Hold me back from chocolate cakes,
Brownies, cookies, nuts, and shakes.
Help me know that if I eat
My waist will soon obscure my feet.
It shames me some to have to tell
That I weigh on the Richter scale.
So pork chops, have no fear of me
Roasts and cutlets can run free
NO! I do not have the will to try it,
I would rather die than diet.
You can sit there if you please
Eating fruit and cottage cheese
A celery stalk, a carrot stick
The vision fairly makes me sick
As for me I’ll roast and fry
And feast on pizza, cake, and pie
I’ll gorge until my zippers bust
And then remove them if I must
But til that dreadful day shall be
I’ll spend my time with Sara Lee.
Happy Thanksgiving to All and to All a Good Bite!
Laugh
Showing posts with label cake. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cake. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Easy Bake
This is an oldie, but the frosting is still fresh. Son Two is twenty now, and he still confuses the mixer with the power sander, thinks frozen pizza in the big box is gourmet food, and lives for the day when you can get a mom that doesn't talk back out of a vending machine. For less than a dollar.
The Kid came through the back door like Secretariat out of the chute at Churchill Downs. We call him the agitator. He does to my nervous system what the spin cycle does to my delicates.
“Mom, you have to make a German Chocolate cake for my social studies project.”
“Excuse me little boy, but I’m neutral. I do not sew, neither do I bake.”
I am a firm believer in teaching children to make their own way in the world. Survival skills are necessary for kids who live in a world that evolves so rapidly the prize in the cereal is obsolete by the time they open the box. The day will come when my son will have to frost his own cupcakes. With this concept in mind, I decided it was time to teach him to cook.
Extensive negotiations found me and the Baker’s Apprentice at the kitchen table surrounded by supplies. We have eggs, vegetable oil, box of cake mix, and can of frosting. I do not want an “A” badly enough to make this cake from scratch, but neither do I want to miss out on seeing this kid face the consequences of volunteering. Don’t bang the can on the counter unless you’re willing to bake the biscuits.
The Kid is 12. He is cooler than spearmint gum. At present, he is wearing his cooking clothes, which are pretty much the same clothes he wears for everything else: socks with holes and without shoes, blue jeans with the top button missing, red silky boxer shorts visible above his jeans like a belt of fire ants, and no shirt.
“Why wear a shirt?” he shrugged. “If I get anything on my skin, I can just lick it off.” He runs his tongue around his mouth for practice. This kid will never need a compass to draw circles in math class.
Once things get underway in the kitchen, the kid discovers that he loves to cook. It’s like working in a secret underground laboratory only without the eye of newt. His favorite part is cracking eggs. He’s been practicing his cracking while I don protective gear. Removing a Kevlar glove, I scrape all the spare egg slime into a bowl and plan an omelet for supper.
“Okay,” I call out in my best Martha Stewart voice. “What’s the first thing we do?”
“Eat the icing!” he chimes.
I stop and consider. It’s not too late to solo on this project. Although I might not bake like Betty Crocker, I can mix like a cement truck. But the principle of the thing still dangles like a participle above my head.
“Read the directions.” The doctor says the kid gets his ADD from me, so we both have a little trouble staying focused. Sometimes it takes the two of us, a psychologist with an advanced degree, and an egg-timer on a fast-track just to read to the end of an instruction sheet. For us, it takes a village just to boil water. We know from experience that water doesn’t get any more done when you boil it an hour that when you boil it five minutes. We’ve got so many electronic timers in our house to remind us of things, it sounds like mission control at launch time when they start going off.
“Preheat the oven,” he says slowly, underlining the words with egg yolk.
“Wrong. Wash your hands.” I cringe as he wipes egg yolk stripes down the legs of his jeans. Soap is on his list of personally banned substances.
Eventually a cake rises haltingly from the crumbs of dry ingredients.
“No, No, No! You do not beat the cake batter like it’s the last horse around the bend at Churchill Downs.”
He gazes up at me with puppy dog eyes. His face and chest is dotted with chocolate splashes. He looks like a Dalmatian. “It said to mix well.”
“Mix. Not flog. We want to blend the ingredients, not torture them.”
After taking out our inner hostilities on the mixture, we pour the batter into the pan.
“Do we have to put it all in?” The kid’s cake mix targeting computer has been activated as I can see by the tongue that is already swimming in circles around his mouth.
“We have to put enough in to make a cake. You barely covered the bottom of the pan.”
