wideeyedfunk

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  • Mile-high Victoria Sandwich

    The WideEyedHousehold is not a family of professional bakers. It is, however, a family of cake-eaters. And, at 6000 feet above sea level, accommodations must be made. There are learnings between me and good cake.

    And here we are, with a perfected Victoria Sandwich recipe for 6000 feet above sea level, in the high desert. Because the WideEyedHousehold is not large, this is for a two layer, 6-inch sponge cake.

    Heat the oven to 375 degrees F. Convect bake if you have it. Rack in the middle.

    Butter two six inch cake pans. Lay a round of parchment paper in the bottom of each. You’ll be sorry if you leave out the parchment paper. Ask me how I know.

    Mix at all once, bravely ignoring butter lumps because you don’t want to over mix or the leavening will activate too much before it hits the oven. Use a hand mixer if you have it, less battering around than a stand mixer.

    115g room temp unsalted butter

    110g of fine sugar

    2 eggs room temp

    125g regular old unbleached flour, not self-rising

    1 tsp baking powder

    1/4 tsp fine salt

    2 tbs milk room temp

    OPTIONAL: 1 tsp vanilla and/or a bunch of lemon rind

    Then, friends, dump about the same amount in each cake pan. Gently, quickly smooth it out. Don’t bang the pans to smooth it out, your cake’ll be flatsville if you bang them.

    Pop them in the oven immediately. You don’t want them sitting around rising all over the place without the heat to set the rise. That’s why the oven has to be hot first. And the pans have to be buttered first.

    Then, bake 18-22 minutes. You want them pulling away on the edge, a little golden on the top, clean toothpick. Use the oven light, not an open door, to check on their progress because that cold air/temp change will mess things up.

    Put the baked cakes in their pans on a wire rack for 5 minutes. Then, decant by carefully knifing around the edge then flipping into your hand. Put them back on the rack upside right until they are cool. Don’t bang the pan to get them out, or you’ll have flatter cakes. Sigh. Ask me how I know.

    Once they are cool, put some jelly on the one, stack on the next. Sprinkle powdered sugar on top if you want. Eat the cake with joy in your heart.

  • Shotgun Monte, Thief

    Shotgun Monte, Thief

    There was a time, not that long ago, when my stuff was my own. Shoes unchewed, rugs unnibbled, pens – fountain pens! – unmolested, books safe from spine damage, counters un-surfed, socks un-stolen. Name it, I’ve lost it. Inhale deeply. Exhale completely.

    Resting, watching, waiting for opportunity.

    Enter Shotgun Monte. Oh they grow out of it, people said. It’s teething, others wise in the ways of young dogs told me, nodding with that special irritating wait-and-see way. And the best, if the dog chews, it’s your fault for providing the chance. Thanks. Helpful.

    Sweet little Monte chews in the abstract, half asleep against the sofa arm, mouthing the corner. He rends with intent, stuffed plushies eviscerated with focus – always the butts or eyes first. Creepy.

    And he steals. Shamelessly. With joy. Computer mouse, shoe, sock, phone, loaf of bread, $170 brand new Pilot fountain pen purchased as a special self-gift at a stationery on a dark ‘L’ street in Chicago. He grabs the unguarded thing and gazelles through the house, leaping from rug to rug, lips stretched in a huge doggie smile around the loot hanging out of his mouth, eyes wild. And he’s fast. Can’t be caught. Fleet and slithery like a Victorian era pick pocket.

    Yep, the correct response is no, drop it. But I defy you to take action against that impossibly fluid athleticism used in mad glee, the absolute fun he has in running cycles through the WideEyedHouse. He drops the purloined, usually, with no harm, if you don’t take your eyes off of him. But really, don’t look away.

  • Packing Beets (Beats?)

    The WideEyedSpouse and I faced each other across a bin full of iced up, dripping beet bundles. Hundreds of other beet bins were slushing around behind me in the warehouse. Always interesting to see what’s on the docket at the food bank.

    We volunteer on Saturday mornings once a month or so. I don’t know why. Maybe because I’m grateful to have food no matter what. Maybe because I think everyone owes society something.

