Summer of Cake: Cake #2

Forgive me....it has been one of those days.

Now, before I show the pics, I want to give a review of both recipes.

The Cake: Eh. Was supposed to take 23 minutes to cook and I knew at minute 35 that I was in trouble. The recipe was not as advertised. Once I got the layers out of the oven, they looked a bit brown. Not good. But I moved on.

The Frosting: Delicious, yet hard to get to the consistency of workable frosting. The fresh strawberries made it a melty mess, no matter how much more confectioners sugar I added, and trust me when I say that at one point I had to quit adding to it. It took on a life of it's own.

At this point I was thinking I'd get the crumb coat on, pop the cake into the fridge to set and then quickly get the final layer on and hope for the best. What follows are my best effort of trying to save the possibility of the promised beauty this cake could have been.

Get ready to laugh away, because I certainly did when I saw what we cut into this evening.


Pics!

The frosting called for a pound of butter...A POUND!



The frosting also included 1/2 cup finely chopped strawberries. It tasted heavenly.




As soon as it was mixed, I did this:




The cake batter being mixed:



The final product:



The batter itself had 1/3 cup strawberries:



In the pans...so far so good.



Out of the oven browner (and I was thinking tougher textured) than I had hoped.



It smelled amazing and you could see the strawberry bits:



I had refrigerated the frosting, never a good sign of heft, and started filling and frosting the bad boy.



Swallow whatever it is you are drinking or risk spitting it out in laughter. I give you Cake #2 in its final glory:



Oh my goodness! It is horrifyingly wrong. The frosting has shifted (even with refrigeration) and the layers are tilted from the shift. All it needs are monster eyes and a mouth to RAWR!



Things look decidedly better once the cake has been cut. But still, it is an embarrassment.



With the flash is a truer rendition of its glorious color.



And finally (thank you Jesus, this is almost over) a slice.


I was right about the layers being tougher from the over-baking, but I had no choice as the batter wouldn't set. The frosting will be resurrected for a later-in-the summer cake. White cake most likely. But this cake gets a never again rating. But a gold star for making me laugh.

Oh my babies, it's in the process....

Got a late start.

BUT SOON!

Strawberry Cake Tease

Pics tomorrow of the cake as I make it....and yes, strawberries in/on the cake/frosting.

~faint~

Mommy!

Come in close, my babies. Do you smell that? The light sweet smell of strawberries ripe for cake?

Summer of Cake!

Cake #2: Strawberry Cake with strawberry kissed buttercream frosting.

~faint~

Memorial Day Offering

Those who expect to reap the blessings of freedom, must, like men, undergo the fatigue of supporting it. ~Thomas Paine


It is a great and mighty fatigue. Let us never forget those who have gone before us in the fight. May they have their eternal rest.

Cake #1

Husband requested a carrot cake as our first into The Summer of Cake. No problem. Secretly, I think we both thought it would be a "healthier" cake. Yeah, we weren't fooling anybody.

Batter-y goodness:




3 cups of grated carrots. All I had on hand were baby carrots, but as you can see they grated just fine:




Cooled layers (3!) with the cream cheese frosting serving as the filling:




Crumb layer. Into the fridge it went for 10 minutes to set that fluffy whipped frosting.




Last layer of frosting and the remains of the toasted chopped walnuts. The other half of the nuts are in the cake. So toasty good:




The cake. And yes, that is one slice taken from it. I don't mess around when I eat cake. Make it big and make it delicious:




Plated. Soon to be in mah belly.



Carrot cakes are labor intensive with all the toasting of nuts and grating of veggies and the fluffing of cream cheese, but it is as good as it looks.

This morning a friend joined me for coffee and a slice. I sent her home with two more slices. This afternoon, I met my nephew's new pup and took his mom three slices. I have eaten two slices since yesterday, Husband one, plus a bite of mine this morning. There are about 2 1/2 slices left.

The Summer of Cake. Makes me happy to know that others are gonna enjoy it as much as I will.

Drinking, Medical Records and Taming The Frenchy Within

I'm drinking. A pomegranate/cranberry martini. It's delicious. I deserve it. I have been on the phone for over 4 hours talking to and arguing (politely) with medical billing and medical offices and medical morons. A test valued over $1000 dollars is on the line. Husband and I asked more questions than we can remember while he was in the hospital, and we both questioned if this test happened.

So, what I know now: #1) there are no found results for this test. #2) off-site hospital billing offices suck donkey balls. Big ass hairy stinky sweaty donkey balls.

