The War of the Birthday Cake

The War of The Birthday Cake Began: 6:00 p.m. Ended: 10:00 p.m. Cause of Conflict: My father's 50th birthday cake. Location: The Musick's Kitchen. Who knew that the creation of a birthday cake can be such an emotional journey? My emotions were constantly changing, dropping and rising with the struggle. First, anticipation. Good butterflies floating in my tum, a naive baker imaging all the different possibilities. Then, a tingling premonition of anguish. Still, I forged on. Mixing, adding, zesting, powdering, softening, measuring, correcting, stirring until my arms wished they were no longer attached to my body. Finally, the cake was in the oven. Golden and promising, I felt like a proud parent. The kitchen might be coated in a fine layer of flour, and is that chocolate on the ceiling?, but it all seemed worth the effort. 30 minutes later, the cake emerges! Golden and spongy, unbelievably soft and angelic. Surely, no cake has ever been so flawless! With zeal, I tipped the pan over. SPLA-CRUMble... Oh. OH. ... MOM! As every good baker knows: "When in doubt call your mother." For you inexperienced chefs, "SPLA-CRUmble..." is the sound of a warm and tender white cake hitting the counter and crumbling into three-fourish uneven pieces. The sound sends a shiver down every baker's spine. This, on the emotional scale, is where my heart sinks into a depression like never felt before. Seeing that cake crumble was surely what Clara felt when her precious gift, The handsome Nutcracker soldier, was lying on the floor; splintered and severed. Oh, the pain! Like the remorse of seeing a baby bunny being mauled. Truly, it was heart breaking. I felt like crying. Taking a deep breath, the cake was resembled on the tray. Bit by bit, each crumb was set in place. Then, with great care, cemented in place with a sticky white frosting. Again, the cake was whole! Slightly battle weary, but alive. Mom always says, in times of cooking doubt: "Frosting can cover a multitude of sins." Never has a truer thing been said about cooking. And boy, did I frost it for all I was worth. Bowl after bowl of colored frosting carefully slapped, spread, coated, piped, and curlicued. And lets just say that a brave pair of sunglasses were lost in the heat of battle. Now, the emotional roller coaster was running out of fuel. It was grinding to an exhausted halt, and my stomach was about to learn to fly from taste testing all my frosting concoctions. With a final pecan button, I stepped back to view my work. To the casual observer, this thing belonged on cake wrecks. To me, though? My heart was filled with pride and my eyes coated with hard work and love. So, after the battle had been fought, this gloriously wrecktastic 50th birthday cake stood before me: (and yes, that is supposed to be my father. Albeit a bit younger and wearing a baby blue tux.) The final stop on this emotional roller coaster: VICTORY. So, my comrades, I can officially say: Battle Won. Till next time, Hannah

My Father is Dead, but it's Ok, We Have Nan Bread!

One of the universal truths of life: Kids say the darnedest things. So do adults.

A perfect example of this would be going to lunch with my family (sans Jonmark, he's blowing things up). It was after church and the girls were groaning for food, Food, FOOD! Communion wine, biscuits, and the food of fellowship just don't cut it sometimes.

So we headed to perhaps my favorite eatery of all time (brace yourself, Steph): The House of India! Oooooh, its so good. Red Tandoori chicken, chole, NAN!!!!!, Kheer, jalebi, the list goes on and on. I'm literally drooling right now just thinking about it. Best part it the food is quality and quantity, they have a buffet.

As a middle-class American family, we follow the buffet principle: Eat Until Your Stuffed. And we did. And it was delicious. And we wobbled out the door later and took long, lazy, satisfied naps of well-fed people. But i've skipped the story, so lets go back to the savory bits.

Recently we've been watching "Bizzare Foods", a tv show with a host who eats anything and lies about liking half of it. Most of the foods are from countries where the blood and guts are still used in pop cuisine, so we've seen some pretty gross stuff go into this guy's mouth. Anyway, I was asking my mom and dad if there was a kind of food that we should try next. We've tried Japanese, Indian, Mexican, American, and Junk Food. Whats next?

Dad, quoting one of the more...akward...Bizarre Foods episodes yelled out: "WE HAVEN'T TRIED BULL TESTICLES!" then calmly went to go get some more nan. Oh, my father. My father.

Just for a change of pace, we decided this morning to visit another church that alot of old friends went to (Thats another story onto itself) and I got to see Monica's boyfriend, his lovely daughter, and his beard (Wink, wink, hint, hint ;)

Anywho, the girls were telling us about their Sunday School classes over lunch. That Lazarus guy got raised from the deads again, we got christmas cookies, the usual. What was UnUsual, however, was Emma's comment:

Mom: So, how were your teachers?

