blog #378 >> Lobster Bread!

Here it is! My giant lobster shaped loaf of bread!

I suppose everyone has moments of temporary insanity, and my last moment ended up with me purchasing this delicious giant freshly-baked loaf of bread shaped like a lobster... or a giant pill bug, or a hissing cockroach or whatever you imagine it to be. It was my birthday gift to myself, and I'm ashamed to say, I probably spent entirely too much on it. I'm usually so careful about spending money, especially on food. I clip coupons, and base my meals on what's on sale at Winco. But somehow I ended up spending nearly a quarter of my food budget on a single loaf of bread. I guess I just need to consider it my birthday cake... Yeah, it's like buying myself a really nice birthday cake.

Whenever I go to Best Baguette on 82nd and Powell, I always "ooh" and "ah" at their shelf of artisan shaped breads. They have fish shaped loafs, and monkey shaped loafs, clown shaped loafs, and crab shaped loafs, turtle shaped loafs, and even an angry Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle shaped loaf, but the one that I have always admired most, was the lobster loaf. It is a giant loaf of bread artfully shaped to represent a giant sea dwelling crustacean. But really who needs a giant loaf of lobster bread? No one. With French bread being about a dollar at Safeway, I simply never took the time to even ask about them.

Well, I usually like to do something unusual, possibly something I've never done before on my birthday, and let's face it, I'm getting old and running out of ideas... But then I thought of it, the lobster loaf! It will be a perfect birthday treat, and I've never eaten a giant loaf of bread shaped like a lobster before.

So off I went to pick one up. I marched up to the counter, pointed to the bread and said, "I'd like a lobster loaf please." The lady behind the counter look at me as if I were a lobster... In a very confused voice she explained that those were "display only." Well, that would explain the considerable amount of dust on them, but it didn't really dawn on my that they wouldn't just have baskets of lobster loafs made up in the back. I got the impression they had never actually sold a lobster shaped loaf of bread before. But she was very nice and she did let me special order one. Only I think I confused her even more by saying I didn't need it by an certain time, whenever it was ready would be fine. And after figuring out a price, which I think they made up, I headed on my way quite pleased with the prospect of a lobster loaf of my very own in a couple of days.

When I got home I realized it my have been a momentary lapse of my better judgment to spend that much on a loaf of bread. However, I suppose it's the out of the ordinary things we remember most in life. And my lobster loaf is certainly an extraordinary loaf of bread.

I think they were just as excited to have me pick up my lobster loaf of bread as I was to pick it up. It seemed everyone who worked there was up front looking, smiling and pointing at "the girl who bought the lobster loaf." You could see the look of pride in their faces as they showed my their freshly-baked artisan bread shaped like a giant lobster. It took at least six of them to box it up and everyone wanted a hand in it. They even threw in a couple of mini-loafs for me.

And now here I am, with my tasty, delicious loaf of bread toasted with some spinach dip for lunch, even though I was very sad to slice it up.

T

blog #281 >> Meeting Little Stella

My trip to go visit my new niece, Little Stella can be summed up with: Lost, Tram, Lost, Nice People, Lost, Baby, Lost, Dinner, Home.

Unfortunately, I have not been blessed with a keen sense of direction. And whenever I cross the river into unfamiliar territory, this becomes very apparent.

Friday, I got off early from work and decided to go visit my sister and her new baby at the Med. School. Since parking there is annoying, and I live just on the other side of the Ross Island Bridge, I decided to take the tram to go visit them. Taking the tram was a good idea in theory, but my plan wasn't flawless. The longer I live in the city, the more I realize... I'm not cut out to live in the city. I have the street sense of a hamster.

I got lost going to the tram, since there is no good way to get under the bridge from going over the bridge. And there is not a single sign saying, "This Way to the Tram." "The Tram is Here." or "Park Here for the Tram." or "You just passed the Tram, it was back there." Signage is very important, and they could have used some. After passing it and coming back at it, which isn't easy as it is a one way street, I finally found the parking underground... underground lot. I should have guessed. So, then I just had to find where to get on the tram. Follow the cables and you'll find where it ends, and where it ends is where you get on. Perfect!

My tram experience improved from this point. It was easy and obvious how to buy a ticket. And I heard someone shout, "Hold on! There's ONE coming!" There's one coming is right, I was the ONLY one coming and the only one on the tram. The diver said he had only taken the tram up empty two times, and until I came he was thinking it'd be three. Well, the doors shut, and off we went. And I must say, riding the tram is pretty fun. It was worth the $4 just for the ride. The view was amazing! It was a beautiful clear evening, and I had a great view of the city and Mount Hood and Mount St. Helens. I didn't take any pictures though, I thought I'd take them on the way down instead.

Anyhow I arrived, and started off, flowers in hand. But why must hospitals be designed like giant mazes? Well, I made it to the 13th floor, and to room 16... but that's not her room. That's strange... I know I'm on the 13th floor. And I know this is room 16... Did I forget and write down the wrong room number? So I found some friendly nurses to help. It seems like usually when I need help, the only person around to ask is some grumpy or snoody or crazy or angry or mean or drunk person who knows absolutely nothing and who is less inclined to help me than a sea-sick shark. That's why it so refreshing to know that there are real people out there, who are happy to point you in the direction you need to go. And the direction I needed to go, was to the other building. Other building? Well... that explains it.

...However finding the other building wasn't as simple as going back to the 9th floor. Turn right, go down the hall, turn right again and you're there. Somehow I ended up outside. Hmmm... I don't remember any outside in those directions. I retraced my steps and found another friendly nurse. This nurse also knew where to go. And not only did she give me directions but took me there herself. She was just starting a shift in the maternity ward. Great! It's so much easier with a guide and I would have never found it alone. The hall between buildings is long and dark, and I just tend to stay out of the dark corners in hospitals. There again, signs would be a help. Anyhow I found room 16 on the 13th floor at last!

And meeting new little baby Stella was well worth the journey! She's adorable! You can already tell, she's going to have blonde hair and bright blue eyes, just like her sister. And when I got there, my sister Carrie and her husband Chris were already there, as well as my brother Frank and his wife Amy and their baby Ada. It was really fun getting to visit Amy, Greg, and Stella together.
(I'm borrowing some photos from my sister Carrie, since I held Stella almost the whole time I was there and didn't get to take any pictures.)