He licked the spoon. “You said it was a sheet cake.”
“Well you short-sheeted it. Pour the rest in.” He poured in another teaspoon of batter.
“Enough?”
“We want a layer cake, not a pancake.” He eyed the batter, judging just how much would be left at bowl-licking time. I sensed mutiny hovering on the horizon.
“I have an idea. Why don’t you make cupcakes and eat one early?”
Later, I watched The Kid lounging in front of the television, licking the icing off of a tattered cupcake liner. He grinned, wiped chocolate off his chin with a grimy forearm, and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up.
Sometimes the most important lesson is establishing priorities. I’m a slow learner, but this kid is a great teacher. Especially when the lesson involves chocolate cake.
The Kid came through the back door like Secretariat out of the chute at Churchill Downs. We call him the agitator. He does to my nervous system what the spin cycle does to my delicates.
“Mom, you have to make a German Chocolate cake for my social studies project.”
“Excuse me little boy, but I’m neutral. I do not sew, neither do I bake.”
I am a firm believer in teaching children to make their own way in the world. Survival skills are necessary for kids who live in a world that evolves so rapidly the prize in the cereal is obsolete by the time they open the box. The day will come when my son will have to frost his own cupcakes. With this concept in mind, I decided it was time to teach him to cook.
Extensive negotiations found me and the Baker’s Apprentice at the kitchen table surrounded by supplies. We have eggs, vegetable oil, box of cake mix, and can of frosting. I do not want an “A” badly enough to make this cake from scratch, but neither do I want to miss out on seeing this kid face the consequences of volunteering. Don’t bang the can on the counter unless you’re willing to bake the biscuits.
The Kid is 12. He is cooler than spearmint gum. At present, he is wearing his cooking clothes, which are pretty much the same clothes he wears for everything else: socks with holes and without shoes, blue jeans with the top button missing, red silky boxer shorts visible above his jeans like a belt of fire ants, and no shirt.
“Why wear a shirt?” he shrugged. “If I get anything on my skin, I can just lick it off.” He runs his tongue around his mouth for practice. This kid will never need a compass to draw circles in math class.
Once things get underway in the kitchen, the kid discovers that he loves to cook. It’s like working in a secret underground laboratory only without the eye of newt. His favorite part is cracking eggs. He’s been practicing his cracking while I don protective gear. Removing a Kevlar glove, I scrape all the spare egg slime into a bowl and plan an omelet for supper.
“Okay,” I call out in my best Martha Stewart voice. “What’s the first thing we do?”
“Eat the icing!” he chimes.
I stop and consider. It’s not too late to solo on this project. Although I might not bake like Betty Crocker, I can mix like a cement truck. But the principle of the thing still dangles like a participle above my head.
“Read the directions.” The doctor says the kid gets his ADD from me, so we both have a little trouble staying focused. Sometimes it takes the two of us, a psychologist with an advanced degree, and an egg-timer on a fast-track just to read to the end of an instruction sheet. For us, it takes a village just to boil water. We know from experience that water doesn’t get any more done when you boil it an hour that when you boil it five minutes. We’ve got so many electronic timers in our house to remind us of things, it sounds like mission control at launch time when they start going off.
“Preheat the oven,” he says slowly, underlining the words with egg yolk.
“Wrong. Wash your hands.” I cringe as he wipes egg yolk stripes down the legs of his jeans. Soap is on his list of personally banned substances.
Eventually a cake rises haltingly from the crumbs of dry ingredients.
“No, No, No! You do not beat the cake batter like it’s the last horse around the bend at Churchill Downs.”
He gazes up at me with puppy dog eyes. His face and chest is dotted with chocolate splashes. He looks like a Dalmatian. “It said to mix well.”
“Mix. Not flog. We want to blend the ingredients, not torture them.”
After taking out our inner hostilities on the mixture, we pour the batter into the pan.
“Do we have to put it all in?” The kid’s cake mix targeting computer has been activated as I can see by the tongue that is already swimming in circles around his mouth.
“We have to put enough in to make a cake. You barely covered the bottom of the pan.”
He licked the spoon. “You said it was a sheet cake.”
“Well you short-sheeted it. Pour the rest in.” He poured in another teaspoon of batter.
“Enough?”
“We want a layer cake, not a pancake.” He eyed the batter, judging just how much would be left at bowl-licking time. I sensed mutiny hovering on the horizon.
