The 25 Days of Giving Challenge: Day 5

WELCOME BACK

December 5, 2012

I want to preface this whole post by proudly stating that I love Amazon.com.  I have managed to accomplish a lot of my own Christmas shopping from the warm, quiet comfort of my own home this year, thanks to Amazon's great selection and even greater prices (and reasonable shipping and return rates.)  And though this may seem like a "Shop Amazon!" commercial for which I am being paid some hefty commission (Don't I wish?  Because, yes, I will write for money.), this post was actually inspired by the reaction I had to Amazon's advertising tactics when I opened my email, titled "Gift Ideas by Relationship" this morning.  Clearly, this type of advertising isn't Amazon-specific by any means.  It's just part of the "for sale" world in which we live, especially at this time of year.  So I'll just present you with the following visual and give you a moment to process:

Your Amazon.com Today's Deals See All Departments

Gift Ideas by Relationship See more

Mom

Dad

Someone with Everything

Co-worker

Girlfriend/Wife

Boyfriend/Husband

Teenager

Family Friends

Grandma

Grandpa

Kids

College Student

And there it is. Make-up brushes for mom and tools for dad. (La Cage aux Folles this is not!)
But wait, it gets better. Because while the girlfriend/wife and the boyfriend/husband both need jewelry, clearly the girlfriend/wife is more interested in decorating herself, while the boyfriend/husband will be getting the new watch -- probably so he'll have something to tap anxiously while girlfriend/wife threatens to make him late for the party with Family Friends. And speaking of Family Friends, we will all be gifting
those Generic McNobody's with a "candy crate" this year. Something that admits: "We don't know you that well, so we thought we'd raise your blood sugar and add to your cholesterol numbers while contributing a donation in your name to the worldwide obesity fund. Happy holidays."

Of course, we can't forget our grandparents, those wise and lovely elders. I mean, don't we all have meek little grandmothers who live in curlers and aprons, and who long only for more picture frames? Because the infinite number of collages and portraits we've given them for the past twenty Christmases don't cover enough wall and coffee table and china hutch space already. And of course, our grandmas need something to stare at while our stereotypical grandfathers watch sports, right? After all, dad and boyfriend/husband will surely be over on Christmas day (hopefully on time, if mom and girlfriend/wife's beauty regimes and primping sessions don't take too long). And while the dad/boyfriend/husband contingent use their new tools to assemble and hang Grandma's picture frames, mom/girlfriend/wife can apply makeup and covet one another's jewels and marvel over ... the kids, who sit covered in Play-Doh gifts of their own. Because all kids lovvvveeee to smush gooey, sticky stuff between their fingers ... before they eat it. Even though mom/girlfriend/wife has repeatedly told the kids not to put anything in their mouths before threatening: "Wait til I tell dad/boyfriend/husband. Then you'll be sorry." Because mom/girlfriend/wife doesn't punish children, after all. It wouldn't be ladylike. And because dad/boyfriend/husband is the keeper of the tools and the recipient of the new timepiece -- and isn't that the place where all power actually lives?

Of course, the "extras" in the Amazon ad deserve some small mention, if only to pull me toward my final point - which, I realize, seems a long time coming. But can we really do no better for the "Someone with everything" than a fondue pot? Which, let's be honest, is probably what they got from all their "Someone with everything" friends last year. The very same friends who received (and likely regifted) the Candy Crate. At the same time, even for those of us who prefer to keep the personal out of the workplace, can we really do no better for our coworkers than a contraption with little metal balls attached to strings that bang into one another when plucked? Aside from inducing a rather problematic sort of workplace hypnosis, what is this thing supposed to do? What is its function? I see many missed deadlines and unproductive days in the futures of any coworkers who receive this confusing little distraction. Though, as always, I am willing to be educated on this one.

