susan hayward photography

En Vacances

I don't know if I spelled that right, but it's supposed to say I'm on vacation. The kids and the husband are home this week, so we are spending some quality time together. That is to say, we are wasting brain cells by playing the Wii, watching TV, going to the movies and shopping. But we haven't become complete zombies yet. Only partially. My kids still know how to read. I'm just not sure I do.   

As for the gingerbread cookies, the one and only batch I was going to make this year turned out awful, kind of like what I imagine the desert must taste like, with the texture of sand or maybe baby powder. As you can probably guess, this was quite a disappointment both to me and my family. I'm still trying to figure out two things: 

1. What went wrong? I could have forgotten the white sugar, or the shortening, which I think must be a year old, went rancid. Or, according to my mom, the weather adversely affected my baking (I'm going with this one.) This is the only time these cookies have not turned out. Could it be that I'm jinxed, and should never set foot in the kitchen again? (I can only hope.)

2. Why did I eat four cookies, just to make sure they really did taste as bad as I thought? (Two without frosting, then two more with frosting to verify that nothing could save them.)

Fortunately, my neighbor Janet brought over a plate of goodies just when one of my kids bit into a gingerbread cookie. "What's wrong with these things?" my son asked, grimacing. My husband walked by, cookie in hand. "They taste weird, don't they?" Another kid, standing next to the trash can, licked the frosting off and tossed the cookie into the bin when he thought I wasn't looking. I snatched the cooling rack full of nasty cookies, hurled them into the trash, and noshed on the gift from my Janet instead. (I had to get the taste of sandy gingerbread cookies out of my mouth and that seemed the best way to do it.) Somehow, eating Janet's pecan bars made everything better--at least for a few minutes. 

So you see, it's a good thing I didn't try to bake this Christmas season. Okay, so I baked yesterday, but it was a birthday cake for my oldest. It turned out only slightly better than the gingerbread. When I tried to turn the cake out onto the cooling rack, nothing happened. So I shook the pan. That's when half of the cake reluctantly plopped down to the counter. The other half remained stuck to the pan. So I scraped the batter out with a spatula and attempted to smash the remains back onto their other half. Then I assembled the cake as best I could, hoping that the ganache and frosting would kind of glue it all back together. And it did. Sort of. The cake looked like I made it during an earthquake or while under the influence of drugs. Had you been passing through the kitchen, you might have mistaken it for a science project about plate tectonics. But my boys are not finicky about aesthetics when it comes to birthday cake. Everyone ate a piece without complaint or unwanted critiques. And no one licked the frosting off the top and threw it in the trash when I wasn't looking. Plus, the kitchen smelled divine, all chocolatey and rasberry-ish and positively decadent, just like it should in December. And so, I will return to baking. Next year. But only to make a birthday cake, and only under the influence of Janet's pecan bars.  

Season's Greetings

Not only did I forego making cookies for everyone this year, I never got around to getting Christmas cards out. I bought stamps and everything. But then I thought about it, and realized there just wasn't enough time. So here's a cyber card instead. (Now you don't have to feel guilty about throwing this away!)

From my family to yours, 

Merry Christmas! 

Thanks for reading my blog!

 

Recipe: Gingerbread Cookies (The Soft and Delicious Kind)

Last year I made a million gingerbread cookies, eating half of them myself. By the time I had frosted the last cookie, I could really identify with Ebenezer Scrooge and the Grinch. In the space of ten hours in the kitchen, I felt like I had gained ten pounds and aged ten years. Plus, instead of feeling generous and all warm and fuzzy, my heart had shrunk to the size of a shriveled pea. When my husband came home, picked up a cookie and asked, "How was your day?" I think I answered something like, "Bah-humbug," while shaking a fist at him. And when he asked, "What's wrong with you?" I must have covered my ears and said, "Noise, noise, noise! Just get out of my kitchen so I can wrap these !@%$#%@ cookies and you can deliver them." 