    I’ve repacked macaroni from massive pallet size boxes almost 5 feet tall into small 8 ounce bags. I’ve shifted weird collections of donated dry goods – cereal, cookies, crackers, whatever not-quite-expired off-brand stuff stores donate – into family sized boxes.

    This time, we were repacking beets. I like beets just fine, but let’s be real honest with each other. Beets are not first on anyone’s list.

    While I folded leaves over and shoved bunches of beets into their plastic mesh sacks, I thought about the folks getting the beets. I know they will be healthier for fresh food. Beets are powerhouses.

    Beets can be delicious. Beets also taste kind of like dirt and the root and the leaves require a certain intensity of preparation. With every sack I filled, and I alone filled dozens, maybe a couple of hundred I don’t know, it’s all lost in a red juice, icy water haze, I heard the recipient saying, sort of sadly, “oh boy, beets.”

    Maybe some folks did say that. And I sure put positivity in every sack.

    At the packing table with us, a bunch of kids from a local private high school were packing beets, too. They were quick, and my goodness did they talk. They sounded like a flock of birds, high and quick voices, ceaselessly chattering. It was charming. We learned about their friends, their rooms, their upcoming class trip. So much more and I bet they didn’t think we’d listen.

    They carefully shook all the icy water from the beet leaves – onto each other. The kid who showed up late got the worst of it. Sometimes five bunches of beets got shaken on him. I was collateral damage a lot. Somehow the WideEyedSpouse never got it. He stood clean and tall and inviolate. I was specked with beet sauce.

    Anyway, we packed beets and bounced and nodded along with the radio blaring from across the warehouse. Crunch, crunch – leaves shoved in half. Stuff, stuff – beets pushed into mesh bag. Bounce, bounce – carry empty beet bin over to the trash to dump out remaining ice and leaf waste. Bang! On the dumpster along with the beat to knock it clean.

    The spouse and I sang along, hummed, smiled at each other. The radio was tuned to an oldies station, late 1980s and early 1990s rap. It was wonderful. “I left my wallet in El Segundo. I got to get it. I got, got to get it” we sang together.

    In a lull between the beats (commercial break), I overhead our table mates talking about the music. “This would be waay better if we could pick the music.” I bet you could change the station I thought, but why would you?

     “Man,” the tallish kid with red hair said, “this is such grandpa music.”

    Oh. Sigh.

    Well, maybe I shoved the next bunch of beets into their sack a little harder.

  • Edges of my breathable world.

    Edges of my breathable world.

    Everything is different now. The stars are brighter. The sky is bluer and big, so big. When space junk bounces along the atmosphere during orbital decay, I can see the edges of my breathable world.

    The WideEyedHousehold heaved itself westward a little while ago. WideEyedSpouse, Useless Little Black Dog, Hank the Corgi, and Cat rode in the Mighty Pathfinder, and I cruised in glorious, isolated splendor in the Smooth Ride from New York to New Mexico.

    The domicile is stucco, the roof is flat, the yard is made of rocks and sand. Friends passing through town said our neighborhood looks like sandcastle mold blocks scattered down by an enormous toddler on the beach. I can’t unsee that. I watch for the stocky toddler legs and stomping feet in my nightmares. Nightmare toddler always has on a blue bunchy waterproof diaper cover. The diaper cover is suspiciously heavy looking.

    “Why did you move here?” ask the People we meet.

    “Joy,” I tell them. Because the ineffable heart lifting wonderous glee of going somewhere else, trying something else, being someone else is reason enough and too hard to explain.

    Jemez Pueblo Red Rock Trail.

  • Rolling in the clover.

    The neighborhood is full of them, those little yellow signs: “Keep Off Pesticide Applied.” Crooked Hankie and Sweet Miss Tibbit prance by them without a pause, sniffing and nibbling and thinking dog thoughts. I read them, I observe the lush green carpet lawns, and I get it. That stuff is soft and inviting and looks just like a fresh new shag carpet. I mean, I guess it looks like a fresh new shag carpet because I haven’t actually observed one of those, mainly I see used, flattened, stinky shag carpets awaiting tear-out in the less updated homes the WideEyedHousehold has purchased over the decades.