Frank and Amy and Ada meeting Stella.

Ada was happy to not be on the elevator anymore.

Carrie and Stella.

Me and Stella.

Stella with socks on her hands so she wouldn't scratch her face anymore. Stella didn't like the socks.

After visiting Stella, I went with Carrie and Chris out to dinner. Which of course meant finding my car at the tram parking. And after spending about three minutes trying to figure out why I couldn't go down in the "up only" elevators, and finding the right elevators back down to the parking garage. And after trying my darnedest to feed my crinkly dollars to the parking pay machine. We were off to a dinner at Lauro down the street from me. It was really nice to have a dinner with my sister and brother-in-law. The food was good. I got a beet salad, which must have given me a lot of energy because by the time I got home at eleven o'clock I felt like Mrs. Howell after eating the radio-active beets, and cleaned house until midnight... at which time I crashed and went to bed...

And that finishes my adventures of visiting Miss. Stella.

T

blog #264 >> Where did all the books go?

I wish I were a more articulate person.
Unfortunately, I'm simply what I am, so I'll do what I can.

First of all, I'd like to say, I never thought they'd do it. I never thought they'd actually do it. I knew they were trying to, I signed a thing online against it. But not until today did I realize that they actually did indeed do it.

What happened today to bring me to this realization? Well, I broke my Goodwill ban. I had told myself I wouldn't shop at the Goodwill anymore. Whenever I go there I end up buying a lot of things I don't need. And I really like things. You know strange discarded things. Old 60's lamps, tea cups, little unusual things you'd never see anywhere else. Treasures to me, but junk to anyone else. Junk is a strange thing. Some people see junk and that's all, yesterday's forgotten lunch box or some useless old Jello mold. But for other people, things hold memories. These are usually hopelessly sentimental people. When these people see the old forgotten lunch box it reminds them of things that were long forgotten in their own minds and that otherwise would have remained lost. For them finding these things is like finding an old friend and keeping these things are like keeping memories. My house is full of this stuff. However, I realize I don't need any more things and when Goodwill raised their prices before Christmas, that was the end for me. Anyhow today I broke that ban and headed off to the Goodwill with the neighbors to drop off some things. (Their things not mine.) And of course just so long as you're there you might as well go inside.

So the hunt for things begins! Start with clothes, too expensive for second hand... moving on. Oooh housewares, always good stuff in housewares. Frames, frames are nice. And of course books for last. I get myself into the most trouble with books. My New Year's resolution was not to buy anymore books! But instead to use the library. The library is wonderful, I love the online system. However I'm the type of person who will read the same book, over and over and over again, until the library needs to beg for it back. Funny, I won't cry during a movie, but no matter how a book ends, I'll cry every time. Even after I've read it two dozen times. I guess I've just got a soft spot in my heart for books. Anyhow off to the book section.

What do I see when I get there... AH! Where are they! Alice in Wonderland, Black Beauty, Treasure Island, Little Women, The Hardy Boys, Curious George, Peter Rabbit, Heidi, Peter Pan, The Boxcar Children, Pokey the Little Puppy, The Little Engine that Could, and the Little Golden Books, all gone! There are like five empty book cases in the children's section. Yeah there are a few left over in the corner, but where are they?

Where did they go?
I don't know.
But I do know who did it and why, so there's no need to ask anyone.
5 little letters make up the acronym without making a word:
CPSIA
There's the who.
Lead paint and Phthalates
That's the why.

The Consumer Product Safety Improvement Act (CPSIA), was passed by Congress last summer after the panic over lead paint on toys from China. But it's not just applying restrictions on toys from China, it's applying them to everything ever made throughout history for children under age 12. Actually that's little sarcastic. There is a short list of exemptees including gold, pearls, untreated wood and yarn among other things which obviously couldn't possibly include lead... (which is really a relief because I give kids precious gems and gold to play with all the time.) This new law requires testing for every children's item sold from Walmart, to eBay, to your garage sale in your own back yard, to be tested for lead. This testing isn't easy or cheap. And it destroys the item you're testing, so if you've only got one, there's really no sense in testing for Phthalates.

Which leads to my next question... What the heck is a "phthal-whateverit'scalled?" "Phthalates are particularly nasty substances added to plastics to increase their flexibility." Which I had to quote because I didn't know either.

So where are all the books? Books aren't plastic. I'm confused.
Since children's books are included in the CPSIA act they of course must either be tested or pulled off of second hand shelves. In 1985 it became illegal to use lead pigments in books, therefore all books printed after that date are consider safe to resell. But all books printed before that date must be tested before selling (which is impossible because it destroys them!)

It's so sad that all those books can no longer be sold. Unlike adult books children's books have some of our finest illustrations. I have quite a collection on my book shelf, mostly unknown artists with unknown talent, but I enjoy every page. I suppose you could possibly sell them as collectibles yes, but the law says it applies even if "the products are to be commonly understood as intended for children’s use, even if not labeled as such" so basically there are no exceptions based on technicalities.

Also, it should be noted somewhere in this rant that, "...no one seems to have been able to produce a single instance in which an American child has been made ill by the lead in old book illustrations." How many books would you have to eat I wonder before you got sick? Let's think about this. Why are kids eating books? Do these children have parents? Do these children have enough to eat? Shouldn't we be worrying about why children would be eating books, instead of taking the books away from them? If the hunger problem in America has gotten that bad, taking away the books isn't going to help. I guess they're suppose to eat healthy things like gold and wood instead. What's wrong with people!!!

Who works at the CPSIA? Apparently, no one with sense or kids. We could solve this problem in two minutes. Stickers! Actually this was my sister's idea and here's what she has to say: (Just have a sticker on them that says something like "this item has not been tested for lead or philosewhateverit'scalled". Or "this toy/book is not intended for children under age 12". I'd probably think twice about buying some crap toy from the Dollar Store and it would save homemade and used toys from all the testing requirements. Plus, parents could decide for themselves who to trust. Problem solved.) Yes! Stickers only make sure you test them for lead first! We can't have a sticker on a product warning about lead that has lead in it! Geez!

Has it really come to this? I never thought it would. I thought it would be repealed long ago. What about the libraries? They seem to be fighting it now, but what happens later when they can't? What will happen to all those books? And I thought Fahrenheit 451 was just fiction. Quick everyone start memorizing books! I'm ready to start a black market for pre-1985 children's books.