I have a call in to two more medical peeps, one of which I believe to be the holder to all the keys I seek. As an aside, I already have negotiated 20% off the portion of the bill that we owe, so not a bad day's work.


Now to what I really want to tell you. No Shelli: NOT PREGNANT. That is best left to you youngsters, as BOY: LOOK AWAY mah eggs be almost expired.

Alrighty Bunny, the coast is clear. Mommy is done talking about her aging body parts.

The thing I want to share is that I am in therapy. Well, if you can call painting therapy. Painting as in free-wheeling-have-no-agenda-paint-what-comes-out-in-a-predetermined-amount-of-time painting. I have this friend, YES I DO, and she is one of those friends with a therapist background and is extremely adept in listening and then hearing you. I shared with her that I am experiencing self-sabotage in a certain area of my life and that I want to understand why so I can move past it.

I talked, she listened and then asked pointed questions and then suggested that I try this painting method as a way to basically think outside of the realms I am stuck in. She explained that by using a medium that I am unfamiliar with could lead me to a revelation.

Hmmmm.

I listened and after some thought, I told her I'd try it. Why not? At this point I'd try alligator wrestling. She wasn't convinced I was taking her seriously. She asked for my full attention. I stopped talking, faced her and listened. She said as plainly and as forcefully as she could: You don't understand. This is not a suggestion from me. Something outside of me is telling you this. This will help you. You have to do it.

Now, two very important things. #1) when someone tells me that they think they are being spoken to on my behalf, I listen. I try to discern if it is indeed something I should heed and proceed as best I can. #2) This came from my friend who has no particular faith other than in the faith of nature's force, from my friend who honors my strong faith in God, but most assuredly questions it.

That alone stopped me in my tracks.

Soon after our visit I headed to the dreaded Hobby Lobby. Crafters can smell an imposter, and they smelled my non-hobby enthusiast itchiness from the moment I entered their den. I quickly found my paints. I found my brushes. I found my paper. I felt ridiculous. And then pretended to be a famous painter just for giggles in the check-out line. I swear if they sold berets I would have splurged on one. Especially is it had been raspberry.

I am supposed to participate in this painting exercise for a week. I am to not think about whether the results are "good" only to focus on what is stopping me from moving forward and move the brush. The combination of thinking/moving/color/evoked emotion are supposed to shine a light where there once was none. I have finished day 3. The results adorn my office wall (it was one of the horrifying provisions).

Wanna see? I know you do!

Caution! You are now entering the no judging zone:


There you see my box (making me laugh as I type the words) and my blue period and my squiggles of incomplete thought but mostly my heart, my imperfect heart I want to share:



These are important ones having to do with talent that stands outside of me, colors that when united bring separate things together, and the crossing footprints on the chaos:



There is me within the hurricane, the noes turned to crosses, a flower obviously representing my 11 year old self (snicker), and the comet painting.


I know, seems ridiculous. But I'll be damned if something is happening. I am looking at things I had no idea existed in me. I am starting to believe in this crazy notion that painting can lead to a realization I'd otherwise never have.

Take today. Please. I had been on the phone with people who are ill-trained to handle any problem whatsoever, and the last thing I wanted to do was paint. I had laundry to fold, gas to buy for the mower and dinner to start. The only reason I painted is because my friend is coming back Thursday to hold me accountable.

SUMMER OF CAKE! Yes, as a bonus of her visit, she will get the first slice of the carrot cake. She's no dummy. Paint, she says. Will there be cake, she says? I'll be back and want to see, she says. She even called me a day after our meeting asking if I had bought paint. When I told her I had, she was SHOCKED.

Each painting, while to the untrained eye ~ adjusting pretend Frenchy beret here~ actually has deep-seated meaning. I am stunned, to say the least.

While I won't know until next week if this actually worked, I can report that the very thing I was resisting is now something that fills my brain with more frequency (nope, it wasn't sex) and that alone is great progress.

Thank God for those who love us enough to listen and hear what we are saying. Never ever underestimate that one thing you can do for someone.

Cake #1

First cake in The Summer of Cake: Carrot Cake with Cream Cheese icing. Optional: a ring of toasted walnuts at the base.

Pics to come Wednesday.

Lived Through It!

I finally got to run, post flu. It wasn't pretty, but I did it. Read all about it HERE. No really, I'll wait while you go read.




Back? It's awful, right? Ugh. Let's just agree that what's done is done. I'm all better now and that's all that matters.

Well, until the next time.

Cake, that's all.

