Cake as a Metaphor

I had baked a cake about a year ago, made from scratch, and I remember humming and smiling to myself over how grateful and awe struck my children would be with my superior baking skills and careful thought for their health. No high fructose, no bleached, bromated, hydrogenated, or otherwise plastic ingredients for my darlings! My Mary Poppins meets Ina Garten fantasy bubble burst when they declared my labor of love "tasteless." I quietly took off the imaginary apron, pearls, and heels I was wearing, cleaned the kitchen, and refrained from baking a cake since.

Then I saw this cake, pictured on a box of cake mix, and suddenly craved cake. I'm not a sweets person, so I wheeled my cart away from the display, but found myself staring at my grocery list, watching each penciled item morph into the word cake. Asp...ar..a...gcake, e..g..g..scake, pot..a...t..o ...scake. See? The cake was inevitable, undeniable, and I could feel my imaginary apron cinching my waist all the way to the checkout.

When my son refused to believe I had made the cake rather than the bakery, requesting a second slice for forensic purposes, I knew the cake was good. Never mind it looks nothing like the photo on the box and the strawberries tasted most un-strawberry like, the general consensus was pleasant and the process enjoyable. Motherhood is similar; reality will never live up to the staged photos and advertised promises, but for every dozen failures to please or be pleased, there is a quiet, imperfect success. Happy Mother's Day. Have some cake.

Open Invitation

Feet, hands, my hair, basically anything she can grasp goes straight to her mouth. She's a delight. I am especially fond of our afternoons, when sister and brother come home, talking to her as if she is their age, not eight plus years younger. She waits until they've moved on to other entertainment (usually cleaning out the pantry of anything edible) and slips off into a small nap. During this nap time, I've taken to sketching again. Such a soothing practice, just paper, pencil, markers, and the newest addition of watercolor pencils. I'm having so much fun experimenting with those. The oldest and I enjoyed using a smashed strawberry to color wash a beet I illustrated.

Last week, I opened the garage door while painting some old bedside tables white for the nursery. Apparently, this is an open invitation for the younger children on the street to venture inside. Consequently, moms, dads, grandpas, toddlers, kindergartners, first, third, and fourth graders paraded in and out all week. One mom was forced into coming over by her father-in-law, who rang our bell at dinner time, introduced his grandson, and said, "Ok, I'll be back for him in about thirty minutes."

My husband and I just stared at each other in disbelief. Did this man really just leave a child with total strangers? I remarked the parents are lucky we aren't psychopaths, to which he responded that we aren't Republicans either, which they may believe to be even worse. Less than ten minutes later, the grandpa and the mom were at the front door, he looking pleased with himself and she like a woman on the verge of finding her child had been heinously murdered. I invited them in and heard her sigh of relief upon seeing her son intact and her sigh of consternation as her father-in-law exclaimed, "She is an introvert and needs to meet more folks!"

I found this all simultaneously hilarious and painful considering I am introverted too. I could completely empathize with her mortification over the whole scene. But, to her credit, she came over again the next day, and I think we will be friends, that is, if we continue force ourselves out to see each other again.

I grew up in households with open doors, both of my grandmother's homes were bustling with family and friends and I long for that sense of community as I get older. My husband recalls fondly his childhood memories of long meals at his Opa's house in Belgium, full of food, drink, and laughter. Strange, how isolating modern living can be, especially when you move to different cities and never see, much less know, neighbors. I can feel this changing in me though, a greater pull towards being involved in my small corner of the world. I feel as if I am being invited by life to do less growing up and more growing out.

Color

We had a wonderful anniversary weekend in Atlanta, a city I've always referred to as home, but with each visit, I realize it has silently morphed from home, to hometown, to the city in which I was born, to a place I once lived. What used to feel familiar and inviting is now unrecognizable and less interesting than ever. If pressed to describe Atlanta in a word, I would choose sprawl. If given a two word option: pretentious sprawl.