Who's with me?

~Clarisse

Good less sarcastic sources that I've quoted.
CPSC CPSIA retailer's guide
City Journal - The New Book Banning
(You should especially read this article it's the best one I've seen!)
Save Handmade!

....alright, I feel better now. I can sleep.
T

blog #109 >> my first love

(My senior picture... with my Hornet.)

Funny... I always fall in love with odd things. And these things tend to break and/or cause many problems. My computer for instance (Little Lappy)... I love it, but it makes me furiously angry on many occasions. It crashes when I need it most. It doesn't always do what I want it to. I sometimes struggle just getting it to do simple tasks. But it's a wonderful work mate, and I know it works just as hard as I do... sometimes more. I've invested a lot of time, money, energy, thought, care, and love into that little slab of white plastic. And when its hard drive died, I mourned over it like I had lost a part of my brain. (Then I took it to MacForce, got a new hard drive, and started all over.)

My relationship with my first car was very much the same, only with less crashing. It seemed to be not running as much as it was running. It went through: break pads, rotors, a transmission, a couple of carburetors, a radiator, radiator hoses, batteries, tires, and some other things I forgot the names of. And of course, when it was working it had its little quarks. Such as, the knob would come off in my hand whenever I pulled it to turn on the lights. It had a radio, the original, AM only, and the tuner was broken, and it was stuck on Sunny 1550. The defroster was broken, so I had to rub all the windows down with a towel before taking off. When I went to the car wash (which was rarely) instead of putting down the antenna, I would pull it out, put it in the car with me, and put it back in place on the other side. And about once a week the the carburetor flue would stick causing it to not start. So, I'd have to get out, open the hood by pulling on the wire under the hood. (The hood release was broken.) I'd then take off the air filter, hit the flue open with a screw driver, put the air filter back on, close the hood, and hope I hadn't flooded it earlier. Ah, it was a great car! I mean yes, the trunk was a death trap without those things to hold it up. But it was really a beauty.



It was a reddish-orange '73 AMC Hornet, with a blue stripe and Levi's denim upholstery. To complete it, it had Levi's buttons and a little red tag. The side pockets on the door were even shaped like little denim Levi's jean pockets. It wasn't sluggish either. With its 6-cylinder engine and a lot of torque, it could go anywhere... inside the Portland-Metro area. Ah, all the stories I can tell about that piece of machinery. I got it (or rather I should say my dad got it) when I was 13. He said I'd be driving soon enough so I'd better have a car to learn on. He bought it for $100 from someone he knew through his work. Then he got it running for me. I remember the day he brought it home... I took one look at it and thought, "That's the ugliest car in the world." It was ORANGE! Bright orange at that! But everyone insisted it was red. "No, that is not red." I said. "I'm going to be stuck driving an ugly bright orange car." Ah, how my tastes changed.

In the next two years, I graduated in my driving skills. First, I tackled the lawn mower. I hated the lawn mower. Mostly because learning to drive it meant having to mow the lawn as well. With hay fever, that is NEVER fun. After that, I mastered the tractor, and finally, the boat. The boat was so much more fun to drive than the lawn mower. Driving the boat meant sunny weather, the wind in your hair, and no roads. The years passed quickly, and before I knew it I had gotten my permit, and passed driver's ed. I passed my driver's license exam with a happy 90%, only I was slightly disappointed because my brother got 95% an he liked to rub that in. After that I had what ever teenager wants... freedom.

Freedom didn't get me far. I forgot freedom had a price, and it was gas. In fact, I had forgotten that cars need gas at all. Two weeks after I had gotten my licence this reality came streaming out, when I consequently ran out of gas. My dad had been filling it up and I had simply forgotten cars needed gas. Unfortunately, living in Boring also has its disadvantages. I remember I ran out of gas on 190th, off of Tillstrom Rd, when I had just gotten over the hill. I was lucky enough to cost down and stall at the one and only part of the road that had a place to pull off and not a three foot ditch. However, I was 16, cell-phoneless and no one would be missing me for quite some time. I was left with only one option... knocking on doors. Knocking on doors early on a Sunday morning, begging to use a telephone, is quite the experience. The houses on that street weren't closet together or close to the road. And of course the creepiest of these I left alone. So after finding a safer looking house and successfully procuring permission to use their phone, I made the call home. It began... I don't actually remember what I said, but it was something like this, "Um... I ran out of gas... I know I'm really stupid... will you come and get me???" Surprisingly, my parents were quite forgiving, and they weren't nearly as angry as I imaged them to be. So after waiting in the car for my dad to bring me a gallon of gas, I was on my way. That was the first of many times my dad was to come save me on the side of the road.

After that incident I learned the importance of gasoline to the running of automobiles. And although I'd like to say that I learned my lesson and have never run out of gas again, I cannot. However, I have visited many gas stations since then. Gas stations have always been an interesting place for me. I love to sit and watch all the different people who all end up there at the same time. It's like an African water hole. People from all over gathering in one place for one purpose. And soon I learned that other people did not find my car ugly, and most importantly some of those other people where cute boys my own age. People would stop and look at my car. Ask me questions I did not know, but I pretended to know about my car. They would turn their heads and watch my car. Other people in old '70s car would do the old car wave which I happily returned. Cute boys in fast cars would want to race my car. And once a gas station attendant asked me, "I'll date you if you let me drive your car?" Oh, why was I so shy then?!? I blushed and drove away... quickly.


(James Bond in "The man with the Golden Gun" jumping over a bridge in an AMC Hornet.)

Time went on. I actually learned the questions I before just pretended to know about my car. I took care of the car, washed the car, polished the car, added a quart of oil to the car every week. (It leaked like a sinking ship.) And I grew very attached to the silly old thing. However, that did not stop the silly old thing from breaking down on me from time to time. Once the hose to the radiator broke. Steam poured from the hood so thick I could hardly see. I nursed it along to the nearest gas station. I was lucky enough to be in town at the time. And then I went across the street to Denny's for a huge strawberry milkshake to cheer me up while I awaited rescue. The waitress there was very sweet and she could see that I seemed sad. And she said... actually I don't remember her exact words, but they were something like this, "Well, it could be worse you know. Just today I saw that car across the way there pull off in a cloud of steam and smoke. At least you're not having a day like that!" I laughed a little and said, "Actually, that was me." There was a long awkward pause... "Would you like another milkshake?" she asked. "Yes." I answered, "Yes, I would."