There is so much joy it is almost too much. My lightness is returning and I am ready to receive it. It felt as if a flame had been blown out but now, somehow, it returns to life, burning the darkness with it's eager light.

The Year of Strength has been trying me, teaching me, strengthening me. I take each lesson knowing I am one step closer to the new year, knowing that this is a year I need, a year I am due. I am at turns grateful and scared, accepting and horrified, believing and enduring. This year will serve me for many days and for many others. I am sure of it.

Because The Year of Strength can be intimidating I have decided to counter it with The Summer of Cake. That's right, cake. The kind you bake from scratch. The kind that makes you want to eat until you pop. The kind you have forgotten even existed. The kind that makes you think you could leave this world satisfied. That kind of cake.

Every week I plan to make a new cake. Four-Layer Coconut Cake, Lemon Cake, Italian Cream Cake, Red Velvet Layer Cake, Caramel Cake, Toasted Almond Butter Cake, Lane Cake, Cheesecake, Cupcakes, Texas Sheet Cake. I plan to make cake all summer long. I plan to eat cake all summer long. I plan to feed cake to all I know all summer long. Maybe even throw in some Sangria. Maybe.


Cake will sweeten the hard lessons I have been undertaking. As long as I know there's cake to be had, delicious wonderful made-with-my-hands cake to be had, I can face what The Year of Strength has left for me.

The Summer of Cake. Sometimes life is really what you make it.

Tribute to Patti Roach (originally published 10-15-08)

Mrs. Roach had a reputation of taking no prisoners in her classes. She had a Samurai sword above her desk that she wielded often. To put it simply: we were freakin' afraid of that woman. She was bad-ass beyond West Texas standards.

And she flunked my brother two years ahead of me. ~gulp~

When I saw that she was going to be my teacher, I went to her class before school started and begged her to let me change teachers. I even squeezed out some fake tears. Oh, boohooboohoo, you hated my brother and you're going to take it out on me...

She wasn't buying any of what I was selling.

She let me finish with my obviously practiced performance and said, "You're staying. You're staying and you're going to learn something. But, if after the first semester you still want out, I will transfer you myself."

Crap. First time in my life the tears had no effect.

So, I stayed, but I was planning on getting out after that first semester. No way was I staying and living through her torture.

Then, something happened. I started to learn that I had a knack for writing. She was teaching and I was learning. It wasn't easy, because I was #1) in my senior year and #2) I was one of those students that loved the social life of high school and nothing else. I was a solid C student with plenty of D's. I put in just enough work to get by. But never in her class. It just wasn't allowed.

When the first semester was over Mrs. Roach called me to her office. Did I want to transfer? Her craggy eyes stared at me over the reading glasses that were like an appendage of her head. I stared right back at her and said, "No." She smiled and dismissed me.

The rest of the year was brutal. She demanded that we do things right, not easy or sloppy or full of bullshit. She was the real deal; she was a teacher who believed that we could do it. And the most sublime thing happened. Because she believed I could do it, I started to believe I could do it.

I had never experienced anything like it. Her class was tough, daunting, seemingly impossible. And then somewhere along the way, it wasn't. It was my favorite class. She was my favorite teacher. I was learning that I could do something other than skate by, and that I was good at it.

Who knew?

Mrs. Roach, that's who.

So, even though I grew up in a household where my father made a living with his words, it took a teacher to make me believe that maybe I could too, one day.

Today, Mrs. Roach's legacy is still being felt. Every student I have ever tutored knows her name, knows why they were expected to give me their best. My son, whom I home schooled, understands her gift, as he was a recipient as well (and is a fine writer himself). She gave us all something of value.

And the best thing? I still keep in touch with her. I've let her know what she meant to me and what she has meant to others. She's not near as scary anymore and she lets me call her Patti now.



EDIT: Patti died Monday. I, along with countless others, will miss her spirit and fight tremendously. God Speed, Patti.

More Fevered Blogging

Best Ever Medical Advice From Doctor Mike: As long as blood isn't shooting from any orifice, I think you'll be fine.

That is gonna be the title to my next book. Not only did it make me laugh, make Husband laugh, but I think it cured my fever. Oh no, wait, that was a story that involved bloody white pants. And that's all I can say about that.

So, I was interviewed for the San Angelo paper this morning about Mrs. Roach 's life and what it meant to me. They got most of it right. Most of it. They didn't publish the embarrassing part after it slipped from my mouth that caused me to yell: "OMG! DON'T PUBLISH THAT!" I appreciated that they didn't. Now, if I go to the funeral, I won't get tarred and feathered and then run out of town before I have the chance to eat at my favorite hotdog joint.