Perhaps the oddest Amazon gift recommendation of all - at least in my opinion - is the College Student coffee maker. Now, on some level, this one actually makes sense to me - college students drink coffee. Lots of it, in some cases. And a coffee maker is pretty gender neutral, which I appreciate. But don't most college students already have a coffee maker if they do, indeed, drink that much coffee? And what about mom/girlfriend/wife, or dad/boyfriend/husband? I bet some of them drink coffee, too. Maybe they would actually like a new coffee maker (perhaps to replace the one their college student son/daughter "borrowed" for the dorm and never returned.) As far as the grandparents are concerned, Grandma probably drinks tea anyway - since that's what all grandmothers do - and Grandpa probably sticks to scotch - since everyone knows that "the war" (Any war. All wars. Even the ones that happened before Grandpa was born) drives him to the bottle, which he now only drinks from when watching sports. Which is why he's always watching sports. And why people buy him more sports for Christmas and then complain that he drinks too much, especially on Christmas day.

I share all this to make one very self-serving Christmas gift recommendation that will deliver happiness and joy to anyone who receives it. It is my holiday pick this year, and my Hasky.com gift recommendation. It is gender neutral, ageless, ranges in price from free up to $1 million (I imagine, though I've never personally seen one that expensive), and will last forever if cared for and talked about and shared as widely as possible. The gift to give this Christmas, my friends, is the gift of books! Words. Stories. Lives. We all live them. We all read them. A few of us even try to write them.  And, after all, nothing says "I know you" better than the perfect book. Nothing says "I wanted to get you something you would enjoy and share and appreciate " like the perfect book. Nothing says "I listen to you when you talk to me about your interests" like the perfect book. And nothing says "You're not a generic, stereotypical Mom/Dad/Someone with Everything Coworker Girlfriend/Wife Boyfriend/Husband Teenager Family Friends Grandma/Grandpa Kids College Student" like the perfect book.

So while I love - and will continue to shop at - Amazon, I encourage you to give the people in your life at least one gift that acknowledges how much they mean to you this year. Give each of them a book! And if you need a book recommendation for the Moms/Dads/Someones with Everything Coworkers Girlfriends/Wives Boyfriends/Husbands Teenagers Family Friends Grandmas/Grandpas Kids College Students in your life -- ask them. I bet most of them will be only to happy to help you give them something they will love.

Happy holidays -- and happy reading!!

Til next time,

~ Hasky

A timely re-post of "Santa isn't coming this year!"

Happy holiday season, everyone.  As the stress of shopping and baking and decorating and running around threatens to take over our holiday cheer and interrupt our peace and joy, I thought this piece (which I originally shared on December 12, 2011) was a timely re-post.  And some necessary food for thought.  Enjoy!

"Santa isn't coming this year!" 

(12/12/11)

Last year at this time, life was very much the same as it is today: It was just before Christmas. Red and green decorations erupted all over stores and offices and front lawns while lyrics intended to make me smile and glow (i.e. "Born in a stable" and "I am a poor boy, too") generated tears of sorrow and angst rather than celebratory smiles and endless joy.  They always do.  I'm not sure why, exactly.

I should probably clarify right away that, overall, I am not anti-Christmas.  I even love the story of Ebenezer Scrooge, not because he is an angry, nasty little miser, but because he eventually sees the beauty of humanity that often comes alive at this time of year - and more importantly, he realizes his own capacity for growth and compassion in the process.  I love that, despite the anger and hatred that often seem to permeate our world on a daily basis, this time of year inspires people to give  -- and not just material gifts, but time, and service, and genuine human connection.

But last year at this time, something out of the ordinary did happen, and I have found myself thinking about it over the last week or so, amidst all the twinkling and sparking and jingling.  I was in Plattsburgh visiting my family a few days before Christmas, and while my parents were at work and my brother was busy, I sat at Panera enjoying a hot coffee, an internet connection (much faster than my parents' dial-up), and a two-hour block of time to write.  The restaurant was packed, but I had been fortunate enough to find a corner table by an electrical outlet - my own little pre-Christmas miracle.  And since I was trapped in a writer's nightmare - time to write and nothing to write about - I was happy to watch groups of people parade by with their packages and their soup/salad combos and their animated conversations.  Something would give birth to an idea if I just sat.  And sipped.  And observed.  Patiently.

