Sunday evening, six girls ventured out on a "trail run". Anne, the Vietnamese head director showed us a path and told us to weave around for a few kilometers and then to come back because it wasn't a long loop. I led the pack at a comfortable pace and told them we'd go for fifteen minutes out and then just turn around and head back to camp. The first part of the run was thin...we could only run single-file. But about ninety seconds into the run, we were basically doing a high knee drill because the grasses were so tall around the path that we couldn't run normally.
And then there was the tree branch. I yelled out to the other girls to hurdle over the obstacle but soon heard their shock when they found themselves face-to-face with the branch. We lost two girls to the jungle run. Yes, it was a jungle run.
Continuing down the path, Sophia and I saw a man in the distance. Realizing we were still five on one, we decided to keep up the pace and pass him by with a friendly "Sin jow!". He replied and off we went, unknown brush still sweeping over our legs.
But suddenly the path opened up and we were able to run about three people side-by-side...for a hundred meters. And then the brush took over the path completely. We were lucky to have steered away from snakes, but when the path was completely hidden we opted for running alongside a large field on a matted down area.
And this is the conversation that followed:
Lauren: I feel like we're on someone's property.
Sophia: I feel like this might have been some kind of war battlefield.
::STOP DEAD IN OUR TRACKS::
Both: LANDMINES!!!
Needless to say, we turned the hell around after only running for nine minutes and booked it back to camp. I'm sure they wouldn't have sent us out on a path that potentially had landmines still, but we weren't risking anything...especially since we were on a new piece of the trail.
The pace picked up on the way back and I could feel the earth crumble under me. The run felt like a rescue mission. I was covered in some kind of mud and had a bead of sweat running from the corner of my forehead, down alongside my temple. My breath was steady, focused. Yet I wore a smile. I finally realized I was in Vietnam...not when I ate fish on a stick or showered in river water, but when I went on a jungle run with my new friends and month-long family.
*******************
For some reason, we were dumb enough to wake up this morning, Monday, and workout at 5 am. (Hence the title.) Sophia, Ania, Amy, Keara, Lindsay, and myself all rolled out of bed to the rooster cackling, threw on our still-sweaty shorts and stepped out on the porch to go through a circuit. Thank goodness we're all athletes, otherwise we'd just sit around eating Vietnamese peanut butter all morning.
Lunges, squats, burpies, pushups, and leg extensions flew by. We joked around during our sets of twenty, even talked about how gruesome our track circuits are during the year and winter breaks. Swapping stories worked perfectly until the final move...the plank hold. Dripping in sweat, bug spray, and day-old sunscreen, we attempted to hold ourselves up on the tile flooring while mosquitoes picked us off three at a time. With my head down, the only communication I could understand was the rapid blowing sound coming out of the girls' mouths when they noticed a mosquito closing in on their skin.
The sun rose as we started our second set, and we heard the village start its day. Trucks and mo-peds roared by as we lifted our knees for fifteen seconds and slipped all over the tile for twelve tricep pushups. A lovely way to start the ten hour work-day, in Vietnam.
And I think tomorrow we're going to try for another run...hopefully one that involves an actual road...or maybe we'll just bring along a flashlight for the woods.
I promise to write about school soon. Day one was fantastic and I already called dibs on two Vietnamese boys that I plan on taking home with me. They are quite possibly the most adorable eleven year olds I have ever seen. And yes, I am having a BLAST teaching English to them. Not only are they energetic but they are respectful and really try to pronounce each word correctly. Amazing effort, even better results.
Peace, love, and early workouts!
Monday, July 25, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Never have I ever...
Ever played this game before? I can honestly say I have not. So maybe that should be my first "Never have I ever...", too bad I don't have a beer to drink alongside this game we're about to play. See how many of these you have experienced?
1. seen a mother roll up a magazine and use it on her child.
That was my welcome into Narita/Tokyo airport. A screaming child, being dragged across the floor while his mother yelled at him and smacked him across the face. Thomas, a coach from another camp, and I just watched as we stepped onto their version of the air-train. Nobody else even seemed to notice. What shocked me more than the loud display of histerics was when the mother gave in and pulled out a magazine from her bag. She then rolled it up and smacked the boy with it...like a dog. I'm not exactly sure what the boy did to deserve such a punishment but everyone seemed to ignore it all together. From that point on though, all I saw were smiling faces and bowing heads as I made my way through the airport.
2. seen five people on a mo-ped...
My first five minutes into Ho Chi Minh City I felt like were straight out of the first five minutes of the India scene in "Eat, Pray, Love". How cliche, I know. But honestly that's what it felt like. The taxi driver honked at every driver and people were flying by in mo-peds. Not really any cars were on the road,aside from taxis and work trucks, but there were hundreds of mo-peds swerving in and out on the lanes. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw not two people on a mo-ped, nor three or four, but five people on this thing. A man was driving, two small children were wedged behind, a seemingly mother-like character completed the sandwich, with a little on holding on for dear life behind the rest. It was one of the strangest things I have ever seen. To be honest, I'm not sure why there were lane-lines painted on the road either. And forget about installing a new blinker when the old one goes out, nobody uses them anyway.
3. woken up to a rooster...