Overtime though my Hornet began to take a beating. I drove it a lot, and although cars don't like to just sit, it was getting worn down. It no longer had a perfect body. It now had dents. Neither were my fault, I'd like to add. One I got at the parking lot at Fred Meyer's. Someone backed into me and left a huge dent, and not a note or a word. And the other time was at a gas station. A big white SUV slowly started to back up. I was parked. And thought, "Hey, she's getting really close." But by the time I honked it was too late. "CRASH!" She hit me and it crushed the front fender around the headlight. I got out of my car with a look of fiery anger in my eye. And she got out as pale as a ghost with fear... Which actually made me kinda laugh to think she was afraid of me... Well, actually, she was probably just a little shook up from the shock. But she ended up being quite nice. She explained that it was a brand new vehicle and she wasn't used to the blind spots yet. Fortunately for her, there was no damage to her car. Being taller, she had hit me with her bumper and that plastic just bent right back leaving a little reddish-orange paint on it. We exchanged phone numbers and insurance info... I never did get it fixed though.

Which brings me to the climax of my story: The day my car caught on fire. Yes, it caught on fire, leaving it with the nickname Fire Bird. It was a hot summer day. I got home parked it as I always did and went in the house. A few minutes later my mom comes out and wonders where all the smoke outside is coming from. I look outside and, "EEK!" it's coming from my car! I grab the fire extinguisher and run for the car. My mom calls the fire department. I go to open the hood, (Thank goodness the latch on the inside is broken and I can only open it from the outside.) but it's too hot to touch. I grab the garden hose and hose down the outside 'til it's cool enough to find the wire latch. I open the hood, and FLAMES leap up into the sky. If you have never used one, fire extinguishers work really well. And it's always a good idea to have one around. Even after the I used all the extinguisher it was still kinda smoldering. So, I continued with the garden hose. Just when I got the fire out, the fire department pulls up. Too late. However, they were very impressed with my fire-putting-out abilities. And jokingly asked, "Have you ever considered being a volunteer fire fighter?" "No!" I said, "I never want to do that again!" It was not the last time I used a fire extinguisher though, but those are other stories. The fire started in the carburetor, the air filter went up and caught all the oil and grease on fire. But I had caught it before it went to the gas tank. Surprisingly, that was not my car's last drive. My dad replaced the air filter and a few of the wires and other things that had melted. And it ran as well as ever. I drove it for probably a year or more after that.

But by this time my poor car had see a lot: fires, large SUV bumpers, mechanics, wet dogs, coffee stains, trailers, nasty weather and many different roads and parking lots. It seems like sometimes, my dad wanted me to get stuck in bad weather, just so he could come and get me. I'd say, "Hey, it's snowing pretty hard this morning. I think I'd better stay home from work. I don't want to get stuck." and he'd say, "No, you'll be fine. You'll get there alright." Oh yes, I always got there. But it seems I rarely got back. And I'd call and he'd get to drive out in the ice and snow and bring me back. He just loves the challenge of cold weather driving. I think it's his true element. And truly the elements took it's toll on my poor little Hornet.

After awhile it was not as perky as it once was. It leaked more oil, it had more dents, the new transmission started going out, the engine started going out, that weird part that I can't remember the name of was getting worse too, the flue of the carburetor got stuck more often... nearly every day. Then one day it started spewing gas, not a leak. Like it was vomiting up, with pressure, a gallon at of gas a time. It would not go anymore. My car had died. My dad came and trailered it up for the final time. I mourned its lost. Begged to fix it, but it would cost more than I made in two years at the time. It was no more. I cried and it sat in the back behind the hedge waiting to be junked. How sad it looked out there all alone.

I procrastinated. I did not want to call the donation center. And I always found some excuse around to get around it. Summer had passed and winter had come, and with winter came Christmas. What did I want for Christmas? My car fixed. But it was not for me. I was in college now and needed a car to get me where I need to go and not break down half way there. But my cousin... he was turning thirteen. Hmmm... a thirteen year old needs a car. And the Hornet is a very good first car. I should know. It was my first car. And if you get a car for free, you don't feel bad having to put some money into it to fix it up. And it is such a nice car. So for Christmas that year I gave wrapped up the owner's manual and gave it to my cousin. He liked it. He was the only thirteen year old at school to get a car for Christmas. They started to fix it up... but it's not there yet. Who knows maybe someday when I have all the money in the world, I'll buy it back and it will be my car once more. But until then, I can get to where I'm going... and I guess that's what counts.

If you are still reading this... WOW! I am amazed! I just wrote entirely too much. I must be really tired. So, if you managed to survive it. Let me know by leaving a comment saying, "Hey, I read your entire story. My, you're long winded!" or if you didn't read any of it let me know that too, by leaving a comment saying, "You idiot! Don't post such long stories on your blog. It's just too much to read." And then next time I'll condense it to a couple of paragraphs.

Cheers!

T

blog #092 >> Pink frosting fixes everything...

...except my cake.

Yesterday, was Cooking Disaster Day. It's not that I'm a bad cook... I like to cook and I think I'm pretty good at it too. I was even in cooking 4H when I was a kid. I've baked chocolate lava cakes with molten chocolate insides. I've made chocolate frosting that needed to be stirred every five minutes for two hours while being refrigerated at a certain temperature. I bake pineapple upside-down cakes left and right. I've baked yellow-chocolate marble cakes, sour cream cakes, pudding cakes, coffee cakes, jello cakes, boxed cakes, cakes from scratch, layered cakes, ice cream cakes and cup cakes.
But yesterday I was simply cursed.

I woke up yesterday morning with only one thing in mind. CHOCOLATE! Who knows why, but it was really all I wanted to eat. So I went to the cupboard and resisted the temptation to eat only chocolate for breakfast and had some toast with Nutella, and milk... I almost made chocolate milk too, but I manged to put the mix back in the cupboard. And there in the back was a lonely box of chocolate cake mix. Ah, there it was. What I really wanted for breakfast. But I was in a hurry to leave for work. So I left it on the counter, planning to start it when I got home.

