Who needs a reason

Ivan found the box of birthday candles and pushed the last of them into his bowl of beans. We sang the Happy Birthday song together.

White chocolate mint cream

Ivan and Grandma make a wish.

March has been a mad month for parties, what with four family birthdays and then back-to-back showers. My daughter's enjoyed her move into the sphere of womanly delights (chocolates at brunch!) and traditions (how to make a proper bridal shower bouquet).

Chaja with Aunt Kyna, who's seven months pregnant.

Nana teaches Chaja how to thread ribbons through a paper plate
and make the bouquet for Aunt Molly to carry at her rehearsal. More pictures from both showers here.

I've enjoyed the unlimited excuses for whipping up batch after batch of white chocolate mint cream. This heavenly topping turned forgettable cupcakes into winners, and (aided by raspberries) it elevated a dense and crumbly chocolate pound cake to new heights. I've doubled and then tripled the recipe in hopes of setting a little aside to dress up my next cup of cocoa, but haven't succeeded in saving a dollop.

Sigh.

White Chocolate Mint Cream
Adapted from Smitten Kitchen

2 ounces white chocolate
3 ounces heavy whipping cream
1/8 teaspoon peppermint extract

Heat the cream in a small pot until it's simmering. Take it off the flame. Add the white chocolate to the hot cream and let it sit for a minute or two to melt the chocolate. Whisk well. Add the peppermint. Lay a piece of plastic wrap on the surface of the cream to keep it from forming a layer of skim and chill until cold. Then beat cream with electric beaters until soft peaks form.

Some egg-cellent links

The Eggling: crack, water and watch it grow.

My oven's working overtime today in preparation for a wedding and a baby shower for (different!) sisters. So while the bread rises, the frittata cooks and the pound cake bakes, I'm taking a second to share a few things I've been loving.

Have a happy weekend!

-Rachael

• "Mein" No More -- An artist expresses herself in the pages of Hitler's book, and has the last word.

• A Colorado writer's ode to dirt.

• An excellent Pen on Writing interview with Andre DuBus III, author of "The Garden of Last Days: A Novel."

• Electric Literature is a short story anthology available in eBook, audiobook, Kindle, iPhone and paperback. It promotes its short stories with single-sentence videos like the one below by artist Vance Reeser, who animated "Little Things" by Matt Sumell. Being the Luddite that I am, I've yet to purchase an issue, but I'm enjoying how the artist interprets the author's words.
  

In which the day begins like any other, with argument and laughter

Courtesy of niznoz.

Chaja and Sam were bickering and blowing raspberries at each other from the backseat of the car this morning.

"I'm tired of sitting next to Sam. I don't want to sit next to him anymore."

"Well, buy your own car and you won't have to," her father said.

"When I turn 16, I'll buy my own car and Sam won't be allowed to sit in it."

"When I grow up I'll buy a big limo," Sam said.

"I'll buy a BMW. Or a Mercedes. Or a Lamborghini."

Then, from the middle seat, came a single, quiet sentence from Max.

"I'm going to buy a monster truck."

"Yeeaah!" Sam said. "Then Max will drive his monster truck over Chaja's Lamborghini."

Courtesy of San Diego Shooter.

Laughter filled the car. The day was off to a good beginning.

When mistakes are intentional

Quilt by Irene Williams, (American, born 1920), Blocks and Strips, 2003.
Image courtesy of libbyrosof.

The Gee's Bend quilts -- with their eye-popping beauty and sloppy technique -- have been on display at the Nevada Museum of Art. The stitches are uneven, points are mismatched, nothing is squared, but each quilt is bold in terms of color, design and choice of fabric.

Many of the quilters from Gee's Bend, Alabama are descendants of slaves who stayed on as tenant farmers after the Civil War and formed a small, isolated, all-black community. Their distinctive quilting style has been passed down for more than six generations, according to a collective history of the quilters.

When I learned that these quilts were coming to town, I called my mother-the-quilter and asked if she'd like to go. The museum was crowded and my small son impatient, so I raced through the exhibit, stopping to study the one or two quilts to which my eyes were drawn. The designs were minimalist because the women had little time to spend on them.

A story inside a story: Ivan goes to the museum.