I find it strange that I grew up in the Midwest, but have never heard a rooster sound at dawn. My first night in Ho Chi Minh City, I shared a bed with my new friend, Sophia. Later the next day, I would call it snuggle time-- even without hardly knowing a thing about her. Beside the point though. We set our alarm for 6:30 am so we could shower and repack a little before breakfast and the 8 am departure. However, I woke up to the sound of a rooster, a very stereotypically sounding rooster, and the sun shining in my face. I was terrified we had missed our alarms and it was already 7:30 or so. But, living in Miami for so long has clearly done me wrong...because everywhere else in the world the sun rises before 7 am. Checking my watch, I see that it is 5:12 am. And the sun was already rising. Clouds of reds and soft orange painted the sky and the rising sun glowed peacefully as the rooster cackled away.
4. eaten a loaf of bread for breakfast...
Madame Cuc Hotel offered a lovely breakfast of margarine, homemade raspberry jam, green tea, coffee, juice, and a loaf of bread. It was pretty hollow inside, but warm. We also feasted on bananas. I have eaten toast plenty of times, but never a piece of bread that looks like the five-dollar footlong bread. Tasty, but different. And apparently that will be our breakfast each day in Hoa An. The carb-lover can live on!!
5. had tea at three different times throughout the day...
Tea for breakfast, green. Tea on our boat tour, jasmine. With Vietnamese candies of course. It was a toursit tea-party. Seasame candies, peanut brittle, banana chips, ginger candy, and tapioca poppers. And then there was the jasmine tea...which I bought an entire canister of for $2. Yes, I said two dollars. Eat your heart out, Whole Foods. Our third tea-time was just before lunch with a huge serving of chom-choms (I like to call them fuzzy berries that look like alien babies inside), watermelon with chile powder and salt, jackfruit, and super-sweet lychees. So yes, tea three times before lunch.
6. drank snake wine...
If you think it's sexy when a girl can shoot whiskey, you should throw her a shot of snake wine...or seven. It starts out as rice, becomes rice wine after a fermenting and cooking process, and then for six long months King Cobras soak in the juices, making their own flavored wine. If you're not quite ready to take on something potentially poisonous and stronger than an Jack concoction you have had, then banana wine or plain rice wine might be up your alley. But of course, being the brave Americans we are, we all wanted to taste the snake wine. And my-oh-my, that was some strong liquor. My hat's off to you, Vietnam.
7. drank straight from a coconut...
Don't worry, the allergic reaction was only a few minutes long!! We stepped back onto our boat tour and we're all handed a fresh coconut with a straw sticking out. Then we found out it was real coconut water...and by that, I mean coconut milk with river water mixed inside. Nom-nom? Actually, it wasn't bad. Though one of the girls did compare it to something that tastes like B.O. water. After that, I wasn't as enthused to drink it down. Not to mention, my tongue was swelling at an insaenely fast pace. Needless to say, I tossed the liquid and the coconut over the side of the boat and watched it bob arounding the Mekong River.
8. eaten a fish that still looks like a fish.
I told myself I would eat fsh that still looks like a fish before I eat dog on this trip. Little did I know, that would happen on the very first day. My first real meal in Vietnam was an elephant ear fish wrapped in rice pape with cucumber and pineapple. I took two bites. Baby steps. Alongside the fish wrap I had a veggie wrap and a prawn. Yes, the waitress ripped the heads off on my corner of the table. Eesh. But then they brought out some rice (thank the Heavens! 'An com...') and a soup with noodles, veggies, and some kind of meatball. Which I later found out were fish balls. Joy. The platter that saved the day was the pork. Go figure. We devoured that dish, as well as most of the rice platter. But I can now say that I have eaten fish on a stick.
9. been so happy to drink 7-Up...
At our first dinner in Hoa An, we were served fried egg, rice, grilled pork, and tofu. But we had a choic of what we drank. And I had 7-Up. Forget that I haven't really had soda in months, but it was quite literally the best thing I've digested in two days. Maybe it's just because it felt comfortable, American. I'm sure that's what it was. All the food I've had has been so fresh, and incredible. But it doesn't feel like home. I guess that's the point of it all, right? Right.
10. taken such a cold shower...
Outdoor shower paired with the toilet. One shower head, and freezing cold water. Check, and check. Refreshing as hell, but shocking to start the day with. Peaceful, minus the spider webs hanging over my head. I used to hate Steve Erwin, but lately I find myself wishing I had paid more attention to his shows.
It's 7 am here, about to head out for another bread breakfast. Hair is wet, and bug spray has been applied. Orientation is today, so bring on the kiddies and barefoot soccer play. Until next tie, peace and love to ya'll.
1. seen a mother roll up a magazine and use it on her child.
That was my welcome into Narita/Tokyo airport. A screaming child, being dragged across the floor while his mother yelled at him and smacked him across the face. Thomas, a coach from another camp, and I just watched as we stepped onto their version of the air-train. Nobody else even seemed to notice. What shocked me more than the loud display of histerics was when the mother gave in and pulled out a magazine from her bag. She then rolled it up and smacked the boy with it...like a dog. I'm not exactly sure what the boy did to deserve such a punishment but everyone seemed to ignore it all together. From that point on though, all I saw were smiling faces and bowing heads as I made my way through the airport.