    But then, our evening walkies round the corner into our WideEyedYard and the joyous chaos of bees buzzing and butterflies fluttering and beetles creeping among the taller green stuff is so soothing to me. And to Hankie and Sweet Tibbit, because they stop, drop, and roll as soon as they hit it, standing up reeking of green clover and scattered with little clover blooms.

    Our yard is cut long because the Museum of Natural History in London posted on social media that this is the best way to create habitat for hedge hogs. [Pause.] I know. Hedge hogs do not live in the yards of Buffalo, NY, but in the spirit of supporting the importance of hedge hog foraging space, I complied with the suggestion.

    Something wonderful happened to the yard in mid-June. The long grass went to seed with little fronds flowing in the breeze, and the clover grew taller and bloomed. Our city yard is a mini-prairie, rolling and surrounded by mostly edible shrubs, and herbs, and flowers, and trees. The bee hive susurrates in the back and little honey bees with leg pockets full of honey and their little sacs full of nectar come and go.

    If I stand still and wait, the big bees, little bees, fuzzy bees, and butterflies swirl around me. The dogs flop and pant. The gardens rustle and push push push for the warm summer sun in our short growing season. It is pure joy to lie down in the clover with the whole lot of the garden things and know, everyone can enter here. There isn’t any pesticide. No one need keep off.

  • Dark light unicorn.

    I think my motorbike has a secret identity. My suspicions started yesterday morning. Sunny day yesterday, first day of my own little mini-staycation because sometimes a person needs a break, and the motorbike and I headed out on errands. Please, these were vacation errands: bookstore, chocolate shop, and wine shop, all to acquire goodies with which to wallow, small packets of joys that fit into my backpack.

    Motorbike and I parked in the lot at the bookstore, and I looked back at it just before I went in. It’s mostly black, lean, and it sucks all of the light into itself and then glows it back out as dark light. It is frankly beautiful but a little bit tough looking, like a really awe-inspiring pair of well-engineered high heels that you can run in if you have to. It sat there, clearly waiting for me, biding time with the Hondas and Subarus and people movers of various sorts that folks use to get here and go there.

    “That your motorbike out front?” a bookseller a decade and more older than me asked in the sci-fi section. I nodded, I mean I was wearing a clumpy motorbike jacket and had a helmet slung over my wrist like a bulbous black purse. I was not incognito. “It’s beautiful,” he said, sighed, “really beautiful.”

    “Thanks,” I said, “I’m so happy it’s mine.” He nodded, hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels. “I’m from Florida,” he said. I nodded. “There is a shop in central Florida that refurbs classic Corvettes,” he looked at me above his mask with serious eyes. “My youngest is out of college in one year. I retire in six.” I nodded again. “I’m getting one,” he said. And he turned, walked away, disappeared into the Young-Adult aisle, but his dream lingered in the air with a shimmer of hope, of good things to come. It was weird, but good weird. I bought a few books and headed back out to my own dream made manifest in the parking lot.

    We dub-dub-dubbed over to the wine-gourmet shop and scored a parking spot right up front. Nothing like mid-day errands for rockstar parking. The motorbike was reflected in the gourmet shop window, looking interesting among the high-end kitchen wares and dangerously sharp knives displayed behind the big panes of glass. I patted the seat and headed in.

    Way, way, way in the back of the shop I was gazing at the fancy rye whiskeys, texting with the WideEyedSpouse (do we want the Whistle Pig again? Yes.) A bunch of employees wheelied by behind me with a hand truck. “Can I help you find something?” one peeled off from the group. “I’m good,” I smiled with my eyes above my mask. “I saw you come in on your motorbike,” he said, “it’s beautiful.” I stopped texting and turned toward him, youngish, younger than me by kind of a lot, dark hair, “I love it,” I told him. He nodded, of course I did, who wouldn’t? “I have a Kawasaki [something something] 1500, but yours, well, it’s really beautiful.”

    I looked at him with level eyes. I know almost nothing about motorbikes. I have mine. And it is wonderful. But clearly something further was needed in this conversation, because he was still standing there, hip cocked and one foot resting on the other – arms crossed. He was settled in for a bit. “Well, you could always have two motorbikes,” I offered. And his joy broke free – filling the whole area in simple happy vibes. He starting laughing and told me “that’s right! n + 1 is the calculation, right? Where you are plus one more – it’s always possible!” and he sort of rolled off to the side and turned into the gin section, his laughter trailing behind.

