Miss Temple offered Jane and Helen seed cake during their first visit to her chambers.  While these aren't exactly cake, I suspect that they're more like what Miss Temple had in her room, given the conditions at Lowood school, and the cardamom pods count as seeds in my book.  Enjoy them warm out of the oven on a dark night or cloudy morning,with a cup of tea.

3 c. flour
2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. baking soda
1/2 t. salt
3/4 t. cardamom pods (or, if you must, 1/2 t. ground cardamom)
1 stick unsalted butter
3/4 c. plain Greek yogurt
1/2 c. sugar (I used evaporated cane)
2 eggs
additional sugar for sprinkling

Preheat oven to 350F and line a baking sheet with parchment.

Mix flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  Peel the cardamom pods and grind the seeds with a mortar and pestle (or use a very small knife and carefully chop until you have powder).  Stir the cardamom into the flour mixture.

Cut the butter in with a pastry blender or two knives until small crumbs form.  Add yogurt, sugar, and one egg, and mix (you can use your fingers).  At this point you can also add anything else you want (candied ginger, cranberries, raisins, chocolate chips).

Divide the dough into 12 equal parts (you can also use an ice cream scoop to get rough 1/3 c. balls); place the dough on the parchment.

Whisk the other egg and brush over the dough.  Sprinkle with additional sugar.

Bake 25 minutes, or until pleasantly golden brown.  Serve warm.

Advice, and Double Dark Chocolate Beet Muffins

Yesterday, my friend Kathy hosted her monthly Time Warp Tuesday blog hop.  I missed the hop, but I loved the theme for this month, which was Advice.


I tend to give a lot of advice, I suspect, not even under the guise of opinion; I probably offer it up as fact.  Though I was trained in advising, and when I'm working with students I'm careful not to give advice so much as facilitate their own inner dialogue, there are plenty of times outside of my professional duties when I offer up my own ideas about someone else's dilemmas.

I ask for advice a lot, too, but I don't take advice very well; more often than not I am--even subconsciously--looking for verification of an opinion I've already arrived at, and would like confirmation of my choice.

But the tables were turned on me a bit this week, on Sunday, when I was sitting with my son for a while before he went to sleep.

"I'm nervous about my first day," I confided.

"It's OK, Mom," he told me, "I was nervous about my first day of school, too."

"You were?" I asked, both amused and genuinely surprised.  "But you looked so confident when you waved good bye to me on the bus.  What were you most nervous about?  Meeting new people?  Having someone ask you something you didn't know the answer to?"

"Yes, not knowing the answer," he agreed. 

"Well, that's what I'm most afraid of," I said.  "That I won't know the things they want me to know."

"Well," he said, thoughtfully, "just remember, that if they ask you something you don't know, it's OK to tell them you don't know, and then ask them questions, so they can help you out."

Wow, I thought. Pretty fabulous advice for a six year old.  Better, even, than "eat your vegetables so you can grow up big and strong."

I followed his advice, and told my new boss what he'd told me that night.  "How old did you say he was?" she asked.

"Six," I said.

"He is wise beyond his years," she marveled.

Yes, I agreed.  Except when he really does act like a six year old, and thinks that poop jokes are the funniest thing ever.  And I couldn't be more grateful for both elements.
 

Double Dark Chocolate Beet Muffins

Eat your vegetables and grow up big and strong.  I made these with our CSA share to take to the Cape for the week we spent before my first day, and I told everyone right up front that they were made with beets.  That didn't seem to matter, and they were gone in less than two days.

1 c. beet puree (use about 3 good-sized beets; see below)
1 c. whole wheat flour
1 c. all-purpose flour
2 t. baking powder
1 t. baking soda
1/2 t. salt

1/4 c. ground flax seed
1/2 c. Ghirardelli bittersweet chocolate chips
1/4 c. butter

2/3 c. Ghirardelli bittersweet chocolate chips
3/4 c. packed brown sugar
2 eggs, lightly beaten
2/3 c. buttermilk
1 t. vanilla extract

1 T. espresso powder

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Wrap beets in foil. Place on a baking sheet; bake until beets are slightly soft to the touch, 45 minutes to 1 hour depending on their size. Cool beets in packets, then rub off skins under cold running water (use a paring knife for tough spots).  Puree one at a time until you get 1 c. (you can set aside the unpureed parts, if there are any, for a salad).  Cool completely.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.  Line a 12-cup muffin tin; set aside.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flours, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and flax until well combined.  Stir in the half cup chocolate chips; set aside.

In a small saucepan, melt the other 2/3 cup chocolate chips and butter over very low heat.  Stir to combine and set aside to cool until lukewarm.

In a medium bowl, whisk together eggs, brown sugar, beet puree, buttermilk, vanilla and melted chocolate.  Pour the chocolate mixture into the dry ingredients and stir with a wooden spoon until just combined. Don’t overmix. Immediately spoon batter into prepared muffin cups.  The batter will almost completely fill the cups.

Place muffin pan in a preheated 375 oven and bake for 18-20 minutes. Muffins are done when they spring back when touched lightly in the center (or when a toothpick inserted in the center of a muffin comes out clean). Cool muffins for 10 minutes in pan then remove them to a wire rack to cool completely.

NaBloPoMo: Roots, Wings, and Chocolate Beet Cake

One of the first things a child learns in a Montessori classroom is how to use a work mat.  While selecting and unrolling a piece of carpet or fabric might seem like a trivial activity, the act of unrolling a work mat underscores one of the most important aspects of Montessori philosophy: responsibility for one's own work, and independence in its pursuit; or, more precisely, "freedom within limits."

Montessori children are taught to take their defined workspace very seriously.  The first time a teacher demonstrates this act for students, she will take the mat carefully from a bin, set it carefully on the floor or on the table.  The students who are tempted to shake the mat out in midair will be gently encouraged to follow her direction, and unroll it completely on the flat surface they have selected.  They are taught that when a mat is on the floor, they walk around it, heel-toe-heel-toe, being mindful that they don't step on it.  And when a child is done with her work, she re-rolls the mat, putting it away just as carefully as she removed it.  The Montessori work mat is a symbol of both responsibility and independence; its use, a ritual of reverence for both.

Today's NaBloPoMo writing prompt, which reminded us that "[t]he original quote about giving children roots and wings referred to the 'roots of responsibility and the wings of independence,' " was particularly apt for me, because today was my daughter's first day at the Toddler House in her Montessori school, and my first day, sort of, back to work.  I only went for a few hours, and she only went for an hour, but I found myself thinking a lot about those roots and wings, about what I've tried to give her over the past two years, and about how hard it is to watch her take this next step towards independence in the world.

As she grows older, she will ask the questions that begin with the work mat.  The questions that begin with this moment, and with every moment when she steps a little farther away.  Where do we fit into the world?   What work will we choose?  How can we try to ensure that we do good where we can, and that we not step on others' work-in-progress?

Going back to work, for me, is partially about remembering and testing the limits of my own roots and wings, too.  To whom am I responsible?  What are my contributions to the world, besides the ones I make through my children?  How do I define myself as me, in addition to the way I define myself in the context of my family?

This give-and-take, this push-and-pull, is probably the hardest thing about being a parent, and the hardest thing about being ourselves.

Which is why, at the end of the day, flying in the face of other things they will teach my daughter at her Montessori school, there will be chocolate cake on our table.

Chocolate Beet Cake
adapted from Nigella Lawson's recipe and The White Ramekins
Beets are some of the best kinds of roots there are.  Especially when paired with cocoa powder.

1 1/2 c. plain flour
2 T. baking powder
2/3 c. cocoa powder
1 c. superfine sugar
3 eggs
1/2 lb. beets
7/8 c. light olive oil or coconut oil

Preheat the oven 425F. Wash the beets, wrap them individually in aluminium foil, and place them in oven for about 45 minutes.  Let beets cool to room temperature.  When they are cool to the touch, you should be able to simply rub the skins off, and puree them in a food processor/liquidizer/blender.  Set aside.