2. seen five people on a mo-ped...
My first five minutes into Ho Chi Minh City I felt like were straight out of the first five minutes of the India scene in "Eat, Pray, Love". How cliche, I know. But honestly that's what it felt like. The taxi driver honked at every driver and people were flying by in mo-peds. Not really any cars were on the road,aside from taxis and work trucks, but there were hundreds of mo-peds swerving in and out on the lanes. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw not two people on a mo-ped, nor three or four, but five people on this thing. A man was driving, two small children were wedged behind, a seemingly mother-like character completed the sandwich, with a little on holding on for dear life behind the rest. It was one of the strangest things I have ever seen. To be honest, I'm not sure why there were lane-lines painted on the road either. And forget about installing a new blinker when the old one goes out, nobody uses them anyway.
3. woken up to a rooster...
I find it strange that I grew up in the Midwest, but have never heard a rooster sound at dawn. My first night in Ho Chi Minh City, I shared a bed with my new friend, Sophia. Later the next day, I would call it snuggle time-- even without hardly knowing a thing about her. Beside the point though. We set our alarm for 6:30 am so we could shower and repack a little before breakfast and the 8 am departure. However, I woke up to the sound of a rooster, a very stereotypically sounding rooster, and the sun shining in my face. I was terrified we had missed our alarms and it was already 7:30 or so. But, living in Miami for so long has clearly done me wrong...because everywhere else in the world the sun rises before 7 am. Checking my watch, I see that it is 5:12 am. And the sun was already rising. Clouds of reds and soft orange painted the sky and the rising sun glowed peacefully as the rooster cackled away.
4. eaten a loaf of bread for breakfast...
Madame Cuc Hotel offered a lovely breakfast of margarine, homemade raspberry jam, green tea, coffee, juice, and a loaf of bread. It was pretty hollow inside, but warm. We also feasted on bananas. I have eaten toast plenty of times, but never a piece of bread that looks like the five-dollar footlong bread. Tasty, but different. And apparently that will be our breakfast each day in Hoa An. The carb-lover can live on!!
5. had tea at three different times throughout the day...
Tea for breakfast, green. Tea on our boat tour, jasmine. With Vietnamese candies of course. It was a toursit tea-party. Seasame candies, peanut brittle, banana chips, ginger candy, and tapioca poppers. And then there was the jasmine tea...which I bought an entire canister of for $2. Yes, I said two dollars. Eat your heart out, Whole Foods. Our third tea-time was just before lunch with a huge serving of chom-choms (I like to call them fuzzy berries that look like alien babies inside), watermelon with chile powder and salt, jackfruit, and super-sweet lychees. So yes, tea three times before lunch.
6. drank snake wine...
If you think it's sexy when a girl can shoot whiskey, you should throw her a shot of snake wine...or seven. It starts out as rice, becomes rice wine after a fermenting and cooking process, and then for six long months King Cobras soak in the juices, making their own flavored wine. If you're not quite ready to take on something potentially poisonous and stronger than an Jack concoction you have had, then banana wine or plain rice wine might be up your alley. But of course, being the brave Americans we are, we all wanted to taste the snake wine. And my-oh-my, that was some strong liquor. My hat's off to you, Vietnam.
7. drank straight from a coconut...
Don't worry, the allergic reaction was only a few minutes long!! We stepped back onto our boat tour and we're all handed a fresh coconut with a straw sticking out. Then we found out it was real coconut water...and by that, I mean coconut milk with river water mixed inside. Nom-nom? Actually, it wasn't bad. Though one of the girls did compare it to something that tastes like B.O. water. After that, I wasn't as enthused to drink it down. Not to mention, my tongue was swelling at an insaenely fast pace. Needless to say, I tossed the liquid and the coconut over the side of the boat and watched it bob arounding the Mekong River.
8. eaten a fish that still looks like a fish.
I told myself I would eat fsh that still looks like a fish before I eat dog on this trip. Little did I know, that would happen on the very first day. My first real meal in Vietnam was an elephant ear fish wrapped in rice pape with cucumber and pineapple. I took two bites. Baby steps. Alongside the fish wrap I had a veggie wrap and a prawn. Yes, the waitress ripped the heads off on my corner of the table. Eesh. But then they brought out some rice (thank the Heavens! 'An com...') and a soup with noodles, veggies, and some kind of meatball. Which I later found out were fish balls. Joy. The platter that saved the day was the pork. Go figure. We devoured that dish, as well as most of the rice platter. But I can now say that I have eaten fish on a stick.
9. been so happy to drink 7-Up...
At our first dinner in Hoa An, we were served fried egg, rice, grilled pork, and tofu. But we had a choic of what we drank. And I had 7-Up. Forget that I haven't really had soda in months, but it was quite literally the best thing I've digested in two days. Maybe it's just because it felt comfortable, American. I'm sure that's what it was. All the food I've had has been so fresh, and incredible. But it doesn't feel like home. I guess that's the point of it all, right? Right.
10. taken such a cold shower...