At about 2pm, a frazzled mother walked by with two very young, very tired children.  While the little boy screamed and cried, the little girl pulled on her mother and threw herself into chairs and tables to relieve the indescribable stress of childhood. Suddenly, without a word, the children switched roles - the little boy began slapping himself and falling into walls and garbage cans while the little girl started screaming and pleading for toys and cookies and princess shoes.  And then there was mom - loaded down with bags and soup bowls and sippy cups and a very large, ergonomically destructive purse.  She threatened to topple as she lumbered past me, and she almost seemed to prefer lying face down on a Panera floor to dealing with her very normal-for-their-age-and-situation kids.

As a childless woman of 37, I sympathized with the mom on some level, even as I wondered what would possess anyone to trek around town on the Friday before Christmas with two little ones who should have eaten lunch (and probably taken a nap) hours ago.  But I get it - daycare isn't always an option.  And isn't this, at least theoretically, supposed to be part of the seasonal joy?  Shopping and lunching with one's children, surrounded by the splendid wonder of Christmas tidings and lightly falling snow?

I'll save you some time on this one: The answer is No.

But I didn't realize it before that moment. Not really.  Let me be clear here  - I am generally not a "grass is greener" kind of person - only because I have found that, from afar, weeds tend to be greener than grass. It isn't til you are up close and personal with the lovely shade of "greener" that you realize it's non-grass, often covered in fertilizer, or waiting to be plucked and discarded from someone's carefully manicured lawn.  That being said, I do have a habit of romanticizing parenthood.  I've often wondered whether I made a mistake by choosing not to have children.  And then, something like this plays out in front of me and reminds me of the reality: Children are wonderful, beautiful miracles - a good thing since they are exhausting, and expensive, and an unending litany of needs and demands and anxiety-provoking behaviors.  They are, after all, human beings.

Of course, none of this logic hit me at that moment.  I was too caught up in the scene unfolding, the mother's eyes beginning to water, the children exploding in a cacophony of wails, the eyerolls and speedy exits of the other diners whose "tsk tsk" nods further condemned the already defeated mother as she plopped first the boy, then the girl into red, plastic booster seats and shoved them as close to the table as possible.  I didn't think things could possibly get worse, until I watched the little girl pick up her mother's bowl of soup and turn it over on top of the table.

Time stopped.  Noodles and chicken hit the floor, landing in puddles of their own broth.  The green ceramic bowl sat, inverted, in front of the victorious little girl whose Grinch-like grin curled her mouth upward and forced her eyebrows into a sinister arch.  I couldn't move.  I didn't know whether to help or look away or leave.  And shamefully, I admit, I was most curious to see how mom intended to handle a maneuver that would have paralyzed me.

And that was when it happened.  Mom yanked her little girl's arm, looked directly into the child's face, and screamed through the tears leaping two at a time out of her eyes: "SANTA ISN'T COMING THIS YEAR!"

All I could do was join in the collective gasp as everyone in the restaurant (who hadn't already retreated to the quiet parking lot) recoiled and immediately slapped a "Worst Mother of the Year" label on this woman's soul.  How could a mother say such a thing?  How would these children ever enjoy Christmas now?  What about a simple "Time Out" or going to bed without dessert?  Or what about feeding these children lunch at a decent hour and navigating the crowds with two children in tow a little more strategically?

But as I sat in judgment, another thought arrived, replacing the all-too-familiar critical voice of a non-parent:  This woman, this tired, overwhelmed, vilified woman, was Santa.  And she didn't get to go away to a toy shop and hang out with elves and show up once a year to be adored and idolized.  She was Santa every day.  Unless she was busy playing the role of Tooth Fairy.  Or Easter Bunny.  Or Nurse/Taxi/Chef/Coach/Teacher/Housekeeper/All-knowing, Never-sleeping, Rarely-eating ... Mom.

For a moment, I met her eyes and tried to tell her, with the nonverbal glance of a non-mom who would never speak her language, that I understood.  Not her situation, of course.  But her defeat.  And her desire to give up.  She glared at me as if to scream "What the hell do you know about my life?!" and she was, of course, very right.  I knew enough to know that I knew nothing. Not about her life, anyway.

At that moment, a Panera employee showed up with a broom and a pile of napkins - he could have been a knight on a white horse for all the fuss this mother made. She wept and thanked him and apologized over and over while she helped him clean her messy life off the table and floors.  Her children simply watched in silence.