So you see, it was necessary to give up the insanity--er, I mean tradition--of baking millions of cookies. It's too dangerous for me to spend an entire day in the kitchen. Cooking not only makes me nibble on everything within reach, it also brings out my inner axe murderer. This makes me very sad. Christmas should be about peace and love, not felonies. So last year, I wrote a post to myself begging myself to not bake cookies this year. And miraculously, I obeyed. 

But I have had my doubts. I've worried that some look forward to gingerbread cookies every year. (Then again, maybe some dreaded them.) At any rate, I kept my promise to myself to keep things really simple this year. I have to say, that not baking has made for a much, much, much more enjoyable season. (Though I will admit I was tempted on many occasions to pull out the cookie sheets and bake up a storm. But then I came to my senses. Okay, to be honest, I was missing a key ingredient and didn't feel like going to the store, so I bagged the idea.) And I think my husband enjoys coming home to a happier wife who's not up to her elbows in frosting, muttering curses at a cookie mountain that reaches to the ceiling.  

So as a replacement for a plate of cookies on your doorstep, I've decided to post my mother's recipe for soft, delicious gingerbread cookies. This year, my family and I will make a single batch for ourselves. And now that you will have the recipe too, you can do the same. Instead of "Bah, humbug" I say to you, "Bon appetit!"

Jolly Gingerbread Men

1/2 cup butter (don't use margerine. Butter is your friend.)

1/2 cup shortening (I know, bad stuff, shortening. But you need to use it in this recipe to make the cookies soft. If you make these only once a year you can live a little.)

1 cup sugar

1/2 cup brown sugar

1 egg

1/4 cup molasses (my mom likes to use the lighter variety)

3 cups flour

2 teaspoons soda

2 teaspoons cinnamon

1 teaspoon ginger

1/2 teaspoon cloves

1. Cream first six ingredients.

2. Put flour, soda, and spices in a bowl and mix with a whisk (much easier than using a sifter).

3. Combine the wet and dry ingredients.

4. Chill in the fridge for awhile, or just go ahead and start. Chilling will make the dough a bit easier to work with, though. 

5. Roll out the dough to about 1/4 inch thickness or more. (Don't roll your dough too thin or your cookies will either burn or end up crispy, which would not be a good thing.)

6. Cut out dough with any kind of cookie cutter.   

7.Place cut-out cookies on ungreased cookie sheet.

8. Sprinkle with sugar (I always forget this part. Not a big deal.)

9. Put in red hot candies for eyes, if you've used gingerbread boy/girl cookie cutters.

10. Bake at 375 degrees for 7 minutes.

11. Cool cookies on wire racks.

12. Frost with buttercream icing. (Powdered sugar, butter, a little milk, and a little vanilla) 

To make these cookies easier, use simple cookie cutters like circles or squares instead of complicated shapes. After making the dough, cutting the cookies out and baking them, I've usually lost interest when it comes time to frost them. But with simple shapes, frosting doesn't take a lot of time. However, there was the year that my sisters and I got together to bake and I experimented with making anatomically correct gingerbread men. Now that was fun. (Don't worry, I only made one. And we didn't deliver it to the neighbors.) 

  

On Death

I just found out my neighbor's husband passed away Tuesday night. There are days when I wonder why a load of hard things are dumped on one person all at once. This is one of those times. I mean, my neighbor finds out she has cancer, then her husband, who's been in poor health for ages now, goes into the hospital right when she has her first chemo appointment. That's bad enough. But then he dies and she has to go through losing a spouse on top of going through cancer? And at Christmas time? 

I want to ask Heavenly Father how much mortality a person can face in the space of a month. But I think I know the answer, and it's going to have a lot to do with faith. So yes, I'm going to get religious here. But my religion is how I understand things like death. And life too, for that matter. 