Preheat the oven to 375F.  Spray an 8" springform pan with cooking spray.  Line the bottom with a circle of parchment cut to fit inside the pan, spray the parchment, and dust the entire inside of the pan with a very thin coating of cocoa powder.

Sift the flour, baking powder, superfine sugar and cocoa powder together in a medium bowl and set aside.

In a large bowl, whisk together eggs, oil and beet puree.  Fold the flour mixture into the wet mixture. Pour the batter into the pan and bake for 40 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean.

Let the cake cool completely on a wire rack.

A Birthday: Strawberry Cake

So we didn't celebrate the Superbowl.  We don't have a TV, anyway, I don't care about the commercials, and I wasn't really interested in Beyonce shaking her booty at me.

Instead, we celebrated my daughter's second birthday.

It's hard to believe it's been two years since that bright clear morning when I went for a walk, only to turn around and deliver a baby just three hours later.  We got out N's first year baby book and as she gawked at the pictures, I marveled at the fact that the tiny blob-like creature that I held in the hospital, convinced that she could not possibly be mine to keep, has become this spunky, opinionated, spirited, happy toddler, who selected the pinkest, poofiest skirt in the overpriced children's store (for which we had a very old gift card) to wear for her birthday. 

N. informed me, weeks ago, that we were going to have strawberry cake for her birthday.  I wasn't even sure if she liked cake.  But being the mostly responsive parent I am, I went scouring the internet for recipes.

Of course, after she had greedily licked the beaters while making the cake, and after we'd baked it and frosted it into a three-tiered celebration of the color pink, she didn't want any.  Wouldn't touch it.  Wouldn't even TRY it.  Wanted nothing but plain strawberries and a bowl of vanilla ice cream for her birthday dessert.

And of course, there were only four others there to eat this behemoth.  My mother, who has just recently rejoined Weight Watchers and agreed to the tininest of shavings; my husband, who doesn't really like strawberries in cake form; my son, who basically eats the frosting off of things; and me, still upset about the fifteen additional pounds I seem to have hung on my frame in the past year and pledging to follow a  mostly-vegan minimal-processed-sugar (I'm not entirely unreasonable) diet.

I cut two slices for the neighbors, sent some home with my mother for directions on freezing it for my brother (who had a Superbowl party to attend, and was doing due diligence on a platter of wings, no doubt), and there was still a half a cake left.

I spent the week eating it.  And finally, on the last day, my daughter took a bite of cake from the quarter slice left on my plate.  And demanded more.

Which pretty much just about describes her to a T.

The Brown Betty Bakery's Strawberry Cake with Strawberry Buttercream Frosting

(Adapted from The Brown Betty Cookbook, and from the beautiful baking blog Hummingbird High)

For the Strawberry Puree
32 oz frozen strawberries, thawed
1 T. lemon juice

For the Cake:

(makes a three 8-inch cakes)

4 c. cake flour
1 3/4 t. baking powder
3/4 t. salt
2 c. (1 lb.) unsalted butter, at room temperature
3 c. sugar
6 large eggs, at room temperature
2 large egg yolks, at room temperature
a few drops red food coloring (optional)
1/4 c. milk, at room temperature

For the Strawberry Buttercream Frosting:

8 oz. cream cheese, at room temperature
2 t. vanilla

2 cups (1 lb.) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/8 teaspoon salt
4 cups confectioner's sugar

For the Strawberry Puree

Mash thawed frozen strawberries through a strainer until you get about 2 cups of juice. Set aside the mashed strawberries. Add the juice to a saucepan. Bring to a boil and cook until reduced to 1/2 cup.

Using a food processor or blender, finely chop the reserved mashed strawberries.  Add the cooked strawberry juice and lemon juice to the chopped strawberries and blend thoroughly. Set aside (you can even do this in advance and refrigerate it)

For the Strawberry Cake:

Preheat the oven to 350. Coat three 8-inch round cake pans with a nonstick cooking spray.  Cut rounds of parchment to fit into the bottom of each pan; lay the parchment on top of the cooking spray and coat the pans again, so that the parchment is now covered in cooking spray.  This will help with easy release of the cake.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the cake flour, baking powder, and salt. Set aside.

In a large bowl, using an electric mixer, beat butter until light and fluffy, then reduce the speed and cream the sugar and butter together.  Add the eggs and yolks, one at a time, beating until blended. Add 3/4 cup of the strawberry puree and 1/4 teaspoon red food coloring (if desired for a more pink color) and beat until just blended.

Alternately add the flour mixture and milk in four additions, beating on low after each addition, and scraping the bowl as you go.

Divide the batter equally among the prepared pans and bake until a wooden pick inserted into the middle comes out clean, around 35 to 40 minutes.  Let the cakes cool in the pans for 10 minutes before turning them out onto a wire rack to cool completely.

For the Strawberry Frosting:

Is your butter room temperature?  Make sure it is.  Same goes for the cream cheese. 

Once you're absolutely sure that this is the case, place the cream cheese in a large mixing bowl.  Beat cream cheese with an electric mixer on medium speed until soft. Add unsalted butter (cut into 1" chunks) and salt and beat until light and fluffy, using a rubber spatula to scrape the bowl as necessary, about 3 minutes. Reduce the mixer speed to low, add 1/4 cup of the strawberry puree, and beat until just blended.

Gradually beat in the confectioner's sugar, scraping the bowl occasionally, until well blended. You may want to try adding less sugar to start (about 3 c.) and increase the mixer speed to high and beat until the frosting is fluffy, about 1 minute. If you want you frosting to be a bit stiffer (I did), continue to add sugar.

Assembly

Level the first layer of cake if it's extremely domed, using a serrated knife to cut off the dome.  Place this first layer bottom-side up on your serving plate. Use an offset spatula (I own a plastic one of these now and it was worth every penny of the $2.50 I spent for it) to spread 1 cup of frosting on the top of the cake.  Spread just a bit of the extra strawberry puree on top of the frosting, to about 1" from the edge of the cake.

Repeat this process with the second layer: level if necessary, place the cake bottom-side down on top of the first, and spread 1 cup of frosting on top.  Spread a bit more of the strawberry puree on top of the frosting.

Top with the third cake layer, top side (domed side, most likely) up. Frost the top and sides of the cake with the remaining frosting.

Root Beer Cake

In my family, cake matters.

Birthday cake, that is.

Some birthdays, believe it or not, warrant cake from a box.  I know that you will all be horrified to read that we actually purchase box cake mix here, but it's along the lines of macaroni and cheese from a box: sometimes that's really what you want, and it makes for a slightly smaller disaster when you leave the slightly distracted six year old in charge of cake preparation.  Most times, though, if I'm baking, the birthday celebrant gets to choose the cake to commemorate the occasion. 

I don't know how this tradition evolved; not, I think, from my childhood.  In fact, this year I wracked my brains for some recollection of the cakes I ate when I was growing up, but all I could remember were the dimly lit Chinese Sunday buffet and pu pu platter at the Jade Palace, the flourescent lit stainless steel steam trays at the Cuban restaurant better known as the Union City Cafeteria, and the year that I had my birthday party at McDonalds and wore my Strawberry Shortcake dress, complete with apron.  Part of me considered calling my mother to demand if this were true, if I'd really never been baked a cake of my own choosing.  The sane part of me won out, and no phone call was made.

My son is a pretty easy-to-please client: most years he elects for vanilla cake with vanilla frosting.  My daughter has yet to understand that cake flavor and shape can be requested; I live in fear of that discovery.  My husband, though, likes to live on the edge, to look for something interesting just to see if it can be done.  One year, he wanted a meat cake (which you can view, to my vegetarian-sympathizer shame, in all of its meaty glory at the Meat Cake Gallery).  This year, he wanted either a less adventurous key lime cake or a root beer cake.  I elected to make the root beer cake, which was easier to throw together on a weekday with a toddler underfoot or in the ingredients.