It took me a year to write about this  - probably becase I felt some sense of voyeuristic shame as I watched it happen, refusing to look away, unable to walk away.  But as the holiday season continues to envelop us day by day, I am reminded that the spirit of Christmas is really what we make it.  Some of us play Santa.  Some of us play Scrooge.  Some of us bake and shop and wrap.  Some of us sing and party and travel.  But no matter what our roles and regardless of our beliefs, we all want Santa to show up with gifts.  And it is my hope that whether you are a four year old child in need of a nap, or a forty year old mother in need of a break, or even a kid from 1 to 92, that your Santa Claus knows where to find you.  My guess is, your gifts have already arrived, you just haven't gone looking for them yet.

May your holidays and your new year ahead be filled with happiness and peace ... and perhaps a warm bowl of chicken noodle soup.

Love, Hasky

Everything I am thankful for ... I learned from my Schnoodle

As Thanksgiving approaches this week, I have been thinking a lot about gratitude.  What it means to me.  Where it shows up in my life.  How I express it.  I realize that I am grateful for so many people and so many things, and that my life is blessed in more ways than I can count.  Though it is often easy to focus on the things I am trying to fix or the relationships I would like to improve, I think Thanksgiving is a perfect time to sit back and simply reflect on what feels good and brings me joy and peace.

By now you are well acquainted with Beckett, my Wonder Schnoodle, so no shock that he rises to the very top of my gratitude list this year (as he will, I imagine, every year from this point on).  But I realized, as I watched him eat his way through his latest chew toy last night, that everything I have learned from him has made my gratitude list this year.  Some of the lessons he has taught me are simple, and some are so complex that I have a hard time wrapping my head around them or putting them into words.  But either way, his presence in my life is a daily reminder of just how wonderful the unexpected can be, and of how blessings can occasionally appear in the most unlikely places - even in a rescue shelter.

So, here is this year's gratitude list with a unique twist.  I like to call it "Everything I am thankful for I learned from my Schnoodle":

1.  Life should be all about fun!  What's wrong with that?  Why should I have to schedule it or time it or ration it?  Why can't I just have it?  After all, FUN is everywhere!  In a stray sock, a new bone, a fluttering leaf, a loud squeaky toy.  All I have to do is walk a few feet and fun will be waiting in some form or other.  How easy and awesome is that?

2. I eat when I'm hungry.  I stop when I'm satisfied.  I see nothing wrong with eating a treat when I have done something well (or two treats when I have done something really well!).  I don't criticize my mom for rewarding me with food - I just do more of what she wants so I can have ... more rewards. (Don't have to be a math major to figure this one out, people.)  Food keeps me alive so I can have ... yup, you guessed it ... more fun.  (See #1 above for more details on this).

3. Breathing is important.  And not that hurried, shallow nonsense that most humans do because they're always so busy talking and yelling and worrying and rushing.  When I breathe, I breathe from my belly, deep, full breaths that fill my lungs and then slowly leave.  It's why I can run and chew and bark and jump for hours upon hours while my poor mom alternates between hyperventilating and barely breathing as she hurries through life looking at that time-telling thing on her wrist.  She looks at that a lot.

4. When I don't feel well, I nap.  When I am tired, I nap.  When I feel like napping, I nap.  Sleep restores me.  I need it.  So I take as much as I can, whenever and wherever I can.  It repairs my muscles and replenishes my energy and makes me a much happier, much more pleasant Schnoodle to be around.  If I loaded my plush bed up with lap tops and remote controls and books like my mom stacks on her bed, I'm pretty sure I'd suffer from chronic insomnia.  And while I'm at it, if the television is on, my brain is on, too.  Sleep.  It's what the body is supposed to do.

5. I love people!  Sometimes I bark at them, sometimes I lunge at them, sometimes I size them up, sometimes I circle them.  Depends on the person.  Depends on how the person treats me.  But I always give people the benefit of the doubt, since I am usually pretty sure they show up because they are interested in getting to know me better.  And most people are kind.  The mean ones eventually go away, and if they don't, well, then I can growl and hide.  But why growl and hide before I know why they're there?  Maybe they just want to play fetch and give me a cookie.  Why would I bark away THAT opportunity?!