“I have an idea. Why don’t you make cupcakes and eat one early?”
Later, I watched The Kid lounging in front of the television, licking the icing off of a tattered cupcake liner. He grinned, wiped chocolate off his chin with a grimy forearm, and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up.
Sometimes the most important lesson is establishing priorities. I’m a slow learner, but this kid is a great teacher. Especially when the lesson involves chocolate cake.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Old Family Recipe
I can’t think why I gain weight during the holidays. I’m sure to eat a balanced diet from every food group: food made with cream soup, food made with Cool Whip, food that combines vegetables or fruits with marshmallows in a creative way, and food that distant relatives make. I’m always careful to use garnishes, such as triple chocolate cake and pecan pie with discretion.
But here I am again, straining the seams of my purple puppy dog pajamas and forcing the elastic in my stretchy pants to call for reinforcements. To take the stress off my seams, I find I can generally go easy in the “food that distant relatives make” category.
What is it about seeing people only once a year that makes them think they can try out their experimental recipes without fear of retribution? Everybody has an aunt on a health food kick that makes everything with soy milk and seaweed or an uncle whose specialty is peanut butter casserole, but my family members have earned honorary placement in the Food Terrors Hall of Fame. (Their motto is “Smell This!”) With an eye toward family unity, I have always suffered through the asparagus jello of a forgotten time, but from now on, I’m taking a stand on the Aunt Betty's Rice and Raisin Balls.
I also find that I can resist:
Any dish that combines crushed corn flakes, cottage cheese, and butterscotch topping.
Any dish that blends chocolate chips with a random type of canned fish product.
Any finger food that leaves a film on my hands that requires turpentine to wash away the evidence.
So now I’ve concocted a secret weapon. The next time I’m faced with Sauerkraut and Strawberry Casserole or Better Than Roadkill Chili, I’ll whip the top off the mason jar I’m keeping for such an occasion.
“What’s in there?” the Captain asked when the mixture etched a hangman's noose on the inside of the jar.
I grinned. “It’s an Old Family Recipe.”
“Your great-grandaddy’s moonshine?”
“Better than that."
I unscrewed the lid and a passing fly hit the lineoleum like the top scoop of vanilla on an August ice cream cone.
"My brother’s carp bait.”
But here I am again, straining the seams of my purple puppy dog pajamas and forcing the elastic in my stretchy pants to call for reinforcements. To take the stress off my seams, I find I can generally go easy in the “food that distant relatives make” category.
What is it about seeing people only once a year that makes them think they can try out their experimental recipes without fear of retribution? Everybody has an aunt on a health food kick that makes everything with soy milk and seaweed or an uncle whose specialty is peanut butter casserole, but my family members have earned honorary placement in the Food Terrors Hall of Fame. (Their motto is “Smell This!”) With an eye toward family unity, I have always suffered through the asparagus jello of a forgotten time, but from now on, I’m taking a stand on the Aunt Betty's Rice and Raisin Balls.
I also find that I can resist:
Any dish that combines crushed corn flakes, cottage cheese, and butterscotch topping.
Any dish that blends chocolate chips with a random type of canned fish product.
Any finger food that leaves a film on my hands that requires turpentine to wash away the evidence.
So now I’ve concocted a secret weapon. The next time I’m faced with Sauerkraut and Strawberry Casserole or Better Than Roadkill Chili, I’ll whip the top off the mason jar I’m keeping for such an occasion.
“What’s in there?” the Captain asked when the mixture etched a hangman's noose on the inside of the jar.
I grinned. “It’s an Old Family Recipe.”
“Your great-grandaddy’s moonshine?”
“Better than that."
I unscrewed the lid and a passing fly hit the lineoleum like the top scoop of vanilla on an August ice cream cone.
"My brother’s carp bait.”
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Jeffrey Makes the Cake
As a tribute to Moms everywhere, I'm spending this week exploring motherhood with old and new stories. This tale is a favorite of mine because the Little Boy in the story, who is now 18 years old and studying robotics in college with an eye toward taking over the world, has learned, under my care and tutelage, to call for pizza all by himself.
“Mom, you have to make a German Chocolate cake for my social studies project.”
“Excuse me little boy, but I’m neutral. I do not sew, neither do I bake.”