As soon as I got home, I took my coat off and got to work. Preheated the oven checked my ingredients, got out the pans, turned on some music, (because you can't cook without music) and my cake was on it's way. Well, I open the package and pour in the water and oil and go to get the eggs. And the eggs were dated April 20th. Now I know I don't use eggs very often, but a whole month out dated! After I gave it some thought I remembered my mom loaning me some eggs and refilling the old container. But they're still probably pretty old eggs. So, since I had already started adding the ingredients, I decided to go up to the store and buy more eggs and some other groceries I needed.

One hour later, I get home put my groceries away and resume cake baking. I add the eggs and... the oil? I don't remember. Did I add it already? I'll add it again. So, I mix it all up and pour it in the pan and reheat the oven. And as I'm cleaning up I realize... Oh, shoot! There's only two eggs shells, and it needed three eggs! Well, too late now they're in the oven.

Next, I start the frosting. I fortunately had some frosting start from Trina. She had made some too thin and too pink, gave it to me and I kept it in my freezer for later. I got it out defrosted it and added some more powdered sugar. And then I got it just the right consistency. Well, I leave it on the counter, and eat dinner, which was also a disaster but another story. And then I played the accordion for awhile. After the cakes where done... rather flat but done, I pulled them from the oven and let them cool for a bit. (They also cracked when I put them on the wire rack.) And after they had cooled for a half hour, the frosting began. Perhaps I didn't let my cakes cool enough, or perhaps the frosting defrosted a little more than expected. But either way my cake fell. All the icing just sort of melted away. Finally, it toppled over creating the disaster pictured above.

Now actually, I'm sure it will be fine... in the end. I mean, it still tastes like chocolate. And isn't that what it's all about. Really it's a quite comical cake. I couldn't have made it look any worse had I tried. And tonight, when I get home from work. I get to eat chocolate cake with milk, which is exactly what I need.

T

blog #070 >> Book of the Week: Bejeweled Eggs

I realize it's a little late to be posting the book of the week. Especially a book about decorating eggs. But this is the kitschiest-gaudiest guide ever to egg decorating. You know it's going to be a good book, when you open it, and realized the entire thing has been typed on a good old fashioned typewritter. I wish I had scanned the shrine to Mary on the back.








By Reynold & Ann Smith ©1971

Here's one of the eggs Martha decorated.


I got this book a long time ago. And it took me awhile to find it, hence the late posting. It came from a very old (meaning age and how long I've know her) friend. Her name was Martha. Martha Witzel that is, not to be confused with Stewart. And she was the maker of many fine bejeweled eggs. She lived down the street from us and was friends with my great-grandparents when they lived in our house. She even met her husband at the Swiss dance hall where my great-grandfather played accordion.

Growing up I used to go and clean house for her once a week. I earned the outstanding sum of $5 a week and cake (which I usually made myself.) Fortunately, her house wasn't very dirty so it never took me very long to clean it. She would even tear up little pieces of Kleenx and spread them around the carpeting so I'd have something to vacuum. I remember she had this really great vacuum and one day I told her, "This vacuum really sucks!" And she about had a heart-attack right there. So after the cleaning, getting the mail, baking a cake, taking things up stairs, taking out the trash, dishes, vacuuming and the mopping, which I always had to do on hands and knees because she didn't own a mop. We'd sit down and eat cake and pickles. She made the world's best pickles and took the recipe to her grave, although I asked her for it every week. And then after that, we'd watch People's Court.

I'm not sure she ever remembered my name, or at least she never remembered to call me by it. She just always called me "My Girl." And when I was older I'd drive her to the beauty parlor. (Where she'd dye her white hair grey.) Or we'd go to Safeway for groceries. And when we were there, we'd always buy more cake mix. (The one with nuts. Although, she didn't like nuts, and would always pick them out, we had to buy the one with nuts. Because it was the same price as the one without nuts, and it was a better deal.) I remember her frig was a breeding ground for food poisoning. When she wasn't looking, I'd go through it and throw out anything more than a month outdated, which was nearly everything. And then I'd carefully write down everything I threw out and the brand, and when I went up to Safeway for her, I'd buy new and slip it in the frig with the rest. I remember once I told her, "You can't keep cream cheese TWO YEARS past the expiration date." She just smiled and said, "But I haven't opened it yet." Oh, what would the girls at food 4H say about that!

I remember she had this old Wurlitzer organ in the living room and one day she had it in her head she wanted to hear some organ music. Somehow, I had let it slip that I used to play the piano. Before I knew it I was up in the attic digging around for old organ sheet music. I gave it my best shot... but you can't learn to play the organ in a day. And I couldn't find any simple sheet music, her husband was a fantastic organ player. And I couldn't have read the notes even if I had found simpler music. Reading notes was never my strong point. Well, she never asked to hear organ music again. But I wish she could hear me play the accordion now. She'd always ask me about "Little Frankie" meaning my dad, not my brother. And she'd ask, "Does he still play the accordion? "No," I'd say, "He doesn't." But she'd always forgot and ask again, and again...

Boy, could I tell you stories about Martha Witzel. Anyhow, she was an ornery old cuss, but I liked her. And she made really great eggs.

blog#063 >> I Like Mike's

My vintage find of the day...



...this wonderful retro radio clock! It was $8 bucks.
And I found it at Mike's. One of my favorite thrift stores.

Located in Estacada, it's not a close drive. But well worth the finds. You see retro objects haven't quite caught on yet in Estacada. Yes, locals have heard of the mysteries concerning crazy young folk decorating their homes with their tacky unwanted junk for years. But when it comes right down to it... they don't have a clue. So you can find some great deals as well as treasures without any competition from other retro freaks.



But don't get too excited Mike's does have some dangers of its own. For one Bigfoot greets you at the door holding a sign indicating that shoplifters will be eaten. So don't try anything rash, just pay the $5 bucks for the world's first electric waffle iron and everything will be all right. Also, I should warn you that Mike can be a bit feisty. A nice guy yes, but don't let him catch you mixing, moving or touching the merchandise. You will be yelled at for picking something up and placing it somewhere else, even if that somewhere else is only .25 inches away. My dad has a rather tall friend and whenever he goes to Mike's, he'll turn the item on the very top shelf just enough so the price tag isn't showing. And when rather short Mike notices he comes raging out with the step stool to fix it. "Who's the blabedy blah who's always moving these blahdy blah things!" It's quite fun really. But don't worry about it too much. He's got plenty of signs letting you know what you should and should not be doing.