6. I don't speak English, so people need to show me they love me.

7. I appreciate people who are willing to sit on the floor so I can look into their eyes and who don't make me struggle and jump to reach their level.

8. Home is where I live and family is who I love and who loves me.  Even though my mom doesn't look like me, she chose me.

9. It's not good going through life following people.  It's good to be a leader, ahead of the crowd. Bold. Confident.  Even loud, when the situation calls for it.  My mom is a bit of a follower at times.  She once told me that "Neutering is just what good puppy parents do, Beckett."  What good parents?  I want to meet these so called "good parents"!  Followers, the whole lot of them.  And look how that ended up for me!

10. Money can't buy everything.  Sure, it bought me lots of medical care and toys and food and daycare, but  sometimes cuddling with my person is the most priceless part of my day.  (Sometimes.  Because I did just get a cool new bone, and it's perfectly ok to love that, too!)

Happy Thanksgiving to all!

Til next time,
~ Hasky and Beckett

~ Another Wordless Wednesday ~

Happy Wednesday!  

And welcome to your weekly opportunity to do all the talking.

Use the image below to talk about absolutely anything that comes to mind. 

Until next Wednesday,
~ Hasky

"Hello. My name is Heather, and I am socially awkward."

Today, I decided that I must now approach all potential conversations with the official disclaimer: "Hello. My name is Heather, and I am socially awkward.  It's best you know that upfront, for both our sakes." 

That way, when I kick off a sandal while tripping over that invisible nothing in the office carpet, or accidentally pick up my all-purpose purse/lunch bag/personal life catch-all tote by the bottom and empty its contents all over the lobby floor, or choke on the oatmeal husk that refuses to reveal itself until the precise moment I try - and fail - to say "Good morning" to a suited-up professional in our shared office kitchen, there will be no surprises.  As you might imagine based on detail alone, each of these experiences happened quite recently, and represent three in a long line of similar socially awkward moments that should no longer surprise or embarass me. And quite honestly, they neither surprise nor embarass me -- until I see the faces of the shocked/horrified/concerned/confused bystanders doing their best to look without staring or assist without panicking.  Or ask if I am okay ... without laughing.  And that is when it sinks in and the shame hits - at that precise moment when a public official in a business suit stands in front of me debating whether to perform the Heimlich or simply let the oatmeal war of 2012 play itself out. That is when I realize I need the kind of help that basic First Aid cannot provide.

So here's the thing about social awkwardness: I think it should be recognized among the medical community as a diagnosable (and marginally treatable, if detected early) medical condition.   As a point of clarification, I am all too familiar with social anxiety.  Generalized anxiety disorder is my own particular brand of suffering.  But that's not quite what I'm talking about here.  This isn't about fear of death in a public place (or, if you are anxious enough, in any place) and it's not about feeling absolutely sure that the nervousness you are experiencing is the beginning of a massive heart attack that will inevitably require a triple bypass likely to go horribly wrong and and result in lifelong debilitation and severely reduced quality of life.  No, this is about awkwardness.  Pure and simple.  And though it seems less severe than the paralysis of a true anxiety disorder, it is equally threatening to one's ability to navigate the world and live a semi-normal life.  And here's why.

After this morning's oatmeal situation in the shared office kitchen with the slightly frightened, slightly worried, impeccably suited-up man, I assumed that the event was over once I finally hacked the oatmeal husk into my hand, apologized profusely for my disgraceful - though totally unexpected and uncontrollable - display, and left through the opposite door so as to avoid putting either one of us through unnecessary, prolonged eye contact.  Sure, the Assemblyperson - whose name I do not know and whose face I had never seen until today- was gracious and kind, even when I capped the world's most indelicate performance off with a "Wow!  Oatmeal husk!" explanation.  (Because the true mark of social awkwardness is never knowing when to go silent.  When to stop sharing non-essential, unwanted information.)  Yet based on 38 years of experience, I should have known that this morning's kindness came with a price tag, the cost of which I would later learn, when I entered the kitchen once again, to heat up my afternoon coffee at the scene of the crime.