Rippled and uneven, the quilts shared a theme picked up and reworked again and again, in corduroy swatches and cornmeal sacks, in leisure suits and blue jeans. These quilters were risk-takers because they rejected the rules that govern quilting and embraced the mistake, the meandering line, the dead end.

"American quilts elsewhere generally esteem perfection. Chance and improvisation seem to be operating principles here, the beauty deriving from inconsistencies played off against hierarchical forms," according to an earlier New York Times review.

He finds the quilts boring, but rides the museum elevator three times
and says the blackberry cream soda is "Delish."

Yet these quilts were more than just jazzy geometry, they were stories, according to the New York Times and a National Public Radio interview. Denim in one quilt was cut form old work pants, the only memento from a dead husband. The corduroy used in another came from scraps saved from years spent mass-producing pillow shams for Sears, while its design might have been inspired by the newspaper and magazine scraps used to insulate the quilter's home.

As I stood before one stunning and imperfect quilt, I thought about writing and how important it was for me to begin taking more risks, to make more mistakes, to meander in order that my own stories are told, no matter how beautiful or flawed they are.

Finally, it's time to leave.

Before the beginning, they were brothers

Sam and Max.

Usually, I find them like this in the dark, sharing one twin bed, skinny arms wrapped around each other as they fell asleep in mid-whisper. I wonder whether they ever were frustrated during those nine months in my womb when they bobbed in sacks, side-by-side, yet separate.

For more candids that capture a moment and freeze it to memory, visit Soule Mama's {this moment} series.

Spring feverish

The desert is blooming: Huffaker Hills Trail.

Billy Collins is a favorite poet of mine. Indeed, he's a popular poet with many: His readings regularly sell out and he reportedly received a six-figure advance when he switched publishers. The two-term U.S. poet laureate's work is praised for being approachable, witty, quirky, tender and profound, the very same things that critics argue make his poems pedestrian.

But I'm not here to discuss the faults and merits of Collins, but to share one of his poems that seems to be written for weeks like this one, which is just half over and already has been packed with painting, scrubbing, raking and planting.

"Advice to writers"
by Billy Collins

Even if it keeps you up all night,
wash down the walls and scrub the floor
of your study before composing a syllable.

Clean the place as if the Pope were on his way.
Spotlessness is the niece of inspiration.

The more you clean, the more brilliant
your writing will be, so do not hesitate to take
to the open fields to scour the undersides
of rocks or swab in the dark forest
upper branches, nests full of eggs.

When you find your way back home
and stow the sponges and brushes under the sink,
you will behold in the light of dawn
the immaculate altar of your desk,
a clean surface in the middle of a clean world.

From a small vase, sparkling blue, lift
a yellow pencil, the sharpest of the bouquet,
and cover pages with tiny sentences
like long rows of devoted ants
that followed you in from the woods.

Caught on Chat Roulette

Courtesy of beweech.

I'm a Luddite married to a technophile.

This means my camera is a powerful piece of equipment with untapped potential, my computer is a fast, mean machine that causes me less than a hiccup worth of worry, and my cell phone's voice mail went unchecked for a year because I didn't take the time to learn how to retrieve messages.

I didn't pick up this skill because I chose to spend my finite amount of time and energy elsewhere. In frustration and defeat, my husband dialed into my voice mail system and left a recording warning callers that a message left was a message lost.

Recently, though, Google created this social media program called Buzz, and because my email account is through Google, Buzz showed up in my box. I clicked. A window popped open showing my husband's Tweets, as well pictures of bike rides taken by the brother of a brother-in-law and the self-moderated expletives from a friend's 13-year-old son. I scrolled down. Boring.

But then this Tweet sparked my curiosity:

I used to think email crystallized everything good and bad about the Internet, but now I know chatroulette.com does so much more concisely.

I bit.

I was going to do a little independent research so when my husband mentioned Chat Roulette, I wouldn't pull a blank. Or, better yet, I'd be able to make some off-hand reference and shock the hell out of him with how tech savvy I'd become.

I clicked, a window opened, my computer dialed, and a young man's face appeared on my screen, live. Yikes. I clicked and a second later another man appeared. He was on his bed. He was looking at me. Oh my God.