It was OK, but not as fabulous as I'd hoped.  Then again, I don't much like root beer.  But maybe you do.  Either way, I've altered it below with some suggestions to make it better.

What cake would you want made for you to celebrate your birthday?
 Root Beer Float Cake

Adapted from Baked: New Frontiers in Baking


The original recipe calls only for root beer, but I found that the soda alone didn't supply enough distinctive flavor.  Root beer extract (also called root beer concentrate) is actually fairly easy to find in the spice section of your grocery store, and if you prefer more "natural" extracts, those are readily available online.  I also found the frosting too thick and powdery for the cake; though I've included the slightly altered original frosting recipe, I think that a thin ganache would work just as well, letting the flavor of the cake shine through.

2 c. high quality regular root beer
1 c. unsweetened (not Dutch process) cocoa powder
1/2 c. unsalted butter, cut into 1/2 inch cubes
1 1/4 c. sugar
3/4 c. light brown sugar
2 t. root beer concentrate/extract
2 c. flour
1 1/4 t. baking soda
1 t. salt
2 large eggs

Preheat even to 325.  Spray the inside of a 10-inch Bundt pan with nonstick cooking spray, or butter generously and dust with flour, knocking out the excess.

In a small saucepan, heat the root beer, cocoa powder and butter over medium heat until butter is melted.  Add sugars and root beer concentrate/extract and whisk until dissolved.  Remove from heat and let cool.

Lightly beat the eggs in a small bowl, and add them to the cocoa mixture, whisking until combined.  Sift (really, it makes a difference) the flour, baking soda and salt together into the cocoa mixture, folding it in gently as you go.  Some lumps will remain, but make sure that you're not breaking apart lumps that turn into flour bits.

Pour batter into prepared pan and bake for 35-45 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through baking, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.  Transfer to a wire rack to cool completely then loosen edges with a butter knife and turn out onto a cake plate.  Frost with root beer frosting or chocolate root beer ganache.

Chocolate Root Beer Ganache
1/3 cup heavy cream
3 oz. bittersweet (60% or higher) chocolate
1/2 tablespoon corn syrup or golden syrup
1 t. root beer extract/concentrate
1/2 tablespoon unsalted butter

In a small saucepan, bring the cream to a boil. In a heatproof bowl, combine the remaining 3 ounces of chopped chocolate with the corn syrup (or golden syrup), root beer extract, and butter. Pour the hot cream over the chocolate and let stand until melted, about 5 minutes. Whisk until smooth. Let the ganache glaze cool until thick but still pourable, about 5 minutes.

Pour the ganache over the cooled cake. Let the cake stand until the glaze is set, at least 30 minutes, before serving.

OR
 
Chocolate Root Beer Frosting
2 oz. bittersweet (60% or more) chocolate, melted and slightly cooled
1/2 c. unsalted butter, softened
3/4  t. salt
1/2 c. root beer
1 t. root beer extract/concentrate
2/3 c. unsweetened (not Dutch process) cocoa powder
2 3/4  c. powdered sugar

Using an electric mixer, beat softened butter and cocoa powder.  Add the melted chocolate, salt, powdered sugar, root beer, and root beer extract.  Beat together until smooth.  Spread on top of cooled cake.

Perfect Moment Monday: Simple Birthdays and Strawberry Muffins

Perfect Moment Monday is a monthly blog hop/writing prompt, sponsored by Lavender Luz at Write Mind Open Heart, about noticing a perfect moment rather than creating one. Perfect moments can be momentous or ordinary or somewhere in between. On the last Monday of each month we engage in mindfulness about something that is right with our world. Everyone is welcome to join.

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When my son was old enough to start attending birthday parties, I was a little bit appalled at the kinds of birthday parties being thrown for the preschool and kindergarten aged set.  I felt lucky when he didn't complain about a party-in-the-park that turned into a big-playdate-at-our-house due to rain one year, and when he asked, at age four, for an "adults-only" celebration.  Last year, we celebrated more traditionally with a space-themed party at our house, but, type A person that I am, I spent months planning and preparing.

When we asked him what he wanted to do for his birthday this year, he told us that he only wanted one person at his party: a little girl who has been his friend and constant companion since he was a toddler.

We love A.  She has the impish grin of an elf, but the seriousness and thoughtfulness of a much older child.  She insists on wearing dresses, but also on climbing trees.  They met when my son went to Montessori school, in the Toddler House, where they spent hours together, since both sets of parents were working full time.  When they moved up to the Primary level, they went to separate classrooms, and were thrilled when those classrooms had to be combined due to some downsizing at the school.  The teachers joked that they were inseparable.  I. and A. talked about getting married, about buying a house at the beach, about how many cars and campers and tractor trailers they were going to have.  It was sweet.  And yet, maybe a little too sweet?

I wouldn't say that we tried to dissuade him from his "party for two," but we gave him every opportunity to renege on the decision. I worried about what her parents would think.  What about your other friends? we asked several times over the next month.  What about the boys?  Every time, he shook his head.  No, he'd say, firmly, I just want to have A. over.  Finally, he became annoyed, and said, in that unmistakeable teenager-y voice, "Mom, haven't you been listening to me?"

Well, I had.  But I hadn't.

I.'s birthday would be early in his first year in a new school, in a class full of people he didn't know.  Of course he wouldn't feel comfortable inviting any of those new people to a party.  And maybe he felt like he just wanted something quiet, and familiar: the companionship of a friend whom he hadn't seen since camp ended, and whom he wouldn't see again for many months.

We agreed, and I offered to take them out to tea, at a local place that does high tea the English way, with small sandwiches, scones, and small desserts.  I'd taken I. before, just the two of us, and he enjoyed the attention, the multiple courses, and feeling grown up; he swilled decaf fruit tea like a pro.  He set about designing an invitation immediately, which I didn't even get to see before he sealed it up and sent it off.  (I still don't know what it said, though A.'s parents assure us that it was entirely appropriate.)

I.'s birthday was a perfect fall day: warm but not hot, breezy without the chill.  A. arrived at mid-day, dressed in blue flowers, and I chauffered them both downtown in the MegaWagon.  We ordered one prince and one princess tea, and they chatted and giggled over banana-nutella sandwiches and strawberries and scones while I tried to eat my salad as inconspicuously as possible.  The staff came out with a candle-adorned cupcake in the middle of generous plates of desserts, and sang happy birthday, as I. beamed, and his companion looked on, grinning broadly.

When tea was over, they went browsing at the adjacent shop that sells all things porcelain, and conspiratorially ran ahead of me back to the wagon.  It was hard going on the way back, since I'd drunk an entire pot of tea by myself, and I made the usual adult groaning noises, which they thought were extremely funny.  Finally, about three quarters of the way back, they decided to pull the wagon together up the hill to our house.

And as I walked behind them, feeling the warm autumn sun on my face, I thought about the beauty of uncomplicated friendships, of the completeness of children's love, and felt grateful both that I. has a friend like A., and that he recognizes what a gem she is.  I felt glad that he didn't feel the need to have a big party in order to feel celebrated, and lucky to have a little boy who has already figured out what's really important.  At one point, I was struck by how perfect it was, watching them walk together, and I snapped this picture with my camera phone,  I hoped that they would always remember that first friendship, and remember how it's easier to pull a really large wagon when you're both holding on to the handle, bodies close together, talking, laughing, wondering about the world, and not paying attention to how heavy it is.

It's a lesson we would all do well to learn.

Happy birthday, I.  May they all be as perfect as this moment.


Strawberry Muffins
These healthy muffins are perfect for a lunchbox, a snack container, or children's tea.  Or maybe for you, to share with a friend.