As I stood literally waiting for water to boil, the kitchen door opened and in walked the very same man.  Now, if I were at all able to cope with my social awkwardness, I probably would have nodded casually, said "Hi there" and moved on, regardless of the uncomfortable oatmeal elephant in the room.  But instead, I felt shame.  And some embarassment.  What must this person think of me, standing here in the kitchen yet again?  Maybe the only thought was "I can't believe she's back for more."  Or maybe, I decided in a rare moment of non-narcissistic reframing, the only thought was "I have to get to my 3:00 meeting."  And just as I decided that yes, that's it, this person, this stranger is thinking about meetings or legislation or deadlines that need to be met, I heard them.  Five words that landed in the air between us like a great big "SOCIAL AWKWARDNESS" diagnosis.  "Hey, Oatmeal. How's it going?"

So now, it appears - at least on the 11th floor of this building - I am known, quite simply as "Oatmeal." A moniker that will undoubtedly follow me through these halls until one day, after much time has passed, and finally someone asks "How did she ever get the name 'Oatmeal' anyway"? the only response will be "I don't know.  She's just always had it."  Like the husk itself, the name will attach to me until it gets lodged in the folds of my identity as a forever reminder of this one, undeniable truth: My name is Heather, and I am socially awkward.

Yours in awkward affection and genuine embarassment,

Oatmeal

Making My Own Music

Lately, every time I turn on the radio, I feel old.  Not only is every popular singer/singing group under the age of 20 (it seems), most of them have names I either don't understand or can't pronounce.  So I started thinking - what if I were to suddenly hit the music/entertainment scene?  What would I call myself?  What would I sing?  After decades of music theater, I realize that I couldn’t pull off a pop version of "My White Knight" from The Music Man, or my standard “One Feathered Tail” from my Suessical days.  So I started looking at the hottest artists – their names, their songs, their branding, and I think I’ve come up with some age-appropriate alternatives for myself, should an agent suddenly call and beg me to sign on:

NAME IDEAS

Artist Name: LMFAO                                 

Hasky Alternative: WTF?

Artist Name: Lady Gaga                                                                            

Hasky Alternative: Hasky Haha

Artist Name: One Direction                                             

Hasky Alternative: Aimless

Artist Name:  Beyonce                                                                                          

Hasky Alternative: Beytwice

Artist Name: Pit Bull                                                                                  

Hasky Alternative: Schnoodle

Artist Name: Young the Giant                                                                            

Hasky Alternative: Old the Gluten-Intolerant

Artist Name: Kanye                                                                                   

Hasky Alternative: Proye

Artist Name: Jay-Z                                                                        

Hasky Alternative: Hazy

Artist Name: Lil’ Wayne                                                                           

Hasky Alternative: A-cup Hasky

Artist Name: Slim Shady                                                                                      

Hasky Alternative: Body Dysmorphic

SONG/LYRIC IDEAS:

Songs/Lyrics: I’m sexy and I know it

Hasky Alternative: My thighs could use some work

Songs/Lyrics: Put a ring on it

Hasky Alternative:  Step off! I’m a commitment-phobe.

Songs/Lyrics: You’re hot and you’re cold, you’re yes and you’re no …

Hasky Alternative:  I’m peri-menopausal and indecisive

Songs/Lyrics: Never mind, I’ll find someone like you …

Hasky Alternative:  I am NOT insane! I am just doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

Songs/Lyrics: Marry the Night

Hasky Alternative:  Piss off the Republicans: Marry the Night

Songs/Lyrics: You Are So Beautiful

Hasky Alternative:  Good thing You Have a Great Sense of Humor

Songs/Lyrics: Birthday Cake

Hasky Alternative:  Corn-free, Gluten-free, Wheat-free, Dairy-free Cake-like stuff with a candle stuck in the middle.