Frantic, I grabbed the mouse, clicking random buttons and ducking my head so the computer's camera wouldn't record me, but Chat Roulette was still running. In one desperate act to preserve my privacy, I crawled under the desk, pulled the computer's plug and left the room.

Later, I called my husband (on my cell phone):

"So, I tried out Chat Roulette today."

"You did?"

"Yep. That was the creepiest thing ever. I felt like I was spying on people and had just gotten caught."

"Did you see anyone jacking off?"

"Eeew! No."

"There's a lot of that going on."

I have shut the lid on Pandora's Box: I haven't taken a second peek into Chat Roulette and I don't open Buzz. But earlier this month, National Public Radio did a feature on this latest web craze, and for once I knew exactly what the reporter was talking about.

Celebrating the small stuff

Sure, life's milestones, anniversaries and birthdays deserve a party, but I think tiny things warrant a cake, too. So we baked a buttermilk pound cake and sliced the first strawberries of the season in salute of ... what?

"You can tell what's worth a celebration because your heart will POUND and you'll feel like you're standing on top of a mountain and you'll catch your breath like you were breathing some new kind of air," writes naturalist Byrd Baylor in "I'm in Charge of Celebrations." "Last year I gave myself one hundred and eight celebrations -- besides the ones that they close school for. I cannot get by with only a few."

This week, we celebrated Ivan outgrowing the high chair and claiming a permanent spot at the big table.

Small? Yes. Insignificant? Yes. But important to a boy who is 2 and his family.

Cruse Farm Buttermilk Poundcake
Adapted from the New York Times Magazine, April 9, 2009
Serves 10 to 12

For the cake:
3/4 cup unsalted butter
3 1/2 cups white flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
2 1/2 cups granulated sugar
3/4 cup shortening
4 large eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
1 cup buttermilk
3 tablespoons lemon juice or one lemon

For the glaze:
2/3 cup powdered sugar
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 teaspoon lemon zest

Heat the oven to 300 degrees. Grease and flour a bundt pan.

Cream butter and shortening. Slowly pour in the sugar and cream the mixture well. Beat in the eggs one at a time, adding the next when the last one is incorporated. Pour in the vanilla.

Sift together flour, salt and baking soda. Mix in one third of the flour mixture until just combined. Add a third of the buttermilk and mix until combined. Repeat with the remaining flour and buttermilk. Add the lemon juice.

Pour the batter into the bundt pan. Bake for about 75 minutes. Cool for 20 and then invert onto a cake platter. Sprinkle with powdered sugar or drizzle with the lemon glaze.

Tenebrous

The pinewood derby cars are anything but ...

ten-uh-brus or tuh-neb-ree-uhs
adjective

1. dark; gloomy; obscure

*

The first car Max built for the annual Cub Scout pinewood derby race never crossed the finish line. The lesson learned, painfully and publicly: Never paint the wheels.

Scouts are all seriousness when it comes to the pinewood derby. A week before the event the cars are weighed and impounded into the hands of the den leaders. Now these men, bedecked in badges and bangles, were standing watch over cars, rechecking the race list and running time tests on the metal four-lane track, which is elevated at one end and runs the length of the American Legion Hall. The track is wired to a computer that shuffles the entrants so each car is raced four times, once in each lane, to guarantee a fair race for all.

The cars are a testament to individuality: Colors rival the rainbow, decorations range from the ubiquitous flame to a glitter, while some cars even sport a driver. Max's car was roughly chiseled and painted a dull black, but its lubed wheels spun free and fast. He had high hopes for this year's car.

About 15 minutes into the derby, Max's name flashed on the screen, his car was lined up against three others and he watched as it zoomed down the track.

It finished fourth.

Moments later, his car was called up again. Another fourth.

His brother's car raced, winning two seconds and two firsts. Then Max's black car was back on the track, this time squeaking over the finish line and snagging a third.

Max wandered over to where I was watching, his shoulders stiff, his brow tenebrous, his eyes pooling. I put my arm around him and squeezed. There was one more race.

It was a personal best.

Four reasons to call yourself a knitter

Dreaming in red.