    I raised my eyebrows, bought the Whistle Pig, and headed out to my patient motorbike.

    Friends, what is this? Strangers tell me stories sometimes, I guess I invite shared confidences, shared stories. But these were different somehow. Extraordinarily quick. Extraordinarily joyful, hopeful, intense. Maybe it’ll never happen again. But you know, I think it will. I think my lean, dark light motorbike is a rainbow-unicorn in disguise, and everyone turns into an eight-year-old girl near it, sharing joyful confidences and dreams of lovely, happy things without fear of failure or doubt or reprisal. I’m ok with that.

  • Leave the puffer behind.

    70 degrees Fahrenheit. Possibly the most perfect temperature. And friends, I’m incredibly relieved to report that I’m experiencing it today. Experiencing it outside. Because of course inside my second story office in my antique house with antique radiators, it is usually well over 70 degrees when it is 65 degrees downstairs at the thermostat and 15 degrees outside.

    I’m not making sense. Blame it on the 70 degrees.

    On this day, I left my ankle length Patagonia puffer on the coat rack for morning dog walkies for the first time since mid-November. I felt mostly unprotected and I did worry a bit. What if the situation changed around the corner? Ok, now I’m bragging about my own bravery because the truth of the matter is that I had on thinsulate lined Carhartt bib overalls, blundstone boots, my red pompom hat, and a slightly lighter jacket. But not the puffer and that’s something.

    My smile actually ached in my cheeks in the final block, and it is certain any watching neighbors, and in the city there’re always watching neighbors, well, they probably thought the isolation finally sent me off the rails.

    But it wasn’t madness. It was wild joy. And I still feel it. The (nearly) useless dogs feel it. Catticus the Cat feels it. The WideEyedBees in the backyard WideEyedHive are living it. They are living it so robustly that I think we are going to have to suit up and crack that thing open this afternoon to check on food stores and brood. It’s a little scary in the off season because the bees, oddly, do not respect that I am acting out of concern when I allow cold air into their home. They dive bomb our bee suits and leave startlingly large poop splotches in their wake. No one has ever asked my opinion, but I’ll give it now: any given creature should not produce poop splotches nearly as large as themselves. I guess holding it in for a few months will cause that.

    Snow is predicted for the weekend but it won’t stay. I think I’ll step into the backyard and hoot and holler a bit. The sunny warmth is begging for it. Might as well confirm my mad state with the neighbors.

  • Double Dog Indignity

    Ten decades. Ten thousand miles. Immediate indignity in the WideEyedHousehold. Or is it love?

    The old stuff I bring home despite long and windy WideEyedSpouse sighs seems to get along ok with the old stuff already here. Basement-abandoned, mildew-stinking, dusty, grandparent furniture, lamps, rugs, geegaws – they all seem to agree to the neutral zone pact of the WideEyedHousehold: meld or hit the road. Each of them has a history with other families, sometimes these are decades long histories of ill use and hard living. Sometimes they glow as the treasures they have been and are to me now. I like to think when they get here, they are open to new histories, new families. And, dogs.

    Two days ago the most recent old-thing arrived, a rug fragment originally from central Asia. It has been tooling around the world since 1920. Turkistan to someplace, [someplace to someplace], someplace to Arizona, Arizona to the WideEyedHousehold in Buffalo, NY. Packed in trunks. Rolled. Folded. Squashed. On trucks and boats and planes and feet. Ten thousand miles over ten decades. When my grandparents were young, it started out fresh, reeking of dye and new wool. Now, when I am not-so-young, it landed here, reeking of nothing at all really. Just, rugness.

    Raggedy corners and suspicious ends.

    Its ends are missing. Its sides are barely holding on. The weft is thin and the warp peeps out. How many feet tromped it? Carrying the dust and grunge of how many lands? How many fights or words of love in how many languages has it witnessed?

    The old things have dignity in their experiences. And dignity attracts dogs. Evidently.

    Absorbing experiences through osmosis.

    Welcome rug, to the love of dogs.