Songs/Lyrics: Drunk on You

Hasky Alternative:  Designated Single

Songs/Lyrics: I Won’t Give Up

Hasky Alternative:  I’m Throwin’ in the Towel  

Songs/Lyrics: Give Me All Your Lovin’

Hasky Alternative:  Unless You’re Dipped in Chocolate, Get Outta My Personal Space                                                                                    

Finally, in a rare, never-to-happen again moment, I would like to thank Justin Bieber – since he burst onto the scene and spread Bieber Fever all over the place, every kid over the age of 4 now knows that “i” comes before “e.”  Thank you, Justin, for doing in ten minutes what many English teachers struggle to do over four years of high school.

A Birthday Cake for Grandpa (From last night's Memoir Project/Bookmarks reading)

Last night, I was honored to read alongside several other local writers at the Arts Center of the Capitol Region's Memoir Project/Bookmarks event.  Curated by Robyn Ringler, a local writer, bookseller, and owner of Eastline Books in Clifton Park, NY,  the topic for this submission was "Food."  Seemed basic and daunting at the same time.  So I began sifting through some ideas - my food allergies and sensitivities?  Too common.  Eating disorders?  Too overdone.  My vegetarianism? Too trendy.  Finally, my memory took me back to age 13, where I found myself trapped in afternoon of cake baking with my little brother, Rick.  It was too wonderful not to write and submit.  So that was what I did.  And I was happy that others saw it as worthy of sharing last night.  The evening was wonderful, filled with so many diverse experiences and stories about food and its impact on our lives, from sad to nostaligic to funny.  And what we all had in common, regardless of our age or our topic or our tone, was our love of food in some form or another, as a vehicle into relationships with our loved ones, ourselves, our surroundings, our memories. 

To my friends and family who have supported my writing, many thanks.  I know you would have been there last night if at all possible, so I have decided to share the piece here. And I want to thank my brother, Rick, who read (and laughed) at the piece and admitted that it was as true as he could recall (a rareity for memoir writers to hear!). Rick inspires me in countless ways, and he literally inspired this story by living through the memoirable experience with me.  It is for him, and for the happy childhood memories we shared, that I wrote this piece.

A Birthday Cake for Grandpa

 “We’re making grandpa a birthday cake with peanut butter frosting,” I announced.

“We?” my grandmother replied.

“Yes.  We.  Rick and me.”

“Do you know how to bake a cake?” Grandma asked.   

“Of course,” I lied.  “Mom lets me bake all the time.”

I was thirteen. My brother Rick was six.  And our combined baking resume at that point consisted of popcorn, oatmeal, and Duncan Hines Double Fudge box mix brownies. But since Grandpa’s birthday fell during our summer visit that year, it was the perfect opportunity to surprise him. 

How hard could it be to make a cake?  And some frosting? 

Maybe my mother didn’t let me bake all the time, but I had certainly watched her mix flour and sugar and eggs together enough to know the process.  And what I hadn’t learned from my mother I had seen on the cooking shows at Grandma’s house.

“Do you think Grandpa would take you grocery shopping?” I asked. “For like … two hours?”  I aimed straight for Grandma’s Achilles: her love of shopping.  And since Grandma didn’t drive, Grandpa took her everywhere she wanted to go.

By the time Grandma and Grandpa backed out of their gravel driveway thirty minutes later, I was already churning a giant mountain of flour from the Hoosier cabinet into the largest bowl I could find while Rick gathered the last four eggs from the refrigerator.

“Four people equals four eggs,” he reasoned.

“Right,” I replied, handing him a small ceramic dish.  “Here, crack them into this.”

But as Rick cradled the eggs in his left arm to reach for the dish, the first egg fell.

Splat. 

Within seconds, egg number two followed. 

Thwap.

I stopped churning, grabbed Grandma’s favorite dish towel, and began chasing and wiping the yolk puddle fanning across the kitchen floor.

 Rick’s face sank. “Now we don’t have enough eggs for the cake.”    

“Two eggs are plenty,” I promised. 

Rick recovered and began cracking the remaining eggs into the designated bowl. “Now what?”

“We should start the frosting,” I instructed. “We need to boil Karo Syrup and sugar first.  That’s what mom does. After that, we can add peanut butter.” 

I threw some granulated sugar into a saucepan and added half a jar of Karo Syrup. Then I slapped the pan on a burner and cranked the temperature to “High.”