1 c. regular flour
1 c. whole wheat flour
6 T. unrefined sugar or 1/4 c. agave nectar
1/2 t. salt
3 T. baking powder
1 egg or 1 flax egg (1 T. flaxseed + 3 T. water, mixed and let stand)
1 c. milk of your choice (or 3/4 c. + 2 T. milk of your choice if using agave)
3 T. grapeseed oil (melted coconut or canola will also work)
1 c. frozen strawberries, chopped into blueberry-sized chunks

Mix together dry ingredients in a large bowl.  Separately mix together wet ingredients.  Make a well in the dry ingredients and add the wet ingredients.  Stir with a wooden spoon until just moistened ... do NOT overmix!  Add the strawberries and stir gently until just combined.

Pour into 12 muffin cups and bake 12 minutes at 400 (or 13-14 minutes at 375 if using agave).

Neighborhoods, Normal, and Doodlesnaps

Life around here has been pretty bizarre lately, and it's left me craving order in my little corner of the universe.

When I was growing up, I had only a few friends in our neighborhood.  The daughter of teachers, I went to school in the town where my mom taught: during the school year, we were up before the crack of dawn and out the door before the neighbor children were awake, and we'd arrive home just in time to start homework and dinner or go to piano lessons or dance lessons or choir practice.  At school, I spent the hours before and after the bell in my mother's classroom, making chalk dust from erasers and collating and stapling dittos.  We had weekends after church and errands were done, and I often spent those precious hours across the street with the two friends that my parents would let me go see on a whim.

And so, despite the ambitious, career-oriented woman that I was, I dreamed of becoming the kind of mother who was known for the freshly baked cookies she always had for visiting friends, who seemed to host the all of the neighborhood kids after school.  I'm not sure why this was my version of normal, but it was.  (In my fantasy, of course, I'd conveniently left out the part about getting home from work at 6.)

The funny thing is that as much as I've loved my neighbors, and as kid-friendly our street is, I've always felt a little bit out of the parenting loop in our neighborhood.  When I was working full time, I got home too late for playdates, and on the weekends people seemed to scatter for family commitments; now that I'm home, it seems like no one is out during the day.  I'd been wondering if the network of stay at home parents I always imagined was just that: imagined.

So I was pleasantly surprised when we were invited to a barbecue this weekend at the house where I. catches his bus in the morning.

We had a perfect day for it: warm, sunny, breezy.  There were plenty of things to nibble on, and a big bounce house for the kids.  The adults sat and drank beer and talked, watching the kids play, soaking in the early fall weather, venturing out past the fenced in yard to play horseshoes.

The hours passed, and somehow it was decided that people would be  camping out in the back yard that night, and by 8pm there were three tents pitched just a few feet away from our house, children playing flashlight tag, reveling in the darkness while their fathers ate Doritos and played cards on the back deck.  And I realized that this was it: this was what I had wanted all of those long years ago, the neighborhood children congregating in my back yard.  And yet, different, because this isn't ever what I'd imagined it would be.  A different sort of normal.

N. and I slept inside, because she would never sleep outside, and woke in the morning to admire the three pods in the semi-dark, wondering when their residents would wake.  And when they did, I made the kids hot cocoa and doodlesnaps, hoping that they'd remember, and come back.

Doodlesnaps
Doodlesnaps are a cross between a muffin and a pancake in 9x9 pan form.  You'll want to eat them warm, because they deteriorate pretty quickly.  Luckily, even though we make them infrequently, that's never much of a problem around here.

2 c. flour (half whole wheat or oat or a combination of flours is fine)
1 c. sugar (or 2/3 c. agave, just reduce the milk by 1/4 c. and decrease oven temp by 25 degrees)
1 egg
1 c. milk (any kind of milk will do)
1 T. oil
4 t. baking powder
1/2 t. salt
cinnamon
brown sugar (or turbinado sugar)
margarine/butter

Preheat oven to 325.  Mix everything together and pour into a greased and floured 9x9 pan.  Sprinkle as generously as you like with brown sugar and cinnamon, and dot with a pea-sized bit of margarine/butter every inch or so.  Bake for about 20 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, with moist crumbs.  Let cool for 5-10 minutes, and enjoy.

Friendship, Under the Circumstances: Fudge Brownies

First, I wanted to say thank you to everyone who has been part of my parachute these past few days.  You feel like you're in free fall, and then you look behind you, and there it is: a beautiful, bright, vibrant thing, slowing your descent, cushioning the fall.  I am lucky to have you all, the virtual friends and the ones I can reach out to touch.

As you might imagine, I've been thinking a lot about friendships these past few days, especially female friendships I've made.  Which is sort of ironic, considering that one of my most recent posts was about sisterhood, and how I was feeling like I came late to the table of female friendship.

The friend I lost this weekend was the co-founder of the working mom's group I started (another irony, since I'm not currently working outside the home).  She wasn't someone I necessarily would have chosen to befriend, except for our circumstances: she was also kicked out of the stay-at-home-moms group that we joined for companionship and support when there were no other alternatives (we joked about this for years).  She wasn't and she was like me: unlike me, she loved her TV shows, she smoked, she was much more laid back than I am, she drove an SUV ... but more like me, she loved her children fiercely, she was smart, she was strong, and she was ready with a wisecrack or with an ear at just the right times.  Together, we coalesced a diverse group of women who were negotiating the balance of work outside the home and the commitments we wanted to make to our families.  The group has been through its ups and downs, and has been pretty quiet formally for the past year or so, but it still exists, and it was responsible for some unlikely life-changing friendships, even if we weren't the ones who were changed.

Crisis has a knack for doing this, doesn't it?  On the anniversary of September 11th, I also think about the friendships that were forged over that tragedy ... the people who happened to be in the same place at the same time watching in horror, or the people who had to cope, together, with the aftermath of unexpected loss, finding each other at the scene of devastation.  Because sometimes, despite the best intentions of others, you simply need someone who gets it, someone who has been exactly where you were.  And sometimes they can take you down roads you would never have traveled.

The blogosphere is like this, too.  There are certainly "tribes" of people that form, reinforcing the things we already share in common.  We look for them, because they make us feel better about our writing and our belief systems.  But there are also "circumstantial" connections that we make, happenstance meetings that change our writing, our career paths, our decisions ... sometimes our lives.  And those are just as worth treasuring as the ones that mirror our experiences.

When I lived in LA, I ran into an old acquaintance ... someone who'd had a thing for me back in college.  He introduced me his high school friend and wife in San Francisco, and the wife introduced me to her friend, whom she made through an ex-boyfriend, in LA.  The chain of coincidences that were required for me to meet this woman was dizzying.  But it was one of the most important friendships I made when I was out there.  C. was like everyone's older sister or aunt, and she took me under her wing.  I have memories of going to visit her in her apartment, cats curling around my leg.  Perhaps most importantly, I remember sitting with her on the 3rd Street Promenade eating pizza that claimed to be just like New York's best, talking with her about my dissatisfaction with graduate school.  Her answer?   "So why don't you leave?"

It had never occurred to me that I could ... but I did.    That chance connection, to someone I would never have befriended, changed everything.

I really ought to catch up with her again.

Today, be open to the happenstance connections in your life.  You may be surprised at where they take you.

Has a circumstantial/happenstance acquaintance ever changed your life?

One Pot Fudge Brownies
Though the memory is grainy like an Instagram photo, I recall us making these brownies in C.'s house one day, or was it a place I was housesitting? maybe after going out for Indian food.  They were completely inedible as brownies; we had to use a spoon to eat them right out of the pan.  But they were exactly right.  I've since tweaked the recipe, and now you can actually cut them and remove them from the pan, but you do have to wait for them to cool.  Otherwise, be prepared to break out your spoon.  And no, these are not very attractive.  Do you really need attractive brownies?

1/2 c.butter
1 2/3 c. sugar
2 T. water
4oz. unsweetened chocolate
2 eggs, beaten
1 1/2 t. vanilla
1 1/3 c. flour
1/4 t. baking soda
1/4 /t .salt
6 to 12 ounces of good dark chocolate chips or chunks

Preheat oven to 325.

Spray a 9x9" baking pan with cooking spray.