Outdoor shower paired with the toilet. One shower head, and freezing cold water. Check, and check. Refreshing as hell, but shocking to start the day with. Peaceful, minus the spider webs hanging over my head. I used to hate Steve Erwin, but lately I find myself wishing I had paid more attention to his shows.
It's 7 am here, about to head out for another bread breakfast. Hair is wet, and bug spray has been applied. Orientation is today, so bring on the kiddies and barefoot soccer play. Until next tie, peace and love to ya'll.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
"Community is where humility and glory touch."
Henri Nouwen said that quote. I'm not entirely sure what his impact on the world was outside of writing and the Catholic Church, but this quote rings in my ears as I pack for Vietnam. Stuffing every last possibly supply into my bag, I have to stop and wonder what my intentions for this trip are. Of course I want to work with children and to begin my journey as a coach and teacher. But what experiences do I intend to have? And am I really leaving the States behind and going to a third-world country while carrying along an electrical converter and bottles of bug-spray? I can't help but stop and ask myself if I will truly be able to immerse myself into this culture. Last summer was easy....I speak French. So naturally, while there I spoke French. And it worked out fine. I made a few cultural faux-pas along the way, but in the end I could honestly say I wanted to move to France. Will this summer be the same? Or will I only be an outsider stepping in to help out for a few short weeks, only to move on to bigger and better things back in the Western World? At one point am I no longer helping them, but only helping myself?
I have carpet. I have an alarm system. I even have a washing machine. I may find it exciting and eye-opening to wash my clothes in a sink full of river water for three weeks. I may even find it exciting to try snake wine, or eel noodle soup...but what am I really giving back to them? If I am to become a part of their community, I have to step out of my comfort zone and into the wild (no put-down intended). There will be spiders as big as my palm living in my dorm room. There may or may not be bits of animals I've sworn to never eat in my soup. But what I'm really going to try to experience is much more than third-world living and Asian cuisine. What I'm going to try to experience is a unique perspective from the people themselves. I tried to learn a few words of Vietnamese, but have yet to really memorize anything solid. It's not just the language I am working towards understanding, but the everyday living of the people themselves. And I supposed one goal of mine is to somehow improve their daily living in the smallest way, whether that be through an activity the whole family can do at the end of a meal, or even to inspire just one child to continue going to school or continue playing sports. My goal isn't to change who I am, though I'm sure I've been pretending that is it. My goal is to change the lives of people who truly need it.
One more question I must ask...I already know it's going to rain cats and dogs the whole time I'm there, but do I really need a camping towel?
I have carpet. I have an alarm system. I even have a washing machine. I may find it exciting and eye-opening to wash my clothes in a sink full of river water for three weeks. I may even find it exciting to try snake wine, or eel noodle soup...but what am I really giving back to them? If I am to become a part of their community, I have to step out of my comfort zone and into the wild (no put-down intended). There will be spiders as big as my palm living in my dorm room. There may or may not be bits of animals I've sworn to never eat in my soup. But what I'm really going to try to experience is much more than third-world living and Asian cuisine. What I'm going to try to experience is a unique perspective from the people themselves. I tried to learn a few words of Vietnamese, but have yet to really memorize anything solid. It's not just the language I am working towards understanding, but the everyday living of the people themselves. And I supposed one goal of mine is to somehow improve their daily living in the smallest way, whether that be through an activity the whole family can do at the end of a meal, or even to inspire just one child to continue going to school or continue playing sports. My goal isn't to change who I am, though I'm sure I've been pretending that is it. My goal is to change the lives of people who truly need it.
One more question I must ask...I already know it's going to rain cats and dogs the whole time I'm there, but do I really need a camping towel?
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
from instant pudding to homemade requests.
People ask me almost everyday where I learned to bake, or rather, why I seem to be so passionate about baking. The response I usually give is short and sweet, in a classic drawn-out kind of way. It sounds something like, "Well, from a very young age, both my grandmothers taught me how to bake. And it kind of stuck with me." And it's all true, just not complete.
After my parents split up, I found myself spending afternoons with my maternal grandmother. Everyday after school I would ride the bus to her house and wait for my mother to pick up my sister and I after she got off work. Sometimes we had a knitting lesson, learning to make washcloths or potholders (basically anything Grandma needed to replace around the house), but more often than not, I had a baking lesson. It started off simple, learning how to make peanut-butter crackers. I know what you're thinking, 'Peanut butter crackers are easy to make, who needs a lesson in that?' I didn't need a lesson,, per se, but my Grandma was determined to teach me how to become more independent, as I'm sure my daily water works when my mom left in her car were starting to grow old. So we started simple. Learning how to spread peanut butter. And soon after that we moved onto instant Jello Pudding from a package. And man oh man I thought that was just Top Chef material.
Every few days I would climb up on the counter and sit down next to the sink and dump this huge package of brown powder into a gigantic bowl. Then I would get to carefully pour milk into a cup (over a larger cup to catch my inevitable spillage) and then we'd set a timer and I'd whisk away for five minutes straight. I'm sure my whisking skills were comparable to every other five year old at the time-- uneven and messy. Maybe that's why we always baked by the sink?
Probably what I loved most about the pudding mix was getting to pour the batter into these delicate little glasses my Grandma only used for our afternoons together. We would separate the pudding into fours and then place the china into the fridge to let it set. And I could never wait for the pudding to get cold, we'd always eat one right away. Everyday after that I'd check back to see if we needed to make more pudding, hoping I'd get to use the big whisk.
