The one-bowl, two-egg cake

I am bringing up some of the little essays I wrote in the writing class. The one I have printed here was written when I first started attending the class and was much appreciated by the other members of the class. Hope you like it!

The One-Bowl, Two Egg Cake

It was eleven o’clock in the evening and my husband and I were watching the late news on channel 7. I was settled in and watching from the sofa, but he arose from his chair and headed for the kitchen. I froze with apprehension, knowing what was coming. He was hungry and was on his way to cook up a snack.
Big deal, you are thinking! Why not? After all, it’s his kitchen, too. So what if you have already turned on the dishwasher, tidied up the sink and kitchen table, and swiffered the floor. It’s not the end of the world.
But wait. What if he wants to bake something? Then I will get involved reading the recipe and starting the oven, and watching whatever is in the oven, and then serving it up and even being expected to eat some of it with appreciation. He will expect praise and accolades, and help in making the frosting and in cleaning up.
I silently sent a prayer heavenward. “Dear God,” I prayed. “Let it be muffins. Not the one-bowl, two egg cake. Please, God.” Then I bargained with God. “If it can’t be muffins, let it be chocolate chip cookies. Or pudding. Or popcorn. Anything else. Anything but the one-bowl cake.”
We had never actually eaten one of his cakes. The first time he baked one he forgot the baking powder and we threw out the flat rounds of rock hard cake that resulted. The second time he tried, he accidentally turned the oven to 250 instead of 350 and when he took the cake out it fell and even though he tried baking it again we couldn’t eat it. The third cake was lumpy because he had forgotten to mix it at high speed for four minutes as called for in the recipe. This would be his fourth attempt.
I never interfere with my husband’s projects. I learned a lesson long ago and far away when we were both very young. I tried to tell him how to mix a cake and in response he dashed the mixing bowl down onto the kitchen floor, breaking the bowl and scattering shards of glass and cake batter from one end of the kitchen to the other. As I cleaned up the mess, I vowed to never offer advice or criticism again, no matter how urgent the matter.
His behavior seems atrocious, but in the dysfunctional household in which he grew up, it made sense. His mother routinely hurled dishes across the room, his father smashed furniture, and his brother slammed doors so hard the windows rattled. Throwing a bowl of cake batter onto the floor was a mild reaction.
But I am a fast learner, and I have kept my resolve. Unless he asks for my advice, I never give it. When he heated oil in the steel frying pan, I said not a word, but walked out of the house and watered the roses. When he set the oven to broil and burned up the tuna casserole, I didn’t even notice. Let the chips fall where they may.
I sat in my chair and listened intently. There, he is getting out the Kitchen-Aide mixer. Oh, s--t! That means the cake! I silently listened while he pulled down the ingredients, hoping against hope that he would remember the recipe this time, and my help would not be needed. Although he rejected all advice and criticism, he didn’t mind at all soliciting my help when HE felt like having it. Sure enough, he called from the kitchen.
“What do I use to grease the pan? I’m using the tube cake pan.”
My repertoire of cuss words contains some choice phrases, and I silently went through every word I knew, and some I made up on the spot. I was incredulous! He couldn’t mean the tube pan. But that is what he meant and I hollered back, “Grease it with Crisco. Not vegetable oil. Not butter. Crisco “
Silence for awhile while he measured and sifted and got everything ready. I didn’t hear him cracking eggs or getting out the milk but who am I to interfere with his obvious efficiency in cake baking? I was relieved when I heard the refrigerator door opening and I could hear him pulling out the egg tray. Maybe this time it would turn out. He turned on the mixer and actually mixed on low speed for two minutes and on high speed for four minutes. Good! He poured the batter into the pan and opened the oven door. A few choice words escaped his lips when he realized he had forgotten to turn on the oven. But at last everything was in order and he set the timer for twenty-five minutes and we relaxed while we awaited the results. The fact that the buzzer sounded almost immediately wasn’t really all that alarming – he had set it for 2.5 minutes by mistake. At last all was in order. I took out my knitting and settled down to relax for awhile.
It was peaceful there in the living room with a fire in the stove, and my knitting coming along, and I almost fell asleep I was so comfortable. Then the timer buzzed and my husband leaped to his feet and rushed out into the kitchen again. “Does this look done to you?” he called, pulling out the pan. It did look done, and we put it up on the counter to cool, as the recipe said to do. It had turned out magnificently, having risen above and over the rim of the pan like a fluffy brown mushroom. It smelled good and was a good color. When I pressed lightly on the top it was resilient and responsive. I couldn’t use a toothpick as it was about eight inches high, but I judged it to be done. We waited for it to cool and I returned to my knitting. By the time we got it frosted and had eaten a piece it would be well after midnight. Oh, well. Ca La Vie. I fell into a light sleep.
Cries of dismay awakened me. Banging and slapping sounds were coming from the kitchen. I rushed out, and discovered my husband trying to turn the cake out of the pan onto a cake platter. He tried slapping the sides of the pan, and since it was a tube pan, he shoved against the bottom which was designed to slide up and release the cake. Helpless laughter overtook me. 
Trying to hide my mirth, I turned away and held onto the counter top to keep from collapsing to the floor. He had forgotten to grease the tube and the cake was cemented tightly to the metal and could not be dislodged. Finally, with a mighty shove, he dislodged the entire cake which flew out onto the countertop in chunks and pieces.
I could contain myself no longer. Howling with laughter, I staggered back into the living room and collapsed into the reclining chair. My husband, who can command vast amounts of cool when he chooses, calmly gathered up a large chunk onto a dessert plate, poured himself a glass of milk, and calmly sat down to eat it. “Delicious,” he proclaimed. “Try some.”
It was good. The texture was fine and even and the flavor was all that could be desired. After we had eaten generous portions, we gathered up the remains and put them in a large bowl. The next day we layered the crumbs into dessert dishes with strawberry jam and vanilla pudding. Voila! An English trifle. It was delicious. God knew best, after all.

