Cake

I like to cook and bake but there are some things that kick my butt every time. As some of you know, anything with gelatin or Jello will confound me to no end so I tend to shy away from using such ingredients. I also struggle with the lowly little dried bean. Soak or don't soak? Add baking powder or not? Add salt first or later or both? Use red, black, pinto, kidney or other? Simmer on the stove or use a pressure cooker? All this to say, I use canned beans. A particularly disastrous baked beans recipe attempted years ago keeps me humble.

Another nemesis for me is cake, plain and simple. I'm not talking about a cake mix, pretty sure a trained monkey could pull that off. Rather, I am referring to a from-scratch product. Because I am old enough to remember an era when boxed cake mixes were either a luxury or difficult to procure, I have a taste memory of delicious, moist, slightly crumbly cakey goodness slathered with homemade frosting served as a special treat for company or for a special occasion. We had some of the raw ingredients on the farm such as eggs and cream so there was no excuse for not honing our cake baking skills. Alas, it did not happen for me. I could pull off an angel food cake, IF I separated the eggs properly with no yolk sneaking its way into the precious whites. I learned how to use the egg yolks in a buttery sponge cake that was always a favorite. But an old-fashioned chocolate or white cake was a mystery to me.

When I ask my 92-year-old mother about making cakes, she always reminds me that cake making is a tricky process, prone to producing a dry cake or something that is just plain blah. And she says that the best thing that happened on that front was the invention of the cake mix. I always agree with her and yet, I feel I might still be able to slay the cake dragon.

Thus the reason I made another attempt at making a cake. It was my husband's birthday so I had a deadline to motivate me. He loves cake and truth to be told, he would be just as happy (or happier) with a box cake as a homemade one, but I was determined to make this happen. I found a recipe from America's Test Kitchen, a source of well tested, very detailed recipes. I needed specific information and the cake recipes of my youth were prone to cryptic instructions and loosely identified ingredient amounts. Cake demands precision.

To the best of my ability, I followed the comprehensive steps. Set eggs and butter out so they can reach room temperature. Separate eggs. Whip egg whites and set aside. Blend dry and wet ingredients. Gently fold in egg whites. Grease, flour and add parchment paper to two cake pans (mine are of slightly different sizes but I chose to look the other way. Sorry, Test Kitchen.). Bake until inserted toothpick is free of clinging batter. Cool for ten minutes and remove from the pans. Then, move on to the frosting. The Test Kitchen recommended their recipe for foolproof chocolate frosting made in a food processor. My moderately sized food processor struggled to handle all the ingredients but, my goodness, the frosting was divine. I did a lot of quality control with the finished results and I would make that frosting again, cake or no cake.

The final cake was very tasty and my husband enjoyed every last bite, but was it worth all the effort? A tricky question. I liked the flavor and texture better than a cake mix, but most folks would probably be just as happy with a cake sans all the fuss. In reality, we are comparing apples to oranges. Each has its benefits and each is good for you.

My advice is to just eat cake.

Medicine

My husband has the good (or bad) fortune of having a meal ready to go for him when he arrives home on his lunch break. I prepare simple fare such as a grilled sandwich and salad or round two of an earlier meal. He is usually in a hurry so there is not much lingering involved. Dine and dash.

One particular meal involved the last bowl of homemade chicken soup. He came home in a rather frazzled state. Plans had changed at work. Someone he had hoped would be helping him was no longer available on the job site. An additional duty of moving furniture for someone popped up and the streets were becoming difficult to navigate with a blizzard bearing down. There was also a possibility of snow removal for three driveways after the snow abated. Clearly, a hot meal was needed.

While he shared his impending duties with me, he methodically ate his chicken soup, salad and crispy saltines. About halfway through his soup, he wrapped his hands around the warm bowl and sighed, "I think all I needed was some chicken soup. I feel better now." The conversation for the rest of the meal was far less frantic and the very last drop of soup was slurped up. (We are slurppers, don't judge.)