At Christmas time, my Grandma would have my sister and I over for a baking session. We'd get out our cutest little aprons to protect our Christmas dresses, and she would let us destroy her kitchen for the entire afternoon. The scent of the cookies would overtake the house and even lure my grandfather from his den every once in a while. We made sugar cookies, cutout cookies, chocolate chip, butterscotch crunchies, almond cookies, and everything in between. The day was not over until every tin was filled. At the time, my sister was old enough to handle the mixer and the smaller measurements, so I was in charge of measuring everything light and easy to see.
I will never forget my very first lesson in measuring flour. I was handed a giant spoon, and a one cup measure. Next to me sat the big ceramic container of flour. My grandma took my hand and told me to scoop the flour into the cup. So I did what any child would do, I scooped until it was full and then started smashing it down with the back of the spoon to make room for more. Oh no, precious, don't pack the flour down. That will make the batter too dense. Flour has to be handled gently, explained my grandma. She took my hands in hers and showed me the proper way.
1. Scoop flour into the cup
2. Take a knife and chop the top lightly.
3. Use the knife (back side, not serrated!) to slide off the excess flour
And from that moment on, I knew my baking had to be precise. But my grandmother being the amazing woman she is, made baking look effortless. Actually, both my grandmothers make cooking and baking look flawless. But who wouldn't be able to when you're this beautiful?
Maternal Grandmother Sexton
Paternal Grandmother Phipps
I give them full-credit for my tree-climbing abilities and somewhat frequent public displays of half-nudity.
Anyhow, my paternal Grandmother has been an inspiration when it comes to baking as well. Her kitchen was constantly going when I was younger, and to this day it mostly still is. She either had hot dogs boiling for kids, or a pork tenderloin tenderizing in the oven. When it came to our afternoon visits, we always had apple slices and popcorn waiting for our movie, and when it ended, it was time to bake cupcakes to take home to my Mom. I still don't know how she got her icing to be so fluffy and light, even after having the recipe for a few years, but I was always impressed with her ability to make light and fluffy cupcakes and cookies with very little effort. She didn't wear an apron. She usually had on a blouse, her gold egg-shaped jewelry (rings, earrings and necklace) along with her perfectly polished nails and Chanel Number Five perfume sprayed on lightly. I couldn't leave her house without at least two lipstick prints on my face, a Bounce sheet in my pants pocket to ward off mosquitoes, and a container filled with her baked goods....and of course the occasional Coca-Cola for the road.
Her cookies were loaded with butter, rich sweet cream butter, and they just broke off and melted in your mouth. Snack time soon became a two or three times per day affair, and left us always wondering what would be on the menu later that day. My grandma could also make a semi-homemade dessert look and taste fully homemade. One of my favorite creations that she made was my Dad's Boston Cream Birthday Pie, and I believe about half of it was typically from store-bought materials. But she didn't look up how to make it home-made, she just created. She understood the consistency of every ingredient involved and knew what the final would need to be like, and from that point on she just dove right in.
Many afternoons were spent with my Grandparents, and that alone makes me one of the luckiest people in the world. Not only did I have the opportunity to live in the same city as both sets of grandparents, but I had ample opportunity of spending time with them and learning about their lives, while they shaped mine. I've probably adopted my maternal grandmother's perception and understanding of baking, but I adopted my paternal grandmother's ability to take this science to a new level. My passion for baking didn't just come from my Grandmothers, it came from some internal feeling I've learned to love about baking. Some days I bake because I'm sad. I bake because my world is crumbling around me, with no sense of direction, and all I want is for something to make sense. And baking makes sense. Plus, it's a great way to sort things out in my head, especially when there's no chance to go out for an hour long run!
I also bake because I like to make people happy. The first time they bite into something incredible, their face lights up. And that face is simply priceless. It's like watching a child open their first gift on Christmas morning. Nothing can compare. I may have moved on from boxed pudding and mis-measuring ingredients, but I cherish every step I've taken along the way. And now I find myself dreaming about new recipes, creating them while I'm at work without a task to complete. I even dream of opening my own bakery one day, maybe a non-profit organization designed to give back to the community in one way or another. Bring on the smiles. And the butter too, of course.
So there you have it...my story, in a very expanded nutshell. And yes, I do take baking requests.
After my parents split up, I found myself spending afternoons with my maternal grandmother. Everyday after school I would ride the bus to her house and wait for my mother to pick up my sister and I after she got off work. Sometimes we had a knitting lesson, learning to make washcloths or potholders (basically anything Grandma needed to replace around the house), but more often than not, I had a baking lesson. It started off simple, learning how to make peanut-butter crackers. I know what you're thinking, 'Peanut butter crackers are easy to make, who needs a lesson in that?' I didn't need a lesson,, per se, but my Grandma was determined to teach me how to become more independent, as I'm sure my daily water works when my mom left in her car were starting to grow old. So we started simple. Learning how to spread peanut butter. And soon after that we moved onto instant Jello Pudding from a package. And man oh man I thought that was just Top Chef material.