“High temperature will make it boil faster so we can finish in time.” 

Unaware that the frosting was already in its initial burning stage, I grabbed the remaining eggs, a handful of sugar, and a pinch of baking powder and tossed everything on top of the flour mountain. 

Finally, it was time to mix.  Easier said than done, since Grandma and Grandpa’s old, four-story house was an electrical maze.  We couldn’t plug anything into the outlet by the pantry if the dining room lamp was on.  We couldn’t use the outlet by the front door if the television was playing.  We risked shrouding the entire house in darkness if we used the toaster or blender before turning off all the lights on the second floor.  And since Grandma had started a load of laundry before she left, we couldn’t plug anything into the kitchen outlet nearest the utility room without blowing all the circuits on the left side of the house.

I handed Rick the bowl and electric mixer and pointed toward the bathroom.  “Go mix this. Use the outlet by the toothbrushes.”

Rick hobbled away hugging the bowl in his arms, the mixer tucked between his chin and chest.

As I turned my attention back toward the stove, it was the crackling I heard first. 

Then, I smelled … something.

Then I saw the thick cloud of smoke rising from the front burner. 

 “SHIT!”

I lunged for the saucepan, gripped the handle, and dumped the bubbling black substance into the sink. Evidently, Karo Syrup turns to granite the second it hits cold enamel.

“SHIT!”

 “What happened?” Rick ran into the kitchen.

“I burned the frosting and ruined the sink!”

We stared helplessly at the hardening mass until a low buzzing interrupted the silence.

 “Rick!  Did you leave the beaters on?” I sprinted toward the bathroom while Rick followed.

“Oh SHIT!” I screamed as I entered the centrifuge of batter leaping from the beaters and splattering the walls. The mirrors.  The claw foot tub. I ran to the mixer and slammed the “off” button.

 “I think we still have enough batter for a small cake,” I persevered. Then I scooped the beaters and the much lighter batter bowl and headed back to the kitchen.  Finally, I emptied the mixture into two metal cake tins and popped them into a 400-degree oven.

Then I turned my attention back to the marbleized mess in the sink. 

“Find a hammer,” I ordered. “And a screwdriver.” 

While Rick searched, I grabbed the bucket of peanut butter and began spooning thick blobs into one of the few mixing bowls that wasn’t covered in batter. Or egg. Or white powder.  Peanut butter is pretty perfect on its own.  I’ll just dump some sugar into this and call it frosting.  Not only was I unaware of the difference between granulated and powdered sugar, I was also unaware that peanut butter frosting required the latter.   

“Frosting’s done,” I announced as Rick reentered with a hammer in one hand and a Philip’s flathead in the other. 

I motioned him toward the sink and positioned the screwdriver in his right hand, lining it up with the solid black substance now embedded into enamel. 

“Hold it tight,” I instructed as I raised the hammer and let it fall on top of the screwdriver with such force that my arms vibrated and Rick winced.

Our victorious, boiled opponent refused to budge. 

“Forget it,” I heaved.  "We’re running out of time.  And we still have to frost the cake.”  I threw the hammer to the floor and proceeded to pull the tins out of the oven.

At that point, I noticed that one layer was shallower and darker than the other.  And after several failed attempts to pry the smaller piece from its pan, I decided that Grandpa would be celebrating this year’s birthday with half of a one-layer cake.  Resigned, I gently cut the thicker layer from its pan and pieced it together on one of Grandma’s antique serving platters before slapping thick piles of sugary peanut butter all over its top and sides. The only thing left to do was set the thing inside Grandma’s domed cake holder and snap the lid shut.  I imagined everyone’s shock as I removed the enormous cover to reveal the tiny little disaster that appeared so large, so normal, so edible from the outside. 

At that moment, I heard what I dreaded most: the sound of my grandparents’ car crunching up the driveway.

“SHIT!” I yelled one last time before shoving the cake into my brother’s arms. “Hide this somewhere.”

As Rick bolted from the room and my grandparents entered, dropping their grocery bags and cases of soda to the floor, I summoned my most cheerful voice:

“Surprise!  You’ll never guess what we did while you were out!”

No truer words were ever spoken.