1. Colors

2. Comics like Wondermark's "In which Wendy is prepared" and Questionable Content's "Large Hadron Crocheter."

3. Quotes like this one from the Victorian era's "Weldon's Practical Knitting"

It does not distract the attention or check the powers of the imagination. It forms a ready resource when a vacuity occurs in conversation; it impairs neither body nor mind, and requires no straining of the eyesight. It may be interrupted without loss, and again resumed without trouble. The whole apparatus is so cheap, needs little room, and is so light that it can be kept and gracefully carried about in a basket, the beauty of which displays the expertness and taste of the fair worker.

4. Convenience

Multitasking.

Linus, limits and a liberal sprinkling of Parmesan

I feel guilty about the cat.

But not guilty enough.

Every morning he scratches at the door separating the kitchen from the garage. I sigh, open it a crack and a cartoon bubble with the word meow floats in as the cat makes a dash for his bed in the living room.

He curls up there and I ignore him until the afternoon, when the squeaks and squawks from clarinet practice drive him back to the door. A second meow rises from his throat, more insistent than the first, and drifts to the stove where I'm making chicken minestrone soup. I crack the door, he slips through and I kick it closed.

Ivan and Chaja making music.

Every night, just after the last child is tucked into bed, there's a scratching at the window. Now that the house is quiet and peaceful again, the cat wants back in. He sits at my feet, looking up, anticipating an invitation, a hand, but I ignore him and the third meow that hovers above my head.

Of the many things I say no to regularly -- the washing of dinner dishes (after all, I made the meal), the diaper change before my morning coffee (no explanation needed), the request to referee a knockdown kid fight that I hadn't witnessed -- it's the cat that gets shortchanged. Always.

I say it's because he makes me sneeze, and that's true. In fact, most of the family won't touch him because of allergies, which begs the question why we own a cat. The answer: He adopted us. One night, during one pregnancy, a skinny, scruffy Tom tabby scratched at the door and wouldn't leave.

He's a house cat who hasn't lost his street smarts, managing to live for another day with a torn ear, abscessed scratches and bloody tail. We clean him up the best we can, then turn him loose again. It's all I'm capable of doing: I can care for my children, my husband, my friends, myself. But I cannot care for the cat.

What are your limits? Learn to say no 20 different ways.

Caring through a cold ...

In the bowl:

Chicken Minestrone Soup

On the side:

An orange and an enthusiastic sprinkler of Parmesan

Chicken Minestrone Soup
adapted from Chinaberry's now defunct newsletter and its customer Tara Pieron

10 cups chicken broth
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 1/2 teaspoons Tabasco sauce
1 teaspoon dried rosemary
1 cup fresh basil, sliced into thin ribbons
1 1/2 cups butternut squash, peeled and diced
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 large onion, chopped
1/2 pound fresh spinach, cut into strips
15-ounce can of chickpeas or garbanzo beans, with their liquid
3 cups fresh tomatoes, chopped, or 2 15-ounce cans
2 cloves garlic, crushed
2 cups chicken, cooked and cubed
6 ounces bow-tie noodles, cooked
Salt
Pepper
Parmesan cheese

In your soup pot, saute onion, garlic, rosemary, oregano in olive oil until soft. Add tomatoes and tomato paste and cook a little longer. Add chicken broth and squash. Bring to a boil, then lower heat to a simmer and cook, covered, for 10 minutes. Add tomatoes, chickpeas, spinach and simmer for 10 more minutes. Finally, add the basil (which I almost never have, so never do) and chicken. Salt and pepper to taste. Just before serving add cooked pasta. (If you plan to freeze the soup, add the pasta to individual bowls rather than the pot.) Ladle into bowls and top with Parmesan.

Hot cocoa taste test

My interest in hot cocoa is related directly and exponentially to the temperature of my toes. The colder they get, the more cocoa I mix in hopes that the elixir will do more than make hot love to my taste buds, but that the afterglow will be felt in my feet.

While I wouldn't bet the farm on instant cocoa, even such a ho-hum cup warms as well as my Smart Wool socks. Additionally, it's the perfect thing to serve to a yard-full of boys hosting their own Olympics and it will entice 11-year-old girls to rejoin humanity after being holed up in the bedroom quizzing each other from the pages of Discovery Girls.