Melt butter in a medium to large pot over medium-low heat.  Stir in sugar and water and mix until the sugar is completely dissolved.  The water will want to do its own thing; don't worry about that.  Remove from heat and stir in the chocolate until completely combined.  Stir in the eggs, one a a time, and then vanilla.  Mix well.  Put some elbow grease into it.  Resist the urge to lick the spoon at this point.

Sift together the dry ingredients, then add to the pot.  Stir well.  You'll see that the mixture begins to look like one large mass of chocolate dough.  That's right.

Add the chocolate chips/chunks and mix briefly but thoroughly, so that they don't melt too much.  Pour into the prepared pan and bake for 25-35 minutes, until a toothpick comes out gooey but not wet.  Allow the brownies to cool in the pan thoroughly before you attempt to cut them, and then do so with a wet knife.

What You Need: A Recliner, Chocolate Cake, and Perspective

When I moved out to LA for graduate school, after living my entire life in NJ, I piled all of my worldly possessions in my little blue-green Ford Escort: my books, my CDs, some clothes, my bedding.  I figured that we could get anything else I needed when I got there.

My mother drove across the country with me, helping me with the move and the transition to a life 3000 miles away.   I'd secured a place in a one-bedroom apartment in West Hollywood, large enough for a futon in the bedroom, a beanbag chair and a smaller futon for the living room, some upside down crates that I used as tables, and a piece of plywood laid across two crates that I used as a desk.  At Kmart, I splurged on a tiny cheap wooden dinette set with a white table and farmhouse chairs, and I think I found a used swivel chair curbside somewhere off of Melrose Place.  I was living in the lap of luxury.

Sometime in the fall, my father came to stay with me for a visit.

For all of his risk-taking and adventuring, my father was also a creature of habit, the kind of guy that fell asleep in front of the television every night, head tilted back, mouth open slightly in a light snore.  Like Archie Bunker, whom he vaguely idolized, he had his chair, a recliner that no one else sat in (mostly because when we were at home, he occupied it).  I remember talking with my mother about the upcoming visit, laughing nervously, wondering where my father would sit.  She told me he'd make do.  I was dubious.

When we climbed the stairs and opened the door to my apartment, I held my breath.  What would he say about this, my first place of my own?

I entered the room, a few steps ahead of him, and turned, stepping aside with an arm flourish a la Vanna White.  "So?  What do you think?"

He was gaping.

Uh-oh, I thought.  I braced myself for the firestorm of disapproval.   Wondering what he was seeing.

"But Tinita," he said to me in all seriousness, in his slight Spanish accent, "where do you sit?  Where is your recliner?"

I almost peed myself laughing, though I knew I couldn't possibly laugh out loud.  Having refused any financial support from my parents, determined that I was going to do this doctoral degree thing alone, I was living close to poverty level.  Rice and beans and tortillas were my staples.  The improvised desk, the crates for bookcases and tables, the cheap pots and pans that leaned backwards from the weight of the handle when I put them on the stove, all of this carefully selected with a graduate student budget in mind ... and he wanted to know where my recliner was?

He insisted that we go, straight away, to a furniture store to procure said recliner. 

"But Dad," I said, as gently as I could manage, "they won't deliver it today."   You will, I thought, still laughing to myself, have to plant your ass on my cheap carpet.

My father was a stubborn man, though, and would hear none of my logic.  I was able to delay the trip to Levitz for a day (because heaven forbid we go somewhere sensible like IKEA), but eventually, he won out.

I dimly remember the visit to the furniture showroom, feeling like I was having an out-of-body experience.  We sat on recliner after recliner, my father and I, opening and closing them with great gusto.  Looking at fabric samples.  A strange father-daughter bonding.  "This one has a HANDLE!" he would exclaim, legs flying out with a thunk as I sank down into a green model further down the row, bouncing a bit to test its resilience.

We finally settled on one, a wide seat with low armrests, a deep forest green fabric with barely visible multicolored stripes, and it arrived on the day my father was to leave.  He sat in it for a good long while before we left for the airport, and when I returned home, it still smelled like him, a combination of hard work and aftershave.

I still have that recliner, 17 years later.  It's worn, like any piece of furniture that has lived in a graduate student apartment and made its way across the country.  But I can't bear to get rid of it.  Right now, it lives in our bedroom, where sometimes I sit in it, looking out the window, or curl up in it and cat nap.  Sometimes our kids rock in it for a minute or two while I'm folding laundry.  It reminds me of my dad, sitting in his recliner on a weekday night, falling asleep in front of the news, completely at peace.

I didn't need a recliner.

But sometimes, the things you didn't need turn out to be exactly what you needed after all.

Have you ever been surprised to "need" something that arrived at just the right time?

Six Minute Chocolate Cake
Adapted from the original Moosewood Cookbook.  My husband informed us tonight, as we were playing in the kitchen after dinner, that some chocolate cake would be exactly right.  You never need chocolate cake.  But this one comes together quickly, is vegan, and you don't have to feel too guilty about eating it.  A five year old can (and in fact did) make it mostly on his own.  It's not drop-dead fabulous cake, or rich gooey cake.  It's good, un-fancy cake for when cake is really, deep down, what you need.

1 1/2 c. flour 

1/3 c. cocoa powder 

1 t. baking soda 

1/2 t. salt 

1 c. sugar (coconut palm if you like)

1/2 c. oil (melted coconut oil would be great here)

1 c. cold brewed coffee (or water if you don't like coffee)

2 t. vanilla (or 1 1/2 t. vanilla and 1/2 t. almond extract)

2 T. apple cider vinegar 

chocolate chips (optional)
 

Glaze (optional; I rarely do this)
1/2 lb bittersweet chocolate 

3/4 c. hot water or 3/4 cup milk 

1/2 t. vanilla extract 

Preheat the oven to 375F.  Whisk together the flour, cocoa, baking soda, salt and sugar into an ungreased 8 inch square or 9 inch round baking tin.

In a 2 cup measuring cup, measure and mix the oil, water or coffee and vanilla. Pour the liquid ingredients into the baking tin and mix the batter with a fork or small whisk.

When the batter is smooth, add the vinegar and stir quickly. Pale swirls will occur where the vinegar and baking soda react (this is actually really entertaining for a five year old). Stir just until the vinegar is even distributed throughout the batter.   If you're feeling crazy, toss some good chocolate chips on top.

Bake for 25-30 minutes. Set aside the cake to cool.

If you are making the glaze, reset the oven to 300F. Melt the chocolate in small ovenproof bowl or heavy skillet in the oven for about 15 minutes. Stir the hot liquid and vanilla into the chocolate until smooth. Spoon the glaze over the cooled cake. Refrigerate the glazed cake for a minimum of 30 minutes before serving.

Neighbors: Peach Upside Down Cake

When I was growing up, there was a petite Italian lady named Mrs. B. who lived across the street from our house.  She was well into her eighties, but she was a spry, feisty little thing.  Despite her fairly constant claims of heart palpitations, telling us she "felt nervous" about one thing or another, we'd see her out sweeping her sidewalk almost daily in the summer, and raking endlessly in the fall, when her towering maple seemed to catch fire before it would drop its leaves.  In the winter, she would don her plastic bonnet with its chin-tie, and shovel herself out in the middle of a Nor'easter.  She drove her cream-colored Oldsmobile Cutlass long past the time when she probably should have stopped driving, giving us a near-heart attack every time we saw her backing out of her garage.  She had an opinion about everything, and she was quite eager to express it, motioning us close so she could stage-whisper conspiringly in our ears, shaking her head and wringing her hands at the absurdity of whatever happened to be the subject of the day.  Though we sometimes joked that she was the neighborhood busybody, she was also, admittedly, an effective one-woman Neighborhood Watch: she would peek out from between the Venetian blinds periodically when something was happening outside, and if she was concerned (which was more often than not), she'd give us a call.  We felt completely confident leaving our house on vacation, knowing that she would look after it for us.