A story I Wrote Long Ago

I went to Heaven last night. In my dreams. I hadn't planned to go there, and as a matter of fact, I had been thinking about Paris, hoping to dream about the little rooftops and sidewalk cafes. But the first thing I knew, there I was at the Pearly Gates. Lest I lead the reader astray, they weren't pearly. They were of a sort of weathered wood and the walls were a kind of dried mud composition. Over the gate it said "Paradise", and underneath in smaller letter various words, such as Heaven, Allah, Happy Hunting Grounds, and so on.. But there was the gate, closed and locked of course, and St. Peter was there, sitting on a stone bench wearing a loin cloth. I guess my expression was one of amazement, because St. Peter said "We don't wear long robes up here. Too much maintenance. We simplified a couple of centuries ago. Now it's strictly come as you are.. You might find some of the occupants stark naked. Why are you here? I thought you weren't due up here for a long time."

"I want to see my mother," I said, thinking fast. "She should be up here someplace."

St. Peter scratched his beard, plucked something out of it, and thought a moment. "I suppose she must be up here. There's no place else she could have gone to. You know there's no Hell. That's just what they used to say to scare people."

"O.K.", I said. "Do I need a passport, or should I say a prayer, or something to get in?"

"Not at all," St. Peter said, but still not getting up. "Do you still want to go in?"

"I don't know," I said. "Does everyone who is ever born get to come up here?"

He gave me a look of scorn. "You only get in if you believe in Paradise.

If you don't believe, when you die, you simply cease to exist." He snapped his fingers. "Just like that! Poof! You are gone."

"But what about reincarnation?" I asked.

St. Peter flew into an unholy rage. "Reincarnation?" he shrieked "Don't talk to me about reincarnation. If you wanted to come back as a cat or something, you should have thought about that before you died." He banged his long cane against the rock and I thought he was going to strike me.

"Now," he said calming down a little. "Do you want to go in or not?

I

You're holding up the whole line. We've got a traffic jam here."