Every few days I would climb up on the counter and sit down next to the sink and dump this huge package of brown powder into a gigantic bowl. Then I would get to carefully pour milk into a cup (over a larger cup to catch my inevitable spillage) and then we'd set a timer and I'd whisk away for five minutes straight. I'm sure my whisking skills were comparable to every other five year old at the time-- uneven and messy. Maybe that's why we always baked by the sink?
Probably what I loved most about the pudding mix was getting to pour the batter into these delicate little glasses my Grandma only used for our afternoons together. We would separate the pudding into fours and then place the china into the fridge to let it set. And I could never wait for the pudding to get cold, we'd always eat one right away. Everyday after that I'd check back to see if we needed to make more pudding, hoping I'd get to use the big whisk.
At Christmas time, my Grandma would have my sister and I over for a baking session. We'd get out our cutest little aprons to protect our Christmas dresses, and she would let us destroy her kitchen for the entire afternoon. The scent of the cookies would overtake the house and even lure my grandfather from his den every once in a while. We made sugar cookies, cutout cookies, chocolate chip, butterscotch crunchies, almond cookies, and everything in between. The day was not over until every tin was filled. At the time, my sister was old enough to handle the mixer and the smaller measurements, so I was in charge of measuring everything light and easy to see.
I will never forget my very first lesson in measuring flour. I was handed a giant spoon, and a one cup measure. Next to me sat the big ceramic container of flour. My grandma took my hand and told me to scoop the flour into the cup. So I did what any child would do, I scooped until it was full and then started smashing it down with the back of the spoon to make room for more. Oh no, precious, don't pack the flour down. That will make the batter too dense. Flour has to be handled gently, explained my grandma. She took my hands in hers and showed me the proper way.
1. Scoop flour into the cup
2. Take a knife and chop the top lightly.
3. Use the knife (back side, not serrated!) to slide off the excess flour
And from that moment on, I knew my baking had to be precise. But my grandmother being the amazing woman she is, made baking look effortless. Actually, both my grandmothers make cooking and baking look flawless. But who wouldn't be able to when you're this beautiful?
Maternal Grandmother Sexton
Paternal Grandmother Phipps
I give them full-credit for my tree-climbing abilities and somewhat frequent public displays of half-nudity.
Anyhow, my paternal Grandmother has been an inspiration when it comes to baking as well. Her kitchen was constantly going when I was younger, and to this day it mostly still is. She either had hot dogs boiling for kids, or a pork tenderloin tenderizing in the oven. When it came to our afternoon visits, we always had apple slices and popcorn waiting for our movie, and when it ended, it was time to bake cupcakes to take home to my Mom. I still don't know how she got her icing to be so fluffy and light, even after having the recipe for a few years, but I was always impressed with her ability to make light and fluffy cupcakes and cookies with very little effort. She didn't wear an apron. She usually had on a blouse, her gold egg-shaped jewelry (rings, earrings and necklace) along with her perfectly polished nails and Chanel Number Five perfume sprayed on lightly. I couldn't leave her house without at least two lipstick prints on my face, a Bounce sheet in my pants pocket to ward off mosquitoes, and a container filled with her baked goods....and of course the occasional Coca-Cola for the road.
Her cookies were loaded with butter, rich sweet cream butter, and they just broke off and melted in your mouth. Snack time soon became a two or three times per day affair, and left us always wondering what would be on the menu later that day. My grandma could also make a semi-homemade dessert look and taste fully homemade. One of my favorite creations that she made was my Dad's Boston Cream Birthday Pie, and I believe about half of it was typically from store-bought materials. But she didn't look up how to make it home-made, she just created. She understood the consistency of every ingredient involved and knew what the final would need to be like, and from that point on she just dove right in.
Many afternoons were spent with my Grandparents, and that alone makes me one of the luckiest people in the world. Not only did I have the opportunity to live in the same city as both sets of grandparents, but I had ample opportunity of spending time with them and learning about their lives, while they shaped mine. I've probably adopted my maternal grandmother's perception and understanding of baking, but I adopted my paternal grandmother's ability to take this science to a new level. My passion for baking didn't just come from my Grandmothers, it came from some internal feeling I've learned to love about baking. Some days I bake because I'm sad. I bake because my world is crumbling around me, with no sense of direction, and all I want is for something to make sense. And baking makes sense. Plus, it's a great way to sort things out in my head, especially when there's no chance to go out for an hour long run!
I also bake because I like to make people happy. The first time they bite into something incredible, their face lights up. And that face is simply priceless. It's like watching a child open their first gift on Christmas morning. Nothing can compare. I may have moved on from boxed pudding and mis-measuring ingredients, but I cherish every step I've taken along the way. And now I find myself dreaming about new recipes, creating them while I'm at work without a task to complete. I even dream of opening my own bakery one day, maybe a non-profit organization designed to give back to the community in one way or another. Bring on the smiles. And the butter too, of course.
So there you have it...my story, in a very expanded nutshell. And yes, I do take baking requests.
Monday, June 6, 2011
And it happens sometime around midnight.
