THE BEST CAKE

The other day at Mahjong one of the other women mentioned that her cousin had sent her their grandmother’s recipes. They’d been written on index cards and stored in an appropriately-sized filing box; and seeing that old-fashioned set-up again caused her to fondly remember her grandmother and her grandmother’s cooking.

October is the month of my mother’s birth, so I’ve been a bit nostalgic myself lately, recalling my mother and how she could be goofy and wise at the same time. She, too, had a recipe box with index cards. She put one recipe in it—her fruit cocktail cake—then it got pushed to the back of the cabinet, not to be seen again until she moved from the house years later. She did the same thing with my older sister’s baby book—got as far as the first tooth, then dropped it. And where was the record of my first tooth? Who cares? Obviously, the teeth came in—no need to mark every occasion. Starting a project and stopping was my mother’s habit, which I’ve been known to do also. No need to let life pass you by because you’re chronicling something that’s not terribly significant.

However, my Mahjong friend’s talk of recipes called to mind the only recipe of my mother’s that I have—her fruit cocktail cake. She was kind enough to write it out for me when I left home. Though we always called it “her” cake, I believe she found it in Good Housekeeping or Redbook in the early sixties. I make it occasionally and everybody gives oohs and aahs. It truly is a delicious cake.

Years ago—I believe we were living in The Hague—I took the cake to a potluck and, as expected, everybody raved. When one of the women asked for the recipe, I gave her a decisive “no.” I didn’t think I’d said anything wrong—I mean, she asked, and it was my right to refuse—but the look on her face told me otherwise. Oh dear, I’d been harsh. I softened it with this explanation:

“I’m a lackluster cook and this cake is the only halfway decent thing I have in my repertoire to bring to these group luncheons. How about I give you the recipe when we leave for our next posting?”

The part about being a lackluster cook is true. The part where I would give her the recipe before we moved away was not. After all, who’s to say we wouldn’t travel in the same circle again? Expats tend to flock to the same locations. Many times I said good-bye to a friend, only to run into her in the grocery store in another town, in another country a few months later.

As far as the recipe goes, the copy I have was scripted from memory in my mother’s hand forty years ago. The bit of paper it’s written on is now yellow and dirty from use, and the ink is faded, but I take comfort in seeing her writing. Also, like her, it’s a happy mess—out of order and incomplete. The first instruction in any baking recipe is to give the temperature and to preheat the oven, right? But if you follow the timeline in her instructions, she doesn’t mention preheating until after the ingredients have been blended and are ready to go in the oven. It’s like, “Oh, by the way, you should’ve preheated the oven.”

Also, an omission in the list of ingredients is half a cup of nuts and half a cup of brown sugar, to be sprinkled on top before baking. So when you get to that step, it’s a surprise. “Hm. I see I should’ve bought pecans and brown sugar at the store.”

And her “beat good” makes me laugh every time. Grammar, Mother! For the sauce she’s written “canned milk” without specifying evaporated or condensed (it’s evaporated); and it’s been years since I’ve heard the word “oleo,” which is now called margarine. I use butter.

Back then there was no need to identify what sort of fruit cocktail because there was 0nly one kind. But these days the grocery shelves boast a choice of sugar free, light, and organic. If you’re making this cake, go straight for the original heavy syrup which, to my dismay, is difficult to find because it’s hidden on the bottom shelf in the furthest section, as though the store is ashamed to stock such an unwholesome product. Processed fruit in overly sweet treacle may not be the healthiest choice, but in this instance it’s what’s called for.

Another rather important requirement not given in the recipe is that the cake should sit in the refrigerator, soaking in its rich sauce of sugar, butter, and evaporated milk for at least a day before consumption. Two days is better.

Then go ahead. Have a piece. But only the one. It’s best to make it for a large group so it’ll all be eaten, because you don’t want it sitting around your house calling your name.

Here it is, a little piece of my history.

This is one of The Waterfront Grill’s specialty Halloween drinks. I hate it when I spend fifteen dollars for a cocktail and it turns out to be too yucky to drink.