"I'll go in," I said. "I'll try anything once."

St. Peter stood up and went to open the gate. I saw that his beard had grown clear down to his knees. I noticed, too, that he was in great shape for a man his age. He opened the gate a couple of feet, grabbed me by the arm and shoved me inside. He laughed like a maniac as he slammed the big gate shut.

My heart sank when I saw what was printed on the inside of the gate.

There, in big black letters, were the words:

YOU CAN'T GO HOME AGAIN

and in smaller letters "Sorry about that."

I was scared speechless. I looked around but to my amazement I was all alone. There wasn't another soul as far as I could see in every direction. There was, however, a large angel reclining on a cloud, covered with her or his wings, and strumming lazily on a harp. I floated over and stood respectfully before this shining creature. It looked up at me with

luminous blue eyes and asked in a melodious voice, "Are you being served?"

"I do have some questions," I answered, regaining my voice. "Why am I all alone up here? I thought I would see millions of souls up here. This is spooky."

"Oh, you can see them if you want to," answered the Angel. "You can't see them when you first come in because it's all so overwhelming. Do you want to see them?"

I nodded and there appeared before me a million, a billion celestial beings, walking, running, dancing, standing as if in a daze, curled up sleeping., doing things I never thought I would see them do. It was horrible. "Please!" I cried, cringing and covering my eyes. "I made a mistake. I don't want to see them. Take them away."

"It's O.K. They're gone. " said the Angel. "I've never had a single new arrival who wanted to go through that more than once. Just relax. Do you want to read the rules? There are only three and they are easy."

She unrolled a large scroll, upon which were printed three lines in Geneva type, 18 size print, black ink.

Rule 1: Be happy. Don't Worry.

Rule 2: Heaven is whatever you want it to be.

I

Rule 3: Practise patience. You have plenty of time.

Underneath someone had written a line of graffiti: Be all that you

can be.

Underneath that someone else had scrawled: Don't ask, don't tell.

The Angel hastily held one wing over the last two lines. "I'll have to erase that. Forget you ever saw those lines. They are meaningless. Do you have any questions?"

I had a lot of questions but when I started to speak, the Angel raised its hand and said thoughtfully, "Actually, f can read your mind. I think we can save time if I answer some of them without you asking. First of all, I have always been here. All I do is answer questions. That is my sole purpose in life. I have been here since the beginning of time. I am part of the establishment. I am a charter member. Now, let's get down to business. You have read the rules. Rule 2 means exactly what it says. You can eat what you want up here, dress however you like, and live whatever lifestyle suits you. If you have ever been in California you know what I mean. Rule 1 and 3 are self-explanatory. They are suggestions only. I

wish I could let you see your mother, but that would mean you had to see all of the others too, and we don't want that. I can assure you that she is happy. She is a great one for following rules."

The Angel ruffled its feathers and stretched out a bare foot and wiggled its toes. Then it stretched out its other foot and flexed its arch. Then it stood up and stretched, and bent forward and took my hand. "Nice to have

met you" it said politely. "I'm glad we had this little chat. Now I have

to buzz off." and it flapped away, hanging on to its halo with one hand. It left the harp leaning up against the cloud. I watched it until it was out of sight.

I hadn't the slightest idea what to do next. I thought of the rules again.

Rule 2 was a good rule. I thought of California, and my little house on the hill above Austin Creek, with the redwoods growing all around. I could see the flowers blooming beside the path, and the pretty redwood deck my husband had built. I saw my little black cat sunning itself in a pool of sunshine. Strangely enough, I could smell the heavenly aroma of freshly perked coffee and hear the faint clink of dishes being taken out of the dishwasher. Then the doorbell rang and I could hear my little neighbor telling my husband that her cat had come home after all. I opened my eyes and sunlight was streaming into my bedroom and I realized that I was back on solid ground, in my own house, in my own bed, in California. I hadn't been in heaven after all. It had all been just a dream. I think.