Heavenly Father knew when and how Jesus would die even before he was born. And Jesus did, too. I wonder if that made life harder or easier. On the one hand, you'd know you had only a certain amount of time to accomplish something really important. I would think you'd spend less time on the internet (note to myself on that one) and more time with people. But on the other hand, you might spend your life depressed, thinking about how much you'll miss everyone and everything, wondering how much death will hurt and if you could possibly change God's mind and convince him to give you a few more years. Jesus Christ chose to get to work. As far as I know, he didn't succumb to self-pity or debilitating sadness. Instead, as we all know, he lived and died for the benefit of others. 

I suppose that we also reach a point when we realize that we are not going to be here forever. As we are born, so shall we die--that type of thing. Only, most of us don't know exactly when or how it's going to happen. Sometimes we don't even know if we're on board with the plan of leaving everyone behind and going forward to a place we've never seen, a place we only hope exists. But regardless of how we feel about it and how much we do to prevent it, our bodies will give out eventually. But what of our spirits? I do not share in the belief that you live and then you die, and that's the end of the story. Death was not the end of Jesus' story. And it's not the end of ours either.   

And yet, I wonder about the particulars of death. When you stand on the edge of mortality, do you look into darkness or into light? I think it must be light. Maybe for an instant, it will feel like someone switched off a lamp--but just for a second--and when they turn it on again, the room is bright and warm and so full of love you feel like you can touch that love, and breathe it too. The after-life is not scary--at least not to the person passing through this place on the way to another. Quite the contrary. It's like coming in from playing in the snow to find that your mother is there with your favorite blanket, a big cup of hot chocolate and a hug. In all of my pondering, this is what I've come up with: when we grieve the loss of a friend or family member, we mourn for ourselves as well. We mourn with memories of the person we loved, and we mourn for a future without them. But for all we know, they sit next to us, silent and invisible, yet present in our hearts.

So when I think of what my neighbor has lost in the last little while and wonder at the justice of it, I remember what she said when I saw her yesterday. "My husband was in so much pain," she said. "And now he's not." I imagine her husband's relief at finding himself with a healthy spirit, awash in all that light, surrounded by people he knows and loves who arrived before him. Then again, maybe he's sitting on the porch watching the blue birds in the pine trees, watching over his wife. And waiting.

     

Chemo Therapy

Last week I spent the day with a neighbor while she went to her first chemo treatment. It made me grateful for my health. And for my family. And for this woman who is going through such a frightening experience with courage and grace. As I drove her home, she turned to me and said, "This is the most time we've ever spent together." 

It's true. Though we've lived next door to each other for seven years, we don't know each other as well as we could. We've always said hello at the mail box, waived from our cars as our garage doors closed, and often had pleasant conversations while hauling in our garbage cans, but I haven't kept really good track of how she and her husband were getting along. We live yards from each other but once we go inside our houses, we're in our own worlds. 

In October, this same neighbor limped over to my house to give my kids treats for Halloween. When I asked what was wrong with her leg, she replied, "I think I've pulled a muscle." I watched her slowly navigate my front porch steps back to her house, thinking that it might be more than that. Arthritis, or maybe a fracture. Then I closed the door and didn't give it another thought. 

Then around Thanksgiving, I met her again, trying to bring in her garbage can with one hand while holding a crutch in the other. "How's your leg?" I asked as I took the garbage can from her. 

She began to cry. "I've got cancer," she said. I let go of the garbage can and hugged her. It was the only thing I could think of to do. I didn't expect her answer to be cancer. And I suppose neither did she.

"You call me if you need help, all right?" I told her. She nodded vaguely. That's when another neighbor came over and said, "The problem is, she won't do that." Her tone was sharp, directed at both me and our sick neighbor. "You'll have to knock on her door," she added, "or she won't let you know she needs you."

So I took her advice and knocked on my neighbor's door recently. That's when I met her brother, who had been at the house for a week (I didn't know that either.) I gave him our number and begged him to call us. Then I closed the door and prayed that somehow we might be able to help. 