  • November Hoses

    The WideEyedSpouse is lying under the back porch with a heat gun. Miss-Tibbit-the-Useless-Little-Black-Dog is staring in wonderment. Crooked Hank, entering the third winter of his young life, believes it all to be nonsense.

    Tonight it will freeze and freeze hard. The hose stopcock is already frozen open. Probably bad things will happen in the coming arctic blast if it isn’t drained and closed. Boring, expensive things.

    Friends, don’t judge us here in the WideEyedHousehold! We started the snow thrower two days before this morning’s snow labor. I packed the Smooth Ride’s trunk go-bag last evening (winter coat, blanket, fruit leather, water vessel, plastic bag, cat litter, little shovel, and a Wawa Truck Pez pack). The Joan of Arctic Sorels are out and were  deployed this morning. The bomber hats undrawered last week.

    A person can only do so much to prepare before the wretched realization arrives – all that work is simply to endure winter. W I N T E R. I thought about tropical winters as I forcibly shoved the snow thrower through a densely packed mass of slush (bottom three inches) and snow (top several inches) this morning. Sure, the tropical summers are reaaaally hot what with climate change and all. But that snow thrower. It is a two stroke monster that WAAAAH BAP BAP BAPs in an unholy melody of miserableness and exhaust stink.

    I can hear movement downstairs. Perhaps the ClosedShutStopcock has been achieved. Yay.

    Crooked Hank has an opinion
    Crooked Hank. The Doubter.

  • Boat anchor tour

    We acquired motorcycle licenses, the WideEyedSpouse and I. Our 49cc Keeway scoot now proves insufficiently amusing. Yes, I can feel the wind and catch a thrill while waaaaaaahhing over to the co op for some organic, fair-trade, shade-grown coffee. Yes, cruising the park roads helps me to think long thoughts while dodging joggers, dogs, kids, and beefy rugby teams. But…

    We need more now. Expectations are higher. Bigger joy seems attainable.

    Some of us are hoarding ducats for a spring purchase of a shiny joy that is reliable AND fun.

    Others (hint, the WideEyedSpouse) want instant and corroded joy, with uncertainty, tinkering, troubling oil leaks, electrical problems, snapped choke cables, wonky carbs (heh?). The Spouse will roll a steel horse on up that drive right now, and to that end we are touring the boat anchors of Western New York. Every weekend. The Mighty Pathfinder towing a clattering U-Haul motorcycle trailer. Just in case. Because nobody pretends he’ll ride one of these clunkers home.

    anchor 1

    It goes like this…

    – We’re here to see the motorcycle, we set up the meet with you. Oh, right. [Startled face.] I don’t keep it here.

    [Longish drive down a different but equally remote rural side road.]

    [Imagining my new motorcycle license picture on the news. WideEyedFunk, last seen…]

    *

    – Does it start? Oh, she’ll start. Bulletproof engine on her.

    – Can I start it? Well. [Surprised.] You can try.

    *

    – Is it rideable? Oh, yeah, sure. ­Daily rider.

    – May I take it on a short ride to test the clutch and brakes? Oh. [Toothy inhale.] I wouldn’t.

    *

    – Do you have the title? Yes.

    – Is the title in your name. Oh. No, but it is in the name of the guy I got it from. [Reassuring smile.]

    *

    – Has it passed inspection recently. Yes. (*This is a question of relativity. What is recent, really, considering the duration of humanity’s use of created objects, the age of the planet, the birth of this universe?)

    *

    – Ok, it doesn’t run, hasn’t been inspected recently, the title isn’t in your name, is that right? Yes. But you are willing to take one third of your asking price to get it off your hands because you are leaving town tomorrow? Yes.

    *

    – You are asking $750. Will you take $600? Oh. [Head shake. Lips pursed.] I could part it out for over two grand. That seat alone, no rips, worth two fifty.  [Long pause.]

    *

    – [Phone call.] You should know if I come out to see it and it is as you described, I’m not going to offer more than seven hundred for it. Yeah. That’d be ok. But I was laid off last week [mom is sick, want to make my money back, having a baby, owe a bookie…] and could really use the money. [Expectant pause.]

    *

    And then, rising from the muck, one that might not be an anchor, one that isn’t holding back the joy, mired in frustration. One that starts, and stops, and does all of the stuff in between. Mostly.

    anchor 2