There are a few things about the city I do love: sitting at outdoor cafes and being surrounded by a half dozen foreign languages, festivals every weekend, vegetarian friendly restaurants, and the tiny gelato shop near my mother-in-law's house. Roughly the size of a closet, Paolo's has room enough for a cash register, an espresso machine, and a cold case full of flaky cannoli, tempting tiramisu, sparkling marzipan, and a rainbow of gelato. The shop stays open late, so around 10 pm on Saturday night, we joined the line spilling out the door and down the sidewalk. The young man behind the cold case served customers non stop, his hands moving as fast as his unintelligible accent, his patience never wearing thin no matter how many samples the four kids in front of us requested. Their father gently prodded them to decide. I joked with him it would be easier to choose by their favorite color, but I was glad they were ahead of us, slowing things down, so I would have time to decide. So many flavors, but in the end, I took my own advice, and chose violet flower gelato simply because it was a pretty color.

The weekend was a study of color, first among the 250 artist booths at the Dogwood Festival, to the Frida and Diego exhibit at the High museum. The festival is one I have fond memories of; I've attended for over twenty years, and I used to buy pieces, but this time around only one booth caught my fancy, and the rest served to spark my imagination, but the cost and content left me empty-handed. The downside to being a creative soul is looking at a beautiful piece of art for sale and thinking I should just keep my money and go home and reproduce what I am admiring. The Frida exhibit was well done; their art interesting, compelling, and topical, but the photographs of the artists were what my husband and I enjoyed most. He appreciated the compositions and moods. I appreciated the photos for the glimpses of Frida's jewelry and adornments. More than her art, her style appeals to me.

Above is a photo of another necklace I made last week with wool left over from the baby's blanket and sweater. I realized when I started writing this post, I had not even taken the lens cap off my camera this weekend. I think it was because I was enjoying myself too much, and often a photo falls flat from the reality. I'd rather journal the days or even work them into a story. The laughter, the chilly wind off the park lake, the smell of street food, and the warm company couldn't possibly translate as colorfully as my memories.

Why do two colors, put one next to the other, sing? 

 Can one really explain this? No. 

Pablo Picasso

Interwoven

Have you seen Quince and Co's offerings? Delightful. I'm smitten with the rich yet subtle color ways, weights named after birds, and charming patterns. One collection is Interwoven, a sweet little book of jewelry options. I raided my wool for all of those left over bits of skeins. I easily came up with half a dozen color combos; the first my eldest daughter wanted was turquoise + red, which happens to be a favorite of mine, as well. She supervised from behind her tablet while I cut, braided, and wrapped for less than an hour. The next necklace I make will be of thin braided strands. Addictive little process with lovely results.

I am grateful for any opportunity to share creative time with her. She's about to turn ten, beginning to maneuver the delicate stage of prepubescence, the hints of everything changing, inside and out, with no real idea of what that really means. At times she does or says such grown-up things and I find myself watching her, silently warning her in my head, "it will hurt, and be confusing, and the next decade will form you, and I am sorry that I can't make it easier, but you have to go through it to get to the you on the other side."

The urge to over protect children is so very strong. The art of shielding them from our interference is difficult, but what parenting is made of.  I am reminded of this when my 7 year old son rails against being considered a little boy in public, yet still requires my comfort and doting in private. Or, when I want to put the baby's dolly in her hand rather than letting her continue through frustrated attempts at grasping it on her own. If I were to make every challenge they face easier, what would they learn of their own reliance, of the universes of ability and transformation inside themselves? Giving them enough help to comfort but not so much they are dependent is such an intricate dance. I imagine I'll feel this way no matter their age, no matter the circumstance. Admitting you have no control over the pain or fear or just plain old sadness your loved one's will inevitably face is one of the hardest exercises in growing up we all have to do. There is no other option. They have to learn for themselves that joys cannot exist without a balance of sorrows, pleasures without pains. All we can do is wait for them on the other side, take their hands and be content with who they choose to become.

There are thoughts which are like prayers.There are moments when whatever the posture of the body, the soul is on its knees. Victor Hugo

For the Love of Beet

One night, before my husband and I were married, he served me a variety of jewel toned roasted beets with goat cheese on crispy crostini. It was one of those special moments in our deepening relationship, one that was simultaneously beautiful and terrifying, and all I could safely say was, "Oh my God!" The dish was so lovingly plated, nonetheless, I hated beets. 