Further negotiations found me and Little Boy at the kitchen table surrounded by supplies. We have eggs, vegetable oil, box of cake mix, and can of frosting. I do not want an “A” badly enough to make this cake from scratch. Nor do I want to miss out on seeing this kid cook. It’s the principle of the thing. Sooner or later he’s going to have to face the consequences of volunteering. Don’t bang the can on the counter unless you’re willing to bake the biscuits.
Besides, I am a firm believer in teaching children to make their own way in the world. Survival skills are necessary for kids who live in a world that evolves so rapidly that the prize in the cereal is obsolete by the time you open the box. With this concept in mind, and with the attitude of a pioneer, I decided it was time to teach my son to cook.
“These are modern times and there’s not always going to be a Pizza Hut on the corner,” I intone sternly as we head into the kitchen. Sure, they were harsh words, but sooner or later a kid has got to learn more in the way of survival skills than how to microwave popcorn. I’m sure Orville Redenbacher is a nice guy and a snappy dresser, but he should not be a young man’s role model in matters involving the food pyramid.
The Kid is 12. He is cooler than Doublemint gum. At present, he is wearing his cooking clothes, which are pretty much the same clothes he wears for everything else: socks without shoes, blue jeans with the top button missing, red silky boxer shorts, and no shirt.
“Why wear a shirt?” he shrugged when I send him to get dressed. “If I get anything on my skin, I can just lick it off.” He runs his tongue around his mouth for practice. This kid will never need a compass to draw circles in math class.
Once things get underway in the kitchen, the kid discovers that he loves to cook. It’s like working in a secret underground laboratory only without the eye of newt. His favorite part is cracking eggs. He’s been practicing his cracking while I don protective gear. Removing a Kevlar glove, I scrape all the spare egg slime into a bowl and plan an omelet for supper.
“Okay,” I call out in my best Martha Stewart voice. “What’s the first thing we do?”
“Eat the icing!” he chimes.
I stop and consider. It’s not too late to solo on this project. Although I might not bake like Betty Crocker, I can mix like a cement truck. But the principle of the thing still dangles like a participle above my head.
“Read the directions.”
“Preheat the oven,” he says slowly, underlining the words with egg yolk.
“Wrong. Wash your hands.” I cringe as he wipes egg yolk racing stripes down the legs of his jeans.
“With soap and water.”
Under my patient instruction, and with an extra helping of creative engineering, a cake rises haltingly from the crumbs of dry ingredients.
“No, No, No! You do not beat the cake batter like it’s the last horse around the bend at Churchill Downs.”
He gazes up at me with puppy dog eyes. His face and chest is dotted with chocolate splashes. He looks like a Dalmatian. “It said to mix well.”
“Mix. Not flog. We want to blend the ingredients, not torture them.”
After taking out our inner hostilities on the mixture, we pour the batter into the pan.
“Do we have to put it all in?” The kid’s cake mix targeting computer has been activated as I can see by the tongue that is already swimming in circles around his mouth.
“We have to put enough in to make a cake. You barely covered the bottom of the pan.”
He licked the spoon. “You said it was a sheet cake.”
“Well you short-sheeted it. Pour the rest in.” He poured in another teaspoon of batter.
“Enough?”
“We want a layer cake, not a pancake.” He eyed the batter, judging just how much would be left at bowl-licking time. I sensed mutiny hovering on the horizon.
“I have an idea. Why don’t you make cupcakes and eat one early?”
Later, I watched The Kid lounging in front of the television, licking the icing off of a tattered cupcake liner. He grinned, licked chocolate off his chin, and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up.
Sometimes the most important lesson is establishing priorities. I’m a slow learner, but this kid is a great teacher. Especially when the lesson involves chocolate cake.
“Mom, you have to make a German Chocolate cake for my social studies project.”
“Excuse me little boy, but I’m neutral. I do not sew, neither do I bake.”
Further negotiations found me and Little Boy at the kitchen table surrounded by supplies. We have eggs, vegetable oil, box of cake mix, and can of frosting. I do not want an “A” badly enough to make this cake from scratch. Nor do I want to miss out on seeing this kid cook. It’s the principle of the thing. Sooner or later he’s going to have to face the consequences of volunteering. Don’t bang the can on the counter unless you’re willing to bake the biscuits.
Besides, I am a firm believer in teaching children to make their own way in the world. Survival skills are necessary for kids who live in a world that evolves so rapidly that the prize in the cereal is obsolete by the time you open the box. With this concept in mind, and with the attitude of a pioneer, I decided it was time to teach my son to cook.