To update those of you who are entrenched in my comings and goings, I haven't left my house in SEVEN days. That's a lot of days. Not that I've wanted to leave. Not that I've been ambulatory enough to leave. I'm just saying. SEVEN days of just the couch, the bed, and me. Threesomes aren't all that you'd think they are.

It hasn't been all bad. I've lost close to three pounds, Husband has taken over all my duties (hehe), I've blogged while fevered, I've talked to a few of you on Facebook IMing, I've taken my temperature over 100 times and have comparative charts for comparison (fine. i just made that part up), and just today, Husband popped in to bring me a big bag of tiny white donuts! Nice! Although, I haven't had one yet. I just can't seem to muster the strength to open the bag.

While I really want to go to the funeral, just the thought of getting up at 6 am, getting a shower, blowdrying my hair, slapping on makeup (you should see me now....the horror!) and then getting dressed seems almost an impossible feat. The drive, which Husband has offered to handle, is a little over 3 hours, one way. We would go, attend, eat, come home. I've made it a day trip many times. Seems easy in theory, yet harder in action. Tomorrow will be the telling day.

Also, to those who have asked: Nope. Haven't been to a doc. Don't need a doc to tell me I have the flu. Don't need to know which flu I have. The only way I'll get to a doc is if I have secondary infection issues, and as of now, I gots none. Just the prolonged flu, piggy or no piggy.

Just remember what Doctor Mike says and we'll all get through this together: As long as blood isn't shooting from any orifice, I think you'll be fine.

Halp!

Make it stop. Seriously. I am worse today than yesterday. Day 6 and I feel like crap. Day 6, people. Momma is not a happy anything. To make matters worse, my beloved Patti Roach died on Monday. (EDIT FOR FORMER STUDENTS OF PATTI'S: If anyone who found this site by googling Patti's name wants to be part of a Standard Times article on her life and what it meant to you, please leave a message and I will get in touch.) I found out this morning. Funeral is Saturday in San Angelo. I want to go. How can I not go?! She was pivotal in shaping who I am today. I can't not go. Oh man. Fever is stuck at around 100. I need something to make me well. I will try all your suggestions. I can't not go.....

I present: FIRE THEATER!

I have cabin-fever and am driving Husband nuts. It's only been 5 days since I was struck with piggy symptoms, but I need to get out of here. Problem is I only have the energy to make it to the end of the porch. Kinda makes a get-away anti-climactic. Could-I-use-any-more-hyphens?

That's right, I'm rambling. Fevered rambling is THE BEST. Or so I've been told. By the voices in my head screaming for me to just. lay. down. Or is it lie? I wouldn't be lying if I told you I just don't care, as I wash myself with lye.

I would laugh, but it's not that funny.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My cell phone finally died, and as luck would have it, Boy's old phone (same carrier) was in a drawer. I switched SIM cards and viola! I have a new-to-me phone. Best part is his info is stored in that phone too.

The most shocking stored phone number is for Jesus. That's right, Boy knows Jesus. Has his number too. It's the one number I didn't delete. Cause you just never know, right?!

Right.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I tried to decide on what kind of business I could start today, but then my eyes started to get hot with the fever that I thought I kicked a few days ago, and then Girl told me that her advisor uses animal behavior training on THE STUDENTS to get them to do what they want, who by the way ARE HUMAN, and I just couldn't be bothered with business plans anymore. That just made me crazy. They treat you like an animals, trying their behavior methods out on you?!

When I told Husband about this he said that lots of folks use that method, except in human terms you call it MANIPULATION.

I laughed. Cause right there, that's funny. Made me want to give Girl's advisor a punch to the nuts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Husband is grocery shopping. This happens like once a decade for the dude. I can't wait to see what he brings home. Cause you know he's gonna get something not on the list. I hope it's little white donuts.

Come on donuts. I miss you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This concludes the show. I have to go lie/lay/lying/lye down.




POST SHOW NOTE: At the conclusion of this entry I took my temperature. 101.1 That should help overcome my mortification at blogging-while-fevered activities when I come back and read this in the non-fevered light of day.

Alive!

Interspersed between couch lolling/snoozing and chair sitting/snoozing, Momma is standing and talking. Very good signs. Government drones in hazmat suits needn't bother. I be kicking teh sickness, Patti-style.

As a bonus, Husband is smoking PORK ribs. I plan on eating them.

Sweet.

Expect the Unexpected

May have the flu.

The Year of Strength keeps hammering away....