While the reasons we rely on this sugar-cocoa concoction to carry us through the winter are particular to my family, I figured our use was shared by many. And although instant hot cocoa is chock-full of unintelligible and unhealthy preservatives, it needn't be unappetizing. So, with that in mind, one winter evening my family offered itself up as guinea pigs and conducted a taste test of three instant hot cocoa brands found at the grocery store: Swiss Miss, Nestle and Stephen.

With a slew of paper cups and a kettle of water, we sipped, swished and took notes on taste and color, then added the two together for a final score. The testers took their job seriously.

Sam

Max

Chaja

Everyone was happily riding the sugar high and no one wanted the trip to end, so we motored on. More Swiss Miss was ladled into cups and then topped with mini-marshmallows, whipped cream or marshmallow creme. Again, each cup was judged for taste, texture and then received an overall score.

The winners were:

Swiss Miss for its "sweet, uncomplicated flavor" and canned whipped cream for its ability to make even the homeliest cup of cocoa look "picture perfect." It also received high marks for its balance of sugar and vanilla.

Nestle lost points for being too sweet and Stephen received a unanimous thumbs down for tasting "slimy and sour." Marshmallow creme came in second, getting dinged for being "too thick" and "cloying," while mini-marshmallows were dismissed after melting away in 10 seconds.

Our judging sheets were haphazard scribbles, so I tinkered a bit and turned it into something to share with the whole hot cocoa-loving world before we give winter a kiss and a kick out of bed.

Hot Cocoa Judging Sheet

Chapter 5: Dark dreams

Courtesy of Crystl.

An intermittent unfolding of a short story involving a woman, her luck and a randy cockroach. The earlier installments, in chronological order, are: The fall; The blame; Her very own hell; and What happened next.

*

Their meetings in bed were violent encounters: foot shoved against thigh, elbow jabbed into rib, and he would fall out of bed.

Help me! she'd hiss.

Whaa? he'd say.

He fumbled in the darkness, trying to pull it off his body, but the night stuck to the sheets and in his ears like tufts of thundercloud, dark, soft, ominous.

I need help, you fucking idiot.

Her anger crackled like the static electricity in the blankets he was pushing back. His hands glided over lump and limb until he found a small wet face and silky hair. He lifted the bundle up and she cried with pain and alarm: Not that one, he's nursing! The other one! He'd start again with his hands, feeling, feeling. A tiny mouth latched hungrily onto his finger and he picked it up, triggering a new bout of crying.

Downstairs they'd walk from living room to kitchen to hallway and back to living room, a track so well tread he paced it with his eyes shut, arms jiggling the bundle of blankets. It was neither eyes nor ears, but hands that told him which son he held. There was a stubbornness, a stiffness, that came from one boy, a refusal to be cradled and rocked in his father's arms, so the two walked instead.

When the father needed to pee, he'd walk himself and his wailing son into the bathroom, where, with eyes shut, he'd jiggle his son with one arm, and with the other, loosen his pajamas and piss. There was that one night when he opened his eyes because he was splashing all over himself and found that he wasn't in the bathroom but was standing over a kitchen chair, urine running off the seat and spilling on his feet. But tonight was uneventful. Holding his son he tried to slip into bed quietly, but he was big and heavy and the bed bounced, the second baby cried, his wife let out a sleepy hiss and shoved a new crying son into his arms. Once again he was walking through the dark, eyes closed, arms telling him this was a smaller, lighter bundle whose cries would quiet to whimpers and finally ragged breaths. The father slept.

In the light, she woke, felt for her babies and found one.

Just one.

She kicked him, again. Hard.

Where is my baby?

Whaa?

Where's my baby!

He sat up in bed, the memories of the night unrecorded by his eyes that now opened, blinked, irises dilating, contracting.

I don't know.

The words floated above the bed with the dust dancing in the sunlight. He could hear her calls from the kitchen, then the living room, heard them replaced with coos and then the creak and whisper of her feet on the stairs. She climbed back into the bed that separated them, so big and crowded with young bodies.

You put him in the bassinet. He wasn't even crying.

In the darkness beneath the blankets, her cold feet sought his warm ones, touching them softly and gently, asking to be warmed.