The other danger of Estacada is of course being misunderstood. "Why exactly do you want a broken old radio?" "Why to gut and make computer speakers with, of course." "...Oh.?." I think I confuse a great many people. So, it's important to speak as plainly and clearly as possible without using too much "vintage" jargon. Today I was buying this swell radio when the lady behind me (very confused) asked, "Don't you want a nicer clock that actually works?" Temporarily blown away by the surprise of such a question. I stood momentarily dumb. But thankfully Mike came to my rescue and explained that I was a usual customer, what retro is and how all the kids are into it. (p.s. My clock radio does work but it hums a few bars before warming up when you listen to the radio part.)

It's also important that when visiting Estacada in general, to dress for the occasion. If you walk down a street in Estacada in your black and white oxfords, a poodle skirt and cat eye glasses people will stare. Where as in Portland, you'll just blend in with all the other weirdos. So, think plaid. Simple is best while trying to fit in. Jeans are always a good choice, as are earth tones and sneakers. Furs would also be acceptable. Where as in Portland, you would get a bucket of red paint thrown on you. So you may want to use this chance to wear that old fur coat of your grandma's lying in the back of the closet. Just make sure you match it with something simple and not too dressy. Over all, do your best to keep a low profile. Of course you can still throw a little flair into your attire... but just try not to scare anyone.

All that being said, check out some these great Mike's finds of the past:


(Dear Portland Mercury, I will take your picture of Mike's Bigfoot off next time I'm there and can take a picture of my own. But until then I will grace you with a link to your All About Estacada issue. Cheers.)
Click here to read about other happenings in Estacada including the Safari Club.

blog #037 >> Happy Boxing Day part 5: Timber!

Just a couple of days after I had decorated... well at night really... around 2am... I heard a, "CRASH!" come from the living room... something had fallen. Grogally I wandered from my nice warm bed to see what it was. I was thinking, "I bet it was the wooded card tree. I didn't do a very good job hanging that up. I never was very good with nails." Well, it was a tree but not the card tree it was THE TREE! It fallen completely over: pulled the cord off the wall which knocked the fence from on top of the bookshelf off, it hit the desk, the water spilled out, ruined the gift box I had under the tree, the star got knocked off and about a third of the ordements fell off.
But fortunately I only broke four of them. It was a mess.
Of course I couldn't leave it till morning with all the water leaking out. So as quickly as I could I picked it up and tried to straighten it in it's stand. (I'll add here that I did not put it in the stand to begin with because I knew it would tip if I had.) Well, I was convinced in my foggy mind that the reason it fell was because the screws had dug into the tree trunk. So, I thought, "If I just put some pennies in between the tree trunk and the screws they won't dig in and I can tighten them enough that it will be stable. To say the least, any idea I have at 2am probably isn't the brightest. Well with one had holding up the tree I tried my best to place these little pennies with my other hand in between the screws and the tree. I'd get up to two, and one would fall in I'd tighten the screws and loosen the screws, and when I finally got up to three of the pennies in... I lost my grip and they all fell in. So at this point I decided it needed to wait until morning. I tightened and straightened it as best I could. Then I mopped the water out of the carpet and used the hand vac. (because it is quiet) to vacume up all the broken ordements. (I did get one small shard in my hand.) Then I hung the tree skirt up in the kitchen to dry. And lastly, took all the rest of the ordenments off the tree just in case it fell again. And finally around 4am I when back to bed.
I didn't sleep well to say the least. It's hard to sleep when you know you're going to just get up in about 3 hours and I drempt all night of it falling again.
The next day my dad and mom came over during my lunch break to help me fix it. My dad is always great in an emergency. I think he really likes the excitement. He'd always drive me to work in heavy ice and snow just because he liked to drive in the snow. And I actually think he likes it when the car breaks down and he has to come and get me. Anyhow, I garentee there is no way that tree is falling down again. He weighed the tree stand down with lumps of coal and wired the top of the tree to the ceiling. And my mom helped with the rest of the de-decorating and re-decorating.
...but how am I going to get it down now?

blog #032 >> A Trip Down Memory Lane is never Lame

Can you guess which one I am?
I only have fond memories of Christmas which is probably why I like it so much now.
A two day celebration with nearly two months anticipation which stretched throughout the year. I even remember playing Christmas in July with a fur bow cut from the back yard for a Christmas tree, decorations of paper snowflakes, pipe cleaner candy canes, Christmas gram cracker cookies with hot chocolate, a real sock for a stocking, and of course then Santa would come when all the lights are out and leave "presents" which were usually old toys rewrapped in newspaper. And even all that was no comparison to the real Christmas which happened on December 25th.
Oh, yes we kept an advent calendar religiously.

What exactly made Christmas so wonderful? EVERYTHING!
After Thanksgiving we'd start decorating and making Christmas cookies. And every year, after I was older, I'd make a gingerbread house. We'd visit friends and neighbors and friends and neighbors would come visit us. We always had cookies and hot chocolate ready when they did. We'd drive though neighborhoods just to look at the Christmas lights. And it seems every year growing up I was Mary in the church Christmas pageant. So I'd practice for that and go to choir rehearsals for the children's choir. And we'd write Christmas cards and send them out. And get a mail box full in return. Christmas mail is fun mail. REAL LETTERS! There's something to be said for a paper hand written note rather than a quick phone call or an email. It says, "Hey, I was thinking of you when I made this card and signed it and addressed it, licked the envelope, stuck the stamp on it, which I paid 32¢ for, and then I was thinking of you when I dropped it in the mail box. And I was thinking of you when it came back because I couldn't remember the current postage rate... and I was thinking of you when I stuck two stamps on it and dropped it in the mail box again. And I know you were thinking of me when you opened your mail box and saw a pretty finely addressed red envelope instead of just bills and junk. And I know you were thinking of me when you taped it to your closet door, or stuck it in your Christmas card basket, or made it into a Christmas card basket." Yes, I wish people would send things in the mail more often. It gives me a reason to remember to get the mail.
Right, tangent sorry... Why Christmas is wonderful, besides the aforementioned.
Well, on Christmas Eve, we'd go to the Christmas Eve service. Then we'd have all the family over or go to Grandma's and open presents from the assorted relatives. And we'd eat snacky types of food: Grandma Ide's German lebkucken, Grandma Rohrer's little pecan pies, crab spread, eggnog, hot chocolate, cream cheese and pumpernickel bread, cheeses mmmmm... cheese, and lots and lots of other foods too. I remember some years we'd sing carols to my mom's piano playing, and other years we'd light the candles on the tree. Yes, candles on the tree. The candle holders were my grandpa's when he was young. And yes, there was a few close calls, I remember once we melted a glittered communion cup bell ornament. But other than that it was relatively safe. And always a sight to see. And then after everyone went home my grandpa would dress up like Santa and come visit. I'm afraid I fell for that bit for a great many years. I was a gullible little thing. But one year I caught my parents filling the stockings when I got up to get a drink of water. Then I knew the truth. But it's fun to believe in Santa anyhow so I figured I play along. So, after Santa promised to come back after we were in bed... well I was in a hurry to get to bed! So we'd put out a letter and a plate of cookies for Santa and some carrots for his reindeer (with an extra big one for Rudolf.) And rush off to bed...
Next morning... IT'S CHRISTMAS!!!
I'd rush out and see what was under the tree and in the stockings. Santa's cookies were reduced to a few crumbs (man, he's a messy eater!) and the carrots were gone! And in the stockings Santa had left apples, oranges, candy canes, chocolates, and a few small toys. Then we'd open the presents from each other and from Santa. After that we'd eat breakfast, hopefully fritters (homemade doughnuts that you dip in a powdered sugar glaze.) And go off to church. After church we'd either go to Christmas dinner at Grandma's house or our house. There we'd all sit down to a nice dinner, the Thanksgiving of Christmas. And after words show off our new toys and play games. And then finally head for home.
And well, that pretty much sums up Christmas growing up.