The overwhelming silence enters the room. Lights may be on, but mostly just the moonlight dances across the floor. When the door shuts every ounce of hope leaves with the ventilated air. The room feels stifling yet large in it's own right. Cross the floor the bed is not made and the single impression still remains. The single spot where the sheets crinkle, where the comforter has been moved around. The only heat generated comes from a faithful dog-- the only ally in this spot. A deep sigh comes with shutting off the final light. Getting into bed feels heavy and precise. Never sliding over into the middle, the same empty side remains untouched and waiting for its usual occupant. That same empty side silences any pleasant dream and waking up to it each morning only serves as a reminder for what should be there...
Friday, May 27, 2011
i hate baking cocoa.
Well, not really. But it is quite possibly the only relationship in my life I can define as love/hate. There are far too many dimensions to baking cocoa, and an even longer list of things that can go wrong when baking with it. So normally my baking cocoa stays tucked away in my cabinets, growing older and richer over time. And then of course there comes the occasional recipe I feel like playing around with-- whether it be my Chocolate Peanut Butter Shaysters, Tuxedo Chip Cookies, or even just a chocolate cheesecake. I head to the store to scrounge up some supplies...and inevitably buy yet another can of said baking cocoa! So now the oldie has a new younger sibling to hang out in the cobwebs with.
This week I found myself with a bag of white chocolate chips. I also found myself unwilling to play it safe with a simple white-choclate macadamia nut cookie. So of course I began my google search while at work, pulling ideas from a few co-workers. And all I could find were recipes for cookies with nuts, or cocoa powder. At first I wondered, why in the world would we treat something as rich as white chocolate so poorly? And then I realized...because it's not really chocolate at all. We just think it is because it's perfectly molded into a creamy texture. But this is all beside the point. I decided I would try to make a decadent cookie recipe that would match the rich flavor of the poser chocolate. And this is where I turned to my baking cocoa. Things would have started out normally but when I grabbed my container of flour I realized I wouldn't have enough for a whole batch. So I decided on making a half-recipe. And for those of you who bake, or who at least know how particular baking tends to be, this can get tricky. Doubling or cutting the recipe in half can drastically alter the consistency of any recipe, though logic is screaming out to tell me otherwise.
If I use two-thirds of a cup of something in a regular recipe, why wouldn't I use one-third for a half recipe? But you just can't. It has to be cut in half...and then played with ever so lightly. And so the process began.
Of course the cocoa gave me issues right off the bat and spilled all over the counter. And this is why I hate baking cocoa:
1. It sticks to anything and everything it touches.
2. When used with a mixer, it will fly into the air like dust particles and stain your white MacBook. (just me? okay.)
3. The canister it comes in is barely big enough to fit a quarter cup measure in, and most chocolate recipes call for at least a third of a cup.
4. It will always spill. On white counter tops. On white tiles. On anything white.
5. It is the most dense powder I have ever worked with, but only seems to dry out the dough instead of thickening it.
For years I've tried to perfect recipes so that I can bypass such an ingredient and opt for the more seductive sounding one; melted chocolate. But even then, the consistency comes out all wrong. So why do I continue to bake with such a pain-in-the-butt ingredient? Because of the perks...
1. A rich and creamy batter comparable to chocolate mousse, only in a more sinful form.
2. The mature flavor of the chocolate is only experienced when baked. (Trust. If you eat a spoonful of this stuff you will definitely choke on the bitterness)
3. The cookie somehow remains soft throughout baking, no matter if you cut the time short or go longer.
4. Licking the spatula after mixing is the most sinfully blissful experience in the world.
5. The sexy chocolate smile that comes after biting into a hot cookie.
Besides, where else can you get something as dark and sweet as this? (...aside from on South Beach during Black Beach Week of course.)
The only thing more fun than dressing up a sugary cookie during Christmas is dressing up a chocolate cookie with loads and loads of rich white chocolate. So that's just what I did tonight...chocolate chips mixed in and melted on top in a buttercream overload. Who says Friday nights can't be sexy while staying at home?
Bon appétit mes chéris. Je dois faire la vaisselle maintenant.
This week I found myself with a bag of white chocolate chips. I also found myself unwilling to play it safe with a simple white-choclate macadamia nut cookie. So of course I began my google search while at work, pulling ideas from a few co-workers. And all I could find were recipes for cookies with nuts, or cocoa powder. At first I wondered, why in the world would we treat something as rich as white chocolate so poorly? And then I realized...because it's not really chocolate at all. We just think it is because it's perfectly molded into a creamy texture. But this is all beside the point. I decided I would try to make a decadent cookie recipe that would match the rich flavor of the poser chocolate. And this is where I turned to my baking cocoa. Things would have started out normally but when I grabbed my container of flour I realized I wouldn't have enough for a whole batch. So I decided on making a half-recipe. And for those of you who bake, or who at least know how particular baking tends to be, this can get tricky. Doubling or cutting the recipe in half can drastically alter the consistency of any recipe, though logic is screaming out to tell me otherwise.
If I use two-thirds of a cup of something in a regular recipe, why wouldn't I use one-third for a half recipe? But you just can't. It has to be cut in half...and then played with ever so lightly. And so the process began.