Glory: Ok.

Mom: What were their names?

Glory and Emma: I dunno. They gave us cookies.They were old cookies.

Glory: Emma told the teacher about Dad.

Me: What about Dad?

Emma: My first Dad was dead in the war.

Everyone: WHAT?

Dad: I'm not dead!

Emma: (patronizingly) No, no, no. My FIRST Dad. You second Dad. Your not dead. (Pats Dad's hand).

Mom and I: (Snort, giggle, uncontrollable laughter)

Mom: (realization!) Oh no!

Us: What?

Mom: When we went to go pick the girls up I told them Dad had gotten lost on the way over to pick them up!No wonder the teacher looked so shocked!

Everyone: (Laughing to the point of tears)

So thats what you can expect from a lunch with my family: Incorrect facts and the loud announcements that may be slightly embarrassing to everyone but my father. If you never want to come to my house again, i understand. You'll most likely end up embarrassed or rumored dead. Eat at your own risk!

Gill-Stuffed Goodness,

-Hannah

Needles and Lollipops: A Doctor Appointment

Lovelies, I'm writing this to you from my death bed. Thats what it feels like, anyway. I can't see the floor anymore it is littered with so many scrunched up tissues and I've got my daily half-gallon jug of prescribed Gatorade close at hand. Despite the faucet that my nose has become, the 104 degree fever that has decided to microwave my brain, and the currant inability to move faster than a piece of prime Jefferson County roadkill, being sick does have it's advantages. For example, I get to sleep wherever and whenever I want and nobody questions my sleeping spot of choice. Such as when I was making the 10 ft. commute from the kitchen to the living room where my body decided that enough was enough, so I had a pleasant nap on the coffee table in a spot of sunshine. Or the excuse to watch movies all day in a zombie-like state of mind, no matter how cheesy they are. Or, and this is the best, skip out on my usual homework load. Not to say that this won't come back to bite me in a week or two, but i'm choosing to ignore that fact right now. The most interesting part of this whole experience was having to visit the doctor's office. Walking into the waiting room of sickly people was like looking in a mirror. I saw the same comatose expression as i'd been sporting for the past few days: pupils shrunk, cheeks flushed, no control over important facial muscles. It was like looking in a mirror that added 30 years and a 5 o'clock shadow. My mom and I didn't have to wait long before a plump practitioner with a cherry red nurse uniform and sympathetic smile came to escort us to a room. As sweet and kind-hearted as she was, I'm not sure that she was a very experienced nurse. According to her faulty instruments I had grown a foot since last year this time and I had a zero oxygen count. All her various prodding and poking was accompanied by "Oopsie daises!", "Whoops!", and "That can't be right..." When the doctor finally showed up, it went from bad to worse. As I told him my various symptoms and ailments, his salt and pepper whiskers practically bristled in excitement and he exclaimed: "This might just be the flu!" For me, this wasn't the best of news. For him, it was a triumph of the medical world. Swiveling to type up his observations, he smiled and said "First flu of the season!" in a voice that was far too happy. You could practically see it in his eyes: "Ah-ha! Just wait until I tell those noobs over in the throat and nose department that I treated the first flu of the season. Whoo-baby!" After the awkward deep breathing exercises and gagging throat swabs, he sat back and proclaimed that I had either a sinus infection, the flu, a very bad cold, or mono. Almost rubbing his cold doctor hands together in joy, he informed me that I had to get blood drawn. I was, for the briefest of moments, tempted to "accidentally" lean over and cough on him. It isn't that i'm afraid of needles, i'm not. But no one enjoys having slivers of metal injected into their arms and getting their life juice sucked out. It just isn't fun. It is acutely less enjoyable when the nurse that is doing exactly that seems to have bad eyesight and aim, resulting in a painful easter egg hunt for prime blood vessels and my face twitching weirdly. At least mom, who had a great view of all this, found it quite amusing and was laughing that silent, shoulder-shaking laugh of hers. By far the worst part of the whole experience? They didn't give me a sucker. As if a 15 year old girl wouldn't want a lollipop just as much as a 5 year old girl! I tell ya, being over the age of 10 is harder than it seemed from my single-digit days. Well, its time to go take my second round of medication. I wouldn't be surprised if my hair turned green or some other odd reaction occurred thanks to the pharmacy of medications they put me on. Not that it would matter if my hair did change colors because i'm under house arrest for the next few days/weeks. I feel an odd connection with Lassie, quarantined and foaming at the mouth. Except its more like sliming at the nose. Yuck. Wishing you all a sick-free and joyful flu season, ~Hannah