blog #021 >> a strange lunch

Today I had the honor of eating lunch with Daniel Boone's' daughter.
No, lie... At least that's what she claimed and she looked old enough to be telling the truth.
Anyhow, today after I finished the paper I realized (as always) "Hey, I'm really hungry." I was driving by Two Brothers on 39th and Belmont (if you've never been there it's a very good restaurant with Balkan food. Thanks Dave and Trina for telling me about it.) And decided to stop for a quick, but late lunch. Well, I walk in the door and sit down at a table to wait for the waiter when a little old lady comes in and sits down across from me. So the waiter being confused asks if we're together. Moments before I had told him it was just me for lunch today. So I shook my head no, shrugged my shoulders and whispered, "no." But the little old lady either didn't notice or ignored us and asked to order some soup. I told him it was fine and I'd pick up her soup.
And that's how I came to have lunch with Daniel Boone's daughter. She was very sociable, and quite funny but must have had Alzheimer's Disease because she had a hard time remembering anything after World War II... Which she talked about a lot. I let her do most of the talking. She lived by herself which I gathered from her story of falling out of her kitchen chair. And she was married and only had one child... I think... which I could gather no additional information on. I was trying to get her to drop a name of a relative I could call to come claim their grandma. But no luck.
Apparently she came to Portland during her "Mid-School" years from England. Which I find very likely due to her perfect manners, green eyes and light complexion. She even knew how to eat soup properly by lifting the spoon away from you. Which she didn't mention, but I did pick up on.
During World War II she worked as an "engineer" designing light-weight sleeping bags and tents for paratroopers... "who were invading Alaska?" I also learned the difference between down and feathers. She also said that Oregon is the greatest country in the United States of America. And mentioned that all a restaurant needs is a good bowl of soup. She ate hers pretty quickly.
Just before she sat down she mentioned something about Fred Myers. Which is just two bus stops down from the restaurant. That explains how she got there. So I asked her again if she was trying to get to Fred Myers. And I think she answered yes, it was a bit choppy. So, I took her to the bus stop and watched her get on the bus. As it happens traffic was bad and I got stuck behind the same bus. Fortunately I saw her after the bus had pulled off in front of Fred Myers talking to a lady with a cell phone. It seems she found a new friend. Now I just hope she makes it back home.

blog #018 >> getting to know the neighbors

Well, this one was a long time is getting up. Now it's practically ancient history; it's passed into ledgend. Everyone seems to know this story even if I've never told them. But just in case you've only heard it through the grapevine. My version is as follows:
Dave and Trina (my neighbors and two excellent generous and noble friends) don't like the heat. During these lovely sunny exuberantly/balmy days they prefer to hide in the comfort of a cool air-condioned room. They decided that their old air conditioner was not longer providing the refreshingly frigid tempature they desired. So my wonderful gracious neighbors offered me they're old air-condioner. I happily accepted, and asked them to leave it by the door.
Well... I got home and much to my surprise they had put it in the window. I thought, "Great! It's even in the window." So I went to turn it on... and nothing happened. After I quick investigation I realized, "Ah Ha! It's just not plugged in." I go to plug it in only... wait there's no outlet. Not even close. After a moment of contemplation to consider what should be done. It hits me, "I can't get online with the AC in this window." Well, if you know me at all than you should know. I am simply addicted to the internet. I can't even go a couple of hours without it... "How will I contact the outside world?" "How many e-mails will I miss?" It had to be moved. Yes, it was past midnight. But it was also production week and I needed to know what time to show up to work the next day, by e-mail. So... in my tired mind, moving seemed to be a viable option.
Now I realize these things are probably over half my body weight. But that particular window is level with my desk. I worked it all out in my mind. And it worked so perfectly. I got to work. I cleared off my desk and opened the window, stuck my head out to pull it in... and, "Snap!" the window breaks... It comes down and traps me between the window and the AC... the runner broke and it would only go down and not up. As I was trying to escape and wiggle myself out... I lost my holding on the AC and it falls from my second story apartment... Only I catch it by the tip of the cord. So, I'm still stuck in the window, but now I'm holding a fifty pound air conditioner by the cord. Well, I try my best to pull it up, but let's face it I'm not all that strong. As I'm debating what I will crush if I let it go... one of my other neighbors who was out having a smoke comes up and asks if I needed some help. "Yes!" Is the obvious answer. So, I let it slip gently though my hands and she was remarkably able to catch it! Once I was free of the air conditioner I was able to fiddle with the window and get myself out. Anyhow, after I was unstuck, I went down and my neighbor helped me carry it back up to the apartment.
Then after the adrenaline wore down I looked down at my hands and I had the worst rope burn I've ever had in my life. I ran and but my hands in some cold water and when I dried them off the whole first layer of skin came off too. After getting some frozen peas from the freezer, I really couldn't sleep. And I hear from my open window my neighbor relaying the story to her husband. So, I went out and sat with them and my peas for awhile. It made a very nice fan stand while I waited for someone to help me put it in the other window.
And remarkably it still works and now it is sitting happily in the right window... by an outlet.