Of course the cocoa gave me issues right off the bat and spilled all over the counter. And this is why I hate baking cocoa:
1. It sticks to anything and everything it touches.
2. When used with a mixer, it will fly into the air like dust particles and stain your white MacBook. (just me? okay.)
3. The canister it comes in is barely big enough to fit a quarter cup measure in, and most chocolate recipes call for at least a third of a cup.
4. It will always spill. On white counter tops. On white tiles. On anything white.
5. It is the most dense powder I have ever worked with, but only seems to dry out the dough instead of thickening it.
For years I've tried to perfect recipes so that I can bypass such an ingredient and opt for the more seductive sounding one; melted chocolate. But even then, the consistency comes out all wrong. So why do I continue to bake with such a pain-in-the-butt ingredient? Because of the perks...
1. A rich and creamy batter comparable to chocolate mousse, only in a more sinful form.
2. The mature flavor of the chocolate is only experienced when baked. (Trust. If you eat a spoonful of this stuff you will definitely choke on the bitterness)
3. The cookie somehow remains soft throughout baking, no matter if you cut the time short or go longer.
4. Licking the spatula after mixing is the most sinfully blissful experience in the world.
5. The sexy chocolate smile that comes after biting into a hot cookie.
Besides, where else can you get something as dark and sweet as this? (...aside from on South Beach during Black Beach Week of course.)
The only thing more fun than dressing up a sugary cookie during Christmas is dressing up a chocolate cookie with loads and loads of rich white chocolate. So that's just what I did tonight...chocolate chips mixed in and melted on top in a buttercream overload. Who says Friday nights can't be sexy while staying at home?
Bon appétit mes chéris. Je dois faire la vaisselle maintenant.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Strange Beginnings
How often do we greet each other on the street? And I'm not talking about saying hi to someone you know on the way to your next class at the University, I mean really saying 'hello' and 'good morning' to complete strangers. When I walk Tache in the mornings, I am either greeted by a stranger with their face pointed downward, scooting their dog past mine without so much as a sniff, let alone a human good morning. And at other times I get a very brief 'how's it going' as they pause for a moment to let the dogs sniff. But as soon as one starts to grumble or get the least bit excited, they yank the leash and turn away quickly...as if some social code has been shattered.
Maybe I'm just used to growing up in a smaller area where there is time to stop and say hello, but there has definitely been something lacking in human connection the past few months. And then yesterday, I found myself oddly surprised. After walking out of the leasing office with a very minor complaint about my pedestrian keycard not working, a worker stopped me dead in my running shoes and told me, "Smile! It's a beautiful day out. Don't let the sun get you mad. Go on and throw on a bikini and head to the beach...I know that's what you were thinking!!"
And that's when it hit me. People don't say hi to people who are frowning down here. And the second thing that hit me, that workman is not from Miami for that very reason. In Saint Louis, I grew up understanding that saying hello and smiling to a stranger could make their day, and that smiling is contagious. But in Miami, people only want to speak to you if you're smiling. And when the workman said something to me, I didn't even realize I was frowning. So what kind of signal do I send out while walking Tache? While running down the street? I know we Phipps women have rather stern looking faces when we're just relaxing.
Is this why no one seems to greet each other anymore? So many people in Miami have their heads down while running down the street to their next appointment, or they have house music blasting so loudly in their cars that they have no real connection to the outside world. I think that the insane amount of consumerism we have bought into is destroying us socially. People only socialize in settings they consider normal. (ie: work, Church, school, sporting events) Anywhere else, they feel out of place, or don't bother trying to connect.
Goal of the day: Wear my Saint Louis smile proudly and share the love.
That of course will be applied after my trip to the doctor, where I will inevitably be bumped and forgotten on the waiting list. But alas, it is what it is.
A gift for you: May your day shine like fresh molasses.
Maybe I'm just used to growing up in a smaller area where there is time to stop and say hello, but there has definitely been something lacking in human connection the past few months. And then yesterday, I found myself oddly surprised. After walking out of the leasing office with a very minor complaint about my pedestrian keycard not working, a worker stopped me dead in my running shoes and told me, "Smile! It's a beautiful day out. Don't let the sun get you mad. Go on and throw on a bikini and head to the beach...I know that's what you were thinking!!"
And that's when it hit me. People don't say hi to people who are frowning down here. And the second thing that hit me, that workman is not from Miami for that very reason. In Saint Louis, I grew up understanding that saying hello and smiling to a stranger could make their day, and that smiling is contagious. But in Miami, people only want to speak to you if you're smiling. And when the workman said something to me, I didn't even realize I was frowning. So what kind of signal do I send out while walking Tache? While running down the street? I know we Phipps women have rather stern looking faces when we're just relaxing.
Is this why no one seems to greet each other anymore? So many people in Miami have their heads down while running down the street to their next appointment, or they have house music blasting so loudly in their cars that they have no real connection to the outside world. I think that the insane amount of consumerism we have bought into is destroying us socially. People only socialize in settings they consider normal. (ie: work, Church, school, sporting events) Anywhere else, they feel out of place, or don't bother trying to connect.
Goal of the day: Wear my Saint Louis smile proudly and share the love.
That of course will be applied after my trip to the doctor, where I will inevitably be bumped and forgotten on the waiting list. But alas, it is what it is.
A gift for you: May your day shine like fresh molasses.
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