Six Months of Reading

Every once in a while I tell about the books I’ve recently read. Some are current; others are ones I’ve been lucky enough to find through browsing; and one I purchased because of the hype. Here goes:

Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan. With an Irish Christmas as the background, a man hauls coal in the early dark hours to a convent that’s also a school and a girls’ home. In the coal storage bin, he discovers a young girl shivering, and he suspects that she’s been there all night. Though he was born of an unwed mother during a time when this circumstance carried condemnation, he and his mother were always treated with kindness, and recognizing this, he has a grateful heart. This is a story of how, in the face of his town’s corrupt conspiracy, he makes things right. It was uplifting and compelling, and I enjoyed it so much that I next read her novella, Foster. Also worth reading.

Old God’s Time by Sebastian Barry. The author is a major award winner in the UK, but this is the first of his books I’ve read. His prose is delicate and lyrical; and the way he strings words together is so beautiful that I got teary-eyed as soon as I started reading. What a gift he has. Set in Ireland, Old God’s Time is about a retired detective, highly respected, who, for many years, held tightly to a dark secret. As he sinks into dementia, lies and truths overlap and haunt. It’s not a merry book, but it is a profound one, and it’ll stay with you. And more good news—he’s quite prolific, so there are many more of his books out there for me to pick up.

The Maid by Nita Prose. Oh what a joy this was to read! The main character is a young woman, Molly, whose life consists only of her job as a hotel maid, and her apartment. Because she’s quiet and is careful to draw no notice, people forget her presence—and that’s how she knows things. The sardonic monologue running through her head, her finicky cleanliness, and her strict adherence to her schedule, combine to form a delightful character. While on one level it’s a mystery involving violence, drug-dealing, and other chicanery, it’s mostly about Molly being Molly. If there’s sequel, I’ll be there.

Horse by Geraldine Brooks. When a book wants to teach me about history, I usually yawn and walk away. Except when the author’s Geraldine Brooks, who’s masterful in her historic niche. This intriguing and deeply researched novel has it all—slavery into freedom, art history and skeletal rearticulation, romance, and a passion for digging up long-ago truths. The past and present are elegantly intertwined; though I’ll mention that one of the story strands culminates in a predictable and contrived way, which was disappointing, but not so disappointing that I wouldn’t recommend the read. If you’ve not inhaled a Geraldine Brooks novel, I suggest you pick one up. I also recommend March.

Blink by Malcolm Gladwell. I came across this at Mahjong where, for a reason that eludes me, there are old books stacked on a table. I usually prefer fiction, but I do think that Gladwell shines an interesting light on whatever subject he decides to take on. Blink studies our decision making processes. When making choices, some people lean heavily on intuition, some on training, and others on logic. Based on experimental research, he examines these three aspects and how they come into play as we make decisions in our daily lives. I found it fascinating. My husband didn’t. So, subjective.

The Rules of Magic by Alice Hoffman. Hoffman’s books are always enjoyable and always skillfully crafted. I’ve been a fan for a long time. But be aware, she does have a fantastical streak that might be off-putting for some—for example: strange relationships are formed when cats walk backwards, or: if a spider crawls on your toe someone will give you a chicken. This is a prequel to Practical Magic, her first and most famous witch book. In The Rules of Magic, three witch siblings, born under a curse, must live without falling in love because their lovers will die. Oh, dear, how will they get around this?

Killers of the Flower Moon by David Grann. This was recommended to me so many times, and so highly acclaimed, that I thought surely I would enjoy it. But nope. I only managed to get through twelve percent before I threw in the towel. In those thirty or so pages, the author had dropped in so many names, occupations, relationships, backstories, and standings in the community that I was completely overwhelmed. How disappointing. But hey, I have no doubt that it’s every bit as outstanding as the critics say. I almost always prefer the book to the movie, but this time I’ll let someone smarter than I decipher it, and then I’ll enjoy their interpretation on the big screen.

Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver. This is a modern retelling of Dickinson’s David Copperfield. It’s one of the best reads I’ve come across in years. Seeing an awful world through guileless eyes, witnessing the transformation of innocence to cynicism, cynicism to hope, and hope to triumph—these are the themes of the story. The ingredients of the tale are ignorance, cruelty, poverty, dishonesty, despair, drug use—pretty much a stew of everything malicious you can find to chuck into the pot. While this is obviously not a description to attract readers, the narrator, a growing-up boy, is darkly humorous, quite lovable, and someone you’ll want to root for. Demon Copperhead is a prime example of how fiction helps humans find their humanity.

My Kindle’s is on the mantle. Why? How’d it get there? I have no idea.

Churched

From a young age, the boys eschewed Sunday school. They thought the other children were undisciplined and that the teachers were disorganized. We didn’t push it, and as long as they were well-mannered, they were welcome to sit with us.

When we moved to Sugar Land from Scotland, and when the time was right, I looked up the Sunday schedule at the nearest Episcopal church. We arrived a little before the service in order to settle in and get a sense of the ambience.

The aisles divided the sanctuary into quadrants and, after a quick scan, the four of us decided on a pew near the front on the left side. We trooped in that direction. The ceilings were high and they had modern sound equipment—big screens mounted at the front and an elevated stage for the musicians.

As the minutes passed, more and more people came in until there was not a vacant seat. David, Curtis, Sam, and I were sandwiched in the center of the fourth pew. The service started normally—a song, a joyful prayer, and then the readings.

Unbeknownst to us, however, was that this service with its impressive crowd represented the reopening of the church, which had been closed for several weeks. The reason for the closure became clear when the priest took the pulpit.

“What you, as a church, have gone through is nothing short of tragic.”

This is the way he began. He went on to say that he knew that the parishioners were bewildered and that their hearts were aching because sin had crept into their place of communal holiness. Then he transitioned into an explanation of temptation, which morphed naturally enough into a definition of sin. And then he moved into the weakness of the flesh, telling how everybody lusts—what?

The boys were eight and ten at the time. They blinked at the word “lust.” David and I exchanged questioning looks.  

“Is it more sinful for a priest to commit adultery than for one of you to do the same?” The priest raised an inquisitive brow, then continued, “More heartrending, perhaps, but we’ve already established that we all sin.”

The man talked about the pitfalls of rampant lust for forty-five minutes. And then he spent another fifteen speaking about mercy and forgiveness and healing.  

What I surmised was that this congregation’s priest had had an affair with one of the staff members. Both were married. Both had children. The priest gave up his calling. The woman’s marriage ended in divorce.

Heartrending indeed. And salacious.

In the beginning Sam and Curtis were patient, but after the first half hour, Curtis became censorious. As far as he knew, it was an unbreakable rule that sermons should last no longer than twenty minutes. Also, this was church and church was supposed to be about kindness and doing the right thing, and that guy oughtn’t to have been preaching about sex when there were kids present.

The boys began to fidget. David and I, too, were becoming antsy. We’d been sitting there for an hour and a half and we hadn’t even had communion yet. And with this many people, that could take another half hour. Our little foursome was very tense.

It was time for the offering. Oh dear. This would also take a long time.

When the brass plate came and I passed it to Curtis, he fumbled it. Money and checks went everywhere. And Curtis, mortified, began scrambling around, attempting to pick it all up. But no, I wasn’t having it. I took the plate from my son and handed it over to his father, who passed it on.

Then I stood and signaled my three beloveds, also, to stand; and, bumping against strangers’ knees, we stepped from the pew and moved quickly toward the exit while all eyes followed our progress. This had been a surreal and absurd experience. I was pressing my lips together to keep the laughter from escaping. But alas, sometimes laughter will not be quelled. A giggle became a cackle; then David released a hoot. We were all guffawing loudly as we pushed the doors open and escaped into the sunshine.

For those who haven’t heard, my novel Old Buildings in North Texas was on the Staff Picks shelf of Belgravia Books in London a while back—a very impressive literary book store. Yay me!