I

A tranquil evening

Tuesday evening and we have finished the pork chops and sauerkraut we had for dinner, and I am taking refuge in my computer while my husband clears the dishes and loads the dishwasher. How I trained him to do those chores I will never know, but he is out there contentedly working away. He does a good job, too. I have resolved to make an entry at least every other day, to keep up with what is going on in our lives.
Today was shopping day and I got my treat of sushi from my husband, and somewhere in his bedroom he has hidden the chocolate candy he brought back. I have to ask for it (beg for it is a better way to put it) but eventually I will get a small piece and that will have to do until another day has passed. I am a chocoholic and he knows what he is doing.
I think I might become addicted to my computer. I am studying the tutorials and have gotten as far as step one. Great progress for me. Take care and keep in touch.

Oh yes, my new computer is great!

Well, I must say that I am enjoying my new computer immensely. I availed myself of the tutorial program, hoping to educate myself into the workings of the thing, but as I am only starting, I haven't learned much. It does allow me to go on Facebook, which I couldn't do on my old computer, and it hasn't cut out or failed to avail me of any of the programs I have in the software, so I am quite satisfied with it. I hope to keep up with my blogs, as well. Altogether, a good start to my declining years. Bye and keep in touch.

You never can tell what a redheaded woman will do

You Never Can Tell What a Redheaded Woman Will Do

I was the third of four children and three of us had red hair. My sister Lorraine was what was called a “dishwater blonde.” She wasn’t happy with being different, and often shed tears over her outcast station, as she saw it.
“Was I adopted?” she asked our Mother one day, large tears streaming down her cheeks. “”Why am I different?”
Mother tried to reassure her and boost her morale. “No, of course not,” she said soothingly. “You are my own child, just like the others. But don’t feel bad. At least you have a pretty face. Just look – redheads always have freckles.” And she glanced my way, as if noting my unhappy state of freckledom.
Thanks, Mommy dearest. I needed that. I needed it like a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Why didn’t you tell the whole story? You could have mentioned allergies to every known brand of soap and shampoo, exzema and skin rashes, hay fever and wheezing, sneezing and coughing all night. Why didn’t you talk about insomnia, sleep walking and obsessive-compulsion disorder? Not that these were all caused by my red hair, but it is well known that red-haired people have sensitive skin and are subject to allergies of every kind. But if you wanted to make me sorry I had curly red hair, you failed utterly. I have never regretted my redheaded state and wish my hair had stayed red longer.
I got a lot of mileage out of that red hair. Strangers would stop us on the street and comment on my curly mop. My Aunt Doris, then a teenager, (I was about six) would wash my hair with special shampoos and set it in what was known as “Marcelle waves,” My grandma, herself a redhead, would bake me special cookies and let me have her sewing scraps to make clothes for my doll. My Uncle Lewis took me to the circus and showed me off as his “Orphan Annie” girl. If memory serves me right, he also bought me a box of Cracker Jacks. No wonder my sister was jealous. No attention was directed at her lanky brown hair whatsoever. I suppose she got over it after while.
I looked up redheaded people on Google. Only two percent of the world population have red hair. A large proportion of them are in Scotland and Scandinavia. Redheads are purported to be adventurous, passionate, quick tempered, and sensitive to pain. Redheaded women are seen as remantic and given to sexual excesses. I might modestly state that none of those myths applies to me except the tendency to be adventurous. I not only admit to being adventurous but I brag about it. As the old blues song says “You never can tell what a redheaded woman will do.”
Well, what did I do? I climbed an apple tree when I was four and got hung hung up between two limbs and had to be rescued by my mother. I helped my father paint the woodshed with red paint and got so much paint in my hair that part of it had to be cut off. I wrote on the side of the house with crayons and the words I wrote were still visible years later . When I was fourteen I sneaked out of the house one moonlit night and went swimming with the two neighbor boys. All pretty innocent pranks, really. But Mother could recite them like a litany when the mood struck, and I grew up thlnking I was an incorrigible miscreant.
I had my moments of triumph. When I graduated from grade school, I won the gold medal for scholarship, beating out all the other eighth graders in the county and astounding my teacher, for whom it was a total surprise. As indeed it was for me. I was awarded a scholarship to college, and when I was seventeen I took myself off and never looked back. And of course I committed the ultimate act of adventure and joined the army during the war.
All in all, it has been a great life. I have never regretted having red hair. Mother dear, if you are looking down on me now, I hope you know that my freckles don’t bother me a bit. Don’t now and never did. As an old flame once said, “A face without freckles is like a sky without stars.” Rest in peace.