As she got older, she would often come over to ask us for a favor: help her back out of the garage, help her lift something heavy, help her to reach something by climbing up a ladder.  Most times, when we'd do something for her, we could expect a cake to appear within the next few days.  We would joke about that, too, ask each other when the cake was coming if we thought we'd done something important.  But really, it was a generous gesture, and the most genuine way, for her, to properly express gratitude.

When we moved into our current house, I had pretty low expectations of my neighbors.  Besides Mrs. B., I'd had few experiences of close relationships with the people who lived next to us.  So I was pleasantly surprised when our neighbors began to become friends.

On one side of us lives a couple who is now in their nineties, an old farmer and vet whose wife reminds me a great deal of Mrs. B., armed year-round with her broom and her sharp tongue.  They brought food when our children were born and remember them every birthday and holiday, they lend us things like eggs and garden tools, they look after our house.  We shovel them out in the winter, help them with small maintenance tasks, and take an interest in their lives.  My husband often sits out on their porch in the evenings with Mr. H., drinking a beer with him and listening to him talk about his years in the war.

On the other side of us lived a woman who was the director of our county's domestic violence agency.  She had two older children, but adopted us soon after we moved in: she brought me chicken soup when I was sick, came over with tea to tend to me during the worst of my miscarriages, took in our trash cans, worried over us during visits from our parents, wrote love notes and gave gifts to our children.  We baked her birthday cupcakes, shoveled her out in the winter, lent her eggs, listened to her when she needed a convenient ear, and finally, hearts heavy, helped her to sort out her belongings to get rid of some before her move to the West Coast.

Our new neighbor, who moved in when she left, is different: still neighborly, as my husband described him, but not a friend.  He waves and makes polite conversation with us when we see him.  He bought lemonade when our son was selling it from our driveway.  He is still someone who we'd be willing to let borrow our hose and ladder, but not, perhaps, someone who would remember our birthdays, or pick up my son in a bear hug, or take care of us when we're sick, or come over for a lazy beer and talk after the kids go to bed.  He often makes a point of telling me how hard he's working (on his house and elsewhere), as if suggesting that I'm somehow not.  The other day when I was outside, he asked me where I. was, and, learning he was at camp, asked if there weren't other kids in the neighborhood he could play with if he'd been home.  I felt like he was criticizing me, but I didn't feel like telling him it was none of his business, nor did I feel like explaining to him about my job limbo, about what it's like to have two kids who are far apart in age and stage of development spend every waking moment together.  He's just not the kind of person I feel I can confide in.  After having such fabulous neighbors for seven years, I have to keep reminding myself that just because my neighbor isn't my best friend doesn't mean he's not a good neighbor.

***

There's been a lot of discussion around my little corner of the blogosphere lately about what makes a good member of the blogging "community."  For me, it's a lot like remembering that there are different kinds of neighbors.  Though we all live on the same block, our relationships can be very different.  Some of them we hold at arms' length, borrowing eggs and garden tools, waving when we see them outside.  Some of them come over for tea, take care of us when we are sick, remember our birthdays, become our friends.  Some of them argue with us about the fences between our properties.  And some of them watch over our houses from behind the venetian blinds, keeping us safe, and occasionally bringing us cake.

What kind of neighbors do you have?

Peach Upside Down Cake
adapted from Fatfree Vegan Kitchen
One of the cakes my neighbor Mrs. B. was known for was her pineapple upside down cake.  I had a peach version the other night that reminded me of her.  The one I'm posting here today is probably healthier for you than hers was, but it's still baked with love.

Dry ingredients:
1 1/2 c. unbleached white flour
2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. cinnamon
1/2 c. sugar
1/8 t. salt

Liquid ingredients:
1 c. vanilla soy milk mixed with 1 t. lemon juice
1/2 t. vanilla extract
1 t. lemon zest

4 c. peeled and sliced peaches (about 4 peaches)
1/2 c. brown sugar, divided (2 T. and 6 T.)
6 T.  cup natural, raw or brown sugar
2 T. water

Preheat oven to 350F.

Combine the dry ingredients in a medium bowl. Combine the liquid ingredients separately. Set aside without mixing them together.

Combine the peaches with the 2 T. of sugar. Wipe or spray a 10-inch, well-seasoned cast iron skillet with oil. Begin heating it and add 6 T. sugar and the water. Heat and stir until the sugar is completely melted and the mixture is bubbly and slightly reduced (but be careful not to burn it). Place the peaches on top of the sugar and remove from heat.

Add the liquid ingredients to the dry, stirring briefly, just to moisten. Pour the batter over the peaches, covering them entirely. Bake until the sides of the cake pull away from the edges of the pan and a toothpick comes out clean (about 30-40 minutes).

Allow the cake to cool in the pan for about 15-30 minutes, and then run a knife around the edges of the cake to loosen it from the pan. Place a large plate or serving platter over the top and invert the skillet. Remove the skillet carefully from the cake, and sprinkle, if desired, with a little bit of extra cinnamon.

Nothing But The Truth: Can Bloggers Have Their Cake and Eat it Too?

I have been a member of any number of organizations over the years that have made me promise to behave myself in a manner befitting the dignity of the organization.  I'm sure you have, too: think back to those oaths you might have taken as an inductee to the National Honor Society, or in 4H, or in the Girl Scouts ... they probably said something about your actions out in the world representing the group as a whole, something about you being an ambassador, right?

But what about personal bloggers?  Especially the ones who are "big" enough to be public figures?

Recently, MckMama, a well-known mommy-blogger, found herself at the center of the social media spotlight during her bankruptcy hearings.  The story, as well as I can piece it together (I welcome corrections and additions), goes like this: MckMama was a fairly small-time blogger, until her unborn son Stellan's heart condition and her plea for prayers increased her traffic dramatically.  She won what is described by a number of sources as a lucrative advertising contract with Blog Her, and was able to secure other opportunities as a result of her readership.  A lot of what happens next is murky, but it *is* clear that she was living large--larger than her blog income would support, all the while painting a rosy picture of her domestic life, and claiming later in various blog posts that she and her husband were paying off their debts.  It's fairly certain that she was dispensing marriage advice while in an abusive relationship of her own.  And it turns out that MckMama also plagiarized some of her blog posts, resulting in the termination of her BlogHer advertising arrangement.  While there doesn't seem to be one single obvious reason for people's hatred of her, many people claim that she inappropriately used her blog to gain personal and financial support over the years, and some of those people used her blog to track unreported income and send it to the bankruptcy court judge.

I am not a judge, and I'm not about to pass judgement on MckMama's actions; I simply don't know enough about what has happened, and there isn't enough unbiased information online.  It's not clear whether the bankruptcy scandal will have any real impact.  She continues to write, to post what are (in my opinion) lovely pictures of her children (and other people's children).  But what is interesting, to me, is what this all suggests about our expectations of personal bloggers, and personal blogging.

Personal blogging offers the illusion of truth: when you blog about your life, readers begin to trust you, to believe that you are a truth-teller, even if you're not necessarily revealing all of the more sordid details of your experience.  So when they discover that you're not really the truth-teller they thought you were, or when they discover that you've omitted important details in your narrative, even if your dishonesty has nothing to do with the stories you told them (*though in this case, some people may have been conned out of money by the story, or at the very least emotionally manipulated), they may, understandably, feel betrayed.

The complication is that blogging is storytelling.  Like we would do with any narrative, we choose pieces of the story to tell that suit our purpose.  We don't film ourselves 24/7 (at least, most of us don't ... though I recall a few bizarre experiments in which people tried this).  Even the most "real" personal blogs are fictions, because of these choices.  And yet.

And yet, we hold bloggers accountable to certain standards, don't we?  To standards that we don't even use, perhaps, for celebrities, whose images are more obviously cultivated for public consumption?  Just like we expect the Girl Scouts to act a certain way even when they're not in uniform?