Pickleball Drama

We have a couple of sessions a week where a plethora of pickleballers show up and the courts are hopping. There’s no organizer and no plan, which is stressful for me as I do well in a disciplined environment and implode when chaos rules. But I like to play pickleball, so I escape the disarray by focusing on the ball and keeping score, and by playing tunes in my head—show tunes, classical, the top forty for the last fifty years—all stored to be pulled up at any time.

There seems to be an accepted way for women to conduct themselves on the court—women only; men would never behave this way. When someone makes a particularly spectacular shot, arms are thrown in the air and everyone cheers volubly. Joyful shrieks and gambols are involved. When a serve slips by the recipient, the person who lets the ball get past her calls out, “Good serve!” And I think—well, not really, it was just an ordinary serve that you for some reason couldn’t return. Also, every error is relived, sometimes clownishly reenacted, and praised. “Good idea,” a player will say to her partner when a dink hits the net instead of going over; or, “Great effort,” when the ball goes out. Everything on the court is about kindness, encouragement, and enthusiasm. All this baseless exultation is difficult for me to emulate because I’m not a giddy person.

Many of us have similar skill levels, though the tennis players are noticeably better; and occasionally someone shows up who has yet to learn the rules. When another player is extremely superior there’s not just one pickle, but pickle after pickle, which is disheartening. And when a beginner who must be instructed between every play joins us, that, too, is difficult to tolerate. Sadly, sometimes the extreme abilities override the songs in my head and I grumble, wanting everything to be the way I want it to be. That makes me the Trump of the pickleball court.

As you can imagine, in this setting many personalities are involved. In a game last week my partner and I were playing horribly. Every serve was met with an error—net balls, balls out of bounds, serves missed. As our opposing server racked up point after point, I commented to my partner that we were giving points away. The server on the other team, quite peeved, said, “Hey. I’m in the zone and I’m working hard here.” Though it was true that we were handing them the game and I’d heard others say the same thing, in retrospect I could see how it could be considered rude. And she seemed angry about it, so after the match I approached her intending to apologize, and was met with a look of hatred so evil that it gave me chills. “Whoa,” I said, abruptly stepping back. I was so shaken that I gathered my gear and went home. I had nightmares that night.

Another incident that left me shaken was when another player’s dog bit me. It’s not my business that she brings her cute little shiatzu to the court for two hours when the temperature’s already in the high nineties and is going to get hotter. While she prepared the dog’s area—setting out his water and hooking his leash to the fence—she let him run free. As I was passing through, on my way to the courts, the dog jumped up and latched on to my finger, teeth digging in and his whole little body hanging before he fell away. Startled, I gave an “Ow.” Then, in an understandably agitated state, I called to the woman, “Hey, your dog bit me.” By the time I put my racket, visor, and water on a bench, blood was pooling in my palm. Trying to keep it from dripping all over the court, I headed toward the pro shop to beg a band-aide. Meanwhile, the woman had gathered her and her dog’s things and was also aiming toward the exit. Ten feet in front of me, her shoulders were rigid and her fury was palpable. “You don’t need to leave,” I told her. “I’m not mad. I understand dogs.” I also understand that her dog shouldn’t be there, had no desire to be there, and that her bringing him was an act of cruelty. She ignored me, continuing in her forward movement.

If my dog had bitten someone I would have at least called afterward to make sure she was okay. Hell, I’d have sent flowers. But what she did instead is quit coming. 

“Did she stop coming because her dog bit me?” I asked one of the other women.

“She thinks you’re a negative force.”

The biting dog woman is popular amongst the other women and now, because of me, she no longer comes. And I am a negative force. It’s a topsy-turvy world.

So my way of handling things with these two enemies I have inadvertently made is to wait until the last minute to put my name on the roster. And if the woman who gave me the evil look has signed up, or if the woman with the dog has signed up, I don’t go to pickleball that day.

Honest to God, it’s junior high all over again.