“These are modern times and there’s not always going to be a Pizza Hut on the corner,” I intone sternly as we head into the kitchen. Sure, they were harsh words, but sooner or later a kid has got to learn more in the way of survival skills than how to microwave popcorn. I’m sure Orville Redenbacher is a nice guy and a snappy dresser, but he should not be a young man’s role model in matters involving the food pyramid.
The Kid is 12. He is cooler than Doublemint gum. At present, he is wearing his cooking clothes, which are pretty much the same clothes he wears for everything else: socks without shoes, blue jeans with the top button missing, red silky boxer shorts, and no shirt.
“Why wear a shirt?” he shrugged when I send him to get dressed. “If I get anything on my skin, I can just lick it off.” He runs his tongue around his mouth for practice. This kid will never need a compass to draw circles in math class.
Once things get underway in the kitchen, the kid discovers that he loves to cook. It’s like working in a secret underground laboratory only without the eye of newt. His favorite part is cracking eggs. He’s been practicing his cracking while I don protective gear. Removing a Kevlar glove, I scrape all the spare egg slime into a bowl and plan an omelet for supper.
“Okay,” I call out in my best Martha Stewart voice. “What’s the first thing we do?”
“Eat the icing!” he chimes.
I stop and consider. It’s not too late to solo on this project. Although I might not bake like Betty Crocker, I can mix like a cement truck. But the principle of the thing still dangles like a participle above my head.
“Read the directions.”
“Preheat the oven,” he says slowly, underlining the words with egg yolk.
“Wrong. Wash your hands.” I cringe as he wipes egg yolk racing stripes down the legs of his jeans.
“With soap and water.”
Under my patient instruction, and with an extra helping of creative engineering, a cake rises haltingly from the crumbs of dry ingredients.
“No, No, No! You do not beat the cake batter like it’s the last horse around the bend at Churchill Downs.”
He gazes up at me with puppy dog eyes. His face and chest is dotted with chocolate splashes. He looks like a Dalmatian. “It said to mix well.”
“Mix. Not flog. We want to blend the ingredients, not torture them.”
After taking out our inner hostilities on the mixture, we pour the batter into the pan.
“Do we have to put it all in?” The kid’s cake mix targeting computer has been activated as I can see by the tongue that is already swimming in circles around his mouth.
“We have to put enough in to make a cake. You barely covered the bottom of the pan.”
He licked the spoon. “You said it was a sheet cake.”
“Well you short-sheeted it. Pour the rest in.” He poured in another teaspoon of batter.
“Enough?”
“We want a layer cake, not a pancake.” He eyed the batter, judging just how much would be left at bowl-licking time. I sensed mutiny hovering on the horizon.
“I have an idea. Why don’t you make cupcakes and eat one early?”
Later, I watched The Kid lounging in front of the television, licking the icing off of a tattered cupcake liner. He grinned, licked chocolate off his chin, and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up.
Sometimes the most important lesson is establishing priorities. I’m a slow learner, but this kid is a great teacher. Especially when the lesson involves chocolate cake.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Let Me Eat Cake
Hold me back from chocolate cakes,
Brownies, cookies, nuts, and shakes.
Help me know that if I eat
My waist will soon obscure my feet.
It shames me some to have to tell
That I weigh on the Richter scale.
So pork chops, have no fear of me
Roasts and cutlets can run free
NO! I do not have the will to try it,
I would rather die than diet.
You can sit there if you please
Eating fruit and cottage cheese
A celery stalk, a carrot stick
The vision fairly makes me sick
As for me I’ll roast and fry
And feast on pizza, cake, and pie
I’ll gorge until my zippers bust
And then remove them if I must
But til that dreadful day shall be
I’ll spend my time with Sara Lee.
Brownies, cookies, nuts, and shakes.
Help me know that if I eat
My waist will soon obscure my feet.
It shames me some to have to tell
That I weigh on the Richter scale.
So pork chops, have no fear of me
Roasts and cutlets can run free
NO! I do not have the will to try it,
I would rather die than diet.
You can sit there if you please
Eating fruit and cottage cheese
A celery stalk, a carrot stick
The vision fairly makes me sick
As for me I’ll roast and fry
And feast on pizza, cake, and pie
I’ll gorge until my zippers bust
And then remove them if I must
But til that dreadful day shall be
I’ll spend my time with Sara Lee.
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