I'm not defending MckMama here.  But I'm interested to hear what you think.  Do personal bloggers take an unwritten oath to tell the truth?  Do you expect personal bloggers to be truthful even in situations that have nothing to do with their blogs, outside of their blogging personae?  How, if at all, do you think the size of a blogger's regular readership shapes our expectations of their actions?  What about the blogger's content (e.g. do you have different expectations of a food blogger, an ALI blogger, a mommy blogger, a wellness blogger, a DIY blogger, a political blogger, etc.)?  Does this expectation extend to photos (e.g. a food blogger's photos that he/she has manipulated using Photoshop)?

And: as a personal blogger, can you have your cake and eat it too?

(Optionally Gluten Free) Tarta de Naranja (Orange Cake)
This cake is the sort of cake you can have, and eat, too.  It was the last treat I made for my son's Spanish club meetings, and its flavor reminds me of a dessert my family loves at our favorite Basque restaurant.  Adapted from Savoring Spain and Portugal.

1 1/4 c. flour (you can use almond flour; just add a bit more baking powder)
1/2 t. baking powder
3 eggs, separated
1/2 c. plus 2 T unsalted butter
2/3 c. sugar
grated zest of one orange
1/2 c. fresh orange juice
1/2 c. confectioners' sugar
orange sections (optional)

Preheat oven to 350.  Butter an 8 inch pan, cut a round of parchment paper for the bottom of the pan and place it on top of the butter, butter the parchment, then flour the entire pan.

In a small bowl, sift together flour and baking powder.  In a medium bowl, using an electric mixer, beat the egg whites until soft peaks form.

In a large bowl, using electric mixer set on high speed, beat together butter and sugar until light and fluffy.  Beat in the egg yolks, one at a time.  Reduce speed to low and beat in flour mixture, orange zest, and 1/4 c. of the orange juice.  Fold the beaten egg whites until just combined.  Spoon batter into the prepared pan.

Bake until a toothpick inserted into the center emerges clean, about 30-40 minutes.  Remove from the oven and cool in the pan on a rack for 10 minutes.  Then turn out onto the rack and let cool to lukewarm.  Transfer the cake to a platter.

In a small bowl, stir together the remaining 1/4 c. orange juice with confectioners' sugar until the sugar dissolves and pour evenly over the cake.  Garnish with orange sections if desired.

Thoughts on Post-Feminism: Just How Far *Have* We Come, Baby?

I've always considered myself a feminist.  But that label has been controversial, even among my friends.  Some of them see feminism as a movement of the last century, something we ought to be "over" by now.

Like many other women, I was deeply troubled by the comments Rush Limbaugh made about Sandra Fluke and, by extension, about all women.  I'm not usually bothered by Rush Limbaugh, because I know who his audience is, and I don't care what they think.  But these sexist comments went too far for me this time; they're the tip of the much larger and scarier iceberg that I've been worried about for a while.  First, there's the fight over women's bodies.  The refusal to provide women coverage for contraception in insurance (which is also used to treat a variety of other conditions including endometriosis, amenorrhea, and acne, thanks, Rush).  The Right To Know Act, legislation currently tabled in Pennsylvania which would require women to have ultrasounds (most likely trans-vaginal ones) prior to abortions, whether they want them or not.  The political quagmire of the Susan G. Komen/Planned Parenthood debacle, which temporarily (until Komen came to its senses) cut off funding to Planned Parenthood for breast cancer screenings, and the lack of assurance about the future of grants to that organization.  Then there's the persistent sexism I'm seeing, and that I experienced myself.  Women getting demoted or having responsibilities removed during maternity leave.  Women being excluded from conversations about the future of their organizations.  Women still earning less than men, doing the same jobs, and mothers earning less than non-mothers, even controlling for other variables like education and time away from the workforce.  It's as if the feminist movement accomplished a veneer of acceptance, but underneath the shiny exterior, things haven't changed at all.

Part of me wonders if we became too complacent.  Did we decide that feminism had accomplished what it set out to accomplish?  Have we stopped trying to make change?  If so, why?  Have we gone backwards?  If so, how did it happen?  And what role, if any, have women played in that regression?  Or were the accomplishments of feminism really a sham?

It so happens that I like to bake.  And that a good portion of the time, you will find me in the kitchen.  This is one of three things I sent to our church's coffee hour this past Sunday, even though we weren't going to be there ourselves; I did it because I like feeding people, and sometimes cake is spiritual food, too.  But I'm not barefoot, I'm not pregnant, and I'm not afraid to use my pen, my keyboard, or my frying pan.

No matter what happened to the movement, I am still a feminist.

How about you?

Cinnamon Streusel Coffeecake

1/3 c. chopped raisins (or nuts)
1/3 c. firmly packed brown sugar
3 T. flour
1 T. ground cinnamon
Cooking spray
1 1/4 c. sugar
1/3 c. vegetable oil
2 large eggs
3 c. all-purpose flour
1 t. baking powder
1 t. baking soda
1/2 t. salt
1 1/2 c. low-fat buttermilk
1 T. vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350F.

In a small bowl, stir together the first 4 ingredients to make streusel. Coat a 12-cup Bundt pan with cooking spray; sprinkle 1/3 cup of the streusel mixture into pan. Set the remainder of the streusel aside.

Combine regular sugar and vegetable oil in a large bowl, and beat at medium speed until well-blended. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition.

Combine flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt; stir well. Add flour mixture to wet ingredients alternately with buttermilk, beginning and ending with flour mixture; mix after each addition. Mix in vanilla.

Measure 2 cups of batter; set aside. Pour remaining batter into prepared pan; sprinkle remaining streusel over batter. Pour reserved 2 cups batter over streusel. Bake for 45 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Let cool in pan 10 minutes on a wire rack; remove from pan. Let cool completely on wire rack.

February is the C(r)oolest Month: A First Birthday Cake

(First: Thanks, all, for your recent comments on my little mini-series.   I try to leave replies for every comment, so please don't forget to subscribe to follow ups!  I'm giving Blogger's new threaded comments feature a run for its money.  *grin*)

February is a month fraught with mixed emotions for me, which may be one reason I've been feeling so existential lately (hence the "why are we here" posts).

One week ago, my daughter turned one.  We had a small family celebration with just my mother and brother and the four of us.  There was pizza for lunch, which made I. and S. happy.  It was amazing to think about where I was just a year ago, and where I am now.  It's definitely a happier place.

Three years ago, I was in the bathroom of the public library, at the worst point of my last miscarriage, watching my son reading a Dora Valentine book on the floor, barely able to swallow and breathe, trying to hold myself together.  It would be another week before I found myself at the OB, being handed a piece of paper with INFERTILITY printed in big bold handwritten letters across the top.  A referral to other doctors, because they were done dealing with me and my unexplained losses.

Four years ago, I was dealing with the emotional blow of my first pregnancy loss.

Nine years ago, I was visiting my father in the nursing home where he was supposed to be staying temporarily, watching the strongest, stubbornest man I had known succumb to stomach cancer.

And eleven years ago, I was sitting in a Korean restaurant with my future husband, getting up the nerve to declare my love for him in the most backwards, understated way I knew how.

Back in November, I posted about a visit from Buddhist monks, who talked about how life is like an ocean, how what feels like a tsunami at one time ends up being a ripple when you look at the thing in its entirety, and that you feel the most suffering when you spend the most time thinking about yourself and your inappropriate attachment to things that change anyway.  In the past few posts, I've been exploring change and community, and one of the thoughts I'm coming away with is that genuine community withstands change.  As I think about all of these milestones of Februaries past and present, it occurs to me that they're all crests of the tsunamis in my life, the moments of greatest flux, greatest transition and uncertainty.  And that perhaps blogging can help us to feel less suffering (or, to put it another way, to feel more joy) because it helps us to share with others what we sometimes inaccurately see as just our own.  I look back at where I was two years ago in February, at the beginning of this blog's life, and it's remarkable to me how my perspective, my orientation, has changed.