Many believe chicken soup has curative powers, especially for those feeling a bit under the weather. The soup has even achieved the nickname, Jewish penicillin. I have no scientific data to suggest such claims are true but chicken soup surely has the ingredients for health. Carrots, celery and onions are  powerhouses of vitamin C, A, K and other antioxidants. Onions are also a known expectorant, a.k.a. phlegm buster. The warm chicken broth is soothing and mild to the stomach. The soft noodles are little sponges for flavor and combine all the ingredients into a satisfying meal.

My anecdotal evidence certainly supports the potency of a humble bowl of chicken soup. My daughter always refers to chicken soup as her comfort food from home. On more than one occasion, a bowl of warm chicken soup has raised the spirits of my nieces after a long drive to our house from far-flung places. A container of soup has brightened the day of friends needing a meal after a tough day or week. And I, myself, crave chicken soup when the weather is foul and no travel is advised.

In all honesty, I suspect the real magic of homemade chicken soup is that it is a conveyor belt of love. Someone took the time to chop vegetables, boil meat for broth, strain the broth, add seasonings and finish the whole works with a cup or two of egg noodles. Real homemade soup does not happen in a few minutes. It cannot be procured at a drive-thru. It doesn't come from a can. And it cannot be served by a stranger.

I guess our grandmothers knew best. Sharing a bowl of soup with family and friends can cure what ails you.

(Oops, we ate the soup before a photo was taken. The crackers were good, too.)

How Potato Chips Saved My Life

One must be prepared for all types of weather conditions here on the tundra. The sun can be shining with a come thither look while the air temperature could flash freeze a side of beef. A cloudy gray day can quickly become a thawing day. The snow can pile up in haystacks of white or the ground can be a brown slumbering flatland. Our outer wear has to match the moment with a selection of mittens, gloves, fleece, scarves, parkas, coveralls, boots (real ones, not fashion statements) and flannel.

The trickiest weather involves the thaw-freeze days. The roadways look deceivingly clear but the moisture on the roads quickly freezes when the temperature dips to just the right temperature. This can happen any time of the day or night. I was reminded of this scientific fact in a very real way last week.

My before dawn routine usually begins with an exercise DVD. I will do ANYTHING to distract myself from the chirpy little instructor. I often skip the first minute or two of her yapping so I can retrieve my morning paper. Wintertime newspaper retrieval involves a quick assessment of the pavement conditions. Dry pavement means no shoes necessary. Wet pavement means no shoes. Snow dusted pavement means casual shoes. Snowy slush pavement means tugging on the boots. This particular morning the pavement was only wet so no shoes for me. The temperature was also mild so there was no need to hurry. I was just a few feet out on the driveway when my brain received a very bad message. Black ice was being sensed under my feet. We all know that by the time one's brain is processing such a message it is too late. I responded with a screech as my body did a full backwards butt slam on the pavement. After the initial jolt, I took a quick assessment of the damage. Hips, moving. Legs, moving. Arms, moving. Head, no concussion. Dignity, bruised. Tailbone, ouch. I slowly picked myself up and carefully inched my way back to the door, wary of more ice.

My first instinct was to skip my DVD for the morning. I love a good excuse. But, I continued with my usual routine so I could determine the extent of my damage. I had minimal discomfort so no x-rays were going to be needed. A quick Google search for tailbone injuries indicated no need for a doctor's intervention as nothing can be done. The list of symptoms for a broken tailbone did not match my symptoms so it was clear that I just took a bruising, not a breaking.

I was quite surprised my tailbone wasn't broken due to the full force of my weight bearing down upon it during the fall. Upon further reflection, however, I credit my good fortune to potato chips. I do not have a flat butt. There is padding there, folks. And that doesn't just happen. My penchant for such things as potato chips or cheese curls or bacon gives me more of a baby beluga look rather than a lithe giraffe. My tailbone was protected from the initial impact of my fall.

Thank you, potato chips. Wavy, plain, barbecue or sour cream, it does not matter as long as you're doing your job.