Later on I actually got a call. Through tears, my neighbor asked if I might give her a ride to her first chemo treatment because her husband is in the hospital and can't help right now. Of course I said yes. But there's nothing special about that. My neighbors across the street have offered to do the same. And the neighbor who told me to knock on the door rather than wait for a call has been helping too. We're all desperate to do something. 

As my neighbor and I headed home, I thought of all I'd learned that day. I learned that my neighbor is a fan of Sue Grafton novels, BBC mysteries, and ice cream. I learned that she's the middle child, that her aunts make excellent pies, and she wouldn't mind living in Oregon or Washington, though she likes it here, too. I also learned that though we may not know each other very well, it doesn't matter. Because sometimes neighbors stay strangers. And sometimes, neighbors become friends. And sometimes it takes a crisis for the one to turn into the other. 

   

Between Mother and Child

This is a photograph of a statue in the Church of Jesus Christ Latter Day Saints' art competition. Unfortunately, I did not photograph the artist's name, only the sculpture itself. This morning, while perusing files in Photoshop, I came upon this piece and remembered how it made me feel. It perfectly captures the love between mother and child. Don't you sometimes want to clutch your kids to your heart and never let them go (as opposed to the times when you want to give them a swat on the fanny and kick them out of the house)? 

Recently we've been going through a challenging situation with our oldest, who will still lets me hug him. And hug him I did. My heart felt squeezed to the point of suffocation for days as I worried over him. Everything's right now, or as right as it can be--at least with that child. Now another child has a cold and waits for me upstairs. He asked for a snack as I made my way to the office. This child can be impatient, so I'll make this short. Yesterday, just when I was going to sit down with a good book, I heard, "Room service!" from my son's bedroom. Turns out he wanted a snack. Gatorade, fruit punch flavored. Chilled, no ice. On a tray. In bed. 

Though he is genuinely sick, I can't help but think he's milking this for all it's worth. Unfortunately for him, I'm lactose intolerant.

   

What To Do?

Molly Wizenberg is back on Orangette! After opening a restaurant with her husband, she stopped writing. There just wasn't time to do both. (This sounds so familiar to me. Probably to you, too. It's hard to mix parenting with anything else.) On November 29th, she wrote, "I can hack it [being a restaurant chef], but I am not wired to love it." This is exactly how I feel about some of the many things I've tried through my life. 

First, there was janitorial work, followed by working in a card store. Then, public relations photography. Then teaching literature and writing. When the kids came, I tried my hand at being a stay-at-home mother, which I'm still working on. Then freelance writing. Then portrait photography. Then blogging. Out of all of those, there have been many that I could say, "I can hack it, but I'm not wired to love it." There have also been many jobs that I've tried simply because it seemed the thing to do, because, well, everyone else was doing it.  

Sometimes I've wondered if I've tried some jobs because I wanted to be like the popular people, those with a vast social network and busy Friday nights. But here's the thing: I am not a social person. Never have been. While other kids were going to parties on the weekend, I was home with my best friend watching old movies--and perfectly happy with that. As for a vast network of friends, I'm not a talker. I've noticed that people who are not talkers don't generally have 500 people on their facebook friends list. (Ironically, people don't actually talk to each other on facebook, they write.)  I'd much rather write ten thousand emails than talk on the phone. (Although I do occasionally enjoy a good conversation with close friends and family on the phone. But anyone can tell you that I frequently say stupid things during a verbal conversation. And often I don't make any sense whatsoever.) And you know what? I'm okay with that. 

But the question I have is, what am I wired to love? And why am I asking anyone other than myself this?The next question is, are talents and preferences genetically encoded, or are they cultivated? Perhaps a little bit of both? 

At any rate, I can tell you that I won't ever enjoy cleaning on a regular basis. It will never give me that little zing that says, "Yes!"  Right now my house is clean according to my low standards. But I'm not deliriously happy about it. I do not feel complete, like I've fulfilled my life's purpose. So I think I'll go hang out at the library and look through the books until I find something that zings. Or maybe I should stay here, writing about whatever pops into my head. Now that would be a zinger.  