The look on my face must have translated my inner struggle, because he convinced me to try the dish with a promise these wouldn't taste like any beet I'd ever had and, after all, there was plenty of goat cheese (which is manna, I tell you). Well, I decided to try the crostini, trusting him, but thinking, as my teeth sank into the tiniest edge of a golden beet, how sad it would be to tell friends my relationship ended because he served me beets. Fortunately, he was right. They were unlike any beet I'd tasted, and after we devoured the whole plateful, we discovered a couple new things. First, roasted beets have been done a terrible disservice (as have many vegetables) by being served from a can. Whoever thought that was a good idea should be flaked and powdered. Secondly, I'll eat just about anything with enough goat cheese on it. Except mushrooms, no matter how much my husband promises I could love them as I now love beets. A self respecting girl has to draw lines somewhere. My line happens to be fungus.

I made this roasted beet, chèvre, and arugula pizza for dinner a few nights ago. I was inspired by a recipe for a beet salad, but decided to throw it on home made pizza dough. Delicious. Even better when you cook while listening to anything by Astrud Gilberto. Here's a short list of food blogs I've been following lately; enjoy!

Naturally Ella :: seasonal vegetarian dishes, lovely photography, humble & funny like a good friend.

Manger :: professional chef living in France with professional photographer husband. Not humble or particularly funny, but oh so nice to look at.

Vegetarian in Dixie :: So I know where to eat in and around Birmingham. Great photos and links.

Bakers Royale :: for the sweet side of life, indulge in this self taught baker's collections of recipes and sources. 

Details

While photographing a wedding over the weekend, I remembered why I don't particularly enjoy photographing people. There are several factors involved, the most obvious of which is my height. I'm a shorty and we all know the horror show of a photo from below the chin... yeah, we've all seen an image of ourselves from this unfortunate angle that turns even the thinnest person into the golden Buddha. Sadly, trying to suck in your bottom jaw doesn't work. Trust me.

Because of my stature, when the audience stands, I often lose a shot. When the couple dances, all I see through my lens is Great Aunt Bertie's lavender curls. Also, people like to talk to me, which I appreciate when I'm free to chat, but my easy approachability really sucks if I miss the cake cutting because that peculiar relative (you know which one, every family's got one) is intent on sharing the comprehensive history of cake fondant.

I prefer the details. The food, the flowers, the light on the edge of the waiting champagne glasses... oh, how I love to photograph these things. They tend not to move about, make funny faces, or sweat. Yes, leave the details to me. I forget and remember this about myself every time I pick up a camera.

When finding my bliss in the details at home, I need to remember to do it well before the wok is steaming and everyone is waiting to eat. I'm obsessed with food blogs right now, so the family may have to get used to a few ingredients going missing while I satisfy my muse. I'm sure they won't mind.

Reclamation

Look, blooms! How very exciting! Spring never fails to surprise me. Of all the seasons, she is the stealthiest. As soon as my eyes have adjusted to the dark of winter, spring sneaks in, layering the landscape in thin veils of light and faint washes of green. One day, I will wake up and wonder who stole into our neighbor's yard and planted blooming tulips. Imagine if your boring lawn was vandalized with flowers. How delightful.

Spring moves quietly, gracefully, joyfully. She is like the allegro of a symphony or the embrace from a long lost friend; a gentle reminder of the abundance to come. Mid March is time to prepare for the coming seasons. Plants can be voluptuous or slender, healing or poisonous, bold or reserved, whatever they turn out to be, I love them all. Plants are undeniably sexy. They are the Latin soul of my Scandinavian aesthetics. I desire to be surrounded by green riots of growth. Frankly, I don't care if these plants produce anything or not. The vegetables or flowers aren't the end goal this year. Giving an avocado pit or a sprouted potato a second chance compels me. What better way to honor the dormant potential in myself than to take what I have mistaken for ugly or useless and nurture it back into something beautiful?  This spring is about the reclamation of wonder. 

And radishes. I have a sudden taste for radishes.