(And: I think about the work that Jjiraffe is doing right now with her Faces of ALI series: that, friends, is an awesome example of how the lines we draw around ourselves are imaginary, at best.  Go read her series, right now.)

So ... in the spirit of community, of losing ourselves in a good way, and of celebrating a life rich with change and challenge: here's a piece of N's first birthday cake for you.  Because it's as much yours as it is ours.  Happy February ... thanks for being here on the journey.

Baby's First Birthday Cake
(adapted from What To Expect The First Year*)
*which I don't think is gospel, but has some useful recipes

2 1/2 c. thinly sliced carrots
2 1/2 c. white grape juice concentrate (you will use slightly less than this)
1 1/2 c. raisins
Vegetable cooking spray
2 c. whole-wheat flour
1/2 c. wheat germ
2 T. low-sodium baking powder
1 T. ground cinnamon
1/4 c. vegetable oil
2 whole eggs
4 egg whites
1 T. vanilla extract
3/4 c. unsweetened applesauce


Combine the carrots with 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons of the juice concentrate in a medium-size saucepan. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer, covered, until carrots are tender, 15 to 20 minutes. Puree in a blender or food processor until smooth. Add the raisins and process until finely chopped. Let mixture cool.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Trace the bottom of two 9-inch pans on waxed paper and cut out circles.  Spray pans with cooking spray, place waxed paper in the bottom, and spray the waxed paper again with cooking spray.

Combine flour, wheat germ, baking powder, and cinnamon in a large mixing bowl. Add 1 1/4 c. juice concentrate, oil, eggs, egg whites, and vanilla; beat just until well mixed.  Fold in the carrot puree and applesauce. Pour the batter into the prepared cake pans (you may also need to make a muffin or two).

Bake 35-40 minutes, until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool 5 minutes in the pans, then turn out onto wire racks to cool completely.  Frost with cream cheese frosting.

Cream Cheese Frosting
(Frosts one two-layer cake)

1/2 c. white grape juice concentrate
1 lb light cream cheese
2 t. vanilla
1/2 c. finely chopped raisins
1 1/2 t. unflavored gelatin

Set aside 2 T. of the juice concentrate.

Blend the remaining juice concentrate, the cream cheese, vanilla, and raisins in a blender or food processor until smooth. Transfer to a mixing bowl.

Stir the gelatin into the remaining juice concentrate in a small saucepan; let stand 1 minute to soften. Heat to boiling and stir to dissolve gelatin.

Beat the gelatin mixture into the cream cheese mixture until well blended. Refrigerate just until the frosting begins to set, about 30 to 60 minutes.

Imperfect: Black Forest Cake

In years past, by this time in the season, I would already have at least several dozen cookies in my freezer waiting for the holiday open house I held for my students.  It's strange not to be preparing for that event this year.  I'm participating in the Great Food Blogger Cookie Swap, though, which will be good motivation to inaugurate the holiday baking.

In the meantime, I've been busy with cake: last weekend I made two dozen chai tea latte and red velvet cupcakes for a birthday party, this past week I was asked to make a Black Forest cake, and this week I have an order for a red velvet cake for Thanksgiving delivery.  I'm not exactly rolling in profits, but cake makes people happy, and I like making people happy, so I like making cake.

Layer cakes are my nemesis.  Put a piping bag in my hands and I can serve up some drop-dead gorgeous cupcakes.  Pie crust?  A snap.  Layer cakes, though, refuse to unmold themselves from pans; layers become lopsided; crumbs leap out of the frosting despite my careful attempts at "crumb layers."  This week I learned that I clearly need to work on my whipped cream frosting; the cake has sort of a "stucco" look to it; charming, to be sure, but not quite what I was going for.  I stopped trying to smooth it out because I didn't want to ruin the sides entirely.  I wanted to post this cake today, and in a momentary lapse of sanity, I almost Photoshopped the side of it to make it look smooth and even.

Then I thought, what am I doing?



There's been a lot of talk in the blogosphere lately, it seems, about people's self-portrayal of perfection online, in Facebook and in blogs.  It's true that I am my father's daughter, and I am a perfectionist.  But it's also true that the blogs I like reading the most, and the people I feel closest to, are the ones who honestly portray flawed lives, who experience the range of human emotion, who meet adversity and have to figure out what the hell they're going to do next.  Because that's really what the adventure is about, isn't it?  Loving what is, even as it's falling down around your ears?

The holidays sometimes produce more stress than joy, because of expectations (yours, theirs) of perfection.  This week, I'm reminding you to go easy on yourself.  Life is not a Norman Rockwell picture or a Martha Stewart magazine layout.  And if you have to excuse yourself from the Thanksgiving table, pull up a chair over here.  There's a lopsided, but really delicious, piece of cake waiting for you.

Black Forest Cake 


Devil’s Food Cake (recipe below)
cherry preserves
cherry filling: 1 14.5-ounce can tart cherries (drained) + 1/4 cup cherry preserves + 1 tablespoon kirsch (optional)
whipped cream: 2 pints heavy cream + 2/3 cup confectioner’s sugar
3 tablespoons Kirsch, divided
Maraschino cherries
1 ounce shaved, semisweet chocolate (use vegetable peeler on room temperature chocolate)

Bake and cool the Devil’s Food cake layers.

Prep the cherry filling.

To make the whipped cream: In the bowl of a standing mixer, whip cream and confectioner’s sugar until stiff. Place in the refrigerator.

To assemble the cake:

Place the first layer on your base.

Spread a very thin layer of cherry preserves on the cookie bottom.  Evenly spread 1 1/2 cups of whipped cream over the cherry preserves.

Carefully place the top layer of cake, top-side down, on the whipped cream. Brush the cake with 1 1/2 tablespoons of kirsch.

Spoon half (for a triple decker cake) of the cherry filling evenly on top of the cake.  Top with 1 1/2 to 2 cups of whipped cream. Top with the remaining chocolate layer, bottom-side up. Brush the cake with the remaining kirsch.

If you have three 8 inch layers, repeat the steps above with your last layer.

Pile most of the rest of the whipped cream on top of the cake (save a cup or so), and gently spread the whipped cream to cover the top and sides of the cake. Fit a pastry bag with a large decorating tip, and fill the bag with whipped cream. Pipe a rosette on each eighth of the cake.

Place the maraschino cherries on a clean kitchen towel to drain, and pat them (as dry as possible) before placing one in the center of each rosette.  Decorate the top by piling the shaved chocolate in the center.
If you have any whipped cream left, pipe a border along the bottom edge of the cake.Refrigerate the cake until ready to serve. Use a long, sharp knife, and wipe it off with a damp towel between slices.

(thanks, Mia, for sending photos of the sliced cake!)

Devil’s Food Cake

Adapted from Kathleen King’s “Tate’s Bake Shop Cookbook”

Makes two 9-inch cakes or three 8-inch cakes

2 1/4 c. cake flour
2 t. baking soda
1/2 t. salt
1 c. salted butter
2 1/4 c. packed brown sugar
3 large eggs
3 oz. good unsweetened chocolate, melted
1/2 c. buttermilk
1 c. boiling water
2 t. vanilla

Preheat the oven to 350.  Butter and flour two 9-inch or three 8-inch springform pans or round cake pans (I used cocoa powder instead of flour).

In a large bowl, sift together the flour, baking soda and salt.

In the bowl of a standing mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugar.  Add the eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition.  Stir in the melted chocolate.

Alternate adding the flour mixture and the buttermilk in three stages, ending with the flour.  Add the boiling water and vanilla. Mix well, but don’t overmix. (The mixture will be VERY thin.)  Pour the batter into the prepared pans.

Bake for 30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.  Place the pans on a wire rack, and let the cakes cool completely in the pans before unmolding. (If the middles dip a little, the cakes are still OK.)

Once the cakes are cool, you can wrap them in plastic wrap and store them in the refrigerator.