A New Kind of Library

Yesterday on BBC The World, I heard about this excellent idea for a mini-library--a re-purposed British phone booth. Remember those? You'd go in this little box, put some money in a phone, and make a phone call. Come to think of it, the last time I was in a phone booth was in London quite a few years ago. 

The phone booth library has my little nine-foot bookshelves beat by a mile. Plus, it would fit perfectly in my bathroom,if you take out the shower. Hey, that gives me an idea. I wonder if I could buy an old phone booth from England (I don't want an American one that sat outside a 7-11 and smells funny), rip out my shower, install bookshelves in the booth, and make my own lavatory library. Brilliant. I'll get right on it.

You can read and listen to the story about it here. 

The Dark Death of Doom

Over the weekend my youngest constructed this tunnel of doom using our ugly couch we affectionately refer to as "The Beast." 

Not only did he title his fort on the outside, he posted various warning signs inside, too.

This was one of my personal favorites, a robot man with patched clothes who couldn't think of anything to say but "BIG BLACK SQUARE." 

When I woke up Monday morning with a million things to do and no desire to do them, I found the tunnel. I liked the look of it, how a person could crawl in there and be completely alone, hidden, but only temporarily. I liked it so much that I pulled out my camera and scooted around inside the labyrinth of pillows and books. It reminded me of how, as a kid, I would sit in my closet with the door closed, a lamp and a book to keep me company. 

One day my mom found me in my closet, happily reading a Trixie Belden mystery. (She must have followed the lamp cord). The door opened with a loud creak and my mother poked her head in. She looked at me with a worried expression. "Are you trying to hide from the world?" she asked. I took her tone of voice to mean that this was a bad thing. Now that I'm a mother too, I wonder if she might have been more envious than worried. There have been many times when I wanted to hunker down in the closet with a good book and a small reading light. But my kids would have sniffed me out. They always do. 

I looked up at my mom, my book open on my lap, sitting cross-legged in a nest made out of clean and dirty clothes. "What's wrong with that?" I said. I don't recall if my mother closed the door or if she made me come out. But I do remember the soft circle of light from the lamp. I remember the smell of clean and dirty clothes mingled with the scent of a book printed on cheap paper. And I remember how it felt to escape, both physically and mentally. I was safe in that little closet, snug and warm among my fictional friends in my closet cave. It was like being in the womb.

 

So, Monday. Doing the soldier crawl through my kid's tunnel. Wondering how to make it through a day of laundry and cleaning--again. This is when I came upon warning sign two, a man without fingers jumping, his teeth in need of a serious cleaning. He reminds me that I still need to brush my teeth. And get dressed. And do the laundry. I decide to call him the Laundry Monster. 

And then, at the end of the tunnel, a spidery looking thing with long legs and many arms. I imagine my son's thought process on this one. Perhaps he was thinking of how many times I say, "I only have two arms, you know," when he asks me to simultaneously cook dinner and find his lost (yet again) soccer ball. I call this one Multi-Tasking Momma. When I look closer, I notice that this monster doesn't have a mouth, just saggy arms and a long snout. Is this a picture of me? Does my son wish that I couldn't speak, so he gave me two little specks for eyes, long legs, and multiple arms? 

I worry about this. It feels like I've opened the closet door to find him drawing weird pictures of monsters that may or may not represent people in his real life. And this tunnel--does it mean something? And then I hear myself thinking, "Is he trying to hide from the world?" 

That's when I crawl out, my head rubbing against the blanket roof as I do so. My hair crackles from static electricity when I stand and I can feel strands stretching out from my face as if reaching towards the light coming from the window. Of course he's trying to hide from the world. Come to think of it, I am too. And what's wrong with that? Nothing, really. Unless you're Multi-Tasking Momma and you've got the Laundry Monster on your tail.