Moral of the story: When moving an air conditioner use the buddy system.

blog #003 >>The Curse of the Peter Iredale (a very long blog)

Aye, it all started on the night of the great storm... the sea rose and fell like the stroke of an axe, the wind screamed like a banshee, and the full moon, that great silvery eye, watched as the ship stuck aground on those sharp, jagged teeth...




...Well, I'm afraid that is not really how my story starts. If you want to read a story about a shipwreck than close this blog and pick up Robinson Crusoe. If however you want to read about my trip to the beach, my adventures there, and what it has to do with the wreak of the Peter Iredale... then please read on. If you do not have time to read all this, then skip to the cliff notes at the end.

My story starts with coconut cream pie... not just any coconut cream pie, but the best coconut cream pie in the world. And there is only one place to get this coconut cream pie, and that is at Dory's Cove, a delightful little restaurant in Lincoln City. The waitress comes in early every morning and bakes this pie from scratch. (You see it was all part of my mini-roadtrip. I was going to Lincoln City to visit my parents who where camping, to Longview to see my sister for her birthday, and then to Seattle to go to Ikea, and finally back home again.) So anyhow, before leaving for Longview I stopped for lunch at Dory's Cove. But, after eating all that clam chowder and fish'n chips I wasn't hungry enough to eat the pie. So, I boxed it up for later, (forgetting a fork) and hit the road.

After about three hours of driving I got hungry and started to think, "hmm, I should really stop and eat that pie." And the longer I waited the better it sounded. And then I thought, "I should really stop before I get to Washington and while I'm still along the coast, that way I can sit on the beach and eat." (It was a beautiful sunny day.) A little further down the road was a sign that marked Fort Stevens St. Park with beach access. Perfect. So I slammed on the breaks and turned. In Fort Stevens (a fairly large park) was a beach called shipwreck beach and my adventurous nature awoke. I pulled up, grabbed my pie, my camera, and my map, (but left my purse safely in the car), and took a look around. There is not much left of the Peter Iredale just a rusty skeleton, but it was a nice day, so I sat on a log and ate my pie (without a fork) and looked at the map. When finished I picked up my stuff and hiked back to the car... only my pockets seemed really light. Then to my horror I see my keys sitting on the seat and my spare key locked in the car with my purse. I was stranded. After banging my head on the car three or four times... I came to my senses and realize that I do have my cell phone in my pocket. Thank God for cell phones... and I also thanked God that there was a cell phone tower within sight. I made the call, not the type of call you look forward to, the embarrassing type that goes like this, "Have you ever had one of those days..." Well at least help was on the way, three and a half hours away, but coming. So, I sat on that same log and wallowed in my depressed, desperation for about five minuets.

And after that my always cheerful disposition said, "things could always be worse, it is a nice day and not raining, and there are lots of nice, friendly, but not at all helpful people around." So the wheels in my ever creative head started to turn and I thought, "There is a lot of junk on this beach, and I do know how to jimmy a lock, if I could find a chunk of wire I could be out of here in no time." So, I walked down the beach, up where it smells like rotten fish, and all the junk floats to during high tide, in search of wire. I must confess that I have never before really taken the time to look at all the junk on a beach, normally I go down to the water and look for rocks. I had never realized what interesting and disgusting things you can find. I saw: some chap stick, a bunch of bottles, a pop can, some rope, a small net, a broken shovel, old fireworks, a bone (which I hope was not human), a light bulb, a dead sea gull, some Styrofoam, and a fluorescent tube. Which made me think, "I wonder if there is wire in there?" Yes, I know how fluorescent lights work, but I was still curious and very bored. I figured with all the other broken glass around what's a little more... Looking around to make sure no one saw... I threw it at a nearby log, and missed. So I threw it again... (and I must add that I will never again break a fluorescent tube intentionally.) It exploded, there was no wire in it, and a visible gas seeped out of it. (Not knowing if neon gas was toxic) I ran, and gave up the wire attempt. And once again sat on my log.

Then the light bulb in my head lit up, "This park has a campground, and campgrounds have camphosts and camphosts have coat hangers, and coat hangers are wire." So I walked toward the campground on the bike trail. I didn't realize how large the park was. One thing I must add about this trail is that almost every part of it looked exactly the same, weathered pine trees and scotchbroom on either side. (better know as devil's weed to seasonal allergy suffers like myself) After about a half hour and many turns and walking under the road, I reach the information desk. I walked up and it was closed for the season. However, they had lots of historical information about the Peter Iredale. Unforturately, the nearby coffee stand was also closed. However, there was a payphone, and payphones have phonebooks, and phonebooks have locksmiths, and locksmiths have slim jims, and slim jims are wire... I called, he'd be there in a half hour. Perfect half hour in, half hour out. I started back as fast as I could walk.

As I was walking along I noticed a number 4 marker, "well okay, I saw 1, 2, and 3, on the way so I probabely just missed 4." I continued on... Then I saw marker 6, "well I'm sure that I didn't see 6 and I should have passed under the road by now, but I'll go a little further." Then I saw a stream, a large maple tree and a small rusted metal structure, "I know I didn't see that!" So, I turned around and ran back, walked fast back and walked back. And just a little ahead of the turn off where I got off course was the road. I had walked at least 20 minutes out of my way. Which meant that I was going to miss the lock smith, unless I picked up the pace; I had no pace left in me by this time. But, I marched on just the same.

Now I began to think, "I've been gone a long time... and my car is parked in a not so safe place, with my purse, and keys, in plain sight." I imagined getting back and finding nothing but a little pile of glass left where my car was, and the lock smith leaving when he didn't see the car or anyone around. I walked faster.

Quite out of breathe I began to be able to hear the ocean and then I saw it... the lock smith and my car. I was overjoyed. Before I knew it I was sitting happily in my car, driving away with the windows down and stereo loud.

Moral of the story: A magnetic key box is what everyone needs, or at least a chunk of wire.
Cliff Notes: story, pie, drive, keys get locked in car, look for wire, hike, call lock smith, hike, get lost, get keys out, drive.