A story from long ago

An Evening Adventure

It was bedtime but Baby Mouse wasn't sleepy. He wanted to stay up late and have an adventure. Mamma Mouse thought hard. What could they do?

"I know," she said. "Let's go down by the path and watch the stars. There will be falling stars tonight. We can hide in the bushes and watch."

Baby Mouse thought that was a great idea. "Let's go now," he said. And he put on his jacket and little shoes and took Mamma Mouse by the hand, and so off they went.

Down by the path they found a clump of tall dry grass and snuggled in side by side, and peeked out into the night. It was very dark but up in the sky the stars twinkled and once in a while a falling star sent a great trail of sparks across the sky. The tree frogs were singing in the treefrog tree and it was warm and still.

While they watched they heard something coming down the path. It was a slow plop, plop, plop. What could it be? Pretty soon they saw Mr. Turtle coming along, slowly and steadily, and when he saw them he stopped.

"How do you do, Mrs. Mouse?" he asked. "How are you tonight?" Mr. Turtle is slow, but he is always very polite.

"I am fine, Mr. Turtle," said Mamma Mouse. "We are watching the stars."

"Have a nice evening," said Mr. Turtle, and he went on his way down the path.

And then they heard something else, and it was coming very fast. Thumpety, thumpety, thump. It was Mr. Rabbit and he didn't stop. "Mrs. Fox is coming," he cried as he dashed past. He whisked around the bend and then he was gone.

Momma Mouse put her arms around Baby Mouse and hugged him close. "Be very quiet" she whispered. "Don't make a sound."

Mamma Mouse was so frightened that she trembled all over, and her tail stuck out straight behind her. She heard the pitter-patter of feet, and saw Mrs. Fox coming fast down the path, but Mrs. Fox didn't stop. She wanted Mr. Rabbit and she kept right on going.

Then it was quiet for a long time. Mr. Garden Snake came swishing along, but he doesn't eat mice, so Mamma Mouse wasn't afraid. She even said hello to him, but he didn't stop. He was on his way to the treefrog tree and wanted his dinner. And then they heard another sound, and Mamma Mouse was frightened all over again. She knew what the sound meant. It was Mr. Hoot Owl and she knew he ate mice.He was slowly flapping along, making soft swooshing sounds in the quiet night. Mamma Mouse and Baby Mouse were so quiet they could hear the little brook that ran along beside the path and the beetle tapping away inside an old log. Then it was quiet again and they knew that Mr. Owl was gone.

"Thank goodness," said Mamma Mouse. "Let's go home before we get eaten. Mrs. Fox will be back and she will still be hungry. Take my hand and run as fast as you can."

They scurried back to their little home under the old oak tree. Mamma Mouse took off Baby Mouse's shoes and jacket and tucked him into bed. They were safe. Mamma Mouse cuddled up in her own bed and in a few minutes she was asleep too. Outside it was still dark and the stars still twinkled in the sky. And the night creatures still searched for something to eat. But they wouldn't find Baby Mouse or Mamma Mouse. They were safe for the night.

New Computer

We actually went ahead and bought a new computer! We thought the time had come, sure enough, and I have a wonderful new I-Mac sitting at this moment before me. What a delight. I can now get Face-Book and movies and radio broadcasts and other delights I haven't touched on yet. My grandson came and set it up and I am enjoying a whole new adventure.
This short little blog will have to suffice as it is way past dinner-time, but there will be more in future. Keep in touch.